Fergal turned and started for Eamon’s horse.
‘Be quick about it,’ added Eamon. ‘There may be more dog-eaters lurking about.’
‘Mind, keep a sharp eye on the trail ahead and stop for nothing,’ Conor called after him. ‘We will join you as soon as we can.’
As Fergal galloped away, Donal came leading a trio of horses. ‘Only three?’ asked Eamon.
‘One was injured in the fight. I thought best to let him go. Likely, he will not last the day.’
‘You might have spared him his pain,’ suggested Eamon.
‘Perhaps you can carry the carcass of a dead horse upon your back, but I cannot,’ Donal, replied. ‘As it is, the beast will go to water and likely die there. If we’re lucky, he won’t be found should anyone come looking for him.’
Conor agreed and, handing the reins of the horses to Eamon, he went to examine the captured scout’s wounds, while Donal set about collecting weapons and valuables from the enemy corpses. Although the scout resisted Conor’s help, he accepted a piece of cloth to press against the wound to staunch the blood. Conor stripped him of his armour and searched for hidden weapons, then left him to himself and went to help Donal. They piled the dead onto one of the horses and Conor led the animal back to the rill where he found a secluded nook, dumped the bodies, and then rode to the edge of the wood where Donal and Eamon were now waiting.
They bound their captured spy and bundled him onto one of the horses, and, with a last look at the glade—little trace remained to indicate the battle that had just taken place—Conor gave a nod to Donal and they rode on into the wood. They soon picked up the trail and followed it all the way back to the Darini encampment where King Ardan and his retinue, having packed up, were just getting ready to move on.
At their approach, one of the ardféne glanced up and announced their arrival with a shout. As Conor and Donal helped Eamon down from his mount, King Ardan welcomed them and one of the warriors called out, saying, ‘Trust Conor to leave empty-handed and return with horses and a captive!’
A grimace of distaste creased Liam’s face, and he said, ‘Trust Conor to stir up trouble where there was none—and wound a comrade as well,’ he added, indicating the injured Eamon just then climbing down from his mount.
‘It was not Conor who attacked me,’ Eamon replied, ‘but if not for him that dog-eater’—he jerked his head toward the wounded scout—‘and his friends would have made a corpse of me this day.’
‘I’m sure we are grateful for your safe return,’ said Liam, adopting a more lenient tone. ‘And grateful, too, for the increase of our stock. The horses will make a fine addition to the king’s gift.’
‘I would have it no other way,’ replied Conor grandly. Touching the back of his right hand to his forehead in salute, he greeted his father and then said, ‘As you see, we bring not only horses, but one of the Scálda scouts as well. Fergal has warned you of the danger?’
Ardan nodded. ‘He has. I have sent Gaen on ahead to inform those already assembled at Tara. We go to join them directly.’
Camp had already been struck and the Darini resumed their march, moving easily along well-travelled paths. The sun was low in the west by the time they came in sight of the sacred mound rising in the near distance. The camps of other kings were spread out on the three plains surrounding the ancient meeting place. Smoke from numerous cooking fires made the air silvery and heavy with the scent of burning wood.
Even from a distance, Conor could see a sizeable group on the flattened top of the ancient gathering place. Ardan’s message had been delivered, he guessed, and was even now being discussed. The Darini delegation found a place below the hill and, while his men set about establishing their camp, Ardan summoned Fergal, Donal, Conor, and two others to attend him; Eamon, insisting his wounds were not enfeebling, was also allowed to join them. ‘We will go up now and see how the kings have greeted news of the spies and what they mean to do about it.’ To Donal, he said, ‘Bring a horse—the spotted stallion is best, I think.’
Conor heard the command and groaned inwardly. No … not the stallion. Please, not my Balla. But, aware that other eyes were on him, he set his jaw and said nothing as his prize was loosed from the picket and led away.
The company joined one of the many pathways leading to the top of the hill; Donal, leading the gift horse, fell into step beside Conor. ‘How have the kings greeted our report?’ he asked, keeping his voice low. ‘I don’t expect the thought of Scálda scouts sneaking around the protected lands made anyone leap for joy.’
