In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘Are you Conor mac Ardan?’

  ‘Lord Conor mac Ardan to you, friend,’ said Donal. ‘I suggest you try asking again—and this time let us see some better manners if you have any.’

  ‘Who are you to speak to us this way?’ demanded the rider next to the flat-nosed one.

  ‘Only a fella who has your best interest at heart,’ answered Donal lightly. ‘You will have heard, no doubt, of the terrible temper of our lord. I would spare you the beating you so richly deserve should you persist with your careless insults.’

  The warrior’s hand went to the sword at his side and Fergal, spear ready, moved to take his place beside Conor and Donal. ‘Why not do as our brother has advised?’ said Fergal, tapping the spear shaft against the palm of his hand. ‘It would save you a deal of pain, I do believe.’

  The affronted warrior removed his hand from his sword, and the leader of the group forced a grim smile and said, ‘Our apologies if we have bruised your tender feelings. We had no idea the new lord of Tara had such thin and delicate skin.’

  ‘I would not be talking about bruising if I were you,’ said Fergal. ‘Look around. I think you’ll find we can give far better than we get.’

  The strangers stole a glance at the ranks of warriors even now forming up behind them.

  ‘Am I right in thinking that this is the vaunted fianna we are hearing so much about?’ asked the leader. ‘I am impressed. We had heard it was a fair-sized troop, but I did not expect so many—or to meet them all at once like this.’

  ‘Nor would you if you and your companions were not intent on riding through a training ground,’ said Conor. He regarded the man. Older than the others by a good few years, his dark hair was streaked with grey and there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth; his face was smooth-shaven and set in an insolent expression. ‘But I think you did not come here to practice discourtesy or discuss the size of our warband.’

  ‘I did not,’ replied the man. ‘I am Iollan mac Datho, and I come bearing a message from my lord and others.’

  ‘And who might your lord be?’ said Fergal.

  ‘Lord Corgan of the Eridani,’ replied Iollan.

  ‘And these others?’

  ‘Lords and kings of northern tribes, let us say.’

  ‘That’s not saying much,’ said Fergal. He looked to Conor. ‘Are we to be tolerating this?’

  ‘Let’s hear your message,’ Conor said. ‘And then you and your friends can be on your way. No doubt your lord is pining for your cheerful presence.’

  ‘What is this? No welcome cup for a king’s messenger? My lord will be displeased when I tell him how his men were treated.’

  ‘Had you sent your man on ahead—’ began Donal.

  ‘And with a better tongue in his mouth,’ added Fergal.

  ‘—you would have been received with a welcome deserving of your rank,’ Donal continued. ‘But as your errand seems calculated to provoke, you must take us as you find us.’

  The chieftain returned an icy smile and shook his head slowly. ‘Gracious to the end,’ he sniffed. ‘I will tell you how we find you, shall I? We find you taking possession of lands that do not belong to you and, unless I am much mistaken, you are even now in the midst of raising a fortress on Tara’s hill.’

  ‘You are not mistaken,’ Conor told him. ‘All the world can see that has become the sole ambition of my heart.’

  ‘And yet,’ called the truculent warrior on horseback, in a strident voice, ‘this land has been sacred to all Eirlandia. By what authority do you presume to take this place for your own?’

  Fergal looked at Donal. ‘Did someone speak just now? Or was that a horse fart? Did you hear it, brother?’

  ‘It must have been a fart in the wind,’ answered Donal, levelling his gaze upon the mounted warrior. ‘Any fella who wished to address a nobleman would do so face-to-face and not babble nonsense from the back of a flea-bitten nag.’

  Iollan glanced at his companions and gave a warning shake of his head. To Conor, he said, ‘My king and his brother lords have taken an interest in what you are doing here,’ he continued, ‘and they would have a ready accounting.’

  ‘A ready accounting…,’ Donal repeated. ‘To my ear that sounds more like a summons to answer for an offence.’

  Iollan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I cannot answer for the sound in your ear, but you would not be far wrong to think that.’

  ‘We have been here since the night of the massacre these many months past,’ Fergal pointed out. ‘All this time and you only just now come to us with this?’

