Marcán gritted his teeth but remained focused. “But ye do not know for certain if ’twas Pádraig?”
Ian’s look of betrayal hit Marcán in the gut. “I have spoken to ye of this. He has reason! He wants to be king.”
Certainly Marcán believed the man was capable of murdering someone, but his own father?
There were many fathers who treated their children thus—men who had a taste for cruelty didn’t always care to protect their own families from their wrath. His own father and mother had been kind, choosing to be patient with him rather than using their fists.
Marcán hesitated but a moment before asking the question on his lips. “And why was it different for ye?”
Ian seemed taken aback.
“Ye never spoke of yerself when ye mentioned yer father’s behavior. Was it only Pádraig and Daimhin who felt his wrath?”
The lad nodded. “I am from the second wife my father took, a younger woman he loved very deeply. I assumed he did not love their mother. From the stories I have heard, there seemed to be constant strife between them. She would be locked in her room for days, also receiving beatings at his hand.”
A cruel man then, although Marcán had never sensed it himself. “Ye’re saying Pádraig murdered his father so that he could take over as king?”
“And he does not have the support of our clan.”
“Then thederb finewill not be behind him. He will have acted for nothing.”
“They will support him, because they have no choice. That is why we are without atánaiste.”
“There is no one but yer brother?”
“Thetánaistedied suddenly last fall. Many believe he was killed. No one has named my brother. Not yet.”
Marcán sighed. “Ye fear for yer clan. I understand, but what would ye have me do?”
“I am uncertain what ye can do.” Ian shrugged, his shoulders rounded in defeat.
Marcán struggled for words to encourage the lad. “Ian, thederb fineare nobility. Afine lineof nobility. They are powerful men. Trust the ones that will serve on this council to do what is best for yer clan. Ye yerself are descended from kings and may someday serve on this council. Wouldyeaccept a bribe to give support to someone who cannot even defend his own clan?”
“I do not trust them. I cannot trust them, not when I know many are indebted to Pádraig!”
“Thederb fineare above such things. How are they indebted?”
“I do not know for certain.” Ian’s glance shifted, as if searching for an answer that refused to come. He finally looked at Marcán. “Butyeare a man I trust. If ye would come and be near when they meet, I would be grateful.”
Marcán was from the line of kings, so he could be part of the council and had done so when needed. But he was a man of action, preferring to be at Diarmuid’s side to sitting around discussing how things should go.
“I will do what I can for ye, Ian. I will remain close at hand to them, and if I can speak any truth to them, I will.”
“My thanks.” Ian grasped his wrist in a show of respect, and Marcán returned the gesture. “They meet in a few days’ time, and until then our clan is vulnerable. Please speak to no one of my concerns. I do not wish to be found dead as well.”
Searching his face for any sign that he was but jesting, Marcán instead recognized his resoluteness. “Nor do I. I will speak of this to no one.”
By the time Marcán returned, Astrid was nowhere in sight. He searched the faces of those in the roundhouse, but again there was no sign of her. Astrid was not there, and his exhaustion was quickly overtaking him. Gréagóir had been given the duty of seeing to the hostages, no doubt as a show of support from Diarmuid, which suited Marcán fine.
Joan approached with a trencher. “The goings-on outside have ye missing the repast.”
“Not by choice.” He accepted the food, leaning against the wall to partake. “And has Astrid been about?”
He had done his best to sound merely curious, but Joan’s eagle eyes were on him, her lips curling slightly. “She is attending her mother.”
“Her mother?”
The cook shrugged and returned to her own food. “Faolán said they sent word for the meal to begin without them.”
