Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma

by Brian O'Sullivan

  Fiacail looked as though he was about to contend the point but as he made to speak he halted abruptly. Cursing, he snapped the branch in half and cast the two pieces aside. ‘No,’ he scowled. ‘If anything, she was the opposite. She was cold. Dispassionate. Merciless.’

  ‘Exactly. When you found her in Great Wild, she’d just endured the assault of a Tainted One.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The infamous Tainted One.’

  Bodhmhall nodded. ‘The same Tainted One I made mention of last night, who seeks Muirne Muncháem and her child. Such creatures are deadly. Most people who have the misfortune to stumble across them do not see the dawn of the following day. Liath Luachra crossed this creature and she survived.’

  ‘Only because I found her. She would not have survived had I not been there to assist her.’

  Bodhmhall kneaded her hands together then placed them behind her back. ‘An act for which I’m sure she’ll remain eternally grateful.’

  The warrior glanced sideways at her with such a sceptical expression that she could not help but laugh out loud.

  ‘Or perhaps not,’ she conceded.

  A sudden wail erupted from within the ráth, the insistent sound of a hungry newborn bleating out over the embankment to pierce the earlier silence.

  Fiacail grimaced. ‘The Great-Lunged One recommences his song.’

  Bodhmhall considered the embankment with a weary expression. ‘I should return.’

  Fiacail gave her a look expressing much that remained unsaid. ‘Just promise me one thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Promise me that you will consider my proposal.’

  ‘I will consider it.’

  ‘With earnest consideration.’

  ‘With earnest consideration. But I can offer you no reassurances, Fiacail. You know my mind on that.’

  ‘I can ask for nothing more.’ The warrior took a deep breath then stared up at the northern ridge, his back turned towards her. ‘Go. I will remain here a little longer. Your words have provided me with grist to gnaw on for a time.’

  Bodhmhall nodded. ‘Do not remain too long. The fian still roam the Great Wild and last night’s discussion must be reconvened. I would welcome your counsel.’

  He nodded but, already, he looked distracted, absorbed in his own internal deliberations.

  ‘Yes, yes. We will talk soon.’

  ***

  When Bodhmhall returned to the roundhouse the smell of birthing blood had dissipated, supplanted by the earthy scent of peat smoke and the odour of cooked meat. Conchenn was sitting on a reed mat beside the fire, stirring a metal pot, when the bandraoi brushed through the leather flap. The old woman had been working assiduously throughout the night, preserving the remnants of the butchered pig. Bodhmhall stared, impressed by the sheer volume of clay pots lined up alongside her, filled to the brim with seasoned pork congealed in layers of yellow lard. Slow-cooked and stored in its own fat, the meat could be conserved for a significant period of time, an important reserve for those times when they might not be able to leave the ráth.

  The old woman glanced up and Bodhmhall felt a surge of guilt for those worn features appeared even more lined than usual. Following the arduous delivery of Muirne Muncháem’s baby, Conchenn had urged the bandraoi to retire and, exhausted from the day’s events, she’d allowed herself to be persuaded. Conchenn, however, had stayed up during the night, not only tending to Muirne and her child but preserving a significant quantity of food as well. Bodhmhall sighed. With her steadfast endurance and lack of complaint, it was often easy to forget that Conchenn was actually a very elderly woman.

  Up on the sleeping platform, oblivious to the industry being accomplished around her, Muirne continued to snore. Curled on one side, in a foetal position, with the infant – swaddled in a thick wool blanket – tucked beneath her breast and now mercifully silent as it sucked greedily on one heavy nipple.

  ‘Hello, nephew. And what do you have to say for yourself?’

  The only response was a greedy sucking sound. The baby’s eyes remained tightly screwed shut.

  Fair enough. You have other, more pressing, priorities.

  Leaving her nephew, Bodhmhall turned back to the old woman. ‘Conchenn, enough. It’s well past time for you to reclaim your bed. I’ll stay to watch over our guests and finish what’s left of the meat.’

