The brehon chief held out a hand and was given a folded cloth by one of his ovates. He shook out the cloth to reveal a hood, which he drew over his head, and, raising his staff before him, he intoned in slow, ominous tones, ‘It is the judgement of the brehons that you are guilty of the crime for which you stand accused. You did lead men into battle at Mag Cró and did agree to support the efforts of others fighting to repel an enemy incursion. Having pledged your support, you did not honour that pledge and instead removed the promised aid by deserting the field in the midst of that battle, thereby subjecting the Dé Danann warhost to increased hazard, peril, and death.
‘The penalty for this crime cannot redress the injury caused,’ Eoghan continued, pacing before the hearth. ‘For what remedy exists that can restore faith, can redeem hope, or heal trust once it has been broken? What reward can compensate for the horror, the desperation, the fear and agony of those whose death resulted from the cruel and wicked act? What compensation can be given for a life once it is extinguished?’
The wise head of the brehons allowed the questions to go unanswered as he paced around the circle a little more, then said, ‘Though no material compensation can ever be equal to the loss, yet reparation will be made. In established law the honour price due for the unlawful death of a warrior is equal to the price of five sét in silver or gold.’
He looked to Liam and Aengus, sitting on either side of the Brigantes lord. ‘The brehons have determined that you who supported Lord Vainche, while not wholly blameless, did so out of misplaced loyalty. In short, you trusted an unworthy overlord. You were not the first to pledge fealty to a master of deception and lies, nor will you be the last. You must live with the guilt of that decision and suffer whatever consequences your involvement with Lord Vainche and his schemes may bring in future dealings with your brother kings of other tribes. Further, to reclaim your honour, you are required to reconcile and redeem yourselves to any and all other lords who may have cause to hold grievance against you because of your actions on that day. This is the judgement of the brehons.’
Lord Aengus lowered his head in meek acceptance of the decision.
Turning to Liam, the chief brehon regarded the shaken, chagrined king and said, ‘Regarding your part in the crime, the judgement of the brehons is that you are guilty of complicity in the betrayal of the Dé Danann warhost. In recompense, you will pay to the tribe five sét for the life of each slain warrior.’ He paused and looked to Liam for an answer.
‘I will pay,’ said Liam, his voice small and uncertain.
‘Moreover,’ continued Eoghan, ‘it is the judgement of the brehons that you had opportunity to oppose Vainche’s decision on the battlefield, but chose instead to follow him in abandoning the fight. Therefore, a more stringent punishment is required.’
Liam visibly cringed as the brehon chief drew himself up to deliver the brehons’ ruling.
‘For failing to challenge Vainche’s treason, you will relinquish all claims to the lordship of your people until the debt of honour is discharged. Failure to pay in a timely manner will result in the permanent loss of your kingship and the forfeit of lands and cattle. Do you understand?’
Liam, owning his fault at last, received his punishment without objection or complaint.
Turning from the convicted men, Eoghan said, ‘As for you, Lord Vainche, the honour price for a malicious death is double the price for an unlawful death. Therefore, the brehons of Eirlandia have determined that you shall be required to pay the price equal to that of ten sét to the families of each of those warriors whose lives were lost during the battle at Mag Cró.’
‘Outrageous!’ spluttered Vainche. ‘It is too much!’
But Eoghan was not finished. ‘That is the compensation to be paid to the survivors of the victims of your crime. I ask you now how you intend to pay?’
Vainche, seething, spat, ‘Pay! I … cannot pay. I will not! It is too much.’
Eoghan, frowning mightily, stared at the Brigantes king. ‘Then you will forfeit all lands and—’
‘I will pay!’
Every head turned to where Sceana stood with Aoife. The Brigantes queen, green eyes narrowed to angry slits, gazed upon her disgraced husband and, in a clear, hard voice, declared, ‘Though it cost the whole of my realm, I will pay the honour price to the families of those warriors whose lives were forfeit to Lord Vainche’s treason. I alone will redeem the honour of my tribe.’
Vainche swallowed hard and, unable to endure the ferocity of her gaze and the shame of his failure, turned his face away.
