The Collector 3: Cauldron
Page 11
“Matt O’Brien, Your Majesty,” he said, mouthing the words around a tongue that suddenly seemed two sizes too large. Kate shot him a mocking glance, then gave a small jerk of her head toward the queen. “Erm ... this is my companion, Katherine of the Susadi.”
Maeve spared her a brief glance before turning her attention back to Matt. “And you’re here in search of the Cauldron of Fire.”
“Yes, and my companion seeks news of her grandfather.”
“Indeed? A fine man of dark complexion from the Clan Susadi passed through here some years ago.” The luscious lips quirked. “He was most entertaining!”
Kate blinked and looked daggers at her, and Matt hurried to distract the queen before she noticed. Kate still didn’t seem to realize that sovereign lords and ladies of this time did have absolute power of life and death over all within their realm. One wrong move could be fatal. “He also came in search of the cauldron, Majesty.”
“So I recall. I think he found it, although I think also he regretted his discovery.”
“Is there any news of him, ah, Majesty?” Kate asked.
Maeve deigned to look at her. “It’s said he still dwells where the cauldron is kept. Such artifacts have a glamour all their own. It may hap he cannot leave.”
“Did no one go to find him?” Kate was outraged.
“Kate, this isn’t the modern day,” Matt said sotto voce. “If people disappear, there are no police to go look for them.”
“Your mode of speech is odd for an O’Brien,” Maeve said. She reached out a perfect manicured hand and tilted his chin to study his visage. “Yet you’re cultured beyond that clan of bog trotters’ usual standard, I’ll wager.”
The gleam in her jewel-like eyes told him she was deliberately provoking him, and he suppressed the brief stab of annoyance at her gibe. “My clan may be dwellers in a bog, Majesty,” he said, “but some of us look at the stars.”
Maeve applauded his flash of wit with a soft clap of her hands. “You’re silver-tongued, too, Matt O’Brien. I may call upon you to display what else you can do with it.”
“This is intolerable!” a man’s voice shouted.
Matt blinked and looked over to the right where a tall man, nearly as tall as he and clad in the accoutrements of a warrior, had emerged unnoticed onto the dais. His russet-red hair was worn in long braids to either side of his face, which was turning a rich puce as he glared back at Matt.
“Rory, go back in your kennel, boy,” Maeve said, without looking round. “I’m speaking with these visitors.”
“You want more than just speech with this oaf!” The warrior sneered.
Matt held up his hands. “Hey, calm down, buddy,” he said, stepping back. “We’re just talking here.”
“So I heard, you silver tongued devil!”
“Look, we’re strangers here, okay?” He risked a chuckle to lighten the situation. “There’s no need to get all bent out of shape!”
Rory looked him up and down. “His odd clothing, odd mode of speech; you desire a touch of the exotic in your bed, Maeve, is that it?” He glanced at Kate. “I recall you slept with this one’s grandfather. Would you add her to your conquests, too?”
Maeve turned with the speed of a striking cobra and gave Rory a backhanded slap across the face that made him reel. “Remember your place, dog! I have but to say a word and your head will be decorating the palisade as a warning to others who defy me!” Almost as soon as her temper had flared it faded, and she reached up and stroked the hot red mark on his cheek where she’d struck. “Oh, Rory, you’re jealous!” she purred. “Poor baby.” She glanced back at Matt. “I do desire you, Matt O’Brien, but as you see, there are complications.”
She grinned, the perfect teeth gleaming in the torchlight. “Therefore let us have sport! You shall fight each other to the death for the right to come to my bed!”
Beside him Kate closed her eyes. “Oh shit,” she said quietly.
Chapter Eight
As Kate stood by the door, staring out at the falling rain, a man approached her. He gave a courtly bow, hand on his heart, and smiled. “Why so sad, sweet lady?”
She looked at him, ready to cut him dead, but his face was open, without guile. His wavy hair was jet black and glossy, framing a handsome face with sea-blue eyes and dark brows curved in a manner that suggested perpetual amusement. There was something vaguely familiar about him but she couldn’t place it. The clothing he wore was fine by the lights of the time, being a green tunic of the close woven form of the vegetable-dyed tweed that seemed standard, over which was worn a plaid in hues of blue and green. “Fergus Mac Nessa, Bard, at your service.”
