‘And how many times have the Scálda burned down your barns, killed your wives, and stolen your cattle?’
‘Not any at all,’ said the elder. ‘And you, a Brigantes, should know this.’
‘Aye,’ answered Médon. ‘I do know it right well—for the reason that the two you see standing on their legs before you were in Brecan’s warband and we protected settlements and strongholds like this while our king was alive. Now that he is gone, we find ourselves pressed hard to continue that protection without the help of people like you.’
‘I don’t think we’ve ever seen you or your men around here before,’ remarked the white-haired elder. ‘Not in my time anyway—and that stretches back a ways, so it does.’
‘What is your place here?’ Médon demanded.
‘I am stockman and keeper,’ answered the white-whiskered one, thrusting out his chin. ‘I’ve worked the herds since I was a lad in bare feet.’
‘Well, Aonghus, my man, you can call yourself fortunate that you have not seen us before. That means we have kept trouble away from the gates of Aghabhall these many years. And if you have a care for that protection to continue, you will cheerfully grant my lord Conor’s request to host our fianna these next three days while we work out how best to make our way in this Scálda-worried world.’
The two farmers shuffled their feet and sucked on their teeth, but still hesitated.
Médon, increasingly incensed by their reluctance, drew himself up. ‘I hope you are not contemplating turning away warriors of your tribe? That would be a grave mistake, friend—and one you and your clan would long regret—if you value remaining in your home here.’
‘Turning away?’ the fellow spluttered. ‘Turning away? Have you heard anyone say such a thing? See now, I will not have it said that I turned away a warrior of the tribe who asked a meal and a bed.’ He raised his eyes hopefully. ‘For three nights only it was—so you said, aye?’
‘Three nights only,’ Conor assured him. ‘And then we will leave you in peace.’
‘Aye, that’s all right then,’ said Blai, relenting at last. ‘Three nights it is.’
‘In any case,’ volunteered Aonghus, ‘I expect you will be wanting to reach the gathering before it begins.’
‘What gathering is that?’ asked Conor.
The two farmers glanced at one another. Aonghus said, ‘There’s an Oenach at Tara—all the kings and kinglets are summoned. There’s talk of a new high king coming to the throne.’
‘There is always such talk,’ Blai said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Ach, there may be more to it now that Brecan is gone and the dog-eaters have grown all the bolder for it. We need a high king they say, and that is the truth of it.’
‘I agree,’ said Conor. ‘That was your Lord Brecan’s ambition, too.’
‘Aye, so they say,’ replied Aonghus, ‘and it’s the new Brigantes lord leading the pack now.’
‘The new Brigantes lord?’ wondered Médon. ‘Queen Sceana is ruling our people as you should know.’
‘No more she is,’ Aonghus the herdsman told him. ‘This new lord—the Bréifne fella—’
‘Vainche, you mean,’ said Médon.
‘Aye, that one. He is king now—same as summoned the gathering.’
Conor glanced at Médon and, judging from the fierce scowl, the warrior was not taking the news at all well. ‘You did not know this?’ wondered Conor.
Médon shook his head. ‘I did not,’ he spat. ‘Mind, I only spoke to a few of the warriors at their training down in the field and did not go up to the ráth at all—the better to avoid being seen by Gioll or Vainche. No one told me about the marriage. Then again, maybe the deed had not yet been perpetrated.’
‘This gathering you mentioned,’ said Conor, turning back to Blai, ‘when is it to be?’
The chief conferred with Aonghus for a moment and together they decided, ‘At the next full moon. That’s … what? Maybe eight … ten days away.’
‘Ach, well, I thank you for your kind offer of hospitality, friend Blai,’ said Conor grandly. ‘I will be sure to mention it to your lord when I see him at the Oenach. No doubt he will be eager to repay you in kind for any shortfall you may sustain in hosting us.’
The two farmers fell to discussing how best to shelter and feed so many men and animals on such short notice. Leaving them to work out the details, Conor and Médon rode back to the fianna who were waiting on the road. The two had just left the yard when Médon asked, ‘Am I right in thinking that you mean to attend the gathering?’
‘I am thinking it would be imprudent not to attend. We can reach Tara in … what? Three days? Four? Though you would likely know best.’
