Kathvar looked at the King and shook his head. He was becoming more like a spoilt child with each passing day, and his need to flout the laws of the tribes and the Five Kingdoms was beginning to annoy his advisor.
“I want to foster him,” Mac Nessa said. Kathvar frowned. The King was forever skirting with impropriety, and the Elder Council was beginning to notice. They did not want the King of Ulster overstepping his bounds. Mac Nessa needed to accept that he was not the real power in the Five Kingdoms and to know that when something was deemed inappropriate, he had to back down and not see it as a challenge.
He must realize his place, he thought, while saying, “He is a farmer’s son. He is not entitled to fostering.”
“This I know, Kathvar. Tell me something I do not know.”
“Did you hear what he did to your hunt master?”
“No, Kathvar, but I am sure you will enlighten me.”
“He used his feces to build a trap outside the huntsman’s roundhouse while he was sleeping. The man was the laughingstock of the settlement for most of a day before he could get the smell out of his hair and clothes.”
“So, he can build, too,” the King said with a smile.
“I cannot do this for you, sire.”
“With all your wily ways, druid, you must be able to dream up some scheme to make this work.”
“Can you not foster a son of a warrior or chieftain?”
“Do not defy me in this, Kathvar. I will have my way.”
“It is not I who will defy you. You are proposing something that flouts the laws of the Five Kingdoms. The druids will see it as challenging their authority.”
“I am the king. I rule in Ulster. I will have The Hound as my foster child. Have you seen my son? He will never be fit to rule. The Hound now, there is a boy with promise.”
“The boy will never be allowed to rule in Ulster, sire. Even if you convince the council to give him into your fostering, the chieftains would not stand for it.”
“Well, then. I want Setanta to be trained to take over the Red Branch.”
“When?”
“As soon as he is old enough.”
“And what of Conall? You think the warrior will cede control of the best fighting force the Five Kingdoms has ever known?”
“Let me worry about Conall.”
And therein lies another problem, Mac Nessa. I cannot let you worry about the champion because if I had done so before now, you would already be head down in the nearest bog.
“The council would expect some say in who commands the Red Branch. If you go against them, I must consider where my loyalties lie.”
“I created the Red Branch. They are my warriors. What makes the council think they have the right to intervene?” the King stormed.
Kathvar ignored the lie. Conall, not Mac Nessa, had created the Red Branch. He suspected the King had been telling the same lie for so long that he no longer recognized it as a lie.
“The council will always intervene if they think the good of the Five Kingdoms is at stake. The Red Branch represents the real power in Ériu. The council will not allow you to dictate how it evolves. You or Conall Cernach, for that matter.”
“Will not allow me, druid? Who do you think you are talking to?”
“It is not me, sire. I am telling you how the council will react.”
“So, not only the high kingship, you will now oppose me in the command of my own army.”
“Not me, sire, as I have said. It is the council that has opposed you for the kingship. I am working to change that for the next Assembly of Kings.”
“We have always been aligned, Kathvar. We agree that the Five Kingdoms need a strong ruler. It seems the council has now decided to let the kings decide the fate of the high kingship. Can you imagine Connacht, Leinster, and Munster deciding who will rule? One is governed by his wife, and the other two are simpletons.”
Kathvar agreed with Mac Nessa. They both saw the need for a strong man as ruler. However, he no longer believed that Mac Nessa was that man. He had hitched his team to Mac Nessa’s chariot initially. Now, he accepted it had been the wrong decision. The King had been making bad choices since Kathvar joined him, not the least of which was alienating the champion, Conall.
However, Kathvar thought the boy might represent a way out of that dilemma. Setanta had bested fifty of Emain Macha’s boys on the hurling field and then beaten the blacksmith’s dog to death without flinching—saying nothing of saving the King’s son, Lugaid, from a mauling. He might be someone Ulster could use if they ever needed to replace their champion.
“I will support you in this, sire, but you must do as I say. I cannot run the risk of you exposing my complicity. The council would cut my throat if they thought I was contravening their wishes.”
“You have my word.”
For what it’s worth, Kathvar thought before saying, “I will talk to Conall.”
“Why? What possible use could that cnapán be in this?”
“He might be a lump, sire, but he met the boy’s parents and spoke to the father at length. There must be something we can use from their past. Anything.”
“Talk to him then, but keep him away from me.”
