He told me many other things of this sort and I do confess it was flattering to hear him speak so. If I were another woman, and if my heart did not belong to his brother, very likely I would have looked upon our battlechief as a prize to be sought, for is he not a fine and handsome man?
Liam said, ‘Conor is never coming back. You must know that. As much as it pains me to say, I fear it likely that he will meet his end out there.…’ He waved a hand to the unknown beyond the fortress walls. ‘You will want for a companion and father for your children.’
My heart quailed within me to hear him speak so. ‘I have no children,’ I told him. ‘As we both know very well.’
‘But you could,’ said Liam.
‘Aye,’ I granted lightly, ‘with the man I love.’
‘He is gone, Aoife. He has left you behind. And, much as we might regret it, that is a fact.’
I looked him in the eye and though I wanted to spit at him, I made a modest reply. ‘But, see now, Liam, I do not think his leaving pains you at all, nor do you regret it half so much as you pretend.’
‘Little you know me, my lady,’ he said. He raised a hand to my hair and stroked it. ‘Think about what I said. We will talk again soon.’
I slept ill in my bower in the corner of the hall. Knowing that Liam was somewhere beneath the same roof made me fretful and unsettled, and I lay awake thinking about all the things I might have said to him … about how as younger brother he always and ever sought to usurp Conor’s place, first as battlechief and warleader—which would have been Conor’s by right if not for the blemish of that unsightly birthmark—and now Liam tried to take Conor’s place with me. But I would not be having that. Nor would I spend another night under the same roof with him, so the next morning after the warriors had broken fast and trooped out to their weapons play, I went to the king. He was sitting in his kingly chair, while one of the handmaids shaved him. Dé Danann men shave. We are not like the savage kind, but clean-shaven. Most shave themselves, but a lord has servants to do this for him and they seem to like it. Eamon stood looking on and both appeared to be in good humour.
‘My lord,’ I said, dropping to my knees before him. ‘I crave a word and a boon.’
‘Ach, now, Aoife,’ he said lightly, and smiled. ‘Only speak the word and if it is agreeable to me, you shall have the boon.’
‘I would like to go to the Women’s House,’ I said. The young woman at the razor—my friend, Uina—glanced a warning at me.
‘To visit?’ he said, somewhat puzzled. ‘You need not ask my permission to visit the Women’s House.’
‘Not to visit, my lord,’ I said. ‘To stay.’
‘What so?’ The king opened his eyes and raised his head, waving Uina aside. He stood, wiping his face with the offered cloth. ‘Here, stand up on your feet and tell me what has happened to make you ask such a thing. Are you unhappy here in the hall?’
I stood and tried to smile. ‘Nothing like that.’
‘Then why do you wish to leave?’ He fixed me with a kindly, fatherly look. ‘Tell me. Has anyone of my ardféne treated you unworthily?’
‘It is no one thing, my lord king. Know you, the ardféne are the best of men and never a lady need tremble on that account. But a young woman sometimes desires the company of other women.…’ I saw the frown of doubt tugging at King Ardan’s mouth and my words dried up.
Eamon saw me floundering and leaned forward and whispered to the king, ‘Older women, I expect, who can tell her things she needs to know.’
‘Eh?’ He glanced at Eamon, who nodded knowingly. Understanding came to him and he blustered, ‘Aye, aye … to be sure.’
Eamon smiled at me and said, ‘Still, you would come to play and sing, would you not?’
‘Gladly,’ I reassured them. ‘I have no wish to give up my place as my king’s Chief of Song. I will sing and play as ever I have so long as it pleases you, my lord.’
‘Well, then,’ said Ardan, ‘I see no reason why you cannot have the boon you seek.’ He put his hands on my shoulders and said, ‘Do as pleases you best, dear one of my heart. But know there is always a place for you in my hall so long as I draw breath.’
I thanked him, bowed, and turned to go, my heart lighter already.
‘Aoife,’ he said, ‘we must all bear Conor’s absence as best we can.’
‘My lord?’
‘But I tell you the truth, I yearn for the day when I can call you daughter.’
Ach, my sweet man. How could I have doubted he would grant me anything I asked?
