“I believe I will always be alone.” Astrid struggled to not sound quite so pathetic.
“Ah, and there is Marcán.” Another said.
Her gaze turned toward the procession, and when she turned back, Faolán’s eyes narrowed.
“Shall we?” Astrid asked.
“Let us w-welcome A-Aednat back.”
Faolán put a hand to the small of her back and they moved to the front of the crowd. Marcán had dismounted to come up alongside Diarmuid, who was holding his wife in his arms, a stern look on his face. A hush fell over the crowd, the people no longer certain a celebration was in order.
Astrid willed her new sister to stir, anything to indicate she was still alive, but she did not. With the greatest gentleness, Marcán took Aednat from Diarmuid, holding her against his chest. The look in his eyes was hopeless.
Aednat teetered at death’s door, but Marcán could find no injury to cause it. Black Oengus, the bastard who’d kidnapped her, had held her in a throat clutch, which could mean her neck was broken. Even now her head rolled against his shoulders.
“Bring the healer.” Diarmuid gave the order as he dismounted.
Marcán’s concern for his friend was great. His lovely bride had not yet awakened, her face pale. When Diarmuid moved to retrieve her, Marcán said, “Allow me to relieve ye, Diarmuid. Ye’ve held her the entire way, surely ye can take a rest.”
“I cannot.” The pain in Diarmuid’s face pulled at Marcán, and he relinquished her without further comment.
Astrid’s light hair caught his attention. She stepped closer, and he sighed. The mere sight of her was as refreshing as sunshine on a rainy day.
“I will bring the healer to ye,” Astrid said.
That her eyes did not glance his way was not a surprise, but still he watched her until she disappeared into the roundhouse.
Some of the men in the procession were still bleeding from wounds they’d received in the battle against Aednat’s kidnappers. That bastard Black Oengus was dead, but his men had escaped. That and Aednat’s injury made the whole battle seem like a loss, but they had indeed been the victors, without a single loss of life among their own warriors.
At the back of the procession were the spoils. Women and children who had been left behind by the defeated warriors. The children were wide-eyed with fear, but most of the women knew the way of it. Some of Marcán’s own clansmen had slaked themselves on the women by this time. That was the way of battle. Diarmuid had been beside himself with concern for his wife, so Marcán had protected the women who were not willing. Most were willing, which made it go easier for them.
Black Oengus’s clan had been without a home, running from capture most of the time, but the man had nonetheless possessed powerful ambitions, envisioning himself as the next High King of Éire. He had enlisted the help of a witch, and it was the old hag who had told him of the legend regarding the Great Healer. The man hadn’t known for certain if Aednat was the one, but the uncertainty hadn’t deterred him from stealing her away. He would have used her in front of the entire clan in an attempt to steal her power. He and Diarmuid had witnessed his rough treatment of Aednat as they were preparing to attack the camp.
“Philip, can ye see that the hostages are fed?” Marcán asked the warrior who came up behind them.
“Hostages or slaves?”
Marcán glanced toward the sorry group, barely clothed, and scrawny from a lack of food. “They have nothing and no one, or they would not have been with the likes of Black Oengus. Treat them as slaves and distribute them accordingly.”
“I will question them about relatives and have word sent.”
“And ye will see to their care. I will attend Diarmuid.” Marcán had chosen Philip for this duty because he had a kind heart. He knew Philip would not allow them to be abused.
Philip ushered the women and children inside the roundhouse, but Marcán paused to take a deep breath to settle himself. He was exhausted. Blood and mud spattered his clothes, the scent wafting up to him. His mail, removed by this time, was in an even worse condition.
The horses were being seen to. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had eaten. The battle had been tough against surprisingly well-trained warriors. They had fought like men with nothing to lose. Worthy opponents.
Not long after, Marcán finally settled himself on the garden bench. He nodded to the men who wandered past. Their arms around their smiling wives, who were no doubt relieved their husbands had survived another battle. Children skipped alongside them, laughing. Their loved ones had been there to greet them.
The thought made him feel more alone than he had in a long while.
“Mead?” It was one of the women from Oengus’s clan. She had long, auburn hair and bright green eyes. A pretty lass with a brazen look. Marcán glanced around, searching for Philip, but saw no one with her. He frowned.
“Philip told me to bring this to ye,” she explained before he could question her.
“My thanks.” He drank it down without ceremony, he was that parched. Closing his eyes, he struggled to stay awake.
“I can bring ye more.” The lass stood before him still. “Ye look to be done in.”
