by Caiseal Mor
“Lochie, will you give us a tale after dinner?” Brocan begged. “In honor of our Danaan guest.”
“What tale would you have?”
“I would dearly love to hear the eulogy you composed for Fearna, Mahon's brother,” the king replied without hesitation. “It was a beautiful song which did great honor to his father and people.”
“Not tonight, my lord,” Fergus suggested under his breath. “After all, it was his death which brought us here to the battleground. And this is his brother who will sit with us.”
“All the more reason,” Brocan argued, annoyed that nothing seemed to be going as he wanted.
“Please, my lord, listen to my advice,” the veteran urged.
“Very well then,” the king snapped. “What tale would you like to hear, my dear brother Fergus?”
“A tale to inspire the warriors in their fight tomorrow. Perhaps we should ask the opinion of our guest.”
“With your indulgence I'd rather return immediately to my father,” Mahon answered, once again making to rise. “Your offer is very gracious and I don't wish to insult your welcoming. But you know I wouldn't ask to be excused under normal circumstances.”
Brocan gave a weak smile which revealed nothing of his thoughts on the matter. He knew the young Danaan was anxious to report on all he had seen in the Fir-Bolg camp, but he could not refuse to let the lad go back to his own people.
“You are not a prisoner,” he replied reassuringly. “You are a guest. And you may leave when it suits you without the slightest risk of insult to anyone.”
“Thank you, lord,” Mahon said as he bowed. “I would prefer to leave immediately if you don't mind.”
“I'll have two warriors escort you,” the king promised. “I'm sorry your visit was so brief.”
“I'll see you all on the battleground tomorrow,” the Danaan replied stiffly.
“I pray we do not meet,” Fergus cut in. “I would be sorry to have to cut down such a fine young man as yourself.”
“Believe me, you won't have the opportunity,” Mahon shot back. “Be warned, I'll slay you on the field if our paths cross.” And with that the Danaan prince left, two Fir-Bolg warriors beside him to guide him back to his own territory.
As soon as the young warrior was gone beyond the watchtree King Brocan called for a seat. A wooden bench was brought for him, and there the Fir-Bolg king sat, staring silently into the fire until the roast boar was ready to be served. No one in the war party dared disturb him. Even Riona was silent, though it was because she was saving her words until she was alone with her husband.
Having decided the king and queen held no more entertainment for him, Lochie slipped away to Brocan's hut. Isleen was seated at the fire when he went in, so he picked up a three-legged stool and joined her.
She sighed deeply as he touched her on the shoulder. Aoife was asleep, though lines of sweat on her face revealed she was not resting peacefully. Isleen offered her companion a cup of mead that had warmed by the coals.
The Bard took the drink from her gratefully, savoring the liquor. “Mahon has gone back to his father,” he told her after a moment. “It's safe for you to come out now. King Brocan and Queen Riona would like to sit and talk with you.”
“Are you sure Mahon has gone?”
“Yes.”
Her relief was obvious.
“Are you still angry with me?” Lochie ventured.
“I am. But I find I can't stay annoyed with you for long. This is a far more interesting court than King Cecht's. So much seems to be going on. The queen sparring with the king, the king's foster-brother caught in between. Three royal children who are full of mischief. And the tragic death of Fearna, the truth of which has yet to come out. Anguish, shame, dishonor, fear and bitterness all hang over these folk. Little wonder you've been spending so much time with them. It's all quite intriguing. And I can see endless possibilities for the kind of sport you excel in.”
“I knew you'd enjoy my game if you got a glimpse of it.”
“But you haven't explained what your little game is,” Isleen noted. “I don't understand what you hope to achieve by stirring the pot with these people.”
“I'll let you know all that in good time,” Lochie assured her.
“Well, be more careful in future. It wouldn't take much for Mahon to realize that I am not all I seem to be.”
“That young man has other things on his mind.”
“What other things?” Isleen demanded.
“I've a notion Aoife will end up marrying the last surviving son of the Danaan king,” Lochie confided.
“She'd never be happy with one such as he,” Isleen scoffed. “He can't sustain a decent conversation on any subject other than war and hunting. And you know what happens to a relationship when the conversation dies.”
“Indeed.” Lochie nodded. “You and I are very lucky we both love nothing better than to talk the days away. I'd have lost my reason long ago without all that idle chatter.”
There was a hint of mockery in his voice which caught Isleen's attention. “You're plotting something interesting, aren't you?” She grinned.
“Maybe. But tell me true. Mahon seems to have held your attention for quite a while despite his lack of conversation.”
“He did so for a short time,” she admitted. “But I was soon bored with him.”
“I'm willing to wager Aofie falls in love with the Danaan prince,” Lochie teased.
The injured young woman stirred in her sleep as her name was spoken. Isleen touched Aoife's forehead with a soothing hand.
“You'd be wasting a good wager,” his companion said when she was sure the young woman had not overheard them. “This one is more fickle than most and far too intelligent to fall for a warrior like Mahon. She would have a Druid, a Brehon or a Bard; perhaps even a Faidh-Seer.”
“What would you be willing to wager on?”
