Dond Desa, the champion of Meath, stood behind the throne in the feast hall of Temuir, staring at the supplicant, Nuadu Necht, with barely concealed loathing. He had no time for lesser mortals of any description, but because Nuadu was missing a hand, his tolerance of the chieftain was non-existent. It did not matter how much silver had been fashioned to replace that which he had lost; Nuadu was still an incomplete man.

“You are sure it was Conall Cernach?” Macc Cecht asked from Dond’s right.

“The shield, Lámthapad, is impossible to mistake. It was Conall.”

“Yes, Lámthapad,” Mug mumbled. Those gathered in the hall looked at the druid and wondered what he was doing there. His useful years as the High King’s advisor had long since dwindled.

“Many of the survivors saw the shield,” Nuadu concluded.

Macc nodded his understanding. Lámthapad was blood red with a jet-black boss and white gold studs. It could not be mistaken. The pride of Ulstermen, the shield was carried by each of the kingdom’s champions in succession and would typically hang in the feast hall above the throne.

“You were spared because…?” Dond asked with a frown.

“I was not spared. I was away on a hunt.” Macc frowned at the man. Something did not seem right about his claims, but Macc could not determine precisely what it was.

“He was on a hunt,” Mug said, nodding.

“What is the meaning of this?” Eterscel demanded as he walked onto the dais.

“Nuadu has come to Temuir to level a complaint, lord,” Dond explained.

“You were hearing supplicants without my knowledge?”

“We sent for you, lord, but he,” Dond waved a dismissive hand at Nuadu, “insisted on beginning without you.”

Macc looked at Dond with a scowl because the older warrior was not being truthful. Dond had insisted that the chieftain begin without the High King. Nuadu said nothing, just stood with his hands crossed behind his back, so Macc let it drop.

“Repeat what you told us for the High King,” Dond said.

The chieftain repeated what he had said to the two warriors and the druid before Eterscel arrived. He told how a small band of Red Branch warriors led by Conall Cernach had raided his homestead, killed his champion and robbed him of his silver. He claimed the attack happened when he was in the forest on a hunt. His champion, Fandall, died defending the settlement. Nuadu had brought the champion’s head in a sack, evidence he was telling the truth.

“The sack is tied to my saddle pommel if you would like proof of what I say, my lords.”

“No one here knew Fandall,” Macc said. “We would not recognize the man’s head.”

“We do not need proof of what you say, Nuadu,” the High King said, waving the chieftain’s words away. “You are a loyal chieftain of the Five Kingdoms, and your word is enough for us.”

“Thank you, lord.”

The High King smiled at him, trying to impart confidence. “Dond, what is the penalty for an unsanctioned raid against someone under our protection?”

“Death, lord.”

“And who is responsible for meting out the king’s justice?”

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“The king’s champion, lord.”

“Just so, Dond. Just so.”

Macc watched as the High King sat on his throne and considered his actions. It was the first time in a long time that Eterscel was pondering what to do. The occasions when he acted first and thought about it afterwards had been too frequent of late. This attack would not usually require much pondering. The crime needed to be dealt with summarily and with speed. However, there was something about the report from Nuadu that was niggling at Macc.

“Dond, I command you to gather as many warriors as you deem fit,” Eterscel proclaimed. “You are to ride to Emain Macha, and there you are to take the traitor Conall Cernach and execute him according to the laws of your High King.”

“My lord, is this a wise course?” Macc asked. He knew justice needed to be seen to be done, but he did not think Nuadu’s words constituted proof, at least not proof the Elder Council would accept.

“Mug?” the High King asked for the druid’s input.

“The High King’s vassals must be protected,” the druid said.

Macc did not think the elderly man knew where he was, let alone what was occurring. “But, my lord—”

“Enough. Dond Desa, make sure your underlings do not speak out of turn when in my feast hall.”

“Yes, lord.”

Saying which, Dond grabbed Macc by the elbow and steered him out of the hall.

“You should not do this, Dond,” Macc said. “You have no evidence. You cannot execute a king’s champion without proof.”

“Ah, Macc. Who is the High King?”

“Eterscel.”

“And who is the absolute ruler in the Five Kingdoms?”

“The High King. But…”

“There are no buts, Macc. The High King has issued an order, and we must obey it.”

“What do you mean we?”

“Did I not say? You are coming too. And that protégé of yours, Connery.”

***

Conall Cernach, leader of the Red Branch, stood in the feast hall in Emain Macha, staring at Lámthapad with a frown. His foremost duty was to lead the Red Branch in the kingdom’s defence. For some reason, King Connavar wanted Fergus, Conall’s deputy, to lead them to the border with Connacht.

“But, my lord, Fergus is my deputy. He should only lead if I fall in battle,” Conall said, a statement that he thought brooked no argument.

“Enough, Conall. I have spoken. This is not a debate. I need you here. We have much to discuss.”

“Now, my lord?” he asked, his sarcasm oozing from him like the smell of mead after a long night in the feast hall.

“Be careful, warrior.”

The king spoke softly, and Conall understood the veiled threat. He looked at the man standing beside him. He claimed to be a farmer from the regions of Ulster bordering Connacht. He did not look like any farmer Conall had seen. His hair was lank, his chin had five days of dirty growth, and he carried a knife at his belt. His air was more that of a hired killer than of a farmer. The warlord had difficulty believing anything he said.

“Tell me again what happened,” he said, despite having already heard the tale twice.

“The warrior, Mane of Connacht, attacked my farm with a small warband. They raped my wife and stole my silver and my cows.”

“You knew he was Mane, how?”

“He boasted of it, lord, claiming he was Mane Milscothach, greatest warrior in the Five Kingdoms.”

Conall knew Mane. He had spent time with him at the last full of the moon when he had ridden to Crúachain with a contingent of the Red Branch. Mane was a warrior, a faithful follower of the code, and not a man who would boast or prey on the innocent. Connavar did not know of the visit, and Conall did not think it was the right time to tell him, but he needed the king to understand how unlikely this man’s tale was.

“And why did you not go to your tribal chieftain?” Conall saw the man look at Connavar.

His king seemed to speak on behalf of the farmer, “Is that not evident, Conall? This matter is far too serious to be handled by a chieftain alone. It needs my intervention and the intervention of my warriors.”

The stress on them being the king’s warriors was not lost on the leader of the Red Branch. They had been fighting for sole control for many months. As soon as Conall began to countermand some of the king’s requests, requests the warlord saw either as frivolous or dangerous, Connavar reacted by trying to wrest control.

“You will order Fergus to ride to the border with Connacht and investigate the farmer’s claims.”

He did not like it, but there was nothing he could do. “Yes, my lord,” he said, before striding from the hall to instruct Fergus.