The Collector 3: Cauldron

by A. J. Matthews

  He gave a half-smile. “Go outside, and just pick a spot away from prying eyes. This isn’t an age where home comforts are high priority.”

  She groaned and sat up. “The sooner we find that fucking cauldron and my granddaddy the better!”

  Matt watched her as she picked her way across the floor between still-sleeping people. A wolfhound looked up and thumped his tail a couple of times before going back to sleep. Matt followed the dog’s example, and thought of the sight of Kate’s butt swinging in her tight denims. That brought on a memory of the feel of her breast in his hand, and he sighed. It had felt good. What little he could recall of the animalistic lovemaking they’d experienced burned bright in his mind, and he hoped ‑‑ someday ‑‑ that they’d get it on again.

  Someone else was picking his way across the hall, and he recognized the steward who’d let them into the hall last night. The man approached and bowed, proffering a bundle as he did so. “The clothing you asked for, sir. Lord Dairmuid sends to tell you that ponies are available for you and your companion. They’ll be waiting in the paddock in a while.”

  “Thanks.” Matt sat up, and rubbed his hands through his hair, discovered the straw and removed it. “I forgot to ask the Lord if there’re any guides heading for Roscommon.”

  The man shook his head. “Would that I could say yes, sir, but the last train of goods for the queen headed out yesterday. Another isn’t due to leave until the end of the week.”

  “Are there any maps?”

  “Bless you, sir, you’ll not need one.” The man smiled and shook his head. “The trail may be growing wild with lack of use but ‘tis still plain enough for a blind man to follow.”

  “Okay, then. How many days to Roscommon?”

  “Three, easy going.”

  Kate’s not going to like that! he thought, rubbing his chin, but at least she won’t be walking.

  She returned soon after. “If we go time-traveling again, I want to find an era where they have running water and a bidet!” she said, sitting down on her blanket.

  “I’m not sure if I want to go through all that again,” Matt said, and bit his tongue.

  “No, perhaps not,” she said, glancing at him. “Did I see the steward here?”

  “Yeah.” He gestured to the bundle. “He brought the clothes and told me Lord Dairmuid has ponies ready for us.”

  She picked over the bundle, finding a kirtle for herself, shirt and leggings for Matt, all of good, home-spun wool. “Good. What now? Shall we eat or go look at the ponies?”

  He looked over to the nearest fire pit, where a scruffy young woman was fiddling with some kind of meat in a dirty earthenware skillet. “Let’s go see our noble steeds!” he said, getting up.

  * * * * *

  “I can’t see either of these nags winning the Kentucky Derby!” Kate said, leaning on the paddock rail.

  Beside her, Matt frowned. “I’ll grant you, they’re not prettied-up, but hey, they are good sturdy Irish bog ponies. They’d probably carry us a lot further than just Roscommon.”

  “That they will, master, mistress,” the owner said with a gap-toothed smile. “The queen herself has no finer beasts in her stables, so she hasn’t.”

  Kate had been around long enough to recognize blarney when she heard it but knew they had no choice. Her feet and legs still ached from the previous day’s travel. “Okay, we’ll take ‘em,” she said. “Now, what about saddles and tack?”

  The man’s face went blank. “Sad-dells, mistress?”

  Matt tugged at her elbow. “Saddles won’t be invented for at least another five hundred years!” he hissed.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she groaned. “You’re not telling me we’re going to ride bareback for fifty miles?”

  “It’s that or walk,” he retorted with a half-smile, and she groaned again.

  * * * * *

  Gathering their scanty belongings, they bade farewell to the Lord and set off along the river valley before riding up into the gentle rolling hill country that led to Roscommon. Kate found the living rhythm of the pony’s gait a treat for the first few miles. Then it became a chore and finally a pain, as her thighs began to cramp-up with the strain of staying on. “Oh, for God’s sake, I can’t do this day after day!” she said.

  Matt looked perfectly at ease, as if born to ride. She felt a stab of envy, and wondered if his Irish heritage included a genetic affinity for horses. “I’m sorry, Kate,” he said, reining in. “We’ll take a break now if you like.”

