In the Land of the Everliving

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Conor delivered himself of a heavy sigh and crossed the yard, searching among the clusters of Bréifne for the red-haired warrior who had accompanied his lord on their arrival. He found the man with his wife and a young boy sitting in the shade of the storehouse nearest the gate. The fellow saw Conor approaching and rose quickly and came to meet him. ‘I give you good greeting, my lord battlechief,’ he said graciously. ‘I commend you for the generous hospitality you and your queen have shown our people.’

  ‘Touching that, our hospitality, generous or otherwise, has a limit. It has been three days. I thought your lord said you were staying but one night before moving on.’

  ‘That is so,’ confirmed the man, still smiling. ‘But, as you see, we are still here.’

  ‘I do see that. I want to know why.’

  ‘Ach,’ said the man with a shrug, ‘that I cannot tell you. We have been given no command.’

  ‘Nothing? No word at all?’

  The fellow shook his head. ‘My lord said only that the welcome here was good and better than he hoped.’

  ‘I do not wonder.’ A flush of frustration set Conor’s ruddy birthmark tingling. He thanked the fellow and moved off, heading for the gate where he asked Dornach, one of the young Cruithne, who was on duty, when the queen and her guest had departed and whether he knew when they planned to return.

  ‘They left around midday, I think it was,’ replied the guard. ‘I was up on the walk and did not speak to them. Maybe Laoire can tell you more, he was on the gate at the time.’

  Conor was about to shout up to the walkway to ask Laoire, the other guard, when he heard voices out on the ramp leading up to the ráth. Stepping through the gate, he saw three people just then starting the climb: Lady Sceana and Lord Vainche on foot, and a dour, big-faced, thickset man on a stocky brown horse following along behind. All three were talking loudly and with some excitement.

  Conor took one look at the light, mincing gait of the queen and the glowing expression on her face and he felt the ground shift under his feet. Clearly, something had happened and he knew in his gut and from the dull throb of the birthmark on his face that whatever it was that caused Lady Sceana’s buoyant steps did not bode well for Conor mac Ardan.

  He watched the three, resentment and misgiving warring within him: dislike of the louche and handsome stranger, distrust of the grim-looking stranger on the horse, and apprehension for the queen. As they came nearer, the queen saw him and lifted her hand to beckon him to her.

  With slow, measured steps he walked down the long ramp to meet her. ‘Lady Sceana,’ he said, touching the back of his hand to his forehead, ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed a pleasant day.’

  ‘Indeed!’ she gushed, and reached for Vainche’s hand. He raised it and kissed it, sending a flood of revulsion and loathing through Conor and making his birthmark itch and throb. Had he a blade in his hand just then—or even a stout stick—he would have beaten the Bréifne upstart for his intolerable presumption. ‘You have not been waiting for me long, I trust.’

  ‘Nay, lady, only a moment or two.’ He glanced from her to Vainche and could have sworn he saw a smirk playing on the lord’s lips. Conor, his ruby birthmark kindling with the fire of anger, forced himself to remain calm. ‘It is only that some of your people are asking how much longer our visitors will be with us. It was voiced about that they would be leaving two days ago.’

  ‘There has been a change of plans,’ Sceana said lightly. ‘They will not be leaving at all.’

  Vainche squeezed her hand and murmured, ‘You are too kind. Your liberality is surpassed only by your beauty.’

  Ignoring him, Conor said, ‘They are to stay with us? All of them?’

  ‘Indeed, I have asked Lord Vainche and his people to remain with us. They will make their home among us.’ She turned adoring eyes on the darkly handsome lord. Conor could hardly believe the alteration in her character and demeanour. She seemed almost giddy.

  ‘And has their lord given any thought where they might live? The courtyard is hardly suitable, and the horse master would have his stables back.’

  ‘Lord Vainche will settle his people on Brigantes lands.’ Glancing at Conor’s expression, she said, ‘I see my decision catches you unawares. But, if you will consider, it is surely for the best. You said yourself that the displaced more than earn their keep in the work they do and the skills they bring.’

  ‘You are so very wise, my lady,’ sighed Vainche.