I went to him and, taking his right hand in both of mine, I kissed it and then ran from the room lest he see my tears. Though, if you had asked me why I was crying I could not have told you.
19
Conor stared at the two faéry women huddled in a dusky corner of the storehouse. They were dressed in simple shifts of glistening material—one emerald green, one deepest scarlet—and both wore simple corded belts of braided gold over a thin sleeveless gown of shimmering blue adorned with elaborate filigreed figures in black. The faéry unknown to Conor had hair so pale and fair it was almost white, in contrast to the one he thought of as the queen, whose long, tangled locks were deepest black—just as he remembered from that first passing glance: chained to the Scálda chieftain fleeing the battlefield. This was in his mind as he stepped into the room. Instinctively, he raised a finger to his lips and shook his head to discourage the captives from crying out. He tucked his sword into his belt and took another step nearer, raising his empty hands. ‘Please, we mean you no harm,’ he whispered.
‘Faéry,’ mouthed Fergal, nudging Donal, who was gazing at the women in amazement. Donal turned wide eyes to Fergal, who only pointed in reply.
Conor moved closer to the captives, and they shifted nervously; the green lady placed herself between him and her queen. ‘We mean no harm,’ he said, his voice a barely audible whisper.
The women stared at him in fearful silence.
‘Do you understand me?’ he asked. ‘We can help you.’
The queen made a motion with her hand and eased past her would-be protector and whispered, ‘I understand. She does not.’ She indicated her companion. ‘She has not the skill.’
Conor grinned and nodded. Pointing to himself, he leaned close and spoke into her ear, saying, ‘I am Conor mac Ardan.’ Indicating Fergal and Donal, he added, ‘These men are my friends. We are here to help you.’
The faéry nodded and replied, her breath warm in his ear, ‘I am Rhiannon.’ She put a hand on the woman with her, and said, ‘This is my maid, Tanwen. Can you take away the iron?’
‘The iron?’ asked Conor.
‘It hurts,’ said the faéry queen. ‘We can do nothing because of the iron.’ She pointed to the chain that passed around her waist and that of her companion.
Conor motioned to Fergal and Donal, and pointed to the iron chains binding the women. He made a breaking motion with his hands. Fergal nodded and, while he and Donal made a quick search of the storeroom, Conor moved to the women and examined the chain that bound them. It was stout, well made, and attached to the wall by a large iron ring driven deep into the timber.
Fergal looked into baskets and Donal lifted the coverings of some of the jars; he sniffed the contents of one of the vessels, his face crinkling in disgust, and turned back, shaking his head. Conor, meanwhile, had found a weakness he might exploit. For, though the chain was solid enough, the spike holding the iron ring to the wall was not; moreover, the join fixing the spike to the ring that held the chain was large enough to admit the point of a blade. He drew his sword and, under the fearful gaze of the faéry women, forced the tip into the gap and tried to prise the joint apart. The first attempt failed, but Conor motioned Fergal to help him. Donal moved to the door and looked outside, then nodded for them to continue. Fergal and Conor bore down with the sword; the blade began to bend. Conor tightened his grip and they applied still more pressure. The tiny gap widened a fraction and Conor, drawing breath, put
all his strength into the effort.
Both sword and ring snapped at the same instant; the blade tip broke off, the chain fell to the floor. Replacing his now-broken blade, Conor quickly untangled the chain and unwound the heavy links. A moment later, the scarlet queen and her maid stepped free of their iron bonds.
Donal, pulling his head back into the room, hissed at them. ‘Someone is coming!’
Rhiannon moved quickly into the centre of the room. ‘Stand with me,’ she said. ‘Here.’
The men hesitated. Footsteps sounded on the path outside.
‘Do as she says,’ ordered Conor, taking his place beside the women. Fergal and Donal joined him, and all five stood huddled in the centre of the storeroom. In a voice like leaves rustling in the wind, Rhiannon uttered a strange incantation and traced an intricate motion in the air with the long fingers of her right hand. Tanwen shivered as with a chill, her eyes shining in the dim light of the room as she placed a hand on her lady’s sleeve.
Rhiannon turned to the others. ‘Touch my gown.’
