In the Region of the Summer Stars

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Gráinne’s smile widened when she saw him, and Tuán laughed out loud. ‘Is this the Dagda I see before me?’ the little druid cried. ‘Behold—a man transformed!’

  Stepping before him, Gráinne raised her hands and Conor saw she held out a thin bronze torc—the kind warriors often received for victories in battle. He bowed a little forward and she gently spread the ends and slipped it around his neck, then closed the ends again and stepped back.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Conor, his birthmark tingling at this unaccustomed scrutiny. He spread his arms and turned around. ‘Wait!’

  He dived into the bothy again and, from his battered sparán, brought out the tiny bundle Fergal had given him. He gave it to Gráinne and said, ‘Put this on as well.’

  Unwrapping the bundle, she brought out Aoife’s little silver leaf casán. The banfaíth smiled and pinned on the brooch just above his heart, then, her head held to one side, squinting her eyes in appraisal, she passed her gaze slowly over him from head to toe.

  ‘Well?’ said Conor, after a moment.

  ‘Only one thing is lacking,’ Gráinne said at last. She reached into the little pouch at her girdle and brought out a pair of scissors, gave his hair a few snips, and said, ‘Now, where is that razor Dáithi sent you?’

  30

  Conor stood at the edge of the field while Búrach cropped the grain heads from the ripening barley beside him. The lowering sun cast their shadows long over the golden heads of grain as Conor contemplated Lord Brecan’s ráth atop the hill rising from among the fields and woodland around about. Aintrén, the principal stronghold of the Brigantes, was not only far larger than Conor imagined, it was also much better fortified.

  With stout timber walls easily twice as high as his father’s fortress at Dúnaird, and surrounded by not one or two, but four deep ditches—one filled with water and the rest crowded with brambles and stinging nettles—the stronghold occupied the top of a hill that commanded views of the two broad valleys flanking either side. Fields and grazing lands surrounded the hill, providing no cover for hiding. The location had been well chosen: no warhost could approach unseen, and would-be attackers would face a steep uphill slog just to reach the lowest ditch. Aintrén presented a formidable, if not menacing, aspect.

  It had taken two days of steady riding to reach Brigantes territory. Fatigue lay on Conor’s shoulders like a heavy cloak and, as he sat gazing upon the sprawling settlement of his sworn enemy, he contemplated the uncertainty of his reception. There was, after all, every possibility that he would be killed on arrival. And why not? Lord Brecan knew him as an adversary, a defiant challenger who had openly opposed him at the Oenach. Would the king even consider accepting him as an amais, a hired warrior, a member of his warband? That was, had always been, and remained the chief question.

  Búrach whickered softly and jerked on the reins, lifting Conor’s hand and stirring him from his reverie. He drew breath and blew it out. The time had come to put the question to the test. Climbing to his feet, he mounted his splendid grey stallion and proceeded to his destination and his uncertain fate.

  He rode through the barley field, around the wide, spreading base of the hill to the long, sloping ramp in front of the fortress. The hard-packed incline crossed the first three ditches and the fourth was topped by a narrow wooden bridge that could be, Conor was certain, withdrawn or destroyed at the first sign of an enemy’s attack. Beyond the bridge rose two stout, ironclad gates and, above them, the square box of a sentry tower.

  Conor paused at the foot of the ramp for a moment—long enough to be seen—and then urged Búrach forward. As horse and rider neared the gates, two armed warriors appeared in the gap between the open doors. He raised his right hand to them and brought Búrach to a halt a few paces from where they stood. ‘Greetings, friends,’ he said. ‘May you enjoy peace and plenty this night.’ He indicated the open gate. ‘Have you a bed and a meal for a weary wanderer?’

  ‘We don’t know you,’ said one of the gatemen. ‘Move on,’ said the other.

  ‘I have travelled far today to be here,’ Conor told them. ‘All I ask is the hospitality due any traveller. Would you deny me this?’

  The two advanced a few paces toward him. ‘We want no trouble. Move along,’ said the first gateman, hefting his spear.

  ‘And is it trouble now to treat a stranger with respect?’ said Conor, keeping his tone light. ‘Or, perhaps it is poverty that keeps your king’s hand clenched tight against any demand—be it ever so small.’

