“My lord, there is an ugly man and his ugly spouse craving an audience,” a guard announced, his voice tinged with disdain. Ingcél, his appetite momentarily forgotten, glanced up from his early morning meal of meat and oats. A half-empty cup of mead sat untouched beside his elbow. Lee, Gar, and Rogain, their faces a mix of apprehension and indifference, sat staring at their meals, as if Ingcél was not there. He hoped the reception they had received when they reported the loss of the High King’s party had instilled a sense of fear in them.
They should be afraid for their lives.
Ingcél despised waiting idle in a midden-like common room in Brí Chualann, his mind restless and his patience wearing thin. He could do nothing without news of the High King. The fact that Lee’s warband had lost sight of the fleeing retinue during the night only added to his unease.
Ingcél was in a thoughtful mood, worried this Connery had escaped his trap. If the king’s men eluded his warbands and met with the Red Branch, it would be time to take to the ships and sail for Alba. He had over a thousand warriors, but it would be folly to pit them against the skill of the Red Branch. Numbers counted for little when one force was well trained and the other not.
“What do they want?” he asked, with a tone of boredom.
“They say they have news of the High King,” the guard said.
Ingcél stopped chasing a piece of meat around his platter with his knife and looked at the guard. The man was serene. There was no levity on his face. He was not attempting mirth but speaking the truth.
“Show them in,” Ingcél said with a smile while thinking that The Three Sisters were guiding him in his invasion of Ériu. Moments before, he had been thinking about how best to get the fleet off the sands of the strand, but now he was hoping that these unlooked-for visitors knew where his quarry was hiding.
After a few moments, the guard returned, leading a very small man and woman into the room. Despite their size, a strong odor preceded them to the table where the reaver was sitting. Ingcél could not believe the ugliness of the pair who followed the guard. He thought they were well-suited, though. Not only did they smell like pigs, but they looked like a boar and a sow.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I am Calliu, the pig farmer; she is my wife, Cichuil.” Ingcél noticed that he had a piglet under his arm like a small child and wondered if the farmer had fathered it on his sow of a wife. “I’ve heard you are the man who leads the warband camped on the beach.”
“Yes. What of it?” Ingcél asked with a shrug.
“I’ve news of the High King’s whereabouts.”
“And what makes you think I am interested in the whereabouts of the High King?” he asked, not because his chasing Connery through the kingdoms of Ériu was any secret but because he wanted to gauge this pig farmer before he gave any credence to his words.
The man tilted his head and looked at Ingcél with a knowing expression. The expression spoke not only of knowledge but also of disdain. Thinking the farmer was not wise enough to understand the wiles of men of power was a common mistake.
“Because I smell like a pig does not mean I think like a pig. Come, wife; it was a mistake to come here,” the man said and turned to leave.
“Wait, farmer, I did not mean offense,” Ingcél said, holding up a placatory hand. He respected courage, and there was no fear in this man. I must not underestimate him despite his smell and his ugliness. “Speak on.”
The farmer turned a calculating face back to the bench and the men sitting there. Ingcél could see he was being played, which did not lessen his admiration for the farmer. Still, they would kill the pair and steal their pigs to feed the warband, but first, he needed to know where the High King’s party was hiding.
“You’ve invaded Ériu. There’s a rumor of reaving in Leinster and Meath. I met the High King’s retinue galloping up Slíghe Chualann as if all the hounds of Donn were after them. It doesn’t take the insight of a druid to see you and yer warriors,” the man sniffed his impression of those warriors, “are after the High King.”
“You seem very sure of yourself for a pig herder.”
The man bristled before replying, “Even I, Yer Gracious Majesty, can see what’s afoot.”
This indignant response of the farmer was accompanied by the wife’s cackles.
“Very well. I am a captive audience; tell me everything.”
“When breaking camp this morning, we saw the High King and his retinue riding up Slíghe Chualann. They were heading north, so they were, towards Átha Clíath. After they passed, we herded the pigs onto the road to bring them to Brí Chualann in time for the morning tide.”
The man hesitated and looked towards his wife for confirmation of his words. When she nodded, he continued, “It was only a short time later when the horsemen returned and demanded we leave the road. They said something about riding to the hostel of Da Derga in Glencree.”
