‘Nothing but work from sun to sun,’ Fergal told him, grinning. ‘But it keeps us trim and ready—eh, Donal?’
‘So it does,’ agreed Donal. ‘Though it appears the soft life has claimed another volunteer in you, brother.’ He slapped the Darini battlechief on the back. ‘I have never seen you looking so fat and happy.’
‘Not so, not so,’ protested Eamon. ‘I am fair run out of my brócs keeping the warband fighting fit. Our horses are another matter. We lost four foal last winter and two stallions have come up lame. We’re trying to find some—’
‘Enough!’ growled Liam, glaring at them. ‘Gabbling like old women at the well.’ To Conor, he said, ‘Do not expect to gain anything from our kinship, brother mine. You will not receive any consideration from me.’
Conor smiled grimly and shook his head. ‘Remind me, Liam, when have I ever received any kindly consideration from you?’
Liam grunted and, snatching up the reins, led his horse away; he proceeded to the hall, where he was met by Lord Corgan and his advisors. ‘Pleasant as the day is long,’ muttered Fergal. ‘I hope our man Corgan keeps a second guest lodge. I don’t think I can sleep beneath the same roof with Liam.’
‘Nay, not so,’ scoffed Donal, ‘you could sleep beneath the same roof with a herd of wild pigs and never stir a muscle.’
‘Ach, well, I would rather sleep with wild pigs than anywhere that fella lays his head.’
Conor watched the reception his brother received from the Eridani king; it was both cordial and warm—intimate, even, an amiable exchange between two close friends—and it set Conor’s teeth on edge. Turning away from the display of mutual regard, he said, ‘I’ve seen enough.’ With that, he stumped back to the guest lodge.
The meal that night was an awkward affair; Liam did his best to annoy Conor, and Conor pretended not to notice the slights and slurs his brother tossed his way. The next day was no better. Throughout the morning and into midday, other kings and lords arrived and to a man gave Conor a tepid greeting or ignored him altogether. When the last lord arrived, Lord Corgan announced a feast to mark the beginning of the airechtas—as if this was an event to be celebrated.
And a celebration it was, but one designed to impress those in attendance, not to fête them. A number of long boards and benches had been set up near the entrance to the hall. Out in the yard, several fire rings had been made and over the largest of them an entire ox sizzled on an iron spit tended by two cooks; stripped to the waist, one of the men turned the slowly roasting carcass while the other laved hot drippings over the meat with an enormous long-handled ladle. Silver smoke rose into the balmy evening air, filling the yard with a mouthwatering aroma. Elsewhere, members of the tribe were placing platters of bread and lobes of soft cheese on the tables, while others were busy setting up tripods for the ale vats and mead.
Médon and Galart, walking slightly ahead of Conor and the others, halted midstep to gawk at the display. ‘Tonight we eat like kings,’ said Galart, and Calbhan voiced similar sentiments. Conor, overhearing this, said, ‘How many kings do you know who eat like this of an evening? Make no mistake, what you see before you is intended to win your approval and, with it, your allegiance. Take advantage of Corgan’s generous provision. Eat and drink to your heart’s content, but do not for a moment forget why we have come. Guard your tongues. Say nothing to anyone you would not care to have repeated in the council tomorrow. If you cannot do that, then take yourself back to the guest lodge and stay there.’
‘Never fear, lord, Fergal told us what we might expect,’ Médon assured him, and the others murmured their agreement. ‘Aye,’ agreed Galart, ‘we know well enough when hands are turned against us.’
‘Then by all means enjoy the food,’ Conor told them, ‘and make friends for yourselves among the Eridani warband if you can. Prince Fáelán seems an amiable sort. You might start there.’
The ardféne trooped off together, heading directly for the ale tubs with Fergal close behind. Conor and Donal stood for a moment longer, surveying the activity from across the yard. Several of the lords who had arrived earlier in the day already had cups in their fists; Lord Corgan moved among the newcomers, chatting pleasantly, while serving boys circulated, filling cups with ale or mead from jars. Other guests—noblemen and their advisors—were drifting into the yard, drawn by the ale and roasting meat. Conor surveyed the group standing with the Eridani king and said, ‘Speaking of friends, which of these before us do you think we might count on for a good word?’
