Queen Medb walked into the feast hall at Temuir and looked at Mac Nessa, the hated King of Ulster, sitting at the head of the table where the kings had gathered. The assembly seemed thin, with Connery dead and Ailill waiting for her in their roundhouse. To Mac Nessa’s left, Mesgegra, King of Leinster. To his right, Dáire mac Dedad, King of Munster. Neither of them looked at Medb. The tenseness in the air made her think they had known she would come and were discussing it just before her arrival.

She had not been in the hall at Temuir since running away from Mac Nessa as a young girl who was not yet fully developed. From what she could tell, standing in the gloom staring at the kings around the table, nothing had changed. The hall was as dark as she remembered. Mac Nessa was as fat and surly as she remembered. The retinue was as quiet and withdrawn as she remembered.

“Queen Medb, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Kathvar, the druid, asked from behind the King’s chair.

Medb looked at the graybeard and felt her stomach lurch. She suspected they could lay much of what had happened since Connery became High King at the feet of the druid. If she could believe Connery, they could lay much that had happened before he took the throne at the feet of the druid. According to the now-dead High King’s stories, Mac Nessa had been instrumental in the assassination of Eterscel. The King of Ulster and his druid had been in league with Nuadu, the usurper. Connery had said that Nuadu ordered Eterscel killed and that Kathvar had been the knife wielder.

Not many believed Connery’s version.

Medb believed.

“Where is Taidle Ulad?” she asked to buy herself time to think.

“Ingcél killed him at the battle of Glencree. The council has yet to find a new Taidle among the order.”

“You are keeping well, Mac Nessa?” she asked, as etiquette dictated.

She did not say that to hold a succession assembly without the druid of Temuir was against all tradition. She suspected the assembly had gathered so quickly at Mac Nessa’s insistence. He had always been an impatient man and never one to stand behind tradition, at least not when it better suited his needs.

“The king is in fine fettle,” Kathvar said. “Please tell us why you are interrupting the assembly. We know you rule the house of Connacht, but that does not give you the right to sit on the Assembly of Kings.”

Medb looked at the druid. He oozed a scent of evil like a malodorous flower. She felt she could almost see the poisonous fumes rising from him. Medb hated dealing with the graybeard but knew there was no second option. Mac Nessa relied on his counselor and did nothing without his presence or input.

“I am here to speak for my son,” she said.

“Which son, Medb?” Kathvar asked. “You have so many.”

Medb swallowed and counted to ten while clutching her fists against her thighs. The druid was playing games with her. He knew to which son she referred. Only one of the eight fell under the direct influence of the King of Ulster. Only one was currently in the Mound of Hostages awaiting the assembly’s ruling, which meant Mac Nessa’s pleasure. She needed to remain calm and not show weakness in the face of her enemies.

“Mane.”

“Are they not all called Mane, your sons?”

“Mane Milscothach.”

“Did he not die at the battle of Átha Clíath?”

“You know full well, Kathvar, that he is in the Mound of Hostages awaiting the decision of the Assembly of Kings.”

“I am confused, Medb,” the druid continued. “What do you want to say on behalf of the traitor?”

“I want you, Mac Nessa,” she said to the Ulster King, her eyes pleading, “to show clemency.”

Mac Nessa snorted and spoke for the first time since Medb had arrived in the feast hall, “Were I inclined to help you, Medb, I fail to see what I could do.”

Medb took a deep breath and said, “You have the assembly’s ear. They respect you as the strongest leader. You could persuade them to clemency.”

She did not say that the other kings feared him and would do as he wished, and the chieftains would follow their lead.

“I fear, Medb, that you have me confused with another. Why would I ask the assembly to award clemency to a rebel who sided with the invaders and raped and pillaged his way across the Five Kingdoms?”

“He was not the only one,” Medb whispered, half to herself.

“You must speak up, Medb; we cannot hear you,” Kathvar said.

“He was not alone, Ulster. Many rebelled against Connery’s short-sighted laws.”

“That does not make treason less of a crime. To be one rebel among hundreds does not lessen the penalty. The penalty has always been death.”

“I know the penalty for treason, Mac Nessa, but I also know that we can make exceptions when circumstance dictates. These are the laws of clemency.”

“I fail to see any circumstances in this case that would justify clemency. Your son broke the High King’s laws so that he could benefit by pillaging his own people. Clemency would be wrong.”

Mac Nessa and Medb continued to talk as though the other kings were not there. The kings of Leinster and Munster were inconsequential to the events unfolding, and Ailill was conspicuous by his absence. They were all Mac Nessa needed because three out of five gave him the quorum required for an execution. Medb felt her despondency rising—a feeling that began when she heard Mane had fled the Five Kingdoms with the foster brothers.

“Has there not been enough of death?” Medb asked, appealing to an emotional side that did not exist.

“Only when all the rebels are dead, Medb.”