  The two gatekeepers glared at him, but did not yield.

  Conor lifted the reins and prepared to leave. ‘Far be it from me to take the food from your mouths. Tell your needy lord that Conor mac Ardan is heartily sorry to hear how low he has fallen in the world. But worry not. I will spread the word over the land that the Brigantes are suffering in their want. Trust that someone will take pity on you and your ill-fated king.’

  ‘Stop, pig!’ snarled the foremost of the gatemen. ‘Come down off your high horse and say that again—if you dare.’

  ‘What is this rough talk I am hearing?’ said a voice behind the belligerent gatemen. A tall elegant woman of noble aspect and bearing moved through the gate behind them and both men instantly stepped aside to let her pass. ‘Is something amiss here?’

  ‘This stranger is trying to gain entrance, my lady,’ answered one of the guards. ‘We have kindly asked him to move on, but he refuses to go,’ added the other.

  ‘Why so?’ asked the woman. She came to stand at the head of Conor’s stallion and, reaching up, stroked the handsome creature’s neck, giving Conor a chance to observe her closely. Youthful still, though past the first bloom of youth, she was a strikingly beautiful woman just entering her prime. Her hair was the deep, ruddy colour of rich copper; she wore it long, swept back and held in a clasp of red gold to fall about her back and shoulders. Her eyes were large and green and lively beneath even, dark brows; her skin was pale, untouched by the sun, and her fingers long and fine; her gown was finely woven linen, crisp, and cream-coloured and, like the wide girdle around her waist, it was heavily embroidered with knotwork bands in red and blue and gold, as was the short cloak fastened with a large gold casán in the shape of a harp.

  ‘A beautiful animal you have here,’ she said, flicking one of the tiny bells braided into its mane and listened to the tinkling sound. Looking up, she smiled as she took in the horse’s richly arrayed rider: splendid in his red silver-trimmed siarc and belt of silver disks around his well-muscled torso, the fine leather brócs, and his clean-shaven face and neatly trimmed hair and moustache. ‘I am Sceana, Queen of the Brigantes, and I give you good greeting, traveller. Have you come far?’

  Conor pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in the sign of respect and said, ‘I am Conor mac Ardan, a warrior of the Darini, and I place myself at your service, lady.’

  ‘And is it a bed and meal you seek this night?’ she asked. The question was innocent enough, but it was accompanied by a flirty lift of a smooth eyebrow and a knowing gleam in her green eyes.

  ‘Shelter and a meal, to be sure—and perhaps more than that.’

  ‘Then fortunate you are, Conor mac Ardan, warrior of the Darini, for a bed and meal are easily granted. As for the rest,’ she said knowingly, ‘well, that is best discussed over the welcome cúach.’ She smiled again, and Conor found himself liking her in spite of the fact that she was his enemy’s wife.

  The queen turned to the gatemen, who were still glowering at Conor and brandishing their weapons; she instructed them to tell her ladies to ready the Guest Lodge at once and to deliver her visitor’s belongings there. ‘And,’ she continued, ‘take our visitor’s horse to the king’s stable and see that it is fed and watered and put up for the night. Tell the master groom not to forget to rub this fine creature’s coat with dry straw and give him an extra portion.’ She cast a backward smile at Conor. ‘Meanwhile, I will do the same for his owner.’

  Conor thanked her for her
kindness and hospitality and dismounted, handing the reins of his princely stallion to the nearest of the gatekeepers, who fixed him with a malevolent stare. The queen beckoned him to follow. ‘Tonight you are a guest under my roof. Worry for nothing.’

  She led him through the great gate and into a wide yard well-paved with small flat slates from a northern shore. There were many people in the yard, working at various chores, and in amongst them children played, with dogs barking at their heels. Lord Brecan’s vast hall stood at the far end of the yard with two large houses flanking either side: on the left-hand side, a large timber house with a high roof thatched with river reed, and a green door between red lintels; on the right-hand side a slightly smaller stone house with a lower roof covered in slate, blue lintels, and a door made from the hide of a pure white ox.

