Lying on her side, head on hand, Medb watched Fergus’s back. His breathing was deep, settled, that post-orgasm sleep men slumped into soon after exploding. She had expected more from the warrior of Ulster. Something about him promised a better understanding of a woman’s needs: nothing but a false hope, as they had always been. Just like all male warriors, spending his seed was the only goal when taking a woman, be she a warrior herself, a fishwife, or a queen; it made no matter. They treated sex like a battle. Stick it in. Give it a twist. Pull it out. Wipe it clean on whatever is handy. Done. The quicker, the better.

“I hope you have more stamina when in the field,” she sighed, sitting up and pulling her knees under her chin.

“My Lady?” Fergus mumbled.

“I said, tell me about your lovers.”

“What?” the warrior said, stirring in earnest and rolling onto his back. “Which lovers?”

“Those before me. What were they like?”

“Like?” the warrior mumbled.

“Were they pretty? Did they have big teats or small teats? Did they hump well? Did they excite you?” Medb hissed, barely keeping her anger in check, causing the bird, Morrigan, to flap its wings in agitation. “Well?”

Fergus sat bolt upright as the crow cawed and shook its head, seeming to echo Medb’s mounting ire as though it were a conduit for her emotions. She tossed it a kernel of wheat, which it caught with an echoing clack of its beak, tossed its head back to swallow, and cawed once more.

She watched the warrior darting quick looks at the bird and smiled to herself, realizing a superstitious man would be malleable, like newly heated iron. She wondered whether she should make Fergus captain of the armies when mustered. Conall would not be pliable. He would make a better leader, but she needed a captain who she could bend to her will.

“If you were to invade Ulster, Fergus, when would you do it?”

“Lady?” he mumbled again. Medb could see he was still half asleep.

“When would you invade Ulster if I tasked you with doing so?”

“During The Pangs.”

“But is that not a sacred ritual?” she raised her eyebrows.

“It is. It’s also when Ulster is at her weakest. The warriors are always drunk. Drunk and defenseless.”

“How long do they last, these pangs?”

“It can vary, Lady. Usually, they keep going until they can’t face anymore. Can last five or six days. Sometimes a week or ten days.”

“I see.” Medb looked at him. She could see his eyes were still darting to the bird. She tilted her head and said, “I see Morrigan unnerves you. I am sorry, Fergus.”

“Morrigan?”

“My bird.”

“Your bird is the Morrigan?”

In response, Medb just smiled. Fergus leaped from the bed, grabbed his triús, and mumbled, “I must go. I have to check on the sentries.”

“The sentries?”

“Yes. There is a guard change due. I must check on them.”

“I see. Can you not stay a while longer?” Medb allowed her knee to fall, opening her legs as an enticement, but Fergus did not look. He would not take his eyes off the crow, still fidgeting on its perch beside her bed.

“You were not my first choice.” Medb continued to smile. “Conall was my first choice, but he seems more interested in the boys he trains than in my favors.”

Fergus looked down on her in the bed and frowned. She could see she had unnerved him even more than the bird.

“I see jealousy in that look. Would you deny me the pleasures of the flesh? Mayhap, a little variety? Just like you men, I have needs,” she said, looking him in the eye and smiling. She could see Fergus did not know what to do and congratulated herself for her insight. His anger was evident in the redness rising through his neck and the vein pulsing at his temple, but he could not react. Not without losing the only ally he had left.

“I see I have hurt you, warrior. It was not my intent.”

“Good night, Lady,” Fergus hissed as he left, carrying his boots and triús.

A short time later, she was sitting in her bed, knees drawn up, furs covering her legs. After sipping from a cup of water, she smiled. Her first tryst with Fergus could not have gone better. The man was a warrior known throughout Ériu, but he also kept his brains in his spear—in other words, a man she could control. Medb did not want a captain who would not follow her every command. She had had enough of men leading down overgrown pathways to unknown destinations. Not that she wanted to rule The Five Kingdoms. She could not; she was a woman. No, she wanted to make sure the kings and chieftains made the right choice at the next Assembly of Kings. That meant Mac Nessa needed to be removed from the scene, either dead or discredited, preferably dead.

***

The king was sitting in his roundhouse nursing a flagon. The woman he had once loved calling him a traitor hurt more than he thought possible. His feelings for the queen had started to recede after the death of Sin. Despite his remonstrations, she insisted on traveling to Temuir and begging for clemency from Ulster. Ailill knew Mac Nessa would laugh at her and then force more suffering on the Honey-Tongued simply because he could. The king of Ulster had always been petty and vindictive. Some would say evil. Had she accepted the inevitable, Mac Nessa might have shown more clemency—might have at least just executed their son without first humiliating him.