***
Conall was brushing Dornoll in the stables and thinking about how things had changed over recent years. It had all seemed so straightforward when he was a freshly trained warrior recently returned from the Shadowy Isle standing before the King of Ulster, offering his allegiance and promising to create a force that would be feared throughout the Five Kingdoms, if not the known world.
He cast his mind back to when his fall from grace had begun and realized it was as soon as the King understood the power Conall had created. It had not been evident to the youth, but it was apparent to the hardened warrior. Mac Nessa feared the power of the Red Branch and so attempted to wrest control from his champion.
“You seem deep in thought, Conall,” Kathvar interrupted him. The druid stood at the stables door with his arms crossed over his beard.
“It is not only you graybeards who think,” he said with a smile. The druid was lucky to have caught him in a contemplative mood. Typically, he would scoff and leave Kathvar’s company at the earliest opportunity.
“What do you want?”
“I have come to talk to you about The Hound.”
“What of him, druid? He is just a boy, so I would prefer you to keep your grubby, aging hands off him. At least until he is old enough to understand what you plan to use him for.”
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“The King wants to foster the boy.”
“Ha! What are the pair of you concocting now? The King cannot foster a farmer’s son.”
“Yes, I know, and I have told him, but he will have his way.”
“What is it you want from me?”
“I need to know about the boy. I need to see if I can use anything in his background to convince the council.”
“You expect me to help you, Kathvar. Are you mad? I would rather have helped the Briton.”
“And what of Setanta? Would you not help him?”
“How will putting the boy in your clutches help him?”
“He will be trained with the King’s other foster children. He will have a life. Would you rather he remained as Chulainn’s hound, barking at passers-by?”
Conall looked at the druid before dropping his brush and wiping his hands on his triús. “I know very little about the boy. His father has a homestead in the Chualann mountains. He is called Lugh. The boy’s mother is called Deichtine.”
“That is not much, Conall.”
“No, I know. What do you want me to do, ride out to the homestead and ask the parents for a family history?” he asked half in jest. When he looked at Kathvar, he could see that was precisely what the druid wanted.
“Do you think it would be too much trouble?”
“One of these days, Kathvar, you and that madman in the feast hall will reap what you have spent a lifetime sowing. I will ride to the mountains, but not for either of you. I will ride for Setanta.”
***
Conall retraced his steps to find the homestead. He knew finding the deer track to return by would be impossible for anyone unfamiliar with the mountain roads. Going back to Slíghe Chualann and finding where he had left it in search of a shortcut seemed the easiest way. He had not been wrong. He had left the track and then followed the mountain’s attempts to drive him into the sea until he topped the same rise from where he had seen The Hound playing hurling.
From where he had watched the setting sun touching its fingertips to the head of Setanta, he gazed down on the devastation. The homesteads were blackened husks with wisps of smoke curling from the wood, too slight to have been noticed on his approach.
Conall rode Dornoll down into the dingle and dismounted. He had thought taking the boy away from his family would be a mistake. The devastation made him realize that leaving him would have been a mistake. If he had left the boy here, he, too, would now be dead, a charred corpse keeping company with his parents somewhere in the settlement. The warrior thought he knew where but needed it to be confirmed, so he entered the remains of the roundhouse where he had eaten mutton and drunk mead.
The blackened and shriveled trunks of two adults were visible in the ash. The heat had tightened their fists into claws. There was not enough of them for Conall to see who was who or whether they were Lugh and Deichtine, but who else could they be? He left the roundhouse and checked the ox shed. As he knew it would be, the ox had gone, but surprisingly, the raiders had left the shed standing.
He was not a tracker, but the signs around the dingle were clear for anyone to see. A large body of men, perhaps twenty or thirty, had attacked the settlement. They had to be the survivors from the battle at the fords, whom Conall had told Mac Nessa would be no threat to anyone.
How could I have been so stupid? Of course, the reavers would be a danger. It is my fault these farmers are now dead.
Conall would have built a cairn for the dead, but the ashes of the fires were still warm, so he knew the killers were still within his grasp. He mounted Dornoll and followed the tracks without a backward glance.
He found them just after dawn the next day.
He had ridden well into the night, following the general direction of the tracks and relying on luck. Arising when it was light enough, he soon found the rebels’ passage in the predawn gray. They had not been careful to hide their tracks, and a young apprentice tracker could have followed them in his sleep.
