As if stirred by Fincath’s words, the cow gave out a resonant lowing, promoting a new wave of jeering and throwing. Kael, the murderer, stood stooped and naked, his hands bound behind him. The room fell to silence again as Colman tied the rope around his neck. Kael dropped to his knees, his head bowed in fear and shame. A sturdy, square frame, supported by wooden trestles, towered twice the height of a man next to him. Colman threw the end of the rope over the cross member of the frame, then tied its loose end around the neck of the cow.
The cow’s handler led it away from the frame, taking the slack from the rope. The rope became taut and screeched against the timber frame, forcing Kael to take to his feet. Fróech held up his hand, instructing the handler to halt the cow.
A middle-aged man and woman, who glared at Kael, had joined Fincath at the table. Fincath addressed Kael, his tone judicial. ‘I’ve no need to tell you what happens next. You have witnessed the trial of neck many times in this hall. You can still live, however. Indeed, you have two chances to live. Your family can pay the fine of three cows, or you can force this cow to step backwards. Either way you will walk from this hall tonight.’ He held Kael in his stare a while, then asked, ‘Murderer … what have you to say to Lorcan’s parents?’
Kael tensed as the cow moved its head, causing the rope to tighten further around his throat. ‘I regret what I did,’ he gasped hoarsely. ‘My family owns no cows … so they have nothing to offer you in recompense. The act I did was unforgivable. It resulted from an argument … that went too far. I beg for forgiveness … and give you my pledge that I will … one day acquire the three cows needed to settle my score.’
The room was hushed and tense after Kael delivered his plea for clemency. Kael looked on, hardly daring to hope, as Lorcan’s parents had a hurried, whispered discussion with Fincath. His hope for mercy dissolved when he saw them shake their heads.
Fincath nodded to the cow’s handler as he again addressed Kael. ‘Your terms are not acceptable, and your trial with the cow will now commence,’ he said with finality.
The cow stepped forward, raising Kael to his toes as the noose tightened further. Kael’s carotid artery now stood out like a thick rope for all to see. The cow’s next step hoisted him from the ground, promoting a choking cackle from Kael as his bladder released a spray of yellow urine into the deadly silence of the hall.
An air change forced Fróech, who stood beside the wooden frame, to look towards the door. Latchna, a scout, bloodied and panting from the effort of a long forced ride, stumbled into the hall. The scout’s intensity was such that the cow shied, and took two steps backwards. Kael crashed to the ground, causing the silence in the room to end.
Amidst the cheering and jeering Fincath looked towards his druid. Conchad came to him after looking down upon Kael. ‘He has to live,’ insisted the druid. ‘A sickness will befall all the cattle of this tuath if you do not uphold the rules of the trial of neck. That is my forewarning. Your sons’ will also die of pestilence, along with many who sit in this hall if you put the murderer through the trial again.’
Fincath absorbed Conchad’s words. He turned to Lorcan’s parents, a grim cast to his eyes. He told them of Conchad’s prophesy.
Lorcan’s father looked to Kael, who seemed barely alive. His tone was incredulous. ‘He killed my son and now he is to walk free?’ Looking to Conchad, he asked, ‘Is there no other way?’ Conchad shook his head. Lorcan’s father, his eyes now haunted, also shook his head. Feeling thwarted of justice, and intent now on consoling his distraught wife, the man slumped to his seat.
Fincath looked towards Kael, who gave out choking coughs and spat blood onto the dusty floor of the hall, where it mixed with his urine. ‘Take the rope from his neck and throw him out,’ he shouted. Responding to the command, two men roughly grabbed Kael and dragged him past the jeering crowd. ‘Throw him through the gate, he is never to return to this ringfort,’ continued Fincath as the guards took Kael beyond the doors of the hall.
Fincath turned now to Latchna. ‘You certainly seemed to be sent by fate. What causes such haste in you this night … and whose blood do you wear?’
Latchna, exhausted, gripped Fincath by the arm. ‘The slave boat you await entered the estuary and sailed up the river, and all is not well … and this blood you see upon me is the blood of thieves.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ten days had passed since the boat had embarked from Norwic. Mule’s stomach had taken five days to settle, and from then on he had just about managed to consume the meagre offerings of gruel and water supplied by Cenna.
