In the Region of the Summer Stars

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Conor mulled over this eventuality and shook his head slowly. ‘I cannot see that grasping traitor accepting any decision that would thwart his plans. He would simply ignore whatever the druids said and go his own way.’

  Mádoc’s hand ceased its circular motion over the pot. ‘He would not dare.’

  ‘What would stop him?’

  Mádoc cocked his head to one side and regarded Conor with curious disbelief. ‘Where do you think the power of a king derives? Where does his sovereignty reside?’

  Conor shrugged. ‘In the point of his spear? In the might of his arm or strength of his warband?’

  ‘Ha!’ scoffed Mádoc. ‘Spoken like an ignorant warrior.’

  ‘Why do I even bother?’ huffed Conor, slouching back on his fleece.

  Mádoc went back to stirring the stew. ‘Listen, then, if you would know. The power of kingship resides in the word of the druids. See here, it was long ago decided that sovereignty was far too potent an elixir to be left in the cups of individual noblemen, so it was given to the bards for safekeeping. We who are not beholden to any lord or king, and who are ourselves excluded from kingship, are the caretakers of sovereign power. Thus, the Learned Brotherhood alone has the authority to raise a lord to kingship,’ he concluded. ‘Or, equally, to depose him should the need arise.’

  ‘The people choose their kings,’ replied Conor. ‘Each tribe chooses the man best suited to wear the torc.’

  Mádoc shook his head.

  ‘That is how my father was chosen,’ Conor told him. ‘I know. I was there.’

  ‘The tribes may raise up the man they choose,’ Mádoc replied, ‘but the choice must be confirmed by the bards, who can either grant or deny the choice. Most often, they grant it. Only rarely do they take it away once it has been given.’ The old druid looked at Conor as the young man turned this over in his mind. ‘Were you raised by goats that you do not know this?’

  ‘Our tribe had no druid to instruct us in the obscure ways of your learned clan,’ Conor said.

  ‘That is no excuse at all.’

  ‘Anyway, it seems to me that kings behave however they will—regardless of whatever the bards might say.’

  Mádoc simply sighed and shook his head. ‘You have so very much to learn—I wonder if you should live long enough.’

  Conor, annoyed by the turn of the conversation, bit his tongue. He lay back and stared up at the patch of blue sky he could see through the trees overhead. When he tired of that, he rose and left the camp, following the trail to the edge of the wood where he stood gazing out at the green hills to the west. Cupping a hand to his eyes, he scanned the empty hills where, after a cursory sweep of the horizon, he turned his face to the sun and felt its warmth wash over him. He stood for a while, bathing in the light, and then returned to camp. As he turned, however, he caught a glimpse of movement. He stopped and scanned the hills again—and saw a somewhat mottled shape moving on the track, still far off.

  Instinctively, he stepped aside, melting into the shadows. He watched, holding his breath, and soon discerned that two riders—armed with spears and bearing shields on their backs—were definitely coming toward the wood. Conor turned and hurried back to where Mádoc was tossing little bread loaves into a straw basket. Huw emerged from the tent with a stack of wooden bowls and a spoon.

  ‘Someone’s coming!’ Conor announced. ‘Two men on horseback—armed. They’re still some way off, but they’ll be here soon enough.’

  Mádoc received this news calmly—so calmly, in fact, that Conor repeated the message and said, ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘We should hide.’

  ‘Good idea, son. You go hide.’

  Conor rolled his eyes. ‘What do you mean to do?’

  ‘Invite them to eat with us.’

  ‘But, we don’t—’ began Conor. ‘They might be—’

  ‘Everyone must eat,’ Mádoc intoned, ‘weary travellers most of all. And we have more than enough to share.’ He made a sign to Huw and the boy ducked back into the tent to retrieve more bowls.

  ‘Well,’ decided Conor, ‘they may not be after your head, but I value mine.’ So saying, he disappeared into the wood.

  Mádoc watched him go, then gave a smile, and took the bowls from Huw and placed them on the ground beside him. Soon, he heard the sound of horses on the trail and the voices of the riders as they conversed along the way. He rose and followed the track to the edge of the wood to greet the strangers.

  Conor, from his hiding place down among the bracken at the edge of the camp, saw Mádoc leave and, after what seemed an interminable interval, he heard voices and, in a moment there appeared in the glade two exhausted riders leading tired mounts, and Mádoc chatting easily to them.

