“Everyone ahorse,” Mac Roth called before Fergus had a chance, causing him to frown. He did not see the captain’s face, so had no idea if he knew he was usurping command. It could have been an oversight.
“On,” the captain called, lifting an arm, dropping it, the command repeated down the line of mounted warriors. Watching this time, Fergus saw Mac Roth knew what he was doing. It was not an oversight. The Captain of the Queen’s Guard dug his heels into his mare’s flanks, and she bolted forward as if racing for the line.
Fergus dug in his own heels to give chase. Catching Mac Roth, he asked, “Why am I here?”
“I am not sure I follow you, Fergus.”
“I’m sure you are following. You’re in command, so why am I here wasting my time?”
“Queen’s orders. What can I tell you?”
“The queen ordered you to cede command to me, yet you are ignoring her wishes. I can turn my horse around and ride back to Crúachain with that information. See what she has to say.”
Fergus watched Mac Roth’s face. His cheek muscles were twitching. There was a tic under his eye. Finally, he said, “I do not mean to ignore her wishes, Fergus. It is merely a force of habit.”
“Very well, then,” Fergus said, turning to look at the forest edge.
***
By mid-morning, Fergus’s thighs were burning. He thought his arse would never recover, and his horse needed watering. Mac Roth had kept a hard pace since leaving Crúachain. The troop of warriors were chasing hard just to keep up.
Fergus was feeling his frustration grow. The captain met all attempts at conversation with silence or one-word responses. “Column halt,” he called, raising an arm and pulling on his mount’s reins.
“Halt for what?” Mac Roth asked, staring hard, disdain written in the expression.
“We need to give our arses a break and water the horses.”
“Bodalán,” he whispered, but Fergus heard, nonetheless.
“Have a care, Mac Roth.”
“Go and talk to me magairlí, Fergus. Why is it you Ulstermen think you are invincible?”
Fergus looked at him and then down, preparing to spit in the mud under the captain’s horse. He furrowed his brow when he saw scars raking the mare’s flank. He looked at the man’s boot and saw a vicious spur attached to the heel.
“You ride her hard, I see.”
“It is imperative to let a mare know who is in command.” And not only a mare, I would wager, Fergus thought, beginning to get an impression of the man.
“Where did you train, Mac Roth?”
“What? I do not think where I trained has anything to do with how I control my mare,” the captain hissed.
“No horse husbandry that I learned included spiked spurs.”
“I do not give a steaming shite for your advice on horsemanship, bundún.”
“It is still not too late for me to return and talk to the queen.”
“She has given us three days to complete the mission. There is no time for resting our arses. Even if we ride hard all day, we arrive late.”
“Oh, only three days. I’d no idea. Why didn’t you say?” Fergus asked with a shake of his head. He did not believe Mac Roth, but he knew a troop loyal to the captain was sitting nearby, frowning at each other.
***
The sun had fallen below the forest eaves.
“Whoa,” Fergus said, pulling the reins of Dagda.
His arse was throbbing. He looked over his shoulder and saw the others were also suffering. As promised, the captain had driven them, not resting, keeping the horses at a steady pace. Dun Fiachna was in shadows, complete darkness, patiently awaiting the end of the day. The gates were open, unguarded, inviting them in.
Fergus could smell the smoke of the settlement cookfires. Someone’s stomach grumbled. The company had not eaten since they left Crúachain. He knew each of them was dreaming of a roasted haunch of boar, a chicken leg, broth, a flagon of mead, and a man or woman to grace their lap. “Shall we enter?” he asked.
“No. Make camp in the forest,” Mac Roth said as he swung down from his horse and put on the silver helmet. “Bradán, you tend Áine and make sure nothing happens to that sword.”
“Will you not take your sword, Lord?”
“No. No weapons. Queen’s instructions. Fiachna considers us enemies.”
Fergus spat into the mud before asking, “How long will you be?”
“How long, bodalán? What makes you think I have any idea? We passed a glade half a league back. Wait for me there. Usnech, you come with me. Leave your weapons.”
Fergus turned his horse and rode to the glade without a further word. Uncaring, he did not wait to see if the rest of the company followed. Feeling humiliated at the hands of Mac Roth, Fergus was in half a mind to carry on riding, not stopping before Crúachain. He had no idea what had happened—why he had wasted a day riding to the Dun of Fiachna.
“Make camp. Build fires,” Fergus said as he dismounted. “We might be here all night.”
The company set about his orders without question. He watched them work, his mood easing. It was good to be in the company of warriors together. If there was one thing he missed, it was riding with the Red Branch.