  ‘Your presence here has naturally raised many questions,’ intoned the messenger, ‘—questions that require answers. In fact, accusations have been made that cannot be ignored. The kings considered that an airechtas is the proper way to give you a chance to explain yourself. I need not point out that failure to attend will be considered an admission of guilt.’

  ‘Guilt implies a crime,’ said Conor, his tone growing flat. ‘And what crime is it they think me guilty of?’

  ‘Stealing land sacred to Eirlandia—a crime that will be most forcefully punished.’

  ‘Say that again and slowly,’ Fergal said, his voice low and laced with menace. ‘Better still, choose softer words for they will be the last you utter through those foul teeth of yours.’

  The warriors on horseback drew their swords and started forth, but Iollan raised a restraining hand. ‘Enough!’ he said. ‘We have done what we came to do.’ To Conor, he said, ‘We are leaving now, but know this—Lord Corgan will host the airechtas at his ráth at Bennáel three days following the next full moon.’ He turned, walked to his horse, swung up onto its back, and, with a nod to his men, rode away.

  As soon as they had gone, Conor turned to Fergal and Donal. ‘Let’s talk.’

  Fergal called to Médon and said, ‘Continue with the training. We will join you in a moment.’ He followed Conor and Donal a few paces away where they would not be overheard.

  ‘What do we make of that?’ wondered Conor, watching the fianna resume their weapons practice.

  ‘High-handed rogues,’ replied Fergal. ‘If anyone should ask me.’

  ‘You were right to remind them, brother,’ suggested Donal, ‘we’ve been here for a goodly length of time, and only now do these lords find cause to object?’

  ‘Aye, and after all you did for them during the battle?’ He spat onto the ground. ‘Disgusting.’

  ‘They are worried,’ Donal pointed out.

  ‘About what?’ said Fergal. ‘What is there to worry about? We’re not doing anything now that we haven’t done from the beginning.’

  ‘We were just a few wandering warriors camped out on the hill when we began,’ Donal pointed out. ‘Now we are a fair-sized warband building a substantial settlement.’

  ‘Aye, so?’ wondered Fergal.

  ‘Our numbers continue to grow—and so, too, the threat in their eyes. We can no longer be conveniently ignored.’ Lifting a hand to the fianna spread across the practice field, Donal said, ‘We are a veritable tribe possessing what is soon to become—if not already—the largest warband in Eirlandia. I can well imagine that alone would be enough to make some of our brother lords anxious. Word of the fianna has reached all corners of the island. I doubt there is a Dé Danann clan that has not heard about what Conor and the fianna achieved on the night of the massacre. People talk, rumours grow. You know how it goes.’

  ‘Ach, well, if that is what worries these tepid lords, then they are right to worry,’ crowed Fergal. ‘Our warband is the equal of any and better than most.’ He looked to Conor and said, ‘Do you mean to attend this council of theirs?’

  Conor rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment and took his time answering. ‘Aye, I do. It would be good to go and clear the air. This is not like the Corgan I know. I’m thinking there must be more to it than what we’ve been told so far.’

  ‘A sad waste of time better spent here, if you ask me. They question your authority to ta
ke Tara, aye? Well, by what authority do they think to lay judgements on anyone? Answer me that.’

  ‘Fergal’s right,’ Donal agreed. ‘They have no authority over us, and you need not submit to their whims. Even so, might this be a chance to explain yourself—tell them what you plan to do here, show them you mean only good for the people and for Eirlandia.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Fergal, ‘show them you are not another Brecan Big Brócs come to trample on their tender toes.’

  ‘Poor dead Brecan wanted to be high king, so he did,’ continued Donal, ‘but even he did not dare seize the torc for himself. He knew he needed the support of his brother kings. So will you if you hope ever to live in peace on Tara Hill.’

  ‘Brecan allowed his reach to exceed his grasp, and it drove him to commit an act of pure insanity,’ Fergal pointed out. He squinted at Conor. ‘We would not like to see that happen to you, brother.’

  Conor smiled. ‘It may be that all kings are a little mad. An otherwise sane man would never take it on.’

  ‘So, are we going to this attend Corgan’s council?’ said Fergal.

  ‘Aye, we will—but not because these worried lords demand it.’