“If I'm right,” Isleen told him, “and she doesn't marry the Danaan, I will have the right to ask one wish from you.”
“That's a fine bet!” Lochie hummed with excitement. “And if she does marry him you must grant me one wish.”
“Agreed!” she cried. “I do hope your plans don't rely on this marriage taking place.”
“Not at all. But it will certainly make the outcome rather more interesting. You have no objection to me interfering in order to win, do you?”
“No objection at all,” Isleen laughed. “As long as you don't object to my interference.”
Lochie stood up and went to the doorway where he held the flap of cowhide open for his companion. “I'm so happy we have managed to sort out our little differences,” he whispered as he waited.
“So am I,” Isleen sighed. She banked a lump of turf against the coals so it would burn slowly through the night.
“I have a feeling we are going to enjoy this little game,” she added as she followed her companion out to sit with the King and Queen of the Fir-Bolg.
Chapter 7
JUST AS LLOCHIE AND IISLEEN SAT DOWN THE KING REturned, followed by two young men with long faces and sullen expressions. It was obvious harsh words had been spoken between Brocan and his sons. Sárán's face was red with suppressed anger. Lom was unusually quiet and hung his head low. Very little besides empty niceties passed around the gathering with the roast pork.
It was not until the mead cups arrived that Fergus coughed loudly to get everyone's attention. The king looked up from his food and smiled warmly at his foster-brother.
“A blessing on our king and queen,” the veteran declared. “May Danu watch over our efforts tomorrow as she has done so many times before.” Then he swallowed a cupful of liquor and the rest of the gathering followed suit.
When the first round of mead was finished Fergus leaned toward his lord. When he spoke it was in barely a whisper, but it was enough to break the uneasy quiet around the cooking pit.
“My lord,” the veteran began, “when you have finished your meal I have some urgent ne
ws to impart to you.”
“What is it?” Brocan grunted, wishing he could brush aside the troubles of the day just for a little while.
“I would rather speak to you privately on the matter, my lord,” Fergus stammered self-consciously, feeling all eyes around the fire upon him.
“Is it important?”
“Very important.”
Brocan looked up from the flames and sighed. “Very well. But I have a few other matters to deal with first. None of us can afford the luxury of sleep tonight. Mahon will be going straight back to his father to report on how many warriors we have, where our lookouts are positioned and, most worrying of all, where we are camped.
“Surely the Danaans know our strength,” Sárán protested.
“The battle may have been arranged in advance,” his father retorted, “but we will not know how many warriors he has gathered until the fight has begun. And if he knows the whereabouts of our camp he could set sentries to scout behind us tomorrow. If we are outflanked by his force we have no chance of victory.”
“What manner of king lets the enemy sit at his hearth on the night before a battle?” Riona derided.
“It was your son Sárán who brought the Danaan here,” Brocan snapped.
“Lom and Aoife were with me,” the young man protested. “I didn't act entirely alone.”
“You are a troublemaker,” Brocan hissed. “Your brother doesn't have the guile to embark on these little misadventures without some encouragement.” The king didn't add that he knew perfectly well that Aoife was the instigator of this piece of mischief.
“This was none of my doing,” Sárán cried. “Mahon attacked us! Lom and I were merely defending ourselves.”
“Whatever the truth,” Brocan dismissed, “I'm left to deal with the consequences of your actions. It must be the trickle of Danaan blood in your veins that compels you to behave with such disregard for decency.”
“My mother is Eriu,” Riona cut in, rising to the insult. “She is a queen of the Danaan folk, it is true, but she comes of an honored, ancient line.”
“At least we can be thankful your father was a Fir-Bolg,” the king replied caustically. “Eriu is only half Danaan so that diminishes the taint to your children.”
“You ignorant savage!” the queen spat. “You think so highly of yourself, King Brocan. But in truth you are the petty chieftain of a province where the soil is barren, the rains unceasing and the royal talent for insult legendary. I'd strike you across the face for your insolence if it were not for the fact you reek of seaweed and rotten fish.”
“You managed to hold your breath long enough for us to conceive three children,” Brocan laughed.
“How do you know they're yours?” she shot back.
The king's face turned bright red with fury.
“It is not only kings who behave so,” Isleen intervened. “Every man thinks highly of himself. It is in their nature.”
“There, we have the word of a wise Druid-Seer on the subject,” the queen declared. “Why have we not seen you before at Dun Burren?”
“These last three winters I lodged with the Danaan king at Dun Gur as his guest,” Isleen replied.
“But you are a Fir-Bolg!”
“The king does not hold any hatred for our people,” the Seer replied, playing her part so well that Lochie could only smile in admiration of her performance. “He is a chieftain who values the contributions of all people.”
“Tell us more,” Riona hummed, certain any discussion of Cecht would annoy her husband.
“In appearance he is much the same as his son Mahon, though his hair is graying and he has an air of wisdom about him. He is generous and well loved by his people. And his children honor him as a good father and friend.”
“Are you listening well, King Brocan?” Riona asked as an aside.
“I am a Fir-Bolg!” the king declared. “There is no place for Danaan ways among my folk. Cecht has demanded an unjust honor price for the loss of his son Fearna. I have a right to object.”