‘Aside from our gracious host’s watchdog Iollan, I don’t see anyone I recognise,’ Donal replied. ‘I’m thinking these are lords new-made following the massacre.’
Conor conceded that this was probably so, and said, ‘You may be right—which means they may not have had time to become hardened in their views and may yet respond to a little friendly persuasion. Brother, let us see what can be accomplished with the aid of an overflowing ale jar.’
The two made their way to where King Corgan was standing with a group of men; Corgan glanced around at their approach and, beaming a broad smile, declared, ‘Join us! Join us and raise a cup—’ He snapped his fingers at a passing serving boy. ‘Here now, cups for our friends.’
Iollan, coming up just then, plucked vessels from the nearby board, and took them to the vat to fill them. Meanwhile, Corgan introduced the three newcomers to the other two lords standing with him and asked if they had met one another before. They had not, so he undertook to make the introductions all around.
‘I would have you meet Lord Aengus of the Cauci, our neighbours to the east.’ Corgan indicated a stocky young man with narrow eyes and a dense thatch of black hair; a livid scar pulled down the right side of his mouth and creased his chin.
‘Excuse me for saying it, but that scar looks new,’ said Conor after greeting the lord. ‘Did I see you fighting alongside me at Tara?’ he asked.
Lord Aengus grumbled a terse response and Conor introduced him to Donal.
Next, Corgan turned to the lord on his right—another young nobleman who, judging from the sparse moustache sprouting from his upper lip, was not long accustomed to the razor. Putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, Corgan said, ‘And this is Lord Torna of the Volunti. But I think you may know one another already?’
Before Conor could respond, Torna said, ‘Ach, I know him well enough—by repute, mind. We have never met.’ The young lord fixed Conor with a hard gaze. ‘It seems Conor mac Ardan here has lured away some of the best of my warband to join this fianna of his.’
Corgan raised a quizzical brow and looked to Conor. ‘Can this be true?’
‘It is true that a few Volunti have joined the fianna,’ affirmed Conor, ‘though I cannot recall luring anyone. Like the others in my warband, they came to us of their own accord—as I think friend Torna must know.’
The young lord bristled at this. ‘Do you call me liar to my face?’
Conor put on a conciliatory smile and said, ‘We have drawn many warriors to our number. I do not always know the reasons why they come, or the circumstances of their leaving. If you find yourself aggrieved by this, I am sure we can come to an understanding.’
Donal, watching this exchange, spoke up. ‘Might it be that your swordbrothers left the Volunti warband before you began your reign?’
‘Aye,’ affirmed the young man. ‘What so?’
Conor saw what Donal was hinting at. ‘Would I be much mistaken to suggest that it was your father who gave Diarmaid and the others leave to join my fianna?’ he asked. ‘I suspect his decision does not sit as well with you as it did with him.’
‘You have cut to the quick there,’ replied Torna. ‘If those men had not abandoned their king, he would still be alive today.’
‘King Macha lost his life in the Tara massacre,’ said Corgan.
‘As did many another valiant nobleman that night,’ said Conor. ‘Full sorry I am to hear it. You must have heard that I also lost my father?’
The
Volunti lord’s manner became guarded. ‘I had not heard that,’ he muttered.
Lord Aengus, who had been following this exchange closely, spoke up, saying, ‘I heard Conor abandoned his father and the Darini warband and fled to the hilltop to escape being trapped on the plain.’
The ruby birthmark quickened on Conor’s cheek. He swung his gaze to the Cauci lord. Was this what people are saying about me?
‘That never happened, friend,’ said Donal, his voice low and laced with menace. ‘It would not bear repeating.’
Iollan returned with two overflowing cups for Conor and Donal; Corgan passed them out. ‘Ach, well, we all know there was a great deal of confusion at the time. Errors were made. Such is the nature of battle. On that, I think we can all agree.’ He gestured for a nearby serving boy to bring the jar for Aengus and Torna. ‘Fill your cups and enjoy this night,’ urged Corgan, trying to lighten the mood. ‘We are all friends here.’