  ‘Nay?’

  ‘We go because it suits me,’ replied Conor. ‘And if our luck is with us we may be able to bend it to our purpose.’

  ‘Ach, but if you go at their bidding,’ Donal cautioned, ‘they will be seen to have authority over you. What is more, they will believe it.’

  ‘Then we must go and show them the folly of false belief,’ answered Conor. Shouldering his spear, he strode off to join the fianna at their training.

  Fergal watched him for a moment—so easy in his stride, so full of confidence, grace, and strength, untiring in the face of all the trials ranged against them and their grand scheme. He glanced at Donal and said, ‘He is a bit mad, you know.’

  ‘Aye, so he is,’ agreed Donal with a sigh. ‘But his heart is in the right place.’

  3

  ‘How soon must you leave?’ asked Aoife. It had been a long and eventful day—as each and every day had been since her arrival and marriage at Tara. This was her first opportunity to speak to him all day and, consequently, the first time she was hearing about the northern lords and their message.

  ‘We’ll not be leaving for some days yet,’ Conor told her. He pulled off his siarc and untied the laces of his brócs before shucking off his breecs and sliding under the woollen cloak they used as a coverlet for their low pallet of a bed.

  ‘I don’t see why you have to go at all.’ Aoife smoothed a hand over the slight swell of her belly. ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘No longer than is needful,’ Conor replied. ‘But I must go. We need the support of our neighbouring lords if we are to survive. And if they continue to harbour doubts and suspicions of any kind…’

  Conor saw the question in her eyes and continued, ‘Think of Liam—’

  ‘I would rather not.’

  ‘My brother did what he did out of fear.’

  ‘And jealousy,’ she added crisply. ‘Mostly jealousy.’

  ‘Aye, fear and jealousy. It is the same with many of the other lords—most of the other lords maybe, come to that. They fear the power that is flowing to me, and at the same time they are jealous of it.’

  ‘What if they refuse to listen? What if their minds are already made up?’

  ‘All the more reason I must go’—Conor took her fidgeting hand in his—‘and show them the error of their ways.’

  Aoife squeezed his hand. ‘You are meeting too many demands. You are dealing with so much—I would not say that I am worried for you, dear heart, but … there is only so much a man can bear, even you.’ She looked down at his hand and kneaded it gently. Conor raised his other hand and brushed her hair.

  ‘Aoife … I…’

  ‘You go and do what you must, but do not be too disappointed if these other kings do not fall over themselves in their haste to pledge their fealty. It may take time for them to get used to the idea and see the sense of what you propose.’

  ‘Wise words, lady wife,’ said Conor, kissing her. ‘But there is little time to spare. Summer moves on and harvest is still months away. We need supplies—and the sooner the better. We must make as many friends as possible.’

  Nine days later, beneath a high, bright windswept sky, Conor and his ardféne—consisting of Donal, Fergal, Médon, Galart, and Calbhan—set out for the airechtas at Bennáel. Leaving Diarmaid and the rest of the fianna to protect the settlement, they rode north. As the weather was fine and the day warm, they proceeded at a leisurely pace so that Conor could stop and speak to the clan chiefs and headmen of the little dúns and settlements they passed and offer a reminder to any who might forget what he and the fianna had done for them on the night of the massacre. He also wanted to stop and pay his regards to Cahir, and ask about the possibility of acquiring some horses for his ever-needy warband.

  Thus, through the tribal territories of the Brigantes, the Volunti, the Ulaid, and the Coriondi they travelled, receiving a mixed welcome at the places they visited. Some, like lords Cahir and Garbha, were glad to see them, and glad to know that such a large and skilled warband was abroad in the land, watching the borders, protecting them; but others, having heard about the settlement on Tara, were more guarded and suspicious of Conor’s intent.

  Nevertheless, Conor treated them all the same; without rancour or resentment, he reassured the doubters and encouraged the support of those who appeared more receptive. He told one and all that he was going to secure the agreement of a royal council summoned especially to approve the settlement at Tara.

  ‘The way you speak,’ Fergal pointed out as they left the yard of an Ulaid farming settlement, ‘it sounds as if these northern kings have already granted their approval of your plan.’

