Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma

by Brian O'Sullivan

  ‘The signal,’ Fiacail repeated from the platform above her. ‘I sent Tóla out to monitor the western path into the valley. It seemed a sensible precaution to have him replace your boy, Cónán, given your lack of warriors. If the fian do locate us, we’ll need as much warning as possible to prepare. A short time ago he signalled that there was a group of people approaching. Bearach spotted the signal and came to fetch me but the intruders are already half-way up the valley.’

  ‘Half-way up the valley!’ She stared at him in alarm.

  ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t think they’re too much of a threat.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  Grasping Bodhmhall by the hand, Fiacail hauled her up onto the platform where she stumbled forwards to the rampart wall. Peering down the length of the valley, the bandraoi’s eye immediately fell on the line of figures moving in the direction of the ráth. Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. There were fewer than ten figures, some of them significantly smaller than the others.

  Children!

  ‘We need a better means of alerting the ráth. Fortunately, this lot don’t look like the fian.’ Fiacail stood close beside her, observing her reaction. ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘It is Muinntir Ráth Dearg, Cathal ua Cuan’s people from the Ráth Dearg settlement.’

  ‘Ráth Dearg?’ he exclaimed harshly. ‘I don’t see any men. Apart from that shambling old relic at the back.’

  ‘That’s Cathal ua Cuan himself.’

  The warrior looked at her, his forehead furrowed. ‘This is ... not good, Bodhmhall.’

  The Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man said no more but Bodhmhall knew what he was thinking. The plan to defend Ráth Bládhma had been dependent on convincing the men from Ráth Dearg and An Coill Mór to join them. Given the bedraggled little group coming towards them, that was looking less and less like a feasible option.

  Dismayed, the bandraoi climbed up onto the pilings of the rampart to get a better look at the approaching group. Even at this distance, she could tell that they were a dispirited, wretched band. Heads bowed, they trudged towards the ráth, beaten and exhausted. Bodhmhall’s heart stirred in sympathy, knowing that they would have had a hard time of it out in the forest in the previous night’s storm.

  Only one member of the group, Cathal ua Cuan; the bald, grey-bearded, but still surprisingly muscular Taoiseach of Ráth Dearg, appeared to move with any clear sense of purpose. Keeping to the rear of the party, with one miserable looking infant perched on his shoulders, he was urging the shambling, mud-streaked refugees onwards, jadedly herding them towards the settlement. It was only when they halted, numb with exhaustion, before the causeway, that he pushed his way forward. Standing in front of his little group, he stared up at the bandraoi.

  ‘I see you, Bodhmhall.’

  ‘I see you, Cathal. Don’t stand out there in the cold. Bring your people in.’

  The old man took her at her word, making no attempt to explain his presence. Taking the child from his shoulder, he dropped him onto the ground, ushered the women and children ahead of him, and silently followed as they filed through the stone gateway and into the lis.

  Cairbre and Bearach awaited them inside, guiding the exhausted company into their roundhouse where they immediately collapsed around the fire. By the time Bodhmhall and Fiacail came in to join them, Conchenn was serving up hot broth, passing it out in wooden bowls that were snatched from her hands by the ravenous children.

  The bandraoi noticed that Cathal ua Cuan was the last person to receive food, accepting it only when every other member of his family had been taken care of. She watched as he held the proffered bowl in large, calloused hands. As he started to sup and allowed himself to relax, however, it was as though everything gave way. The old man stumbled unsteadily to one side and would most likely have fallen if Fiacail hadn’t reacted with his usual swiftness, catching him by the arm and guiding him to the support of the centre roof post. Leaning against the wooden pole, Cathal slowly slid to the floor, his back against the pole, his two legs spread out before him. Bodhmhall noted how the skin on the soles of his feet was raw and torn, two of the toes on his left foot blackened as though from snow rot.

  All that way from Ráth Dearg under such conditions. He is a tough man.

