‘This was not in Eirlandia, I think.’
‘Nay, lady, it was in Tír nan Óg.’
‘The Land of the Everliving,’ the queen said thoughtfully. ‘A place only spoken of in druid tales.’ Sceana’s eyes narrowed for a moment as she weighed his words. Then, abandoning the attempt, she looked away. Conor brought the buttered loaf to his mouth, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully, trying to assess the queen’s attitude toward him—which was not easy owing to her much-subdued demeanour.
‘Did he suffer?’ she asked. ‘My lord and husband, I mean—was there much pain in the end?’
‘There was not. Indeed, I do not think he fully knew what had happened.’ This last part was not completely true, but near enough. ‘I heartily wish I could have saved him—and Cethern, too. I tried. You must believe me, lady—I did try. We were but two blades against a dozen or more. There were just too many against us. I believe Balor intended to murder us all from the beginning. There was never to be any survivors that night.’
‘Balor?’ she asked, her voice flat with disbelief. ‘Balor Evil Eye? He was there, you say?’
‘He was. For a fact, he was,’ affirmed Conor, regarding her curiously. ‘Did you not know that?’
Sceana gave a slight shake of her head and turned her face away. ‘There were many things I did not know, it seems. I know the rumours … still, I dared hope…’
After a moment, she looked back again and Conor saw not displeasure scrawled upon her features, but desperation. Moreover, her tone and deportment had changed utterly. ‘Conor,’ she said softly, almost pleading, ‘what am I going to do?’
The change was so sudden, it took Conor aback.
‘My husband has left us in such turmoil,’ she continued, lowering her head to gaze helplessly at her lap, ‘and I don’t know what to do about … about any of it.’ Her voice quivered on the edge of tears. ‘Each day that passes, I learn of some new charge or allegation, some fresh condemnation to lay against my husband’s name.’
Conor did not know what to say to this, so merely offered, ‘He was a man of great ambition, to be sure.’
‘Ambition?’ she scoffed angrily. ‘We both know better. He was a prideful and self-serving fool, a bully with grandiose notions of his own eminence and importance. And where has it led? Where? It has led him to an early grave and his people to ruin.’ She thrust out a hand to Conor. ‘I set an honour price for his murder—did you know?’
Conor shook his head. ‘I heard nothing about it.’
‘Twenty pounds of gold and forty pounds of silver,’ she said, disdain making her voice harsh, ‘a hundred horses, fifty hounds, and ten young hostages. Honour price? Call it a dishonour price for that is closer the mark.’
‘A high price, indeed,’ mused Conor, ‘even for a king. Why set such an exalted value if that is the way you feel?’
The queen tossed back her head. ‘Look around you, friend. This fortress, this Aintrén is looked upon by many as the jewel in the ring of Eirlandia. But our tribe is large and we have long lived beyond our ability to supply our needs through our own efforts. In short, we depend on the tribute of our client lords—and the costs grow ever higher.’
‘A large warband to supply the protection you have promised,’ said Conor.
‘That, to be sure—but also the endless gifts and bribes required to keep all those greedy clients content,’ replied Sceana bitterly. ‘Believe me when I tell you, there is much I never knew and more I learn every day.’ She sighed ruefully. ‘I set the honour price for my husband’s death so high because that is what Brecan would do to show his underlords that he would not be shamed or humiliated by the Scálda.’
‘You did it for show?’
‘I thought it a good idea,’ she insisted. ‘Not that I believed even for an instant that debt would ever be paid. I merely want the client kings to know that here in Aintrén we valued our king—as they must continue to do.’ Folding her hands in her lap, she stared down at them a moment, and then said, ‘But now that Brecan is gone, I fear they will turn against us, desert us, or worse—attack us to seize the kingship and lay claim to Aintrén because they see me as a weak and pitiful woman.’ She thrust out a hand to Conor and said, ‘Again, I ask you, what am I to do?’
