In the Land of the Everliving

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Liam gave the little bard a dark, hateful look. ‘You little know him if you think him above that. In truth, he has always yearned for wealth and status. Look what he did at the Oenach—stealing old Mádoc’s gold bracelet just because he wanted it.’ He shook his head again. ‘Risked his honour and that of the Darini for a mere bauble, so he did. That is how little he cares about such things as truth and honour.’

  Could I believe what I was hearing? I could not.

  ‘But that was a sham,’ I replied, trying to keep my tone even. ‘That was a ruse dreamt up by Mádoc in order to secure Conor’s aid and protection.’

  ‘So you say,’ muttered Liam. ‘But you weren’t there. I was.’

  Silence claimed the near-empty hall then. We sat for a time in solemn thought. Finally, Tuán looked around and said, ‘Is it always so quiet here now?’

  ‘Quiet enough,’ Liam told him, also looking around. ‘It is quiet here tonight because Eamon is riding the southern border—he and the greater part of the warband. The rest are with my father. I was out the night before with the few left here in the ráth.’

  ‘Is this something you are doing often?’

  ‘Ach, aye, it is that. Since Lord Brecan’s murder, the dog-eaters have become more persistent and more daring. They are raiding ever further into our territories—thieving and burning, then running away.’

  ‘Even here in the north?’ I asked. I had not heard things were so bad.

  ‘Even here,’ Liam assured me. ‘The Brigantes and others have it worse, to be sure. But we see raiding parties up here from time to time. They come by ship and make landfall at night on the empty coastal watches south of here. If we can catch them before they are fully assembled on shore, they flee rather than fight. So, we watch the coasts most nights when the weather is good.’

  Our talk moved on then to the funeral ceremony I had thought to perform for Conor.

  ‘For Conor! That traitor?’ said Liam. ‘That is not necessary—I can assure you of that!’

  A dark and sombre cloud settled over Liam’s countenance then, so I said, ‘I would speak to Aoife, too. I thought she might be here to play for us tonight.’

  ‘No doubt she would have been happy to see you,’ Liam replied. ‘But, as it happens, she is not well just now.’

  ‘Aoife ill?’ I said, half rising from my seat on the bench at his table. ‘Perhaps Tuán and I should go and see what we can do for her.’

  ‘Ach, nay,’ said Liam, waving aside the suggestion. ‘It would be best if you left it until tomorrow or the next day.’ He poured more of the good sweet mead into our cups, then leaned forward and confided, ‘Women’s troubles, you see.’

  I left the matter there and talk passed on to other things. Then the mead and hearth and food began to tell against us and, seeing as we had travelled far and our fatigue was heavy upon us and that we were yawning over our cups, we begged our host’s leave to go to our sleep. Liam obliged and with good grace, offered me his bed in the hall; Tuán was given a pallet in one of the side chambers and Liam, bidding us a fair rest, went to the Warriors’ House.

  After Liam left, Tuán lingered a little. ‘Your brother is not so much like you or Conor,’ he said. ‘Though I see the family resemblance. Is he more like your father, then?’

  ‘So I believe,’ I told him. ‘But I do not know my father all that well. I was that young when Morien took me.…’ I lapsed into silence, remembering.

  ‘Do you regret your life as a druid?’

  ‘Nay, nay,’ I told him quickly. ‘Well, perhaps, a little at first—what else did I know? But after a year or so, I would not alter a day, nor trade it for any other.’

  Tuán’s wide mouth framed a cheerful, froglike grin. ‘Nor would I,’ he said. ‘I was abandoned as an infant.’

  ‘Truly?’ I said, surprised at this information. For though I knew well enough that such things did often happen, it still appalled me that any mother would do that to her newborn child.

  ‘Ach, well, the tribe took my birth—the way I am, you see—as an evil omen and forced her to give me up. But, luckily for me, she did not place me on the dung heap as the old wives advised, but carried me to Carn Dubh instead. I think it must have been a surprise for the learned brothers to find a baby in a grain basket at the gate.’ He laughed. ‘I have never known another hearth, but that one—nor would I trade it for any I have seen since then.’

