by Jules Watson
Her head drooped and she stared at her fingers in Meallán’s dripping mane, for she did not want to see life going on around her. She had the impression of dark banks closing in on either side as they passed between the outer defenses; gates dragged shut behind her; watch-towers looming beneath a clouded sky.
She closed her eyes. This time she had built her own trap. Her vows—sacred vows—had taken the one treasure that had ever been hers alone.
As she grew closer to Cruachan, the rain began to clear. One of her guards whistled. “Lugh’s balls.” His exclamation dragged Maeve from her stupor.
She looked up, blinking sore eyes.
The green turf of Cruachan had been transformed into a great war-camp. What she had thought in her daze was the sun catching on raindrops was instead a vast sea of metal. A forest of spears was staked between scattered tents. Helmets were hooked over poles, shields piled up, studded with iron bosses.
The meadows had been churned into mud, swarming with ranks of men sparring with each other, practicing the battle-feats or wrestling and cheering each other on. The glint of their swords and spears was like lightning among dark clouds.
Maeve and her men passed from the western fringes of the plains toward the royal halls. One flank of tents were of sheepskin, the rain clumping the oily fleece together. At the heart of that encampment, yellow banners sagged from tall spears. Mumu. The Mumu mountains nurtured great flocks of sheep. There must be a thousand warriors here at least.
Another field held more familiar cowhide tents. The spears of the Galeóin were in rows of holders, tracing spirals of sharp iron on the ground. They bore green banners—Laigin. And closer to Cruachan were gathered Connacht-men from many far-flung clans.
In the camps, warriors huddled about smoky fires, their clothes steaming as they stirred pots over the flames and cleaned their weapons. They fell silent as Maeve passed, lifting their faces to her. She saw dripping moustaches, hair drawn into crests or greased with ocher, fur mantles hanging limp and wet.
The men began to get up to watch her ride by. She heard the mutters being passed along. Rígan … Macha Mong Ruad. They called her Queen or Macha of the Red Mane—it did not matter. Perhaps they were one and the same now.
Maeve drew breath as if surfacing from black water. She put back her hood, shaking out her wet hair.
More men left off what they were doing and lined the track. The sparring ones halted, shading their eyes and raising their swords. Scarred hands gripped spear-shafts, thudding them across broad chests in a mark of respect. Mumu, Laigin, and Connacht. More than three thousand warriors.
Maeve tried to draw her weary back straight, to brace her shoulders.
She was the land.
She had once inhaled its mist at the lake, cried out pleasure that was sun-bright. Her body had unfurled beneath Ruán’s hands like the green shoots themselves. But that was over now; he had told her so.
If she did not have that, then she only had the cold stone of the land, the hewn wood, the iron to fill her. If you see me only as a warrior-queen, she said to Ruán, then that is all I will be.
Wolves and bears had claws, but the people had only their warriors to protect them. And the warriors had her—the Maeve, battle-queen of Erin.
The new Red Branch warriors filled Conor’s hall at Emain Macha to the rafters, piling up the stairs to sit with legs dangling from the gallery. As the feast wore on, those crushed around the hearth-fires below were showered with mead and ale, eliciting gales of laughter.
Most of the young revelers were beyond caring. Two hundred British and Alban warriors, lordless and landless, had answered Conor’s call, drawn by the promise of battle-spoils.
In their honor, Conor had brought in barrels of the finest heather ale that he had captured from an Alban ship. The Alban kegs had been set up around the room, and as the men got drunker, they turned to draining whole pitchers in a single gulp.
Conor himself only took one small sip from a ceremonial cup, then signaled his slaves to bring him water. He could not assert authority over these cubs if he heaved his supper over his feet. That was over now; he was strong now. Clear.
Buinne, Fergus’s elder son, sprawled near Conor, barely upright. He slammed his cup on the table, shoving a hand into a mound of salmon cooked in milk and smearing it onto his tongue and red beard. “Where is the Hound?”
