by S C McGrath

When the men reached Pádraig’s, Brian and Séamus dismounted and hastily led their horses to a barn at the edge of the training field. Déaglán had no sooner halted Bran than a young groom approached him. “Sir, let me care for your horse. The chieftain is waiting for you.”
Déaglán nodded and jumped down from the cart. He handed the reins to the groom and approached the field. There, training was in full swing, the shouts of men and the clashing of swords filling the air. The vast field was divided into different sections, each designated for specific disciplines. In the near sections, wrestling and boxing arenas were laid out; the middle sections were focused on fighting with pugil sticks and the weapons of war; and the far sections were reserved for the teaching of horsemanship and the training of war horses. Boys from as young as ten to mature, seasoned warriors trained and fought, sweat and struggled, perfecting their deadly skills. It was an impressive and invigorating sight to behold and never failed to stir Déaglán’s more atavistic impulses. He quickly found Conall and Pádraig watching a wrestling match. Standing with them were Seán and Ruaidhrí.
Before Déaglán had reached Conall, the chieftain strode toward him and warmly grasped his hand. “We have much to discuss. Already our newfound unity is showing the cracks of enmity. But first, let us watch this wrestling match. It is grand sport.”
Brian and Séamus soon joined the men. Pádraig, seeing who it was, frowned. “You are late,” he exclaimed, condemnation in his voice.
Brian immediately stepped forth. “I apologize. The fault is mine.”
Séamus gave Brian a sideways glance and then stepped forward. “It was I who caused us to be late, not Brian, though I am sure that does not surprise you.”
“No, sadly it does not.”
Conall, equally angry but remembering his guests, addressed the two young men by his side. “Seán, Ruaidhrí, I would like you to meet Brian and Séamus, two of our finest young warriors.” Then, addressing Brian, he added, “Seán and Ruaidhrí arrived from Tara yesterday and will be accompanying you back to Fionn’s training camp. I expect you to make our clan proud.”
The young men shook hands, Seán saying, “Ruaidhrí and I have heard grand things about you Brian, and we welcome you into the Fianna.”
“Thank you. I am honored.”
“Well, then, now that you two have finally graced us with your presence,” said Pádraig pointedly, “you had best get started. Séamus, you will box with Ciarán. I have noticed lately that your defensive skills need sharpening. Your superior quickness and foot speed will not save you if you leave yourself unprotected, dropping your hands as you do. Ciarán is sure to cure you of that folly. You will find him working with the young stallions in the far field. Go fetch him and begin at once.”
“Yes sir,” Séamus said, apprehension briefly showing in his eyes. Ciarán was one of the finest warriors of the clan and far outweighed Séamus. Ciarán also had the reputation of being a merciless boxer, granting no quarter. It would take all of Séamus’s considerable skill to survive this match, but only if he boxed defensively. Déaglán knew Séamus could not win. Déaglán also knew Pádraig meant for Séamus to pay not only for his sloppy defense but also for being late. Pádraig had always been a hard taskmaster, demanding absolute commitment and effort, often pushing his men to the brink of their endurance. Now, with the threat of a Romhanach invasion, it seemed he had redoubled the intensity of the training. War and battles were not for the weak or ill-prepared. Déaglán thought of the carnage that lay ahead for these men and it sickened him.
As Séamus departed in stoic resignation, Pádraig turned to Brian, who, thought Déaglán, was wondering what punishment was to befall him.
“I have heard that Seán is one of the finest wrestlers of the Fianna, having won many matches while attending the chieftains’ gathering at Tara. What better opportunity to test your skills, Brian, than to challenge Seán to a bout. If you are agreeable, Seán, we will commence at once. I see the match we were watching has finished.”
Both Brian and Seán stripped to the waist, revealing their strong, leanly muscled frames. Although Brian was the taller, Seán had a decided weight advantage. However, Brian had been wrestling all of his life and did not appear intimidated by the older, more seasoned competitor. Déaglán had no doubt the match would be a good one.