  Conor climbed to his feet and emerged from his hiding place.

  ‘There you are!’ called one of the visitors.

  ‘Were you hiding from us, then?’ said the other, and both men laughed.

  ‘Very funny, I am sure,’ replied Conor. Nevertheless, he smiled and hurried to embrace his friends. ‘Fergal … Donal, glad as I am to see you,’ he said, gripping them each in turn with his good hand, ‘I must ask how do you come to be here?’

  ‘Well, we all know how much trouble you can stir up when left to yourself,’ replied Fergal. ‘So we’ve come to guide you in the straight path.’

  Conor, amazed and gratified, gazed into the faces of his friends and said, ‘But how did you know where to find me?’

  ‘Mádoc here made it clear enough before he left us at the Oenach where a body might search if they were looking to find someone.’

  Mádoc beamed with pleasure at the reunion. Conor said, ‘You knew they were coming! Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I did not know,’ replied the old man simply. ‘I merely mentioned in passing where I was going and that I would remain here for a day or so should anyone choose to join me.’

  ‘We had no idea what he meant by that,’ said Donal, ‘but marked that he said it, so we did.’

  ‘But when we got back to Dúnaird and heard that you and Mádoc had been there together,’ said Fergal, ‘well, we guessed what had happened and decided to see if we could find you.’

  Conor shook his head at his friends, revelling in their trust and loyalty. ‘How did you convince Liam to let you leave?’

  ‘We just told him we were going hunting.’

  ‘We maybe forgot to mention we were hunting for you,’ added Donal.

  ‘And he let you take Ossin and Grían?’ said Conor, indicating the horses.

  ‘They have names now?’

  ‘They all have names.’ Conor pointed to the Fergal’s roan stallion and said, ‘That is Grían. And Donal’s fine black-legged dun is Ossin.’ Turning back, he added, ‘I cannot think the king would let you have two of his best for an errand such as this.’

  ‘Ach, now, Donal did not think to ask him.’

  ‘And why would I?’ replied Donal, ‘when I thought it was you that asked him.’

  Fergal gave a fishy smile. ‘The way I see it, Liam did not say we couldn’t take them.’

  The two laughed then, but stopped when Conor said, ‘You won’t be able to go back, you know. Not after they realise what you’ve done.’

  ‘As to that,’ replied Donal, ‘there will be no joy in Ardan’s hall until you return.’

  ‘We might as well stay with you now that we’re here,’ said Fergal, ‘the better to make sure you get home in one piece.’ He smiled and then, digging into the sparán at his belt, he brought out a scrap of cloth. ‘Your lady said to give you this if we happened to find you.’

  Conor took the scrap and unwrapped it to reveal a silver leaf casán—the brooch he had given Aoife to seal their betrothal. He glanced a question to Fergal, who merely shrugged as much to say, Women, eh? Who can guess what they’re thinking?

  ‘Thank you, brothers,’ said Conor, putting his good arm awkwardly around their shoulders. ‘It
is more than I deserve.’

  ‘You’re right there, so you are,’ agreed Donal with a grin. He looked to the fire ring where Huw was just then lifting the cauldron from the coals. ‘See now, that smells good. When do we eat?’

  14

  The weather changed during the night and they woke the next morning to heavy grey clouds. By the time they had broken fast and struck camp, rain had begun leaking from the swollen sky. The dense woodland through which they travelled offered some slight protection, but as the day wore on, the rain increased. By midday they were soaked to the bone. Wet and weary, they stopped early to make camp for the night and built a big fire beneath an old oak in the hopes of drying out a bit. Rain continued through the night, however, and by morning they were as cold and wet as ever. Nor did things improve much over the next few days.

  Braving blusters of wind and gusts of rain, wrapped in their wool cloaks or beneath their fleeces and shivering in silent misery, they pushed ever southward—through lands of tribes they knew and into those of tribes known only by name. They passed through open heathland thick with gorse and broom, and forests of oak, larch, or ash, skirting peat bogs and marshes, and pausing only to rest the horses or hunt when opportunity arose.

