‘After a few days on horseback, even the cow byre would be more comfortable.’
The queen laughed and Conor realised again how much younger she was than Lord Brecan. ‘You have only one druid?’ he asked.
She looked at Conor in surprise. ‘Your father has more?’
Conor laughed, and felt himself relax for the first time since entering the stronghold. ‘Ach, nay,’ he shook his head. ‘We keep no druid—although, my brother is a filidh and soon, perhaps, to be an ollamh.’
‘That, at least, is auspicious,’ allowed the queen, pouring more mead into the double-handled bowl. She took a sip and passed the cúach to her guest. ‘You have chosen a magnificent stallion to accompany you on your travels. You father must be a very generous ruler to let such an animal out of his sight. Does your tribe have many such?’
The question was well put, but Conor suspected the intention behind it. He decided the truth was the best course. ‘Not at all. We own only what we take from the Scálda—and these we mostly give away. But the grey was allowed me because I won it in battle.’
‘You must be a very skilled warrior to win such treasure,’ mused the queen knowingly. ‘Do you like to fight?’
The question was asked pointedly and Conor was put on his guard, but replied with what he hoped was good humour. ‘I find a fight is sometimes necessary if I am to ply my craft.’
She smiled at him over the cup. ‘Humility is a virtue, the bards tell us. But most warriors I know would never neglect an opportunity to boast.’ She smiled seductively and Conor felt himself grow warm. ‘Conor mac Ardan, I begin to suspect you have no need of boasting.’
She took a drink and passed the cup, saying, ‘A man of your accomplishments must be welcome wherever he goes. In fact, it pleases me to welcome you to my hearth. I think,’ she said, as if the idea had suddenly occurred to her, ‘that we will dine here tonight—if that would be agreeable to you.’
Conor was considering whether now was a good time to reveal that he was an amais looking for a patron, but was saved having to explain by the appearance of a girl with a harp. Dressed in a simple rose-coloured mantle with a brown girdle, she seated herself on a stool beside the table and, with a nod to the queen, began to play. Conor watched her fingers dance over the strings as the music spilled from the harp like glittering water. He leaned back on his couch and listened. How long had it been since he had heard the sweet, plaintive voice of the harp?
Conor sipped the mead and listened, content to let the company and drink and music carry him where it would. He caught himself thinking that if only Brecan were a better man, he might truly deserve to be high king of Eirlandia. To be sure, he had already secured the necessary trappings.
His next thought was that he was tiptoeing along a very dangerous precipice just then, and he had better keep his wits about him if he wanted to live to fight another day.
31
Conor feasted well that night and, despite the alluring charms of his royal hostess, went to his bed decorously—if not altogether gracefully. He ate his fill of venison, and stewed greens and vegetables, and plums soaked in mead, and then, when he was all but nodding in his bowl, the queen wished him a good and peaceful night, and retired with her ladies, leaving him to his rest. He was led to one of the little booths that lined the walls of the Guest Lodge.
The next morning, when the warband trooped noisily out to the yard to begin their weapons practice, Conor donned his old clothes from his saddle pack, replacing them with his new ones carefully folded, and then went out into the yard to join the warriors. He found the Brigantes pleased to have a visitor from another tribe in their midst—someone to impress and, if possible, humiliate for their amusement. Conor expected no less, and was happy to oblige. Humility, as he had been so recently reminded, was a virtue that might stand him in good stead in the days to come.
Like the others, he was given a sword with a blade made of ash and a small round, hide-covered shield; he was then paired up with another of the warriors for a session of good-natured sparring. Conor, feeling that as a guest it would be wise to give a decent account of himself but not to outshine his opponent, reserved his best skills for another time.
It was not difficult to hold back; the wooden sword felt awkward in his hand—the Darini always practiced with blunted iron weapons—and the weight was nothing at all like a real blade. Still, though he tried to rein in his proficiency, his practice opponent did not help matters; the fellow fought stiffly and was slow in his movements—and even the simplest moves were performed with studied deliberation. Conor could see each thrust and parry coming a long way off and was ready to meet it when it came. Twice he allowed a blow to land just to encourage his partner.
