He sighed.
“You must listen with more care, Connery. Most believe you killed Nuadu in his sleep because of what he did to Eterscel, who was your father. That is a belief you must nurture. Everything depends on it.”
“But, Macc, it causes my bile to rise,” Connery said. “To think the druids want us to promote the lie that Eterscel was my father. He was my grandfather; does that not suffice?”
Macc frowned. Only Buachalla and he knew who the boy’s father was. She’d been upset when Macc told her what the druids proposed, but she was willing to accept the shame of the rumors to help bolster her son’s claim to the throne. Macc could not countenance what a woman was willing to do to further the goals of her offspring, which changed nothing. Connery’s claim would fail without her sacrifice. Even though a blood relative of Eterscel, being a bastard with an unknown father, would destroy the play before it had really started.
“Revenge for the murder of a father is much more believable. It also gives you legitimacy in your claim for the throne.”
“Do you not see, Macc, what that does not only to me, but also to my mother? The story is hurtful to Buachalla.”
“The story is that neither the High King nor your mother knew they were related. There is no shame in an unknown transgression,” Macc said, not believing his own words.
Everyone in the kingdoms of Ériu knew that no good could come of an incestuous relationship, and he failed to understand why the Elder Council thought it necessary to spread the idea that Connery came from such a union. It should be enough to say he killed Nuadu to avenge the death of his grandfather and his claim to the throne was legitimized by a Bull Feast.
Let the people rot in Donn’s mound if it didn’t satisfy them.
“And for me to have murdered a one-armed man in his bed, where is the glory in that?”
“What is it with the youth of today and a thirst for glory?” Macc said and smiled, trying to lighten Connery’s mood. The boy just scoffed and kicked at a stray reed.
“We need the people to believe you killed Nuadu. It matters very little how that death occurred. They must see you as a strong man.”
Only the Elder Council and Macc knew Kathvar killed the usurper. At least Macc thought the Elder Council would know. Their palm prints were all over the presence of the druid in the royal roundhouse; Macc didn’t think it prudent to ask unwelcome questions about their being there at the same time and with the same goal. He surmised they were paving the road for Connery’s kingship by counteracting past wrongs. If they wanted the animosity between Meath and Ulster stopped, who was Macc to gainsay them. He supposed that in their plans for five peaceful kingdoms, it would be necessary for King Connavar to be forgiven.
“But I could never cut a man’s throat while he slept,” Connery whined.
“You must still that whining, boy. No one will follow a High King who whines,” Macc said while thinking that he, too, would have been hard-pressed to cut Nuadu’s throat. Not that he would have had any compunction killing the man, just not by cutting his throat while he slept.
“I am sorry, Macc, but I have never killed anyone.” The tone was apologetic, but the warrior noted the look was one of disgust at the thought of killing.
“Yes, I know that, and you know that, but the people must never know that. The kings and chieftains will not support your claim if they detect any weakness in you.”
“The kings will take one look at me and know me as a fraud,” Connery laughed.
“Not so, not so. Have more faith. I will provide you with the means to convince them.” Connery looked at Macc and frowned.
“You must have faith,” Macc said just above a whisper.
“Tell me again why I have to go naked,” Connery said.
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Macc knew the boy was finding the council’s dressing up of the rituals overly theatrical—almost poetical—as though they decided to adopt the ways of the bard to make their chosen course more palatable to the Éireannachaigh.
Macc frowned and looked over his shoulder at the boy’s foster brothers a hundred strides away. As usual, they were frolicking and not taking anything seriously. Macc knew what they would think: so what if the High King is dead, there will be another and then another after that. He watched Lee and Gar dunking Rogain in the waves, laughing as their brother broke the surface, spluttering and cursing them.
They are so young. Younger even than Connery.
It was little wonder everything to them was a game. He knew it would be a cold day in a mound of the Sidhe before they would take anything seriously, except perhaps, a bloodied sword and a glut of women to rape.
“The blood drinker is going to say that during his trance, he saw a naked man with a stone in his sling walking one of the five roads into Temuir,” Macc said, trying to be patient.
Connery was supposed to be quick-witted, but Macc increasingly had to explain the basics to him. Still, the boy had seen only fourteen summers and was about to assume the mantle of the most powerful man in the land. Macc was not convinced Connery was ready. He was grooming him for the following day’s ritual because the council proclaimed it was to be so, and his mother wanted it more than anything. Given the choice, he would have trained the boy for at least another two years.
“Yes, and a king will be waiting on each road with clothes for me. I know that, but why? Why not just hold a Bull Feast and have done with it?”
“It is to do with how the druids like things done, Connery. Who are we to question their wisdom?”
“You think no one will be suspicious if I walk down the road naked after a druid predicts it at the Bull Feast?”
“Of course, Connery, everyone will be suspicious. That is why we have invented the story of the robbery. Your story is that your sling is armed, letting you throw quickly if you meet any of the robbers when walking to Temuir.”
“How will I have a sling if I have just been robbed? They would have stolen the sling, too, surely?”
“There is always a little element of the unbelievable in the supernatural; that is why there is faith,” Macc said, improvising and hating that he had to.
“And you really think it will work?”
“I know, Connery, that there will be doubters. But the druids will ratify the tale, so the majority will believe. You must have faith. They know what they are doing.”
The frown lines in Macc’s forehead furrowed even deeper. He was not sure the druids really did know what they were doing, but who was he to question them? He had seen some flashes of promise from Connery during their time together on Ynys Môn, but they were infrequent and fleeting. It was difficult for Macc to reconcile the boy who had browbeaten Dond into submission in the hillfort at Emain Macha with the whining youth standing beside him between the reedy dunes on the strand below the cliffs of Bend Etair. Their time together with the druids had not reproduced a similar event. Taidle Ulad had provided counsel and prepared Connery for the coming trials, but was it enough?
“And what of those three?” Connery said, nodding in the direction of his foster brothers.
Macc knew the brothers scared Connery. The previous year’s raid into Ulster showed him the depth of their blood lust. He remembered Connery sitting on a log listening to the screams of old women as they were raped by the boys. He had watched them cut off the heads of old villagers and present them to their father as trophies. Macc was surprised Connery’s fear of the boys had never dissipated. If anything, the boy’s fear of them grew as they grew into young men. When they were small, he had been able to control their urges. That ability evaporated when they were in exile on Ynys Môn. The brothers became ever more unpredictable and rash.
“Soon, I will send them on their way to prepare for the Bull Feast,” Macc responded, ignoring the boy’s actual question. He knew Connery’s fears were not totally unfounded. The foster brothers would need close supervision after Connery assumed the throne.
“Do you remember what I told you about Nuadu?”
“I am to tell the chieftains I killed him for retribution. That Eterscel was my father and Nuadu killed him...” Connery hesitated as he bent down and picked up a reed blade to chew.
“Good. And?” Macc said, encouraging the boy to continue.
“I am to tell them I am the rightful heir to the High King’s seat, and by killing Silver-Hand, I have proved my worth, proved that I am strong enough to sit on the throne.”
“Yes, they need a strong man who they can follow.”
“Who did kill him?”
“That is not important. What is important is that the Five Kingdoms stop all this mad bloodletting. We are destroying ourselves.”
“I can see that, Macc; really I can, but why naked?”
“It is to lend an air of the mystic to the ritual. Ritualism provides the succession with some force. You will be the naked avenger who threw down a usurper with naught but a sling.”