Conor glared at him. ‘It would never come to that.’
‘Aye, it would. With Liam as angry as he is right now, that is exactly what would happen. You would not even reach the gate before the blades were drawn.’
Donal took another step forward and, in a voice neither Conor nor Fergal had ever heard before, said, ‘Climb down from that horse, Conor mac Ardan. There will be no bloodshed this day.’
He did not shout or raise his voice, but the note of command and authority was unmistakable and so uncharacteristically powerful that Conor halted and Fergal looked around to see if it really was Donal who had spoken and not a druid from Carn Dubh.
Conor stared, regarding his friend with an expression of astonishment. ‘What did you say to me?’
‘I said for you to climb down—’
Conor gazed at him for a long moment, then sighed and, throwing his leg over the stallion’s neck, slid to the ground. He raised his eyes to the bleak overcast sky and drew his hand over his face. The day was not getting any brighter and the clouds were low, thickening on a cold wind driving in from the west and bringing a thickening mist with it. ‘Aye, truly, this day has turned against us.’
‘That it has,’ agreed Fergal. ‘But we live to fight another day. Let’s find shelter.’
With great and grudging reluctance, Conor submitted to the will of his friends. It was possible, he realised, that whatever changes the death of King Brecan had wrought in the land the resulting scramble to fill the void the Brigantes lord left behind only heightened the upheaval. Conor took one last look at the timber walls of the ráth he had once called home and his heart moved within him. Aoife was there, locked behind those gates, and he could do nothing about it. There would be a day of reckoning, he vowed; old debts would be settled.
Then, snatching up the halter strap, he turned away from the settlement and started back down the track leading away from Dúnaird. His friends returned to their horses and followed. They had not gone far when Fergal said, ‘There was a little rock hollow at the foot of that line of hills to the west—if I remember. Maybe we—’ Fergal found he was talking to himself. He stopped and turned around.
Donal was standing in the track with his spear over his shoulder, leading his horse. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he said in reply to the question rising to Fergal’s lips.
‘How did you know—’ began Fergal, but Donal was already moving away. Fergal called to Conor who was riding a little ahead. ‘Someone is coming!’
Conor wheeled his horse and rode back to where Donal was waiting on the hilltop. ‘How many? Can you see?’
‘Only one.’
Fergal joined them. ‘I don’t see anyone.’
Dropping the reins, Conor slid off the stallion and pulled his spear from its leather sheath under the horsecloth and trained his gaze toward the ráth; through the mist and murk in the fading light, he could barely make out the dim shape of a figure toiling up the trail. ‘Who is it?’ he asked. ‘Can you see?’
The other two shook their heads.
‘I don’t know how he saw anyone at all in this wrack,’ grumped Fergal. ‘I truly don’t.’
The three waited, leaning on the shafts of their spears, suggesting to one another who it might be. Eamon? Gamael? A member of the warband? Who? Finally, Donal turned to them and said, ‘It’s Aoife.’
‘Aoife!’ said Conor. ‘My Aoife?’
‘Aye,’ Donal told him. ‘Unless you know any others at Dúnaird.’
Conor gave Donal a wondering look and then started down the track at a run. Fergal poked Donal on the arm with his finger. ‘How did you know that?’ he asked. ‘Have you weasel eyes now that you can see in the dark?’
‘We cannot let him go down there,’ Donal replied.
Fergal sighed. ‘I’ll go.’ He ran after Conor and caught him just as two more figures emerged from the ráth below. Fergal snatched Conor by the arm and held him firm. ‘Wait, brother. See what happens.’
‘I must go to her.’ Conor pulled his arm away and started forward again.
‘Conor! Wait!’
Down at the entrance to the ráth, the second two had caught up with the first lone figure; a brief conference took place and then all three turned around and retreated into the stronghold once more. Conor’s steps faltered and he stood looking until the gates closed once more; then, he slowly turned around and trudged back to his horse.
‘I guess it was not Aoife, after all,’ suggested Fergal as he passed.
‘I guess not.’ With a last glance down the hill, he turned his back on Dúnaird. ‘Let’s find that cave of yours and get a fire started. I’m cold.’
