Thundering hooves, yelps, and screams, warriors in their element: laughing, frolicking, jovial. Sitting on his mount on the edge of the forest, Ailill watched the play with half a smile and half a frown, contorting his face to near pain. Despite being glad to see the warriors enjoying themselves, he was also worried. Medb had successfully stolen the herd and the bull.
As he watched, the warriors drove Don Cuailnge—Fiachna’s majestic bull—past the king, and the cows followed. Just the way it should be, he thought with a smile. Oh, how he wanted the cow to follow his lead. She will never follow. Not now.
His smile faltered.
The Witch Queen of Babylon had triumphed.
She would be even more insufferable. But now she could give up the games and run to Crúachain or Ath Luain, where they could shelter behind the palisade. Time was pressing. The wrath of Ulster would be hard on their tail, he had no doubt.
The feint made the Red Branch look foolish.
Wiping a besmirched, sweaty palm over his forehead, he was proud of his troop. Not only had they succeeded, they made it look easy. He was not sure whether to rejoice. The troop only suffered a few casualties, which was annoying because it gave the pups a false promise: overconfidence was as dangerous as going into battle with low spirits.
The raid’s success was as much luck as skill.
They caught the Red Branch with their triús down and their arses over the midden. Fergus said they were still suffering from their drunken revel, and so were half asleep. Ailill agreed with his assessment.
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None of the pups recognized the luck for what it was. They were jubilant. Together with the laugh of the cow chase, they were still rejoicing in the death of the boy. It seemed they had forgotten their earlier despondency. When Cú Chulainn lived, they had been ready to run for home. The return from a successful raid did nothing to help the army’s ill-advised sense of invincibility. Medb’s calling them all together and telling them it was a resounding victory, even less.
They do not see that the Red Branch is hundreds of Hounds, only older with more experience.
Ailill could see Medb riding Badb, screaming with the rest. The mare’s nostrils were flaring, showing her feelings about the cattle thievery. Medb’s horse was less gullible than the warriors surrounding her.
The queen wore nothing but the habitual blue woad, acting like a woman twenty years her junior and less inclined to indulge in pastimes that wore away youth as surely as the sea-eroded rocks. Surprisingly, he found her nudity arousing. Arousal had not been a physical presence for some time. It was a joyful return. He smiled and cheered. Cheered and smiled, even as he worried and tried to hide his excitement.
Worried with good reason.
The Red Branch would fall on the pups as hard as an aggravated banshee. They would not like Ailill’s troop besting them. They might be half asleep, but the pups would still be no match for the Ulaid. They had to retreat to Crúachain, bolster the gates, sharpen their weapons, and prepare for a protracted siege. War was upon them, and they acted like children. He wanted the stupidity to stop; he wanted to order them to run, but he could not. They laid the hollow victory at the feet of the queen. Medb was once again the savior of Connacht; the Warrior Queen; the invincible. So, he laughed and cheered, cheered, and laughed while keeping his hands crossed over his sword pommel—feeling its smoothness and wondering whether he would be able to stand fast against their enemy.
As soon as the army had passed with their prize, his face became somber.
“We return to camp,” he said to his guards. They were there ostensibly to protect him. He was no fool and knew they followed Medb’s orders and were there to ensure his subservience.