As the discussion progressed, Medb realized the futility of her coming to the court with her petition. She had known it stood only a slight chance of success, if any. But she had also known that had she not tried, she would never have forgiven herself. Now that she had tried, it was time to save a modicum of her pride and withdraw from the hall.

“I thank you for your time, Connavar. I am tired from my travel. I shall retire.”

Mac Nessa nodded and tried to smile, which came out as a sneer, “We will consider your request.”

***

Ailill watched his wife duck in through the roundhouse door and frowned at his flagon. It would not take the genius of a druid to see that the meeting had not gone well. The king was warming his feet by the cooking fire, content for Medb to make her petition before he joined the assembly. “Judging by the cloudiness of your forehead, it went as well as you expected?”

“Yes, husband. He said they would consider my request, but I could see in his sneer that he had already made a decision. Our son will die by the knotted hide, and nothing we do or say will change that.”

“It was foolish of you to have expected differently, Medb. The pirate put the Five Kingdoms to the sword, and someone must pay the blood price. Those fools strangled outside Átha Cliáth the other morning mean nothing. Someone of status must die. Mac Nessa has chosen our son for that honor.”

“The Briton was king of the Catuvellauni. Does he not count as someone of status?”

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“He was an exiled pirate of no account. He was not the son or daughter of a chieftain or king of the Five Kingdoms. His blood means nothing to the people. You know this, Medb.”

Ailill tilted his head in sympathy. He knew that as a mother, Medb felt she had to fight to save her son. It was not his death that she fretted over, but an eternity in black oblivion, smothered in peaty bog with a leather necklace and no access to Donn’s mound. As a father, he would feel the loss of his son and his champion, but he would not fly in the face of the inevitable to try and save him.

That is the domain of motherhood, he thought, before asking, “And Mac Nessa, he remains the same?”

“The same fat and ugly bigot with his foot on the throats of Leinster and Munster, you mean?”

“Just so.”

“Indeed, not a sight for sore eyes. I need to bathe after looking at him.”

“I must join the others in the assembly, my love. Can you go to the river without me?”

“Yes, of course. I need time to think, anyway.”

“Following the second path through the forest will bring you to a secluded spot the river runs through.”

“Thank you, Ailill.”

***

Mac Nessa watched the tension in Medb’s shoulders as she left the feast hall. He had not seen much of her during his stay at Crúachain because she had avoided him. This sight of her now, in the feast hall demanding favors, caused his gorge to rise. She had treated him with disdain from when they first met. She had been a skinny girl, and he was not inclined to take an interest. He preferred meat on a woman’s bones. Her father gave her to him as a consort, a blood debt in payment for the killing of his father. Mac Nessa remembered her being as skinny as an underfed chicken. He never used her as a man should use his consorts because she ran away before her true womanhood had arrived. And now she was back.

How dare she come asking favors? he asked himself, forgetting it was not all that long ago when he had been in Crúachain asking Medb for favors. As far as Mac Nessa was concerned, her little affectation had interrupted the serious business of the assembly. He needed to confront the queen and ask what she thought she was doing.

Probably best to do it now, hammering while the blade is fresh from the fire, he thought. So, what to do about these two sycophants?

Mac Nessa glanced at the two men with him and frowned. Dáire and Mesgegra were weak. Without the courage to stand behind anything, they used Mac Nessa as a prop to hold them up whenever a decision was required.

He was tired of telling them how it would be, so he cleared his throat and said, “We will suspend the assembly for the rest of the day. I have much to think about. We reconvene tomorrow to decide the fate of the traitor.”

Not that there was any decision to be made, except maybe when to strangle him. The assembly was for show, designed to appease the King and Queen of Connacht. Mane would die, and good riddance to him, so far as Mac Nessa was concerned.

The Kings stared at him, slack-jawed, as he stood and left the feast hall. He knew they were not happy he had halted proceedings before nightfall, but neither had the will to gainsay his word. The Red Branch fought for Ulster, which made Mac Nessa the most powerful man in the Five Kingdoms.

He guessed which roundhouse Medb was staying in with Ailill and intended to confront them and ask what they had hoped to achieve by interrupting the Assembly of Kings. Ailill had a place in the assembly and should have presented himself as soon as they arrived in Temuir. Medb was not meant to be in the feast hall, and her interruption had done nothing except delay the inevitable. By committing treason, their son had broken a law as old as the mounds of the first men, and he had to die because of it. Surely, they knew it as well as he?

Mac Nessa came in sight of the roundhouse just as Medb was leaving. He watched as she walked away from the hill and through the forest toward the River Boyne. She was deep in thought and so did not see the man following her at a distance. Watching her back, when she was unaware of his presence, gave him a thrill. It was like his youth, stolen glances at women about their day. He had not had such a thrill for many years.

Medb was not hesitating and seemed to know where she was going. She was carrying a bulky shoulder bag, and Mac Nessa thought he knew where she was headed. With that knowledge, his heartbeat increased. He slowed himself, suddenly conscious he was gaining on her and in danger of being heard. He did not want to warn her of his presence. It would ruin the game.

