“Then he was indeed murdered,” Marcán said.
“Thank ye.” The lad’s voice cracked, but he struggled for composure.
“And who would want to see him dead?”
Ian’s frown pushed the tears down his cheeks. When he raised his brows, Marcán realized the lad didn’t need to say the name. Pádraig.
“Is yer brother that heartless?”
“They’d had an argument, a bitter argument that neither would back down from. I tried to block it out. They said such vile things.”
“And what was the argument about?”
“Daimhin.” Ian wiped his face with an impatient gesture, his face reddening with his anger. “When Daimhin came back without Astrid—”
“Astrid?”
“My father had sent her to bring Astrid to him. Daimhin refused at first. She did not want to go, but my father… compelled her to do his bidding.”
Marcán’s own blood was beginning to boil. “He beat her?”
Ian nodded. “When she returned with Astrid’s refusal, he beat her again. He said she hadn’t tried hard enough to persuade her. When Pádraig found out about the beating, he was beside himself.”
Marcán could not actually imagine that man coming to the defense of any woman. He was a user of women, not a defender of them. “So they had an argument about yer father’s treatment of Daimhin?”
“Pádraig and Daimhin are very close. Closer than most siblings.”
Marcán sensed there was something Ian was not saying, and he was nearing the end of his patience. “Ye asked to speak to me, Ian. Either do so, or allow me to return to my duties.”
Ian shifted, averting his eyes. “Do ye know how our clans are connected? How the land was once owned as onetúath? A great and powerful clan?”
Ready to rip the boy’s face off for dragging out the story, Marcán merely nodded. “Two brothers had a falling out and the land was divided.”
A terrible waste. Once the clan was divided, they became of little importance, their glory days behind them.
“That is correct. My father wanted to be the one to unite the clans again, to bring our people back to their previous prominence. He was a very ambitious man.”
“Through battle?” Marcán asked.
“Not his first choice. He had hoped to do it peaceably, though marriage, and his eyes were on yer father—”
“Myfather? How so?”
“If Colmán were to take a woman from our clan to wife, my father could have someone he knew and trusted at his side. He believed he could convince Colmán to be his second and unite the tribes.”
“There was one woman he believed could win Colmán—a most beautiful woman, much sought after. He encouraged her to spend time with yer father, woo him into marriage. Yer father was interested at first, but then he met yer mother.”
Daimhin had begun to tell him this story the other day, he realized, only he had not let her finish. Up until now, Marcán had never heard of his father’s interest in any woman other than his own mother. “And who was this woman?”
“I do not know her name. Daimhin marrying Diarmuid or Pádraig marrying Astrid would accomplish the same thing. My father would have settled for either. When Diarmuid married, that left only Astrid.”
Of course, it didn’t leave Astrid at all, and the sooner everyone knew she was taken, the better. “I have had much to contend with here, Ian—”
“I believe Pádraig murdered our father.”
The words hung in the air like a bad smell. “He did not want to be forced to marry Astrid?”
“Oh he was fine with marrying her. Seeks her hand even now, playing up to Beibhinn.”