“Kate ‑‑ ah, Katherine, of the Susadi.”
His brows rose up a notch. “Then it’s true what I’ve heard; another of the Clan Susadi has come to Connacht.”
“My grandfather was here three years ago.”
“I know.” He smiled. “I had the pleasure of meeting him.”
“You did?”
“Indeed. He was a most interesting man.”
She grasped him by his elbow and drew him further into the shelter of the hall doorway. “What happened to him? The queen said he’d found the Cauldron of Fire, but nothing more is known.”
“And so he did.” Mac Nessa pursed his lips and gave her a searching look. “You’re from a faraway place, where is seems little is known of us. It may be that the legends you’ve heard of the Cauldron of Fire aren’t entirely accurate, or else misleading.”
“It could be.” She sighed in frustration. “My friend is the real expert in the legend. The trouble is he’s slated to fight the muscle-bound clod who’s screwing the queen.”
Mac Nessa’s eyes went wide, and he suppressed a snort. “Such a ... picturesque turn of phrase, lady. And I marvel that there’s a corner of the world where the glorious queen’s proclivities aren’t known.” He shook his head, then glanced about, and leaned closer. “Never has she taken a man to her bed without the next man’s shadow falling on him. From the moment she saw your handsome friend, he was doomed.”
“Matt has a mind of his own, you know!” she snapped.
“Ah. You and he are lovers. My condolences.”
“No, we’re not!”
“But you wish to be?”
“No.” She drew a deep breath. “No. We’re traveling companions is all.”
“I see.”
“What is that Rory guy like as a fighter? Does Matt stand a chance?”
“Rory Mac Grath is a good warrior, skilled with sword and spear. He fought well against the Ulstermen last year, which is why the queen took him to her bed. Now, as I said, he feels the chill of your ... companion’s shadow falling across him. The fool thought he’d won Maeve’s heart.” Mac Nessa snorted. “It’s a prize not worth the price of a cup of ale.”
“You sound bitter,” she said.
“Perhaps.” He looked around at the settlement and shook his head. “As an exile, I’ve drummed my heels here for the gods know how long. The standard of culture here was legendary in Maeve’s father’s time, but now? Sex and politics and fighting are all they care for.”
“So why don’t you move on?”
“Lack of will, I guess.” He flashed a smile and gave a deprecating shrug. “My talents are good, and I say so without blushing or false modesty. There’s many a court in fair Eirin which would welcome me.” He cocked his head. “And what of your plans once this combat is over, and Matt, the handsome creature, has won his path to the queen’s bed?”
“I wish I were so confident!” She shook her head. “Well, if the big lunk does win, I guess we’ll find out where the cauldron is kept and go look.”
“If it wouldn’t be an imposition, may I travel with you?”
She looked him over and liked what she saw. “I’ve no objections. But all that is on the assumption Matt wins. If he doesn’t, I don’t know what the hell I’ll do!”
“You’re a user of magic, are you not?” Mac Nessa shrugge
d. “So cast a spell on him.”
“Wouldn’t that be cheating?”
“Perhaps, but this is a matter of life and death.”
“And all’s fair in love and war,” she said and sighed. “So it comes down to the will and the word.”
“Exactly.” He reached out, hesitated, and touched her arm. “Has it not occurred to you that your companion may win of his own skill?”
She managed a smile. “Yeah, but there’s nothing like putting a thumb on the scales.”
* * * * *
The combat was set to take place in the town square. Maeve’s throne had been brought forth and set in front of the entrance to her hall so she could preside over the affair in comfort. She had yet to make an appearance, and a cordon of warriors kept the restive crowd at bay. Kate, used to making an appearance herself in her professional capacity, knew the queen would wait until just the right moment before appearing so she could make the maximum impact.
Rory Mac Grath stood on one side of the cleared space, his seconds about him. He was paying scant attention to their words of advice; staring instead with glittering dark eyes at Matt, who stood opposite with just Kate and Fergus for company.