‘Possibly two even—if we stir ourselves and do not dally along the way,’ Médon told him. ‘Mind, it will take longer for those on foot. Then again, the entire fianna would not have to arrive at once.’
‘Better if they didn’t appear at all, in fact. We don’t want to incite the ire of the more peevish lords and lordlings with a show of force like that. We could ride ahead and the rest of the fianna could come along in time.’
‘We?’ asked Médon hopefully.
‘Ach, aye,’ replied Conor, a grin spreading across his face. ‘A lord cannot attend an Oenach without his trusted advisors. If I am going to take my place at an Oenach, I must have an ardféne of my own. And you, Médon mac Cerna shall be among them—if you will accept the duty.’
‘I would be honoured, lord.’ Médon beamed his good pleasure. ‘You will not be disappointed in your choice.’
They began discussing who else should be included in the group to support Conor at the gathering when Fergal came riding up to meet them. ‘Will they be having us?’ Fergal called while still a little way off.
‘They will,’ answered Conor. ‘But for three nights only.’
‘Well, that is something at least.’
‘Three nights is all we can spare if we want to reach the gathering in time,’ Conor replied and, seeing the question forming on Fergal’s lips, quickly explained what he’d learned about the Lord Vainche summoning the tribes to an Oenach.
‘This is Vainche’s doing?’ He looked to Médon for confirmation. The young warrior nodded and Fergal shook his head in disbelief. ‘That flatulent swine must hold himself very grand indeed if he imagines he has any right to summon a gathering, much less plant his pale skinny arse on the high king’s throne. Can the man really be so deluded that he thinks anyone would support him?’
Before Conor could reply, Fergal added, ‘The very idea! It’s an outrage, that’s what it is—an outrage against sense and nature. And it cannot be allowed to go unchallenged.’
‘You speak my mind, brother,’ Conor told him. ‘And that is why we’re going to the gathering.’
‘Aye, we’ll go and put a stop to that insolent upstart before he up and starts.’
31
For the next three days the ordinarily peaceful beaten-earth yard at the little farming settlement of Aghabhall was transformed into a mock battlefield with groups of warriors training by day and gathered around five separate fire rings by night. The warriors of the fianna took their meals by turns in the holding’s modest hall, and slept in the barn and storerooms, and anywhere else a roof could be found. There was not a corner within the low, banked-earth walls that did not echo to the clatter of clashing weapons by day, nor their roisterous voices lifted in song or laughter by night. Both day and night, the inhabitants of little Aghabhall were fully stretched to meet the constant demands of their guests.
On the first day, Conor had summoned his new ardféne, consisting of Fergal, Donal, Médon, Galart, Dearg, and Aedd, of his earliest supporters, and Diarmaid from among the new arrivals. As the warriors went about their chores and training, Conor and his advisors walked among them, assessing each man’s strengths and noting any apparent weakness. When each practice session was over, the fianna trooped down to the river to bathe and shave while some of Aghabhall’s wo
men washed their clothes. On their return, Conor and Fergal, in his role as Chief of Battle, made a point to spend time with each man individually to get to know him and discover any talents or abilities that might prove useful for the fianna as a whole.
This process continued on the second, third, and fourth day, along with a series of sparring matches arranged by Conor to test the mettle of various pairs in order to determine who among the new group might become the leader of a branch. ‘A battlechief can only be one place at a time,’ Fergal had said. ‘Your father always chose one or two to lead a separate branch, if you recall. And I always thought it a fine thing.’
‘No doubt because you were often chosen to lead a branch and it pleases you to give orders,’ Conor quipped.
‘None of it,’ sniffed Fergal. ‘The place fell more often to Eamon if you care to recall.’
So, while the fianna sparred for Conor and Fergal, Donal took it on himself to organise an essential requirement that had so far been overlooked and underperformed: cooking and preparing meals. To this end, he called Dearg aside and told him, ‘You have proved that you have a cheerful way with a pot and a skewer, brother. The fianna has had the benefit of that these past many days. For that we are grateful and you are to be commended.’
The young warrior grinned, but shrugged off the compliment, saying, ‘I like to eat, and cooking is the best way to ensure a mouthful now and then.’