As the jars were being poured, Corgan looked across the yard to where Liam, Eamon, and another nobleman were just then entering the yard from the warriors’ house. ‘Here are Liam and Vainche to join us. Excuse me, I must go welcome them.’
Leaving his guests to a chilly silence, the Eridani king moved off to greet the late arrivals. Conor and Donal tried to engage the two northern nobles in conversation about the state of this year’s crops and cattle, hoping to coax them into a more affable outlook. The Cauci king, Aengus, made a few halfhearted attempts at pleasantry; from the Volunti lord, Torna, they received only grunts. All the while, Conor kept his eye on Liam and Vainche, who, even from a distance, he could see were already snugly wrapped in one another’s esteem. As always, Vainche—the haughty usurper of the Brigantes throne—was richly and immaculately turned out in a fine new siarc and breecs of gold-threaded cloth; a bone-handled long knife was tucked into a wide leather belt ornamented with silver disks. Liam had arrayed himself in like fashion—in clothes Conor suspected of having come as gifts from his new patron king.
In the end, the effort to chivvy along the cheerless lords became too taxing and Conor abandoned the attempt. He made a lame excuse and then extricated himself from their company. Donal refilled his cup and followed. They found a relatively quiet place at the end of one of the long boards and paused to sip their drinks and reflect. Donal said, ‘Well, that was a rough scramble up a steep hill.’ He glanced at Conor. ‘What do you think?’
Conor, his cup raised to his lips, took a long draught and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘What do I think?’ He looked across the yard to where Liam, Vainche, and Corgan were now head-to-head in conversation. ‘I think it’s going to be a long night.’
‘Aye,’ sighed Donal, ‘and an even longer day tomorrow.’
Rhiannon
The bards of Tír nan Óg tell of a place unlike any other—an island in the western sea, far beyond the horizon of the setting sun. When I was a child I listened to the tales of this wondrous place and my heart burned within me with longing. The faéry folk of old, they told me, knew it as Í Ban. Some know it still as Ynys Gwyn, or even Hí Béo, the Blessed Isle. Though the names drift and change through the ages, the one that comes nearest to revealing the true nature of the place, and the best of them to my ears, is Tír Tairngire, the Land of Promise. Now, it may be that the stories about this mystical island realm number almost as many as those who tell them, few there are who have ever seen the island. Fewer still, those who have travelled there—for the reason that no one who sets foot upon those storied shores ever returns.
This, as the bards say, is the way of it:
In the elder time, when the dew of creation was still fresh on the ground, there were two men, kinsmen and cousins, Nuada and Gofannon. As the day was good and the sea bright and calm, Nuada went down to the shore and readied his boat. His cousin happened along a short while later and said, ‘What—and are you going fishing without me?’
‘Never say it,’ replied Nuada. ‘Here I was, hoping for good company. My boat is fair, as you can see—with two red sails and a stout rudder of yew and a mast of ash. There is room enough in the boat for two and for all the fish that we shall catch this day. Will you come with me then?’
‘Aye, and here was I thinking you would never ask,’ said Gofannon, ‘If you cast your nets for sweet herring, I am your man.’
Together they readied the rudder and rigging, loaded a basket containing their food and drink for the day, and pushed the boat out into the gently lapping surf. The breeze was light and the boat lighter still for all it rode high on the waves like a feather. Out they went, beyond the cove and headland to where the sea grows deep and the fish big and fat. They dropped the net and waited to see what their luck would bring. Many things might have happened—a trove of silver herrings, a clutch of juicy mackerel, or a speckled sea trout or two—but none of those things transpired.
Instead, the lines grew taut and strained against the ties and, thinking they had drifted into a shoal of sand eels, they began hauling on the ropes. They heaved and pulled, the two of them together, but the net was too heavy. More than that—the net continued to strain against their pulling. More than that, the ropes remained taut and the boat began to move. And more than that, the boat swung about and was soon breasting the waves with a swift and wonderful speed.
