‘Has anyone said who is to be the Brigantes king now?’ asked Conor.
‘Nay, nay,’ replied Gobnu, with a slow shake of his head. ‘That is, if they have a new king, they ent said yet who it is—not that we’ve heard.’
‘Great pity that,’ observed one of the men, ‘killing the high king like that. And him just getting ready to drive the whole stinking lot of Scálda vermin into the sea.’
‘Brecan was not the high king,’ blurted out Conor, unable to prevent himself.
‘Aye, he was,’ insisted the chief.
‘He only thought he was,’ said Conor. ‘There’s a very great difference.’
Fergal gave Conor a warning glance and quickly asked, ‘When did this happen?’
‘Not so long ago,’ answered Gobnu. ‘Near the end of summer, I think.’
‘We had’na begun the harvest yet,’ offered one of the farmers.
‘A few weeks maybe,’ added another. ‘Not more.’
‘Ach, aye,’ said Gobnu. ‘We heard he was out hunting and was ambushed by a Scálda raiding party.’ He nodded, and the others nodded with him. ‘The king tried to fight them off, but there were too many.’
‘Aye,’ confirmed the farmer next to Conor. ‘That’s what we heard.’
They talked a little more and then Ródri returned from looking after the horses, together with Gobnu’s wife, one of the farmstead’s hounds, and three women bearing baskets and platters of food: small loaves of heavy dark barley bread and thin slices of succulent smoked pork, and some fire-roasted root vegetables and a soft new cheese. Ródri pulled up a stool to the table near Fergal; his father poured him a cup and the lad settled in to listen to the men talk while the women busied themselves with serving up the food.
They ate and talked, and the food and ale and travel began to tell and soon travellers were yawning in their cups. Seeing his guests begin to nod, Gobnu declared that there was work to be done in the morning and so begged his guests to allow him to go to his rest. The farmers rose and filed noisily out; Conor, Fergal, and Donal were given rush pallets covered with fleeces in a dark corner of the little hall and left to themselves. ‘Weeks only,’ whispered Conor. ‘Did you hear that? Brecan’s murder happened before summer’s end.’
‘I heard that,’ Fergal allowed. ‘Yet we’ve been gone…’ He tried to estimate their absence, could not, and gave up, saying, ‘I don’t know—the better part of a year, at least. Longer maybe.’
‘Weeks only,’ said Conor, still trying to reconcile the difference.
‘Aye, for Eirlandia,’ Donal said. ‘But things are different in the Isle of the Everliving. Time and the seasons, to be sure.’
‘Everything is different,’ mused Fergal.
They talked like this awhile longer and fell asleep listening to the rain pattering on the roof thatch and the yard outside. Next morning, the three rose early, washed in the basin that had been left outside the door, and then went to feed the horses. After breaking fast on warm bread and fresh milk, they thanked their host and took their leave. The night’s rain had cleansed the air and scrubbed the clouds until they glowed bright and white in the cool morning breeze. Refreshed and rested, the three rode out into a land that seemed newly made. Indeed, it seemed to them that the night’s rain that still glistened like tiny gemstones on the leaves of grass and trees only heightened the uncanny feeling they were seeing an old familiar world for the first time.
7
Conor led Búrach to the top of the hill overlooking the rockbound eastern coast of northern Eirlandia. In the distance, he could see the lead-coloured sea stretching to the flat horizon and, just a little nearer, the faint grey-blue smudge of smoke that hung over Dúnaird in pale yellow light of a late autumn day. He had stood on this selfsame knoll countless times, yet, once again, he had the feeling that he was viewing a place he knew well, but for the first time; and the strangeness of the sensation made him queasy: as if he stood not on solid ground, but on water trembling under his feet. Indeed, it had been so long since he had seen his home—and so much had happened in the interval—the place no longer appeared as he remembered it: the unassailable stronghold boldly facing a shining sea. Now it seemed diminished somehow, the fields smaller, the ráth scruffier, shabbier and, though he hated to admit it, much poorer than the fortress of his memory.