  ‘The Women’s House,’ said Sceana, indicating the house on the left. Directing his attention to the dwelling on the right, and she said, ‘The Bards’ House.’ Her gesture swept wide to include other outbuildings within the ráth. ‘As you can see, there are houses for baking and brewing and cooking. And’—she pointed to a fair-sized house with a steep roof of thatch and blue-painted door—‘and a lodge for esteemed visitors.’ She gave him a prideful smile. ‘My lord does not lack dwellings of quality and distinction for his people and his guests.’ She gave Conor a quizzical look. ‘Perhaps, after tonight you will amend your poor estimation of the king’s poverty.’

  ‘If all guests are treated with such care and attention by his queen, I will gladly ensure that the name Brecan mac Lergath is lauded for wealth and generosity,’ said Conor. ‘Where do the warriors sleep?’

  ‘The king’s ardféne sleep in the hall,’ the lady told him. ‘The rest of the warband is divided amongst three houses—each large enough for thirty men.’ She gave Conor a sideways glance. ‘There are other houses, of course, in other ráths nearby. But tonight you are my guest and you may sleep wherever your desires lead you.’

  Conor was taken aback by the tone with which she spoke these last words—as much as by the slight, seductive smile that accompanied them. He dared not reply in kind, so merely bowed his head respectfully and said, ‘Thank you, my lady. A more grateful guest you will not have had beneath your roof.’

  Queen Sceana led Conor toward the hall. As they crossed the yard, people paused in their activities to watch the handsome stranger. Conor was aware that some of them noticed the crimson stain of his disfiguring birthmark; they nudged one another, and some of them made the sign against evil as he passed. Well accustomed to such treatment by strangers, he held himself erect and ignored them.

  Two wide stone steps led up from the paved yard to a wooden platform in front of the door to the hall. Here, they paused to wait until they could be received into the hall. Two porters appeared, each dressed in a long siarc of red linen, with a wide woven belt of soft brown wool. Each carried a dagger tucked into the folds of the belt. They cast a hasty glance at the visitor, and their expressions of distaste for what they saw left Conor in little doubt that they were inclined to deal with him as with a fox caught in the dove cote. Nevertheless, he was accompanied by Queen Sceana, and that presented them with a special challenge.

  While one porter stood aside to welcome the queen, the other opened the door and ushered them inside. The hall was dark; the only light came from the square hole in the roof above the large circular hearth in the centre of the room. A small tending fire sent thin tendrils of smoke up into the light. Surrounded by roof trees fashioned from the trunks of entire pines, stripped of their bark and painted red and green, it seemed to Conor as if he viewed the hearth through the hazy light of a dim forest retreat. Before the hearth, overlooking it, stood the king’s throne on a high platform of logs and beams. The great chair itself was made from stag antlers intertwined and bound together with leather straps, and covered with wolf pelts. It was, Conor thought, the throne of one who styled himself as Cernunos, Lord of the Hunt. In any case it was a seat for a powerful ruler much given to the occupations of a more primitive royalty—not the chair of a man who, so far as Conor knew, had spent his life negotiating boundaries, raising tributes to pay for border defences, settling disputes between his client lords, and building his herds to pay for ever more lavish feasts to impress rivals and overawe the timid.

  There were a few warriors idling on low couches set along the walls, and at gaming tables scattered here and there about the vast room; others were stropping swords and spear blades with sharpening stones. At the appearance of the queen, all talk ceased and the men set aside whatever they were doing, stood, and turned in her direction. Two of them hurried forth to greet their queen and her splendid visitor; both went down on one knee before her, and lowered their eyes. ‘You honour us with your presence, my queen,’ said one of them in a low voice.

  ‘Rise and bid our guest welcome,’ she said lightly, lifting her palm.

  ‘Be pleased to rest and take your ease,’ said the warrior as he rose. ‘What we have, we gladly share.’

  Conor thanked him and said, ‘I am Conor mac Ardan. My father is Lord of the Darini, perhaps you have heard of him?’

  At this admission, a hazy recollection flitted over the welcoming warrior’s face—just a flicker and then it was gone. ‘The Darini are not among the clients of our lord, I think,’ offered the second warrior, a keen-eyed wiry youth who could not have seen more than eighteen summers. ‘But that does not mean we are less friendly to a swordbrother such as yourself.’ He smiled. ‘I am Galart, and this is Médon, nephew of our king’s champion and warleader.’