  Well tired, we slept long and rose the next morning to find that Liam and the remaining warriors had ridden out to hunt in order to provide extra meat for his visitors. But Eamon and his scouting party had returned just after daybreak. The woman serving us in the hall said, ‘They are sleeping now, so they are. But they will waken soon enough if you care to wait.’

  Tuán finished eating and went off to view the land round about Dúnaird, leaving me alone. With nothing else to do, I decided to go see if I might be of some aid to Aoife in her illness. For, although I did not choose the physician’s path, all bards know much about the healing herbs and such for various ailments and diseases.

  Taking up my bard’s oversized sparán and my staff, I went to the Women’s House. The door was opened to my knock and I told the maiden there that I had come to visit Aoife and see if I might be of service to her. The young woman—who could not have been more than twelve summers—regarded me with wide, wondering eyes—for all she had not seen many druids, I think. ‘My lord bard, Aoife is not here.’

  ‘That is well,’ I replied. ‘Kindly tell me where she is and I will go to her.’

  She gave me a sly glance—as if she did not trust me with this knowledge. I hastened to reassure her. ‘Fret not, child, you can trust a druid to behave with honour.’

  She swallowed and glanced away, then regarding me with some trepidation, leaned close and whispered, ‘Aoife is in the cattle byre.’

  I thanked the maiden and, assuming Aoife had recovered her health, I hurried off to the little barn our tribe used for the birthing of calves and the care of sick cattle. Following the lanes and narrow paths between the houses crowding the curved walls of the ráth, I came to a small pen and a collection of outbuildings: a grain store, a brewing hut, and the byre. The door was slightly ajar and I paused before entering and gave a little cough to announce my presence. The invitation from within was forthcoming. ‘Enter.’

  I put my hand to the door and pulled it open. There, on a floor strewn with clean reeds and rushes, sat Aoife, stroking the swelling belly of a young cow.

  ‘Aoife, I—’

  At the sound of my voice she turned and the change in her appearance made me stifle a gasp. Her skin had a sickly pallor, her lustrous dark hair, unbraided, hung limp and dull, and her eyes had the lifeless sunken aspect of the grave.

  Such was her illness, then. Of this I had no doubt. My first thought was to go find Tuán and determine if, between us, we might find a remedy for our poor, suffering sister.

  ‘My lady,’ I said, stepping into the byre, ‘I would not intrude, but—’

  ‘Rónán!’ she cried, leaping up. ‘You’re here!’ She rushed to me and threw her arms around me in glad welcome. ‘Deira said some druids had come, but I did not think … but here you are.’

  ‘I am here, aye, and Tuán is with me. Come, sit, tell me what ails you and we will do our best to find a remedy.’

  Confusion creased her brow. ‘What ails me?’ she said—as if this should be well known to one and all.

  ‘Your illness, lady,’ I said. ‘Do pardon me for speaking of intimate matters, but Liam told me. And I am here to help.’

  ‘I am not ill,’ she said, all but spitting the words. ‘Except, perhaps, for the love of my betrothed.’

  I nodded as understanding dawned within me. ‘Conor—’ I said, my voice heavy with sorrow. ‘His death brings a burden of grief difficult to bear. It must be all the harder for you.’

  Confusion creased her brow. She pulled away. Her red-rimmed eyes searched mine as if looking for something that was not to be foun
d. Finally, she said, ‘But Conor is not dead.’

  ‘No?’ It is sometimes the way with folk to deny the dear one’s departure from this worlds-realm. ‘But Aoife, my heart, he was murdered by the Scálda in the fight that killed King Brecan.’

  ‘Conor is not dead,’ she said again, strength returning to her voice. ‘He is banished.’

  Her conviction was many things, perhaps, but it was not denial. She was both adamant and defiant. I sat back on my heels and pondered what she said, and in the end could not decide what to make of it. ‘I do not understand.’

  She tossed her head and something of her customary fire returned, flushing colour to her pale cheeks. ‘Aye, Conor is banished. Exiled by Liam,’ she spat, ‘and I—I am made hostage here.’

  14

  Fergal and Donal were in the yard with the other warriors. Having eaten well from the warriors’ table, they were beginning the day’s weapons training, warming cold muscles by sparring with wooden swords and blunted spears. They quickly abandoned their halfhearted swordwork and hurried to meet Conor the moment he emerged from his audience with the queen.

