He swallowed and planted a pleasant look on his face before turning around. “Beibhinn.”
The woman had no use for him, and despite her sickly sweet tone, her face was tight with dislike. Marcán had heard the Legend of the Seer many times, mostly from her. It was said that anyone with two different-colored eyes could see into the future. Both the legends and the church agreed that Seers were to be avoided. But having two different-colored eyes, while certainly unusual, did not make a person a Seer. Those around him could keep watch all they liked, full of suspicion and talk.
Beibhinn believed every legend—she’d even gone so far as to tell Diarmuid to stay away from Marcán, claiming he worshipped the devil. Marcán had yet to discover where her hatred of him came from. Thankfully, Diarmuid had been old enough to discern Marcán’s belief in the true faith and discount his mother’s stories.
“Ye need not concern yerself with bringing us back,” Beibhinn nearly purred the words, and Marcán was instantly on guard.
“Us?”
“Me and Astrid.”
Marcán glanced around the busy village, searching out Astrid’s light hair, but he spoke in an even tone. “Why would that be?”
“Well…” Beibhinn smiled like a cat just coming out of the milking shed. “Iam going back with Eric and his brother.”
Nodding politely, Marcán felt his breath slow as he prepared himself for whatever she was about to drop on him. Beibhinn said no more, but that smile remained, her eyes closing slightly in pleasure at whatever she was keeping from him.
The realization hit Marcán like a sharp slap to his face. Beibhinn knew of his feelings for Astrid! But how could she, when he’d never spoken of them to a soul, not even Diarmuid? The last thing she would ever condone was a match between the two of them. She would fight it tooth and nail, which was of no consequence, since Astrid seemed to be of the same mind. So why the pleased look?
Marcán refused to give in to her dramatic ploy. “Is that all ye needed to tell me, lady?”
“No!” Her face screwed up in confusion.
He allowed himself to savor her irritation with him for not playing along. Until she spoke again.
“I want to be certain ye know that Astrid has returned with Pádraig.”
All sound around him seemed to stop, but he held back his questions, his demands for how that had come about, his dislike for the woman in general. Forcing a steady breath, he wetted his lips before speaking. “Areyethe one who gave her leave to do so?”
“Well”—she tilted her head and shrugged before continuing—“Astrid knows what she wants and she wanted to be home. Pádraig took care of her.”
Pádraig took care of her.
“Lady, yer disregard for my authority is at an end.” Marcán ground his teeth and scanned the area. “Philip!”
He motioned the warrior closer, glad to find one of his own men. “Philip, I give ye leave to see to Beibhinn in whatever manner is necessary to return her homenow—”
“Hey!” Beibhinn said, dropping all pretense of pleasure.
Philip immediately took hold of her arm. He would obey his orders no matter what wiles Beibhinn tried to use on him.
“Ye cannot do this to me!” Her face reddened.
“—and ye will receive no punishment whatsoever for the means ye must use to see this done.”
“How dare ye, Seer!” She shouted the word at him.
Seer!
Many halted what they were doing, turning to look at them, their eyes narrowing. The word got the expected response and Marcán’s nostrils flared at the insult even as he struggled to maintain a calm facade.
“If gagging is required, Philip, so be it.”
Marcán strode toward theráthwhere the horses were kept, ignoring the commotion behind him. The commotion Beibhinn had started with that single word. Seers were considered akin to witches, practicing the dark arts, and they were not allowed to live within the villages. If there was even a hint that someone was a Seer, a council was called and a priest was asked to consider the charges.
Stopping at the rain barrel, Marcán dowsed his head up to his neck. This day was just getting better and better. At least the cold water helped numb the unrelenting throbbing. When he pulled his head out, he whipped his hair back.
“Marcán?”
