Someone pulled aside the oxhide cover over the entrance to the feast hall at Crúachain, letting in a swirl of heavy rain. Everyone looked up from their food to see who had lifted it. Finn, the warrior of Emhain Macha, let the oxhide drop as he walked into the hall. He was soaked. Most would find his squelching toward the dais comical, except they could see the blood dripping from between his clenched fingers.
Finn looked at the warriors in the feast hall until he saw where Conall and the High King were sitting. He ran over, bowed, and said, “My lords, the Briton Ingcél of the One-eye has landed at Indber Colptha and is wreaking havoc through the settlements of Meath and Leinster.”
The revelers met the news with stunned silence. The feast hall was not crowded because after the High King’s retinue arrived and Connery announced his verdict on the case of Coipre and Coipre, King Ailill dismissed his retinue and arranged a small welcoming feast with a few of his warriors and his wife, Queen Medb.
Ailill, though maintaining a facade of courtesy, harbored deep resentment towards the High King. Connery’s perceived weakness had driven his son, Mane, to choose exile over loyalty, a decision that had torn their family apart. The pain inflicted upon his mother, who blamed herself for the rift, was a wound that Ailill could not forgive. Only the presence of Conall, their mutual friend, had prevented him from dismissing the High King’s petition outright.
Everyone at the King’s table stared at the soaking, bloody warrior. The others in the feast hall had stopped feasting and talking to watch.
They are like buzzards at the cow’s remains.
“Why do I know this name, Ingcél?” the High King finally asked.
“There are rumors, my lord,” Ailill said. “He is alleged to have murdered his own family in revenge.”
“In revenge of what?”
“No one really knows,” Queen Medb interjected with a shrug. “Some say they betrayed him to the Romans.”
“Also,” Ailill added, “they say your foster brothers took up with him when they were exiled.”
Because you were too weak to condemn them.
The High King nodded. Over recent weeks, rumors about the viciousness of the Briton had been traveling the Five Kingdoms like an out-of-control gorse fire. Ailill found them difficult to believe. He thought they were exaggerated. For a man to murder his mother and father while they slept in their beds seemed implausible. He doubted even the children of the Fomorians would murder their parents as they slept in their beds. Despite that sentiment, he felt Mane’s betrayal was probably worse. Their son had committed treason. Treason!
“How many are in the Briton’s raiding party?” Macc asked.
The messenger shook his head. “It is unclear, lord. I had to fight through some of the reavers to get here, but only five or six were in that party.”
“How many have you seen?”
Finn hesitated before continuing, “There are small bands of marauders everywhere. It is difficult to count their exact numbers.”
“Could it be one small warband traveling quickly between settlements?” Macc asked.
“No, lord, a large fleet was seen to land on the beach at Indber Colptha, and there are reports of pitched battles around the nearest settlements.”
“Are there any Red Branch warriors close, Conall?” Macc asked.
“King Connavar ordered Fergus to take the warband from Emain Macha to the coast at Lúr Cinn Trá. Besides those, the Red Branch has been idle for some time.”
As is Ulster’s wont, I believe but it is Connery at fault.
The implication in Conall’s words was unmistakeable. The Red Branch was made up of warbands from different chieftains and settlements of Ulster. When there was no threat, they returned to their homes. Because peace had reigned in Ériu for so long, most warriors were idle and unpractised.
And bored.
“How many warriors are with Fergus?” Macc asked.
“Three hundred, lord. It is from there that I come,” Finn said. “Fergus sent me to King Connavar to ask for instructions, but I could not reach Emain Macha.
“I was riding back to tell Fergus when I heard you were here,” he said to Conall.
“Why did Connavar send them with Fergus? Are you not the commander of the Red Branch?” the High King asked Conall.
“I no longer control the Red Branch. Connavar has usurped my position, as is a King’s right, I suppose. Anyway, I believe Connavar sent the Red Branch on a fox hunt. I would not put it beyond his conniving brain to be in league with the invaders.”