  ‘Here you are—looking like the cat that caught the cow,’ observed Fergal. ‘What is her queenship’s pleasure?’

  ‘Will she have us in the warband at all?’ asked Donal.

  ‘Ach, I expect she will,’ replied Conor with a grin. Touching the silver torc at his throat, he said, ‘But, since I have been made chief of battle for the tribe, the question you must ask is whether I will be having you?’

  ‘Battlechief!’ exclaimed Fergal, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Donal, eyeing the torc, merely whistled.

  ‘Do not pretend such amazement,’ Conor said. ‘I bested Cethern—’

  ‘As you never tire of telling us.’

  ‘And I was the queen’s champion,’ Conor continued, unperturbed by Fergal’s derision. ‘Lady Sceana has asked me to resume that service and, since Cethern is no longer with us, she has asked me to take up his position as well. But, cheer up,’ he added, giving Fergal a pat on the back, ‘she has agreed to give you two new clothes.’

  ‘I like what I am wearing,’ Fergal replied, spreading his arms and looking down his own long length.

  ‘Just you wait until you get Scálda blood all over them,’ Donal told him, ‘and then you’ll be singing a different song.’ To Conor, he said, ‘What will friend Médon think about being taken down a peg, I wonder?’ mused Donal.

  ‘Not much, I’ll wager,’ said Fergal. ‘I know it would chafe me raw, so it would.’

  Conor looked beyond his two companions to where a young woman was even then speaking to Médon. ‘I expect we will be finding out soon enough. The queen said she would tell him her decision and I think he goes to receive the news even now.’

  The three watched as the queen’s handmaid led Médon to the King’s House where the queen stood waiting before the door. She held her audience then and there, in full view of everyone looking on; the talk was short and, judging from the warrior’s reaction, amiably concluded: he simply gave a nod of acknowledgement and, taking a step back, touched his forehead with the back of his head in a gesture of fealty and respect. Then, he turned and strode to where Conor and the others waited.

  ‘Our queen has told you her decision,’ intoned the former battlechief, gazing directly at Conor without expression.

  ‘Aye, that she has. I want you to know that I did not seek—’

  ‘Lady Sceana is our queen and sole ruler now,’ Médon said, forestalling the need for further explanation. ‘For the good of the tribe, it is our duty to help her in any way we can to ensure our safety and restore our fortunes. It is my fervent hope that you will serve her well and consider me a loyal and trustworthy warrior.’ He allowed himself a sly smile. ‘And remember this—I will be watching you, Conor mac Ardan. Put a foot wrong and that silver torc you now wear around your throat is mine.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Conor told him. ‘I will rely on you for guidance.’ Placing a hand on the warrior’s shoulder, he said, ‘As your battlechief, I am making you a member of the queen’s ardféne.’

  Médon appeared somewhat bewildered by this designation. ‘A queen’s advisor … but I cannot—’

  ‘Why not? As you say, it is our duty to help her in any way we can. Besides that, you know the mood of the tribe as well as anyone and better than some—including me. Also, you have earned the trust of the warriors,’ Conor replied. ‘Now, let us inform the rest of the warband of the queen’s decision.’

  All four walked to where the warriors now stood watching; aware that something of some moment had taken place, they leaned on their spears waiting to be told what had happened.

  ‘My friends, the queen has—’ began Conor as he came to stand before the assembled warband.

  Médon put out a hand to stop him, saying, ‘If you would allow me, Conor, I would they heard this from me.’

  Conor glanced at the faces gathered around him and surrendered the field. Médon took half a step forward and, fixing his fellows with a steady gaze, he said, ‘Since losing king and battlechief, friends and swordbrothers to the enemy, we have been stumbling about in a daze of grief and fear—grief for all that was lost, and fear for what is to come.’ There were muted sounds of agreement all around. ‘But not all is lost,’ he continued. ‘If we doubted—as I think many here doubted—then Conor arrived to remind us otherwise. He survived the attack that killed our lord and his champion, and he is here to show the rest of us how to survive as well.’