“And to risk the lives of your kinfolk in preserving your pride?” the queen spat.
“I've heard enough!” Brocan raged. “If you do not have anything productive to add to this discussion, kindly be quiet. The fact is the Danaan king's son has been in our camp this evening and will surely report our whereabouts and weaknesses to his father within the hour. I'm charged with the safety of my warriors and kin. I would prefer to concentrate on that problem first and listen to tales of the Danaan court later.”
“We should move the camp,” Sárán suggested, daring to speak up for the first time.
“By the time we have done that and set sentries again, we might as well have been awake all night,” the king bellowed. We would need to work by torchlight, which would give our position away to the enemy. Moving would be a complete and utter waste of time.”
The king spat a mouthful of mead into the fire. The liquor flared up as the flames caught it.
“So much valuable energy and effort was wasted today!” he went on, face reddening again. For a moment he stopped speaking, clearly trying to bring his temper under control. He poured another cup of mead from the bronze jug and sipped it before continuing.
“After midnight we'll keep a constant watch until dawn. The Danaans may plan to attack us by stealth in the night, but I am determined we will fight them face to face on the field tomorrow. In open, honorable battle.”
“Cecht is an honorable man,” Isleen protested. “He would never stoop to such a tactic.”
“I have only your word on that!” Brocan grunted, dismissing the Seer's opinion out of hand.
“I must speak with you,” Fergus hissed urgently, leaning close to the king's ear.
“Not now, brother. Can't you see the peril we are in? If we don't prepare our defenses, the Danaans will have the advantage. I want you to organize the watchmen for the night. Double the sentries and send out small patrols to ensure the enemy doesn't come upon us unawares.”
“My lord,” the veteran pleaded, “listen to me.”
“No,” Brocan cut in, holding the veteran by the sleeve, “you listen to me. I have an important announcement to make.”
Fergus sighed, shaking his head.
“If I fall tomorrow,” the king decreed for all to hear, “I nominate Fergus mac Fianan to rule as king in my place until the chieftains decide on a satisfactory candidate. I declare Queen Riona ineligible to rule in my place by virtue of her Danaan blood. And my sons are certainly not capable of taking the reins.”
Fergus bowed humbly in formal acceptance of the great honor. And when he raised his eyes he could see admiration in every face except the queen's. Riona scowled at him in distaste.
“I will fight your decree through the Brehon courts,” she declared coldly.
The veteran realized this would not be a good time to pass on his news about Aoife's confession. The queen could well use the revelation to fuel her attack on Brocan, and then the situation would truly become unbearable. He would have to speak with the king later in private. With that thought he left to go about his duties.
“Now there is one other matter I wish to deal with,” Brocan hissed. “My three children.” The king sat back in his low chair as a jug of water was passed to him. He took a long cooling drink then placed the vessel at his feet. “Aoife is sleeping?” he asked the Seer.
“She is resting peacefully, lord,” Isleen answered.
“She has already been punished for her part in this escapade,” the king decided. “Her arm will cause her considerable pain. She won't forget this episode in a hurry. But Sárán and Lom are another matter.”
“Lom was not involved in our plans,” Sárán cut in. “It was Aoife and I alone who decided to come to the battleground against your wishes.”
“How did your brother know where to find you?” Brocan snapped, casting a suspicious glance at his wife. “Did your mother know anything about all this?”
“No,” Sárán declared. �
�Mother knew nothing of our decision to follow you.”
“I overheard the two of them planning everything,” Lom admitted. “Aoife and Sárán are not discreet when it comes to plotting their adventures.”
“You knew two of my subjects were going to disobey a command from their king and father,” Brocan bellowed, “and you failed to report it to me?”
“I thought it best not to bother you. You were so busy with preparations for the battle.”
“But you did not hesitate to go to your mother with the news?”
“Mother advised me to say nothing,” Lom blurted before he realized he had been tricked.
The king turned to his wife with a self-satisfied smile. “It seems there's been some disloyalty among my kin,” he stated, clearly pleased he had discovered the queen's indiscretion. “Why did you not send word to me when your son Lom gave you this information?”
“I tried to speak with you,” Riona explained coolly. “But you had no time to listen. You were off planning your own adventure. Perhaps if you had discussed matters with me this might never have happened. Don't you see, your children were just seeking some attention from their father?”
Brocan frowned. He had heard this argument before. It did not impress him. “I am the king,” he explained slowly, as if speaking to a child. “I have far-reaching responsibilities which demand my complete attention.”
Brocan turned to Lom. “Do you see what trouble you have brought on us all by remaining silent? You are the only sensible one among my three children. Compared to you, Sárán and Aoife are nothing more than fools. That's why I am most annoyed at you. You should have told me!”
“Yes, Father.”
“What else have you kept from me?” Brocan sighed. “What other surprises have these two got in store for me?”
Lom looked down at the ground, trying not to show how upset he really was. The young man was suddenly overcome with a desire to tell his father all that Sárán had told him about Fearna's death in the snow.
He turned his eyes into the fire so he would not have to face his father. The coals glowed orange with a thousand twisting shapes and shadows, but all the young man saw was Fearna's cold corpse.