After a short time, Fergus sat on a log, warming his hands in the glow of his new lit fire. His mind was on the question of loyalty. Was the stranger Genonn correct? Did the Tuatha put more stock in loyalty than honor? Fergus hoped not because his chosen path would only worsen if they did. Like all warriors, the thing he dreaded most was Donn refusing him entry into the mound and a seat at the table.
“Captain,” one of the warriors said, handing Fergus a bowl of precooked oats and mutton, reheated in a cauldron hanging over a fire nearby. Fergus nodded his thanks and smiled. It seemed the warriors in the company considered him to be in command, even if Mac Roth did not.
“Can I sit?” the warrior asked. With a mouth full of food, Fergus just nodded towards a stump on the other side of the fire.
“The brothers and sisters in the company asked me to speak with you.”
“Oh, what is on your mind, um…” he said, an unspoken question in his raised eyebrows.
“I am Bradán. What can I tell you? My father liked to fish.”
“So, Bradán, what is on your mind?”
“We in the company know what the Deceiver did to you. We know he caused you to betray a sword-brother. We want you to know we do not hold you responsible and respect you as captain. Even if the queen is not behind you, you can count on us.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“What makes you think the queen is not behind me?” Fergus asked with a wry smile.
Bradán picked up a twig, twirled it, and threw it on the fire before shrugging. “Suffice to say, we are behind you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your trust. Now, I will turn in. It was a long hard ride, and my arse is telling me it needs a rest.”
Bradán laughed and nodded. “I will wake you if needs be.”
***
Mac Roth did not wait for Usnech’s response nor look back as he walked through the gates. The roundhouses seemed deserted, but he could hear revelry in the feast hall, so he made his way to the center of the settlement, noticing how sumptuous the dwellings appeared as he walked. The thresholds were clean, tools well-kept, and expensively made.
Stopping at the entrance, he looked at the revelers. Retainers and warriors packed the hall, feasting and celebrating the end of another day. Bodaláin are secure in their protection, leaving the gates open and without a guard, Mac Roth thought as he watched unnoticed.
“Usnech, come, let’s get this Danu-forsaken task done,” he said, striding into the hall.
Everyone stopped as the warrior walked up the aisle. Mac Roth could not help but wonder about the show of wealth. The hall was sumptuous, and Fiachna’s retainers were well-dressed. His warriors were all wearing golden torcs and emerald brooches. The smells coming from the cooking fires were rich and inviting. The queen has chosen well, he thought, as he came to stand in front of the head table. A weasel of a man was chewing open-mouthed, blood and fat dribbling down his chin.
“Who are you, eh?” Fiachna asked, not looking up from the bloody piece of meat on the platter before him.
“I am Mac Roth, Lord, envoy of Connacht.”
“Connacht? Connacht? What business have I with Connacht?”
“Lord, my Lady Medb sent me to ask for your help. Her milch cows have dried up, and she is begging for the loan of one of your herds,” Mac Roth said with head bowed slightly, hands crossed in front of his crotch.
“Begging? Medb of Connacht, begging? Never heard the like.”
“No, Lord. It is not common, but she is desperate.”
“She wants a dairy herd, eh?”
“And a breeding bull, Lord.”
“Dairy herd and a breeding bull. Does King Ailill not have a good breeding bull, Finnbennach? Is he not a fine bull?”
“Yes, Lord. He is a mighty bull, known in all Ériu. However, your herds are sought after in the Five Kingdoms, and my Lady will take only the best. Your bull, Donn Cuailnge, is renowned throughout all tribes, not just the tribes of Ériu.”
“All the tribes, you say?”
“Yes, Lord and my Lady will take only the best,” Mac Roth repeated, hoping flattery would convince the man.
“Only the best, eh? She has taste, then?”
“Medb is well known for her taste, among, um, other things.”
“It is true, my cows are unsurpassed, and Donn Cuailnge is unrivaled, but the queen of Connacht is at odds with my protector. I would not dare go against the wishes of Mac Nessa.” Fiachna wiped his face on a greasy cloth, and paused before continuing, “Unless, of course, the rewards are to be bountiful.”
“I have been instructed to say she will be forever in your debt.”
“In my debt, eh?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Debt is all very well, but how will she pay?”
“She said she will give you fifty heifers, when the breeding cycle is complete.”
“Heifers I have. I have little need for more heifers. Although, I could sell them, eh? The king is always seeking more cows. More meat, grist for the mill that is his Red Branch army.”
“Medb also said she would give you a tract of land on the plains of Ai.”
“A tract of land, is it?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Is that all she is prepared to give, Mac Roth? It seems scant return for a whole herd and a breeding bull. Eh?”
“No, not all, Lord,” Mac Roth hesitated.
“Out with it, man, what else? What else?”
“She also said if you drove a hard bargain, she would give you the treasure that lies between her thighs.”
