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

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘And they’re all to come here? How many?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  Conor thanked his hearth master and then turned back to the board, shaking his head slowly as the news sank in. ‘So now, the brehons are coming here—’

  ‘And Vainche,’ said Fergal. ‘And the other lords as well.’

  ‘We’ll have a job of work to do to make everything ready,’ said Donal. ‘Lughnasadh is not so long away.’

  They fell to discussing all the necessary preparations and how everything should be ordered to receive the high druids and lords. Later, when Conor told Aoife the news, she said, ‘Aye, it will mean a deal of work to feed and house them all. But it is only right and fitting. After all, a judgement as important as this should be held here in full sight of everyone—not hidden away in some dank old druid grove where no one ever goes. To have it here is a subtle acknowledgement of Tara’s past and future. All Eirlandia will see how treachery is repaid and all will know the judgement was fair and just.’

  ‘It seems you and Rónán are of the same mind,’ Conor said. ‘Though a fella could wish more of our building works were finished. There is still so much to do.’

  ‘Ach, then why are you dallying here?’ She gave him a push to send him on his way. ‘On your way and do some work!’ Conor rose from the edge of the raised pallet where she reclined with the infant Ciara sound asleep. He paused at the door to their bower and Aoife blew him a kiss as he stepped out.

  In the yard once more, Conor saw Médon, Calbhan, and Aedd coming from the stable, leading three of the new Brigantes horses down to the plain to test the extent of their training. ‘I heard there was a messenger…,’ called Médon, as Conor strode to meet them. He took one look at the expression on Conor’s face and said, ‘What did I miss?’

  23

  Over the next weeks, preparing for the Ard Airechtas became the preoccupation of most everyone at Tara. With much of the settlement still in various stages of construction, and the settlement’s first harvest to be gathered in, there was nearly everything to be done. The farmers worked the flocks and fields, the carpenters pressed on with the urgent building work, the women made ale and cheese and prepared food to store against the coming demand, and the warriors—when they were not riding the borders and scouting the surrounding territories for Scálda incursions—took on chores Donal found for them, lending a hand wherever a hand was needed. Almost every conversation turned into a discussion of how best to feed and house the high-ranking druids, lords, and kings and their advisors who were expected to attend this once-in-a-lifetime gathering.

  Dearg took on the task of making certain the food and drink would be ready, Fergal kept the warriors dutifully occupied, and that left Conor to ponder how and where to house everyone. The lord of Tara was most often seen in the company of his ail-duinn, Donal, as the two inspected the building work to see which of the new structures could be readied soon enough to receive their eminent guests.

  As the days dwindled down to Lughnasadh, Tara’s busy pace doubled, and then doubled again: pigs, sheep, and cattle were slaughtered and carcasses dressed and hung; the sweet heather ale that had been brewed was put in casks and tuns, and the fermented honey mead poured into jars and sealed; mounds of reeds and rushes for rooftops and floor coverings were cut and trundled up from surrounding marshes and riverbanks; seasoned firewood was split and stacked, and fire rings prepared; new bowers were erected and sleeping pallets fashioned; fleeces and linens were washed and aired; additional boards and benches were set up in the hall and the long boards hard scrubbed with lough sand; all this, and more, occupied the various work parties from first light to last. If this was not enough, the harvest labour in the fields continued unabated as ripe grain was cut and the sheaves were stacked to dry for threshing and winnowing. Warriors, when they were not busy with other chores, roamed the surrounding woods and forests for game to stock the larders.

  Then, four days before Lughnasadh, one of the scouts watching the northeastern borders came pounding into the yard to announce that druids had been sighted and were on their way. Conor dispatched an escort and then hurried to his bower to make ready to receive them. He stood fidgeting with a fold of his cloak while Aoife’s nimble fingers renewed the braid of his hair. ‘We have done all we can to prepare,’ Aoife told him. ‘The lords and brehons must take us as they find us.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Conor agreed with a sigh.

  Aoife finished braiding his hair and gave him an affectionate pat to let him know he was ready. ‘We will hope for the best,’ she advised, deftly attending to her own braid. ‘Anyway, it does no one any good to be all sulky and broody about it.’

