Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma

by Brian O'Sullivan

  Striking two flints, he set the torch alight then grasping the haft, brought his arm back and launched it upwards and outwards into the night. For a moment, the fiery missile fluttered skywards then hung, momentarily frozen in the air, until it started its inevitable tumble. It struck the earth like a falling star, hitting the ground with a glimmering thump on the far side of the causeway.

  The óglach was happy with his throw, marking his satisfaction with a tight nod. He advanced to the rampart’s edge once more, the slim haft of a javelin gripped tight in his hand.

  It didn’t take long for the intruders to draw close. Although Bodhmhall could make out their glimmering life-lights, the others could not discern them in the gloom. As they halted before the causeway, however, the shuffling of feet was distinctly audible in the quiet evening air.

  ‘That’s close enough, strangers. Any closer and you’ll have a javelin through your guts.’

  Bodhmhall turned, taken aback by the aggressive quality in the young warrior’s bellow, a striking contrast to the soft-spoken youth she’d come to know over the previous three years.

  There was a muffled discussion from below then a strong male voice called up out of the darkness.

  ‘I see Muinntir Bládhma. It is Fiacail Mac Codhna who stands here before you with no aggression in my heart. Can we approach?’

  Bodhmhall felt a flurry of conflicting emotions.

  Fiacail mac Codhna! Here!

  From the corner of her eye she saw Aodhán glance towards her but she was too shaken to offer guidance.

  ‘Step forward then, Fiacail mac Codhna,’ the óglach shouted. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

  A tall figure limbered nonchalantly into the light of the burning torch. Halting beside its slight flame, he gazed patiently up at the ramparts. Bodhmhall released a hiss of pent up tension. It was Fiacail all right. Just as she remembered him. Handsome, poised, oozing confidence. His moustache was a little thicker perhaps, the hair slightly longer. There was also certain stiffness to his stance but, given the circumstances, that was reasonable. He had, after all, put his life on the line by stepping into the open, an easy target for any javelin that might come flying in out of the darkness.

  Although it was unlikely the warrior could see anything but a dark blur beyond the small radius of illumination thrown out by the flames, Bodhmhall could not shake off the sudden conviction that he was staring directly at her. Folding his arms, he shouted up once more.

  ‘I am accompanied by my men-at-arms, Tóla and Ultán, two loyal kinsmen who have been shadow to my heels since my very first steps. Also with us is your comrade Liath Luachra. She is ...’ There was a flash of a grin in the flickering light of the torch. ‘Having a little rest.’

  Liath Luachra!

  Bodhmhall immediately focused on the lowest of the four life-lights. Despite the distance, she now thought to make out the hue of the woman warrior’s distinctive internal flame. A heavy weight fell away from the bandraoi’s shoulders. For what felt like the first time in an age, she found herself able to breathe freely again.

  An angry muttering floated up from the darkness behind the warrior and Bodhmhall stifled a sudden, almost uncontrollable, urge to giggle. Although the individual words could not be made out, Liath Luachra’s voice was instantly recognisable, the caustic tone unmistakable. The tension on the rampart dissipated in a nervous ripple of laughter. Relieved, the bandraoi reached over and touched Aodhán on the shoulder.

  ‘I know these men. Fiacail is a friend.’

  The young man held her gaze uncertainly and tossed an anxious look out at the figures in the darkness before nodding. Leaning forward over the rampart, he shouted down at their visitors.

  ‘Very well, Fiacail mac Codhna. Approach and our gate will be opened to you.’

  Cairbre and Bearach lit two additional torches from the supply in the gatehouse alcove then descended to remove the barrier. Ever vigilant, however, the elder óglach remained at his post, javelin in hand as he watched the newcomers traverse the causeway. Beside him, Bodhmhall drew a deep breath as she mentally prepared herself to greet their visitors. What else could this day possibly throw at her, she wondered. What else?

  ***

  Fiacail was standing in the gateway passage when Cairbre and Bearach removed the barrier, almost completely filling the compact space with the breadth of his shoulders and the two, cloth-coated axes strapped to his back.

