Setting her jaw, Bodhmhall lifted the flap and stepped inside.
The interior of the roundhouse was dark and it was difficult to see anything at first. Intimate familiarity, however, allowed Bodhmhall to automatically assign definition to the blurred shapes and contours; the curved brushwood sleeping platform, the narrow posts supporting the roof, even the wooden stand holding Liath Luachra’s leather fighting harness.
A distinct scent of oil competed with the odour of wood smoke from the fire. Although not the most fastidious of housekeepers, Liath Luachra was meticulous when it came to the maintenance of her armour and weapons and spent hours cleaning and oiling them when the weather confined her indoors.
The central feature of the hut was the small, stone-kerbed fire pit where the fire she’d laid down that morning had settled to embers. It was still radiating sufficient heat to repel the chill from outside and its dull glow illuminated the fur-wrapped figure curled up on the floor beside it.
Bodhmhall stood and stared in silence as a gentle snore rustled through the confines of her living area. Their guest was facing the fire with her back to the entrance, however, the bandraoi’s unique Gift allowed her to see the blue-yellow hue of her visitor’s life-force. Within that haze, but slightly lower, she could make out another separate glow; a strikingly vivid yellow.
Cairbre had it right, then. The visitor’s with child.
She studied the fiery glimmer with curiosity, surprised by the intensity of colour in one that had not yet been born. In her experience most people, even those not yet fully formed, tended to exude a pale blue or green coloured aura. There were occasional exceptions like Liath Luachra where tinted flickers of orange or red could also be observed. She had never before, however, seen one burn as bright and intense as the flame from this unborn child.
Advancing towards the fire, Bodhmhall tossed in some scraps of dried turf from a wicker basket beside the hearth and stoked it up as quietly as she could. Puffs of blue smoke drifted slowly to the roof of the hut and there was a brief crackle as the turf caught alight. A sudden flicker of flame briefly illuminated the face of the sleeping figure. Bodhmhall’s eyes widened.
She buried her shock in a surge of activity, busying herself until she had regained her composure. Crossing to a low, rough bench she grabbed a handful of dried herbs from one of the many that had been ground and stored in a series of little bowls, to be steeped as the need required. Sprinkling the herbs into a fresh clay beaker, she added some warm water from a pitcher sitting in the embers and started to stir. The sounds of swirling liquid and the sharp tap of a wooden spoon against the lip of the beaker did not rouse the sleeping woman.
Settling onto her haunches beside the fire, the bandraoi reached over and shook her roughly. It took several attempts before her visitor finally released a low moan. Rolling onto her back, the woman opened a pair of sleep-ridden blue eyes.
‘Hallo, cousin,’ said Bodhmhall.
The girl attempted to rise but was thwarted by the bulk of her stomach. Blinking and stupid with sleep, she succeeded in sitting upright on her second attempt and gazed about her in bleary-eyed confusion. She looked depleted. Pale and exhausted, despite her slumber.
Understandable, given the rigours of travelling in winter. And the weight of that child in her belly.
‘Bodhmhall.’
The voice was husky, tight with tension.
Bodhmhall busied herself with her potion, silencing her guest with a raised forefinger as she poured the mixture from the beaker into a smaller bowl. The extended silence seemed to disconcert her visitor. She shrank back on herself, clutching her woollen cloak and drawing it more tightly about her.
She was scared, Bodhmhall realised with a start. Muirne Muncháem, Flower of Almhu, wife to her brother Cumhal, was scared.
Unsettled by this realisation, she stared at her visitor, once more recalling the spectral assault she’d repelled at the lubgort. The convergence of events did little to reassure her.
‘I come seeking sanctuary.’
Bodhmhall’s posture tensed as she glared at Muirne Muncháem. It was rare for her to experience true fury but she knew that the contorted emotions twisting up inside her could be nothing else.
‘Sanctuary. You come to Ráth Bládhma, refuge of An Cailleach Dubh to seek sanctuary?’