Sensing that they had got the measure of the newcomer, the onlookers drifted off and engaged in sparring bouts of their own. Soon the yard fairly resounded to the dull clacking of wooden swords and spear shafts. The warriors were fully immersed in their morning’s training when Lord Brecan and his bodyguard of warriors came pounding through the gate and into the yard.
The practice session came to a halt as the clan came running to welcome their king and his retinue. As wives and children gathered to greet husbands and fathers, Conor stood aside with some of the younger Brigantes warriors. Among those returning was the king’s druid, Mog Ruith. The baleful druid noticed Conor among the bystanders, and Conor saw the light of recognition come up in the man’s hooded eyes. The druid said nothing, but reached out and touched the king on the arm and, with a single nod, directed Lord Brecan’s attention to Conor’s presence.
The king, still smiling, thanked his people for their welcome and, without dismounting, rode to where Conor stood watching. He sat for a moment astride his horse, gazing down at Conor, who now felt the eyes of every person in the yard upon him. As before, Brecan was richly arrayed; everything about him glittered and gleamed: his gold torc flashed at his throat; from the belt around his substantial waist a short, gold-hilted sword glimmered, and the silver knotwork sewn into his green siarc shimmered in the bright sunlight. His green-and-blue-checked cloak and brown breecs were slightly dusty from his ride and he seemed worn by his travels, but his dark eyes glinted with a lively menace. ‘See now,’ said Brecan, ‘who have we here?’
‘I am Conor mac Ardan, a warrior of the ranks.’
‘Are you?’ asked the king with a little chuckle. ‘A warrior with a wooden sword, eh?’ He looked around, expecting others to enjoy his jest, and some echoed his chuckle politely. ‘Ardan, you say—your father might not be the same as him who is king of … the Darini, is it?’ His lordship made a show of searching his memory for this obviously obscure monarch.
‘None other.’
‘But not one of my clients, I think.’
‘He is not.’
‘I am pleased to welcome a guest among us,’ intoned the king grandly, ‘even a Darini with a wooden sword.’
‘Your hospitality is unequalled,’ Conor replied. ‘A traveller would have to travel far indeed to find better.’
The king sat on his horse, staring down at Conor, trying to work out why the man before him seemed so familiar. Meanwhile, Mog Ruith, having dismounted, came to stand beside his king. He motioned to Brecan, who leaned down and the two exchanged a whispered word, whereupon Brecan said, ‘Your name is Conor mac Ardan, you say—’
‘Yes, lord. So it is.’
‘I am reminded that you were the one caught stealing a gold bracelet belonging to Lord Cahir’s toothless old druid—what was his name?’
‘Mádoc the Bald,’ offered Mog Ruith. ‘Isn’t that true?’ His tone was an accusation.
‘It is true that his name was Mádoc,’ replied Conor. This also drew a laugh from some of the warriors looking on, and gave Conor to suspect that the druid, for all his eminence, was not well liked by one and all.
‘Did you steal the bracelet?’ demanded the druid, irritated now. ‘Tell the truth—and that quickly.’
‘In truth, I did
not steal anything.’
‘Yet, it appears you were exiled from among your tribe,’ said Mog Ruith as if catching Conor in an obvious lie. ‘You are an outcast—is that not so?’
A murmur fluttered through the crowd at this revelation. Queen Sceana bit her lip and clasped nervous hands before her, a wrinkle of worry creasing her smooth brow at the thought that she had entertained a despised outcast and thief.
‘I am exiled for three years,’ admitted Conor in a clear loud voice. ‘That is so. And that is the reason I have come to you.’ This was addressed not to the druid, but to Lord Brecan. ‘I was wrongly accused, and cast out from my tribe. Yet, it seems to me that a man who can wield a sword—even one of wood—might find service with a warband that values such skill. Naturally, I chose to start first with the most highly regarded of Eirlandia’s many tribes.’ He made a little bow of deference to the king.
‘Ha!’ cried the king. ‘You want to be an amais in my warband?’
‘That is my desire, lord.’