The young men shook hands and then stepped back as they waited for Pádraig to signal the start of the match. Their eyes were fixed on one another, their knees bent, elbows almost touching their thighs in a crouching stance, ready to attack. When Pádraig raised his hand, both men shot forward, Seán trying unsuccessfully to snap and control Brian with a front headlock. Within seconds Seán attacked again, locking his arms around Brian’s upper body. Brian counterattacked with lightning speed, wrapping one hand around Seán’s head and grabbing Seán’s leg with the other, simultaneously pulling and twisting. In a flash, Seán was off-balance and down, Brian pinning him.
Ruaidhrí shouted his approval, barely able to restrain himself, eager to join the fray. Pádraig acknowledged the takedown and the bout resumed, this time with Seán more mindful of Brian’s quickness and strength. The rest of the long bout was fought to a draw, neither man able to score a clean takedown, though Seán would probably have been judged the victor had Brian not scored the early takedown. When Pádraig finally signaled time and separated the two men, Ruaidhrí rushed over to Brian and grabbed his arm, raising it high in victory and slapping Brian on the back, nearly knocking him over. Seán, his lungs heaving, offered Brian his hand and the younger man grasped it appreciatively. Ruaidhrí was now vigorously slapping both their backs.
Seán staggered and coughed, then said, “Ruaidhrí, I have just endured much abuse, I do not care for more. I have no doubt Brian feels the same.”
“’Tis a grand day for sure,” shouted Ruaidhrí, oblivious to his strength and beside himself with glee. “Though I am fond of you, Seán, I must say it pleases me exceedingly for young Brian here to have bested you. I have hoped that someone would avenge my sorry loss to you at Tara.”
“I had a horse to help me that time,” responded Seán, laughing along with Ruaidhrí. When Brian gave a quizzical look, Seán said, “It is a long story and best told after we get cleaned up. Right now congratulations are in order. I misjudged your strength and speed and paid the price. You have great skill. I commend you.”

It was late afternoon when the war games and training ceased and the field was at last empty of its society of men, the rough and hardened warriors of Eire. Conall and Déaglán had departed much earlier and Pádraig was discussing the day’s training with his ranking officers. Brian, Seán and Ruaidhrí had saddled their horses and were about to set off for the village pub. From the far end of the field they heard Séamus shout out to them. They waited and he galloped up on Rosie, a big smile on his face. Séamus’s left eye was swollen nearly shut, with a nasty cut above his eyebrow, clear evidence of Ciarán’s handiwork.
Seemingly unfazed by his appearance, Séamus proclaimed, “Finally, this taxing day has ended! You must all join my family for dinner tonight. In truth, my mother would never forgive me if I should appear without you, grand Fianna!”
“You only hope we will protect you from your mother’s tongue lashing when she sees you in such a sorry state,” said Brian.
“You should see Ciarán . . . not a mark on him. Very discouraging. At least he did not kill me. Think how the warm-hearted Maureen would have mourned. Seeing me thus, she will undoubtedly want to shower me with tender loving care, something I am very amenable to.”
“Is Maureen your betrothed?” questioned Ruaidhrí as the young men rode away from the training field.
Séamus looked aghast. “No, nothing so immutable as that!”
Brian laughed at his friend’s dismay. “Maureen is just one of Séamus’s many conquests. He pursues all the lasses for miles around. Pretty ones, plain ones, it seems to matter little to Sé
amus. It is the variety that pleases him.”
“True, true,” said Séamus.
“One at a time is more than enough for me,” said Ruaidhrí.
“Speaking of lasses,” commented Seán, his gaze fixed on an approaching wagon, “If my eyes do not deceive me, an unbelievably beautiful one is headed our way.”
Brian looked down the road and nodded. “Yes, that would be Brigid.”
“Yes,” seconded Séamus, “the exquisite Brigid.”
Brigid drew her wagon to a halt when she reached the young men, favoring them with her most dazzling smile. “Well, I always know that if I want to see the handsomest men for miles around, I have only to visit Pádraig’s. Though, perhaps, I should not even speak to you, Brian. You failed to show up for dinner last night.”