  She was impressed. Crotchety and coated in filth the old warrior might be but he’d still managed to push himself beyond the abilities of many younger men in his struggle to protect his family. She was familiar with the man’s reputation for toughness, of course. In his day, Cathal had been a warrior of some repute, Back in Dún Baoiscne, he’d served as a respected and intimidating bodyguard for Guaire – Bodhmhall’s grandfather – for many years. However, with Guaire’s death and Tréanmór’s subsequent rise to the position of rí, the old warrior had become surplus to his new leader’s requirements. Keen to establish his own distinct political and military reign, Tréanmór had wanted a fresh contingent of younger, fitter warriors. Cathal had been summarily discarded and put out to pasture with the older fighters.

  A proud man, Cathal had not taken the insult well and had departed Dún Baoiscne for Ráth Dearg – The Red Ringfort – named for the red fern that grew in abundance in the area. The land had previously been linked to his mother’s people but they’d long since died off or moved away. Cathal had re-established his own family holding there with his three boys, their wives and servants.

  Bodhmhall raised a beaker to his lips and he gulped from it in great, greedy draughts.

  ‘You look weary, Cathal.’

  ‘I am weary, girl.’ He paused to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and his eyes took on a worn, despairing look. ‘Bodhmhall of Ráth Bládhma, I come to beg your mercy. Without your help, my family will die.’

  ‘You have it and welcome, Cathal.’

  Relief tumbled from the exhausted old man. ‘Thank you, Bodhmhall. Thank you.’

  ‘What happened, Cathal? What are you doing here? Did Cónán bring you our message?’

  The ancient fighter wheezed and for a moment she thought he was going to pass out but his characteristic toughness reasserted itself. With obvious effort, he forced himself to sit upright.

  ‘Yes, Bodhmhall. Your boy came to us with your message. We encountered him on the trail less than two days ago. We were already on our way here.’

  Off to the side, Bodhmhall heard Conchenn give a hiss of relief and saw how she reached out to grasp Cairbre’s hand.

  ‘Three days before that, our settlement was attacked by reavers. They came out of the morning fog, slaughtered our men, killed our animals. They took the ráth.’ The old man sighed. ‘Would that he’d come sooner,’ he continued miserably. ‘But that was not his fault. He gave us what food supplies he carried for the little ones would have died without it. Afterwards, he left to take his message to An Coill Mór.’

  Bodhmhall considered this news gravely. ‘Your boys?’ she asked.

  ‘All dead.’

  She shook her head in dismay. She hadn’t seen Cathal’s sons for many years but she remembered them as bold, handsome young men.

  So much death. So much unnecessary death.

  Fiacail was not so sympathetic. Reaching down, he took a firm grip of the old man’s filthy tunic and shook him roughly. ‘Your attackers, man. Who were they? Who drove the fian?’

  The farmer shook his head and stared at them in incomprehension.

  ‘T’weren’t a fian. These men were foreign reavers.’

  ‘Foreign reavers?’

  ‘They weren’t of The People. They spoke some bastard tongue I’ve not heard before and they had strange markings on their skin and faces. Some of them had black faces. Others wore necklaces or ornaments made out of human teeth. Or ears and fingers.’

  He closed his eyes and shuddered, clearly thinking about the fate of his sons’ bodies.

  ‘How many of them?’ demanded Fiacail.

  Cathal shook his head. ‘I don’t k
now. Fifty, maybe.’

  Bodhmhall and Fiacail looked at one another.

  Fifty men. The two fian have joined together.

  ‘You’re sure?’ asked the big man. ‘They were not Clann Morna men?’

  Cathal released a scathing, hysterical laugh. ‘Clann Morna? No. Clann Morna speak our tongue and, for all their faults, they don’t kill unless they have a clear plan in mind. This band were savages. They attacked us for the sport. Our settlement posed no threat to them. We had little of value to a band like that. Nothing except for food.’ He paused. ‘Or the prospect of entertainment.’

  Bodhmhall looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Those men hungered for murder, Bodhmhall. They may have been famished but, mostly, they were just hungry for blood. The better part of them just sat up on a hill overlooking the ráth to watch their comrades ransack our home, hack my sons to pieces and laugh at the sport of it. My eldest -’

  He choked on a sudden sob and had to stop for a moment before continuing.