She called me a traitor, he shuddered. “Sot mayhap, traitor never,” he whispered into the night. He could accept a little disdain from her. He had shown weakness when Sin’s death drove him to the flagon. He did not think his weakness justified her vehemence. It had been hard enough for her to hiss and spit at him, not concealing her hate but calling him a traitor to his kingship, people, and marriage. That was too much. Far too much. He glowered at the bottle in his hand and shook his head.

A knock on his doorframe caused Ailill to look up. The Captain of the Queen’s Guard was standing at the entrance. “You asked to see me, Sire?”

“Yes. Come in, Mac Roth.”

The warrior came in and stood opposite the fire with his hands crossed over the pommel of his sword. He was in leather armor and appeared uncomfortable. There was something about the man Ailill did not like. He could never put his finger on it. Something primordial, perhaps. “I need some company. Take a seat, and I will pour you some mead.”

“I will take water, Sire. I have a mission for the queen tomorrow and need a clear head.”

“A mission. Why do I not know of it?”

Saying nothing, the man shrugged and sat, not meeting his eyes. Ailill looked at the flames and feigned disinterest. Her no longer even pretending he was king hurt him deeply. To order a warrior on a mission without asking for her king’s advice was not something she would have done before Honey-Tongue’s death. She would have consulted him, at least pretending to bow before his station.

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“You can tell me, Captain. I am the king, after all,” he said.

“It is nothing of import, Sire. I would not want to bore you with small details. And believe me when I say they are boring.”

“I would not be bored. I am bored not knowing what is happening,” Ailill said with a chuckle, sounding false even to his own ears.

He watched the man’s face. There was a calculating look on it; brows furrowed, eyes looking over his shoulder. Ailill willed the warrior to say what he was considering but was disappointed when Mac Roth shook his head and said, “Really, Sire. It is nothing.”

“If you say so, Captain. So, tell me instead, what news of the Queen’s Guard? Is there anything to report?”

“No, Sire. We guard the queen. We escort her on her excursions. We do our duty. That is all. There is nothing to report.”

“The queen is calling for Mac Roth, Sire,” a guard called from the door. Ailill looked up and frowned. What could Medb want with her captain at this witching hour? Only one thing sprang to Ailill’s mind: not a happy thought.

***

Fergus sat on the trough outside the roundhouse and pulled on his boots with a frown. He suddenly developed a fierce thirst and wondered whether the hostel would still be serving when he heard Medb call to her retainers, “Send for Mac Roth.”

His thoughts exploded into a maelstrom of uncontrollable jealousy. Mac Roth, that imbecile. Did I not satisfy the woman with my lovemaking? And what is it with that bird? Can it really be the Goddess Morrigan? Like many warriors, he feared the Goddess. They said she could foresee the moment of their death, relaying the information with pre-battle portents. Warriors did not fear dying, but they did fear knowing beforehand.

As he approached the hostel in the center of the settlement, someone left, lifting the oxhide cover, and Fergus saw there was light and could hear revelry. He was glad. He needed a drink more than at any other time since arriving in Crúachain and asking Medb and Ailill for succor. It had been a lonely time. He had not thought any other Ulstermen would desert their kingdom and was happy to have been wrong. When Conall arrived, although he refused to say why, Fergus welcomed him with an uncharacteristic hug. He is turning into a bit of a father for me, Fergus realized, even though our ages are not much different.

He sat at the bench in the back of the hall, ordered a flagon, and then tried to determine the difference in years. They both studied under Dornoll and then under Scathach on the Isle of Shadows, but Conall went first. It must have been five summers, not more, Fergus guessed. He remembered being an early developer, so he was younger when he went, but it still meant there were less than ten summers between them.

“Each time I see you, my friend, you look more morose. What is on your mind now?”

Fergus looked up at Conall and smiled. “I was trying to work out how many summers there are between us.”

“You were? And your conclusion?” Fergus shrugged.

“Not as many as it would appear,” he said with a wink.

“I will not argue with you. I sometimes wonder how long I can pretend to be a champion warrior.”

“I know what you are saying,” Fergus nodded, thinking about each warrior’s wish to die in battle, sword in hand. The better the warrior, the older they became before succumbing. He hoped he was not so good he ended up in his bed, dribbling and incontinent, surrounded by simpering grandchildren.

“I feel my age each night. Normally, at this time, I would already be asleep. Closeness of the air is keeping me awake, so I thought a little mead. Anyway, what brings you here so late? It is also unlike you to take mead after the witching hour, my friend.”