‘As Queen of the Brigantes, I declare my marriage to that man’—she raised a hand and pointed at Vainche—‘repudiated and dissolved.’ She touched the bruise on her cheek. ‘From this moment, that man is no longer husband to me and will no longer reside at Aintrén or receive a welcome there. I know him not.’
The chief brehon looked to Banfaíth Eithne, who, after a quick word with Orlagh, simply nodded her approval of the dissolution. Satisfied, Eoghan inclined his head to the queen and said, ‘It shall be as you say.’
Eoghan paused and regarded Vainche with a solemn countenance before continuing. ‘It is the view of this council that no recompense is sufficient to restore or redeem what has been lost and broken by this heinous breach of faith. Therefore, punishment will be added to the judgement.’
Raising his staff, he held it crosswise above his head and, in a hard, unyielding tone, declared, ‘Hear me, Vainche mac Simach. By committing the crime of treason in battle you have forfeited your noble rank and are no longer worthy to be called lord or king. Moreover, we find the just punishment for your crimes will be to share the fate of those you betrayed.
‘As you abandoned the tuath in battle, so the tuath now abandon you. I, Eoghan, Chief Brehon of Eirlandia, have spoken.’
At these words, a visible shudder passed through the Brigantes lord’s body and he seemed to sag inwardly upon himself. He groaned and swayed on his feet. Both Liam and Aengus reached out to hold him upright as three ollamhs stepped into the circle and came to where the convicted man stood. Without a word, the senior ollamh put his hands to Vainche’s throat, took hold of the king’s fine golden torc, spread wide the ends, and removed it from around his neck. He carried the torc to the brehon Brádoch, who received it into his care.
One of the ollamhs took Eoghan’s rowan staff and the other went to the hearth and, with a little pair of tongs, removed a still-warm coal from the ashes of the previous fire. He carried the ember to Eoghan, and the old druid extended both hands, placing the palms together. He held them like this and closed his eyes; his lips moved silently for a moment. Then, opening his eyes, he parted his hands and the ollamh dropped the spent coal into the brehon’s open palm.
Closing his eyes once more, the brehon spoke a single word—a word in a language that awakened in Conor a distant memory. For a fleeting instant, he was a gawky lad standing spellbound and barefoot in the dust watching the first druid he had ever seen pronounce a curse upon his beleaguered tribe … and there was his da, Ardan, kneeling in the road, begging for the curse to be lifted.
Brehon Eoghan repeated the word and the half-dead coal began to glow, taking on a ruddy blush once more. He spoke the word a third time and a wisp of flame sprouted from the glowing ember. He then glanced over his shoulder at his attending ollamhs who approached and extended the palms of their hands toward the ember. Conor watched in fascination and became aware of a low, thrumming sound; he looked around and realised it was coming from the two ollamhs. The uncanny drone grew in timbre and volume as more voices were added to the weird chorus, and soon all the ollamhs and filidh had the palms of their hands extended. The eerie sound swelled until it seemed to fill the entire hall.
The glowing ember lifted from Eoghan’s outstretched palm. Supported on waves of sound, it floated in the air, spinning slowly at first, and then faster and faster until there came a crack and a flash of fire; the single tiny flame flared to robust life.
&nb
sp; The live coal hung suspended, burning brightly, illuminating the astonished faces of everyone present. But the flame did not last long. As brightly as it flared, it quickly faded and the coal became a glowing ember once more. The ollamh with the tongs reached out and plucked the ember from the air and presented it to Eoghan, who gave a nod of approval and indicated that it should be given to Brádoch, who took the tongs and crossed to where Vainche stood, forlorn and bereft, like a man balanced on a cold sea cliff contemplating the deadly plunge before him.
With one swift movement, Brádoch pressed the smouldering ember against Vainche’s forehead and held it there. The former lord gave an agonised yelp and fell back onto the bench, pressing his hands to his head. He sat there, rocking back and forth, moaning in pain and humiliation. No more a king or nobleman, he was now nothing but an object of pity: wretched, miserable, and pathetic.
‘By this stain you have been marked as a sign of the stain on your soul that your falsehearted betrayal has earned you. Your name will be satirised by bards throughout Eirlandia. As the loss of life and destruction your crime has caused cannot be undone, neither shall this satire be removed. It will endure as long as memory endures.’