Usually, Conall would have returned to Emain Macha or a nearby settlement to seek help before hunting twenty or thirty brigands. Still, he was angry with himself, and they had already proved craven at the battle of the fords. When he arrived at the edge of the dingle where they were sleeping, he knew he would have no trouble. They had not even posted guards before choosing somewhere to lay their heads. From the snores and the uncomfortable positions in which they were lying, Conall could see they were drunk.
Probably on the same mead I was drinking myself only last week, he thought.
As he sat in his saddle, wrists crossed over his pommel, he considered bellowing a challenge before riding down into the dingle. He wanted to vent his anger on these men riding Dornoll and swinging Dond Desa’s hammer, but he knew it would be foolish. Being mounted using the war hammer would be a huge advantage, but putting an arrow in him would only take one with a bow and a little nous.
With a sigh, he dismounted and walked from sleeper to sleeper, crushing each of their skulls with one blow. He left the biggest man until last—a sorry specimen, roughly clad, unwashed, and unshaven, hugging an empty flagon to his chest. Conall tapped him on the sole of his foot with the hammer.
“Get up.”
“Get away, whoreson,” the man said and then belched without opening his eyes.
“I said get up,” Conall repeated with another hammer tap.
“You do that again, and I’ll have yer eyes,” the man said before rolling over, hugging the empty flagon tighter, and snoring.
“Get up,” Conall repeated, once again tapping the man’s foot.
“I warned yer,” the rebel said as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. As soon as they were clear, he stared at Conall standing before him, leaning on the war hammer. “Who are you?”
“I am your bane, reaver.”
“Why did you wake me?” the man asked, not understanding the warrior’s reference.
“I woke you, man, so you could go to Donn fighting and not with your brains splashed all over a dingle when sleeping.”
“Brenn, Gul, to me. Tagdh. Anyone?”
“They are dead. Their brains are wetting the soil.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to get up and fight me.”
“I have no sword.”
“No matter. You can use mine. If you win, you can keep it as the spoils of victory.”
“It will be an unfair fight, warrior. I have had no training.”
“Those farmers you killed. They had no training either.”
“I killed no one.”
“Well, maybe that is so, and if it is, I will pay dearly for it in the afterlife because there are eighteen flatheads in the dingle who would have claimed the same had I given them a chance to do so. I choose not to believe you and ask you one last time to get up.”
The lunge of the man took Conall by surprise. He had fully expected to have to kill him where he lay whimpering in the mud. He had a knife hidden under him, which he threw as he scrambled to his feet and ran. The knife struck Conall in the chest hilt first and fell harmlessly into the dirt at his feet. With a sigh, he swung the war hammer over his head and threw it at the back of the reaver. The hammer was heavy and easily knocked the running man from his feet. Conall arrived beside him in a few strides.
“I think me back’s broke,” the man hissed. “I can’t move me legs.”
Conall knelt on either side of the man’s torso and pulled his head back by its lank hair. “You should have fought me,” he said as he pulled his sword across the man’s neck, severing his jugular. “It would have been much more honorable.”
***
Conall arrived back in Emain Macha later that day and requested an audience with Kathvar. The graybeard agreed to see him immediately, keen to get a solution for the King now that he was supporting the mad scheme.
“Well?” he asked.
“I learned nothing. They were dead, killed by brigands in the forest.”
“Survivors from the fords?” the druid asked with an insight that scared the warrior.
“Who can tell?”
“Shall I ask the King to order the Red Branch to hunt them down?”
“There is no need, druid.”
“What do you mean, no need? We cannot have brigands killing farmers in the Five Kingdoms. It looks bad on the rulers.”
“What I mean is, it is done. I executed them three days ago.”
“Who helped you?”
“I did it alone and am tired, so if it is all the same to you, I will retire.”
***
Kathvar watched Conall out of sight and made a mental note to send someone into the mountains to check whether his claim was truthful. If it was, the man was much more formidable than Kathvar had given him credit for and would need careful watching. With a sigh, the druid went to the King’s roundhouse to report Conall’s news.
“How will we manage it?” Mac Nessa asked when Kathvar had finished his tale.
“All I can think is that we can claim Deichtine as your long-lost sister and say Lugh of the Tuatha Dé Danann impregnated her.”
“You think they will believe it?”
“Probably not, but belief is not an issue. We must give the council a reason not to go against your wish to foster this boy. So long as the traditions are seen to be observed, no one who matters will care.”
“I do not care about the Elder Council’s need to uphold the traditions, Kathvar. I will have this boy as a son.”