Dropping his siarc once more, he said, ‘Now I have a question for you, Médon. And it is this—if you were so concerned about the safety of your lord and battlechief why did you not go with them to meet with Balor Berugderc that day?’
Médon gazed back at him coldly. ‘How could I?’
‘That is no answer.’
‘I was forbidden to go,’ the warrior spat. ‘As were you.’
‘Yet, you knew your lord and king was meeting with the Scálda—and that this was not the first time,’ continued Conor, pressing his point. ‘Even so, you knew your king and battlechief were meeting with Balor Evil Eye and yet you let them go into an enemy fortress alone and unprotected.’
‘Is this true?’ asked Galart. ‘You knew our king was holding council with the enemy?’
Médon opened his mouth to object, but before he could find the words to counter Conor’s assertion, someone else said, ‘You knew, brother, and you said nothing?’ The question still hung in the air when someone added, ‘If I had known about this I would have done something. I would have—even if I was forbidden.’
This sentiment was swiftly taken up and soon everyone was clamouring for Médon to explain the secret meetings between Lord Brecan and the Scálda king and warleader. Conor watched as the Brigantes battlechief twisted this way and that, looking guilty as a thief with a stolen pig under his arm. The shouting grew more strident and swiftly rose toward the point of blows; Médon, trapped in his guilty knowledge, looked to Conor for help.
‘Let him speak!’ shouted Conor, stamping on the floor. ‘Let us hear what he has to say.’ To Médon, he said, ‘Go on. There are no brehons here to judge you—only your swordbrothers, eager to hear your explanation.’
The words had an immediate effect and not only did the shouting cease, but the anger, so quickly heated, began to cool. Médon cleared his throat and, turning to his warband, said, ‘What Conor says is true. I knew that Brecan and Mog Ruith were meeting in secret with the Scálda. By the time I learned this, they had already attended several such meetings over many months.’ The clamour verged on erupting again, but Conor quelled it and nodded for Médon to continue. ‘No one told me this,’ he insisted, ‘not outright. But Cethern let slip a word or two in my hearing on occasion. I never learned why the king agreed to these meetings, or what was discussed at them. Like Conor, I had suspicions—only that, nothing more.’ He put out a hand in appeal. ‘Twice, as you will all remember, as a member of Brecan’s tiranam, I accompanied the ardféne and the king—as did you Comgall, and you Nuadh, and Aedd, and Calbhan, Dearg, and Tagdh.…’ He appealed to each of these young warriors in turn before continuing. ‘Look to your hearts and tell me that you did not suspect our king was placing himself in great peril. We all had our misgivings, did we not?’
The men named shuffled their feet and mumbled that Médon spoke the truth. At last, Médon looked to Conor, who said, ‘Well, it seems to me that none of us should be throwing accusations at another. Perhaps if you had spoken openly of your suspicions something could have been done.’ Turning to the others, added, ‘The same can be said for the rest of you who stood by nursing your suspicions instead of speaking up.’
The young warleader shook his head. ‘Nay, the king demanded secrecy—as you well know. Whatever he and Mog Ruith discussed with Balor Berugderc has gone with them into the tomb.’ He extended a conciliatory hand to Conor. ‘I am sorry I doubted you. But hard times have come to Aintrén and, as things stand, I had to make certain you and your friends could be trusted.’
‘And is there now any doubt?’ Conor searched the young warleader’s face for any hint of misgiving.
‘I have none,’ he said, shaking his head.
Then Conor took the offered hand and, gripping it, pulled Médon into a hearty embrace. ‘In your place, I would have done the same. It is forgotten and we will speak of it no more.’
The sight of the two men putting aside their differences to embrace one another as brothers cheered the Brigantes warriors and they renewed their welcome of a favoured member of their warband. Immediately, the cheerless atmosphere of the hall brightened; men all talked at once, recalling better times when Conor was one of their number; they greeted his friends with laughter, welcome cups appeared, and even the fire in the hearth seemed to burn with a brighter, fresher flame.