Maewyn and Elowen now sat beside him under the protection of the boat’s awning, as they had done for most of the sailing. The rigging above them creaked as the stiff breeze had the boat skipping over the waves. Now well into the Oceanus Hibernicus, the captain had instructed his men to stand on the prow looking for landfall.
Since threatening Maewyn on the first night, Osgar had restricted his aggression to glowering stares whenever Maewyn looked his way. However, this day—as he looked at the children who sat against the bulwark—he realised things were different. Today they would reach Hibernia and he intended to fix the mouthy whelp. He would also see to the girl. He had spent most of his time on the trip forming a plan; working out how he could gain satisfaction and revenge.
He had persuaded the captain to allow him to escort the slaves from the boat to the settlement, two miles inland, where agents of the cattle lord awaited their delivery. That’s when he would kill the whelp; kill his big, stupid brother as well. The girl he would relish … take his time with. The captain didn’t fully trust him, though, and had insisted that three other men would accompany him. But Osgar was too clever for the fat oaf. The three men the captain had picked all owed him favours, they would turn a blind eye, even have a go at the girl themselves, even have a go at the boys … after him of course.
He’d tell Cenna the delivery had gone well, and then they’d be away at once. He knew the captain was eager to catch the favourable breeze that had started to blow. Once back at Norwic, it would take weeks for the news to reach Griff, and by then, he’d be well away.
He rolled a barrel of cheese towards the side of the boat, passing close to Mule as he did so.
His voice became mocking and childish as he peered down at Mule. ‘Belly all right now is it, limp-brain?’ Nodding, Mule looked up at Osgar, his brown eyes troubled at the sight of the sailor. Osgar stooped towards him. ‘Then, maybe you’re ready to add some salt to your diet—try this.’ Osgar placed his forefinger against his right nostril and snorted out a green globule of snot. It landed, elastic and vile, upon Mules foot, causing the boy to bring his hands to his mouth as he heaved up a flood of vomit.
Anticipating a reaction from Maewyn, Osgar did not wait, but fell upon him at once—his fish knife held a finger’s width from his eye. ‘Oh no you don’t.’ he snarled. ‘You don’t kick me in the balls this time, you little swine … but why are you so angry again? I just gave your brother his salt ration, that’s all.’
Maewyn spluttered with rage, unable to free himself from Osgar’s sinewy grasp. Elowen intervened. ‘Don’t give him cause to hurt you, Wyn,’ she urged, close to tears. ‘He wants you to fight with him. It’ll be over soon, and we’ll be off the boat and away from him, and never have to see him again.’
Maewyn’s eyes rolled madly towards Elowen as he continued to struggle. He returned his glare to Osgar. ‘Let me go,’ he snorted. ‘Get off me, you bully.’
The shout ‘Land in sight!’ came from the prow, but Osgar continued to grip Maewyn. ‘It would be better if you listened to the pretty girl, it would. Like her says …,’ Osric imitated Elowen’s distressed voice … “It’ll be over soon.”’ He paused a moment, his glare locked on Maewyn. ‘You can be sure of that. When we reach shore it will be over for you.’
Maewyn stopped struggling. Osgar shoved him away and stood up. He pointed a threatening finger at him. ‘Now keep sat till you’re shouted for, and
no cheek or I’ll have your tongue with this knife.’
As Osgar smirked and walked away, Maewyn grabbed his goblet, leant over the side of the boat, and filled it with water. He sloshed the brine over Mules foot, sending Osgar’s snot slithering away across the plank decking.
Elowen took Mules head in her arms and held him close. Both of them sniveled and wept whilst Maewyn, ignoring the instruction from Osgar who had gone to the stern, stood to observe the seascape. He was surprised to see that Hibernia was nearer than expected; green and flat it occupied the entire horizon.
‘We’ll be off this boat before nightfall,’ he said, as he knelt before Elowen and Mule. ‘Then we’ll never see that bad egg again.’
‘Maybe other bad eggs await us,’ said Mule, as he wiped the sleeve of his tunic across his eyes. ‘What if our new master is as bad as him?’