  She gritted her teeth. “No, I can keep going for a while longer.” Anger at their primitive mode of existence flared in her mind. “I just wish we could get this trip over and done with in a day!”

  Her skin prickled all over, and she felt her nipples perk under her kirtle. Matt gasped and stiffened. Both ponies gave a snort of surprise ‑‑ then launched themselves into a flat-out gallop that took the breath from Kate’s lungs.

  “Whoooaaaaaaaaaooooo!” Matt yelled. “Jesus H. Christ!”

  The landscape passed by in a fast medley of trees and patchwork fields. Then the ponies accelerated, and Kate couldn’t even distinguish individual features any more as their surroundings turned into a green blur.

  “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkk!” she cried, clinging onto the pony’s mane for dear life. The slipstream all but tore her off, and she hoped against hope it wouldn’t happen at such speed, or she’d be killed. A fresh tingle surged through her, and the wind dropped to a mere zephyr. The pony’s gait turned into something flowing, a motion hardly more violent than the gentle rocking of a rowboat. Astonishment filled her mind as she looked about in perfect ease, and watched the land tear by.

  Matt was lying almost flat along the length of his pony, his eyes wide, a weird kind of smile almost of rapture on his face. “Yeeeeeehaaaaaaaa!” he yelled.

  Men! She thought. If it isn’t fast cars, it’s fast women and fast horses! Once the initial panic of their sudden flight passed, she thought about what had happened. There’d been a tingle when she’d made her wish that she wouldn’t fall off. It chimed with what she’d felt at other times when she wanted things to happen. Was she capable of casting magic in this place? The implications made her mind buzz.

  Something appeared up ahead; a line of figures on ponies, and others trudging alongside an ox cart. She grasped the reins, fear of a collision raising a lump in her throat. But she needn’t have feared. Their ponies hurtled past without missing a step. She glimpsed a montage of startled faces, bucking ponies and a skittish ox before the little caravan was left far in their wake. A frightened shout dropped to a hoarse grunt, the Doppler Effect carrying the man’s cry away.

  “What the hell will they make of that?” she yelled to Matt. He laughed with exuberance.

  A valley opened up ahead, the north-western slope bathed in sunshine, and Kate could see the bottom was dotted with groves of ash and oak and bisected by a broad rippling stream. Three riders were galloping along a course marked out in a meadow alongside the stream, their cloaks flying in the wind, a small crowd of people watching and cheering. On a spur of the hill stood a large settlement surrounded by a palisade, and she could see folk there going about their daily business, unaware of their rapid approach.

  And suddenly they were slowing down to a regular trot, their ponies breathing easily as if they’d only just begun their journey. Matt turned to her, his face flushed with the excitement of the swift journey. “Kate, how the hell did you do that?”

  “I’m not sure!” She realized she was still gripping the reins hard and eased her clasp, flexing her fingers to work the stiffness from them. “All I know is, when I wanted something to happen, it happened. Back at the fight, I wanted us to beat those guys, and somehow we were given the ability to do it. When we reached Gaillimh, I wanted to understand the guards on the gate, and suddenly we could.” She gave him a rueful smile. “And I admit I didn’t want to spend days on the road riding bareback, so I wished this journey would pass quickly.”

  �
�And so it did.” He shook his head in wonder. “The will and the word.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a feature in Celtic folklore. Those with magical power only had to desire something to happen and it did.”

  “You’re saying I’m a magician?”

  “That or a Druid.” He flashed a grin. “You’re not a pagan, are you?”

  “Theoretically I’m Catholic, but I’m not religious at all.”

  “Well, I’d hesitate to elevate you to such status as Nemue or Morgana le Fay, but I’d say you’re of that ilk.”

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  He gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m afraid while we’re here, you’ll have to live with it.” Reaching over he clasped her hand and looked her in the eye. “But the old adage applies; be careful what you wish for, it might just come true!”

  “Gee, thanks!”