“She did, did she?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“A piece of the Lady of Connacht. Her reputation equals that of Finnbennach. That would be a mighty conquest, eh?”
“It would, Lord.”
“And how will the herd come to Mag nAí?”
“I am tasked with driving the herd back to Crúachain, Lord.”
“Who will protect my bull and the cows? We must not forget the cows, eh?” Fiachna asked with a wry smile.
“I have one hundred warriors with me for that very purpose. They are camped in the forest.”
“Fifty heifers, a tract of land, and a royal snatch to plow. Sounds good,” Fiachna said, rubbing his hands to rid them of the blood and grease. “I accept. Let us eat and drink until the early hours to seal the contract.”
Mac Roth bowed and smiled to himself. It amazed him that the men of the Five Kingdoms could not be swayed by the promise of a herd of cows or a tract of land, but as soon as there was mention of a little mound between the legs of a queen, their negotiating skills flew out the smoke hole in their roundhouse.
Mac Roth watched Usnech enjoying the roasted meats, a much wider choice than they would typically eat. They came up in the boy’s house together, so Mac Roth knew he could trust Usnech to throw a compliment when needed or to remain silent.
He looked over Usnech’s shoulder at the other tables. With the bench to themselves, they were as far from Fiachna as possible without being outside the hall. The warriors had their heads down, staring at cups and plates—staring anywhere except at the back of the hall where the enemy was sitting. The Lord of Cooley might have reached an agreement with Mac Roth, but his warriors had not.
“A toast to Connacht,” Fiachna called. The warriors raised their cups dutifully and drank the mead down in one. Servers ran around the tables, refilling the cups.
“A toast to Cooley,” Mac Roth called. Again, the warriors drank their mead in one pull, and the servers replenished them.
“To the health of Queen Medb,” Fiachna called.
“To the health of Lord Fiachna,” Mac Roth called. The formality of the toasts continued for several more rounds before the men at the tables settled down to continue eating.
Mac Roth toyed with his food, his head buzzing. He rued his drunkenness because he was sure the vittles were of a quality he would not usually get to eat, and it was a waste. Missed vittles were not the only thing on his mind. He was worried he would not complete his mission. Never having failed, Mac Roth vehemently opposed failing this time. She might be a tóin, but he needed her. He had to hang onto her skirts for a little longer. There was no point in him trying to climb on the back of Ailill. The king’s legs were far too unstable to guarantee any success.
“Our host is very generous,” Usnech said.
“He is a fine host,” Mac Roth agreed. “His wealth is astounding. Look around at the gold. Look at the food you are eating. I have never seen the like.”
“He is generous, not only with this food and mead, which I admit is better than most I have tasted.”
“You think, bodalán. What else has he been generous with?”
“The prize bull and milch cows. That was a generous gift from the man.”
“Not a gift, Usnech. He will be paid very handsomely,” Mac Roth looked over Usnech’s shoulder, then down at his food.
“Even so, the gesture was from a man of great heart. Where would the queen be without Daire Fiachna’s offer of Donn Cuailnge and the herd of cows?”
“Think before you speak, Usnech. If Fiachna had not given them freely, the queen’s army would have come here and taken them by force.”
“Taken by force, eh?”
Mac Roth looked at the Lord of the hall, standing before their bench. Fiachna’s face displayed a gamut of emotions, from shock to ire. Mac Roth would have laughed if not for the gravity of the moment. “Forgive me, Lord, it is not what I meant.”
“How, man, could it not be what you meant? How many other meanings could there be for ‘taken by force’, eh?”
“I mean, Lord, that it is the mead talking. I did not mean what I said.”
Fiachna gazed down at the men on the bench for what seemed an eternity before he nodded. He raised his hand and called, “Áedh.”
A warrior came and stood beside the Lord. He was holding the pommel of his sword in his right hand; his knuckles whitened by the force of his grip. His left was fingering an evil-looking, thin-bladed dagger. His eye glinted as though he had been expecting and looking forward to the moment. Itching to stick someone with his pig sticker, Mac Roth realized.
“This man,” Fiachna said, nodding at Usnech, “has insulted my house and all within.”
“What do you require of me, Lord?” the warrior asked.
“You will strangle him and dump his body in the—”
“You cannot, Fiachna. I am an envoy in your hall. We have broken bread,” Mac Roth interrupted, rising from his seat and making a grab for a sword pommel that was not there.
“I cannot do this, eh? Perhaps, like you, Mac Roth, I did not mean what I said, and my men misunderstood it.”
“Lord?” the warrior asked.
“Do it, Áedh.”
“I protest,” Mac Roth started to say but could not complete the words as someone struck him on the nape of his neck.