He released the grey’s halter and allowed the stallion to nuzzle the long grass on the windy hilltop; then, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself, he sat down to wait for Donal and Fergal to catch up. As he sat filling his eyes with the newly familiar sight of his childhood home, he imagined Aoife there, standing on the walkway over the gate, scanning the hills for a glimpse of him, or perhaps stirring a pot over a fire in the women’s house, or beating flax into fibres, or stroking the thick neck of a fat yearling calf—any of a hundred of the small tasks that made up her ordinary day.
Down there, behind those walls his beloved waited for him—and that alone covered a multitude of shortcomings. He was relishing the thought that soon he would be holding his loving Aoife in his arms when a voice called out behind him. He glanced around to see Fergal and Donal toiling up the hill. He turned back to the view of Dúnaird and waited until the other two caught up with him.
‘Are you that anxious to face the executioner’s blade that you have to run, now?’ said Donal as the two reined up beside him.
‘They won’t kill me, you know,’ replied Conor. ‘Mádoc’s lame deception is known for the ruse it was. My banishment ended when he died.’
Donal glanced at Fergal, who said, ‘That is your opinion, brother. But what if your father does not share it? What then? He’d be duty-bound to honour the ban with the edge of his sword—or give up his kingship.’
‘He wouldn’t—’
‘Ach, aye,’ countered Donal. ‘He would, you know. He’d have no choice.’
‘See here, Conor. You must allow us to go on ahead,’ said Fergal. ‘We will judge how things stand there and send back word.’
‘They will have heard about Mádoc’s mad plan by now. They will welcome us home with music and a feast.’
‘A grand thing to be sure,’ agreed Donal. ‘We can hope they do that very thing. But what if they have not heard the truth of Mádoc’s plan, and Brecan’s death, and the rest of it? What then?’
‘I’ll tell you,’ put in Fergal, ‘music and feasting will be the last thing they’ll be thinking.’
‘Which is why you must let us go first. If all is well, then we will trip over ourselves in our haste to bring you home.’
Seeing his friends so determined to protect him, Conor relented. ‘If that is the way of it, why are you sitting there looking at me? Go—that you may return that much sooner.’
The two rode on together, working their way down the rocky hillside to the coast path and on to Dúnaird. When they came within hailing distance of the walls, they stopped and dismounted, then continued, leading their horses to the gate on foot. Conor watched this and, when he could not contain his impatience any longer, he took up Búrach’s reins and rode down to join them.
He was still some little way off when he heard Fergal shout, ‘Ho, there! Watchman! Who is guarding this gate?’
Conor moved in closer.
Fergal shouted again and his call brought a response in the form of a young warrior appearing on the walkway above the gate.
‘Braida! Is that you, lad?’
The gateman looked down at the two standing before the entrance. ‘Aye, it is Braida,’ the youth called back. ‘And is that Fergal mac Caen? Who is that with you?’
‘It is Donal mac Donogh,’ replied Donal, stepping forth. ‘Open the doors and let us in.’
‘Wait there!’ Braida disappeared from view, returned a few moments later with another warrior wearing a helmet and carrying a spear.
Conor, judging he had come as close as he dared, dismounted and stood by his mount.
‘Fergal! Donal!’ came the shout from the walkway. ‘Have you ret
urned then?’
‘Aye, we have—as you can plainly see. And who is that talking to us?’
‘It is Gamael here,’ the man called back, removing his helmet. ‘Do you not know me?’
‘I know you now that I can see you,’ said Fergal. ‘Open the gate, man. We’ve been travelling all day and we are tired.’
‘A welcome cup would not go amiss,’ added Donal, ‘if Lord Ardan still serves such to weary travellers.’
The two guards conferred with one another for a moment. Fergal cast a worried glance at Donal—and then at Conor some little distance away. Donal shook his head, warning Conor to stay back and whispering to Fergal, ‘Here is a strange thing. I do not think they’re going to let us in.’
Fergal dismissed the idea. ‘Well, perhaps they have good reason to be cautious.’
Finally, Gamael called down to them. ‘Full sorry I am, but we cannot let you in just now.’
‘Why ever not?’ demanded Fergal. ‘You can see it is us.’