‘No point in worrying about that until it happens,’ said Maewyn. ‘As long as we’re together we stand a chance.’
Two hours later, their passage became calmer as the boat entered an inlet and sailed in the freshwaters of a wide river. On either side, the green land encroached ever nearer as the boat zigzagged upstream utilizing the breeze. Cenna, the captain, stood on the prow, barking instructions. All the crewmembers knew their task, and they furled the square sail as soon as the wooden quay came into sight. Then rowers took over, fore and aft, for the tricky maneuvering required to dock the boat.
Maewyn, Elowen and Mule knelt against the bulwark, arms folded across its top, as they watched the boat move slowly sideways towards the quay.
The dockworkers did not strike Maewyn as being particularly unusual. He hadn’t known what to expect—had thought that maybe the people of Hibernia would be different, but the men who caught the ropes thrown to them by Cenna seemed ordinary to him. Their language, too, was similar to his own, although sounding strange and slightly muddled to his ears.
Thick coils of rope hung over the stout wooden jetty and served to cushion the bump as the boat was finally steered adjacent to the dock. After further shouting and instruction from Cenna, the crew threw coils of thick rope to the men standing on the jetty, and these they tied to stubby capstans, thus docking the boat securely.
Ignored for the time being, the children leaned against the gunwale, fascinated as they watched the men at their work. First, the wooden gangplank was lowered down to span the narrow gap between dockside and boat. Then, the process of unloading commenced. Manhandled from the boat, the barrels and sacks of produce all bore their own individual mark, daubed at Norwic to match the mark of their purchaser. Men now approached Cenna, each carrying parchments bearing the marks of their masters. Once matched with the mark on the sacks or barrels, Cenna allowed the produce to be loaded onto open wagons. The unloading continued until midafternoon until the piles of cargo were gone. As the last of the wagons trundled away, the dockside stood empty and bare.
The boat, by now, was riding higher in the water, causing the gangplank to slope down to the jetty. Cenna, who stood on the dock below, now beckoned Maewyn, Elowen and Mule to leave the boat.
Cenna looked to Osgar. ‘Tie them by their hands,’ he instructed. ‘They are worth more than all the iron, cheese and grain we’ve just unloaded, and they go to the King of this province, so do not lose them. Do you think you can manage that?’
Osgar nodded, and Cenna pointed towards a track that wound up a small hill beside the dock. ‘Just follow the track, do not leave it, and you will soon come to a small settlement. That’s where you’ll hand them over.’
He handed an intricately daubed parchment to Osgar. ‘Give this to the buyer and he will give you an identical one in return. It’s a sign known only to Griff and the King of this province.’ Cenna took hold of Osgar’s shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes, so near that their noses almost touched. ‘Listen to me, Osgar,’ he emphasized. ‘Do not hand over the slaves unless you receive an identical parchment in return from the King’s buyer. I have to take the parchment back to Griff to show proof of sale or he’ll have my balls for sweetbread.’
Osgar considered this. He would keep the original parchment, maybe roughen it up a little, and give it to Cenna when he returned. How would Cenna know it was not the Hibernian parchment? He was about to offer his assurance to Cenna, but the captain had not finished.
He still held Osgar in his grip as his tone became threatening. ‘Heed me carefully now, man. Do not touch the goods. I know you have issues with the boy, but he must not arrive harmed. Moreover, the girl must not be violated. As I told you before her worth will be nothing if she is not a virgin. They will know, believe me. The first thing they’ll do is check her purity.’
As Osgar offered his assurance, Cenna let go of him and pointed to three other crewmembers who stood nearby. He prepared to dismiss Osgar. ‘They will go with you,’ he instructed. ‘Now get on your way; I expect to see you back here well before nightfall.’
Osgar rubbed Cenna’s grip out of the top of his arms and turned to his three companions. Exchanging a furtive, knowing look between them, they proceeded to bind the hands of Maewyn, Elowen, and Mule.
The Hibernian dock master owned a cart and heavy horse. A gift of grain and butter had secured the loan of it to Cenna for the day. Osgar took the reins, and sat in the cart’s high wooden seat with two of the men. The children sat in the back of the cart alongside the remaining man.