The three newcomers were led to the board and given places on the bench. Their bowls were piled high with choice morsels and their cups filled time and again. Though every man among them longed to hear what had happened the night their king was murdered, to ask outright would violate the hospitality of the hall and table, and none dared raise the subject.
Later—many cups later—the three Darini, claiming weariness from their day’s journey, rose from the board; yawning and a little unsteady on their feet, they asked to be allowed to retire. Galart conducted the travellers to the guesthouse and bade them a good night’s rest. As soon as the door closed on them and they were alone once more, Donal observed, ‘That ended better than it began.’
‘Still, it was a close-run thing,’ added Fergal. ‘It could easily have gone against us.’
‘Aye, and would have,’ granted Conor, ‘if not for you, brother.’ Draping his arm around his friend’s shoulder, he said, ‘We have you to thank for saving our necks tonight.’
Fergal grinned. ‘I was only saving our supper.’
‘The Brigantes lay an enviable board,’ said Donal. ‘I give them that.’ He glanced around the room; a fire had been lit in the hearth to warm the empty room. Unfastening his cloak pin, he tossed the cloak onto a nearby pallet. ‘Tell me, brother—how did you know that your man Médon knew about the secret meetings?’
Conor likewise drew off his cloak and put it aside. ‘In all truth, I only suspected. I knew he often rode with the king’s ardféne and might have been included of a time. That, and his persistence in holding me to blame—as if I was responsible for Brecan getting himself killed—strengthened my suspicions. I reckoned he might be trying to ease his guilt—something like that.’ He glanced around at Fergal, who was standing at the hearth rubbing his hands at the fire. ‘I had to curtail your explanation, but you were about to tell them about the faéries.’
‘Aye, so I was. It is the truth and it was the truth they wanted to hear.’
‘To be sure, but I’m thinking there might be a few particulars we should best keep to ourselves for a while. Also, I did not wish to confuse things overmuch by adding another strand to the story that would require a lengthy explanation—’
‘And would likely defy belief,’ added Donal. ‘Conor is right.’ He lay down on his pallet and pulled his cloak over him. ‘We should foreswear all talk of the faéry. That is a secret best held close. It may be of better use to us later.’
‘What happens with us now?’
‘A warm and peaceful sleep, I hope,’ replied Conor. ‘And then tomorrow, I will ask the queen’s permission for us to join the Brigantes warband.’ He smiled and stretched out on the pallet. ‘After all that has happened here these past days, I expect she will be heartily pleased to accept our blades into her service.’
‘What is she like, this queen of theirs?’ asked Fergal. He placed another chunk of wood on the fire, and added one more for good measure, then crossed to an empty pallet and sat down. ‘Well? What is she like?’
Conor drew his cloak over him and replied, ‘What do you imagine the wife of Lord Brecan mac Lergath should be like?’
Fergal thought for a moment. ‘A bloated old matron with a face like a pig’s rear end and grandiose delusions of ruling the world?’ he suggested. ‘In other words, much like her husband, I expect.’
‘You must know the lady intimately,’ observed Conor. ‘For you describe her with uncanny skill.’
‘Truly?’
‘You’ll see for yourself tomorrow,’ Conor told him. He yawned and closed his eyes. ‘Aye, so you will.’
13
Early the next morning, the three Dar
ini trooped out with a few of the Brigantes warriors to bathe in the shallow river to the north of the stronghold—a common ritual for Conor who, contrary to Fergal and Donal’s moaning, had grown to welcome such a bracing start to the day. As a rose-coloured dawn lightened the sky, they tromped through the stubble fields accompanied by a few dogs from the valley farm holdings. The day broke fair, but chill, and a veil of fog rose from the surface of the water to hang in a slow-drifting cloud above the river course.
Shedding their clothing on the bank, the men splashed into the stream and began swimming and sporting in the cold water. After the first, quickening splash, they washed, passing fist-sized lumps of tallow-and-ash soap to one another. Leaving his two friends to their muttering, Conor sought out the company of Galart. ‘Are the others not joining us?’ he asked, having marked how few bathers had turned out.
