by Caiseal Mor
“Uncle Fergus, I beg you, don't say anything to Father.”
“I must tell him,” Fergus answered wearily. “I could never lie to my king. He is my brother. It is right he should know. This will put an end to the battle contest. Many lives will be saved tomorrow.”
“But our people will face a heavy eric-fine.”
“It would be a terrible injustice if this fight were to go on. Your father will reconsider his position. If Brocan is willing to accept the terms the Danaan king offers, then we might be able to walk away from this contest with some dignity.”
“It will cost us so dearly,” Aoife repeated in a tearful-voice.
“Your father's reputation will be torn to shreds,” the veteran agreed. “And yours also. No man among our people will likely ever consider joining with you in marriage since you have proved so dishonest. Other costs can be easily borne. But poor reputation is not easily mended.”
“My kindred will forget in time,” she said defiantly. “I will earn my good name back.”
Another figure came to the doorway and stood for a moment before entering the hut.
It was Fineen.
“How are you feeling?” the healer asked.
“My arm feels much better,” she told him.
“Nevertheless you should be resting.”
“But I have had a visitor.”
“Who was it?” Fineen frowned in confusion. “Has your mother, the queen, decided to join us after all?”
“There was no visitor,” Fergus stated. “She imagined she saw—”
“Someone was here,” the healer cut in as he surveyed the hut, using all his senses. “She is telling the truth.”
“It's about time she got into that habit,” Fergus mumbled under his breath.
“It was Fearna's ghost,” Aoife sobbed, crying fresh tears. “I am responsible for his death.”
“You?” Fineen asked, scratching his head. Then he held up a hand to silence her and his frown deepened. “Wait,” he whispered. “Don't make another sound. I can feel a strange presence in the air.”
The healer turned his head this way and that, taking careful note of the coldness in the room. He brushed the golden stubble on his chin thoughtfully. At length he turned to the young woman again.
“I believe you,” the healer assured her. “You have had a visitor of some kind. Though I can't say if it was Fearna.”
Fergus shuddered and edged toward the door. The veteran had fought in bloody battles, witnessed men and women suffer agonizing deaths, and always led the charge at the front of the Fir-Bolg warriors. But matters of the Otherworld gave him an intense feeling of unease. He preferred to leave such mysteries to the Druids.
“Is there any danger?” he demanded.
“I don't believe so,” Fineen reassured him. “ Whatever was here is gone now.”
“In that case I will go attend to the preparations for the feast,” the veteran excused himself. “And I must consider how I will break this news to the king.”
“Have you been visited before by this apparition?” Fineen asked Aoife when they were alone.
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” she insisted. “I've never experienced anything like it.”
“I see,” Fineen said, half to himself. “I do not feel it was a ghost which visited you this evening. I'll have to ask the advice of Dalan the Brehon. He knows of these things. He has studied the lore of the Otherworld.”
“Where is Dalan?”
“In the east. Attending the great gathering of the harpers. I expect him to return before the turning of the moon.”
“Healer!” Fergus bellowed from outside. “The Bard, Lochie, has returned to us. And he has brought his wife along with him at last.”
Fineen was distracted. “His wife?” the healer called back but received no reply. “If you receive another visitation such as that one,” he warned Aoife, “you must let me know immediately. If I am not available, someone else must sit with you. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Very well,” the physician sighed, “I will leave you to rest. It might be best if you were not awake when your father arrives home. I have heard he is extremely displeased with you as it is. This news will not improve his mood.”
“How will I sleep?” she sobbed.
“I will arrange for someone to watch over you through the night,” Fineen promised. “Now it is time to rest again. Tomorrow you may talk as much as you like. Tonight you must rest.”
“Thank you,” Aoife said, already making a show of shutting her eyes. “But I doubt I will take another peaceful night of slumber for the rest of my life.”
The healer hushed her, then patted her head like an indulgent parent and departed.
As soon as he was gone Aoife sat up again as best she could. “Please leave me in peace,” she prayed.
But if Fearna heard her he did not acknowledge the entreaty.
Chapter 6
OUTSIDE THE HUT FERGUS AND LOCHIE WERE LAUGHing uproariously at something the storyteller had said.
Fineen rolled his eyes. Lochie was a Bard who loved being the focus of all attention, so he was very well suited to his profession. As the healer approached the fire Fergus turned to him, obviously cheered by the arrival of the storyteller and his wife.
“I was telling him of the intrigue I have just uncovered and complaining that I would have to tell the king about it.” Fergus coughed and laughed again. “And he told me about the time he was frolicking in the river with a chieftain's daughter—”
“Just a silly tale to cheer you up,” Lochie cut in quickly. “How is young Aoife?”
“Do you know her?” Fineen asked and he felt the same feeling of coldness about his body he had experienced at the young woman's bedside.
“That is her name, isn't it?” the Bard asked innocently. “The one with the fiery red hair?”
“Yes, Aoife is her name,” the healer confirmed. He had spent many evenings in this Bard's company but he had never noticed anything unusual about the fellow before. Now that Fineen looked closer, however, his attention was drawn to the man's unusual fingernails. They were perfectly shaped for playing the harp, long and rounded at the tips to catch the strings lightly without dampening the sound too much. Fineen could not help wondering how the musician had managed to keep them in such wonderful condition.