The three outcasts made their way to the place Fergal thought he remembered: a shallow bowl-shaped depression, or coombe, enclosed on three sides with an overhanging rock ledge at the far end that formed a recess in which they could make their camp. The open end faced the south, so the wind and rain would not be blowing in upon them. ‘This is better than I remembered,’ said Fergal as they stood in the entrance to the hollow.
‘It will do,’ Conor told him, passing Búrach’s halter strap to him. ‘We need firewood. We should be able to find some in the copse we passed through back there.’
‘Stay here,’ Fergal said. ‘I’ll fetch it.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ offered Donal.
The two went off together, leaving Conor to set up camp. He tethered the stallion and the two mares just outside the ledge overhang, and then tossed loose stones into a heap to be arranged in a circle for the fire ring. Then he began arranging the stones into a fair-sized ring. He was putting the last stone in place when there came a low whistle signalling Fergal and Donal’s return with the firewood. ‘We could have got more,’ explained Donal, throwing his armful into a pile a few paces from the ring of stones, ‘but it got too dark to see.’
‘At least, it is still dry,’ observed Fergal. ‘No sign of your rain, then?’
Donal cocked his head to one side as if listening to something only he could hear. Then he replied, ‘It is coming on the wind. It will be here before nightfall.’
‘It’s almost nightfall now,’ Fergal pointed out, grinning smugly. ‘Maybe we should better consult your horse, no doubt—’
He did not complete the thought before the first spattering of rain began to fall.
‘There it is,’ Conor said, ‘just as Donal promised. Light the fire and warm this place. I’ll fetch the faéry sparáns and see what’s left to eat.’
‘Is there any of that mead still?’ called Fergal, arranging some of the smaller sticks in a lattice from which to kindle the campfire. ‘I’m parched and this looks to be a long, wet night.’
Aoife
I had my hand on the beam ready to lift the bar and open the gate when Lord Liam climbed down from the guardsmen’s walkway. I had heard him talking to Fergal and Donal and my first and only thought was to let them in so I could see my beloved at last, and all Dúnaird could welcome our brave wanderers home.
Alive! I was thinking. Conor is alive and he is home!
After so many days and weeks of watching and waiting, never knowing which rumour to believe: Conor was killed in an ambush.… Conor betrayed King Brecan.… Conor killed Brecan.… Brecan killed Conor.… Conor has sold himself to the enemy.…
All lies, I know. All of them rank and wicked lies. In my heart, I know my Conor could never have done what they said of him. Still, I heard the rumours and could not help wondering. But now he was here and I could not contain the joy I felt. Conor was here and we would be together once more and soon married. My dearest heart had returned and we would never be parted again!
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Liam, his voice a slap in my face. ‘Stop that.’ He slammed the beam down into its slot. ‘You know this gate is not to be opened.’
‘Braida here,’ I nodded to the man on the other end of the beam, ‘brought word that Donal and Fergal have returned—and Conor is with them.’ Even speaking the name of my beloved
aloud made my heart beat the faster.
‘Get back on watch,’ Liam told the young warrior. ‘Now!’
Braida all but fell over himself to disappear. Stung, I turned to Liam. ‘Why?’
‘Conor was not with them,’ he muttered. ‘Leastwise, if he was he dared not show his face to me.’
‘Ach, well, I am opening the gate to receive them.’ I made to lift the beam once more. ‘Let us welcome them home.’
‘There is no need,’ said Liam curtly, putting his hand to the gate bar and slamming it back into place yet again. ‘They are not to be staying.’
‘My lord? I don’t understand.’ I searched his face for a reason and saw only a hardness like a clenched fist.
‘I sent them away.’
Liam turned abruptly, and stormed off. I cast a glance at Gamael and Braida up on the walkway; both shook their heads in dismay. I hurried after our esteemed warleader, falling quickly into step beside him. ‘Forgive my asking, lord, but why? Why did you send our kinsmen and friends away?’
Liam, obviously angry, stopped and turned on me. ‘I suppose you are against me, too?’