Conor eyed Buinne with distaste. “Cúchulainn will come. I ordered him to.” He picked up a duck bone and held it to his new pet perched on a stool beside him. The creature had come off a ship from the Middle Sea. It was a furry little man-shape with long arms, no tail, and bulbous eyes. The ruff of fur above its eyes made it look doleful, which amused Conor greatly. He had tied its gold collar to his chair with a chain.
“This is my new adviser,” he announced to the drunken men around him. “It will serve me better than any druid I’ve endured, for it cannot answer back!”
The warriors roared, and the ape rocked on its haunches. It took the bone in delicate fingers, sniffed it, and wrinkled its nose before tossing it away. The men laughed even harder. Conor’s attention only lifted from his pet when all the heads of the warriors began turning, like barley with a wind through it. The din subsided.
Cúchulainn had come.
Conor waved his cup. “I summoned you days ago.” He squinted at the Hound, clearing the smoke from his eyes. Cúchulainn stood there unmoving. “Come!” Conor cried. “See these fine new Red Branch I have here.”
The last time Cúchulainn came to this hall was to force Conor to bring Naisi home. Then, he had blazed with finery, and the druids all murmured in awe that it must be true that Cúchulainn’s sire was the god Lugh, the bright one.
Now Cúchulainn was diminished, a shadow in a dark leather cloak and lank hair. Only his vivid eyes still burned.
Slowly, the torch of his gaze alighted on the ale barrels, and dropped to the men passed out on the floor, the straw stained around them. It rose to the carcasses of cow and pig flung about in gleeful waste, and drink spilled over platters of half-eaten food. It roamed over the youths still staggering up the stairs and retching in corners.
Finally, it fixed upon Conor. “The initiation feats of the Red Branch are trying, but their purpose is to uncover the most skilled fighters, the bravest, the most dedicated.” Cúchulainn’s voice carried through the hall. “You must not abandon them.”
Conor scowled. “Do not cross me, Hound. We will talk of this in my chamber, or not at all.”
Cúchulainn did not blink. Rain had plastered his blond hair down his cheeks. “The weaving of the sacred bonds requires careful teaching and practice, fasting and prayer. The light we draw upon arises from a communion with the forests and seas.” His lip curled. “This is sacrilege.”
Those warriors still in their right minds could not face the Hound, looking down and shuffling their feet. Conor frowned and gestured to an ale-lad behind his chair. “Get the Hound a measure, and see if we cannot sweeten his temper.”
The boy scrabbled on the tables for a mead-horn or bronze cup, but most were strewn on the floor. He surfaced at last with a clay beaker. As he proffered it to Cúchulainn, the king smiled. “I should have welcomed you properly, Champion of the Ulaid. It has been long since you graced my royal hall.”
“I would not come when I could still smell the reek of my brothers’ burned flesh.”
Another hush fell. Conor had indulged the Hound’s lack of respect before because he needed the Red Branch for protection against his border lords and Connacht. The worst had now happened, though—the Red Branch was broken, and here he was, still standing.
The new Red Branch might need the Hound’s prowess, but never again would he let Cúchulainn claim the loyalty of warriors that should be his. “You are honor-bound to sit by me as Champion of the Ulaid,” Conor ground out, “and accept the homage of these men.”
Cúchulainn’s face went white. He put his hands out and accepted the cup of ale, and the servant let
go and fled behind Conor’s chair. Cúchulainn looked down into the pale liquid, head bowed.
Conor hauled himself up in his chair. He knows he’s beaten. Cúchulainn might hate his uncle, but his responsibility to the people of the Ulaid still shackled the Hound to his will.
“I no longer drink ale.” Cúchulainn spoke so softly, everyone strained to hear him. “To honor my brother Ferdia, who always kept his mind clear to cover my back.”
Conor slammed the arm of his chair. “You will take the sacred drink that binds us as one!”
Cúchulainn lifted his head, and only then did the king understand that his stillness was not an admission of defeat. Even Conor could recognize the force in those vivid eyes, the pause before a killing blow. The king’s muscles instinctively braced. He can’t kill me at my hearth!
He didn’t.
Cúchulainn spun on his heel and hurled the cup with such force it shattered into a hundred pieces against a roof-pillar of oak. It showered the young men with shards and ale, and, panicking, they scurried away from the flame of the Hound’s eyes.