  At some of the settlements they were welcomed, their animals fed and watered, and, in exchange for the news they brought, the travellers were treated to a good meal and a dry place to sleep. But, the farther south they pushed, the more unfamiliar the land became, the holdings fewer, meaner, and less welcoming—sometimes only offering food for them and water for their animals. They crossed many rivers, the names of which they could only guess; they traversed grain fields ripening to the harvest, and sometimes saw farmers, but any approach or attempt to converse proved futile. At first sight of the travelling party, the locals fled.

  ‘Can they not see we mean them no harm?’ asked Fergal, watching a group of field hands scurrying for the safety of a nearby beech wood. Having caught a glimpse of the warriors at the far end of the field, they fled.

  ‘They have learned to fear strangers,’ Mádoc observed morosely. ‘Nor can I blame them.’

  ‘Are we that close to the Scálda territories, then?’ asked Donal, who, having left behind familiar lands, now had only the haziest notion of where they were or how far they had travelled.

  ‘Aye,’ replied Mádoc, ‘we are that close.’ He raised a hand to indicate the cloud-veiled hillscape looming across the wide valley sloping away before them. ‘At my best recollection, that ridge on the far side of the valley marks the border, and after that the lands the Scálda have stolen.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ asked Conor, his voice betraying a touch irritation. ‘We’ve come all this way and you don’t know where we’re going?’

  Mádoc merely shook his head. ‘When was the last time you were here, eh? Where we’re going no Dé Danann has been for a very long time.’

  Dark clouds roiled low in the southern sky, and the wind sighed mournfully through the damp-leafed copse around about. Conor regarded the long, undulating line of the ridge as if it marked a foreign land. For, though the Scálda mounted raiding parties deep into northern territories—mostly during spring and summer—the rest of the time they more or less confined themselves to the south, ever increasing their strongholds and settlements. It was as Mádoc said: after the coming of the Black Ships, no one Conor knew had ever been farther south than that dark line of hills looming in the distance. Within his own memory, the southland had become a place untravelled and unknown.

  The ollamh turned to the warriors ranged behind him. ‘Once we cross the valley, there will be no turning back.’

  ‘Turning back, is it?’ enquired Fergal. ‘We didn’t come all this way for turning back.’ He turned his gaze back toward the distant ridge. ‘Still, a fella could wish we didn’t have to go there at all.’

  ‘Ach, and why are we going there anyway?’ asked Donal.

  ‘Did Mádoc not tell you?’ Conor could see by the look on Donal’s broad face that he had no idea. ‘You mean to say you’ve been travelling all this time without any hint of where we were going or why?’

  Donal shook his head. ‘Mádoc said Conor needed help.’ He shrugged. ‘That was enough for me, so it was.’

  ‘And me,’ said Fergal, ‘Donal promised there would be ale and dancing girls.’

  Conor laughed and shook his head, breaking the gloomy mood that had settled over him. Reaching out a hand, he gripped Donal by the arm. ‘Brothers, if I had a thousand more like you, there would be no Scálda left in Eirlandia.’

  ‘Why are we going?’ wondered Donal.

  ‘Tell them, Mádoc,’ Conor said. ‘They should know.’

  ‘We go to learn whatever can be discovered of the enemy’s strength, their numbers, how they marshal their forces, how they build their strongholds and fortresses, the number and location of their settlements, where they harbour their ships—anything could help us build an advantage for the battles to come.’

  Hearing this, Conor gave Mádoc a sharp glance, and started to object. But, Mádoc cut off his interruption. ‘Getting all that will not be easy, mind. From now on we move at night,’ he continued, ignoring Conor’s lowering brow, ‘the better to avoid unfriendly eyes. We must go quietly, with all care, and observe and remember all we can.’ He looked around the copse. ‘We might as well make camp here.’

  ‘If that is the way of it,’ said Fergal, glad for the chance to dismount. ‘I’ll be needing a nap.’

  ‘Aye to that.’ Donal slid down from Ossin. ‘And a little something to eat. Huw, lad!’ he called, though he knew the boy could not hear him. ‘Let us build a fine fire and cook something tasty, eh?’

  ‘There will be no fires,’ Mádoc told him.

  ‘Ach, now, that is very harsh,’ complained Donal. ‘How are we to warm ourselves and cook our meat?’

  ‘We don’t. From here on we must become as ghosts.’

  ‘We’re almost ghosts already,’ Donal muttered, and set about unpacking their gear. ‘Just a little fire, then?’