“You must have had a very hard journey,” the physician suggested.
“Why do you say so?” Lochie inquired.
“Because the gathering of harpers ended only two days ago,” Fineen said. “You could not possibly have traversed the distance from the eastern shore of Innisfail in so short a time without experiencing some hardship.”
“He had a good woman to drive him on,” Isleen laughed, approaching the group.
“Your husband has mentioned you many times,” Fineen offered with a bow. “But his description does you no justice.”
“Many husbands do little justice to their wives,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders and holding out her hand in greeting.
“King Brocan will be pleased to see you,” the healer assured them. Isleen's gaze lingered a little too long on him. He felt decidedly uncomfortable. “Will you stay to witness the battle tomorrow?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly under those enticing eyes.
“That is our intention,” Lochie replied as he moved between the two of them. At that very instant he stopped speaking and spun round in his tracks. In two breaths he spotted what had alerted him.
Three men, the first taller than the other two, appeared in the firelight beneath the watchman's tree. And there they halted.
“Fergus!” a man's voice bellowed from high in the trees. “Come here.”
The old veteran stopped turning the spit, wiped his hands clean, picked up his sword and calmly walked out to the watchtree to see what the fuss was all about.
Fineen followed after him, gesturing at Lochie and Isleen to remain by the fire.
“It is Mahon,” Lochie whispered to his companion as soon as they were out of earshot.
“The son of the Danaan king?” she scoffed. “What would he be doing here tonight?”
“He was captured by Sárán and Lom,” he confirmed.
“I am supposed to be the Seer, not you,” she hissed. “In any case, I don't believe you.”
“It is Mahon!” Lochie hummed with delight. “I can feel his outrage in the air. This is too wonderful. I never dreamed this would come to pass.”
“I . . . I don't want him to see me,” Isleen stammered.
“Why not?”
“I will go to sit with Aoife.” She coughed nervously.
“I would let her sleep if I were you. I have just given her a scare and she really should be allowed to recover.”
“Put your hand to turning the spit and make yourself useful,” Isleen advised sharply.
“She is a pretty one,” Lochie commented. “I wonder whether Mahon will fall in love with her.”
“She could do no worse!” Isleen shot back. “He is ignorant of the Bardic skills. Would she be content with a warrior who knows little of music, poetry or storytelling?”
“True enough she is destined for the Druid path,” her companion noted, shaking his head. “But none of her own kin will ever consider taking her to bride when her full story is known. A marriage to Mahon would be quite an attractive option for her, I imagine.”
“Aoife is too intelligent to be attracted to one such as he,” she answered flatly. “The girl would quickly become bored. Though I must admit he has some skill in the bedchamber, which compensates slightly for his lack of education.”
“Does he indeed?” Lochie beamed, overjoyed to have caught his companion out. “So you have been busy at the court of the Danaan king, have you?”
Isleen glared at him, then disappeared into the round hut without another word.
In those days the rules of war were many yet they were straightforward enough. This fight had been arranged three moons earlier. A chieftain or a king who felt his people had been wronged in some way could call on the Brehons to withhold judgment until a trial by combat had been completed. Merely defeating the enemy in the resulting battle did not necessarily secure the victor's claim, however. The judges looked at the entire fight from start to finish, read the auspices of the conflict and presented a ruling in accordance with their observations.
Thus a king who wielded a superior force could not be certain of winning the trial even though the battle might surely be his. Honorable action, valor and abiding by the conventions of warfare were the goal of each combatant. For this reason it was rare for large bands of warriors to face each other down.
In most cases the kings or chieftains chose champions who fought the lawsuit in single conflict. This minimized the possibility of a breach of custom by either side and, more importantly, saved lives. But the tension between Fir-Bolg and Danaan had been building for a long while. A contest of champions would not have satisfied anyone.
Besides, the Brehons were growing impatient with the stubbornness of both parties in the dispute. It was clear Cecht and Brocan wanted to indulge in a good fight. So this battle on the ritual ground of Mag Slécht was to be one of those infrequent occasions when many warriors would join the fight to preserve the dignity of their people.
Everyone hoped it would settle matters once and for all. But one breach, one minor disregard of custom, could easily spell defeat for either side. Fergus marched purposefully to the watchtree to find Sárán leaning against it to steady himself. The young man had a small gash at the side of his head and his hair had some flaking blood caked in it. Nearby a tall golden-haired stranger sat cross-legged in the middle of the path, his long hair over his face.
“What's going on here?” the veteran demanded.
“The watchman will not let us come into the camp,” Lom explained.
“Why not?” Fineen gasped, confused.
“Because of our prisoner,” Sárán hissed, pointing at the seated warrior. He tipped up a waterskin hanging at the tree and washed his face. Diluted blood ran down his neck in little streams to stain his shirt and tunic.
“Prisoner?” Fergus grunted as he stepped forward to get a better look at the captive.
