Conall left the roundhouse next to Grainne’s Fort, where he was staying, and made his way up the hill towards the Mound of Hostages. He was angry because Mac Nessa had refused to see him since he had arrived in Temuir. It was an unacceptable breach of the code. He supposed he should have been used to it because his King had always been infuriating, but he was not. He would never accept bad treatment from the man who tried to have him killed.
Conall turned his mind to Mane’s request. He knew the Assembly of Kings was to reconvene the following day when they would decide the doom of Mane Milscothach. There was not any doubt about the fate of The Honey-Tongued. He would not escape. The son of Medb had openly betrayed his High King and ridden across Leinster and other parts of the Five Kingdoms, raping, killing, burning. The kings would order him strangled with the knotted hide and his body thrown in the bog to lie forever in utter darkness and rank destitution.
There was no other possible outcome.
Conall was unsure why Mane had asked to see him. But they were once comrades who had fought side-by-side on the Field of Sheep outside Crúachain, so he felt obliged to listen to whatever the doomed man wanted to say. He carried a flagon of mead, sure Mane could use its numbing liquid. Conall suspected the champion of Connacht would hold no illusions as to his fate. Unlike his mother, he would be preparing to enter the black pit to rest for eternity, head down in rank darkness.
Climbing the hill, Conall saw two guards with crossed lances standing before the entrance to Mane’s prison. He recognized them as Red Branch warriors. Guarding a traitor would be given priority, and the Red Branch were known to be the best warriors in the Five Kingdoms. He was glad because it meant he would not have to argue his way past Mac Nessa’s lackeys.
The guards lifted their lances as he approached and let him through the small entrance. Prisoners were not generally kept in the Mound of Hostages because it was small and insecure. Because Mane had committed treason, the Assembly of Kings decided that his imprisonment before the trial should be as public as possible. There was nowhere more public than the mound, which was just inside the Fort of Kings.
“I am here, Mane,” Conall said as he bent down low enough to get under the lintel. Despite the failing light, he saw Mane chained to an iron ring hammered into the back wall. His hands were above his head. Naked from the waist down, Mane appeared to be sitting in his own feces.
The smell caused Conall to gag and swear, “Boar’s balls, man; anyone would think you had been here a week instead of two days.”
“They will not let me out to relieve myself. I remain chained to the wall, and since I am too tired now to squat, sitting in my own dirt and piss.”
“I will have the guards clean you up and let you out to defecate.”
“Apparently, the King of Ulster ordered the guards to keep me chained in shit, so I wish you luck, Conall.”
“I brought you some mead,” Conall said, holding up the flagon before realizing the futility of the gesture and letting his hand drop. On his way out, he would ask the guards to feed the liquid to Mane.
“What do you want?” he asked with a sigh.
“What do I want? That is funny, Conall. I want what every warrior wants. I want a roof over my head and a warm body to curl up beside at night. I want mutton and oats with a flagon after a hard fight. I want the freedom to swing my sword and take what the weak cannot keep.”
“I fear those things are beyond your reach, Mane.”
“Perhaps. But then again, perhaps not.”
“What are you talking about? You sided with the Briton and invaded your own country, sealing your fate. Mac Nessa will order you strangled sooner or later, and with the mood of the Five Kingdoms, I suspect it will be sooner.”
The champion of Connacht glanced at his naked legs, defeat evident in the look. Conall was sure he knew there was no escape. But when Mane looked up again, Conall saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“But what if someone spoke on my behalf? Spoke and asked for clemency from the kings.”
“Someone who, Mane?”
“Someone with power.”
“Your mother has already spoken for you, and they laughed her out of the hall. Only one is more powerful than Medb, and I fear his mind is already set.”
“Only one, Conall? You do yourself an injustice.”
“No, do not tell me; you expect me to speak on your behalf? Are you mad? It would not do me any favors to go against the Five Kingdoms in this. The people want someone to pay for what happened. Your short-sightedness makes you the ideal candidate, Mane—that and you are the only survivor. No one else can pay the price. Besides, who would listen to me?”
“Ulster would listen to you. He respects your word.”
“Mac Nessa hates the ground I walk on. Have you forgotten he tried to have me killed to further his ambitions?”
“Was that not just a story spread by the dead High King? We all know Mac Nessa is a rival for the throne of the Five Kingdoms. The people think Connery was trying to discredit him.”
“No, Mane. It happened, sure as a cow has udders.”
“No one believes it happened. I do not believe it happened. Connery was a master of words and convinced you of it, but you are alone in that, Conall.”