‘Nay, lord, I merely—’ I began, then stopped and started again on a different path. ‘But should we not listen to what they have to say? It might be that—’
‘I would not credit a single word those traitors said.’
‘Traitors?’ I blinked at him in confusion and dismay, the joy curdling in my breast. ‘Why do you call them traitors? How have they betrayed us?’
‘You would gainsay your king?’ he demanded. ‘Ardan has decreed them exiles and outcasts. He has said that—’ He gave a growl of frustration and made a chop of his hand to halt further discussion. ‘I need explain nothing to you.’
But I could not let Liam’s unreasoning dislike of his brother cloud his better judgement. ‘Again, I beg your forgiveness, but we know that Conor is no criminal. We do know that.’ I stated this as firmly as I could. ‘The theft of that gold bracelet was a ruse perpetrated by the druid Mádoc to remove Conor from danger and ensure his aid in helping discover the extent of Brecan’s treachery. Rónán told us that much—you will remember.’
‘Aye, Rónán told us—and we only have Rónán’s word for it.’ He strode off again.
‘The word of a druid,’ I called after him. He did not stop, so I hurried to catch up with him once more before he reached the hall where others would hear us arguing. ‘The word of a druid and, if I say it, your own brother.’
‘Rónán always takes Conor’s side,’ Liam growled. ‘Always has. Always will.’
That was not true, but I let it go. ‘We know that Lord Brecan was conferring with the enemy, and we know that he was killed because of it. Mádoc was right after all.’
‘Ach, so he was right was he?’ mocked Liam. ‘We’ll never know because he is dead now, too.’ He jabbed a finger at me. ‘Mádoc, Brecan, and Cethern—all three dead and how many more besides? And Conor was involved. One way or another, Conor is always involved in the worst crimes and calamities.’
That stopped me in my tracks. ‘You blame Conor for King Brecan’s death. What about the raids this summer—you blame him for those, too?’
‘Who else?’ snarled Liam, his face grown ugly with the venom boiling inside him. ‘His betrayal has opened a flood tide of death.’ He spat in the dirt. ‘Conor is an outcast. Fergal and Donal likewise. They chose him, not us. They are not welcome here anymore.’
‘Your father would not be so harsh and uncaring. If he was here, he would listen to reason.’
Liam stared at me, his eyes cold. ‘But he is not here and I rule in his place. I say they are outcasts still.’ He turned on his heel and walked away.
I could but stare in rage at our false, audacious warleader. Brecan’s death unleashed a summer of calamity, that is true. The enemy pressed us hard all along the borderlands and beyond and everyone to the south suffered. But I never imagined Liam would find a way to lay that at my Conor’s feet. Absurd as it was outrageous—yet Liam seemed to believe it.
Liam stalked across the yard to the hall, and I watched him go—wishing I had a whip in my hands just then, or a bowl of burning coals. I was still standing there when Aillil, my dearest and closest friend among our womenfolk, came running to me. ‘They are saying Conor and the others have returned,’ she said. Her dark eyes swept past me to take in the yard and hall behind. ‘Where are they? Have they gone to the hall?’
‘Aye, they returned,’ I muttered darkly. ‘And our battlechief has sent them away again.’
Aillil looked into my eyes and—ach, I saw light of her joy extinguished. For, I think she kept that flame alive for Fergal, though he was not to know it yet. ‘But I don’t understand.’
‘Fergal and Donal came to the gate seeking entrance. They said Conor was with them and that they wanted to come home.’
‘And they went to get your Conor?’ Hope leapt up again in an instant. ‘They’ll come back soon—all three of them, aye?’
My heart moved within me for the pity of what I had to say. ‘Liam refused. He sent them away. Conor and his friends are outcasts still,’ I told her, my voice breaking on those hateful words.
Aillil’s eyes narrowed and she looked to the barred gate. ‘I thought the king was to allow them to return.’
‘But Ardan is not here,’ I said, my voice full of hurt and hopelessness. ‘Liam rules in his father’s place, and what is more, he holds Conor to blame for Brecan’s death and everything that has come after.’
‘He said that?’ she gasped. ‘Liam said that?’
Almost rigid with anger, I spat, ‘He said it, aye—but I will never believe it!’ I turned on my heel and started toward the hall.