  Both men gave their guest a slight bow of acknowledgement—more for the queen’s benefit than for his own, Conor suspected. Seeing the sword strapped to Conor’s side, the younger one said, ‘Is your blade flame-tempered? Ours are, we find they hold an edge longer.’

  ‘But it makes them more brittle, does it not?’ countered Conor.

  ‘You will have leisure to talk of blades and battles later,’ the queen interrupted. ‘But I have promised our guest a welcome cup, and as the king is not here at present, the duty falls to me. We will return when the meal is ready and, in honour of our guest, there will be songs and music for our pleasure tonight.’

  She waved the two away and, taking Conor’s elbow, led him from the hall. Conor was glad she had not forgotten the cup; a drink in convivial company was a thing he had not enjoyed since the Oenach, and Queen Sceana was a gracious and agreeable companion.

  ‘The king is absent, then?’ asked Conor as they started across the yard once more. The sun was setting now, casting the yard in shadow. Someone had started a fire outside the Bards’ House in preparation for an evening meal. Several women were tending the fire and readying haunches of venison to be roasted.

  ‘Indeed so,’ she replied crisply. ‘My husband is often away these days. The affairs of his client kings grow ever more demanding of his time and energies. He is rarely at home three days in a row.’ She offered a slightly wistful smile, and touched his arm. ‘Oh, but what am I saying? As a warrior, you must know this.’

  ‘I am certain a ruler of his eminence is much in demand,’ replied Conor, trying to sound sympathetic.

  No more was said just then, and they continued to the Guest Lodge, where they stopped at the door. ‘The lodge will be made ready for your stay. In the meantime, I hope you do not mind idling a while among my ladies?’

  ‘I believe I can survive the ordeal,’ said Conor.

  The queen laughed. ‘I am certain that you can.’ They continued on to the Women’s House, where the door was opened by a young girl in a long white tunic and brócs of soft deerskin. She bowed prettily to the queen and then stepped aside. ‘Enter and take your ease,’ invited the queen. To the girl she said, ‘Bríd, bring the cúach for our guest, and fetch a mead jar from my bower.’

  Conor stepped across the threshold and entered a large room lit by rushlight and beeswax candles. Much like the king’s hall, the Women’s House was a single main room
with small cells or booths along each wall; each cell, from what Conor could see, was separated from the next by woven panels stretched on thin frames, and each contained a sleeping pallet covered in soft fleeces. In the main room, there were low tables with even lower couches for reclining at meals.

  The queen led him to just such a couch in the centre of the room and took the one facing it. One of the queen’s serving maids appeared, bowed, and moved a table between them. Bríd, the young céile, returned with a wide, two-handed silver bowl and a large silver jar on a wooden tray. She placed the tray on the table and filled the bowl with golden liquid from the jar. On the tray was a wooden plate with a small loaf of black bread and a little bowl of salt. The girl passed the cúach to the queen, then withdrew once more.

  ‘In honour of your visit,’ said the queen, lifting the bowl and passing it to Conor. He inclined his head and, accepting the cúach, took a long drink, letting the rich, sweet mead warm his throat all the way down. He returned the welcome cup to the queen and she drank, watching him over the rim of the bowl with an expression of amusement.

  Sceana refilled the cup and, setting it aside, offered Conor the loaf and salt. He broke off a small chunk of the dark bread and dipped it in the salt. He popped the morsel into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. The bread was soft and warm and seasoned with an herb he could not place.

  ‘Drink, please,’ the queen said, offering the cúach once more. ‘Or they will say I stinted in my duties to a valued guest.’

  Conor smiled and drank a little more, and they shared the cup, passing it back and forth between them. ‘This is a very restful place,’ Conor observed. ‘But I cannot think the king welcomes many guests here.’

  ‘To be sure,’ she remarked. ‘Lord Brecan would have preferred to receive you himself in the hall or the Bards’ House. But our druid is away with my lord, and the hall is always so dark and noisy.’ She drank again and passed the cup to Conor. ‘Reclining here is much more comfortable—wouldn’t you agree?’