Both men were geared for war. Mac Grath wore a cuirass of boiled leather set with small bonze plates, and a helmet bearing a crest of a snarling wolf. On his left arm he bore a small round shield of leather faced with bronze studs; a big bronze boss protruded from the middle, making the shield into a combined defense and weapon, a weapon that could be smashed into the face of an opponent. Mac Grath’s right arm and legs were bare and thus free of any encumbrance. It had been decided to settle the issue with swords, and Mac Grath fingered the hilt of his long sword, and watched and waited.
Matt wore a similar cuirass and had been loaned a decent sword for the occasion, but he’d eschewed the use of a shield. When Kate queried his decision he’d shrugged. “I’m not used to the things; how could I be?” He glanced in the direction of his opponent. “One way or the other, this fight isn’t going for the long haul. I want that bastard down and quick. It’s a trade off, protection against speed.”
“Quick and dirty does it, I guess,” Kate said and shook her head. “Men! The testosterone level around here is sky high!”
“Blame that bitch of a queen,” he said his voice low and bitter. “It was all very nice sitting in a warm, comfortable library studying these legends back at Harvard, but here and now, it doesn’t feel so good.”
“Chin up, Matt,” she said and laid her hand on his shoulder. She gathered her power, let it build in her breast then guided it down her arm and into his body. “With the will and the word, you’ll win this.”
He shot her a startled glance and began to grin. Just at that moment two warriors stepped forth from the hall and took up station on either side of the doorway. They lifted curling horns to their lips and sounded a long, low call. It woke the echoes in the valley and Maeve, Queen of Connacht, emerged from her hall.
She had style, Kate admitted, watching as the tall, lovely woman stood for a moment surveying the people and all her domain. The expectant buzz gave way to a cheer, and the warriors clashed their spears against their shields. Sweeping her cloak around her theatrically, Maeve strode to the throne and sat down.
The ragged crone emerged from the shadows of the doorway once the queen had settled; a small, slinking figure which crept to the side of the throne. Mór would have gone unnoticed had Kate not been admiring the queen’s amber necklace, and she looked at the creature in disgust. She was unnerved when the old woman looked straight back at her and grinned, a nasty smile with a mouth full of teeth that looked like an ancient, disused graveyard. Then the woman frowned and shot a glance at Matt, standing quietly beside her and awaiting the call to battle. Her eyes widened, then narrowed into a knowing expression. She nodded and looked over at Rory Mac Grath.
Kate frowned as the crone moved further back into the shadow beside the throne and began to make slow, complex gestures with her hands. Realization dawned. “Oh fuck!”
“What is it?” Matt asked.
“That old bat over by the queen is casting a spell on Rory Mac Grath!”
Fergus Mac Nessa had been hanging back, watching events. He followed Kate’s gaze and nodded. “You’re right. I should tell the queen!”
“No, wait,” Kate grasped his arm as he made to walk over to the throne. “I did the same to Matt. If the queen is told, the crone will tell her I did the same. She knows, Fergus!”
“Then we’ll have a fair contest,” the bard said and shook his head, “at least in terms of magic!”
“Who’re you, anyway?” Matt demanded. Kate made the introductions and watched the men size each other up. “Mac Nessa? Isn’t that an Ulster name?”
Fergus stiffened. “Yes,” he said, his voice level, and Kate saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. “But I don’t count as such for I’m now an exile.”
“I see.” Matt’s reply was quiet, but Kate knew him well enough by now to see he was suspicious of the bard. However, Matt was distracted by the upcoming fight.
Maeve glanced at the two competitors and gestured for them to move into the space before her throne. Matt stiffened and walked over with a steady gait, and Kate admired his nerve. Rory Mac Grath did the same from the other side of the square and when the two men were a few paces apart, they glanced at each other with loathing and turned to face the queen.
“You are here to decide who shall win my favor,” she said without prevarication. She held up her hand, palm outward. “I say to all present; whoever wins this contest to the death shall lay with me tonight.”
“Brazen hussy!” Kate said under her breath. “It’s good to be the queen!”
The reference was lost on Fergus who merely nodded.
Mac Grath raised his sword in salute to Maeve, and Matt followed suit a moment later. The queen gestured for them to separate, and when they’d taken up a position a few paces apart, she nodded to the horn blowers.