Here was a thing neither Nuada nor Gofannon had ever encountered, and something no fisherman ever desires: his small boat overtaken by a force he can neither see nor control.
‘I think we have snagged a great turtle,’ shouted Nuada.
‘Nay, cousin,’ replied Gofannon. ‘No turtle is so big that it can pull a boat under sail. It must be something larger—a very whale at least!’
‘Turtle, whale, or something else,’ cried Nuada, ‘we are going out to sea!’
‘We must cut the lines!’ called Gofannon and, drawing his knife, he leaned over the side of the boat and began sawing at the nearest rope. Alas! His luck was not with him, for his hand became wet and the hilt slipped from his hand and fell into the emerald-tinted deep. He saw the brazen glint spinning down away from him and knew their fortune was sealed.
He gulped and gasped and turned to Nuada, saying, ‘Cousin, my knife is gone and the rope still uncut. Your knife must finish the chore.’
‘That would be a grand thing, to be sure,’ replied Nuada as he collapsed upon the tiller bench. ‘Had I so much as a fruit knife in my belt that rope would be severed even now.’
‘What manner of seafarer puts out from shore without a knife?’ wondered Gofannon.
‘Well you might ask,’ sighed Nuada. ‘It was thinking of all the fine fish we were to get that drove all else from my mind.’
‘Then we must untie the ropes and cast them over,’ said his kinsman. ‘Lend a hand and we’ll soon put this right.’
But that was not to be. For the lines were stretched so tightly that, try as they might, they could not pull hard enough to gain so much as a thumb-width of slack to untie even one of the braided cords and there were four of them, and all four taut as bowstrings. They worked until their hands were chafed and red and sore, but it was no use. They could not free the net from the creature they had caught, and which had now caught them.
Over the white-topped waves they flew, over the broad and furrowed face of the briny deep; up and up, over the hillcrests of sea swells and down, down again plumbing the depths of the surging troughs. The earth and stone and verdant woodlands of their homeland receded behind them, growing small and then smaller until fading away in the blue-misted distance. And still they flew!
As the sun hovered high overhead, the two hapless sailors grew tired and took it in turn to sleep a little now and then; while one slept, the other watched the horizon always in the hope of seeing another boat or ship they might hail to their help. But all they saw was the sun-bright sea and the flying flecks of white seabirds wheeling in the salt-scented air. Over the boundless whale tracks and porpoise fields, over the wave-worried vastness the little boat
ran westward, ever westward, always westward.
At long last, there appeared a dark smudge on the far horizon. ‘Smoke!’ cried Gofannon, waking his sleeping cousin. ‘Where there’s smoke, there is surely fire.’
‘And where there is a fire, there is surely land,’ said Nuada. ‘We are saved!’
Both men watched eagerly and what they imagined to be smoke gradually assumed the form of a cloud-shrouded mountain in the middle of the sea. Closer and ever closer, they soon saw that the mountain was the high promontory of a large island—an island like no other they had ever seen. As they drew nearer, they saw lush green hills flecked with white sheep and goats and cattle, and long stretches of golden sand fronting sparkling blue waters, and tall spreading trees, and clean rushing streams. All they saw was fair beyond anything they had ever known. Indeed, every good thing desirable for a happy life was on that island and the two weary sailors cheered themselves that if they did not know what land they had come to, at least it was a fine and gladsome place.
The boat sped ever nearer and entered a wide and sheltered bay where shoals of fish sported in the shallow water. Here the boat—or the creature pulling the boat—slowed and as they neared the wave-lapped shore, a group of people appeared. Tall and elegant they were, graceful in every feature, richly dressed in sumptuous clothes of many colours. They came down to the water’s edge and lifted up their hands.
Gofannon and Nuada, delighted to see other human faces after their long, mysterious voyage, raised their hands, too, and called out a polite greeting and asked, ‘What place is this?’ To which the answer came by way of a dark-haired woman wearing a torc of gold and six wide bracelets of heavy gold.
In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Page 5