Muirne blanched at the mention of An Cailleach Dubh – The Dark Hag – and Bodhmhall found herself unable to repress a bitter sense of satisfaction. It had been Muirne, after all, who’d originally contrived that cynical epithet and there was a righteous sense of balance in using it back against her.
Muirne let her head drop, unable to bear the wrathful expression of her host.
‘Cumhal is dead.’
‘What?’
Bodhmhall stared, her fury deflected but still too inflamed to completely absorb what the younger woman had just told her.
‘Cumhal is dead.’
Bodhmhall studied the woman’s face more carefully, scrutinising it for any sign of deceit, any trace of duplicity. The pain she saw in those features served only to confirm the tone of her words. Muirne was telling the truth. Which meant that ...
Cumhal!
Her brother, future leader of Clann Baoiscne, blond, vivacious and full of life was ...
Dead.
Bodhmhall stiffened, the news striking her like a blow to the stomach. Her guts lurched and shoulders sagged as though compressed by some sudden, unfathomable burden. Head whirling, she struggled to assemble some coherent thought through the maelstrom of questions and notions in her head.
Muirne tactfully looked to one side until her host gathered herself together.
‘How?’
Under normal circumstances Bodhmhall would have been embarrassed by the catch in her voice, the exposure of such brittle weakness. Now, gutted by shock and grief, she simply didn’t care.
‘A battle with Clann Morna. There was a dispute about stolen cattle from an earlier raid. A confrontation was arranged by the draoi of both clans ...’ Muirne’s voice trailed off momentarily as an involuntary blaze of contempt flickered across Bodhmhall’s features. ‘It was to be a limited engagement, a clash of champions but Clann Morna treacherously broke the established tradition. The party from Dún Baoiscne was ambushed as it passed through Cnucha on its way to the agreed battle lands. Our men were taken completely by surprise. They fought well but they were overwhelmed. Cumhal fell. And seventeen other warriors.’
Seventeen!
Bodhmhall gasped. Seventeen warriors! Most of them individuals she would have known, played with as children and watched grow into young men. She shook her head in disbelief. Such a loss of manpower, of leadership, was catastrophic for Clann Baoiscne, a substantial threat to the ongoing survival of the clan.
‘And Crimall. Is he –’
‘Your other brother lives. They say he’s fled to the West.’
‘Lugaid the Lightning Stroke?’
‘Dead.’
‘Ernán mac Donn?’
‘Dead.’
‘Fergus?’
‘Alive. But he will never use his right hand again.’
Bodhmhall paused. ‘Fiacail mac Codhna?’
There was a silence as Muirne looked away. Her exhaustion was evident now, her posture slack, her natural beauty strained and haggard.
‘He lives. He was at Seiscenn Uarbhaoil during the battle. A new love is said to detain him there.’
As always when distressed, Bodhmhall compressed her emotion beneath a mask of impassivity, submerging all trace of sentiment in the depths of a bottomless black loch, sunk and hidden deep within herself. The reaction was an instinctive response, a coping mechanism developed during her time with draoi Dub Tíre. She imagined her lips curve in a cynical smile, a grimace that was not reproduced on her face. The bitter lessons of that time, it seemed, served some practical purpose after all.
Fiacail? How typical! The man’s cock has saved his life.
‘My father?’
&
nbsp; The Flower of Almhu shrugged. ‘What do you expect? His favourite son is dead. His second son fled like a coward. All his plans died with Cumhal. Cumhal was the tánaiste, the heir destined to lead Clann Baoiscne to great deeds. There is no clear replacement.’
A burning sensation in the palms of her hands made Bodhmhall look down and she realised that she’d unconsciously gouged the soft skin with her fingernails. Blood was now trickling freely down the inside of her wrists. Folding them onto her lap, she exhaled slowly and drew upon all her reserves to focus solely on the issue confronting her. She nodded at the stomach of the younger woman.
‘This is Cumhal’s child?’
A protective hand dropped to cradle the bulge.
‘Yes.’