‘That is not for me to say.’ Conor rose and moved around the table to kneel beside her and, taking her offered hand in his, he said, ‘But, I will stand with you and help you in any way I can and to the utmost of my power. I pledge myself and my sword to your service. I am yours to command how you will.’
Queen Sceana gazed at him forlornly and pressed his hand; then, as if on a sudden impulse, took it up and kissed it. ‘I accept your pledge, my friend, and I have a request of you.’
‘Speak it out, and it will be done.’
‘I would that you become my champion,’ she said.
‘I am that already, if you will recall—’
She raised a finger and stopped him ‘There is more I would have you hear. I want you to be my chief of battle as well.’
Conor straightened. ‘My lady, Médon is more than able. He is—’
She shook her head. ‘Médon serves me now, that is true—but only until a new battlechief can be chosen. I have delayed these last weeks in order for him to prove himself a worthy leader and advisor. But, he is young yet and possesses little experience—as even he will tell you. And, now that you have returned, I see I have a better choice. Conor mac Ardan, I choose you.’
‘He knows this? Médon knows?’
‘He knows the torc has not been given,’ replied Sceana. ‘I expect he has entertained the hope that the place would fall to him. But he understands that his position is provisional at best.’ The queen saw Conor’s hesitation and said, ‘Hear me. Médon is an able warrior—and a fair teacher for the others—but he is not the warleader we need just now. Men do not leap to his command, much less anticipate it—at least,’ she added, ‘not as they do for you.’
Conor regarded her thoughtfully. The ruby birthmark on his cheek began to tingle as he imagined himself, a Darini from the wild north, leading the vaunted Brigantes warband in battle. What would Liam say to that? What would his father say?
The queen continued in an earnest, almost pleading tone, saying, ‘You have the most battle experience against the enemy, and even Médon cannot deny that you are the most skilled warrior among us.’ A ghost of her old smile played upon her lips. ‘You bested Cethern, as I think you will recall.’
Conor realised then that she had been considering this since she learned of his return. In any event, it suited his purposes—such as they were. Still kneeling, he put his right fist upon his chest over his heart and, bowing his head, replied, ‘My queen, I will be the warleader and battlechief of your choosing. Further, I will do all that may be done to build up the warband, increase its strength and numbers, and do my best to instruct others in all the skills I have acquired in battle. On this, you have my promise.’
She smiled and Conor saw the light come up in her eyes; her old spirit surfaced briefly in that smile and then, as if remembering the awful weight of authority she must bear, the light faded again, smothered by grief and care. ‘Thank you, Conor. I place my trust and the protection of my people in your strong hands.’
So saying, she summoned her handmaid who brought out a fine silver torc made of three braided strands, and bade Conor to lower his head before her. He did so and, spreading the ends of the torc apart, the queen slipped the ornament around his throat, then closed up the ends again. ‘There,’ she said, resting her hands on his shoulder and gazing at him with an expression of relief and satisfaction. ‘It is done.’
Conor, fingering the torc, returned to his place and, as they finished eating, he told her what he knew of the agreement between her husband and Balor, as well as what he had learned from her husband about the reason for the secret meeting and the king’s lofty plans for the future. ‘He told me he was acting in the best interest of Eirlandia and all its tribes,’
he concluded.
‘And did you believe him?’ asked Sceana. There was no suspicion in the question, merely a hope for confirmation.
‘In truth, I did. I truly believe Lord Brecan despaired of the continual squabbling among the smaller tribes and lords and thought that if he could gain the high king’s throne, he could unite all the warbands under one command and in this way build a force strong enough to drive the Scálda from our lands.’
‘But he was meeting with the enemy.’
‘Only to gain enough time, I think—time to make his vision possible. He seemed to think an alliance with the Scálda, or at least some kind of treaty, would give him space enough and time to accomplish his ambition.’ Conor nodded. That was what he thought at the time, and largely what Conor still believed lay at the heart of Brecan’s disastrous plan.
‘Would it have worked?’ asked Sceana.