When the moonlight shone on the young stranger's skin the veteran could plainly see battle markings painted in blue. The spirals and zigzags were Danaan designs. There was no doubt about it.
“Where did he come from?” Fergus demanded. “The truce is not yet ended. You have no right to be taking captives.”
“He and his companion attacked us,” Sárán protested, turning his head to show off his injury. “They broke the truce. We could have been killed.”
“Not even the Danaans would dare attempt to take a life while the truce held,” Fergus reminded him. “If you had died it could have only been by your own stupidity. As it is, it might have been better if you had fallen. This is a flagrant violation of the rules of warfare.”
The captive chose that moment to lift his eyes to Fergus, whose jaw fell open in shock.
“Do you know who this is?” the veteran spluttered when he could master his tongue.
“We didn't get a chance to ask him, uncle,” Lom stated, trying not to sound too disrespectful.
“His name is Mahon mac Cecht,” Fineen interrupted in a low voice. “He is the eldest and last remaining son of the Danaan king.”
“I don't believe it.” Sárán laughed, certain the healer was joking.
But no one else smiled. It was obvious Fineen was telling the truth. The repercussions of bringing their prisoner to camp began to dawn on Sárán. He moved away from the watchtree, wiping his hands on his tunic as he did so.
“I beg you to forgive this terrible misunderstanding,” the veteran began, addressing the Danaan.
But the enemy warrior did not utter a sound, nor did he show any sign he had heard the apology. Mahon touched a hand to his left brow where a dark bruise was rising.
“This warrior will be our honored guest,” Fergus declared. “Help him to his feet. He will walk into the camp a free man and sit at table with the king tonight. He is a prince and we are expected under the terms of the truce to offer him hospitality until the agreement expires at midnight and the contest begins.”
Lom was at Mahon's side in an instant, unbinding the prince's hands and wrapping a cloak around him to cover his nakedness. But the young warrior shrugged away the covering. Sárán stumbled over, ready to help the Danaan to his feet. As he passed by, the veteran leaned in close to reprimand him.
“Bad enough you had to break the truce,” Fergus hissed furiously at Sárán. The old warrior didn't realize he was speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “But did it have to be with the capture of the son of the enemy king? What in the name of Balor's black heart will Brocan say about all this?”
“You're about to find out,” the lookout high in the trees announced. “There's a small party approaching us through the forest.”
“We had better get this young Danaan seated by the fire,” Fergus commanded in an urgent voice. “I don't want the king seeing him like this.”
In a moment the Danaan was standing unfettered.
“I offer my apologies,” the veteran began. “What more can I do? A great wrong has been done to you this day. And you would be within your rights to claim recompense for the grave insult to you and your people. There will be no more insult heaped upon you, I promise.”
Mahon, Prince of the Tuatha De Danaan, remained silent, staring straight ahead of him as if he had heard nothing.
“I'll send Sárán ahead to gather some clothes for you,” Fergus offered.
“I am dressed for war,” Mahon answered firmly without shifting his gaze. “I will die that way.”
“You're not going to die!” Fergus cried. “What is this fascination all you young folk seem to have with death?”
“I will wear a cloak,” Mahon conceded. “I have no wish fo
r anything more and it is fitting if I am to be seated at the feast table.”
“Very well,” the veteran agreed, snapping his fingers at Lom who draped the cloak around the young warrior's shoulders.
In a very short while they were all seated by the fire, apprehensively awaiting the arrival of King Brocan. Only Lochie offered Mahon a friendly greeting as he took his place.
Despite the lookout's report the scouting party was a long while, so Fergus offered the prince a choice cut of the roast boar.
Mahon shook his head. “I would rather wait for the king if you don't mind,” he told him sternly.
Fergus tried to calm himself but he could not stay seated while he waited for the scouts to come in. There were simply too many thoughts running through his mind. He closed his eyes and said a short silent prayer to the Goddess Danu, begging her to intervene in some way, if only to cool Brocan's usual fiery temper.
It would complicate matters beyond repair if the king did not immediately realize the implications of Mahon's presence. Fergus was still wording the prayer in his mind when the sentry at the watchtree called out again.
“Queen Riona is approaching the camp!
” Fergus stopped breathing. “Danu,” he whispered to himself, “have you deserted me? Let the watchman be mistaken. Please don't send the queen to us now!”
As Queen of the Fir-Bolg and a former warrior herself, Riona was expected to attend such gatherings. But on this occasion she had decided to stay behind at Dun Burren. She had explained her actions to no one but Brocan, so most folk reasoned she must have had another fight with her husband.
The king and queen had quarreled day and night ever since Brocan had formally adopted Fearna as his own son. This action had outraged her so much she had hardly spoken a kind word to the king since. Her own sons, Sárán and Lom, did not enjoy the privileges young Fearna had enjoyed. Indeed, once the young Danaan boy had won Brocan's heart, the two of them had become inseparable. Riona had acted as an advocate for her children until the king suggested Fearna might be a good match for Aoife.
That had been too much for the proud queen to bear. In her fury, she had thrown a bronze jar at her husband, which had broken his nose and bruised his eye. And from that moment their partnership had begun slowly to disintegrate.