  He pointed at the settlement. “Thanks to your magic, I think we’re where we want to be. This must be Roscommon. See that large hall?” She could; it was easily the largest building in the place, far outstripping Lord Dairmuid’s hall in size. “That’s the queen’s ráth.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Kate, from all accounts she’s a very dangerous woman.”

  She cracked a smile. “So am I, now I can cast magic.”

  “I’m serious! Queen Maeve will have power of life and death over everyone who enters her realm. When we get there, please watch what you say and do.”

  She flipped him a salute. “Yes, sir!”

  * * * * *

  They were soon spotted as they rode toward the settlement, following a track along the face of the slope. The racers in the valley below broke off their sport and came pounding up the hill, harnesses jingling, alert curiosity in their faces, long swords bouncing at their girths. Kate was reminded once again that this was a land at war. At a discrete sign from Matt, she reined in and waited.

  “Who are you that approaches the queen’s ráth?” the leader of the three called as they rode up.

  “We’re travelers who seek news of a friend,” Matt responded in a clear, firm voice.

  The three reined in across the path, blocking it. “From whence do you come?” the leader said, and Kate was once again subjected to close scrutiny. She suppressed her annoyance; there was no hostility toward her, which made Roscommon compare favorably to some parts of the Deep South she’d passed through during her career.

  “We come from a land across the sea,” Matt said. “Of late, we come from Lord Dairmuid’s hall at Gaillimh.” He gestured to Kate. “This is Katherine of the Susadi, and I’m Matt O’Brien.”

  “Ah huh.” The fellow rubbed his jaw. “You have the look of an O’Brien about you, lad.” He pointed at her. “You, Miss, are a conundrum! You’re so beautiful of face, yet so dark. Your land must be close to the sun for your skin to be so.”

  “It lies beyond the sunset,” she said, thinking quickly. “The sun is close to us there.”

  “A wonder you’re not burned up,” the man said with a friendly grin. “I’m Darragh O’Mahoney, a captain of her majesty’s war band. Herself’ll be wanting to see you both, and no mistake.” He turned his pony about and cocked an eye at Matt. “Especially you, young fellow! She’ll want to see a lot more of you.”

  * * * * *

  The settlement that would one day become Roscommon was much larger than Gaillimh. They were waved through the gates by the guards, and folks stopped and stared at them as they rode through the narrow streets between the round houses. It was clear that the settlement was prepared or preparing for trouble. Warriors swaggered everywhere, each bearing sword and spear and shield. Stands of weaponry were arrayed outside the larger houses and more than once they passed a smith putting an edge to a blade using a whetstone.

  “How goes the war with Ulster?” Matt asked O’Mahoney.

  “It waxes, it wanes,” the man said with a shrug. “We kill some of theirs; they kill some of ours.” He glanced at Matt, looking him over. “Everything has been quiet for a time. We heard that their champion was missing.” He spat nosily. “It’s said the Hound is up to something, so we’re on our guard.

  “As for you,” he said, turning to Matt, “I’m surprised to know an O’Brien has wandered so far from Eirin’s shores as to ally with a strange race such as the Susadi.”

  Anything more he might have said was cut short as they rode into the open space before the queen’s hall.

  Ornate was a barely adequate term to describe the painted carvings, the decorations, and gleaming bronze that covered the broad front of the building. The thatched roof rose to a sharp inverted V, from walls that were barely knee-high. In all it was around a hundred feet wide by an indeterminate distance long.

  People of all ages and descriptions were passing in and out the great doors, watched by two tall, spear-toting guards clad in leather jerkins studded with bronze. Each wore a bronze helmet bearing a small crest fashioned in the guise of a fabulous beast. The guards’ attention switched to the newcomers as they rode into the square, and they handled their spears in a meaningful way. “Who approaches the queen’s hall?” one shouted.

  “I name Katherine of the Susadi, and Matt, of the Clan O’Brien!” O’Mahoney called back.

  “If you come in peace, be welcome,” the guard responded. “If you come with war in your hearts, be warned!”

  “We come in peace!” Matt called.

  “Dear God, that is such a cliché!” Kate muttered under her breath.