‘Huh.’ A muted grunt of comprehension. Muirne’s departure from Dún Baoiscne made some sense then. With their victory at Cnucha, Clann Morna would move quickly to establish dominance over their old rivals, Clann Baoiscne. A direct assault on Dún Baoiscne was unlikely given the cost in men needed to capture the fortress. They could, however, sue for peace under advantageous conditions. With the death of their future leader and the loss of so many warriors, Clann Baoiscne’s power was seriously diminished. Clann Morna would be determined to eliminate any future challenge to their dominion by obliterating the hereditary lines of Clann Baoiscne leadership.
For Muirne, the ramifications were serious. If male, Clann Morna would demand the death of her child or, at the very least, insist on fosterage with one of their own. To cement their hold, it was also likely they would demand her union through marriage with a suitable member of their sept.
Bodhmhall sighed and got to her feet. She suddenly felt weary, much older than her twenty-three years. On leaving Dún Baoiscne, she had thought to leave this world of tribal politics and kingship squabbles behind.
Despite her personal anguish, she experienced an unexpected surge of sympathy for Muirne and the threat to which she was now exposed. Almost immediately, she smothered that reaction. Previous experience with Muirne Muncháem had too often demonstrated that such goodwill was unlikely to be reciprocated. In this particular case, there were also significant ramifications to becoming too involved.
‘You are the raven, Muirne Muncháem. You bring pain and dismay wherever you descend to rest your feet.’ She brushed her hands and sighed. ‘Why have you come here?’
‘I come seeking sanctuary.’ The blond haired woman raised her hands, palm outwards. ‘I have nowhere else to go. Would you deny me refuge?’
‘Of course, I would. The wrath of Clann Morna is not a threat we would willingly bring down upon ourselves.’
The bluntness of the response took Muirne by surprise. She stared at the taller woman with wide eyes.
‘Clann Morna does not know where I was headed.’
Bodhmhall ignored her. ‘You turned your nose up at us for years with your airs and graces. Now, when misfortune pulls you from your heights of privilege you throw yourself at our door. You know full well you are neither welcome, nor have any rights to hospitality here.’
‘Of course, I know! There are many places I could have sought help; family and bonds that owe me fealty and protection. Everyone is well aware that you and Liath Luachra bear me no love. Our antipathy is well known.’
‘And yet here you are.’
‘Because I carry Cumhal’s child.’
Bodhmhall took a deep breath.
Clever. Oh, very clever.
The bandraoi scowled. Although not a stunt that she was in a position to appreciate, she had to admire the younger girl’s political astuteness. As spouse to the tánaiste of Clann Baoiscne, Muirne automatically inherited the ancient rights of fealty due from the clan retainers, subject families and associated allies. Such networks of obligations and alliances had always cemented the authority of the ruling lineage. In times of adversity it was expected that these would be drawn on, that all favours would be called in.
Because of the circumstances behind Bodhmhall’s expulsion from Dún Baoiscne, Ráth Bládhma and its inhabitants were outside of such conventions. Despite this, Muirne had come here in secret, gambling her safety on Bodhmhall’s personal loyalty to her brother as opposed to the loyalty of clan obligation.
Yes. It was a very clever manoeuvre. Clann Morna would certainly not have expected it and by telling no-one of her destination, her location would be secure.
Provided Bodhmhall responded as anticipated.
She held the girl’s eyes. Muirne returned the stare with an anxious expression then, unable to withstand its intensity, dropped her own eyes to the floor. ‘Cumhal would always defend you,’ she whispered. ‘At Dún Baoiscne, when the people turned against you, he argued to let you stay. And yet ...’ Her voice filled with bitterness. ‘You would deny sanctuary to his son, your nephew. Your blood kin.’
‘So it’s a boy, then?’
‘It kicks like a boy,’ Muirne snarled and despite her fatigue, some of the woman’s natural fieriness flared in her eyes. ‘But you’re An Cailleach Dubh. You tell me.’
