The ugly man was still chuckling as he blocked her path.
‘Come on, girl. I haven’t all day to exchange pleasantries.’
‘No more than I, you fat fox whelp,’ she replied. ‘Stand aside.’
The man stopped laughing, his eyes suddenly wide in astonishment.
‘What did you say?’ he said slowly, not believing his ears.
‘I said, stand aside.’
The man suddenly roared with laughter again and shook his head.
‘My, but you are a playful little wench.’
It was the flicker of his eyes that gave away his companions. Scáthach saw the shadows creeping up behind her and knew that she must act at once. She spun round, using the length of her javelins like a long club, and smashing them against the head of the man who was creeping up at her right shoulder. He grunted and dropped to his knees. Without pausing, she reversed the javelins, spinning round, and thrusting their butts into the stomach of the other man moving to her left. They caught him full in the solar plexus, knocking him backward into a sitting position on the path with a grunt of surprise. Then Scáthach had discarded the javelins and unsheathed her sword and was moving towards the ugly man, crouched ready for the conflict, her sword point performing short circling motions as she came.
The ugly man stared at her in astonishment, his eyes moving quickly towards his disabled companions. Then he swore unpleasantly and rushed upon the girl, his great sword slashing into the air.
It was all too easy. The man clearly had no training in weaponry at all. The girl moved easily under his guard, knocking aside his shield with a blow from her own and stabbing her sword into the upper muscle of the arm. It was a classic counter the like of which she had practised numerous times with Eola. She was almost surprised at how easily the movement worked. The ugly man grunted in pain and his sword dropped from his nerveless fingers. For a second or two he stood staring at the blood staining his arm. Then he gave a howl of anguish.
Scáthach took a couple of steps back and frowned at the man. Then she shrugged. He was clearly in a state of shock at the swiftness of his defeat. She turned to view his two companions, men as ugly and as ill-clothed as their leader. They were still in the position they had fallen, one on his knees, holding the side of his head where the javelins had struck him like a club, the other seated, almost comically, on the pathway, still clutching his stomach and blowing for want of breath.
She sheathed her sword and bent to pick up her javelins. Then she turned to the ugly man.
‘What name are you known bv?’ she snapped.
The man blinked.
‘I am Eccneid.’
‘Then you are well-named for you are, indeed, foolish.’
‘What do you want of us?’ the man replied gruffly.
‘Nothing, save that you leave here, for when I reach the dun of the next chieftain I will tell him that I have met you and your companions and woe betide you if you remain in this territory.’
Eccneid nodded slowly. If the warriors of the local chieftain came searching for him, he would be taken before the clan assembly and his fate would be assured. For those outcasts who refused to reform, a fate of exile on a lonely inhospitable island awaited. Such was the punishment of those who transgressed the laws of the society and who refused to compensate for their wrongdoing.
Scáthach thrust out her hand holding her javelins, pointing back along the path she had come.
‘Go!’
The three robbers said nothing but drew themselves up and began to walk along the path. It was Eccneid who suddenly halted and turned back. His ugly features were split by what was meant to be an obsequious expression.
‘May I ask what champion we have been defeated by?’
The girl thrust out her chin.
‘Defeated? The word implies a combat of equals.’
‘Nevertheless, what name is given to a girl of such tender years who can vanquish grown men in the blink of an eye.’
‘I am called Scáthach of Uibh Rathach.’
Eccneid smiled and bowed.
‘We shall remember that name,’ he said.
The girl frowned a moment. Was there some other meaning to the man’s words?
She watched the three men walk off, watching them until they were almost out of sight before she continued her journey. Even then, she kept herself alert in case they tried to return and outflank her to take their vengeance. But as the time passed and as she moved through low-lying, almost flat country, bounded on the south-eastern side by the sea’s long dim level, she relaxed. There was no one in sight and the country was such that not even the cleverest rogues could attempt to hide themselves in it, let alone prepare an ambush.
It was dusk when Scáthach came to the outskirts of Dun na Sead and she was now weary from the long day’s journey. She heard the breakers crashing on the granite rocks somewhere ahead and smelled the salt brine of the ocean. Here, too, the air was chill from the breeze that blew from the sea. She paused, glimpsing the lights of the little port below the road nestling in a small cove. However, just a little way ahead on the road, she saw a closer glimmer of light. She was tired, thirsty and hungry. She hoped that it was a bruden, a public hostel. Moments later her expectation was fulfilled when she saw, by the side of the road, a lantern flickering from a tall post on the faitche, or lawn, which led to the stone building. By the light of the lantern she saw, incised in Ogham script on the wooden name-board below, the name ‘Bruden na Rialtais’, hostel of the stars. She walked up to the building and pushed open the heavy oak door.
The place seemed deserted at first. A log fire was crackling in the huge fireplace in which a great cauldron of aromatic broth simmered gently, its perfume permeating the place. It was warm and comforting. The lights were lit and flickering against the polished oak and red deal panels of the room.