Concerned, Maewyn looked at Elowen and Mule. Their condition had worsened after enduring ten, water-soaked, wind-tossed days. Mules ruddy chubbiness had gone. Now he sat gaunt and spare, his eyes dull and detached. Elowen’s blond hair was lank and filthy, her dress, torn and grubby. Her once-twinkling, mischievous eyes now held no hope. Like Mule, she had become withdrawn and vacant.
As for Maewyn; his feisty and defiant spark had been quelled to an ember, yet still it smoldered. A spark of such intensity would defy twenty sea journeys … twenty Osgars. As he considered their predicament, he knew with certainty that their business with Osgar was not over. Why else would the man be so keen to take them to their new masters. He had seen the glance that Osgar had given to the other three men. Now, he feared the worst.
As he sat in the wagon with his arms around his brother and cousin, he watched the back of Osgar as the man goaded the horse up the hill’s winding track. Mentally, Maewyn cleaved Osgars skull; imagined that he threw him off the cart and kicked the other men onto the ground.
But Osgar felt pleased with himself. He had fooled Cenna and was now in control. As he crested the hill leading from the dock, the land unfurled and fell away before him. A mixture of heath, woods, and agriculture blanketed the landscape in an intricate collage of browns and greens.
A curling of smoke beyond the furthest wood, three miles away, indicated to Osgar the location of the settlement where the exchange was meant to happen. Except that it would not happen. Osgar did not intend to give up the children.
His first glance at the nearby landscape showed it to be mostly empty land. Already, he had spotted a small wood, a mile distant, where he would have his fun with the slaves.
Although rutted and uneven, the road allowed for a steady passage, and soon they reached the wood. Here, Osgar guided the horse and cart into the tree cover away from the road.
Maewyn gripped Elowen’s hand as the cart abruptly stopped.
Osgar turned to look at them, his twisted smile falling short of his cold eyes. ‘All this way and all that hardship,’ he mocked. He turned to Mule, adding with a cruel chuckle. ‘And all that puking,’ Osgar could not resist continuing his taunt, directing it now towards Elowen. ‘Suffered much, haven’t you, girl … and for what? For it all to end here; lying dead and defiled in a ditch.’
Maewyn tensed against his bindings and made to gain his feet, but the man in the cart had been expecting it and grabbed him around the shoulders. Elowen and Mule shrank against the wooden picket sides of the cart, their eyes wide with terror.
‘Throw him onto the ground,’
barked Osgar to the man. ‘I’ll deal with him at once, and don’t any of you get any ideas with the girl until I’ve done her first.’ He jumped off the cart and took out his knife just as Maewyn hit the floor. Dazed, Maewyn viewed Osgar as a malevolent blur standing above him.
Unable to resist taunting him, Osgar displayed his knife to Maewyn. ‘See this,’ he promised. ‘This is going to pluck out both your eyes, then your clever little tongue. Oh, that I could leave you like that to wander this land as a freak. But I can’t risk you living to tell, or should I say gabble, your tale.’
Maewyn’s awareness slowly returned, but he was too weak to resist now. He heard screams coming from the cart as the other men slapped Elowen and Mule into silence.
Ready to die now, Maewyn thought of his da, and compared him to the evil man who now knelt before him. His father was everything this man was not. His father was sweet natured … funny … caring. He held on to the thought of Bran—his beloved father—and the thought gave him comfort and peace as Osgar’s knife approached his eyes.
Saeran Uí Dúnlainge had trouble sticking in his own skin, such was his anger and hatred towards Fincath mac Garrchu and his sons. They had defeated his army and killed two of his brothers. They had weakened his clan, almost to the point of total dismemberment. His frustrations boiled within him, born from the knowledge that he could not wreak immediate retribution upon them. He had to wait and allow his people to lick their wounds and this did not lie easily with him.
He rode with six of his men towards the docks, hoping he could negotiate a good price for the grain and other foodstuffs that were stored there. For the fiftieth time, Saeran cursed the sons of mac Garrchu for burning many of their storage huts to the ground.
To save time they had ridden through rough country that offered them a more direct route to the docks. Through field and forest, they had threaded their way, and before him now he could see the track that led to the sea.
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