“Mac Nessa was in league with the usurper, Nuadu of the Silver Hand.”
“So Connery said. But can it be believed?”
“He is my king, Mane. Why would I lie?”
“If I could, Conall, I would shrug. I do not know why you have fallen under the dead king’s spell. I wish I did.”
“Eterscel sent Dond Desa to execute me because of a story concocted by Nuadu, and the Red Branch were absent because of a story concocted by my king. I saw Mac Nessa’s face when the farmer claimed Connacht were raiding,” he said. Conall remembered the man had the appearance of a hired killer not a farmer.
Mane hawked and spat at the wall.
“It happened, Mane. I remember kneeling before Dond Desa, waiting for one of his mad boys to strangle me,” he said. What he did not say was, So I know what you are going through.
“Will the others not listen, Dáire and Mesgegra?”
“They are the fops of Ulster. Speaking to them would be nothing except wasted energy and breath.”
“That is your final word. You will not speak for me?”
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“I cannot speak for you.”
“Even though I saved your life?”
“What are you talking about? If memory serves, I saved your life on the Field of Sheep that day. Fandall’s stroke should have taken your head off.”
“I know, Conall, and I am grateful. But I am not talking about the Field of Sheep all those years ago. I saved your life at the battle of Glencree, only four days since.”
Conall opened his mouth and shook his head before closing it again. He had no recollection of anyone saving his life at the battle of Da Derga’s hostel. He had taken a blow to the head while in the hostel and had woken up under a bench.
“Has sitting in your own mess addled your brain? No one saved my life. I took a blow and awoke under a bench.”
“And who do you think gave you that blow? Who do you think hid you from the Briton’s warband? Did you think it was a miracle of the Sidhe? Did you think the Tuatha Dé Danaan were saving you for some greater purpose?” Mane spat.
“It was you?”
“Yes, it was me. Do you not recall that I promised to repay the debt of my life on the Field of Sheep?”
“You prevented my dying for the High King.”
“I even hid Lámthapad and your sword where I knew you would find them.”
Conall vaguely remembered the promise. He also vaguely remembered thinking Mane would never be able to repay the debt. Somehow, he had managed it. But at what cost? Rather than die a warrior’s death, he had been ignominiously hidden away. It did not matter that it had been beyond his control. What mattered was that his fellow warriors who had died that day would wait for him in Donn’s mound, and when he did not arrive, they would assume he ran.
“If this is true, Mane, I might as well hang myself beside you and join you in the filth.”
“What do you mean?”
“You gave me the coward’s way out. I should be in Donn’s mound drinking with the others who died that day.”
“You are alive. You should be grateful.”
Conall threw the flagon of mead against the wall beside the prisoner. The clay shattered and released the sickly-sweet smell of mead to compete with the stench from the dirt of Mane. Conall turned on his heel and ducked under the lintel, keen to escape the stink and the self-pity. He had intended to tell the guards to clean Mane up before the assembly, but as he ducked under the lintel, he decided to let him hear the sentence covered in shit. He did not look back as “You owe me, Conall. Conall?” seemed to chase him down the hill.
***
The following morning, Ailill stood looking at his son. Mane was on his knees before the dais, naked from the waist down, his legs covered in his own filth. The stink in the hall reminded Ailill of the aftermath of a battle. The people in the company were jeering, each of them keen to see someone pay for the blood spilled over recent days.
Ailill was glad Medb was not there.
The feast hall was full.
The chieftains of the Five Kingdoms had gathered to hear the sentence passed on Mane, not only Ailill’s son but also the champion of Connacht. Many of their sons had fled with the High King’s foster brothers and had died at the Ford of Hurdles, the fate of all who had gone except for Mane. Ailill knew they expected the son of Connacht to pay for what had happened, each conveniently forgetting that they, too, had wanted to rebel against Connery’s asinine laws. Many would have gone with their sons if they had dared to stand behind their beliefs. They would now be ash beside the settlement of Átha Clíath or kneeling beside Mane awaiting sentence.
“Where is your queen?” Mac Nessa asked.
Ailill looked at him. Was there something in his voice that spoke of secrets and lies? It seemed so. The King of Ulster seemed to be gloating. Not that gloating was alien to him; Mac Nessa always gloated about something.
What does he know that he is keeping from me? Ailill wondered. Or maybe he is gloating because he is about to execute my son? “She is indisposed with lady troubles and will not be joining us.”