  As usual, the old woman did not dispute her instructions. Rising to her feet, she nodded and departed the roundhouse.

  ‘You need not fret, Bodhmhall.’

  The unexpected voice took the bandraoi by surprise. Startled, she spun about to discover Cairbre sitting in a shadowed section of the dwelling where the flickering of the flames had served to make him practically invisible.

  ‘We preserved the last of the meat this morning. Only the scraps remain and we will use those later today.’

  The rechtaire was seated on a well-smoothened log with a fidchell board across his knees. The wooden square, decorated with spiral symbols, was laid out with a grid of seven-by-seven squares, each with an individual pin-hole at the centre. A game of strategy, the fidchell board also held a set of black and white pegs inserted in the squares at two opposing edges. The object of the game was to move these ‘warriors’ using a restricted number of specific moves, to attain and ‘capture’ the opponent’s side of the board. Cairbre occasionally liked to claim that the ebb and flow of a game of fidchell reflected great events on the political or battle field but Bodhmhall personally felt the metaphor overlaboured.

  ‘You have found an opponent?’

  The old man smiled. An enthusiastic player, he regularly complained about the lack of suitable adversaries within the settlement.

  ‘Fiacail mac Codhna. We engaged in three matches earlier this morning.’ His lips abruptly turned down to form a dissatisfied frown. ‘That young man has a unique mind and can somehow think several steps ahead. He was clearly drunk but he succeeded in winning each match. I can only imagine that fortune was on his side.’

  Bodhmhall refrained from comment. The rechtaire prided himself on his skill with the fidchell board and was put out by his defeat. Clearly, he had misjudged his opponent, a common oversight when it came to dealings with Fiacail. Because of his coarse, uncouth manner, many tended to underestimate the Seiscenn Uarbhaoil warrior’s intelligence. Usually to their detriment. Fiacail might enjoy acting the fool but such rough dissimulation disguised the sharp intellect lying in wait for the unwary like a predator in the bushes.

  ‘I imagine it was good fortune,’ she agreed.

  ‘Perhaps the Mistress of Ráth Bládhma would enjoy a game,’ the old man suggested.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  With surprising dexterity for a man of his age and physical condition, Cairbre shifted the board from his knees and shuffled off his seat. Placing his treasured possession tenderly on the ground, he sat himself on the mat closest to the fire. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘My bones ache. I need to stay close to the warmth.’

  She dismissed the apology with a brief wave of her hand. Settling onto a mat on the opposite side of the board, she watched as he straightened the pegs of the two opposing ‘armies’. ‘Whose move is it?’

  ‘That depends. Do you wish to instigate the attack – in which case you should take the white – or are you, by nature, more of a reactive person?’

  Bodhmhall raised one sardonic eyebrow. ‘Do you feel one is better than the other?’

  ‘Like life, that depends on the circumstances. Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no.’

  The bandraoi groaned. ‘This is why you find so few challengers within Ráth Bládhma, Cairbre. You transform an entertainment into a tedious lecture.’

  Cairbre grinned in silent apology. ‘I have limited time to pass on what little wisdom I have garnered, Bodhmhall. Hence, I do so whenever I have the opportunity. This is all the more important now that Clann Morna are on the move.’ He paused and looked down at the board. ‘They must feel bold indeed, dispatching warriors so far from their triba
l lands.’

  ‘The fian are not from Clann Morna.’

  Cairbre paused in the action of reaching for one of his pegs. Raising his eyes, he stared at her in astonishment. ‘I don’t understand. Last night you indicated that the fian were dispatched from Clann Morna in search of Muirne Muncháem.’

  ‘Last night, that was what I believed. This morning I am of the opinion the fian are not in search of Muirne but of her son. My nephew.’

  Both turned to look across the room at the sleeping platform where the baby lay, a slight bundle beside its mother. He was sleeping again, satisfied from the recent feed.

  ‘That seems ... difficult to believe.’ Cairbre sounded dubious. ‘It is a lot of trouble to go to for a mere babe.’