“From what I have heard, your king did know the coasts were threatened,” Ailill mused. “And now it seems he sent Ulster’s defenders away from where they were most needed.”
Ailill looked at Connavar’s son, Longas, who stared fixedly at his meat and offered nothing.
You are quiet, little Ulster.
“I will send a message and order Fergus to meet us at Átha Clíath,” Conall said with a frown. Ailill guessed he was trying to figure out how best to unite the warband in Crúachain with the warband under Fergus’s command.
“I will ride back with the message, my lord,” Finn said, despite dripping blood at the foot of the dais.
“You are wounded, Finn. We need someone strong enough to ride until the message is delivered,” Conall said with a frown.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“I had nothing to bind the wound, lord. It is not as bad as it appears.”
“Taidle, see what you think,” the High King instructed his counselor.
The druid examined the wound. After a cursory inspection, he said, “I can sew it. It is not life-threatening as long as no malfeasance enters. Come, warrior, I will make your arm as new.”
***
A short time later, Finn was riding hard along the road, heading for Lúr Cinn Trá, where he knew Fergus and the Red Branch were defending the coast, sent there by the King of Ulster. Finn did not want to contemplate the idea that his king was capable of such deception. Despite what had been said about Connavar in the past, Finn did not believe most of it. Many refused to accept the reasons the King of Ulster gave for his involvement in Eterscel’s death. For Finn, it seemed wholly plausible.
He rode with his mind in turmoil and his arm throbbing with pain. Because he was in such deep thought and distracted by the wound, the warrior did not see the men clustered in the woods on either side of the road. They were on foot and moved towards the treeline in twos and threes to check his progress. Had he been vigilant, Finn would have seen them and could easily have made his escape. They were not skilled or hardened warriors and would not usually offer any threat to a trained soldier such as Finn. At least twenty men were watching him ride up the road. Finn passed only a spear’s throw from where they were, but with his head down, he did not see them.
The first he knew of their presence was when the arrows struck him. Despite not being skilled warriors, many were skilled archers, and the arrows were well-aimed. Finn felt the thuds of iron-tipped death as the arrows entered his back and pushed him forward in his saddle. His arms seemed to lose all power, and his lungs failed to draw a breath, no matter how hard he tried. Finn slumped down the side of the horse and could see the road’s mud coming up to meet him, and did not feel the landing, not because of the softness of the mud, but because he was already dead when he hit the road.
“Where do you think he was going in such a hurry, Lee?” Gar asked as they reached the warrior. With so many arrows in him, he looked like a hedgehog that had been trampled in the mud. His horse was cropping the wet grass beside the road as if nothing had happened.
“Who cares? Let us divide his wealth and get on,” one of the archers said, while slinging his bow and crouching down beside the warrior.
***
After Finn left the feast hall, the retinue began to talk about what they could or should do. Ailill and Medb had excused themselves. They were in no mood to offer the men in the feast hall any advice—not that they had any advice to offer. The discussion was tense, each worried about the attack on their homeland.
“Know your enemy,” Conall said for the third time.
“That is a given. But we cannot sit here and wait for the invaders to arrive. We must at least investigate what is happening.” There was murmured assent to Macc’s words. “I will ride with half the retinue to scout out the number of marauders and what they are doing—”
“No,” the High King interrupted Macc’s planning before he could continue. “This is the Briton deciding to use our current troubles to his advantage. We do not know who from Ériu is involved in the plot.”
Connery looked pointedly at Longas as he spoke. “We should not split our small force in two, thereby making each twice as vulnerable,” he continued.
“The High King is right,” Conall agreed. “We should stay together until we learn Ingcél’s strength and plans.”
“But sitting and doing nothing will be taken for cowardice,” Macc said. “Forgive me, my lord, the High King is already seen as weak. He cannot be thought to be a coward.”
Regardless of how true you think it to be.