  ‘What is more,’ continued the queen, ‘twenty warriors come with him. We will double our warband at a single stroke.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Conor allowed grudgingly, ‘then again, maybe not. We know nothing of these twenty warriors save that they fled the field with their king rather than fight for their tribe and home. That does little to recommend them to me.’

  ‘Who is this that dares impugn the skill and integrity of the Bréifne warhost?’ demanded the hard-faced visitor from the back of his horse. His voice was rough as his mien and his hooded eyes smouldered with anger. ‘Say the word, my lord, and this insolent milksop will regret he ever opened his mouth in your presence.’

  Conor regarded the excitable fellow impassively. ‘You take offense at what seems an obvious fact. Why is that?’ Before the man could answer, he said, ‘Could it be that I have thrust my finger in a raw and festering wound?’

  Glaring fire, the blunt warrior threw his leg over his mount’s withers and slid to the ground. He marched toward Conor and came within four paces before his lord put out a hand to restrain him. ‘Calm yourself, Gioll,’ said the king lightly. ‘I am certain our friend’s churlish behaviour is a result of ignorance rather than intention.’

  Conor gave him a nod and an icy smile. ‘I stand ready to receive whatever wisdom you are able to impart.’ Turning his eyes to the lumbering hulk called Gioll, he said, ‘Enlighten me if you can.’

  The tension between the two mounted and Lady Sceana, clearly uncomfortable, interceded, saying, ‘It is not fitting to stand here quarrelling. I am certain all can be explained without rancour over a welcome cup.’

  Lord Vainche agreed. ‘A welcome cup is what is needed here,’ he said expansively. ‘My man Gioll has travelled far today and is in need of refreshment. Let us all sit down and hear his news together.’

  The four entered the ráth and made their way to the guesthouse; passing through and among the Bréifne tribesmen encamped there. As they progressed, several of the refugees stopped their lord to speak to him and Conor seized the opportunity to pull the queen aside.

  ‘They are to remain here?’ whispered Conor, indicating the swarm of people around them. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Within the borders of our realm,’ answered Sceana.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  The queen did not meet his eye. ‘A place will be found for them—a holding or settlement, as I say. In time, perhaps, they will build a ráth for themselves. Other tribes have done the same.’

  ‘That is true, lady,’ affirmed Conor. ‘But—’

  ‘But what?’ She turned on him. ‘I sense your disapproval. There is no need to deny it.’

  ‘I would be a poor advisor if I did not give you benefit of my considered opinion,’ Conor countered. ‘And just now, I am struggling to make sense of what you have told me.’

  ‘I see no problem here.’

  ‘No? Then let us ask ourselves what manner of king flees his kingdom, leaving his warband behind? Likewise, what chief of battle would abandon his warriors, leaving them to fend for themselves on the road? This troubles me greatly and it should at least concern you, Lady Sceana.’

  ‘It does not,’ she sniffed, ‘because I believe the explanation is soon forthcoming and will prove entirely satisfactory.’

  With that, she left him and hurried off to the King’s House to arrange refreshment for her guests. Conor stared dully at Vainche and Gioll, his birthmark burning red hot on his cheek. There was much about the Bréifne lord and his battlechief he did not trust, and it rankled
and gnawed at him like the persistent ache of a rotten tooth. Nevertheless, he entered the lodge when summoned and sat down with the queen and her guests as her ladies brought in food and drink.

  When Sceana was seated at the low table, she began by saying, ‘I was telling Conor that we have agreed that you and your people will have a settlement within Brigantes borders—to the south, perhaps. I believe there are suitable lands thereabouts.’

  ‘That is so,’ replied Vainche airily. ‘It makes perfect sense. I believe the southern border requires protection in these difficult days. Those lands are closest to the Scálda and therefore require a powerful presence to deter raiding. The Bréifne warhost will do that and more.’

  Lady Sceana smiled with approval. ‘Is that not good news, Conor?’

  ‘The Bréifne warriors would do this for our borders,’ observed Conor, ‘yet this powerful presence of theirs could not prevent the Scálda overrunning their own lands.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Gioll, slamming the flat of his hand on the table. ‘I demand an answer!’

