In the Land of the Everliving

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘Very wise,’ replied Conor. ‘I would have done the same.’ He searched for a moment among the dishevelled group arrayed before him, then asked, ‘Did any more of the warriors survive?’

  The man merely shrugged. ‘I cannot say, lord. They were fighting still when we made our escape. They may yet live, but I fear the worst.’

  ‘These are very grave tidings,’ said the queen. ‘I will confer with my advisors and determine what is best to do. Until then, rest and recover your strength.’ Turning to Galart, she said, ‘The hall master will take you to a house where you can rest. Food will be brought to you there.’

  The refugees were led to the larger of the two empty warriors’ houses. Conor watched as the forlorn refugees shuffled away. ‘What is your pleasure, my queen?’

  ‘I do not see how we can support them,’ Sceana replied, ‘nor less yet how we can turn them away.’

  ‘Then let them stay,’ advised Conor, remembering another day, years ago, when Aoife had come into his life—first as a refugee and then as his beloved. ‘It may be they will more than earn their keep—in the work they can do and the skills they bring. There are farmers among them, and herdsmen, and others—even a smith.’

  She regarded the wretched tribesmen doubtfully. ‘It is true that we have lost many over the summer. But they are Cruithne—how will they get on with us?’

  ‘Touching that,’ said Conor, ‘I have a thought. Leave it with me for now.’

  ‘As you will,’ decided the queen. ‘Let them stay.’

  Conor had seen that among those seeking refuge there were four young men—only four: two farmers, a herdsman and, as his inquiries soon revealed, the son of the tribe’s carpenter. Calling Donal, Fergal, and Médon together, he announced, ‘I have it in my mind to make a school for warriors.’

  ‘With those four Cruithne lads?’ surmised Médon. ‘They are too old to begin training.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘How old were you when you began your training?’ asked Fergal. ‘Eight summers? Nine?’

  ‘Seven, I think,’ replied Médon. ‘No more than eight anyway.’

  ‘Aye, that sounds about right,’ agreed Fergal. ‘Like you, I was no more than eight summers at the time.’ He flapped a hand in the direction of Warriors’ House and looked to Conor. ‘These lads are twice that if a day. I agree with Médon.’ He shook his head in disapproval of the notion. ‘It would be like trying to cram seven whole baskets of grain into a single loaf. It cannot be done.’ He turned to Donal. ‘Tell him, brother, it is a harebrained idea and it cannot be done.’

  ‘It is a harebrained idea, Conor,’ agreed Donal. ‘Yet, it may be there is a chance it can be made to work after a fashion.’

  ‘What!’ gasped Fergal in disbelief. ‘You’re every bit as foolish as Conor! Think what you are saying. You know well enough—or should know well enough—that you cannot make a man ready for battle in a single summer! Or even ten! To do otherwise only makes a fella ripe to join his fathers in the Red Badb’s hall.’

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Donal. ‘You may not be able to teach them all ninety-nine ways to kill and keep from being killed, but you might well train them up enough to defend a wall, or to serve those in the battle line by ferrying weapons and food and such from camp.’

  ‘Exactly!’ cried Conor. ‘You have hit the nub of it there, brother. If we had men trained to serve in this way, it would release our more seasoned warriors to join the battle line.’ Turning to Médon, he said, ‘Is that not so?’

  The tall warrior pulled on his moustache and glanced from Conor to Fergal and said, ‘I suppose if we had men trained to serve the warriors during battle—carry spears and replace shields and such—then more could fight. Aye, so they could.’

  Fergal, still shaking his head, replied, ‘All you will be doing—mark me—all you will be doing is making those poor sheep fit for slaughter. It would be like growing grass for the scythe.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ allowed Conor. ‘In better times, I would agree with you. In better times, I would never suggest such a reckless course. But these are not better times, brother. These are dangerous times, and we need all the help we can find. If you tell me there is somewhere else to obtain trained and seasoned warriors, I will be first on my horse to go and get them.’

  ‘You know well enough that there is no such place,’ Fergal huffed. ‘And that is the whole pox-bitten point!’

  ‘Then how else do you propose we build up our numbers?’