  From the rampart, Bodhmhall watched how he acknowledged the Ráth Bládhma men with his usual confidence, nodding then haughtily striding past and into the shadowy lis as though the ráth was his own personal property. She swiftly turned her back to put her foot on the ladder as his eyes swung up to the ramparts. Although she couldn’t see him, she could feel the weight of his gaze descend each individual rung with her. Stepping onto the ground, she took a deep breath before turning to advance into the circle of light thrown down by the flaming torches.

  ‘I see you, Bodhmhall,’ the warrior said.

  ‘I see you, Fiacail.’ She reached forward and embraced the big man, reaching up to put her arms around him. Abruptly, she pulled back, wrinkling her nose with an expression of surprise. ‘You stink like a tanner’s pit.’

  ‘A healthy sweat,’ he chuckled. ‘Besides, is that any way to greet a dear friend?’

  ‘Not so dear any more, Fiacail.’

  Their visitor sighed, head dipped in mournful resignation. ‘Ah, Bodhmhall. Will you never forgive a weak man’s foolishness? You are still as beautiful to me as the flowers in Spring.’

  ‘That was a well-worn compliment the first time you offered it, Fiacail.’

  A silence followed her retort, growing increasingly strained until it was mercifully disrupted by the bustle of Fiacail’s men entering the compound. Struggling to negotiate a handmade litter through the gateway passage, they finally succeeded in entering the lis, laying it on the beaten earth with an expressive display of cursing and groaning. In the torchlight, Bodhmhall saw Liath Luachra’s pale features stare up, cool and impassive, from the stretcher. Despite the show of indifference, she knew the warrior woman would be fuming inside, incensed at being returned to her people in such a helpless manner. The bandraoi felt a brief stab of sympathy for the two men who would have had to carry her and bear the brunt of her ill will.

  Leaving the Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man, she moved forwards to crouch down beside her companion. Placing one hand on the other woman’s shoulder, she squeezed and held her eyes for a very long time. Liath Luachra returned the stare in silence with her usual, aloof calm. Finally, Bodhmhall rose and turned back to the visitors.

  ‘Fiacail, you and your men have our gratitude for returning Liath Luachra safely. The hospitality of Ráth Bládhma is yours for as long as you wish to accept it.’

  The ritualistic declaration, uttered with the traditional sobriety, was somewhat undermined by a sudden snort from Liath Luachra. ‘I didn’t need their help. I would have made my own way back. Eventually.’

  She struggled to rise from the stretcher and although she succeeded in sitting up, Cairbre and Cónán were obliged to assist her before she could get to her feet. Swaying precariously, she regarded her rescuer with undisguised hostility.

  ‘You should rest,’ suggested the big man.

  ‘I am in my own home. I don’t need your counsel here.’

  Fiacail shrugged.

  Further dissension was interrupted as Bearach, fresh from barricading the gate, hurried forward and excitedly threw himself on Liath Luachra. A titter of amusement fluttered through the little assembly as she staggered back under the impact, struggling to extricate herself from the enfolding embrace. Scowling, she pushed the boy away.

  ‘I thought ...’ said Bearach. ‘I thought ...’

  ‘You thought wrong,’ she growled. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?

  ‘Yes, but ...’

  Stung by her unexpected hostility, Bearach gawped helplessly. Bodhmhall tactfully stepped forward, inserting herself between th
em as she directed the discussion to other topics.

  ‘Bearach, Liath Luachra needs to rest and we need a keen pair of eyes on the rampart. Can we trust you to do this?’

  The boy looked at her with a dismal expression but responded with a nod. As he trekked back to the gateway she made an apologetic gesture to the visitors.

  ‘Forgive me, Fiacail. It truly brings me joy to see you again but I’m sure you understand our relief at Liath Luachra’s safe return.’

  The great shoulders shrugged. ‘We were fortunate to be in the right time at the right place, Bodhmhall.’

  ‘And the right place is Ráth Bládhma?’

  The warrior’s features tightened. He looked at her with an oddly cryptic expression that she was unable to decipher. ‘A man cannot visit an old friend?’

  ‘Of course. A friend such as you is more than a thousand times welcome.’

  Fiacail smiled, somewhat pacified by the compliment.

  ‘But when it requires a trek of several days,’ continued Bodhmhall, ‘such visits, by necessity, raise enquiry.’ This time the bandraoi smiled coyly. ‘Even for a wanderer the likes of Fiacail mac Codhna.’