Aillil came after me. She caught me by the arm and pulled me around to look at her. ‘Do not go in there, Aoife. Anything you say or do will only make things worse—for yourself, if not for Conor, too. Wait just a little. We can but hope Liam will see reason when he has had a chance to think more clearly. In any case, Ardan will soon return and then all will be made right. You’ll see.’
I pulled away, took two steps, and then halted, my mind filled with death and destruction raining down upon that hall.
‘Think you now,’ she said, ‘how best to help Conor.’
She was right. I must think of Conor and how best to help him. I turned around and made for the gate.
‘Where are you going?’ Aillil called. ‘Aoife, answer me. Where are you going?’
‘I’m going after Conor.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Watch me.’ I kept walking.
‘Aoife, think what you’re doing. If you leave now, Liam will count it betrayal and he will not allow you to come back.’
‘Why should I wish to return?’ I replied, tears beginning to well in my eyes. ‘If Conor no longer has a home here, then neither do I.’
9
The night passed. Despite the wind and rain, the rock shelter in the little coombe remained dry and the sleepers warm, wrapped in their fine faéry cloaks. For Conor, however, the relief of sleep came but slowly; long after Fergal and Donal had settled into slumber, he lay awake gazing out into a night sky where moon and stars were concealed by cloud and mist and no light could be seen—like his own bleak, sorrowful mood that no light of joy could penetrate.
Time and again, the appalling thought rose in his mind like a tormenting ghost: he was outcast. After all he had done, all he had endured and survived, all he knew of the enemy’s intentions—all of it counted for nothing. He remained an outcast, turned away by his own people … by his own brother.
This gloomy thought cast him in a hopeless, helpless mood. What was he to do? Why was this happening? What had he done to deserve such a fate? The whole world seemed to be against him, mocking his efforts. Try as he might, he could never seem to get quit of the swamp of muck and mire that only deepened with every attempt to free himself. Everything he tried went against him somehow. He was indeed the most unfortunate of men
.
Misery took him and he embraced it, wrapping himself in it, wearing it like a second skin. He wondered whether to do as Donal suggested and try again in a few days. Perhaps when his father returned from his travels, he would hear Conor out and change his mind. Surely, that was the wisest course. But, just as surely, that would go against him too; in some unforeseen way, his little cup of hope would only be dashed away by an unseen hand.
Well, he would not do it. He would not beseech his father to return to a place that loved him not. After the way he had been treated today, to return now bore the taint of begging and that stuck in his gullet like a scraggy bit of gristle. Moreover, he could in no wise return under suffrage of the insufferable Liam who would never forego an opportunity to revile him. Liam would hold it over him forever after. That he could not stomach.
Slowly, the resolve grew within him to turn away from Dúnaird and abandon any hope of returning. That did not mean he would forget about Aoife. Never that! But he must establish himself first and then send for her when he was free and able to do so.
By the time sleep found him, Conor, in the grip of unrelenting desolation, had decided only when he was implored by the very people who turned him away would he consent to ride through the gates of Dúnaird. He would arrive, not as a supplicant, but as a champion of his people.
By the time the sun kindled in a dull, overcast sky, Conor was determined to move on and seek his future elsewhere. He lay awake thinking of this and when he rose a short time later, he was resolute in heart and mind. He woke the others with his stirring and as they broke fast on a bit of bread and smoke-dried salmon from the provisions the faéry had given them, Conor told Donal and Fergal he was resigned not to force another confrontation, but to bide his time. As soon as the horses had been fed and watered, the three moved on. During the morning, the heavy cloud cover began to wear thin. Soon pockets of bright blue sky could be seen in the west, and by midday they were far beyond the borders of Darini territory, heading south. They travelled in silence for the most part, speaking only rarely, each lost in his own melancholy thoughts, pausing only to rest the animals or drink from the streams and burns they crossed. By nightfall they arrived on the shores of a long, narrow clear-water lough that stretched from one end of a pinched valley to the other. A flock of grey geese had settled on a near shore; their raucous squawking echoed across the still water, disturbing the tranquillity of the place.
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