‘Aye, we see you right enough,’ said Braida. ‘But it is more than our lives are worth to disobey our duty.’
‘Far be it from us to ask anyone to disobey anything,’ said Fergal growing impatient. ‘But Dúnaird has always welcomed our clansmen and, I might add, valued members of the king’s warband.’
‘That may be true,’ considered Gamael. ‘But we have orders not to let anyone in just now.’
‘Who has given such a stupid command?’ demanded Fergal, growing angry as well as impatient.
‘The order was given by our warleader himself,’ replied Gamael. ‘Liam has decreed that the gates shall remain closed to all strangers.’
‘But we’re not strangers!’ cried Fergal, losing whatever was left of his patience. ‘Go tell the king who it is that seeks admittance.’
‘That we cannot do,’ answered Gamael. ‘Our king is away just now. He will not return for many days. Lord Liam is in authority while his father is gone. That is why the gates remain closed.’
Fergal opened his mouth to swear a curse up the stubborn pigheadedness on display before him, but Donal laid a hand on his arm and called up to the two on the walkway, saying, ‘Friends, it is indeed a shame and disgrace to us both for you to be made to stand here and argue with your swordbrothers over such a trivial matter. If you could go and tell Liam that we have returned and seek entrance to the ráth of our youth, then we will be in your debt.’
The two guards seemed pleased with this solution to their unwanted problem and the elder Gamael sent the younger Braida on the run with the message for Liam.
‘Where have you been that you are so long away?’ asked Gamael as soon as Braida had gone. ‘And who is that you have with you?’ He pointed across to Conor, who stood with his face all but obscured by his cloak. ‘That is for the king’s ears alone, I think,’ replied Fergal. ‘If he chooses to tell you, then so be it. But where has Lord Ardan gone?’
‘Well,’ sniffed Gamael somewhat put out by the rebuff, ‘that is for the king to tell, I think. If he chooses to tell you, then you’ll know.’
‘Come down here and say that to my face, dog breath,’ shouted Fergal. To Donal, he said, ‘Have they gone mad here in Dúnaird since we’ve been away?’
‘Calm yourself, Fergal. All will be answered soon enough.’ He glanced back at Conor and shook his head again in warning.
The wandering warriors stood before the gate trying to rein in their runaway frustration; having to wait before the gates they themselves had often guarded in earlier times seemed a needless humiliation. Finally, Liam appeared on the walkway and Donal whispered, ‘Keep a humble tongue now, I warn you, or we will be standing here all night.’
‘We’ve been standing here long enough already,’ muttered Fergal under his breath. Then, turning to Liam, he put a smile on his face and said, ‘Greetings, Liam. I have just been told that the king is away and you are in authority here just now.’
‘That is true,’ replied Liam. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Why,’ said Fergal, his veneer of civility already wearing thin, ‘our sojourn is over, we have returned to our hearth and home as you can see.’
‘And where have you been that it took you so long to come back?’
‘As to that, the answer is simple enough,’ said Fergal, still smiling. ‘We were not in Eirlandia.’ He glanced at Donal, who nodded his encouragement. ‘We were with the faéry in Tír nan Óg.’
Liam glanced at the gatemen, who only gazed back. ‘Do I look like a nursling child that you think I would believe a tale like that?’
‘No one would make such a regrettable mistake, lord,’ replied Fergal, his smile fading rapidly. ‘But I might think it strange if, hearing such a tale, a fella would not care to know how such a claim might be explained—all the more if it came from someone wearing such clothes as Donal and I are wearing now.’ He plucked at his rust-coloured siarc and adjusted his splendid cloak. ‘That I would think strange, so I would.’
‘I don’t care what you think, Fergal Faintheart,’ said Liam, sneering. ‘The fact of the matter is you abandoned your rightful lord to run after Conor the Outcast. You chose a criminal over Ardan, and in so choosing forfeited any rights of kinship with the Darini. I can only think that Conor must now be dead—killed with scheming Brecan, I expect. Otherwise you would not dare to return.’ He shook his head. ‘Pathetic. What have you to say to that?’
‘Conor is not dead,’ said Donal. ‘He is with us—waiting for word…’ He gestured vaguely to the crags behind him. ‘He wants to come home.’