‘Nor do I,’ agreed Conor. ‘And why are there Scálda skulking about at all? That is what worries me.’
‘You think maybe the dog-eaters somehow learned about the Oenach?’ said Donal. He rejected the prospect with a shake of his head. ‘Not likely, that.’
‘Not likely,’ echoed Conor. ‘Unless we have a traitor among us.’
5
In the centre of the imposing eminence of the Hill of Tara stood the remnants of Ráth na Rí, the Stronghold of Sovereignty. Once the fortress of the great High Kings of Eirlandia, all that remained of that storied time was the great circular ditch and the Pillar Stone known as the Lia Fáil where gatherings and kingmakings took place long ago. There was also a massive stone barrow tomb of age beyond reckoning, erected by a race long ago lost to memory and reputed to be the burial place of King Nuada, first king of the Dé Dananns, or perhaps the father of the race, Donn himself, whose footprints were said to be embedded in the Rígad Stone. On that sacred stone, each of Eirlandia’s high kings had been sworn and enthroned—back in the days when a supreme king ruled the island. Over time, other structures had been added, as need and custom dictated: a large circle of wooden posts topped with a roof of reed—the original purpose of which had been forgotten, but now functioned as a meeting place when the weather was foul; a great fire ring for the ceremonial fires the druids venerated; three houses to store the food and drink for the official gatherings, and several small grave mounds of unknown nobles—one of which was reputed to be that of King Samildanach, the Many Favoured.
Assembled within the encircling ditch, a triple rank of perhaps fifty warriors and no fewer than eight lords crowded the perimeter of a wooden platform. Though it had been four, or maybe five years since Conor had attended one of these gatherings, he recognised most of the early arrivals. Of those he knew on sight, there was Rochad of the Gangani, a dour, mirthless fellow ruling a dour and mirthless tribe, always dressed in drab, colourless garb as if in perpetual mourning for his lost kingdom. Next to him stood Lord Alamaich of the Luceni with a few of his advisors; they, at least, displayed the general penchant for bright colours and expensive cloth favoured by the other chieftains: siarcs of bright saffron yellow and short summer cloaks of soft sea green, close-cut breecs the colour of copper, ochre, and sorrel. Surrounded by his warriors nearby, arms over his paunch, dressed all in red, stood hook-nosed Credne, Lord of the Cauci, a stiff-necked, garrulous old moaner, no mistake, but a lord who knew how to look after his diminished clan.
To a man, they all wore the emblem of kingship: the torc. Whether crafted in twisted strands, bands, or rolled into fat hollow tubes of silver or gold, the neck ornament gleamed at every lordly throat. Nor was that all—there were bracelets and armbands and chains and brooches of every size and description a smith could devise, and each and every ornament polished until it gleamed.
Outshining them all, up on his raised platform so he could look down upon all other lesser lords, stood Lord Brecan, King of the Brigantes. Legs spread and arms crossed over his chest, and a thick golden torc around his throat, he stood and surveyed the crowd arrayed before him. Brecan carried no weapons, but had a ceremonial obsidian knife stuck in his wide leather belt from which hung a richly tooled sparán. His dark hair, streaked with grey, was plaited in an elaborate double braid at the side of his square head, giving him a look at once august and slightly vain, and the trailing ends of his long moustache were braided, too. He wor
e a flame-coloured siarc with blue embroidered knotwork, heather-coloured breecs, and soft leather brócs; a green-checked cloak, fixed with a handsome gold cassán, lay in neat folds on his shoulder and hung down over his chest to partially hide his substantial belly.
His aged druid, the wizened and crusty Mog Ruith, stood beside him, a stern and disapproving presence, dressed in a faded red cloak over a much-worn green tunic of rough woven cloth.
The outer ring of onlookers parted to admit Ardan and his attendants to the conclave. King Brecan, assuming the part of the gracious host, welcomed the newcomers warmly. He stepped to the edge of the platform, reached down and gripped Ardan by the forearms in the warrior’s embrace, and said, ‘Hail and welcome, Lord Ardan, may you and your people prosper with all the good fortune you deserve. Please, take your place among us that we may all benefit from your astute counsel.’