  The tall man’s good humour faded and his face took on a pinched, drawn expression. He fiddled nervously with the ends of his moustache, a tic she would not normally associate with the brash and confident warrior.

  ‘I come with poor tidings, Bodhmhall. I have travelled direct from Dún Baoiscne -’

  Bodhmhall raised one hand to silence him. ‘Then I already know of the tragic tidings you bring.’

  Liath Luachra and Fiacail stared at her in surprise. She couldn’t help but notice the sharp intake of breath from Fiacail’s two kinsmen and the way they took a step back from her. The mysterious and terrifying powers of An Cailleach Dubh manifested for all to see! It took some effort not to snarl at them.

  ‘You know?’ asked Liath Luachra.

  ‘I do. But perhaps we should first discuss a more critical matter. Bearach told us of a war party. We had feared you’d been taken by them.’

  There was a brief silence as Liath Luachra’s eyes took on a strangely haunted look. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘We came across the tracks of a fian.’

  ‘Are they coming in this direction?’

  The shorter woman looked unhappy. ‘They scatter tracks all over the land without any clear direction. It’s as though they’re searching for something. Or someone.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Fiacail cut in, earning himself a pointed glare from the woman warrior. ‘But the situation is worse than that. We also encountered the trail of a second fian.’

  Bodhmhall felt a hollowness swell inside her stomach. ‘A second fian?’

  ‘Yes. We think there’s about the same number of fighting men. Twenty to thirty warriors. They too seem to be wandering from direction to direction. I can’t guess at what they might be searching for. I’m sure it’s not for each other.’

  Bodhmhall wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  Gods! Two fian. Forty to sixty warriors.

  It took all of her self-control to resist wringing her hands in despair. So many warriors was hardly a raid so much as a declaration of all out war. She hadn’t seen such numbers mustered since her childhood when the fighting between Clann Baoiscne and Clann Morna had been at its height. ‘Yes, well,’ she began in as casual a manner as she could manage. ‘It’s possible that the object of their search is here at Ráth Bládhma.’

  She proceeded to brush some imaginary dust from her skirts.

  Once again Fiacail and Liath Luachra stared at her in consternation. The woman warrior’s eyes flickered in comprehension.

  ‘The ráth has received a visitor.’ Her words were expressed as a statement, an expression of complete certainty. ‘There is no other way you could have learned of Fiacail’s news.’

  Bodhmhall nodded slowly.

  ‘Well, who is it?’

  The bandraoi released a deep breath. ‘It is Muirne Muncháem.’

  This time Liath Luachra’s reaction was not one of surprise but one of complete astonishment, a rarity for her. It slid from her features quickly enough. Her eyes hardened but despite her obvious shock, she refrained from comment, leaving it to Fiacail to express their shared bewilderment.

  ‘Well, well. Muirne Muncháem. When I was in Dún Baoiscne, Tréanmór made no mention of her departure but -’ The warrior paused and gauged her with a thoughtful stare. Before he could query Muirne’s presence any further, she cut the subject short.

  ‘Fiacail, I truly appreciate your efforts but Liath Luachra is in pain.’ From the corner of her eye she observed the woman warrior raise one cynical eyebrow at this. ‘I must beg your indulgence for such a poor welcome but I do need to treat her.’

  She gestured to Cairbre, who had silently positioned himself behind her during the discussions.

  ‘I’m sure you will remember Cairbre. He now acts as rechtaire for Ráth Bládhma and will occupy himself with your comfort and sleeping arrangements. For the moment, I would ask you to take your ease with our blessings. We will continue our discussions and celebrate your presence here later over food.’

  Although the warrior would clearly have liked to discuss the subject further, he settled for a stiff smile. With a nod, he gestured for his men to accompany him and followed Cairbre towards the larger of the two lean-tos.

  As their visitors departed, a light rain started to fall, tumbling down out of the heavens like a storm of aqueous needles. Ignoring it, Liath Luachra silently looked about the lis, nodding in approval at the doused fire and the livestock lowing softly in their pen. After a moment, she turned to consider the bandraoi. ‘Why,’ she hissed, ‘is Muirne Muncháem in our home?’