They sounded another long, low, snarling call that sent shivers up Kate’s back. Mac Grath leapt at Matt and swept his sword in a long, low cut that made her champion leap back, and the combat was on.
Matt was no tyro when it came to sword fighting, but the weapons of this time were serious instruments of war, far removed from the épées and rapiers he was accustomed to. Even the modern saber would appear delicate alongside the brutal blade he held now. Kate’s magic evened the score. He found time slowed to a point where seconds became like minutes, and he was able to judge the sweep of the sword, get an idea from his opponent’s eyes what he was going to do next. But something in Mac Grath’s nature was working the same way. The warrior was a battle-hardened veteran, and Matt found he had to work to stay alive.
The champion came in full-bore, hacking down at his opponent's head and shoulders, trying to win the fight within seconds. Their bronze swords clashed and clashed again, as Matt parried Mac Grath’s cuts, and dodged away from a thrust of his shield. It seemed Mac Grath had a low opinion of his enemy's abilities. Matt set his teeth in a grim snarl and took the fight to his opponent.
A slashing sweep to his leg opened a cut in Mac Grath’s thigh but earned Matt a glancing buffet from the shield boss that made his left arm numb. The man’s teeth snarled as he sensed the weakness, and he circled to get another blow to Matt’s left side. Matt saw the blade lift and sweep across at chest-height, and he dropped onto his right hand, wincing as the hard ground crushed his fingers against the hilt. The blade whistled overhead, harmless. He kicked out, catching the unwary Mac Grath square on his right knee, and the man cursed and leapt back.
Matt jumped up again, and they circled each other, swords twitching, each trying to draw out the opponent into a rash offensive move. Matt could feel his skin tingling, and wondered at a remove if it was Kate’s magic at work. Mac Grath must’ve benefited from the crone’s spell, for his knee didn’t seem to be troubling him much, and the cut was no longer flowing with blood.
It seemed to Matt the warrior had decided to use more skill than brute force this time. Feints to his unshielded left side drew Matt’s attention, allowing Mac Grath to dart in and gouge with the shield. A blow landed square in Matt’s stomach, and he gasped and retched. Mac Grath allowed him no time to recover, boring in with a whirling figure-eight that made the bronze sword a yellowish blur.
Matt gave back before the onslaught, seeking desperately for an opening. Something caught the back of his heel and he stumbled, fell. Mac Grath snarled in triumph, thrust forth his shield and raised his sword for a killing blow.
Matt’s boot rammed into Mac Grath's testicles with all the force of a charging bull. A collective groan sounded from every man in the crowd. Somewhere a woman’s laugh sounded, high and clear. Mac Grath staggered back, eyes bulging, his breath coming and going in a noise like wheep! wheep! Rolling onto his front, Matt sprang up and whirled round, sword at the ready. Mac Grath was trying to force his body to respond, to surmount the pain and stand upright, but even with the magic he was having a hard time. He raised his sword, pointed it at Matt, and Matt brought his own blade down in a blow that severed Mac Grath’s hand.
Hand and sword fell onto the packed earth, and a bright gush of blood flew from the stump. A hoarse, drawn-out cry sprang from Mac Grath’s lips as he stared at the stump. Matt raised his sword for the killing blow ‑‑ and stopped.
Maeve stood up, her arms by her side, and stared at him. He met her gaze. “To the death, Matt O’Brien!” she said, her voice low and menacing. “That is the custom here. Kill him, and you shall have entry to my bed and the cauldron you seek. Stay your hand, and both will be forfeit!”
Mac Grath roared and dropped his shield. “I’m not dead yet, you bitch!” Snatching up his sword with his left hand he sprang at Matt. Instead of giving ground, Matt sprang forward too. They clashed, chest to chest. Mac Grath’s head shot forward, and butted Matt between the eyes. For a second, the world turned a deep black, shot with stars, as pain exploded through his face. Matt grappled the man, feeling his fingers turn slick with blood from Mac Grath’s flowing wound. He brought up his knee, but Mac Grath sensed the incoming blow, half-turned and took it on his leg. But for a second he was off-balance, and Matt gave him a violent push that threw him back. Before Mac Grath could recover, Matt brought his sword down, and the blade bit deep into the Irishman’s neck.