The girl hesitated. She had never been in such a place before. Then, fighting down her sense of awkwardness, she called: ‘Ho, there!’
A moment passed before there was a movement somewhere in the building and then a door creaked open.
A short, silver-haired man emerged, florid of face, with deep-set eyes that reflected the fire of the torches, causing them to sparkle in the light. His movements were jerky and appeared almost clumsy. His eyes narrowed when he saw his customer. He came forward with a frown and a growl in his voice.
‘What is it you seek?’ he demanded, with none of the tone one would expect in a hosteler wishing to fulfil the wishers of his clients.
Scáthach sniffed in displeasure.
‘What else would I be seeking but food, drink and a place to pass the night?’ she snapped.
The hosteler’s eyes took in her weaponry, carried as if by one who was used to wielding it, and the richness of her garments. He hesitated.
‘It is strange for a young girl to be travelling alone in this country … ’
He paused as he saw the blaze of anger in the girl’s eyes.
‘Do you question all your customers in this fashion, hostel-keeper?’ she demanded.
The man lifted a shoulder and let it fall.
‘I just remark that it is unusual, that is all. In that, where is the offence?’
‘The offence, man, is not attending to the duties of your office!’ she replied.
The man bit his lip as he realised that here was one used to being obeyed. Young and slight as this slip of a girl was, she carried herself with the demeanour of a seasoned warrior.
‘May I ask,’ his tone was a little less rough now, ‘who graces my Hostel of the Stars?’
‘I am Scáthach of Uibh Rathach.’
The man’s eyes widened.
‘Of Uibh Rathach, you say?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Are you kin to Eola of Uibh Rathach?’
She nodded.
‘He was my father.’
The hostel-keeper’s eyes widened even further.
‘Was? Has his grave been measured?’
‘He died five days since.’
‘Alas, then Éireann lacks a great hero.’
The man’s sadness seemed genuine. He bowed his head for a moment and then raised it to stare at the girl.
‘Are you then his daughter?’
‘By fosterage,’ she confirmed. ‘I am daughter of Eola and Buimech.’
‘Welcome to my poor hostel, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring.’
The man inclined his head in a bow.
‘What is your name?’ asked the girl with a frown of surprise at this new courtesy.
‘I am Brosc.’
Scáthach inclined her head in acknowledgement at the extravagance of his welcome.
‘Come, be seated, daughter of Eola. Let me prepare a meal for you.’
The girl allowed herself to be led to a table near the fire and divested herself of her shield and weapons. She stretched luxuriously in its warmth while Brosc, the hostel-keeper, busied himself laying a place.
‘I had the privilege to know your father when he was captain of the Fianna, the bodyguard of the High King,’ he explained, as he brought platter and bowl to the table. ‘I was once a bowman in the High King’s retinue and when I grew too old to carry my bow in his service, I returned to my clan lands and sought to end my days peacefully as a hostel-keeper.’
He took her bowl.
‘A dish of broth for you, daughter of Eola? It is a broth made of leek and oats, mixed with cream and seasoned with parsley.’
She nodded absently.
‘Whose clan lands are these?'
Brosc smiled.
‘These are the lands of the Eidersceoil.’
‘Where would I find the chieftain?’
‘At the fort of jewels. Why do you seek him?’ Scáthach explained how she had been set on by three robbers on the road.
Brosc whistled softly.
‘By Eccneid, no less! He may have the name of a fool but he is not a man to be crossed. Take warning, daughter of Eola. He is a man with a long memory and with it a balance for measuring wrong done to him. He will seek vengeance.’
Scáthach shrugged.
‘He is a rogue and a foolish rogue. His sort I could defeat if they came in their legions.’
She said it without boasting for it was a simple statement of fact.
Brosc considered her for a moment and saw the truth of it in her demeanour.
‘You are the daughter of Eola,’ he sighed. ‘Nevertheless, be warned. Champions are taught truth and honour. That is not the way of Eccneid. Watch your back while you are in this country.’
Scáthach smiled thinly.
‘I hope that I will have no need to for it will be the duty of the Eidersceoil to seize the man and his companions, if they are still here, and bring them before the judges to be heard.’
‘That is so. But take heed of my warning, daughter of Eola.’
The girl fell to her broth, which she ate with a slice of good bread, while Brosc filled a cup with mead and proceeded to bring her a plate of sliced pork with a salad of meadow trefoil and scullions.
‘As you know this area well, Brosc,’ the girl remarked at length, resting back pleasantly from her meal and sipping the honey-flavoured mead, ‘you may know a man whom I am seeking.’
Brosc came forward eagerly.
‘Perhaps. If he is in this area, then I shall know him.’
Scáthach nodded.
‘I am seeking an old mariner, Rónán Mac Mein. He was captain of a ship called the Cáoc.’
Brosc’s face broke into a broad smile.
‘I know him well. But he has retired from the sea now. As you say, he has many years behind him. And the Cáoc has long since rotted its timbers.’
‘But he still lives here?’ pressed the girl, eagerly. ‘Indeed, he does.’