  ‘Our plan’ Conor reminded him. ‘What we do at Tara we do for everyone, for all Eirlandia.’

  Not to be put off, Fergal insisted, ‘You know what I mean. Do not pretend otherwise. And do not waste a moment thinking that Corgan and these northern kings—whoever they may be—have summoned you to grant you the golden torc of kingship. They mean to pluck your wing feathers lest you fly too high.’

  ‘And is it that you think I do not know this already that you tell me such a thing?’ replied Conor. ‘Hear me, brother. This airechtas will become our triumph.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘Ach, well we will be no worse off than we are now.’

  Donal, riding at Conor’s left hand, had been listening to this discussion and spoke up. ‘Even if they agree to tolerate a settlement at Tara, that doesn’t mean the contrary lords will aid us in any way.’

  ‘Perhaps not at once—’

  ‘Perhaps not at all,’ said Donal. ‘Not now. Not ever.’

  Conor thought for a moment, gazing at the rising trail ahead as if seeing into the future with Donal’s second sight. ‘They will,’ he said at last. ‘When it comes down to the question of who raises a ráth on Tara Hill—a choice between me or Balor Evil Eye—I expect they will choose me.’

  Nothing more was said about the airechtas then, or the next day as their meandering northward journey continued.

  The weather sweetened as summer deepened across the land, allowing them to camp beneath the stars and the slowly waxing moon. In glades and beside loughs, or at woodland borders, Conor and his ardféne gathered around generous campfires for simple meals and travellers’ tales. Conor, Donal, and Fergal, having brought their faéry weapons with them, told about their sojourn among the Tylwyth Teg in the Region of the Summer Stars, and described life in Lord Gwydion’s court in a way that held the other three spellbound. The bonds of brotherhood were strengthened; old ties to their former tribes further loosened and fell away. No one felt the loss at all. They only saw that, in Conor, they had a lord right worthy of their service and devotion. Once away from the constant demands of the builders and provisioners, Conor began to relax somewhat; he breathed e
asier, slept more soundly.

  In this way, Conor and his modest escort arrived at Bennaél, the principal stronghold of Lord Corgan in the rough, wooded craggy hills of north-central Eirlandia. The ancestral lands of the Eridani spread in a wide band west and a little south of Conor, Fergal, and Donal’s childhood home at Dúnaird—a region of the island Scálda raids had not yet penetrated.

  So far as Conor knew, his father and Corgan had once enjoyed a neighbourly respect for one another. That friendship had faded over time, ending with Ardan’s death in the Tara massacre. But now that he was here, Conor hoped he might find a way to rekindle some of that neighbourly regard. The travellers arrived near midday and dismounted a little way off; Médon, Calbhan, and Galart waited with the horses while Conor, Donal, and Fergal approached the fortress on foot. They were met at the gate by a square-jawed, muscular fellow with a bull neck, heavy shoulders, and a shock of black hair swept back and bound in a tight braid at the side of his head. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a red siarc and matching breecs; a torc of burnished copper gleamed dully at his throat. Standing with him were two other warriors—young men of similar age, size, and appearance—and all three seemed genuinely pleased to see their visitors.

  ‘Welcome to Bennaél,’ called the warrior, striding forward to take Conor by the arms in the warrior’s greeting. ‘Truly, Lord Conor, I am glad to meet you at last. We did not know if you would come at all—especially since…’ His voice trailed off awkwardly.

  The fair-haired warrior standing next to him spoke up. ‘We have heard what you did on the night of the Tara massacre. It is an honour to offer hospitality to you and your men these next few days.’

  ‘It is my hope that our time here will be well spent,’ Conor said, somewhat taken aback by the effusive welcome. He introduced Donal and Fergal to the three Eridani and said, ‘I was expecting to meet Lord Corgan.’

  ‘I am Fáelán, Lord Corgan’s son,’ announced the warrior. ‘And these are my friends Docha and Irél.’ The two touched the back of their hands to their foreheads in formal acknowledgement of Conor’s rank, and then the one called Irél blurted, ‘Aye, we heard what you did on the night of the massacre. No less than a hero feat. It was the saving of many.’