  ‘Sulky and broody, am I?’ Conor spun around, caught her about the waist, and pulled her to him. ‘I will have you know that I am the most pleasant and sunny fella you would ever hope to meet.’

  ‘The most boastful, to be sure.’

  Conor tightened his embrace and gave her a kiss. ‘There,’ he said when they broke for air, ‘now you have something to boast about, too.’

  Aoife laughed and pushed him away; she snatched up the sleeping Ciara and, bundling the infant into a fold of her cloak, said, ‘Let us go and welcome our first arrivals.’

  As soon as they were sighted, Fergal had sent a body of warriors to escort them—an antique courtesy practiced but rarely anymore, and then only for the most distinguished, valued, or esteemed guests. Songs and tales of elder times told how a tribe showed its respect for special visitors by going out to meet them while they were still far off, and then bringing them into the ráth or settlement.

  The brehons appeared to appreciate this traditional courtesy and, surrounded by their armed bodyguard, arrived like the lords they were: lords of law and lore, members of a noble caste whose least utterance was to be obeyed. There were already a fair number of people assembled in the yard and most of these had never seen a brehon other than, perhaps, Rónán, but every last tribesman knew with a certainty bordering on dread that these men held the fate of Eirlandia and all its people in their hands.

  There were nine of them: five long-bearded men of august age, and one of these very advanced in years; two women of middling age; and two younger druid lords, and one of these was Rónán, who led the delegation into the yard. All wore cloaks and long mantles dyed in the rich greens of field and forest, or the subtle greys of sky and stormy seas, and each carried a large cloth satchel embroidered with intricate spirals and knotwork; their brócs were well-made, tall, and laced high. The men wore wide belts of fine leather tanned and tooled and, some of them, studded with silver stars or shells; the women wore red girdles with long trailing tails and tiny silver bells on the tasselled ends. Each carried a long rowan staff topped with caps of silver or gold in the shape of wings, or horns, or the head of an animal. Accompanying the high-ranking druids were several ovates and a filidh or two to act as servants, and these came leading pack ponies laden with bags of provisions.

  At first sight of Conor, Rónán slid down from his mount and strode across the yard to address his brother. To embrace him might have given the appearance of favouritism and thereby violated brehon practice requiring them to remain impartial in the hearing of cases and the application of the law. Nevertheless, he greeted Conor and Aoife warmly and, leaning close, said, ‘Good news, Conor! Eoghan, our chief brehon, will conduct the Airechtas. Not only that, several of the highest-ranking ollamhs and filidh in all Eirlandia are here as well. The judgement of a king does not happen very often, so many were eager to view such a rare event.’

  Then, mindful that his superiors were watching, Rónán straightened and, adopting a solemn air, proceeded to introduce his superiors to the Lord of Tara. He led Conor to where the druids had dismounted and now stood waiting to be formally welcomed. They stopped before a hunched and wizened figure and, with a gesture of reverence, Rónán announced in a voice loud enough for all the onlookers to hear, ‘Lord Conor, it is my privilege to present to you Eoghan, our wise h
ead and chief of the brehons in Eirlandia. He will be leading the Ard Airechtas through to its conclusion.’

  Rónán gave a bow of deference to the old man, who turned a keen, eagle-like gaze on Conor and said, ‘I have long followed your winding and wayward path, Lord Conor, and pleased as I am to meet you in the flesh at last, I must say you are not at all what I expected.’

  Conor, uncertain how to take this, merely smiled and said, ‘Most learned Eoghan, you honour us with your presence. Trust that my people and I will do all we can to make your sojourn here comfortable and productive.’

  The old man released Conor’s gaze and looked around as if taking in his surroundings for the first time. ‘It has been many years since I was last here. I was an ollamh and advisor to King Amargin in those days. There was a great Oenach here. Lords from every tribe came. It lasted a month and an entire herd of cattle were slaughtered.’ He took in the new hall and the ramshackle assemblage of temporary dwellings that still claimed the greater portion of the yard. ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Then you will have noticed that we’ve made a few changes,’ Conor replied. ‘I hope you’ll approve.’