Conor, hesitantly, put his hand to the lady’s arm; her flesh beneath his touch was cold. He looked to his still hesitant companions. ‘Do it,’ he commanded. Fergal and Donal each took a bit of cloth between their fingers.
At that moment, voices were heard outside the storeroom door.
‘Say nothing,’ instructed the queen in a tense whisper. ‘And do not move.’
The door to the storeroom burst open and two Scálda warriors, spears ready, stepped into the storehouse. Their eyes swept this way and that, and they seemed puzzled by what they saw. They looked at each other and at the room again—staring, as it seemed to Conor, directly at the place where he now stood. Then, abruptly, the two departed, banging the door behind them.
‘They didn’t see us,’ breathed Fergal in a tone of amazed relief. ‘They looked right at us and didn’t see us.’
‘We are covered by a charm of veiling,’ explained the queen. ‘All who touch my belt and all we touch are hidden from mortal sight. They think we have escaped. But they will return and the magic will soon fade.’ Her voice was calm, but there was pleading in her eyes.
‘We have horses,’ Conor told her. ‘All we need do is reach them. Will the charm last that long?’
Rhiannon gazed at him, desperate and uncertain.
‘Then we must hurry.’
The queen nodded and began untying the corded belt around her waist; she wrapped one end around her hand and then passed it to Conor; he took the belt cord and passed the length to Fergal, who did likewise and handed it on to Donal and the lady Tanwen. He then led them to the storeroom door. He cracked open the door and looked out. Then, looking back, he nodded and stepped over the threshold out.
They moved into the path in a line, each behind the other, each holding tight to the faéry queen’s braided belt. With hurried steps, they made their way to the fortress yard. There were still many Scálda about, some of them warriors, and these were clearly agitated as news of the captives’ disappearance raced through the ráth. Conor paused at the corner of the hall, drew a breath, and, with a nod to the others, stepped boldly around the corner and out into the open yard.
There were no cries or shouts of discovery; indeed, their passage went unnoticed. Conor proceeded along the outer perimeter, staying close to the wall to avoid as much as possible the few Scálda still milling about in the yard. As the fugitives moved across the entrance to the hall, however, the doors suddenly swung open. Tanwen gasped in fright and Donal put a hand to her mouth to silence her and received a nip for his trouble. With mounting apprehension they watched a score or more warriors charged into the yard. Conor caught a glimpse of the one who he thought of as their chieftain: the great swarthy brute he had seen fleeing the battlefield that day they won the horses. The same ferocious sneer, the same livid scar that cleft his face and left him a one-eyed grotesque—there could be no doubt—it was to him that the faéry queen had been chained. Rhiannon stiffened as the Scálda chief paused and turned to stare straight at them, an expression of bewildered confusion swarming across his wicked features. Seeing nothing, he swung away again and dashed on, shouting orders to his men.
The Darini horses remained hitched to a post at the far corner of the hall where Conor had seen them. Still clinging to the golden cord, they made their awkward way to the tethered animals where, with some little difficulty, they succeeded in getting themselves and the faéry women mounted without either releasing their grip on the queen’s belt or arousing the notice of the enemy—now agitated and distracted by news of the escape. Conor put Rhiannon on Búrach, and Donal took Tanwen on Ossin; Fergal took the reins of Grían and of the two spare horses. Taking Búrach’s bridle, Conor plucked up his courage, and led the stallion around the perimeter toward the wide open gate, doing his best to avoid the confusion in the centre of the yard. The escapees had almost reached the gate when a wild cry resounded behind them. Conor threw a glance over his shoulder. A Scálda woman was pointing at them and shouting.
‘The charm is fading!’ cried Conor. ‘Fly!’
He swung himself up onto Búrach behind the faéry queen and lashed the grey to speed. Three swift paces carried them to the gates … three more and they were racing down the ramp toward the bridge over the ditch. Conor reached the bridge first and thundered over it with Fergal leading the other horse and pony right behind. Donal and the green lady came after. As soon as Fergal crossed the bridge, Conor reined aside. ‘Keep going!’ he shouted. ‘Get back to Mádoc and warn him! I’ll try to lose them in the forest.’