  ‘Make of it what you will,’ replied Conor evenly.

  ‘There will be peace at my table and beneath my roof, or you will leave,’ the queen announced, but looked at Conor as she spoke.

  ‘Gioll is my warleader and battlechief,’ offered Vainche by way of an explanation. ‘And if he says that the southern borders will be better protected than they are now, then you can best believe him.’

  Conor bristled at the abrupt dismissal of his own considerable, and largely successful, efforts to maintain the southern boundaries of Brigantes territory that bordered the lands the Scálda stole. The region fronting the deadlands was a perpetual worry, constantly under pressure from enemy harassment. Most of the skirmishes Conor led that summer arose from and took place somewhere along that contentious line.

  ‘We were attacked by sea,’ said Gioll the battlechief. ‘Fifty ships of rabid Scálda scum if one. Every dún and ráth came under assault. We fought them off, held out as long as we could—long enough for our king to escape with any and all who could flee.’

  ‘And yet you lived to tell the tale,’ Conor said. ‘How very fortunate.’

  The overbearing Bréifne warleader leaned on the table and stabbed a stubby finger at Conor’s chest. ‘I don’t like being called a liar, and I don’t like you.’

  ‘There is a ready remedy for that,’ replied Conor. ‘Leaving that aside, where is your vaunted warband, eh? These twenty warriors of your loud boast, where are they?’

  ‘I rode ahead,’ sniffed Gioll, ‘to render an account of the final battle to our lord. The warband is a day’s march away, I reckon.’

  ‘Ach, well, now that you have rendered your account, I expect you will want to return to your warriors in all haste. They will be yearning for your powerful presence.’

  Gioll’s scowl hardened; showing a belated wisdom, he shut his mouth and said no more. But Conor had heard enough. ‘I will leave you all to your well-earned refreshment,’ he said, glancing at Vainche. ‘The duties of a battlechief multiply if left too long unattended.’ To Gioll, he said, ‘I have enjoyed our little talk. In truth, I feel more enlightened than ever.’

  16

  ‘Your behaviour this night past was disgraceful!’ fumed Lady Sceana. ‘Disgraceful and appalling…,’ she said, pausing, searching for words, ‘shameful and offensive! I was forced to apologise in order to win back their goodwill.’

  ‘I heartily wish you had not done that, my lady,’ Conor retorted. ‘Why should you be required to win favour of someone who has done nothing but plunder your generosity since he and his beggar band arrived? And now he and his rabble have seized territory within your own lands.…’ He shook his head in dismay, then tried a different approach. ‘These people depend on your kindness for sustenance and survival—it is they who should be apologising to you for abusing your goodwill with their incessant demands.’

  ‘The queen must uphold the honour of her tribe.’

  ‘The honour of your tribe was never at risk, my queen. Only the insufferable vanity of these two preening magpies—men who are strangers to us. I tell you there was no need for any apology.’

  ‘No need?’ She arched a shapely eyebrow. ‘No need? You as much as called them both liars.’

  ‘That word never passed my lips—though Gioll was quick to reach for it. In my experience, it is the liar himself who first points the finger at others.’

  ‘You insulted them beneath my roof, at my board,’ insisted Sceana. ‘You slighted and belittled them in my very presence. You are my champion, and I expect your support. I do not expect you to contradict me in front of esteemed guests.’

  ‘I accept that, but I am also your chief of battle and your foremost advisor. I asked a few questions and made a few observations—as any royal advisor should do when seeking the measure of anyone who comes begging royal gifts and favours. If these two felt belittled by anything I said, it is because they hold themselves too grand. It hurts to prick a boil, aye, but afterward a body feels all the better for it.’

  Sceana’s pretty face bunched into an ugly glower. She had called Conor to her house to explain his quarrelsome attitude toward Lord Vainche and Gioll, but instead of contrition, she met resistance.

  ‘You will apologise to them.’

  ‘To apologise to a liar is to accept his lies. I said it before and I say it again, my queen—it is they who should be apologising to you, and to all of us, for their grasping pretention and arrogance. And for their continued drain on our supplies and, aye, our goodwill.’