“They must have seen the fires of Leinster and Meath,” Ingcél said with a smile. It seemed like his plan to keep them away from the Red Branch was working.
“You are sure it was the High King’s party?” Lee asked.
“Yes, I recognized some of the warriors.”
“Which warriors?” Gar asked.
“Macc Cecht and Conall Cernach.”
At the mention of Conall Cernach, the brothers began to fidget and look around the common room. Their nervousness was not missed by Ingcél. He thought he recognized the name but could not recall from where. “Who is this Conall Cernach?” he asked.
“Conall Cernach is the champion of Ulster and commander of the Red Branch,” Gar said, his nerves apparent because of the hesitation in his response. “He was trained by the druidess Dornoll.”
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Ingcél scoffed in disgust at Gar’s apparent weakness. Of course, he had heard of the Red Branch warriors, and now that Gar had spoken, he realized he had also heard of Conall Cernach. He was a renowned warrior and being trained by Dornoll, probably for good reason. The Elder Council always had one who was an expert in martial matters. The druidess’s task was to keep the tribes’ war leaders trained and ready for any threat. Ingcél knew that there were war leaders in Alba who had also been trained by Dornoll. There had been some talk of his older brother, Lud, going to Ynys Môn for training. However, those talks were circumvented by his usurping the crown from their father with the help of the Romans.
It is no wonder the boys have become nervous, he thought. “Can you be sure it was Conall Cernach?” he asked the farmer and his wife.
“Yes, lord. He carries a blood-red shield and is almost as big as Macc Cecht. He was sitting beside the High King’s champion when that bodalán demanded we leave the road, so we are sure.”
“That means the Red Branch cannot be far away,” Lee said.
“My scouts have the Red Branch at Lúr Cinn Trá,” Ingcél said. “The warriors in the vales of Leinster are there to keep the High King’s retinue and the Red Branch apart.”
“We cannot be sure no messengers have reached the Red Branch. We must sail immediately,” Lee continued as though he had not heard Ingcél speak.
Ingcél turned his eyes on Dond Desa’s eldest son, who was close to feeling his wrath. It was not only that he was advocating running but also because he was voicing the same fears Ingcél had while he was breaking his fast. His warband did not have the skill to confront the Red Branch in open combat.
“Where is this hostel?” he asked.
“It is in Glencree, in the Chualann Mountains. It is easily defensible, lord. We will not have time to take it.”
“We will make time,” Ingcél said while deciding to rid himself of the brothers.
When he had taken up with them, he had wanted their ships and their men, nothing more. Now, he had both. None of the men following Ingcél would take orders from the sons of Dond Desa. As soon as their father died, the brothers became his vassals. They knew it, and he knew it.
“Had you done as I asked, the High King would already be dead,” Ingcél said, matter-of-factly, hiding his anger, as he always did. Showing it would forewarn his enemies of an imminent explosion. He had learned that from an early age. Perhaps one of his most important lessons.
He thought about killing the three of them here in the hostel before he realized it would not look good for the others in the band—especially not just before a battle. Better to wait until after the High King is dealt with, and then I can kill them.
“We ride for the hostel at Glencree, now,” Ingcél shouted, allowing no further discussion from the dissenters.
***
“How much further is it to the place where they are skulking?” Ingcél asked a short time later. They had ridden at speed, and so were nearing the vale.
“About a league, lord,” Lee responded.
“We will bury the bodies of the pig man and his woman here, under a cairn, in honor of those who are about to die!” Lee nodded, once again appreciating that Ingcél was observing the correct rituals.
***
“The quickest way would be to fire the hostel,” Ingcél said as he looked down from the rise into the vale. He could see frantic activity as the High King’s retinue rushed to get into the hostel’s safety. The warriors attempting to carry supplies and water through the side doors when the warband arrived had been discouraged by his bowmen. The flight of arrows killed three of the High King’s men, and he saw at least three more carrying wounds as they were either dragged or ran into the refuge.
Ingcél looked down into the vale with grim satisfaction. Without food and water, he knew their chances of surviving a siege to be significantly lessened. Not that food and water would have had much impact. He had ten times as many warriors as the High King. No matter how brave or hard they fought, it would only be a matter of time before the defenders fell. But it was time that he did not have.