‘What others do you mean?’ wondered the dark-haired young man. He yawned and glanced down along the bank of the stream.
‘The warriors of the other houses,’ replied Conor. The Brigantes boasted three houses of warriors, and on most days men from all three houses would join in the daily ablutions. ‘Are they out riding the borders?’
Galart rubbed the soap on his face and hair and, returning the lump to Conor, began scrubbing vigorously. ‘There is only the one house now,’ he answered finally.
‘Only one…’ Conor stopped himself asking what had happened to all the others. He realised with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach that he already knew. ‘Has it really been so bad this summer?’
Galart nodded, then ducked his head in the water.
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Conor when the young warrior resurfaced.
‘You have nothing to be sorry about, friend,’ replied Galart, shaking water from his face and hair. Turning his gaze to the wood across the stream, he said, ‘The Scálda have been pressing us hard on the borderlands all summer—little battles here and there, picking away at us piecemeal. We make good account of ourselves, mind—’
‘I’m certain you do,’ Conor sympathised.
‘Even so,’ Galart admitted, ‘as many as we kill, they always send more and those we lose stay lost to us.’ Glancing around at his swordbrothers, he added, ‘Now we barely have enough to protect the ráth.’ He glanced at Conor. ‘I am glad you came back.…’ He paused as if he would say more, and then decided against it.
‘What is in your mind? Tell me, Galart. Nothing you say will offend me.’
‘Ach, well, it is only this.…’ He faltered again.
‘I will take no offense,’ Conor coaxed.
‘Why did you come back here?’
‘Why not go home to Dúnaird—is that what you mean?’ Conor guessed. ‘As to that, I am an outcast as you might remember. My brother Liam is battlechief and warleader, but he has taken against me and clings to the ban.’ Conor felt a pang of regret twist through him when remembered Aoife waiting there.
Galart nodded as if he had suspected as much. ‘That is hard.’
‘Hard as it may be, that is the way of it.’
One of the nearby bathers called for the soap and Conor rubbed the chunk in his hair, then tossed it to the next in line.
‘What about your friends?’ asked Galart. ‘Are they outcast, too?’
Conor looked around to see Fergal and Donal kneeling in the stream, laving cold water over themselves to rinse away the soapsuds. ‘Nay, nay—only by choice.’
The young warrior nodded appreciatively. ‘They must be good friends, then.’
‘Ach, aye, they are all that and more.’
They finished bathing and waded back to the riverbank to retrieve their clothes. They dried themselves as best they could with their cloaks, dressed, and then hurried back to the stronghold to break fast and warm themselves in the hall. They ascended the long ramp to the gate and trooped into the yard. Some of the women had set up a great cauldron and were heating water for boiling clothes. ‘They’ll wash your clothes, too,’ Galart told him. ‘But I think they won’t have seen anything so fine as what you are wearing.’
‘Ach, well, I think that now we are here we will dress less like lords and more like warriors—if you can spare a siarc or two and some breecs.’
Just then Conor heard his name called from across the yard. Glancing around, he saw Lady Sceana standing on the steps of the king’s house. She was dressed in a drab green mantle and pale yellow cloak, but under the mantle Conor saw she wore men’s rough-woven breecs; no doubt she meant to convey the message that she was now ruler of the tribe. Conor put on his best smile and lifted a hand in greeting as he hurried across the yard to meet her. Fergal and Donal saw him go and paused to watch how he was received.
‘So, it is true,’ she said as soon as he was close enough not to have to shout. ‘My champion has returned.’ There was no warmth in her tone, but much cold judgement.
Conor pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in the customary sign of respect and waited for her to speak again.
‘They also said you had brought others with you.’ She glanced beyond him to where Fergal and Donal waited. ‘Are those men just there your friends?’
‘They are, lady.’ Conor raised his arm and summoned the two to join them, presenting each in turn to the queen. ‘I give you Fergal mac Caen and Donal mac Donogh of the Darini—swordbrothers of mine for many years. My friends,’ he said, ‘I present you to Lady Sceana, Queen of the Brigantes.’