  ‘A king must do what is necessary for the welfare of his people whether I approve or not,’ Eoghan replied.

  ‘I am not a king,’ Conor told him. ‘One day, perhaps, but that day has not yet come.’

  ‘I don’t see that it matters overmuch,’ sniffed the druid chief, then, fixing Conor once more with a keen dark eye, asked, ‘How are you in yourself?’

  Conor spread his hands and replied, ‘I am as you see me.’

  The old brehon merely nodded. ‘I’m not at all sure what it is that I am seeing,’ he said. Unaccountably, Conor felt his face begin to warm and tingle and Rónán, seeing his brother momentarily discomfited, stepped in. ‘There are others waiting to meet you, Conor. If our wise head will allow me—’

  Eoghan waved them away and then moved on to greet Aoife, Donal, and others of the welcoming party. Noticing his alarmed look, Rónán gave Conor a pat on the back and an encouraging nod and smile as if to say, Well done.

  Next came brehons Brádoch, Eithne—the senior of the two female druids—and Bráonán in turn. These three, Rónán explained, would serve as principal aides to Eoghan and would be supported by the remaining brehons: Orlagh, Targes, Nolán, and Durien. All four were suitably austere and spare in their greeting. Only Orlagh, the other banfaíth, allowed the barest hint of a smile, and that was reserved for Aoife and tiny Ciara.

  Rónán steered Conor through greeting the ollamhs and several of the filidh he knew well. They all maintained a polite but definite distance, which might have been construed as unfriendliness if Rónán had not explained as soon as they were finished. ‘From the moment they entered the yard, they will be wary of having their impartiality compromised by any sentiment—kindly as it may be,’ he told Conor as they walked to the hall.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘They fear their liking for you will cloud their judgement.’

  ‘They like my Conor?’ wondered Aoife, taking her place at Conor’s side. ‘Ach so, they hide it very well.’

  ‘But they know nothing about me,’ Conor said, ‘for all we’ve only just set eyes on one another.’

  Rónán chuckled. ‘Never underestimate them. They know more about you than you imagine.’

  The party moved into the hall to share the welcome cup—a short, rather subdued affair, owing to the age and travel fatigue of the guests. The ritual observed, the brehons were shown to their lodgings and the residents of Tara returned to their manifold chores in readying the settlement for the gathering. Later in the day, Lord Laegaire of the Laigini and three advisors arrived and were greeted in similar fashion. By the time Conor finally drew off his siarc and breecs, he declared himself exhausted by all the meeting and greeting. ‘And Lughnasadh is still three days away!’ he complained as he collapsed into bed.

  ‘Shh!’ hushed Aoife, cradling her infant. ‘You’ll be waking Ciara with your moaning and then no one will get any sleep.’

  Conor admitted she was probably right, settled back, and soon drifted off, caressing his daughter’s downy head.

  24

  The morning sun had scarce quartered the sky before the last arrivals reached Tara for the high council. First to be received and welcomed was the Concani king, Lord Toráin; he was accompanied by his battlechief and two advisors. A little later, Lord Aengus of the Cauci made his appearance; in his party were five advisors—three of them warriors who had been present at the Mag Cró defeat.

  Last to arrive was Lord Vainche. Not satisfied with travelling in the company of an advisor or two like his brother kings, he entered Mag Coinnem in regal pomp with a full complement of supporters and servants. In a show of power and as a personal affront and humiliation for Conor, he led Lord Liam and a small Darini contingent as well. Like a conquering hero, with flags and banners flying and ranks of mounted warriors and a bevy of advisors, the Brigantes king set up camp on the plain, pitching tents, lighting fires, and erecting picket lines. He did not deign to join his brother kings up on Tara Hill, but remained aloof, inviting those he considered his client kings to attend him in his camp, where they would be entertained and given food and drink and gifts to reinforce their fealty.

  The next day, Vainche proceeded to host a Lughnasadh feast and entertain any who would come to a lavish meal and celebration down on the plain. Sounds of revelry could be heard from the camp—gales of laughter and lusty loud singing—all the way to the top of the hill and far into the night.