‘You claim to know how to use a sword,’ said Brecan with a slow, insinuating smile. ‘If I am to consider taking you into my service, I would have to see proof of this alleged proficiency.’
Conor merely gave a nod of assent. Mog Ruith, his face creased in a disapproving frown, opened his mouth to protest, but the king waved aside his objection before it could be voiced, saying, ‘I think a test of skill between you and my champion will serve our purposes nicely.’ The king lifted his hand and one of the warriors who had arrived with him shoved through the crowd to stand beside the king. With a flush of loathing, Conor saw that it was the leader of the group that had attacked him at the Oenach. What is more, the champion remembered Conor as well.
‘Let us see a demonstration of your skill,’ said Lord Brecan, ‘if skill you possess. What say you, Cethern—shall we test his mettle?’
Cethern, the champion, nodded his assent as his eyes moved over the warrior before him. ‘At your command, my lord king. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than teaching this red-stained outcast a lesson in how the Brigantes do battle.’ His thin smile became a leer. ‘Unless, he finds fear has the better of him and he would rather slink off now and avoid a thrashing?’
Conor, angered at the mention of his disfigurement, forced a smile as he answered the taunt. ‘Fear and I are old friends,’ he said. ‘He will wait for me until I have schooled myself here.’
The king clapped his hands and ordered everyone to form a ring in the centre of the yard and give the two combatants plenty of room to fight. He dismounted and ordered a wooden sword and shield to be given each man so there would be no advantage in weapons. He then instructed both combatants to quit the contest when the other surrendered, or when ordered to stop.
Conor took up his wooden blade and shield and stepped into the circle; Cethern did likewise and stood slashing the blade this way and that to loosen his arm.
‘Go to it!’ shouted Brecan.
The champion did not waste a moment trying to gauge the strength or prowess of his adversary, but launched himself at a run. The tactic took Conor by surprise—not because it was unexpected, but for the fact that it was such a clumsy, ill-advised move. It was, in Conor’s mind, a device favoured only by young green toughs, arrogant in their strength and supposed superiority, but ignorant in the true ways of war.
Consequently, as Cethern bulled forward, Conor fell back, apparently giving ground until, when his attacker was committed to the clash, he simply stepped aside.
Cethern thrust his shield before him like a ram—connecting with nothing but air. He staggered forward, unbalanced, his shield arm flailing wide. Conor, mindful of his onlookers, did not take advantage of the blunder, but allowed his opponent to pass untouched.
The champion, cursing his error, righted himself, turned, and then commenced another attack, once again charging in, waving his ash-wood blade. This time, Conor made a pretence of meeting the charge head on. But, again, as his opponent closed on him, he took a blow on his shield and slid off to the side. Cethern lurched forward, twisting away to avoid being struck a blow. This time, however, Conor did not let him pass unscathed, but gave him a resounding smack on the leg with the flat of his sword.
To make the same blunder twice in quick succession told Conor much: his opponent was a man used to having contests go his own way and, perhaps, that he held Conor far beneath his regard as a worthy opponent. This, too, was an error—and Conor knew it. On a real field of battle, it was the kind of mistake a warrior only made once.
The whack on the leg seemed to bring the champion to his senses. He spun around, squared himself, and showed some restraint by feinting to his left, then to his right, yet without committing himself to an attack. Instead, he waited for Conor’s reaction. When Conor did not challenge the feint, he spat in the dust and shouted, ‘Are you afraid? Come! Let us see what you can do.’
Conor made no reply, but stood aside in a ready, yet relaxed, posture, spinning the wooden blade in his hand, first one way and then the other.
‘Fight!’ shouted Cethern, beating on his shield with his blunt weapon. When Conor made no move, the champion threw back his head and laughed. Flinging his arms wide, he turned around to address the crowd. ‘See here! This is how the Brigantes defeat their enemies! The mere sight of a—’
He had not completed this exposition when he felt a sharp slap of Conor’s blade on the back of both legs, for the moment his back was turned, Conor flitted in and delivered the blow—thereby reinforcing one of the first rules any warrior learns: never turn your back on an adversary.