‘Waiting for word, is it?’ replied Liam, glancing at the mute figure standing just out of reach but within earshot.
‘I care little enough for what Conor wants,’ replied Liam. ‘But if he still lives and breathes under this sky, at least he knows enough to stay away—which is more than I can say for his false-faced friends.’
‘My lord battlechief,’ said Donal, trying again, ‘you wrong us when you call us false-faced and fainthearted. Moreover, you wrong Conor, the son of your own mother and your father Ardan, who is lord over all Darini. Nevertheless, I am certain this grave misunderstanding can easily be cleared up once we sit down together and discuss it like honest and reasonable men. Allow us to summon Conor and let all of us meet together over a welcome cup in the king’s hall. You will find there is much we have to tell that is worth your hearing.’
Liam drew himself up. ‘No. I will hear nothing you have to say. You and your friend Conor have no place here. If you wish to continue the life you have chosen, then you will leave at once.’
‘At least,’ called Donal, ‘let us speak to Aoife so that we can give her a greeting from Conor.’
‘Conor has caused that good lady nothing but pain. His leaving was the best thing to happen to her and Aoife is better off without him. You can tell Conor that.’ Liam waved them away and turned to go.
Fergal drew breath and shouted after him, ‘This is an outrage! When the king—’
Donal grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back. ‘Say no more, brother. Nothing good will come of it and will only make matters worse.’
Fergal frowned, his mouth a firm, hard line, and Donal called up to the men on the walkway, ‘We are going—for now. It may be our lord Ardan will take a different view. We will wait for the king to return and discuss it with him another day.’
‘Then you will grow old in waiting,’ shouted Liam without turning back, ‘for that day will never come.’
8
‘I have not come this far to stare at the barred gates of Dúnaird,’ growled Conor when Fergal and Donal joined him. He gained the top of the hill once more and started toward his mount.
‘Conor, what are you doing?’ Fergal, breathing hard from his fast climb, cast an urgent glance at Donal, who said, ‘Conor, wait! Before you do something foolish, let’s talk this through.’
‘Liam thinks I am dead does he?’ Conor muttered. ‘Aye, well I will show him what death looks like, so I will.�
�� Four quick steps carried him to Búrach’s side; he took hold of the stallion’s halter and vaulted up onto its broad back. ‘I am going to see Aoife, and if Liam thinks he can command me to stay away, I will soon show him for the fool he truly is.’
‘Hear me and heed me well,’ Donal told him. ‘Liam is in authority now and he has declared that you are outcast. There is neither hearth nor ale cup waiting for us within those gates—only a harsh rebuke and sharp sword. You cannot force your way in—and by trying, you only give Liam all the reason he needs to summon the warband to fight you and kill you.’
‘Listen to your wise counsellors,’ said Fergal. ‘If there was a way to force Liam to pay you the respect you deserve, I would be first in the very long line to make him do it. But until your father returns your brother is in authority and, whether we like it or not, he will be obeyed. We cannot storm the gates and that is that. I say, give it a few days and we will try again when the king is here to speak sense to that hotheaded son of his.’
‘What about Aoife?’ said Conor. ‘She is waiting for me—most likely thinking me dead if she has been listening to Liam. What am I to do about that?’
‘There is nothing to be done about that now,’ Donal told him bluntly. ‘Come away and we will think what to do.’
Indeed, the bright day had grown overcast and a stiff breeze was blowing misty rain over the hills from the west. Donal wrapped his cloak more tightly around his shoulders and moved to Conor’s side. ‘This day has turned against us in every way. Even the weather has betrayed us. Let us accept our defeat and go find shelter.’
‘Aoife thinks me dead,’ Conor intoned coldly. He gathered up the reins and turned Búrach’s head toward the track leading to the ráth. ‘I’m going to see her—if only to tell her otherwise. You two can stay here and whimper like beaten hounds, or you can come with me and reclaim our rightful place in the tribe.’
‘Would you raise a killing blade against your own kinsmen and swordbrothers?’ said Fergal.
In the Land of the Everliving Page 6