Both men made the sign of obeisance to nobility, and Fergal coloured slightly, impressed by her comeliness and grace. ‘My lady,’ he said at last, and lowered his gaze. ‘We are indebted to your hospitality.’
‘You are welcome here,’ she told them. ‘You will know by now that we stand in sore need of warriors. Our brave warband has borne the brunt of maintaining the borderlands and the raiding this summer has cut the very heart out of our warhost. I am happy to accept all who will pledge loyalty to me.’
‘Our blades are yours to command,’ replied Fergal. And Donal echoed the sentiment, adding, ‘We will do all we can to avenge the death of Lord Brecan.’
The queen thanked them and dismissed them, saying, ‘You will tell Médon that I have accepted you into my service and that you are to be treated as valued members of the warband. Serve me well and you will be well rewarded.’ Turning to Conor, she said, ‘Stay here, a little. I would speak to my champion alone.’
Fergal and Donal bowed and, with a last sneaking glance at Conor, withdrew. When the others had gone, the queen said, ‘Sit with me, my friend. I have asked for food to be brought that we may break fast together while we talk.’ She smiled quickly. ‘I will also summon a maid to shave you. It seems you have misplaced your razor.’
‘Too true,’ replied Conor lightly. ‘That and much else besides.’
The queen turned and led him through the door to the main room where a small fire burned on the central hearth; a low table had been placed beside the hearth and fleeces spread around. Sceana indicated a place at the table; Conor sat and, after summoning one of her handmaids, the queen took the place across from him. She folded her long legs beneath her, and gazed at him for a time without speaking.
Conor felt himself growing uneasy beneath her unrelenting gaze. Finally, she cleared her throat and said, ‘We thought you dead—along with the others—the night my husband was killed.’
‘I survived—alone, it would appear.’
‘Galart has told me you were wounded in the ambush. He told me he saw the scars and that healing is not yet complete.’
‘Complete enough,’ Conor said, ‘or I would not be here. As it is, my injuries prevented me from coming sooner.’
Before he could say more, one of the queen’s companions appeared with bronze basin, a cloth, and a razor. At the queen’s bidding, she invited Conor to take the chair in the corner of the room and to lean back. He did as he was told and was quickly and expertly shaved with deft, sure strokes of the bronze razor.
The handmaid
then wiped the soap from his face and dried him with the cloth. She untied the thin leather strap that bound his long hair and combed it out with an ox-bone comb, braided it, and replaced the strap to hold it in place. Then, with a little bow, she departed—quickly to be replaced by another serving woman bearing a large platter of cold roast pork and fresh radishes, and a basket of brown bread in loaves the size of goose eggs; a second attendant brought a bowl of butter, and one of salt. The two withdrew without a word, and one returned with two wooden cups filled with buttermilk.
‘Please, eat,’ said the queen. ‘I know you must be hungry after your travels.’
‘After you, lady,’ replied Conor.
‘You will excuse me, I hope,’ she said diffidently, ‘but I have little appetite these days.’ Conor helped himself to a loaf of bread, broke it, and began spreading butter with the gold-handled knife from his belt. She watched him for a moment, then said, ‘That knife seems very well made. May I see it?’
Conor handed her the blade. The queen examined it, turning it this way and that. ‘A most clever design,’ she observed, handing it back to him. ‘And your clothes—your cloak and siarc—I do not believe I have ever seen anything so wondrously fine. Certainly not in this part of Eirlandia—or any other that I know of.’ She frowned and bit her lip. ‘They are not Scálda clothes?’
‘Never that, my queen. If they were, I would sooner burn them and go about the earth naked than allow anything so vile to touch my flesh.’
‘If not Scálda then…’ She gazed at Conor, waiting for an answer to her unspoken question.
Conor relented, saying, ‘After escaping from the Scálda ambush that night, I helped some faéry escape as well. My cloak and breecs and all the rest,’ he plucked at the siarc, ‘were a gift of gratitude from their king.’
In the Land of the Everliving Page 10