The clout was sudden and sharp and executed with precision, causing one of Cethern’s legs to buckle. The champion went down on one knee. He made an ineffectual backward swipe with his blade, but Conor had already skittered out of reach.
With a growl of frustration, Cethern leapt up and lunged at Conor. This time, Conor met him head on, taking the first blow on his shield and striking back with one of his own. The contest settled into a steady rhythm, each combatant trading blows with the other—until, as it seemed neither would gain an advantage this way, Conor parried a blow, loosed his grip, and let his wooden weapon fall from his hand.
As he expected, Cethern drove in close, sword raised high for a savage strike. Conor made a feint to the side, as if to avoid the stroke. His opponent swung the blade and Conor ducked low—but instead of reaching for his weapon, he grabbed the champion by the ankle and gave it a mighty tug. Instantly, Cethern was thrown onto his back. Conor scooped up his sword and while his opponent squirmed to regain his feet, Conor gave him a solid blow on the side of the head with the flat of his sword. The whack resounded across the yard; several onlookers winced, and some of the warriors laughed.
Again, Conor did not press his obvious advantage, but stood back and allowed Cethern to rise—which, he considered, was far more than the hulking thug had done for him when he lay half unconscious on the ground at the Oenach. Instead, he exercised cautious restraint; he would win neither thanks nor praise for embarrassing the king’s battlechief before his tribe. He backed away.
Full angry now, Cethern rose, his face black with rage. ‘You cheat!’ he cried, spittle flying from his lips. ‘Tricks! Is that all you know? Stand and fight like a man.’
‘Oh?’ replied Conor. ‘You mean the man who fights three-against-one against an unarmed foe? You would be the one to teach me, I think.’
Cethern cast a hasty glance toward his lord, but Brecan stood expressionless, his arms crossed upon his chest. The warriors who had been training with Conor began beating their wooden swords against their shields—a signal for the combatants to join battle.
Cethern drew a breath and, loosing a great cry, rushed forward once more. Conor also ran forward to meet him. And, yet again, as the two closed on one another, Conor swung his shield low, smashing the champion’s shins and sweeping his feet from under him. Cethern hit the ground hard and before he had even stopped bouncing, Conor drove the point
of his sword into the champion’s unprotected ribs. Cethern loosed a cry of pain and rage, and Conor, abandoning the sword and shield, flung himself upon his sprawled opponent and threw an arm around his throat.
Cethern thrashed beneath him, but Conor kept his grip and squeezed harder. The champion’s face grew purple and his movements more erratic. Conor looked around to the king, who gazed back at him impassively.
‘Have you seen enough, lord king?’ he called in a loud voice.
Mog Ruith, standing beside his lord, started forward. ‘Enough!’
Conor released his hold, letting the proud champion’s head thump on the ground. He rose, dusted himself down, then walked to where the king stood and, making a little bow of deference, said, ‘Perhaps your lordship might consider this some small demonstration of a true warrior’s skill.’
‘Do you imagine a few low tricks and feints will impress me?’ said Brecan dryly.
‘I was taught that in battle a warrior’s chief duty is to stay alive while punishing his opponent by any means possible.’
‘You took unfair advantage.’
‘Unfair? How so? It seems to me that the Scálda make no such distinction.’
Brecan’s eyes narrowed and his mouth pressed into a hard line. But before he could frame a suitable reply, one of the warriors in the close-gathered crowd shouted, ‘Conor!’
The shout seemed to spur the silent onlookers. Another voice echoed, ‘Conor!’ And soon others took up the cry, making a chant of his name which was accompanied by the rhythmic beating of wooden swords on shield rims, creating a loud clatter—such that Conor did not hear Cethern creeping up behind him.
He felt the presence of the battlechief as a shadow fell across his back. He half turned and, in the same instant, saw the glint of a knife in Cethern’s hand. Conor dodged to the side and managed to avoid the sweeping blade as Cethern, brows lowered, half blind with hate, lunged forward again, swinging the long blade in a wide, looping arc. Conor danced backward, out of the way. As he passed Mog Ruith, the druid put out a foot to trip him. Conor stumbled and fell on his rump.