  ‘My eldest son’s wife – Elec – tried to save her man. She was a brave girl, that one. Ran out at them with a scythe, she did. Fearless. Courageous. But those animals didn’t care. They just grabbed her, tore her clothes from her body and took it in turns, ripping her apart out there in the open.’

  He closed his eyes and for a moment it looked as though he would be unable to continue. ‘She did not die a pretty death.’

  Although the old man was visibly distraught, Fiacail refused to ease up on his interrogation, intentionally pushing the desolate man with further questions.

  ‘They killed your men and yet you, your women and children managed to escape. You were lucky then, weren’t you? How did a fat old man like you get away?’

  Cathal sniffed, blearily wiped a hunk of snot away with the sleeve of his jerkin. Suddenly he rallied, glaring up at the warrior with unexpected ferocity. ‘Oh, yes Fiacail mac Codhna,’ he responded, bitterness dripping from his words. ‘I was lucky. So very lucky. I had all the luck of a fat old man who outlives his sons.’

  The bitter retort had no impact on the big man’s thick skin. ‘You did not fight.’

  ‘With what would I fight? I had no weapon to hand. Besides, someone had to protect the children and the women of my other sons.’

  ‘Then they are truly fortunate,’ said Fiacail blithely. ‘That a warrior of such fearsome reputation would preoccupy himself with them.’

  Cathal was too wearied to react to the insult. Fiacail shook him again.

  ‘How did you get away? Were you hidden? Did they not see you?’

  He released the old warrior who slumped, disconsolate, against the post.

  ‘No. I’d taken my grandchildren down to the river to fish. The trout bite better on the cusp of dawn. We were on our way back with our catch when heard the screams. I hurried the children as fast as I could then, just in sight of the ráth, we ran into Cumann and Gnathad who were fleeing the carnage.’ He pointed at the two women in the group. Both were now sitting by the fire pit. The older one, an attractive woman with fair hair tied up in a braid, was breast feeding a young infant of less than two years. The younger one, a dark-haired maiden of about sixteen or seventeen years, stared into the flames with a haunted expression.

  ‘We stood at the edge of the forest and stared at the ráth but by then those savages had captured our home and massacred everyone. There was nothing I could do but run, try to save what remained of my family.’

  ‘So, in your flight you simply outran them. You and your weak-kneed wretches.’

  ‘Yes!’ the old man snarled. ‘No! I don’t know!’ He appeared flustered, confused. ‘They must have lost interest in us. They were too busy enjoying their sport. I –’

  But Bodhmhall could take no more of the interrogation.

  ‘Fiacail, let the man be. Can’t you see he’s overcome with grief?’ She lifted a damp cloth and wiped the elder’s brow then leaned forward to whisper softly into his ear. ‘Rest easy, Cathal. You are in a place of safety. You have delivered your kin and fulfilled all responsibility. Your duty is done. All that remains now is to rest.’

  The old man looked up at her with despair-filled eyes. Without warning, those eyes rolled into the whites and his head rocked back against the pole. He began to snore.

  Fiacail stared at the comatose old fighter then turned to the bandraoi, his eyes wide in amazement. ‘You bewitched him?’

  She wrinkled her lips in a cynical gesture and held up the beaker. ‘This mixture has soporific qualities, as Muirne Muncháem has also discovered. It relaxed Cathal sufficiently to allow himself to rest, to forgive himself for something that was not his fault.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘A well deserved rest. It was cruel to press him so mercilessly, Fiacail.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Seiscenn Uarbhaoil man admitted. ‘It was cruel but we needed to know what happened. It’s best to draw the facts from people before they get their wits about them, before their minds start to play tricks with the truth.’ He paused. ‘Let us go away from here, Bodhmhall.’

  With this, Fiacail turned and departed the roundhouse. Surprised, she followed him outside, across the lis and up the ladder to the southern rampart. Here, he leaned silently against the wooden pilings and stared across at the woods, slowly rocking himself backwards and forwards on the heels of his feet. Bodhmhall studied him with curiosity.