Without a glance at Conor, Cúchulainn threw a fold of his dark cloak about his head. The men gaped, crushed against the walls, as the Hound swept from the hall like a cloud on the crest of a storm.
CHAPTER 29
For the first time in a generation, the king’s hall at Cruachan hosted a council of war, the fragile alliances that bound the four kingdoms now fractured.
Hidden around the back of the great building, Maeve crouched on her haunches in the sun, her eyes closed. Young warriors had always raided cattle, burning off the fire in their blood. But a great battle? There had been none for many years.
She had brought this thing into being.
The leaders sent with the Mumu and Laigin forces were gathered on benches around the hearth-fires inside, along with the foremost Red Branch exiles. The kings of Laigin and Mumu had offered a thousand warriors each. Ros Ruadh had also sent a crusty old warrior to command his forces alongside Ailill—a sign he was still cautious.
And here she was, belly-sick, her back against a mud wall.
“Maeve.” It was Garvan. His shadow fell across her, blotting out the sun. “They grow restive. The Laigin war-leader is saying we should think twice about something from which we cannot turn back.” He grunted. “Coward.”
It was her legs that might not bear her up. But they had to. Stiffly, she pulled herself straight, lifting her head.
Garvan searched her face, worry in his eyes. As she forced her thighs to move, he rested a hand on her back. “Soon enough, spitfire, you’ll be riding, spearing, and screaming to your heart’s content.” He grinned. “That will wipe the frown from your pretty face.”
“Lugh’s balls,” Maeve replied. But she could not summon a smile.
Caught in the shadows inside the doors, she wavered. She could turn and slip from this place before they saw her, and then the momentum might be lost—and the killing never happen. Then Garvan swept past her, his stride nudging her out into the firelight. A score of heads turned to her: grizzled hair, battle-scarred faces, huge shoulders draped in furs of wolf and fox, seal and stoat.
Wetting her lips, Maeve walked out before them. “There has never been a chance like this to rid ourselves of Conor—and there never will be again.” She glanced down, taking a breath. Yes, remember this … it used to fill her with such fire. She gestured toward Fergus, whose bulk was spilling over her father’s old chair. “We have the true strength of the Ulaid on our side now.”
“Conor mac Nessa can still field thousands of warriors,” the Mumu battle-leader growled.
Maeve glanced at Fergus.
The former Ulaid king lumbered to his feet, heavy rings of bronze and gold gleaming at his arms and throat. “Conor has lost most of his best fighters. The Ulaid lords near the border are strong, but they also resent him, and for the past year have stayed away from Emain Macha. He is having to buy foreign fighters, and cobble together a force from boys who have barely held a sword. The Ulaid are no longer bound by strong ties.” Fergus’s lashes flickered, and he caught up a cup and drank, spilling ale down his silver beard. “So.” He shaped their path with scarred hands. “We cross the border in the west of the Ulaid, where the lords are sundered from each other and from Conor, and overcome any resistance there. The road to Emain Macha lies open after that.”
Maeve put her hand on Fergus’s broad shoulder, facing the others. The leaping flames of the great fire made her cheeks flush and her skin prickle. “We do not want to lay waste to the Ulaid, only unseat Conor. Then Fergus will regain his kingship, and all four kingdoms will swear to one alliance, to make Erin stronger.”
Ailill was staring at Maeve’s fingers where they gripped Fergus, his eyes narrowed and cold. “Why,” he asked, “should we struggle across the marshes in the west when we could head east to the coast, then turn north? If Conor’s guard is weakened, we should target the easier path to Emain Macha.” He glared at Fergus. “Or is the great Fergus mac Roy playing with us?”
“Ailill,” Maeve said softly.
Fergus’s brows lowered, his heavy cheeks going red. Before he could answer, a voice floated from the outskirts of the circle.
“They won’t go east.” Ferdia was seated against the wall, legs crossed on a table, bronze cup balanced on his chest. His dark hair hung over reddened eyes. “They won’t go east because there lies the famed dun of Cúchulainn—great Hound of the Ulaid.” He lifted his cup, his smile savage.