  ‘My brother’s son is no “mere babe”. The Gift confirms there is something unique about him. That also explains the presence of the Tainted One.’

  The old man looked her in the eye before thoughtfully scratching his nose. She could tell that he was struggling to curb his curiosity and refrain from the obvious question. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why he is special. All I can tell for certain is that his life-light shines brighter than any other I have ever seen. I think this portends a rare and very special future.’

  Cairbre tugged softly at his beard as he considered the possibility further. ‘Does the Gift also confirm that the fian are not from Clann Morna?’

  ‘No. It is suspicion rather than certainty but I am convinced of the truth of it.’

  Cairbre looked over at the baby once more as though he might somehow observe what only Bodhmhall’s sight permitted her to see. Disappointed, he huffed glumly.

  ‘So if it is not Clann Morna who send the fian, who is it?’

  ‘Someone who knows of the child’s potential. Someone with the power and the resource to dispatch a fian and a Tainted One. A hidden hand who places them like pegs on your fidchell board.’

  ‘And that is?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Cairbre grunted then abruptly reached up to twist the board around so that the black pieces were facing her. ‘Then you must take the black pieces for you are responding to attack.’

  Without waiting for a response, the old man plucked a white peg from its hole and moved it forward. The placement was an odd one, within the rules but one that situated his ‘warrior’ directly in her ‘territory’.

  She looked at him in surprise, momentarily distracted from their conversation by the oddness of his placement. ‘Why did you move your peg there?’

  ‘Why do you think I placed it there?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Do you feel my move was aggressive?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then my objective is something at your end of the board. Perhaps, like the mysterious hand behind the fian there is something within your territory that I want.’

  Bodhmhall looked at him and released a weary sigh. ‘Is this a clumsy attempt at imitating our situation on the fidchell board?’

  ‘It is clumsy,’ he admitted. ‘And hardly a true imitation.’ With this, he reached forward, removed four white pegs from Bodhmhall’s side of the board and placed them on the floor. ‘That would seem a more accurate representation.’

  The bandraoi regarded him sardonically.

  ‘If what you say is true, Bodhmhall, Ráth Bládhma has acquired powerful enemies. We are at a serious disadvantage.’ Cairbre fixed her with a look of surprising intensity. ‘You must respond to these threats with rare ingenuity and fortitude if we are to survive.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Cairbre. Would it were as easy as moving pegs on a board.’

  ‘Leadership is never easy. If it were, we would all be leaders. No -’ The rechtaire continued to hold her eyes. ‘The problem with leadership is that it requires compromise and sacrifice. A leader must balance the eternal conflict of values and options.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that real leaders make difficult decisions for others when few realistic options are available. Many of us do not have the heart to make such verdicts for they involve compromise and sacrifice. The matter is further complicated for those leaders with a moral conscience in that it restricts the range of options they have.’

  He paused to massage his face with the palms of his hands.

  ‘One thing has become clear to me over the years, Bodhmhall. Those leaders who prevail tend to be men or women who are ruthless and brutal, individuals who can make harsh decisions with ease.’

  Bodhmhall found that she had been unconsciously leaning forward as though to compensate for the old man’s accent and the muffling effect of his beard. Sitting back once more, she composed herself and smiled. ‘So you see no value in values?’

  ‘From a social perspective, of course. From a political or military perspective - He paused. ‘Let us just say that the greatest and most successful generals or politicians tend to be those who lack any restrictions of morality.’

  ‘And where would you rate my father in this scheme of thought?’

  Cairbre gave a knowing smile. ‘Tréanmór is a skilful and a ruthless leader but he would not eat babies.’

  ‘Somebody would,’ Bodhmhall answered quietly, shivering as she remembered the clammy touch of the Tainted One. She tapped the top of the peg at the centre of the black set. ‘And me, Cairbre. How would you rate me?’

  ‘Untested, Bodhmhall. Until now you have had the luxury of authority without true responsibility. Because of our isolation here in Glenn Ceoch, you have faced little more than minor crises with minor consequences. The penalties we face in opposing the Tainted One and the fian are significantly more than you’ve encountered thus far. To survive, I fear you will be obliged to respond with a brutality and ruthlessness that is not your nature.’

