The sun was being crowded out by gathering storm clouds when Conall arrived at the heights above Dún Dealgan for the third time since leaving Medb. His thighs were chafed. His arse felt like the fishwife had lost her temper with it, changing her paddle to a hammer. Despite Conall trying not to overexert her, his mare was lathered and breathing heavily.
And once again, it had been in vain.
Despite the encroaching darkness, there was enough light for him to see Cú on the opposite rise, kneeling before a cairn, Laeg, his retainer, beside him. They were kneeling as if in worship. Fergus’ death had taken them hard. Conall felt shame at having missed the funeral. He should have been there when the cairn was built and covered. Turf had already hidden the stones, the barrow had been finished, and Fergus was already a long time underneath moldering. At least a long time in the scheme of the Three Sisters.
“What have the sisters to do with anything? Bundún,” he hissed, sure in the knowledge warriors controlled their own destiny.
Crossing his arms over his saddle horn, Conall sighed. Controlling his own fate didn’t change the fact Fergus was wandering in the Void and hoping for a reprieve. If not, then vengeance. Or preferably a reprieve and revenge.
And yet he couldn’t believe the air of peace over the dún.
The Cailleach had exaggerated. Again. And fooled him completely. Again. He whispered a string of expletives into the lengthening shadows, unsure if he was referring to himself or Medb. Maybe both. He chuckled and shook his head. There was nothing in the scene warranting his worry. He was foolish to have fallen for Medb’s games.
Bull’s balls, I could do with a flagon or six, he thought, as Emer came to stand in the doorway to the roundhouse, baby in her arms. He heard her call Cú, who waved and then spoke to Laeg. They climbed to their feet and headed down the hill. It would be time to eat, he realized. Food would be a welcome distraction from his thighs and his arse cheeks, as well as his mounting sadness. His mouth started to water at the thought of eating. They would have roasted some cows for the funeral feast. What he wouldn’t give for a slab of beef and a flagon or two of Emer’s surprisingly good ale.
A rumble made him look over his shoulder. The tranquillity was belied by the still-gathering clouds. He wondered what the shapes in the clouds would portend before shaking his head and cursing himself for a fool.
Conall’s stomach rumbled. He had not eaten since before dawn, and his stomach demanded he ride into the dún and join them at the bench. Emer always laid a welcoming board. But what of Cú’s grief? How could he explain his absence? The answers were plain. He would be unable to handle the pain of his foster son and could not adequately explain his absence. Not without Ailill’s head in a sack.
Sighing again, he turned his mare about, heading north. He would take ship at Beál Feirste. Go seek his fortune in the land of the Romans. Go and see what was so special about the people who came from the city of stone. Go and see what made so many fear them so much.
***
They had a bench at the back of the hostel common room. The morning would see them head for the Sea Wolf’s beach and their meeting with Kathvar. The hall was quiet except for the thrumming of heavy rain on the thatch and the occasional explosion of thunder. The air was close. Fedelm could taste the storm on the tip of her tongue. She felt comfortable despite the thunder. A light meal of bread and cheese with a sup of ale had tempered her mood. She was happy Bradán was with her, not least because his confession meant she’d one less thing to worry about. She hated storms, and sitting through one alone in a strange hostel would not be something she would relish.
“Turned into a foul night,” Bradán said before taking a swig of mead.
Fedelm agreed, hoping Kathvar and his guards had found shelter. Riding in chainmail during a lightning storm was not sensible. She’d heard of warriors burned black as charcoal when struck by lightning. Best to be under some thatch, warmed by a fire, with mead and meat on the board.
“What do you think of Kathvar?” she asked, voicing the sudden thought.
Bradán gazed at her with lidded eyes before taking the stick from the corner of his mouth and saying, “He’s a druid. What’s to think about? Never mix in the affairs of druids, me ma used to say. She’ll be ranting in Tír na nÓg now I’ve taken service with him.”
“Do you respect him?”
“Aye, you could call it such, I suppose,” Bradán said, shaking his head.
“What else would you call it?”
“Fear comes to mind.”
“You fear him? He’s an old man. Granted, he has a big sword. However, I’m guessing he’d use his brain before using a blade.”
Fedelm could not keep the surprise out of her voice. Hesitating, Bradán stared into his mead. He was obviously thinking hard about the druid, as though something did not sit right.
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“Don’t be fooled by his appearance, Lady,” he finally offered. “That blade is more than just for show. I took a position and his silver, but I don’t trust druids at all, and that one less than any others.”
“You don’t trust the Elder Council?”
“Only a fool would trust the Elders. They are druids and rogues. None more so than yer man Kathvar.”
“So, why did you take service with him?” Fedelm asked. Bradán returned to staring into his cup and blushed. “Never mind.”
But after a lengthy pause, he continued. “There’s many a story around that druid, now.”
“Such as?”
Before answering, he stared into the flames of the firepit as though assessing whether she was playing with him.
“You’ve not heard?”
Fedelm shook her head. She hadn’t heard anything other than what she would expect to hear about a senior member of the Council, who was just an old man. She knew he was an adept spymaster, as he proved during the cattle raid, but she had never heard of him being violent. She thought warriors relied on their weapons and druids on their wits, never considering the possibility the two might be mixed.