“Did you not get my message? I sent a word of regret with your brother,” said Brian.
“Yes, I received the message, but I should have preferred that you deliver it personally,” Brigid said with pique. “But let us not be impolite. Please introduce your companions to me.” Brigid’s gaze quickly passed over Ruaidhrí and settled on Seán.
“Of course. Brigid, please meet Seán and Ruaidhrí, warriors of the Fianna. They have traveled from Tara, arriving yesterday.” Then, with a flourish, his arm sweeping toward Brigid, Brian bowed in the saddle. “And this is Brigid, one of the loveliest women in all Eire.”
Both young men greeted Brigid, Seán following Brian’s lead, chivalrously bowing. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, fair Brigid.” Ruaidhrí merely nodded in greeting and remained oddly silent.
“Thank you, sir,” responded Brigid, her eyes lowered in feigned modesty. “Had I known, Brian, that you had such important visitors, I would have insisted you all join my family for dinner. However, Pádraig will be our guest tonight. You know how Mother adores him, and, to my dismay, insists on playing the matchmaker.” Brigid frowned ever so slightly, but she had purred Pádraig’s name. She then turned to Ruaidhrí and Seán and asked, “Is it true all warriors of the Fianna are from illustrious families, destined to someday become chieftains? Or is this just hearsay?”
Ruaidhrí scoffed. “I would hardly call the son of a blacksmith illustrious, though I am a proud warrior of the Fianna, giving my allegiance to the mightiest chieftain who ever lived, the great Fionn. Seán, here, comes from finer stock.”
Seán smiled somewhat ruefully. “I am but the younger son of the chieftain Murchadh, my older brother being the heir apparent. However, I can imagine no better life than that of a Fian.”
“’Tis a grand life to be sure,” agreed Ruaidhrí. “We fight and feast, never staying in one place for very long, our musicians and poets traveling with us.”
“So as to chronicle your heroic deeds, I suppose,” said Brigid dismissively. She turned to Brian. “I see no reason why you, Brian, should join the ranks of the Fianna. Your home and lands are here. Your duty is here—with your people. Furthermore, I have heard many say the Romhanach will not invade. It would seem wise for you to wait until the Romhanach land, if indeed they do. All this training and talk of war is excessive.”
“I should fear for that slender white neck of yours, lass, if we wait until the Romhanach land on our shores,” declared Ruaidhrí, his eyes hard.
Brigid bristled. “I have no fear for my life or my honor with the warriors of my clan to protect and defend me.”
“It may very well be that the Romhanach do not invade. Still, we must prepare now,” said Seán. “But know this, lovely Brigid: you need have no fear for we, the Fianna, will also protect your life and honor—to the death.”
Brigid graced Seán with her most beautiful smile, her deep blue eyes sparkling. “I have no doubt you will, brave sir. Perhaps I will see you at the marketplace tomorrow?”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” said Seán.
Brigid smiled and idly brushed a lock of her golden hair away from her face and neck. Without another word, she flicked the reins on her horse’s rump and continued on her way.

The young men had ridden some distance when Seán remarked, “What a beauty is Brigid! She has the presence of a queen even as she sits in a farmer’s wagon. I am surprised you have not claimed her for your own, Brian.”
Brian shook his head. “I am afraid Brigid is more enamored with my lands than with me. It is not love or lust that prompts her affections but ambition. I grant you that Brigid is enticingly, maddeningly alluring, but she is also miserly with her favors. Still, she will find no willing dupe in me. I have no plans to marry her.”
Ruaidhrí barked a loud laugh, then he gave Brian a hearty pat on the back. “I am liking you more and more, young Brian. That Brigid is a crafty and covetous wench, for all her beauty. She reminds me of a beautiful mare my father owned when I was young. Wicked, Síle was, terrorizing all the other mares of the herd—”
“I will not listen to you compare Brigid to a horse, however lovely the mare may have been,” interrupted Seán. “And there is nothing wrong with ambition. I admire Brigid for that. She will seize what she wants in life.”