From his vantage point, Ingcél could see the six side doors to the hostel, but each of them was a postern and could be easily defended by one or two warriors. The easiest way into the refuge was through the main gates, where eight or nine abreast could attack at one time.
Ingcél knew the defenders would seal themselves in, but the main gates—even if sealed—could only stand for a short time. However, if the Red Branch were anywhere near, their arrival would change the complexion of the battle in the vale.
“The river Dothra runs through the middle of the hostel,” Rogain scoffed. “Even if we were to succeed in getting the wood to burn, they would douse the walls with river water.”
“Have you never witnessed what happens when you put water on naphtha?” Mane asked.
“Naphtha or no, the walls are too waterlogged to fire.”
“Your negativity is starting to irritate me, boy,” Ingcél hissed. “I am owed a debt, and I will have payment.”
Rogain held up his palms and backed away from the warrior. Apparently, he did not want to feel his father’s war hammer crushing his life from him.
“We could also stop the flow of water. There would be a path under the gates were the river not flowing through them,” Mane said.
“Where is the honor in that?” Lee asked.
“Glory? It is not about glory, Lee. It is about plunder and revenge. Once the bards are done with the tale, there will be glory enough to spare,” Mane replied.
“Even so, it has rained in Ériu non-stop for a week. The timbers of the hostel will not catch fire; it will be like trying to burn iron walls,” Lee said. “We would need to crawl under the gates, and that would amount to suicide.”
“There is a dam further up the vale,” Mane continued his earlier thought. “We can close it and stop the flow of the Dothra through the hostel. That will stop them dousing any flames that take.”
“Show me this dam,” Ingcél said to Mane. “You three come with us.”
Ingcél followed Mane, not waiting to see if the brothers complied. On a slight rise, perhaps a hundred strides from the back wall, the river was spanned by a dam with metal gates. The gates were open, and water ran through them in a torrent because the heavy rains had swelled the river.
“Close them, Mane,” Ingcél said.
Mane nodded and turned the metal screw used to close the gates against the pressure of the fast-flowing water. It was only a matter of minutes before the riverbed ran dry, all except for the occasional pool where water was trapped. Ingcél crossed his arms over his chest and gazed down at the trickle of water in satisfaction.
“Now we can lay naphtha fires at the base of the doors. They will dry and weaken, and we can pull them free with spears and ropes,” he said.
“Yes, lord,” Mane agreed with the plan.
“Lee, Gar, and Rogain, you will guard the culvert at the rear and make sure that no one leaves the hostel,” Ingcél said to the brothers, who frowned but said nothing.
It was an insult to be sent on sentry duty, and they knew it. The men of the warband within hearing laughed and scuffed the mud at their feet, knowing the brothers were being chastised. Only one pair of eyes was needed to keep the riverbed at the rear of the hostel under watch. Besides, no one would attempt to leave through the culvert. Not only would it be a coward’s way out, but it would be suicide.
***
The High King’s son, Lee Flaith, first noticed the river’s water level drop. He was sitting on the bank, dropping flotsam in the swirling water and watching it wash away under the main gates, when he saw that the gap between the gates and the water had widened.
“Father,” he called.
There was no response. The High King was closeted around a bench with Macc, Conall, and Da Derga, deep in discussion about the defense of the hostel. “Father,” with more urgency.
Connery looked up and asked, “What is it, Lee? You can see that I am busy.”
“The water level, father. It is falling.”
The men ran over to where Lee Flaith was sitting. They could see the flow had already lessened to a trickle. “What in Donn’s name is this, some druidic magic?” Macc asked.
“No, they have sealed the dam,” Da said with a frown. “This makes the gates vulnerable.”
“And what about the culvert?”
“No, a man would need to crawl through the culvert. An old hag with a needle could hold that way until the end of time.”
“We pile benches across the riverbed under the gates,” Conall said. “That should hold any attempts to come in.”
“Will they not just pull the benches away?” Macc asked.
“We place the benches across the riverbed just inside the gates. With spears, we can prevent any attempt to remove them from the sides.”
Macc nodded his agreement and ordered the men in the common room to move the benches to the riverbed.