Francis looked as if he’d been struck. “Cathair? The lad fostered with me. I heard of no battle.”
“He did not die in battle. He was murdered and his brother hunts down the killer even as we speak.”
Brighit felt her whole body start to tremble. Darragh turned his gaze to her, planted a kiss on her cheek and whispered, “Would ye prefer to go with Moira? I should have asked.”
She shook her head, unable to form words.
“Are ye certain ’tis not too much for ye to hear such talk? It would not be untoward.”
Francis glanced at her as if he knew what they discussed and said, “I would not believe the she-warrior would want to miss the goings on.”
His smile and tone indicated he was but teasing her, so she smiled back. A stiff smile because her stomach was clenched into a ball as tight as when Cathair’s fist had pummeled her. Everything she’d eaten threatened to come back up her throat.
Nodding to Darragh, she said, “I will stay.”
Darragh kissed her forehead lightly then turned his attention back to Francis. “He has the weapon, or so he says.”
“Ye question his truthfulness?” Francis did not seem surprised.
“He claims he follows the trail of the murderers.” Darragh shrugged. "For all we know, he may have even caught them.”
“How many men?”
Tipping his head, Darragh offered a look of disbelief. “Seigine claims it was only one man who murdered his brother.”
Brighit forced down the bile flooding her mouth.
“And Seigine has become king?”
The man’s tone implied a meaning beyond the words he used. Darragh’s eyes narrowed on his friend and Brighit’s stomach gurgled.
“Is there a reason they should have chosen another?” Darragh asked.
“My experience with both of these men—lads—was that they do not agree on much. Both fostered with me, but I could not keep Seigine here long. He fought with my sons as well.”
“Terrence didn’t mention anything about knowing Seigine.”
“Terrence was staying with his uncle in Alba. I do not remember the two ever meeting.”
When the food began working its way up her throat, Brighit stood suddenly. “I am going to be sick.”
Darragh jumped to his feet and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, taking them away from the large hall and out the side door, where she promptly emptied her stomach. She collapsed against him, her breath heaving. He brought them to a small bench set beneath a tall tree.
“Aw dear Brighit. Has the talk of murders been too much for ye? I believe ’tis too much for me most days.”
Brighit hated her weakness and her tears, but she would not allow her husband to think such talk was too much for her. What weighed on her was far more serious. She was being forced to encourage her husband to support the kingship of a man who had fought with everyone. How terrible for his neighboring clans. How terrible for everyone. And yet if she did not…
“I believe the soup may not have set well with me.”
He pulled her close, smoothing her hair as he stroked her like a child. “Ye have handled yerself well in all situations.”
The pride in his voice forced the tears to the surface and she buried her face against his shoulder.
“Do not feel ashamed,a ghráidh.”
“Ye call me darling only because ye do not know how I really am.”
His body stiffened. “What d'ye refer to?” He hooked a finger beneath her chin to raise it up so they were eye to eye. “I know ye believe ye must be as strong as a man, but I do not agree.”