  Lowering her voice, the queen repeated, ‘You will apologise and seek pardon for your discourtesy.’

  ‘With all respect, my lady, I will not,’ swore Conor. ‘Indeed, I cannot—for I have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Then you make of me a liar because I told them that you would.’

  Conor felt his blood warm and his birthmark begin to prickle with a sudden heat. ‘That you should never have done,’ he said bluntly. ‘It does you no credit and will only work to your harm.’

  Sceana stared at him for a long moment, then abruptly turned her back on him. ‘You speak above your place if you think to upbraid me,’ she said, her voice cold and hard. ‘You will abide my decision, and apologise, or you will depart.’

  ‘Think what you are saying,’ Conor replied. ‘You make this a point of honour when there is none to be gained—only honour squandered and lost. Those men seek only to use you and exploit your kindness for their own ends. A true friend would never do that. Lord Vainche pours empty words into your ear and spins shining promises out of thin air, but he has eyes only for your throne.’

  Sceana turned on him with fire in her eyes. ‘It is jealousy I hear speaking. And I thought you held yourself above that.’

  ‘It is not jealousy. It is the truth. Vainche said they would stay but one night, but he gave no such order to his people. In fact, he came here planning to take as much as he could lay hands to and he has succeeded beyond any hope or expectation.’

  ‘That is unworthy of you.’

  ‘My lady, I accept that these are hard words and, believe me, I take no pleasure in saying them. But if you will not believe me, you have only to speak to his tribesmen. They will tell you, as they told me, that their lord gave no command to move on and, indeed, has still not done so. For all they know, they are to reside in our yard.’

  ‘You blame them for trying to make the best of their sorry lot? What of the other clans and tribes we have welcomed? Do you begrudge them, too?’ the queen countered. ‘In any event, I asked them to stay.’

  ‘Aye, you did. What did his lordship promise you to secure that invitation, eh?’

  Sceana’s eyes blazed, but she shut her mouth and turned away again.

  A seething silence claimed the room.

  Conor was first to speak. ‘It was his promise to rebuild the warband with his twenty warriors and make the Brigantes great in Eirlandia once more,’ he s
aid gently. ‘That was his promise, was it not?’ The question hung unanswered. When the queen did not reply, he said, ‘But where is this great and powerful band of warriors of which he boasts? Where is the mighty Bréifne warhost? I think when they arrive—if ever they do appear—they will be half that number of poorly trained and ill-equipped farmers and there will be some sad excuse given to explain the lack.’

  ‘That is shameful, Conor mac Ardan. You speak of things you cannot possibly know.’

  ‘I speak as your friend and true advisor, my queen. If the head of your ardféne cannot tell you the truth, then we are lost.’

  ‘Anyone who speaks the way you do—shaming me, scorning me, defying me—is no friend of mine.’

  ‘Lady, a friend would not allow you to be mistreated,’ he said. ‘I refuse to stand aside and watch you being molested by those sly rogues.’

  ‘There! You see? You despise them and it obscures your judgement. Such counsel as you give is worthless to me. I will hear it no longer.’ She turned back to confront him, and said, ‘You will apologise at once. I command you.’

  ‘And if I will not?’ Conor held her gaze with his, refusing to give in to this unreasonable demand.

  ‘Then I will have no further need of your service,’ she said. ‘For such service as you would render is useless.’

  Again, Conor felt the ground shift beneath his feet. How can things have changed so radically and so quickly in so short a time? he wondered. How is it possible?

  ‘You are telling me my skill and experience is of no further use to you,’ he intoned in dull disbelief. ‘Who will train up your warriors? Who will lead them in battle?’

  ‘Gioll is Lord Vainche’s battlechief and he will be mine. Lord Vainche has already suggested this very thing and I mean to accept his offer.’

  ‘Already suggested it.’ The words turned to ashes in Conor’s mouth as the extent of their grasping reach became abundantly clear. The sudden realisation stole the warm breath from his lungs. Already suggested … He had been right about them, but he had failed to reckon the sheer magnitude of the greed and ambition he had sensed, less yet the speed and audacity with which it could be employed.