With a sigh, Bodhmhall considered her guest and suddenly wished her gone. Departed with her tragic news, her lust for power, her games and abrasive personality. Right there and then, she wished nothing more than to lie down in the darkness, to grieve in silence for her brother, and to worry over Liath Luachra until she could find the strength to face the world again.
Of course, that was a luxury she did not have. Muirne Muncháem’s gamble had been well played. Her loyalty to her brother, even deceased, was too strong. There were some responsibilities she could not shirk, irrespective of the circumstances.
She exhaled very slowly, as though she had been holding her breath for a very long time.
‘You have the safety of Ráth Bládhma for tonight, Muirne Muncháem. But you have no friends here and the news you bring makes you all the more unwelcome. You also place Muinntir Bládhma in potential conflict with Clann Morna.’
‘Muinntir Bládhma?’ Her sister by marriage arched one eyebrow in surprise.
‘We’re our own clan now, Muirne. Muinntir Bládhma.’
Bodhmhall had plucked the words from the air. Muinntir Bládhma; the household of Bládhma. And yet as she’d said it the words had felt right to her. The settlement was not associated with any particular ancestor or family dynasty, nothing but the location in which they were settled. Bládhma. Its members were outcasts or misfits, every one of them. A disgraced bandraoi, a female warrior, an old slave, a mute woman, three landless sons. It was a new beginning for all of them.
Such aspirations were lost on the likes of Muirne Muncháem who continued with her habitual obtuseness. ‘Well, Muinntir Bládhma has a limited future if it lacks the men to procreate. That is unless you intend to depend on the likes of your old slave and those boys I saw earlier.’
The bandraoi’s expression hardened but she could not deny the truth of her visitor’s words. Over the past three years, the settlement had clawed its way to a state of relative security but it was still a precarious existence. Despite their achievements, it did not have a future while its population remained so restricted.
Not that she would ever admit as much to Muirne Muncháem.
With exaggerated assurance, Bodhmhall smiled and brushed a loose strand of hair back from her face. ‘I understand you’re tired after your hardships in reaching us.’ She leaned forward so abruptly, her face so close to Muirne Muncháem’s, that the other woman drew back in alarm. ‘Nevertheless, you should not forget that you remain here by my leave.’
Bodhmhall got to her feet. ‘I will leave you to rest now. You may use this roundhouse for tonight. I will consult my rechtaire and my conradh with respect to your request for sanctuary and inform you on my final decision after we have eaten this evening.’
Picking up the beaker that she’d let settle on the ashes, she gave it a final shake, added a dollop of honey from another pot and held it out to her visitor.
‘Drink this. It will ease the pa
ins and help you to sleep.’
Cowed, Muirne accepted the vessel but considered its contents with a dubious expression.
Bodhmhall stood up to leave. ‘I may be An Cailleach Dubh, Muirne Muncháem, but I have yet to cause hurt to a child or a visitor in my home.’
Without waiting to for Muirne’s reaction, she departed through the doorway. The thick leather covering dropped back in place with a heavy flap.
***
Bodhmhall’s fury carried her several paces from the roundhouse before she was finally able to rein it in. Trembling, she halted beside the nearest lean-to, fists clenched so tight that the knuckles on her hands matched the colour of dirty snow. She leaned forwards, resting her forehead against one of the vertical support poles and felt the cool sensation of the wooden surface draw some of the anger from her.
She wasn’t sure how long she remained standing there, staring at the ground, resisting the urge to fall to her knees and weep. It was all too much, and all at one time: Liath Luachra’s disappearance, the assault from the draoi, the shocking news of her brother’s death and now the arrival of her old rival.
Taking a deep breath, she released the air slowly in little gasps as she straightened herself up and pulled back from the support pole. Wiping the cold patch of skin on her forehead, she turned and strode across to the fire pit where Conchenn was seated on a reed mat peeling skin from a pile of wrinkled vegetables heaped in a wicker basket. Lowering herself onto the mat beside the old woman, Bodhmhall retrieved an iron knife and furiously started to hack the skinned tubers into smaller pieces.
Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma Page 4
