Pádraig’s anger rose with each word. “I have all that is required to becomeri.Ye have nothing against me that allows ye to withdraw me from consideration.”
“How about the way ye behave? Far from a kingly presence.” Astrid could not hold back the comment.
“Do ye have something to bring before the council?” Murdoch’s question immediately sent Astrid into a panic. She could not share what had transpired and she hoped to never have to.
“I-I do!” Faolán’s eyes leveled on her as he approached the table. “A-and I-I w-will bear w-witness on my testimony a-alone.”
“Have ye news that would change our minds?”
Pádraig’s face reddened.
“I-I do. This man i-is a-a defiler of w-women. I-I have seen so w-with my own e-eyes.”
“He lies!” Pádraig’s words ripped through the assembly. “He has a fondness for—”
“Do not say it.” Marcán’s voice was low and threatening, respectful of Astrid’s obvious reluctance to recount her experience.
Pádraig was wise in clamming his mouth shut, but he shook his head, his gaze turning toward the trees in the distance.
“I also bear witness.”
Pádraig’s head circled quickly back to stare at the red-haired man at the table.
“He has approached me with promises for my sons. I am… I am ashamed to admit I considered his bribe. Forgiveness, please.”
Ian placed a hand on his brother’s back. “Mayhap we need time to meet together to decide what is right for our clan.”
“Iam what is right for my own clan!”
“Brother, they rise against ye even now.”
A look over the crowds gathered around showed the disgruntled faces of Pádraig’s own clan.
“They do not know what is best for them.” His condescending tone was unmistakable.
“They do not believe ’tis ye,” Marcán said.
“I will show them!” Pádraig grabbed at his sidearm, a long, solid sword, and withdrew it from its scabbard in one swift movement. “Step forth, Marcán. Ye believe ye are the better man? Let me show ye the error in yer thinking.”
With a slicing motion, Pádraig caught Marcán’s sleeve before he was able to withdraw his own blade.
“Not fair!” Astrid yelled, aggressively stepping toward the man as blood soaked Marcán’s sleeve.
Ignoring the minor sting, Marcán set Astrid behind him with a smile. Then he was in Pádraig’s face, their swords crossing as they pressed wrist to wrist.
Astrid continued to shout from the sidelines. “Is that the way of it, then? Ye must catch a man off guard and a woman unprotected to get whatever ye want?”
Pádraig bared his teeth in a snarling grimace. “Yer whore is speaking to ye.”
With a hard thrust, Marcán shoved the man back so forcefully he stumbled to keep his footing.
“What, Marcán? Ye can’t bear the truth?”
Disbelief flooded Marcán—the fool was so intent on taunting him, he wasn’t paying attention to his sword. He pressed forward, ducking beneath Pádraig’s flailing sword, and shoved the hilt of his own weapon into his enemy’s belly. Pádraig doubled over in pain. Marcán did not hesitate to thrust the sword end against the bend of the man’s shoulders, sending him plummeting the rest of the way to the ground.
Cheers went up, but Marcán remained focused on his vile opponent, his chest heaving. Pádraig fell to his side, rolling out of harm’s way. Marcán kept on him. Blood trickled from the downed man’s face, but he wiped at it, shifting to his knees.
“Ye think ye can best me with a few thrusts?” Pádraig jumped to his feet, shaking his head, no doubt to clear it. “I am made of firmer stuff.”