‘Then tell me where I may find him.’
Brosc’s eyes suddenly narrowed suspiciously.
‘He is friend to many here, daughter of Eola. Many would wish no harm to befall him.’
There was an implied question in the statement. Scáthach smiled.
‘I seek him not with any intention of harm. He has information which might help me. That is all.’
Brosc relaxed.
‘In that case, daughter of Eola, you have no need to stir. Every evening old Rónán comes to the Hostel of Stars to take a cup of mead. He will be here soon.’
That is good news to my ears, Brosc,’ smiled the girl. ‘It has been a long journey searching for him.’
Brosc looked at her curiously.
‘Your business with the old captain must be important then?’
‘Important to me,’ she replied shortly.
Brosc hesitated and then shrugged. Curiosity was written all over his features but he contained it.
The door of the bruden opened and new customers entered, sailors by the look of them. Britons, with their curious accents. The girl sat back sipping her mead as she watched Brosc serve the newcomers, burly men with the sea, sun and wind tanning their faces and muscular forearms. They sat talking loudly in a corner, a great flagon of ale between them. Then more customers came in, a local farmer, a man and his wife, two women on their own whose profession grew obvious and who cast suspicious and angry glances in the direction of Scáthach until Brosc made a whispered explanation to them and thus they lost interest. Within a short time, the hostel had filled. An old man entered, and for a moment or two, Scáthach thought that this might be the old sailor whom she sought. But the old man was obviously the local story-teller for he made his way to a special stool, set to one side of the room, raised on a small dais, and someone plied him with ale and demanded a tale.
People crowded round to shout out suggestions as to what the tale should be. Someone wanted to hear the story of Durbhola, a daughter of a king of the merfolk who married a human. Brosc intervened to demand the story of Buanann who was ‘the mother of heroes’ and taught the martial arts to the ancient heroes of Éireann. In making the request, Brosc grinned in the direction of Scáthach. Perhaps he meant it as a compliment but the girl was too tired to care. The lack of sleep over the last four days was catching up with her. Every time she closed her eyes she found it almost impossible to reopen them. And, in addition, the good food, mead and the heat of the fire overcame her and her eyelids were drooping. Sleep crept up over her although she fought to keep awake, to listen to the rise and fall of the old man’s voice as he made his recitation. Sleep conquered.
It seemed an age before she fought her way out of it, blinking and forcing herself awake.
The room was quiet, a little chill for she saw that the fire had died to embers. She blinked again and glanced round. There was no one about. The hostel was deserted. She lay on a bench with a blanket covering her. But her weapons were gone. She was alone.
Chapter Four
Scáthach leapt to her feet, all senses tuned for danger. She made her way to the door of the hostel, half expecting it to be barred, but it was not. She flung it open. It was morning. The bright light of day spilled into the hostel causing her to blink while she attempted to adjust her eyes to the light. She had been more exhausted than she had imagined. The long walk of the last four days had caught up with her. To have fallen into such a deep sleep, not to be disturbed by the carousing of the tavern, the departure of the guests, was a new experience. She stood blinking at the early dawn sunlight, the sharp blue sky and crystal air.
She half-turned back into the hostel in search of Brosc when a heavy masculine voice hailed her.
‘Good morning, daughter of Eola.’
She turned back.
Just outside the door, seated on a wooden bench, sat an old man with grey-grizzled hair and a leathery weather-beaten face. His pale, sea-green eyes held her in their amused light.
Scáthach frowned.
‘Who are you? How do you know me?’
The old man chuckled deeply.
‘Easy to say. My friend Brosc tells me that you were se
arching for me.’
Her eyes widened.
‘Are you Rónán Mac Mein?’
‘I am he,’ the other acknowledged. ‘When I came to the hostel last night and Brosc told me who you were and who you sought, we went to where you lay. You have come a long journey. You were dead to this world. So we felt it better to leave you undisturbed. I came here this morning to break my fast and see if you were awake.’
The girl smiled a little ashamedly, ‘I cannot understand how I could sleep so long and so deeply.’
The old sailor grinned.
‘Then you don’t knowr what true exhaustion is, I’m thinking. Why, I’ve known men who have had to stay on their feet for three or four days at a time, weathering a storm on board ship, dropped at the end of it and be dead to the world for two days and more. You have come a long way. It must have been a hard journey.’
The girl nodded.
‘I have come from Uibh Rathach.’
‘And Eola is dead. Brosc has told me this.’
‘May he be reborn with health and good fortune in the Otherworld,’ said Scáthach.
‘And does your mother, Buimech, live?’
‘In body only,’ replied the girl. ‘She makes the ritual fast in protest at the unlawful slaying of Eola.’
Rónán Mac Méin sighed deeply.
‘Unlawful? That is bad. And your mother on a ritual fast? That I can understand. She was a powerful woman, your mother. Powerful and wise beyond understanding.’ He gazed at the girl.
‘Why have you come to seek me out?’
The girl went and sat down by the old sea-farer.
Island of Shadows Page 4