  “Don’t knock it, Kate!” Matt said in a hoarse whisper. “This is the real deal. We need to be serious here.”

  “All I want is to get off this horse and let my butt cool down,” she said in a louder voice. “Why can’t anyone be pleased to see us and not wave a fucking spear in our faces?”

  The strange tingling surged through her body and seemed to spread into the air. At once the two guards relaxed; the one who’d challenged them blinked as if surprised by something. He shook his head, blinked again, then gestured for his companion to step aside and grant them entrance.

  “Did you just do magic again?” Matt asked as they dismounted.

  “Guess I did,” she said, handing the reins to a servant who came running up.

  The hall they entered was big, and the pillars supporting the high roof even more ornate than Dairmuid’s hall. Warriors thronged the floor of the hall, servants ducking and diving among them, keeping a steady flow of ale and mead and hunks of meat and bread on wooden platters. Table manners were not high on the list of options; she saw more than one man spit a gob of gristle onto the floor where scavenging dogs prowled.

  To the rear of the hall was a dais, the back hung with tapestries the like of which she’d only seen in museums. They’d been woven with care, and depicted scenes of a hunt or of war, or some combination of both. A big throne carved from oak stood there, the armrests worked in the form of crouching lions. Cushions in rich colors were scattered on the broad seat, and some even had tassels, which Kate thought tacky.

  The assembled men turned to look at them as they entered, several doing a double-take when they saw her. Matt towered above them all, and she felt reassured by his presence. Much as she loathed playing the weak woman, a tall, strong guy at hand was a useful asset.

  O’Mahoney pushed his way through to the dais and stooped to speak to a huddled figure. The figure nodded a head of matted hair before standing and looking in Kate's direction. “Bring forth the user of magic!” it called in a cracked voice, and Kate saw that under the crow-black rags there lurked an old woman.

  “How the hell did she know I can use magic?” she wondered aloud to Matt as they walked forward through a widening gap in the crowd.

  “Perhaps she can do magic herself,” he muttered. “Maybe when another uses it nearby, it’s like putting a bomb in her panties or something.”

  “That’d get her attention,” she said deadpan.

  As they stepped clo
ser the woman peered at Kate, hard. “You’re a pretty one,” she muttered in a nasty tone. “Don’t be using your power in this hall, or there’ll be trouble!”

  “I won’t,” Kate said, bridling. “Wouldn’t that be rather rude?”

  “Very!” The woman sniffed and folded her arms. The movement released an odor from her person which wasn’t exactly bad as it was odd. “You’re Katherine of the Susadi. We had one of your clan through here some time ago.” Fierce black brows came together. “He was a troublesome fellow! I hope you’re not going to be the same.”

  “Of course not,” Kate said, getting tired of the game. “I want to find him. He’s my grandfather. Who are you?”

  “I am Mór, Druidess of this land. And what else are you here for?”

  “We’re seeking a cauldron, the Cauldron of Fire.”

  As she spoke the name the men nearby stirred and looked at each other, and a murmur rose as word of what she’d said was passed on trough the hall.

  “That is beyond your reach, girl,” the crone snapped.

  “I’ll be the judge of that!” Kate snapped back.

  The crone drew herself up and seemed prepared to take action when the tapestry behind the throne was flung back and a woman emerged onto the dais. “No, I’ll be the judge of that,” she said in a throaty, melodic voice that brooked no argument.

  She was tall, and stunningly beautiful. Red-gold hair hung down to her waist and glowed in the light of the burning flambeaux. It contrasted with the Lincoln green dress she wore, and matched the bronze platelets in her grass-green kirtle. Green eyes the color of pure emeralds glowed as Maeve, Queen of Connacht, glared down at Kate.

  Matt looked upon the beautiful woman and was instantly smitten. As one, the warriors to either side bowed low in obeisance to their queen, and he felt moved to do the same. When he straightened up, the legend’s gaze swept over him, returned and lingered awhile. The slight frown which marred that perfect face lifted, and the corners of her lips twitched. “Who do we have here?”