  ‘What is it, Fiacail?’

  He pursed his lips for a moment before he answered. ‘This attack on Ráth Dearg. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘What do you mean? The fian attacked them and killed their people. That is what fian do.’

  ‘Cathal claims it was not a fian.’

  ‘Fian or not, they were probably desperate for food and shelter. They’ve been out in rough country, exposed to brutal weather for several days at least. There’s not enough game to be had to support a band that size. Ráth Dearg had shelter and plenty of cattle to give them fresh meat.’

  ‘Mmm.’ The big warrior did not appear convinced. ‘That may be -’ he said.

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I believe that there is more to it than that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there were survivors. Survivors that should not have been able to outrun them. Including those two.’ He nodded his head to indicate the two Ráth Dearg women Cathal had referred to earlier. Both women had come out to the lis, the fair one pulling the dark-haired girl by the hand. Bodhmhall watched as they sat on a log outside the roundhouse. When they were seated, the first woman attempted to feed her friend from a small bowl of broth. Judging from the dark girl’s lack of response, she did not appear to be having much success.

  ‘You cannot tell me,’ whispered Fiacail, ‘that hardened men who have not known the company of women for such a time would willingly let such a catch escape. Particularly that fair one. She’d rise a head on any a man.’ His eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary before he shook his head with quiet conviction. ‘No, they would not have let them go. Not unless there was another purpose.’

  Bodhmhall’s face grew pale. ‘The fian are following them here.’

  ‘I think you have the nub of it. We’ve suspected the fian have been seeking Muirne Muncháem for many days now. We know their Tainted One has failed to locate us. If I was in their position, I’d be growing anxious too. They have no line of supply and they’re in unfamiliar territory so they’d have had to resort to some other stratagem. They would have -’

  ‘They would have attacked the settlement,’ concluded Bodhmhall. ‘And allowed some survivors to leave, knowing they would head straight for the nearest refuge: Ráth Bládhma.’ She nodded her head in reluctant appreciation. ‘That was quite clever.’ The ramifications of what she was saying suddenly registered. She stared at the warrior in dismay. ‘The fian may already be upon us!’

  Fiacail scratched his chin. ‘Not yet. Like you said, this fian will be exhausted, starving. They’ll probably have sick men with them. I think they’l
l make use of Ráth Dearg to recover their strength and resupply. But they will have sent scouts to trail Cathal and his people.’ He stared towards the west. ‘They’re probably out there now. In the trees at the end of the valley or the woods along the base of the ridges, watching us as we speak.’

  Bodhmhall looked about in alarm. ‘Will they attack?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. Now that they’ve found Glenn Ceoch, they’ll have sent runners back to their comrades. The rest – probably two or three men – will remain here to keep an eye on us, to study our defences, the number of fighting men we have and so on.’

  ‘But those runners will return with the fian?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. Let us say two days to run back to Ráth Dearg, three days march to return.’ He did the calculation in his head. ‘I think that within five days Ráth Bládhma can expect a full scale assault.’

  Bodhmhall shivered, her worst fears confirmed.

  ‘Can we intercept the runners? Somehow prevent them from reaching the fian?’

  ‘It’s too late. They’ll be moving fast, in a straight line to a predetermined destination. It’d be difficult to catch them up. Besides, even if we did give chase, there’s always a risk of losing their trail then having to backtrack and find it again.’ He paused to consider her keenly. ‘We should use what time we have more wisely.’

  ‘More wisely?’

  ‘Making preparations to leave.’

  Bodhmhall silently held his gaze.

  He sighed. ‘You have no intention of leaving, do you?’

  ‘Are my intentions so easy to read?’

  ‘Your features have a determined set to them that I recognise of old. It does not bode well.’ He unstrapped one of his battle-axes from his back and tossed it by the haft with casual skill from one hand to the other. ‘You cannot stay, Bodhmhall. Impressive though your defences are, they will not hold against fifty men. Besides, you have but a single, unblooded warrior to defend your walls.’

  ‘Liath Luachra and Aodhán will return soon.’