The other warriors muttered. Fergus glowered at Ferdia, and then at Ailill. “It is true. We must avoid the Hound’s lands. That is why the west is better.”
“We will die either way,” someone grumbled.
At that moment the doors opened. Maeve wheeled around to greet the one they were waiting for. Tiernan leaned on his staff as he broke out into the flickering pool of firelight.
“Tell them what you told me, chief druid.” Maeve touched her brow. “The druids know this is the time.”
Tiernan also appeared to be carrying a weight on his bowed shoulders. Nevertheless he nodded, fixing his gaze upon the battered shields and swords of old kings that hung from the walls and rafters. Maeve had never asked him to speak anything but truth.
“I saw that Emain Macha would burn, and that Fergus mac Roy and his men would come.” His aged voice still resonated with power. “Since then I have seen other things. A woman whose red hair flows over the land, her power a mantle that covers the hills, her breath the winds.” He faltered, his awareness turned inward. “She gathers the Source from the Otherworld in a great vessel, her power making it purer, brighter. A silver lake, she makes, before she pours it through Thisworld and fills it with light.”
He had never used those words before.
Maeve rubbed a shiver from her neck, and as the men all stared at the druid, she had to clear her throat. “It is Macha—the chief druid sees Macha’s red hair because she blesses our endeavors.”
“Or it’s the blood of the Ulaid flowing over the ground.” Drunken Ferdia took another swig of ale.
“There is more,” Tiernan said, closing his eyes. “I saw the people gathered on a hilltop, and Maeve, daughter of Eochaid, circling the mound with a sword. As she rode, she struck the four great shields that protected that throng, screeching a war-cry that echoed over the land.”
Maeve could not look at Tiernan; many nights ago he had told her this dream. She had thought it would fill her with her old flame, but as she walked from the sacred grove, she reflected only on how lonely it was: she on a deserted plain, bracing a sword and shield.
The gods had chosen this, though. She it was who had drawn Conor’s wrath. Her duty in return was clear, and for that she must be grateful. Fewer paths meant fewer thoughts.
Instead of Tiernan, Maeve gazed around at the battle-leaders, as well as Ailill, Fraech, Garvan, Fergus, and Cormac. As one, their eyes rose to her. The flame of the Great Raid upon Conor mac Nessa had been lit, for she saw
it in their faces.
A hand crept around Conor’s throat, thumbs pressing his windpipe.
He flailed awake, grabbing his dagger and slashing out. The knife swished through empty air. The walls and roof were tilting, collapsing in on him …
“My lord.”
Conor tried to focus, but the flame of the lamp kept swelling and shrinking.
“My lord! Pray the sickness does not have you, too.”
An icy clarity gripped Conor and he shook his head. Pain shot through him that was not the dregs of ale; he hadn’t drunk enough for that. The glint of steel was only a terrified boy holding a spear. No one had touched his throat. “What?” he croaked.
“All the warriors have been taken deathly ill,” the boy stammered. “I was told to wake you. You’ve been asleep for a night and a day.”
Conor recalled a burning in his dreams. There was a pitcher and cup of water by his bed. Bracing himself, he pushed back the bed covers, which made the room reel again. The linen sheets were crumpled with sweat, the furs damp.
A wave of screams and shouts echoed up the stairs. Conor’s aching head rolled toward it. “What is that?”
“R-Red Branch. All the men at the feast, struck down by an illness the druids have never seen before. Hurry!”
Conor got up and teetered as he drew on his cloak, the boy kneeling to lace his boots. The youth helped him down the stairs. At the bottom, Conor’s belly lurched and he emptied it into the stinking straw. He wiped his mouth. “Where are all the servants?”
“The druids have spent themselves trying to heal the warriors, and with no one to order them, the servants all fled, afraid of the sickness.”
Conor staggered into the firelight and stopped. For a terrible moment he thought he was looking into a wound full of squirming maggots.
Naked men sprawled on filthy cushions or hangings wrenched from the walls. Some writhed as druids bathed their brows, clasping their bellies like women in the grip of birthing. Others retched, the fumes of vomit and loosed bowels making Conor gag and shove an arm across his nose.