“I have no doubt she will, trampling over those in her way. I should stay clear of that one if I were you,” said Ruaidhrí to his friend.
Seán laughed. “You will learn that Ruaidhrí is forever comparing the lasses he has known or bedded to animals, usually a favored horse or dog, though in one case he compared a poor girl we met on our journey to a pig!”
Ruaidhrí’s blue eyes twinkled. “Well, you must admit she was rather stout—with a singularly peculiar nose. But I meant no real disrespect. I prefer big women. Look at me, what would I be doing with a dainty, delicate lass? If only I could find a big, strong girl with a sweet and loving disposition, I would marry her tomorrow.” Ruaidhrí smiled wistfully, an almost benign look on his face. Within an instant, however, his face turned hard. “Though perhaps not. First we have some killing to do and a battle to win.”
“Describing how he plans to slay the Romhanach, in particularly gruesome detail, is another of Ruaidhrí’s favorite subjects, I might add,” remarked Seán.
“A man after my own heart,” said Brian.

CHAPTER twenty-ONE

eelin loved the monthly gathering of farmers, shopkeepers, and merchants held at the northern end of their village. The marketplace was bustling, noisy, and always crowded, drawing people from the far reaches of the clan’s land and beyond to barter and sell their goods. Farmers brought in their produce and livestock, merchants peddled household wares, clothing, and healing ointments and tonics. Women brought their laces and embroidery to sell and display, often stitching their intricate work at the marketplace itself. The itinerant tinkers were never without horses for sale, some being fine animals, others merely sad, broken-down nags.
Tables and booths lined both sides of the main street and the livestock were corralled in a grassy field bordering the village. Food was everywhere, the smells of fresh breads and savory stews mixing with the powerful odors from the pigs, sheep, and cattle. Farmers discussed the weather and their crop yields, and tinkers and horsemen had heated disputes over the quality and age of the horseflesh. Women carefully inspected the goods and produce for sale, strolling from one booth to the next with their youngest children in tow. The older children gathered in front of the street jugglers and musicians or played games of tag in and around the village. Old men sat drinking ale and talking of bygone days, their stories and feats of bravery increasingly embellished with their imbibing of spirits. Others sat playing chess, balancing boards between them on their knees. Their wives sat nearby, gossiping and knitting, some selling their beautiful woolens. One old woman, still with an ear for a lively tune, was dancing to a jig played by the musicians, her bony fingers holding up the hem of her dress, her step still amazingly nimble.
Keelin knew that her village market did not compare to the annual fair of Tailltenn that drew people from all of Eire, n
ot only to buy and sell goods but to participate in contests of physical prowess and endurance. The Tailltenn games included sports of every description, from boxing, wrestling, and running to swimming, archery, and horse racing. Keelin had visited Tailltenn once with her parents years ago and was entranced, caught up in the excitement and energy of the fair. However, she still loved the far less grand but happily familiar liveliness of her clan’s marketplace. Since she was young, she had frequented the monthly gathering with her mother. When Keelin began studying the art of healing, Nuala accompanied her, teaching Keelin to identify all of the exotic herbs and dried plants the traveling merchants were peddling and to differentiate those with medicinal qualities. Now, Keelin often visited the market alone, enjoying a pleasant reprieve from the drudgery of studying and Nuala’s teachings of restraint and duty. Keelin always found things to delight in: sometimes a rare healing herb or flower, other times parchments or fresh fruit and vegetables. Occasionally, she purchased more than was necessary for Nuala’s apothecary, pleased at the prospect of annoying the priestess.
Today, Keelin made what for her was an unusual purchase. When visiting the booth of one of the traveling peddlers, Keelin noticed a silk shawl woven with threads of royal blue and teal. The pattern of the weave made Keelin think of the waves in her dreams and the silk was of the finest quality, soft to the touch and exquisitely woven. Even as Keelin inspected the dried herbs and flowers also on display, her gaze kept returning to the beautiful shawl.