‘Perhaps,’ Conor conceded, trying to soften the blow. ‘But, knowing the Scálda, I fear the scheme was doomed. Balor Berugderc has his own aims and ambitions. When Brecan was no longer of use to him, he killed the king without a moment’s hesitation.’
The queen sat for a time, pondering what Conor had told her. At last, she said, ‘Do you believe me when I say I knew none of this?’
‘No one but the king’s druid and battlechief knew it, my lady—not even the warriors that rode with the king that night knew of this plan. I only learned it because I was there and he had to find a way to win me to his side.’
‘Even so, I should have known,’ she said adamantly, pressing her hand to her chest. ‘I was his wife and queen! I should have known. I should have taken more of an interest in the affairs of the realm. I should have made it my work to know what was in my husband’s mind.’ She paused, then asked, ‘Would that have made a difference, do you think?’
Conor returned her doleful gaze with a light shake of his head. ‘I think not, lady. The king was at pains to conceal his affairs—this one most especially. No one save Mog Ruith and Cethern knew of it. As I say, he only told me because I blundered into it.’ He went on to explain how he had followed the king and his men when they rode out that day, and had then been captured and taken by the Scálda to the meeting place. ‘As I think on it now, I do believe the king saw the prize within his grasp and was willing to risk everything to achieve it. I doubt anything anyone could have said or done would have guided him into a different path.’
Sceana accepted this and thanked Conor for telling her. She then concluded the audience saying, ‘I will think about all you have said, and we will talk again soon.’ She gazed on him with warmth and affection renewed. ‘I think this is but the first of many such discussions we will be having.’
Conor bowed his head. ‘My lady.’ He stood and begged leave to begin organising the warband. ‘I will speak to Médon. He should be told right away so that I can make a fresh start.’
‘I will tell him,’ Sceana said. ‘It is my decision. I will tell him in a way that he can accept. You need fear no difficulty from him.’ She reached out a hand to Conor and he took it. ‘I thank you, my friend. I am in your debt. Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘Nay, lady, I—’ he began, then hesitated as he changed his mind. ‘Ach, well, there is one small thing I might ask.’
‘Ask and, small or large, it is yours.’
‘These clothes—as you have noticed,’ he said, smoothing his hand over his fine faéry siarc, ‘are the clothes of a king—not those of a battlechief or warrior. My friends and I will need something more suitable to our work.’
Queen Sceana put back her head and laughed. ‘You shall have them, all of you—and gladly. Although, I shall be sorry not to see you so splendidly arrayed. I will speak to Galagar, the chief steward, and he will give you everything you require.’
Conor thanked her and went out to begin assessing the strength and capability of the beleaguered and much-reduced Brigantes warband.
Rónán
By the time I reached Dúnaird, almost an entire season had passed since I had heard the devastating news of Conor’s death. I confess it was a blow that hit me hard—it did not seem so very long ago that I had last seen him. Now, he was no more. Never would I see Conor again, hear his voice, nor see the light in his clear eyes. Murdered … the hateful word rolled like thunder through my head, resounding again and again. Murdered … my brother was dead.
That he had been killed along with King Brecan of the Brigantes and both cut down by the great and terrible Scálda king, Balor Berugderc, Lord of the Fomórai, while in the act of treason made his death not only grievous but profoundly shameful. Like a captive beast in torment, my conscience writhed with the torture of that knowledge. I could barely imagine my father’s humiliation. To have a son known to one and all as a traitor, not only to his tribe but to Eirlandia entire, is a blow few men can endure, and fewer still survive with dignity and honour intact.
I would have gone at once, but Talgobain, our Wise Head, prevented me. ‘Let time pass,’ he counselled. ‘The storms of grief will cloud your reason.’
‘But my father—my people will have need of me in this time of mourning and upheaval.’
‘What will you give them?’
‘Comfort, Wise One. Comfort and solace.’
‘Comfort out of your own misery, and solace from your turmoil? Go now and your judgement will be impaired. Any help you hope to bring will be tainted as a fountain poisoned at the fountainhead.’
‘I should be there.’