At Medb’s insistence, he did not tell Ulster and the gathered elite of the Five Kingdoms that she was not attending the assembly because of a bruise she received from a floating log while bathing in the Boyne. She had told Ailill it would be a mistake to attend, saying it would make her look foolish in the eyes of the assembly, and neither of them could afford to appear foolish at this time. She had also said she could not face watching Mac Nessa ordering their son into an eternity of black shame.
“Well, no matter,” Ulster continued. “The proceedings will be very quick.”
“We need to conduct a trial. We need to hear petitions,” Ailill’s tone was confused. He thought the assembly should at least pay lip service to the procedures. He thought the other two kings would try to appear as independent judges, however far from reality that independence was.
“We heard petitions yesterday. Well, one, anyway. Leinster, Munster and I decided on the sentence in your absence—”
“You cannot do that,” Ailill interrupted.
“Yes, we can, Ailill. All we need for an execution is a quorum, which we had with three kings. You decided to send your wife in your place, did you not? She has no vote on the assembly, however much you wish it to the contrary.”
Ailill just stood and stared at Mac Nessa. The other kings were in the crowd, disassociating themselves from the proceedings, seemingly unable to oppose the careening chariot that was the King of Ulster but in front of the chieftains of the Five Kingdoms, unwilling for that weakness to be too evident. The scorn written across Ailill’s face caused them to shuffle uncomfortably.
“Nothing to say? I thought not. Mane will be strangled this morning and weighted down to lie for eternity in the bog. Then the assembly will choose a new High King—”
Ailill interrupted again, “You need more than a quorum to choose a High King, Ulster. You need the Elder Council and a unanimous vote. The only druid I see is your lackey, Kathvar—”
“I am no one’s—” Kathvar tried to interrupt. However, Ailill shouted over him, “—and myself and Medb will be returning to Crúachain forthwith. We do not intend to watch you strangle our son.”
“That means we will have to wait another three years for an assembly,” Mac Nessa stormed. “There will be no High King.”
Ailill shrugged, shook his head with a sneer, and left the hall with his head high and smoldering anger in his gut. He was unsure what had happened in the presence of all the power in the Five Kingdoms. The only thing he was sure about was that if Mac Nessa had not been an enemy of Medb before the morning’s events, he was now. To have a man doomed to death kneel in the feast hall with his manhood on show and his legs covered in his own filth was an act of pure malice, and he knew his wife would never forgive Ulster for that breach of etiquette. There should have been a little decorum to the proceedings, but Mac Nessa had reduced it to a circus. Ailill knew his queen would not rest until she had destroyed Ulster, and their King was in the bog beside Mane, doomed for eternity.
As he let the oxhide fall into place, Ailill heard Mac Nessa rage, “Strangle the prisoner. Conall, you shall witness the execution. The assembly is adjourned. Now get out of my sight, all of you.”
***
Conall stood with his hands resting on the pommel of his sword and looked down into the bull ring. He kept his face grim as the executioner placed the knotted leather noose around Mane’s neck. After begging the evening before, Mane seemed resigned to his fate and knelt mutely as the thong slipped over his head. However, there was a pleading in the warrior’s eyes as the executioner began spinning the ceremonial baton, and the thong tightened.
It was not long before Mane began to buck wildly, trying to free his hands to fight off the pain of the tightening leather and the inability to draw a breath. The executioner was immensely strong because he managed to keep a tight grip on the baton and continued to turn it, tightening the noose until Mane’s eyes seemed to be bulging out of their sockets. His bladder and bowels opened, signifying that the end was near. Shortly after, his body slumped, causing the executioner to lose his grip on the baton, the effect of total relaxation achieving what the earlier violent struggles had failed to achieve.
“Bring his body,” Conall said as he turned and strode from the bull ring and headed for the bog beside the river. Two of the Red Branch lifted the limp body and followed Conall down the hill. The chieftains of the Five Kingdoms gathered behind the procession, each determined to see the executed man thrown into the bog.
“Weigh him down with stones before you toss him in,” Conall instructed the executioner.
“Yes, lord,” the man said with a bored expression. He had often performed the rites and did not need Conall telling him what to do. After a few moments, the Red Branch warriors who had carried him from the bull ring swung him twice before tossing him into the bog.
Conall watched the body sink. After the initial waves, when the surface had settled, bubbles began to rise and pop, causing a noxious odor to make the watchers turn away and leave the burial site as one, leaving Conall alone at the edge of the bog. He stood there and waited for the last of the bubbles before he turned and headed back towards the hill. As he walked, he thought it was a fitting end to a warrior who would plead for his life. Conall had considered him brave, a man worthy of the name warrior, but in the end, he had been a caged beggar.