“We will not sit and do nothing. We will follow your plan and scout, but we will do it together. My lord?” Conall asked the High King for his approval. Connery nodded.
“You, Conall, as leader of the Red Branch, have command of the warriors.”
Conall frowned at the murderous look Macc turned on him. As King’s Champion, it was Macc’s command by rights. Still, Conall did not believe he could lead—at least, not with a calculated mind. Macc was more apt to react with violence than thought.
Less than an hour later, the hundred riders of the High King’s retinue were riding down the muddy road in Finn’s wake. The easterly wind was heavy and in the riders’ faces. Their eyes were watering, and so looking ahead for danger was difficult.
Conall was vigilant. As a precaution, he had sent outriders to the front and flanks of the retinue. There was a vanguard of three riders, two spear throws ahead of the main body. The flanking riders were a spear throw on either side of the road when the terrain permitted. Conall kept as much of a watch on their progress as the wind allowed. When he saw the vanguard’s middle rider rein in and turn back towards the main body, Conall held up his hand to call for a halt.
“There are men hiding in the woods either side of the next vale,” the outrider said as he reined in before the warlord.
“How many?” Macc asked.
“It is difficult to say exactly, lord. I saw armed men in the woods. They are either not worried at being seen, or not good at hiding. But I only saw a few. Maybe twenty.”
“What is amiss?” Connery asked as he reined in beside Conall. The High King had been riding in the middle of the column at Conall’s insistence.
“There is an ambush waiting in the next vale, lord,” Conall explained.
“How many are they?” the High King asked.
“The outrider only saw about twenty armed men hiding in the trees. There might be more. There might not.”
“Can we ride through the vale at pace?”
“We could, but we do not know what they have waiting out of sight,” Conall said. “There is a bend, and they could easily have a shield wall waiting for us.”
“What, then, do you propose, Conall?” Macc asked.
“We should turn back and find another route.”
“You think we should run?” Macc asked with increasing incredulity.
“As I have said, Macc, know your enemy.”
“That is well, Conall, but running in the face of reavers will not send a good message. My lord?” Macc asked of the High King.
“We will follow the advice of the warlord,” Connery said.
Conall could see that Macc thought him overly cautious. He believed that the men in the woods had been seen, meaning they were not likely to be skilled warriors, and the warband of the High King could force a passage. However, Macc had always been a fighter more than a thinker.
***
The rider watched from the woods as the High King’s retinue turned in the road and retraced their steps. He was frowning at the backs of the warriors. The task they had been set by Ingcél was straightforward. Ambush any band of warriors moving down the road in an easterly direction.
Initially, Lee was willing to accept Mane’s advice, and therefore Gar and Rogain too. However, as soon as they had set the ambush, the men of the three-hundred-strong warband could not keep still. Sacking small and indefensible settlements in Alba had given the men an arrogance they could not support. Killing the horseman earlier in the day had done nothing to allay that arrogance. By his garb and the wound in his upper arm, he was obviously a warrior, so the men in the warband were proud they had felled him, failing to recognize it was his lack of vigilance that had caused his death, not their skill as ambushers.
Mane turned his horse and rode to where Lee was sitting, staring at the retreating warriors with his mouth agape. His horse was fidgeting, obviously unnerved by the smell of blood coming from the warrior’s head hanging from Lee’s saddle pommel.
“Why have they turned?” he asked Mane as he reined in.
“They must have seen us, Lee.”
“Are we not well hidden, then?”
Mane frowned at the question. He did not respond. He thought words about how the men of an ambush must remain still would be nothing but wasted breath on this leader. The brothers were nothing but overgrown boys trying to survive in a world meant for men. They were not young, not anymore, but they lacked the experience to be considered men.
“The warrior did not see us,” Lee continued.
“The warrior was sorely wounded and not as vigilant as he should have been,” Mane said.
“What should we do now?” Gar asked.
“You should follow the High King. His tracks will be easy to follow. I will return to Ingcél and report the failure of the ambush.”