“You heard how Connery Mór became High King?”
“He killed the usurper Núadu to claim his rightful place on the throne,” Fedelm said with a shrug. Didn’t everyone know the story?
“That’s the tale The Elders give. Only, I heard he didn’t kill Núadu. I heard Macc Cecht was sent to kill him, and when he arrived in the royal roundhouse, Kathvar was already there, covered from head to foot in Núadu’s blood. Cut his throat by all accounts. Connery held up Núadu’s silver hand and head in the Bull Ring, claiming he killed him, right enough, but they say it was Kathvar took them.” Fedelm clamped a hand over her mouth as she realized the implications; the Elder Council was guilty of lying to the people, and Kathvar was a vicious killer.
“That makes a mockery of everything the people have been told.” If it is true, she cautioned herself.
“Aye, it does.”
“You’re saying Kathvar cut off Núadu’s head?” Fedelm asked.
“Aye, so rumor has it,” Bradán replied, once more staring into the flames of the newly lit fire, his thoughts leagues away from the hostel, midway between Dún Ailinne and Indber Colptha. Another crash of thunder made him look up suddenly. “I think the Council is devious and dangerous, Lady, no offense intended.”
“No offense taken, Bradán. I’m not inclined to disagree. But I don’t understand how sending Macc Cecht to kill Núadu and having Kathvar do it instead makes any sense.”
“Thought about it quite a bit myself. Rumor among warriors is they were making a statement. Letting us know they’re a physical power not just a political one. I heard – only rumor you understand – Macc Cecht said when they stopped to wash, kathvar took off his bloody robe, and he was muscle from head to foot. Not the half-dead greybeard he likes us to think.”
It was true that Kathvar had perfected a technique of appearing frail, but the rest of the Council? Were they really that devious? She wondered at Bradán’s words. When said out loud, the idea was so simple she worried how she could have missed it. The Elder Council professed to be concerned with the fate of the Five Kingdoms. The good of the people. But were they really? Mesgegra had inadvertently raised the point of their origins. Some of the Council did not even come from Ireland: Dornoll herself was from the wilds of Northern Alba. Myrddin came from Western Alba, from the Ordovices.
If it is true, she reminded herself.
And Dornoll had done nothing to fight Kathvar’s proposition of Cú Chulainn for High King. And wanting to speak to him in private. What was that about? Fedelm suddenly found Dornoll’s compliance suspicious. The druidess typically argued against everything Kathvar proposed out of principle. Were they in league with each other? The more she thought about it, the likelier it became. Was the meeting in Mesgegra’s court prearranged? There had been an element of coincidence about it. And what of Kathvar’s mysterious ‘other errand?’ Was he meeting with Dornoll again, somewhere else? That was a reasonable assumption. They must be working together. They had probably been working together from the outset. Their constant confrontation was nothing more than a ruse. Of course. She felt a fool to have been duped by them. But then, she was not the intended victim of the deceit. Mesgegra was the dupe. She was the witness. They would perform the coronation in the Bull Ring of Tara and tell the gathered chieftains Cú was proposed by the King of Leinster. If anyone thought to ask, she would be required to confirm it. She had wondered why the greybeard asked for her company. Tuatha, how she hated to be used.
“What do you think of Genonn?” Fedelm voiced the sudden question before she could stop herself and then wondered why. She had considered them two apples from the same tree until this talk with Bradán. Now, she was not sure. Kathvar might have a violent side, which she’d not noted in Genonn.
Bradán grinned at her, “He’s a druid, so what’s to think. Same story.”
“He says he’s a warrior,” Fedelm said, angling her head questioningly.
“Does he now,” Bradán laughed, causing her to think. “Just because he went to Scáthach doesn’t make him a warrior.”
“But–” Fedelm began to object before being interrupted by the door crashing open.
After a few moments of only just audible debate from outside, she listened as a raucous crowd of warriors barged in. Bradán once again had his cup poised at his mouth, his eyes challenging the warriors bustling through the door. He raised his eyebrows at the ruckus as they began clamoring for food and mead.
“Should I worry?” Fedelm asked.
“It’s a warband, right enough, but there’s a captain with them who has a reputation for calm.”
“Who?”
“Bréannin. Captained Leinster’s army at Gáirech. I can’t see them causing trouble.”
“I think we should retire, anyway.”
“Your will, Lady.”
Fedelm put up her hood as she stood. Something warned her the men in the warband might show too much interest in a good-looking redhead. She could do without any unwanted attention. Smiling, she thought of Bradán’s clumsy approach, which hadn’t been an approach.
“Sorry, Lady,” someone said after bumping into her and breaking her chain of thought. She looked up into the face of a tall, redheaded warrior. He was leering at her, only his eyes visible through abundant hair. Beside him, a rangy man was grinning at her. Something in the man’s eyes made her glad Bradán was standing beside her, hand on the hilt of his sword. She noticed a woman staring at her from behind the hairy one. She had a look of such hatred that Fedelm felt it like a physical force. The woman elbowed past the man and shoulder-barged Fedelm out of her way.
“Don’t mind her, Lady, jealous shite, she is,” the rangy one said.
Fedelm held up her hands and turned away, glad Kathvar insisted she took Bradán for company.