  As dawn broke on Lughnasadh morning, the druids assembled to observe a rite to mark the day. There would be no festival at Tara—no feast, no races, no contests of strength and skill, no dancing; the Ard Airechtas had assumed that place. Instead, the druids made a simple obeisance to the day. As the first rays of sun streamed forth, the banfaíth Eithne kindled fire in a golden bowl using shredded birch bark and a piece of crystal fashioned for the task. Then, taking three stems of harvested grain, she tied them together with three leaves from the stems, and fed this bundle into the flames while a filidh played the harp and Banfaíth Orlagh sang a song to Danu and her daughters. When that concluded, Nolán, a brehon of high rank, took up a loaf of bread—freshly baked and marked with the sun sign—and made a sunwise circle three times around the golden bowl of flames. Elevating the round loaf to the new-risen sun, he chanted an invocation to Lugh, god of warriors, craftsmen, and druids, to sain and bless the year ahead for the protection and prosperity of all who would share in the harvest. Another song was sung and the observance concluded. The little crowd of watchers dispersed and began preparations for the momentous day ahead.

  The boards had been removed from the hall and set up in the yard, and here the lords and their advisors assembled to break fast. While they were eating, Lord Vainche came thundering into the yard. Having galloped up from the plain, he and his retinue reined to a halt only a few paces from the board, scattering the serving boys and girls tending the tables, and disrupting everyone else. Arrayed in royal finery with his hair neatly braided and moustache trimmed, his golden torc burnished bright and gold bracelets on both arms, his cloak and siarc and breecs immaculate, he sat for a moment enjoying the splash his arrival had made. Then, laughing, he climbed down from his horse and strode to the nearest board and took up a cup, drained it, and slammed it down. Gioll, his hulking battlechief, swaggered with the others in his retinue to the board and insinuated themselves in among the diners.

  Fergal, standing with Conor and Donal at the door to the hall, gave a snort of derision. ‘Smug as a swine in swill—look at him. Lord of Lughnasadh in the flesh! Everybody bow down and kiss his feet. Ha! And here I was thinking he would run away like the craven coward he truly is.’

  Although newly shaved, his hair brushed and braided, his cloak clean and neatly folded, Conor wore his ordinary breecs and siarc, and his well-worn belt and brócs. The Ard Airechtas was no place to be flaunting the im
pressive garments given him by the faéry—lest anyone accuse him of trying to rise above himself. Conor took one look at the preening, pretentious Vainche fawning over the druids and, his crimson birthmark itching, turned disgusted from the spectacle. As the stable master and his boys came running to lead the horses away, Conor stepped into the hall to see that all had been made ready.

  He paused a moment just inside the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light within, then entered to find that everything had been rearranged to accommodate the council. Every available bench, chair, and stool the settlement possessed, with a fair few wool bags included, had been moved into the hall and arranged in a large circle around the central hearth, cold now save for the slowly cooling embers of last night’s fire. The rest of the hall was empty to allow more room for all the participants.

  Conor was still standing there when the first of the gathering’s participants entered the hall. Five of the brehons and several of the ollamhs moved to the nine chairs grouped together on one side of the hearth, followed by a few of the filidh and ovates, who took up places standing behind them. Rónán came next, leading lords Aengus, Laegaire, and Toráin, whom he directed to wool sacks on the right side of the hearth. Lord Morann and Ruadh, his battlechief, took places beside them; of the three already there, only Laegaire acknowledged their presence. Aengus, a frown fixed firmly on his broad, battle-scarred face, stared straight ahead, giving every impression of a man dragged there against his will.

  Chief Brehon Eoghan was next to arrive; he entered the hall with his long staff in one hand and his oversized sparán in the other. Trailing him were Eithne and Orlagh; Eithne took her place at the druid chief’s right hand, with Brádoch seated on his left. As soon as they were settled, Eoghan passed his staff to Orlagh, who took her place behind his chair surrounded by the higher-ranking ollamhs and filidh. The ovates filled in among them where they could find a space.