When she took the second path into the forest, Mac Nessa was no longer in any doubt. He could not see her but knew where she was going. Instead of taking the path, he skipped under the trees, a quicker route to the secluded spot where some liked to bathe. He knew he would be there in time to hide and see her arrive.

As it happened, he had only just squatted down behind a thick bush when the queen of Connacht walked into the secluded glade the river ran through. He had guessed correctly. She had come to wash away the stress of facing the assembly.

He watched as she disrobed. Despite advancing years, she still possessed a lithe body, like a woman under half her age. Mac Nessa barely noticed her when she was one of his many consorts. When she ran away, he had shrugged his shoulders and thought no more of it. But now, Medb was here needing something from her erstwhile master.

Something she will not get, Mac Nessa thought as she slipped into the river with a barely audible splash.

When the queen began soaping herself with round, languorous movements, the king edged slowly closer, trying to ensure he did not make any sound. He did not want Medb to know he was invading her privacy, watching her bathe, not straight away. He wanted to enjoy his moment of spying.

He could see she was deep in thought and wondered if she would hear a wild boar approach but decided not to put it to the test.

When Medb closed her eyes and rested her head on the grass of the bank, the king felt his ardor stirring. She was helpless in that position, lying on her back with her eyes closed. What would it take to go over there and teach her a lesson? Nothing. He stood up and moved to where he was standing over her. Medb’s eyes were closed, and her breathing was deep. It was as though she was on the verge of sleep.

The king was getting ever more excited.

The way she stood in the feast hall, defiant in her pleading, had excited him—something in the way she had failed to mask her hatred while begging for mercy. Now it was arousing something else in him—something primordial. Mac Nessa’s breath caught in his throat with a hiss.

The queen’s eyes flew open.

It seemed like a dream to him as Medb rolled over and came to her feet in one fluid motion. She did nothing to hide her modesty; she stood staring at him with her hands by her sides.

“What do you want?” she finally hissed.

“I, I, thought, we…” Mac Nessa began to stammer, his head down like a small boy caught stealing.

“Spit it out, Ulster. I do not have all day.”

Mac Nessa looked up into her face in time to catch an expression of knowing and a fleeting pity in her eyes. The last thing he wanted from this arrogant specimen of womanhood was pity for his baser male instincts.

“I came here to bargain with you.” Gone was the stammer. Gone was the hanging head. The king of Ulster should hang his head to no one. He was the master of the Five Kingdoms in all but name. It was she, this upstart from Connacht, who should be bowing.

“Bargain with me for what?”

“The life of your son.”

“I am not following you, Mac Nessa. What is it you want?” she asked. He could see in her eyes that she was following him. She just wanted to see him wriggling like a worm on the hook of a fishing line.

“It is simple, Medb. You satisfy my needs, and I will ensure that your son lives.”

He again saw the look of pity in her eyes. Earlier, when she had begged for mercy, his gorge rose to the back of his throat. Now, something more dangerous was rising from his gut. His ardor was playing a backing role to another emotion, anger.

“I would not let you touch me, Ulster, were I ordered to do so by the Tuatha Dé Danann,” she said with a sneer, a sneer that caused the anger to boil over into a fury he had never felt.

“You will do as I command, woman,” he screamed as he slapped her in the face with all the strength he could muster.

***

The King slapped her so hard her head began to ring, and she slumped to the ground beside the river. She was not sure if she had lost consciousness momentarily. She suddenly became aware of his weight and the rankness of his body odor as he pushed himself between her legs.

As if in a dream, Medb could feel him propping himself on one elbow so he could fumble with the cord of his trouse and release his manhood to its malefaction. Gods no, she wanted to scream, but she would not give him the satisfaction. She blamed herself. He would not be doing this if she had not defied him and fled all those years before. But that was not all. She had questioned his authority, and so it was all her fault. She should have seen it coming. She could have prevented it.

She sobbed once as Connavar forced himself into her.

As he pumped and grunted, Medb lay perfectly still. She did not cry out or fight but lay under him, looking over his shoulder at the beauty of the setting sun. There was a fiery smoldering in the sky. It spoke of a rough dawn, perhaps not tomorrow, but soon. Mac Nessa was too engrossed to notice.

Finally, he groaned in release and stood up, retying his trouse.

“Let that be a lesson in humility,” he spat before turning his back and walking away.

Medb remained on the bank of the river for a long time before she finally submerged herself once more in its cooling waters. She sat in the water perfectly still for an age before frantically scrubbing each part of her body that Mac Nessa had touched. She did not cry out at the pain of the scrubbing, but a single tear leaked from the corner of her eye and dropped from her chin to splash unnoticed in the water, swept away to the sea. To most in the Five Kingdoms, Connavar was known as The Deceiver, but from now on, Medb would only ever think of him as The Defiler.