‘Lord Brecan, I give you good greeting and bring a gift to honour your long and loyal guidance of the Oenach.’ He signalled to Donal, who led Conor’s fine red-and-white–spotted stallion into the circle and to the foot of the platform where he handed the reins to King Brecan. This caused a muted murmur of appreciation to flutter through the assembled ranks. Not even Brecan himself brought gifts like this to a council gathering—and everyone there knew it.
‘I hope you will think well of the Darini when you ride,’ continued Ardan. ‘Long may our tribes continue in friendship.’
‘I accept your lavish gift, brother,’ replied Brecan a little stiffly, but with a nod of acknowledgement. ‘As a sign of amity and peace between our peoples, I shall indeed esteem it greatly. Moreover, I will remember your generosity.’ At this he cast a stony glance at the other lords standing nearby—as if to reproach them for neglecting similar good manners.
King Ardan placed his hand on his chest and bowed to both the king and his druid; the gift horse was led away and Ardan waved his men to range themselves behind him in the inner circle of onlookers.
The formalities concluded, the king raised his hands in a grand gesture to the assembled lords and said, ‘Tomorrow the Oenach begins and we will meet together in council. But tonight—tonight we feast and drink, and renew the bonds of friendship and goodwill. Until then, my friends, I bid you return to your camps and your preparations.’
Ardan spoke up. ‘A moment more, Lord Brecan, if you please. We sent a message of some importance to the council ahead of our arrival. I would know whether this message was received.’
‘I believe it was,’ Brecan replied. ‘Something about catching a few Scálda scouts or spies—was that it?’
‘Indeed, my lord—five of them. My men discovered them and attacked them. A warrior of my ardféne was injured.’ Here he indicated Eamon, standing beside him.
Brecan’s brows lowered in a thoughtful frown. ‘I am sorry to hear it.’
The king’s druid stepped forward just then and said, ‘Your messenger told us of these spies and we have been chewing over the implications of this matter. The king will bring it before the council tomorrow.’
King Brecan smiled and nodded in satisfaction as if that should preclude any further debate. ‘There now, you see,’ he said. ‘All is well in hand.’
The group began to break up. A few of the lords who held Brecan’s favour, or wished to, remained for more private conversation. Others began to move off, but none had gone very far when a lone voice sang out.
‘Why this unseemly retreat, lord king?’
Conversation ceased. Everyone turned to look at the man who dared question the king’s decision.
‘Conor!’ hissed Donal. ‘What are you doing?’
Brecan parted those around him with a gesture and took a step forward to address his questioner. ‘Who is this?’
‘My lord, I am Conor mac Ardan.’ He stepped forward and made the sign of obeisance.
‘You accuse us of retreat?’ said Brecan, his tone even but edging toward irritation.
‘Was that an accusation?’ said Conor lightly. ‘Forgive my bluntness, lord. No doubt I was confused by the abrupt dismissal of our concerns and blurted out the first words that came to me. I am sorry if you felt yourself accused.’
Conor’s outburst had caught the attention of many still lingering on the hilltop. They returned to their places with renewed interest. ‘No more, Conor,’ said his father in a low, urgent voice. ‘This is not the time.’
‘What do you want, warrior?’ demanded Brecan. ‘If you have something to say, say it now because you won’t be allowed to speak in council.’
‘It was myself and my friends who fought the enemy scouts and sent my father that message of warning. This I think you know. Yet, knowing this, you gave us short shrift when we came to join your discussion. Is this the way a great lord treats those who have done him good service?’ He put out a hand to the handsome spotted horse standing nearby in the care of one of Brecan’s attendants. ‘And this after we have brought a fine and costly gift to grace your stables—a prize won in battle by the edge of my own blade?’
‘We have determined that any question regarding the Scálda spies can wait,’ declared Mog Ruith in an attempt to save his king the indignity of being questioned by a mere warrior of the rank. ‘Rest assured, clansman, the presence of these spies—if spies they be—will be discussed before the assembled lords tomorrow.’
‘But tomorrow,’ countered Conor, ‘I will not be allowed to speak—as I am so courteously reminded.’
‘Conor, that is enough,’ said Ardan. ‘Come away.’
Brecan, frowning now, demanded, ‘What is it that you want?’