‘You will go when you can offer some healing—not add to the suffering around you.’ Talgobain smiled sadly. ‘It is a hard thing, I know. But if you master this trial, you will be proof against any like it that come your way. Trust me, for it is so.’
Reluctant as I was to accept this harsh judgement, I could not go against it. Thus, the season passed, and in truth I did find the clouds of grief cleared for me and reason returned. When I discerned that I was ready, I went again to our brehon and requested permission to go to Dúnaird; this time consent was granted. Thus, I set out with little Tuán for it was he who had first brought word of Brecan’s death to me at Clethar Ciall. Although he was as dismayed by the delay as anyone—for he had known Conor very well—at my request he agreed to accompany me. He had word of Conor’s last movements with Lord Brecan and I thought that this might be of some use to my father and brother. We travelled on foot so that took a few more days, but I used that time to compose a funeral song for my brother, commemorating his short life. Alas, owing to the shameful nature of his death with the treacherous Brigantes king, there was little to celebrate and, I fear, it was a bitter, cheerless song I made.
My travelling companion did his best to allow me time and solitude for thought. He made our camp each night and prepared our food and sometimes, when night closed around us, he sang one of the songs about the heroes of old who became gods in Eirlandia. He sang ‘The Voyage of Bran mac Febail and the Silver Branch,’ ‘Conchobar and the Battle of Ros na Ríg,’ ‘The Feast of Bricrenn and the Exiled Princes,’ and others that awakened my heart to the deeds both high and low of our island race from the time of our first arrival in this green land.
I listened to his gentle voice and let the tears flow as they would. The songs renewed the grief, aye, but they were also a balm for my bruised heart. As one day gave way to the next and one woodland to another, I felt my battered heart revive and I once again turned my eyes to the future and how I might best help my father and brother to weather this dreadful storm.
To be sure, this was another reason I wanted Tuán with me. Hard words are never welcome when spoken by blood kin, and I feared that the Darini would have to face hard truths about Conor and his despicable alliance with King Brecan. Tuán, a cheerful spirit, possessed the ability to confront without rousing anger as well. Perhaps his dwarfish size and sprightly manner made him seem less a threat to men of greater physical stature. His counsel, however sharp or unwanted, was never viewed as a challenge to anyone’
s rank or authority. And despite his odd, creaturely appearance, his mind was quick and ready and keen as a well-honed knife, able to pierce to the heart of a matter with such skill that it often seemed effortless—all the better when a reluctant listener must be persuaded to a difficult or distasteful course.
I hoped in the few days afforded us at Dúnaird that together we might ease some of the pain of Conor’s betrayal and perhaps guide my father and Liam’s shame to a more helpful outcome. Truly, that was my most fervent hope.
Sadly, Liam did not share this view.
The king was not there when I arrived. He was away to the Robogdi to see Lord Sechtan, and Liam was left in authority. Liam received us with a great show of respect and, I believe, genuine brotherly regard. He poured out a generous welcome cup with his own hand and gave me his bed in the great hall our father had built to replace the squalid hovel that the father of Eochaid Tight-Fist had erected and his wastrel son neglected. Over our cups and meat that first night Liam told us what he knew of how Conor met his death.
‘It appears Brecan was so ambitious and anxious for the high kingship that he courted an alliance with the enemy to achieve it,’ he said. ‘So I have heard, and so I believe.’
‘Did anyone ever suggest how this thing was to come about?’ asked Tuán. He had said much the same thing and I was happy the two accounts matched.
Liam shook his head glumly. ‘Not that I heard. But it hardly matters. The great fool should have known the Scálda cannot be trusted. They know only death and destruction.’
‘Conor would have known that, surely,’ I suggested. ‘How did he come to be persuaded to join in this alliance?’
‘Who knows?’ Liam lifted his shoulders. ‘Brecan probably promised him a share in the spoils. That’s all it would have taken to turn Conor’s head.’
Seizing on this remark, Tuán leaned forward. ‘Do you hold your brother in such low esteem that you believe he would betray his people for wealth?’
In the Land of the Everliving Page 11