‘Outrageous!’ shouted Vainche, leaping to his feet. ‘Lies! All lies!’ Shaking off the hands of the bards, he started forward as if he would stride from the hall. ‘I will not…’
His voice seized and his display of anger instantly altered to an expression of alarm. His jaw continued to work, but no words came out. His hands fluttered to his throat and his fingers tore at the soft flesh there. The high colour drained from his face and he tottered forward on his toes one step, and another, before crashing to his knees. Then, clutching his chest, he fell facedown beside the hearth and lay there unmoving.
Gioll, standing behind the disgraced king, watched in dull horror as the man his blind loyalty had aided and encouraged throughout his contemptible career received his well-earned punishment. But the chief brehon was not finished. Eoghan commanded the battlechief to step forward and said, ‘As you have benefitted in your lord’s gains at the expense of others, so you will share in his losses. I have no doubt your unthinking support was a weapon he wielded and often called upon. We will not deprive him of it now. Therefore, you will join your lord.’
At a gesture from the chief brehon, four filidh moved out from behind the circle of chairs and crossed to where the battlechief stood. The four put hands on Gioll and thrust him forward to receive the searing imprint of the burning coal on his forehead. Gioll gave out a startled, strangled cry and shook off their hold. He bolted for the door of the hall, thrusting his way through the throng, shoving people out of the way. He made it only a few running paces before he, too, was stricken by the strange malady that had afflicted his master. He gave out a whimper and slumped to the floor, never to rise again.
Brehon Brádoch, still holding the flaming ember, moved to the hearth and calmly dropped it into the fire. He turned to Eoghan and declared, ‘The judgement is complete.’
29
The low, heavy sky threatened rain, but in the west streaks of clear blue could be seen splashing through the grey. The Ard Airechtas was concluded and the lords—shocked and amazed by the strange power commanded by the brehons—watched in stunned silence as the bodies of Vainche and Gioll were carried from the hall. Wrapped in their cloaks, the two would be taken by the ovates and ollamhs to a hidden location in a nearby wood and buried in unmarked graves.
No sooner had the grim procession passed from sight than the lords began preparing to depart. ‘Look at them,’ said Conor as he and Donal watched as the horses were brought out and the kings and their advisors made their hasty farewells to one another. ‘Running away as fast as they can lest the taint of Vainche’s shame cling to them.’
‘Don’t judge them too harshly,’ Donal said. ‘Vainche deceived them, too—just as he deceived everyone he ever met. And they suffered for it, too.’
Absorbed in the leave-taking, they did not hear Aoife and Queen Sceana approach until the two appeared beside them. ‘Are you for leaving, too?’ asked Conor.
‘Soon, but not yet,’ replied the queen. ‘I am tired and the Brigantes are camped down on the plain. I will rest there tonight, and return to Aintrén tomorrow. There is so much to be done in the days ahead.’
‘Trust that we will help you in any way we can,’ promised Aoife. ‘You have only to ask.’
Sceana pressed her hand. ‘You have already helped me and my people more than you know. It is more than I deserve, and I am grateful.’ She lowered her head modestly. With a quick glance at Aoife, the queen leaned forward and kissed Conor lightly on the cheek, then put her hand to the place. ‘You have ever been my true friend. Thank you.’ She reached out and pressed Donal’s hand. ‘Thank you both.’
When she had gone, Aoife and Conor and Donal were joined by Rónán, who announced that the brehons would be leaving soon. ‘The day will hold fair enough, I think. If we go now we can be back in Clethar Ciall by tomorrow evening,’ he told them.
‘So soon?’ asked Conor. ‘Could you not stay just another day?’
Rónán hesitated. ‘If we had reason to stay, perhaps. Why? What is in your mind?’
‘Well, it is Lughnasadh, after all,’ Conor replied. ‘We have the druids with us and cause for celebration. Is that reason enough?’ He saw Rónán wavering and added, ‘We could observe the rite at dawn tomorrow.’