‘Even so, it is a skill in which you excel and I commend you,’ Donal told him. ‘But, see now we are forty-one knives at the board and that will require more of everything—more work, more food, and much more preparation. And we will need someone to take on that task, at least until we are better established than we are at present.’
‘Are you about asking me to be the cook now?’
‘I do ask it,’ replied Donal. ‘And not only that. As well as food, you will also oversee the provision of shelter.’
Dearg’s brow wrinkled with concern. ‘Food and shelter … for a warband this size?’ He puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘A job and a half, that. You won’t be wanting a man, you’ll be wanting a whole ráth.’
‘You’ve said it there, brother. Ach, but we must start where we find ourselves, and that is why I propose to make you master of the hearth. The work should not fall on your shoulders alone, so your first duty will be to choose three men to help you, or four if you think you need another. These men will be yours to train and command—in the hall and cookhouse, at least. These men will be excused any duties that conflict with your orders for them.’
‘The fellas I am to choose,’ said the redheaded Dearg, ‘must they be warriors from among the fianna?’
Donal pursed his lips in thought. ‘I suppose not,’ he concluded. ‘It is merely that warriors is what we have ready to hand. Why do you ask?’
‘Only for the reason that I have a friend, a kinsman, who was a warrior wounded in a battle a year or so ago and can ride with the warband no longer. Fíoldhla is his name, and what I know about cooking, I mostly learned from him.’
‘This kinsman of yours you say? Where is he?
‘He resides at Carnabhan where he served in Lord Toráin’s warband.’
‘Lord Toráin…? I don’t know the man. What tribe?’
‘He is of the Concani,’ Dearg told him. ‘One of King Brecan’s client lords. That was how Fíol came to be there. I could go and ask him to join the fianna if that is agreeable to you.’
‘We have more need of you here just now,’ Donal said. ‘I will tell Conor and have him send someone to fetch Fíoldhla if he is willing. Until he comes, I would have you choose three men to help you with the chores, and then we will discuss what to do about supplies and provisions.’
Dearg took his leave and went away smiling. ‘Master of the hearth,’ he said to himself. ‘Master of the hearth…’
On the third day, Conor and the ardféne walked once more among the sparring warriors, arranging various pairs and evaluating the shieldwork and blade craft of each man. Then they met together to arrange the battle groups. There would be four branches; Conor would lead one, Fergal another, and likewise Donal and Médon, each of whom would choose a second from among the men under him. In this way, the warband could operate as a single unit or four separate smaller units acting in close coordination. The four commanders spent the remainder of the day in their deliberations and, when the sun began to set and the chill fell upon the yard with the evening shadows, Conor assembled the warband. He called out Dearg from among them and confirmed that he was now master of the hearth, and asked Dearg to name the men he had chosen to aid him in his duties. Then, one by one, Fergal, Donal, and Médon stepped forward to call out the names of the men they had chosen for each warrior branch, and these sat down together in their groups.
Satisfied with this arrangement, Conor then took his place before the ordered ranks, and lifting his voice so that all could hear, he said, ‘Tonight we become a true fianna. Take this moment and look into the eyes of the man sitting next to you. Then, look into the faces of those around you. Take a good long look, for from this night these men are your swordbrothers.
‘Hear me, all of you! We are the fianna, and we have foresworn allegiance to the kings and lords of our past. No tribe or clan has any claim over us. Our loyalty is to each other and to our kind. In the battles to come we fight not for tribe or clan, we fight for the Tuatha Dé Danann. From this night, when we take up our spear to enter the fray we fight for all Eirlandia.’
He paused, allowing this thought to take root, then moved on, saying, ‘Word has gone out and the kings have been summoned to an Oenach. Tomorrow we leave here and travel to Tara where we will take our place among the warbands. We have not been invited, for few know we exist. But soon everyone will know that a new power has arisen in Eirlandia.’
These words met with the hearty approval of all gathered within the sound of Conor’s voice. Then he and the members of his ardféne walked among the warriors, confirming each one in their place within the branch of the fianna into which they had been placed. Supper that night, though a simple meal, became a revel—such that Fergal induced Blai to open a few casks of ale. ‘See here, my man,’ he cried from halfway across the yard, ‘tonight a new tribe has risen in the island and we must celebrate. Hurry! No time to lose.’