  Fergal could not answer.

  ‘I know it is chancy,’ Conor said, putting his arm around Fergal’s broad shoulders. ‘Believe me, I know. But we do not have ten summers or more to build up our warband with trained and battle-hardened warriors. If we do not find a way to turn back the Scálda—and soon—we will all be refugees looking for shelter in an Eirlandia that is nothing more than a distant memory.’

  Fergal kicked the toe of his shoe against the packed earth of the practice area and muttered that training farmers was a fool’s errand and that Conor would only make them ripe and ready for an early grave. Donal shared this belief, too, but was willing to suspend judgement until he could see the results of the training Conor envisioned.

  ‘As to that,’ said Conor, ‘I think you two will be best placed to judge the results.’

  ‘Whatever would make you say a thing like that?’ asked Fergal, suspicion shading his tone.

  ‘Because, Fergal, chief among spearmen, you and Donal are going to oversee the training of our new men.’

  Fergal squawked with disbelief and made bold to challenge the plan, but Conor was no longer listening. He told the two to begin by thinking through what they would need to proceed at once and to make a firm start. ‘What will you do, Conor?’ called Donal as Conor walked away.

  ‘I will speak to your new trainees,’ he called back. ‘Come along, Médon.’

  Both warriors watched Conor as he hurried across the yard. ‘He is insane, you know,’ observed Fergal.

  ‘Ach, aye,’ confirmed Donal. ‘There can no longer be any doubt at all.’ Glancing at Fergal, he added, ‘That anyone would think you could teach even so much as a hungry dog to fetch a bone … it beggars all belief, so it does.’

  15

  The beleaguered Cruithne were but the first exiles to reach the gates of Aintrén. Before the Mabon celebration at summer’s end, there would be two more groups seeking refuge within the sheltering walls of the Brigantes’ principal stronghold. One moon later, there would be Laigini as well, and more. Indeed, the Samhain fires were still smouldering when the largest group of all arrived: Bréifne—three entire clans of them and, surprisingly, they came with their king.

  Two riders appeared just as the last light died in the west on a gusty, blustery day; they begged entrance at the gate, saying that they merely sought food and a place to rest for the night in exchange for a promise to move on the next morning. Foremost of the two was a red-haired warrior carrying only a spear who greeted the gatemen and announced that he was in the company of the Bréifne king and asked to speak to someone in authority. The two were admitted and rode into the centre of the yard where they stopped to wait while the queen was summoned. Conor, having seen the strangers in the yard, marked their fine horses and, thinking them messengers, drifted over to hear what news they brought.

  The Bréifne lord sat on his fine bay horse and cast an imperious gaze around the stronghold. He was a darkly handsome man fast approaching his prime, with bold, if slightly rough-hewn features; he had deep-set dark eyes under thick black brows and long dark hair that hung in heavy curls around his smooth-shaven face. At the appearance of the queen the monarch slid off his horse, approached, and knelt at her feet, his hands dangling at his side.

  ‘My lady,’ he said, gazing up into her face, ‘I had heard that the queen of the Brigantes was the very vision of beauty—but I thought that must be the embellishment of the poet. Forgive me, for I see now that I was wrong. Your loveliness exceeds the bard’s best effort
s.’

  Conor groaned inwardly at such naked flattery, but Lady Sceana appeared taken in by it, if not entirely delighted; and when she bade the Bréifne lord to rise lest he make himself less in the eyes of his people who were just then beginning to stream in through the still-open gate, the smile with which he beguiled her certainly charmed if not enchanted.

  ‘You would think the Great Dagda himself had bestowed golden rings and bracelets upon her,’ huffed Fergal, hugely unimpressed. He and Donal had witnessed the act and bustled over to join Conor. ‘Such shameless fawning is repulsive—that’s what it is.’ He spat and shook his head. ‘Well, he will not gain anything by it.’

  Donal, observing the two thoughtfully, replied, ‘I fear, brother, that he already has.’

  ‘What?’ Fergal scoffed. ‘What has he gained?’

  ‘Whatever he wanted.’

