***
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.
Glancing at her in surprise, Conchenn considered her briefly then, sensing her turmoil, shuffled over on the mat to make room. Bodhmhall did not acknowledge it but she appreciated the old woman’s gesture and felt a sudden gratitude for her silent presence, a perfect antidote to the vexing company of Muirne Muncháem.
Using an old druidic technique, Bodhmhall slowly submitted herself to the quiet rhythm of the physical action, the mindless repetition of cut, turn, cut and turn that allowed her to retreat deep inside herself. It was only there, in that monotonous routine, that she at last found the inner space to grieve, to mourn and empty her heart.
‘Bodhmhall!’
Startled, she opened her eyes. The wicker basket was empty. A pile of perfectly chopped vegetables lay on the mat in front of her.
‘Bodhmhall!’
She looked around in confusion, struggling to locate the source of the shout before spotting Aodhán on the gateway, beckoning for her to join him. For a moment, she stared dumbly at the slender guard then, abruptly, pushed the vegetables aside. Rising to her feet, she crossed the lis, brushing her hands against the rough material of her smock.
Several long strides brought her to the base of the ladder leading up to the rampart. Aodhán moved aside to give her room as she reached the top rung and stepped out onto the stone platform.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
The young warrior pointed wordlessly towards the northern end of the valley. Squinting, she stared in the indicated direction until she found what he wanted her to see; a faraway figure crossing the flatland at speed in the direction of the ráth. Despite the distance, she immediately recognised Bearach’s distinctive stride.
Aodhán leaned forward, hands pressed against the edge of the wooden palisade. He said nothing as he peered at the runner but scratched at his beard with a wistful expression.
‘Bearach’s not carrying any game. And there’s no sign of Liath Luachra.’ He sounded equally perturbed by both observations.
‘Why is he running at such speed?’ The bandraoi unconsciously voiced her concern aloud but when she glanced at Aodhán and saw the expression on his face, a chill trickled down her spine. A sick feeling filled her stomach as she gazed around the valley, the familiar shelter of the surrounding hills suddenly appearing to close in around them like the jaws of a triggered bear trap.
‘Aodhán, your brother and father are at the lubgort. Fetch them quickly, gather the livestock and drive them inside.’
The youth stared at her in alarm, a crease wrinkling across his forehead.
‘What is it, Bodhmhall?’
‘I think the ráth may be under attack.’