  ‘Hear him! Hear him!’ said one of the warriors, to a rattling of wooden swords on shields. It was Galart and, beside him, Aedd and some of the younger men.

  ‘For this reason, our good queen has chosen Conor mac Ardan to be her chief of battle and our warleader.…’

  This news received a mixed reception: smiles and nods of encouragement in some quarters, questions in others, and a few frowns here and there.

  ‘As for myself,’ Médon continued, ‘lest you think me hard done by, I tell you I welcome her choice—all the more since most of you will know how I have struggled in these last days to maintain order and confidence within our ranks. Some of you will have chafed under my poor guidance, and will be glad of the change.’ He allowed himself a smile and turned to Conor. ‘I myself will be glad for someone else to listen to the moans and groans of this ill-tempered pack of mongrel whelps.’

  Conor stepped forward and, grasping Médon by the arms in a display of friendship, thanked him, then turned and said, ‘The queen has chosen and I have accepted. Today, we begin to rebuild the warhost of the Brigantes. It is my hope to return it to its former superiority among the hosts of Eirlandia.’ Médon’s gracious speech had indeed smoothed over many of the rough patches on Conor’s path. As the new battlechief, Conor could begin without having to fight his way to acceptance—that it would have been much of a contest, for he was already liked well enough.

  Changes came thick and fast after that. Within the first few days, Fergal and Donal, alongside Médon, were appointed special advisors to the battlechief, and Galart was elevated to a position created just for him: master of the hall, the better to keep order and ensure peace and harmony within the ranks. By the time winter arrived in full, freezing bluster, the entire warband, to a man, acclaimed Conor’s elevation to the titles of battlechief and warleader with steadfast approval if not outright enthusiasm. By the time spring rains arrived with the thaw, the older warriors’ complaint that no one but a born-and-bred Brigantes should lead the Brigantes into battle had faded away like the last of winter’s tired, sludgy snow.

  And, by the time the summer sun began to raise the green heads of grain in the fields, the season of strife and skirmishes and swift, glancing enemy raids had resumed once more in blood earnest. The struggling Brigantes warband was hard pressed to adequately defend its borders and protect its outlying farms and fields. Yet, as the progression of summer stars made its slow-wheeling arc through the sky, strife along the s
outhern border diminished; instead, raids among surrounding tribes and territories seemed to grow more numerous and more worrying by the day as the Scálda searched out easier prey.

  The Brigantes warband faced its share of battles and helped out where it could. Conor and his small battle host fought well, suffering few wounds and fewer losses despite numerous conflicts. Other tribes and clans were not so fortunate. To Conor it seemed that surrounding tribes were harder hit and suffered more severe incursion. As the summer corn ripened in the ear, his suspicion was borne out: the tribes to the west were bearing the brunt of these continual lightning raids. Lughnasadh was only ten days away when the refugees began streaming across the land. The first to arrive at the gates of Aintrén were Cruithne from the western coastal territories: two score and six of them—women and children mostly, but a good few farmers, craftsmen, and a handful of warriors as well. The youngest among the displaced were babes in arms, and the oldest was a goldsmith fifty or so summers old, who told of the attack on the tribe’s main stronghold that had overrun the defences and sent the terrified clansmen running for their lives.

  ‘The Scálda were more interested in plundering the ráth than slaughtering the survivors,’ he said, ‘otherwise we would be standing here dead.’

  Queen Sceana and most of the tribe had turned out to meet the refugees and hear what had happened; the Brigantes gathered in the yard in a wary circle around the shattered clutch of survivors. Exhausted, miserable, dishevelled, the desolate Cruithne huddled together in the warm sun as if braving an icy wind. ‘Is this all who survived the raid?’ asked Lady Sceana, indicating the close-clustered knot of people before her. ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Nay, lady, there are others.’ The smith turned his gaze to his tribesmen clustered behind him. ‘At least twice as many as you see here—maybe more.’

  ‘Where are these others?’ asked Conor; he stood beside the queen as head of her ardféne. ‘Are they yet to come?’

  The craftsman gave a shake of his head. ‘I cannot say where they may be, lord. See now, we scattered in flight lest the Scálda give chase. We thought it would make pursuit more difficult.’