  Fergal turned to his friend, and saw the far-off look in Donal’s eyes. ‘Ha! We’ll see about that.’ He turned and strode off. ‘I’ll find Galart and tell him we have more visitors.’

  Conor stood gazing on, a frown of concern creasing his brow. When he had gone, Conor said, ‘Tell me what you see, brother. Is this trouble?’

  ‘Very likely.’ Donal shrugged. ‘It all depends.’

  The queen conducted her royal guest to the King’s House for refreshment. Donal walked away, but Conor stood for a while to observe the Bréifne refugees; the main body had now reached the ráth and were settling in the courtyard to rest. A group of three score, Conor estimated, they appeared harrowed and bedraggled from their recent ordeal, and Conor was once again minded of that day when, as a lad of nine summers, his father had welcomed such exiles into Dúnaird—his Aoife and her mother among them. Though he had hardly noticed his future betrothed then, he would, and soon, and the bond forged then was, so far as Conor was concerned, forever.

  He made a good attempt to go about his business, but he found himself continually glancing across to the King’s House and, when curiosity finally overcame his better judgement, Conor marched over and presented himself at the door and was duly admitted. As battlechief and head of the queen’s ardféne, his comings and goings were never questioned. He thanked the handmaid and closed the door behind him. Lady Sceana and the Bréifne king were reclining at table, and the queen rose at Conor’s entrance. ‘Here is Conor now! I was just about to summon you.’ She all but pulled him to the table. ‘Lord Vainche, I present my battlechief and champion, Conor mac Ardan.’

  The sleek monarch rose at once and greeted him pleasantly, then said, ‘But I seem to remember a king called Ardan—from a small territory somewhere in the north, I think.’ He smiled winsomely. ‘Yet, Ardan is a common name in this place for all I know.’

  ‘Lord Ardan, King of the Darini, is my father,’ Conor told him.

  ‘Not a Brigantes?’ The fellow’s shapely dark eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Well, it seems you have made a good account of yourself in any case. He must be very proud of you, your father.’ Vainche paused, as if in thought, then said, ‘Forgive me if I speak amiss, but I wonder why you are not battlechief for your father?’

  Conor was taken aback by the audacity of the visiting lord. Not only was the question improper and unseemly, but he owed no explanation to a visitor passing through. In any event, it was none of his affair.

  Conor was saved having to answer by the queen, who said, ‘Conor was a trusted member of Lord Brecan’s warband, and second only to Cethern, our battlechief.’ She gave an embarrassed laugh and put her hand on Conor’s arm, adding, ‘After they were so cruelly killed, it seemed only right to make Conor my warleader.’

  ‘Ach,’ replied Vainche, openly dismissive, ‘I am certain you know best. Who am I to question your decision?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ replied Conor, forcing a tight smile.

  Lord Vainche returned to his place at the table, and Conor could not help but notice the comfortable, almost insolent slouch and the easy privilege—as one whose place was not only assumed, but assured. He was a guest behaving as an ill-mannered and indifferent host. Conor stared at the Bréifne monarch and his wine-red birthmark began to tingle.

  ‘We were about to share a meal, Conor,’ said the queen, her voice tight, nervous. ‘I would be happy if you could join us.’ She glanced at Vainche.

  ‘Ach, to be sure,’ the young man said, yawning. ‘Although I imagine our tepid talk cannot hope to rival the robust banter of fighting men in the hall.’ He regarded Conor sleepily. ‘I am sure you must have more pressing duties and I would not have you neglect them on my account.’

  ‘As it happens,’ replied Conor tartly, ‘I do. It seems the queen’s yard has filled up with a considerable number of people who require some assistance.’

  ‘Yes!’ affirmed Sceana quickly. ‘By all means, Conor, do whatever is necessary to make them comfortable. They are only staying one night, after all.’ To Vainche she said, ‘It is the least we can do.’

  Conor took his leave, heartily glad not to have to suffer the impudent stranger’s rudeness a moment longer. Once outside, he paused on the steps of the house and looked out across the yard. The Bréifne were huddled together in tight little clumps, shoulders slumped, faces haggard in the fast-fading light of a dying day. Too tired to talk, most of them just sat and stared at their unfamiliar surroundings. Conor’s heart went out to them. He hurried across the yard where the Brigantes store master—a garrulous old fellow with a red face and pot belly—stood before the storehouse and granary, guarding his supplies. Conor hailed the man and said, ‘They will be needing something to eat,’ he said. ‘Give them some beans and bacon, oats or whatever, to make themselves a meal.’