  ‘Such as throwing Muirne and my nephew out to the wolves.’

  The rechtaire shifted uncomfortably on the reed mat. ‘You know that is one possible option. And by far the easiest although I suspect you lack the callousness to do this.’

  ‘Then you suspect correctly. I offered them sanctuary and I will keep my word.’

  Cairbre shrugged. ‘That does you credit as a human being but it also means that you have removed one option from the board that would divert the hostility of your opponents. Consequently, you must find another alternative to counter the threat of the fian and the Tainted One.’

  Bodhmhall frowned. ‘We could remain hidden. Stay within the valley.’

  ‘Is that truly a valid option?’

  The bandraoi thought about that for a moment then slowly shook her head. ‘Probably not. The Tainted One will locate our guests eventually. The fian are likely to follow.’

  ‘Therefore, the options are -’

  ‘To eliminate the Tainted One. Or flee to a safer location.’ She bit her lower lip. ‘In truth, I cannot think of a safer location. Even less than I can see how we could eliminate the Tainted One.’

  ‘There is another option you have not considered.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You could seek the protection of a benefactor who provides credible opposition to the fian.’

  ‘There is no-one. Clann Baoiscne would not take us back.’

  ‘There is Seiscenn Uarbhaoil.’

  ‘Fiacail? He has but two men.’

  Cairbre returned that doubtful look with a direct stare. ‘He has but two men here and their presence effectively doubles the ráth’s defence capability. Like as not, he has many more blooded warriors back at Seiscenn Uarbhaoil. That settlement is certainly far enough away to offer refuge from the fian in this territory. For the ongoing survival of the colony, an alliance between Ráth Bládhma and such an increasingly powerful household would be ... fortuitous.’ He let the words hang there, their meaning effectively escalating in the subsequent silence.

  Bodhmhall considered him with a wary eye. ‘You have been talking to Fiacail.’

  ‘No. But his desires are evident to the
observant eye.’

  ‘Then the observant eye will also know that the price is too high. I have lived in rare freedom for the last three years, Cairbre. I answer to no man, nobody instructs me on what I have to do. This is not a situation I would easily sacrifice. If I leave Ráth Bládhma I cannot bring my cattle or my lubgort. I would be nothing more than a refugee, dependent once more on the will of others.’

  She sighed.

  ‘And then there is Liath Luachra. I would not lose her and, do not forget, we are both very much in her debt. She has kept us safe these past three years. She has also taught your sons the skills they will need to keep their land.’

  She paused to appraise the rechtaire with a critical expression. ‘You reveal a surprisingly ruthless streak today, Cairbre. It is not a side to you that I have seen before.’

  ‘I am old, Bodhmhall. Despite my years, I am selfish enough to want to live a little longer. More than that, I want my sons to live. I would gladly give my own life to achieve that aim.’ He grew silent for a moment. ‘I like Liath Luachra. She is flighty but she has an admirable fortitude. I am grateful to her but even Liath Luachra cannot defend us from fifty warriors. And should you align with Seiscenn Uarbhaoil ...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is a stronger chance that both you and my sons would live.’

  ‘To Liath Luachra’s detriment.’

  ‘It is an option. Not a desirable one, I admit. But remember what I said to you. To survive you must respond with brutality and ruthlessness.’ He tapped the white peg that he’d moved into her portion of the fidchell board. ‘You have to counter the threat that confronts you, Bodhmhall.’

  Chapter Five

  The newborn started to cry again later that morning. Muirne Muncháem, still recovering from the exertion of childbirth, continued to sleep on.

  Liath Luachra also managed to sleep through the unhappy wailing. It was well after mid-morning when the warrior woman finally stirred and sat up, her back aching from lying flat for so long. Confused and disorientated, she pushed the furs away, squinting about at the unfamiliar surroundings until she remembered where she was.