‘At dawn tomorrow,’ replied Rónán, nodding in agreement. ‘I’ll speak to Eoghan and the others. We might find them agreeable.’
‘Little Ciara’s soon hungry,’ Aoife said when Rónán had gone. ‘I’ll feed her and you see to reordering your hall. If there’s to be a celebration, there’s that much to be done.’
‘I’ll be taking care of that,’ replied Donal. ‘Go, both of you—go and see your daughter.’
Conor spent a happy few moments playing with Ciara, tossing her in the air and kissing her little pink feet and blowing soft breath on her smiling face. He thought her much grown since he had last seen her. With each passing day, she seemed a little fuller, rounder, more settled, more herself. ‘You are every bit as beautiful as your mother,’ whispered Conor into her tiny ear. ‘My treasure.’
The infant gurgled at the sound of Conor’s voice, then let out an almighty wail. Aoife undertook to feed the baby while they talked about the brehons’ judgement and the changes it would bring for the region and for all Eirlandia. Ciara fell asleep while they talked and a rare moment of peace and contentment claimed that little corner of the ráth. Conor basked in the happy feeling and had just stretched himself on the bed when voices sounded in the yard beyond the bower.
‘It sounds like the lords are leaving,’ he said, sitting up again. ‘I expect I should go see them away.’
‘Must you?’ said Aoife. ‘Stay. Rest a little. Let Fergal see them off.’
Conor looked at his wife and nursing child and hesitated. But the voices grew louder and were joined by shouts from farther off, followed by the scurry of feet outside. An instant later there came a rap on the flimsy doorframe that shook the entire bower. Conor rose and pulled back the door cloth to see Maol’s anxious face. ‘Fergal is raising the warband,’ he said. ‘There’s a Scálda raiding party.’
Casting a last glance at Aoife and the sleeping baby, he stepped outside. ‘How far away are they?’
‘In the forest east of Mag Rí. It looks like they’re coming this way.’
‘How many?’
‘A few raiders only. Maybe more. They are too far away to tell,’ replied Maol, wiping sweat from his face. ‘Caol is down there. He’ll bring word soon enough.’
Conor started for the hall. Maol fell into step beside him. ‘Go find Donal and Médon,’ Conor ordered. ‘Tell them to meet me at the watch post above Mag Rí.’
Maol darted away on the run and Conor hurried to the eastern side of the hilltop and joined Fergal at the rocky outcrop they used as a lookout. A quick look reveale
d nothing moving on the plain below, nor could he see any movement in the dense woodlands that followed the curve of the river from the east to the north. ‘Scálda raiders, is it?’ asked Conor. ‘Seen any sign of them?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Fergal.
Together they scanned the dark wood beyond the plain and then Fergal stabbed out a finger. ‘There!’
Out from the woodland to the northeast, two riders emerged and sped across the plain at a fast gallop. ‘That’ll be Caol, I’m thinking,’ said Fergal. ‘Aye, and from the haste they’re making they’ve seen something to put speed into their flight.’
The two riders reached the base of Tara Hill and started up the difficult eastern track to the top, dismounting halfway up and proceeding on foot when the path became too steep and rocky. As they neared the top, Caol, who was leading the way, caught sight of the observers and gave a wave. Putting his hand to his mouth, he shouted, ‘Scálda!’
The words were hardly out of his mouth when a second cry sounded behind them. Conor and the others turned to see Galart on his horse, charging across the yard. He and Nuadh and Comgall had been riding the western borders out beyond Tara Plain. ‘They’re here!’ he shouted, throwing himself from his mount. ‘The whole filthy Scálda warhost is here!’
30
Conor ran to the western watch post with Fergal right behind. Donal and Maol were there, and Donal, rock-still, gripping his charmed spear tight in his right hand, gazed out across Mag Teamhair. Conor recognised the rigid, almost otherworldly stillness. Donal was seeing something no one else could see.
Fergal opened his mouth to speak. ‘Wha—’
Conor quickly waved him to silence. They watched. Waiting.
A few tense moments slipped by and then Donal exhaled heavily. His broad shoulders slumped and his grip on his spear relaxed. He glanced at those gathered around him and rubbed a hand over his face.
In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Page 24