  Mádoc relented, saying, ‘Just a small fire—and do enjoy it for it will be the last.’

  They made their camp among the purple leaves of the beechy grove. Huw and Donal set about making a fire to warm them and cook the last of a haunch from a deer taken two days ago. Huw cut the venison into small pieces to be mixed in the pot with dried peas and barley, and flavoured with ramp. While the food was being prepared, Conor took Búrach and Ossin; Fergal gathered the reins of Grían, Drenn, and little Íogmar; they led the animals deeper into the wood and tethered them so they could graze, then put up a picket line nearer the camp. That done, they constructed a simple shelter from the leather tent—nothing more than a roof held up by sticks and bent-over saplings. These chores finished, they spread their sheepskins on the ground beneath the canopy and, after fetching water from a nearby brook, Fergal sat back to wait for the porridge. Conor went in search of Mádoc and found the druid sitting on a rock, intently studying the landscape to the south—as if he might read something in the ragged line of rocky hills rimming the horizon.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell them the truth?’ said Conor.

  ‘Eh?’ said the old man, stirring.

  ‘You know what I mean. Donal and Fergal—why didn’t you tell them?’

  ‘What I said was true enough.’

  ‘Aye, true enough as far as it goes—but we both know that was never far enough.’

  ‘They were satisfied. It was enough for them.’

  ‘We are asking them to risk their lives,’ said Conor. ‘You should have told them.’

  ‘If I had said more, I would have been speaking only our suspicions, doubts, and fears. Trading on such things only increases them and, believe me, nothing good can come of that where we’re going.’

  ‘Then at least tell me,’ Conor said. ‘If proof of Brecan’s treachery is what we want, why are we going into Scálda territory to find it?’

  ‘Where better?’

&
nbsp; ‘Go to Brecan himself. He’s the one deceiving everyone.’

  ‘What do you think you would find, eh? He would be at pains to cloak his deception by all possible means. Or, perhaps you think to confront him in his hall—yes? Do that and it will be the last thing you do.’ Mádoc drew a breath and puffed it out. ‘But, see now, the Scálda will have neither desire nor necessity to hide the alliance—if it exists. For them it is a triumph to be celebrated—and, if we are very canny, we will see signs of that.’

  Conor sat for a moment, trying to fathom this reasoning. At last, he shook his head, saying, ‘If you don’t tell them, I will.’

  Mádoc opened his mouth to object, then hesitated and, looking back to the dusky hills across the valley, said, ‘You will do what you think best.’

  Conor left him then, and a short time later, Donal called them to eat; they shared a hearty, filling meal and then lay down to rest and wait for night to steal across the valley. Conor slept fitfully and woke in a sullen mood under a low, heavy cloud wrack. He snapped at Donal—and then quickly apologised. Donal only grunted in reply. Fergal said nothing at all as they broke camp and readied the horses. The prospect of entering hostile territory had put everyone on edge, Conor concluded, the animals as well.

  When the gear had been packed on Huw’s pony once more and everyone mounted, Mádoc called for their attention. ‘Be wary of all you see and hear,’ he told them. ‘Until we know more about how the Scálda range themselves, we must assume that they are watching. Make no mistake, my friends, they will kill us if they catch us.’

  ‘Unless I kill them first,’ boasted Fergal. But his voice lacked all conviction.

  ‘All the same, keep your eyes open and your wits about you.’

  Nothing more was said, or needed saying. They rode out—a single file of riders staying close together—with Mádoc at the head of the line, followed by Fergal, then Donal, and Huw on the pony, with Conor bringing up the rear. The warriors carried their spears at the ready and shields unslung. They rode in silence, picking their way slowly across the fields and through the orchards that filled the wide valley. Unable to see the trails, if there were any trails at all, they had to nudge their way along by feel alone. Eventually, they reached the far side of the valley, and paused to rest the horses before beginning the long climb up through groves of nut trees lining the lower slopes leading up to the ridgeway. While they waited, ears attuned to the night sounds around them, the overcast thinned and the clouds began to break up, allowing the light of a spectral moon to trickle down, coating every branch and leaf with a slippery silver sheen. Though it did little to illuminate their way, they continued on in better spirits for the gentle light, eventually gaining the ridge top where they paused again. One look into the darkened slope on the other side and Mádoc broke the silence, saying, ‘I think we’ve gone far enough tonight.’