‘Only this,’ replied Conor, ‘I would like to hear what others think about the enemy sniffing around the edges of the Oenach. It seems to me that this is a matter of some urgency—at very least, one that requires more serious attention than given here.’
‘There were spies. You caught them. They are dead,’ the druid intoned. ‘Where is the urgency?’
‘In truth,’ said the king, his tone softening somewhat, ‘we have already given the matter ample scrutiny. Indeed, we were talking about it just before you arrived.’ He appealed to some of his client kings for support. ‘Is this not so?’
There were nods and mumbles of agreement all around.
‘Well and good,’ replied Ardan, stepping up beside his son. ‘Yet, seeing as it was my men who discovered the scouts and subdued them, perhaps you would not mind sharing the fruits of your private conversation.’
Brecan raised a hand to his druid and said, ‘Tell him.’
Mog Ruith drew himself up and said, ‘If we seemed curt, it was only to spare you the displeasure of a half-digested meal. Yet, since you insist, I will tell you that your message was thought by many to be false, or perhaps, mistaken.’
‘You think we lied about this?’ Conor felt the blood-red birthmark prickle as his temper mounted. ‘Who among you would call us liars?’
‘Conor!’ hissed his father. ‘Step back.’
Eamon reached out and put a restraining hand on his arm, whispering, ‘Remember where you are, lad.’ Donal moved to his side and whispered, ‘He’s right, brother.’ Conor took a grudging step back.
Ardan, appealing to his fellow lords and chieftains, said, ‘I can assure you one and all that there has been no mistake. Neither have we given a false report.’
‘I am certain you meant well.’ Brecan waved away the allegation as if swatting a bothersome fly. ‘But the Scálda are always slinking around. It probably means nothing. Anyway, we shall never know.’
‘What if I told you we have brought one of the enemy scouts with us,’ replied Ardan. ‘Would that make a difference?’
This announcement caused a muted sensation in the ranks.
‘You took a Scálda prisoner?’ The speaker was one of Ardan’s good friends, Lord Cahir of the Coriondi. A stout, bullnecked man with short grey hair and a red face, he turned to entreat the assembled lords and warriors. ‘We must talk to this captive at once. Does anyone know
the Scálda tongue?’
Despite much muttering and mumbling, no one stepped forward claiming to possess this skill.
‘The language of the Scálda is a cursed difficult thing. Not a man among us can make sense of it,’ King Brecan said when the murmuring died away.
‘Perhaps one of your clan knows the rudiments of their speech,’ said Cahir, addressing Mog Ruith.
‘Alas,’ replied the druid, ‘that, too, is unlikely. Even so, I will send word to Carn Dubh and ask if anyone there has acquired the necessary ability. If so, we will soon know. Until then, whatever we might say now would be merest speculation and hardly worthy of the deliberation it deserves.’
King Brecan spread his hands as if to indicate there was nothing more to be done. ‘We will await an answer from the Learned. Until then, I think we should avoid leaping blindly to any conclusions. Would you agree?’
‘Indeed,’ Ardan replied. ‘We will abide your decision and wait until all the kings are gathered tomorrow. We will bring the Scálda captive with us then.’ Ardan turned and started off. Eamon, still holding tight to Conor’s arm, made to follow and, with a last begrudging glance at the Brigantes king, Conor allowed himself to be led away.
The Darini contingent made its way back to their camp on the plain where Liam and the rest of the ardféne were waiting to hear what had transpired up on the hill. Lord Cahir and some of his men accompanied them, and Ardan invited his friend to sit and share a cup of mead. While the warriors talked, the chieftains passed the cup. After they had sipped a little, the cup was refilled and the Coriondi king offered his appraisal of what had happened at the meeting before the Darini arrived.
‘Ach, well,’ mused Cahir, ‘that was very odd—in my view, at least. Your man here’—he indicated Gaen, who was standing close by with Eamon and Conor to hear what was said—‘your man can tell you the report of spies was greeted with alarm by some of us, but Brecan seemed to be at pains to question it.’
Ardan looked to Gaen, who said, ‘That he was, my lord. Brecan made it clear to everyone that he did not believe me.’