  ‘She came seeking sanctuary. What would you have me do? Cast a defenceless woman to the wilds?’

  ‘Muirne Muncháem is hardly defenceless. That mouth of hers would knock an ox at sixty paces.’ She briefly picked at a clotted scratch along her scalp. ‘From the moment that woman arrived at Dún Baoiscne, she saw you as a threat, a potential competitor. She did everything in her power to undermine your standing there.’ She growled a low, blood-curling snarl. ‘She stood before our people and mocked you as An Cailleach Dubh. I should have slit her throat then. I certainly would do it now.’

  ‘If you had slit her throat,’ Bodhmhall pointed out. ‘Then the people could, justifiably, have slit yours.’

  ‘They would have had their work cut out.’

  Bodhmhall made no attempt to conceal her scepticism at that particular argument.

  ‘Muirne Muncháem is our guest.’

  ‘Bodhmhall, she has proven herself no friend of ours. She poisoned your father’s ears and used her influence to drive us from Dún Baoiscne. If she –’

  Bodhmhall’s eyes suddenly flared with all the authority derived of a privileged and regal upbringing. ‘It was not Muirne Muncháem’s influence with my father that drove us from Dún Baoiscne. You, of all people should know that.’

  Taken aback by the bandraoi’s unaccustomed ferocity, the woman warrior uncharacteristically yielded the point. ‘That’s true enough,’ she admitted, although it was a concession tainted with obvious bitterness. ‘I stand corrected.’

  ‘Besides, I have offered Muirne sanctuary for tonight. As Taoiseach of this settlement, that is my decision to make.’

  Liath Luachra considered her with muted airiness. In all their years at Glenn Ceoch there had never been any doubt of Bodhmhall’s leadership role. It had been Bodhmhall, after all, who’d successfully negotiated access to the land and the ráth, and who’d obtained the essential equipment and livestock. Everyone knew that without her influence and family connections there would be no settlement, although there’d never previously been any need to confirm this assumption so explicitly.

  ‘Then you are truly your father’s daughter, oh noble one.’

  The bandraoi stiffened and for a moment it looked as though she might bite back at the sarcasm. Instead, her
gaze softened.

  ‘That was thoughtless. Forgive me, Liath Luachra. It’s been a trying day and I’m close to the edge of my tolerance.’

  Liath Luachra shrugged, her forehead creasing up in pain despite the slightness of the movement.

  ‘Put your weight on me,’ said Bodhmhall. ‘I’ll help you to Cairbre and Conchenn’s roundhouse.’

  ‘So Muirne Muncháem’s sleeping in our bed as well then?’

  Bodhmhall refused to respond to the provocation. ‘Just lean on me.’

  The woman warrior was no stripling but by wedging one arm under her shoulder, Bodhmhall was able to support her towards the roundhouse shared by Cairbre and his family. Stumbling through the wooden doorway, the bandraoi steered her to the nearest sleeping platform and eased her flat onto the fur-coated straw mattress. A small oil lamp placed on the stool to one side of the hut emitted a flickering, greasy light that competed with the glow from the small fire-pit.

  ‘Wait here.’

  The bandraoi left the dwelling, returning a short time later with a bowl of scented water in one hand, a bowl of oil in the other. Shuffling the heavy leather flap aside, she placed both carefully on the rush-strewn floor then sat on the platform where the other woman lay.

  ‘Forgive me, Liath Luachra. I know Muirne’s presence eats at you but you can’t let that drive a wedge between us. She’s here only because she has nowhere else to go. Her husband – my brother – is dead.’

  Saying the words aloud served to release the truth of it. All at once, the strength that had sustained her throughout the afternoon finally gave way, crumpling like snow beneath a heavy foot. She began to weep. For her brother, for herself, for a childhood that was now truly gone and could no longer be retrieved.

  Startled before the intensity of Bodhmhall’s grief, Liath Luachra stared, unsure how to react. Awkwardly, she raised her right hand to stroke the bandraoi’s cheek.

  ‘I’ve wronged you, Bodhmhall. In my own anger I ignored your family tragedy. I’m sorry. I grieve for your loss, a rún. As I grieve for Cumhal. I truly liked him.’