Marcán could not remember ever having pain as bad as this. His head throbbed. He was barely able to sit before the vomit spewed out. Moans carried to his ears from all around him, but his eyes remained tightly shut.
“Father?” It was Ian’s voice. “Pádraig? I fear I am dying.”
Sympathy for the lad gave Marcán strength. Forcing down the bile flooding his mouth, he said, “No. Ye’re not dying, but do not try to sit up. ’Twill only make it worse.”
“Marcán? What is amiss?” Ian asked.
Moving carefully, Marcán sat up and opened his eyes. He scanned the cave—the others were in a similar state. Marcán forced a smile for Ian, but it felt more like a grimace.
“Mayhap we will not drink so much next time?”
“Oh, Marcán, I’d nothing but one horn of the mead. Something else ails me.”
Marcán gritted his teeth and stood, waiting for the nausea to pass. “We need some water, Ian. Try to sit up now. Slowly.”
The lad moaned with his first few attempts, both hands holding his head, but was finally able to get into a hunched-over standing position.
His movements slower than an old man’s, Marcán made his way to the cave entrance, followed by Ian. The bright sunlight nearly knocked him on his arse again. He held up his hand to shield his eyes as he stumbled toward the nearby spring, fighting disorientation.
The cool water was refreshing, and they were soon joined by more of the men who’d come with them last night in search of Brian Boru’s blood.
“I have never been this sick,” one of the men said, his eyes intent on Marcán. “D’ye believe the Meic Murchadha is trying to kill us all?”
This man was from a clan farther south. Marcán’s foggy brain refused to come up with his name.
“Why?” Ian asked the obvious question, his tone revealing his hurt. The two men had been friendly, even joking, on the way to the cave last night.
“Ah, ye do not know the ways of the warrior, lad.”
Marcán wasn’t surprised by the flash of resentment from Ian.
“Those are casks we had only just acquired from a merchant.”
“Intentional or not, I agree we have been poisoned,” Marcán said. He wiped his face on his sleeve, resting his forehead on his bent arm.
“D’ye think the hour is still early?” the visitor asked. “Our clan had plans to return this day.”
Marcán’s eyes flew open and he jumped up. Astrid had been left unprotected. He glanced around the group of groaning warriors. Pádraig was not among them.
“Ian, d’ye know if yer brother had a hunt planned for this day?”
It wasn’t unusual to take visiting clans out to show them the bounty of yer land, especially if ye were hoping for a treaty with them.
Ian scratched his scalp and shrugged.
Marcán’s annoyance reared its head. His worry about Astrid cut short any sympathy he felt for the lad. “I will head back. D’ye know the way?”
A few heads nodded, enough that Marcán was comfortable relinquishing his position as guide. Despite the pounding that flooded his head with every step, he hurried back to the Meic Murchadha camp.
Much to his dislike, Beibhinn was the first person he saw. But she didn’t see him, which suited him fine. She was too busy smiling and talking to the men who were still hanging on her every word. The old woman basked in the attention of those who waited on her. That they’d clearly been ordered to do her bidding mattered not in the least to her. They had not yet been shredded to pieces by her fierce tongue.
At least the Meic Murchadha had the decency to feel guilty about the timing they’d chosen for their raid to steal the sheep. It was no coincidence they’d comeafterDiarmuid and most of his warriors had ridden off to join a gathering of the clans at the order of their overking, Sean. The Meic Murchadha might have felt slighted because Sean was also their overking and they had not been invited.
They certainly could not have guessed Astrid and her mother would try to retrieve the sheep alone. No one would have guessed the two would attempt such a ridiculous feat. Only Astrid would come up with such an idea.
Even in his current condition, Marcán’s face eased into a smile at the thought of her. The ideas she came up with could leave a man exhausted trying to protect her. He blew a breath and decided to avoid Beibhinn altogether. It was Astrid he wanted to find. He was certain he could locate her without her mother’s assistance. She paid her daughter so little attention, he doubted she even knew where she was.
“Oh, Marcán!” Beibhinn’s voice grated on his nerves. “Glad I am that I have found ye.”