The noisy zeal of the fianna proved infectious and Blai and Aonghus and some of the men brought out a vat and began filling it, while the women gathered up every bowl and cup they could lay hands on. Meanwhile, firewood was stacked in the centre of the yard and a bonfire lit. The long board was removed from the hall and set up nearby, and the food that was to have been served inside was carried out, and soon the entire settlement converged on the yard to share the impromptu celebration with the warriors. When everyone was settled and all the cups and bowls filled, Conor raised the first cup to his hosts, praising Blai and Aonghus and all the folk of Aghabhall for their hospitality and care. There followed round after round of healths drunk, food shared, and stories told. Even the weather seemed to smile on the glad occasion: the rain that had threatened all day held off; the clouds parted to reveal a patchwork of stars and a late-rising moon that cast a silvery glow over the revellers below.
Some of the warriors, after trading friendly taunts and ridiculous insults, challenged one another to feats of strength—such as lifting the ale vat and seeing who could carry it the farthest. Others engaged in tests of skill: piercing a turnip with a spear thrown from fifty paces; champions were declared and the winners lauded with impossible attributes and cups of mead. Some of Aghabhall’s wives and maidens even allowed themselves to be talked into dancing with the warriors to the accompaniment of rowdy singing and the stamping of feet.
As the celebration reeled on, Donal noticed Conor sitting by himself in the shadows at the far end of the board, far away from the fire and the dancing. ‘You look like the man just thrown from his horse and trodden on,’ he said, sliding onto the bench across from him. ‘Why the w
oeful look, brother?’
Conor took his time answering. ‘Ach, well, I was just thinking that we have seen little of music and dancing in this last year or so,’ he said at last. ‘And that put me in mind of Aoife’s harp.…’ He broke off and gazed down into his half-empty cup.
After a moment, Donal concluded, ‘And that put you in mind of fair Aoife herself.’
‘So it did,’ Conor sighed. Still gazing into his cup, he murmured, ‘I do miss her so.’ Glancing up to meet Donal’s concerned gaze, he said, ‘Is she well, do you think?’ He gave an embarrassed shrug and said, ‘Ach, I might better ask the moon, eh?’ Raising his cup, he quickly drained it, then stood abruptly and, bidding Donal a good night, stalked off to find a quiet place to sleep.
The merrymaking lasted long into the night and the next morning, while others were picking up the pieces and clearing away the remnants, restoring the yard to its former state, Conor called his advisors together and told them to gather their weapons and prepare to ride—all save Médon and Dearg, who would lead the rest of the fianna travelling on foot to Tara. ‘I place the men in your care, brothers,’ said Conor as he swung up onto Búrach’s broad back. ‘Bring them along as quickly as you can.’
‘Give us good weather and you won’t be missing us,’ replied Médon, and Dearg echoed the sentiment. Taking up the reins, Conor bade them farewell and he and his new ardféne departed for the Oenach.
The six rode quickly through a land draped in autumn’s many-coloured cloak. Every farm and settlement they passed was busy preparing for the winter to come: cattle were being fattened, pigs slaughtered, sheep brought in from the remote hills, grain stored, straw stacked to dry. On the evening of the third day, they entered a region of low, gently rounded hills and wide valleys that opened onto a broad heartland of rivers, loughs, marshlands, and meadows—and, at last, the woodlands bordering the storied plains surrounding the sacred hill of Tara. These plains, celebrated in song, were where the lords and lordlings of Eirlandia would camp while attending the Oenach. Conor had thought best to approach from the southwestern edge of Mag Coinnem, the southernmost plain. Though rougher and fringed with elder, whitebeam, and elm—and therefore a somewhat less desirable location than the others—on this, the Council Plain, they would encounter, perhaps, less opposition to their presence. They chose a place at the foot of a low hill well away from the nearest encampments, but close enough to allow a lone watchman on the hilltop to see when the kings began assembling at Tara’s council ring. A stand of beeches grew along a tiny burn; a small grove of slender young trees, it would afford a scrap of shelter while allowing them to observe the southern approach for the eventual arrival of the unmounted fianna.
In the Land of the Everliving Page 30