“The witching hour’s apt, Conall. I was with the queen,” Fergus could not prevent a shudder running up his back.

“Ah. And how goes that endeavor?”

“Not well. Mad as a march hare.”

“Mad?”

“A banshee, if ever there was one.”

“So, you cannot get into her mind as well as her body?”

“I would not dare. Her mind would drive me insane.”

“She is just a woman, Fergus. Single-minded and stubborn, for sure, but just a woman.”

“No, no. Don’t they say the lands of the Sidhe would drive us mad? Take her crow, now, do you think it’s the Goddess Morrigan?”

“Crow, which crow?”

“She said it was the Morrigan, cawing for food, flapping its Tuatha-forsaken wings.”

“Which crow?”

“The one on the perch beside her bed in the roundhouse where she entertains.”

“I have never seen inside that roundhouse, and I am sure I never will,” Conall said with a sad smile.

“The crazy animal gets agitated when she gets angry. Reads her mind, I’m sure.”

“It is just a bird, Fergus. You have to stop reading the Tuatha into everything you see.”

“Why doesn’t it fly away?”

“I would imagine she has clipped its wings, no great mystery.”

“Wings clipped, or she’s bewitched it,” Fergus whispered into his cup.

“What did you say, my friend?”

“Nothing. Take some mead and tell me what you know about Mac Roth.”

“Mac Roth. Why?”

“She called him to her roundhouse after I’d humped her. Not satisfied with one warrior.”

“I know little about him, but are you sure she called him for a hump? He is her Captain of Guards.”

“What else at this time?”

***

Frowning, Conall nodded and pretended he was interested in the wild theories of Fergus. He needed to show more patience. It was not the fault of his friend. He could not help it. Besides, it was Conall who first suggested a tryst between Fergus and the witch, so he was partly to blame for the warrior’s current mood. He should have known better than to give Fergus a task involving white thighs and fleshy mounds. The man was incorrigible when it came to women.

Looking over Fergus’s shoulder, cup resting on his lower lip, Conall saw Mac Roth enter the hostel. I can have some fun with this; he smiled and said, “If your face gets any longer, you will need a harness to keep your chin from the ground.” Fergus nodded. “Do not look over your shoulder, but the object of your ire has just dropped the oxhide cover.”

“Mac Roth? Here? He never comes here.”

“Aye. Well, he is here, looking for someone, it seems. What were you saying?”

“Nothing,” Fergus said, his frown fixed in place.

“The boar’s arse is making his way over, so be prepared.”

Fergus looked up into Mac Roth’s face as he approached the table. “Can I sit?”

“What do you want, Mac Roth?”

“The queen sent me to—”

“To gloat, did she?” Fergus interrupted.

“Gloat about what?” The look on the guard’s face was so confused that Conall felt inclined to believe him. He could see Fergus was not of like mind, but he was keeping control of his anger, if only just.

“Sorry, Mac Roth. I’m just feeling the pressure. What does the queen want?”

“She wants you to ride with me to Cooley. I am going as an envoy to Fiachna.”

“You’re an envoy, and the queen would like me with you because?”

“It is a mission of some delicacy and importance. I am taking one hundred riders. The queen thinks you best suited to command them.”

“Why can’t you command them?”

“I will be concentrating on diplomacy. The queen thinks the two do not combine well.”

Fergus looked at Conall, who shrugged and grinned, intent on keeping his own counsel. Not only was he having fun, but on the occasions when he offered advice in the past, it ended badly—this was one situation his friend would need to resolve on his own. It seemed apparent that Medb was not being honest. Conall did not know her captain well, but he knew him to be a respected warrior and more than able to cope with being envoy and commander at the same time.

Conall watched his friend frantically, trying to think of some way to decline the request. He knew it would not be possible. If Fergus said no, it would appear as pettiness, a rebuke after how she treated him. “I will take command of the men.”

“Good, be ready at first light. It will be a long, hard ride,” the captain said before turning on his heel and leaving the hostel.

“You really think the boar’s arse will let you command?” Conall laughed. “I fear the queen has some other motive.”

“You and me both, Conall. You and me both.”

“Run with it, though. It might give us some insight into what she is up to.”

“We know what she’s up to.”

“Do we? I think not. We know what she intends, not how she intends to make it happen, which is more important. We need more insight.”

“How so?”

“She cannot just invade Ulster. The Elders would not allow it. I am sure this embassy to Fiachna is a ruse of some sort. Talk to him on the ride and see what you can discover. Anything can only help us.”

“Are you giving me a mission, Conall? One which doesn’t involve me climbing between a queen’s legs.”

“Aye, I suppose I am.”