  This brought a mighty frown to the man’s ruddy face. ‘Under whose authority—if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘If anyone complains, you can tell them to speak to me,’ said Conor.

  ‘Aye, I will do just that.’

  ‘It is only for one night, after all. They are moving on in the morning.’ Conor turned and started away, adding, ‘This time tomorrow they will be someone else’s concern—them and their insufferable lord.’

  Skirting the makeshift encampment, Conor made his way to the hall with a head full of thoughts and questions: why was the king with his people? Why was he here at all? Any king worthy of the name and rank would fight to the death in defence of his realm. How had Vainche come to abandon his warriors in the midst of battle? Why had he forsaken his kingdom?

  These questions occupied Conor until he reached the hall. He summoned Médon and sent him to speak to the stable master and tell him to bring any Bréifne women with infant children into the stable for the night where they would be more comfortable. Then he dismissed the matter from his mind and moved to his place at the head of the board.

  ‘So now?’ asked Fergal, sidling up to lean on the table. ‘What do you think of your man—this Bréifne lord?’

  ‘An ill-mannered pig, to be sure,’ replied Conor. ‘But not worth a second thought. He’ll be gone tomorrow.’

  Fergal glanced at Donal who stood a little way off, a bemused expression on his broad face. ‘Aye, so we hope,’ murmured Fergal.

  That hope died a swift death. The refugees did not depart the next morning. They were there when Conor and the warriors went out to take up their training in the lower field, and they were still there when the warriors returned. Nor, as the sun slanted toward sunset, did they show any sign of moving on. Night came and went, and the next day as well. Two days passed and the evening of the third day found them still idling in the yard.

  Conor was standing on the narrow platform that ran along the front of the Warriors’ House when the stable master approached. A short, flat-faced man with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and bowed legs, he wasted not a moment on pleasantries, saying, ‘They are still here.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Conor, eyeing the mass of people in the yard, ‘so I see.’

  ‘They can’t stay.’ He huffed, waving an arm in the direction of the ref
ugees. ‘They have to go.’

  ‘Is there something you think I can do to move them along? If you know of anything, tell me, and I will do it this instant.’

  ‘I want my stable returned.’

  ‘Why? Where has it gone?’

  ‘Those people…’ He flung his arm at the displaced Bréifne. ‘Those people have taken it. There’s no room for my horses—it’s all brats snivelling and mewling! There’s women hanging clothes on my stall rails and babies sleeping in my feed troughs.’

  ‘Have you spoken to anyone about it?’

  ‘I am speaking to you!’

  ‘Aye, so you are,’ said Conor, ‘but I don’t—’

  ‘Do something!’ With that, the stable master turned and stormed off, calling down black thunder on anyone who crossed his path.

  Unwilling to see the horse master upset any further, Conor decided to visit the King’s House and take up the matter with the queen. Upon requesting an audience, he was informed by one of the queen’s handmaids that Lady Sceana was not in residence. ‘No?’ he said, and asked where she could be found.

  ‘That I cannot tell you,’ replied the maiden.

  Conor regarded the slim, fair-haired young woman. ‘Breatha, isn’t it? I must speak to the queen as soon as may be.’

  ‘Aye, I know, but she went away with Lord Vainche and did not tell me where they might be going.’

  ‘Went away?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Breatha, ‘I think I might have heard they were going down to the stream.’

  ‘The stream,’ repeated Conor. ‘The stream where we wash—is that the one you mean?’

  ‘I think so, sir. On foot they were.’ She gave him a wan smile. ‘That’s all I know.’

  Conor thanked the serving maid and turned to regard the flock of refugees. Some were already kindling fires for the evening meal, and others were sitting with their kinsmen or reclining in their cloaks. No one appeared to be getting ready to leave anytime soon. In fact, they appeared quite content and comfortable.