Fionn: The Stalking Silence

  ***

  The wind had risen over the course of the evening. By the time the company were gathered at the larger roundhouse it had evolved to a screaming gale and even the blackness of night could not hide the tumultuous cloud movement above them. Traversing the muddy lis at a run, Bodhmhall felt a cruel sense of satisfaction. The inhabitants of Ráth Bládhma might well be cowering behind its walls but they were, at least, sheltered from the worst of the elements. For the two fian and the prowling Tainted One, this night would prove extremely uncomfortable, hopefully hazardous.

  Such are the risks of mustering a fian so near to the close of winter.

  Inside the roundhouse, the blazing fire-pit kept the interior at a pleasant temperature and several oil lamps threw a warm, yellow glow over the surroundings. With the exception of Cónán, Bearach and Liath Luachra, all of the company had settled onto the woven reed mats that surrounded the crackling fire and were sharing the last of the uisce beatha traded with Coill Mór earlier that year. The sharp, smoky alcohol, stored in two leather containers, had proven particularly popular with the guests from Seiscenn Uarbhaoil. Fiacail mac Codhna was effusive in his praise for the drink, holding up his wooden goblet to peer at it with heartfelt admiration. ‘My bollocks have cramped, my guts are wrenching and my throat feels like its swallowed liquid fire. My head spins and it stings when I piss. Thundering arsefart, this is truly a man’s drink!’

  Bodhmhall smiled politely before casting a surreptitious glance at the doorway. Cónán and Bearach had drawn the short straw for guard duty above the gateway. Liath Luachra had agreed to join them once she’d completed an inspection of the ráth’s defences, something she’d insisted on doing personally, despite her injuries.

  When all were settled, Bodhmhall nodded for Conchenn to commence serving. The old woman had done what she could to prepare a suitable feast at such short notice and in such restricted cooking conditions: fried pork chops from a freshly slaughtered pig, hot round loaves of bread, ash-roasted tubers and strips of a chewy meat that tasted like hare.

  Muirne, despite several hours of slumber, looked drawn and haggard from her trek across the wild lands. Fiacail, as ever when presented with an audience, was the soul of good cheer: vivacious, hearty and effortlessly charming.

  The food was passed about the circle, transferred from right to left. While the company ate, Muirne and Fiacail provided updates on extended family, friends and common acquaintances from Dún Baoiscne and Seiscenn Uarbhaoil. Any mention of conflict or politics, in particular the hostilities between Clann Morna and Clann Baoiscne, were studiously avoided.

  As she nibbled on a leg of hare, Bodhmhall glanced again to the doorway, drawn by the flap of the leather covering behind Liath Luachra, the harsh, abrupt sound a clear measure of her mood. The Grey One circled the feasting group, halting to sit at Bodhmhall’s right hand, deliberately inserting herself between the bandraoi and Fiacail mac Codhna. If their guest noticed or felt slighted in any way, he showed no obvious signs of it. If anything, he appeared happy to sidle over and provide Liath Luachra with more room while continuing a hearty conversation with Cairbre.

  At first, the conradh contributed little to the conversation. It was only later in the evening that Bodhmhall noticed her lean slowly forward to listen in on a conversation which seemed to consist predominantly of Fiacail boasting of his achievements at Seiscenn Uarbhaoil.

  ‘Is it true what they say, Fiacail?’

  The big warrior turned to look at her, a hefty pig trotter in his left hand dripping grease onto the reed mats beside him. ‘What is it that they say, Liath Luachra?’

  ‘That you’ve coupled with over a hundred women.’

  The warrior gave a pained expression as he munched on the pork, sucking marrow from the bone with a relish that seemed almost sexual.

  ‘A man of breeding does not count the number of women he’s bedded,’ he answered shortly, smearing a patch of pig fat across his moustache with the tips of his fingers. ‘After the first twenty, at least.’

  There was a chorus of groans from the women, a quickly stifled cackle from Cairbre. Aodhán and Fiacail’s warriors looked at the ground in an attempt to hide the smirk on their lips. Only Liath Luachra, who continued to observe Fiacail grinding the pork bone with his teeth, considered the response with any seriousness.

  ‘Forgive me, Fiacail. I’m confused.’ She slowly put her plate to one side. ‘How does one distinguish between a man of breeding and a man who is inbred?’

  The warrior chuckled, ignoring the veiled insult. ‘That sounds like one of Bodhmhall’s riddles.’ He leaned forward even further so that he could directly address his host. ‘What say you, Bodhmhall? You are daughter to a rí and I think the company would concede that you are the shrewdest of all those gathered here.’

  Bodhmhall resisted the temptation to glance at Muirne’s reaction to Fiacail’s undisguised provocation.

  ‘What do you think?’ he insisted. ‘What is the difference between a man of breeding and a man who is inbred?’

  Bodhmhall stared into the flames and considered the question quietly. Silence descended on the feasting company as they awaited her response with undistilled anticipation. Slowly, she raised her head and smiled.

  ‘Webbed feet,’ she said.