He was still speaking when he heard a cry from behind. He glanced around to see Donal clutching his side, trying to stay upright on the galloping horse. Scálda warriors were pouring out of the stronghold; many brandished spears, and some were throwing them. He urged the grey forward and reined up beside Donal. ‘I’m cut!’ Donal groaned through teeth clenched hard against the pain.
Conor reached out to steady his wounded friend; he gave Donal a shove to push him more firmly onto his mount, and Tanwen screamed. Her face, already pale, now lacked all colour; her features grew slack and her eyes became glazed. On its way to Donal, the Scálda spear had pierced her, too—and the slender iron shaft still hung from her back. Conor made a grab for the spear to pull it out, but Donal shouted, ‘Leave it! I can ride.’
‘Follow Fergal,’ Conor told him. ‘Ride for the trees. I’ll meet you back at the cave. Go!’
Conor slapped the rear of Donal’s mount, sending him on his way. A cry of rage sounded behind him and Conor looked back. The one-eyed chieftain stood in the gateway, spear in hand. The Scálda chief roared out a challenge to him and drew back his arm to hurl the spear. Conor tightened his grasp on Rhiannon and, with a shout, wheeled Búrach and leapt away, heading off in the opposite direction from Donal. The Scálda chief, seeing that he was taking the road leading around the base of the hill, directed his warriors to give chase. Spears and rocks sang through the air, but Conor kept his head down, and the grey stallion flew.
Upon reaching the rear of the fortress, Conor swerved off the track and made for the near line of trees across the open field. The ground was soft and Búrach’s hooves bit deep, flinging clots of dirt high behind them. The Scálda still heaved their spears, but the stallion’s speed rendered the chase futile and they reached the shelter of the wood well ahead of their pursuers. Conor gave Búrach his head, allowing the stallion to choose the quickest path through the trees. The angry cries and shouts of the Scálda diminished until at last Conor felt safe enough to pause and scan the trail behind them; not the least flicker of movement among the thick-grown trees and brush met his eye, nor could he hear the sound of any pursuit. After a moment, Conor resumed their flight, but at a much slower pace to allow his winded mount to catch its breath as they pushed on deeper into the wood. Shortly, they came to a part of the forest Conor had passed through before. He found their former trail and made directly for the coast.
When at last Con
or deemed it safe to stop, the shadows were beginning to stretch long and the sky was blushing pink and orange. He reined Búrach to a halt and turned around to listen; except for the sound of trickling water mingled with birdcalls, he heard nothing. So, sliding from the horse, he reached up to help the lady down, saying, ‘We will rest a moment. I think there is a stream nearby. We can get some water.’
‘I need nothing,’ Rhiannon replied. She slid from the horse into his arms.
Conor gazed up into her face, struck as before by the perfection of her features. Suddenly aware that he was staring, he released her and stepped quickly aside. ‘Well, I need a drink—and so does Búrach. It will be dark soon—too dark, at least, for following hoofprints through heavy brush. The Scálda will have to give up for the night.’
‘They will renew the chase tomorrow,’ Rhiannon pointed out.
‘That is a worry for tomorrow.’ He gathered the reins and led the grey through a thicket of elder and plum, and soon came to a brook—narrow, but deep and clear running—between two mossy banks. Conor gave Búrach to drink, then knelt down on the bank and, cupping water to his mouth, eased his own thirst. Finished, he rose to the sound of gentle, melodic laughter.
‘You laugh at me?’ he said.
‘I have never seen horse and man share a drink before,’ the faéry told him in a lilting accent, more like song than speech. ‘We would think it perverse and unnatural.’
‘I see it pains you,’ replied Conor, embarrassed and somewhat piqued by her response, ‘to have been freed by a perverse and unnatural fellow such as myself. I am sorry for your discomfort.’
‘You think me ungrateful?’
‘I think you rude.’
She held her head to one side and gazed at him with her eyes of liquid blue. After a moment she smiled. ‘I like you, Conor mac Ardan. You will do.’
Before he could think what to say to this, she continued. ‘Only return me to my people and you will see how grateful I can be.’ These words were spoken lightly, but with serious intent; she meant them and, perhaps, something more.