She was kneeling with her back to him, head bowed, leaning forward, hands in the mud. She was silent, rocking gently backward and forwards. “You betrayed him,” he heard, nothing more than a whisper, quickly borne away on the wind. Now, he could hear the sighing of the trees in the forest. The branches seemed to be repeating the word betrayal, over and over. He could not speak but shook his head violently. It was not me, he wanted to scream, but the words would not come. He ran around her so he could lift her and plead with her to believe him but stopped when he reached her front and saw the pools of blood under her hands. Someone had gashed her wrists; the pools were significant—there could be no blood left in her veins. Then he saw her skin’s shimmering paleness in the moonlight. Bloodless skin, a body ready for internment, only she was moving. She lifted her head, looked at him with accusing eyes, and hissed, Fergus.
“Fergus, Fergus,” someone was calling and shaking him.
He opened his eyes, the grogginess when deep sleep was interrupted washing over him. The dream was an indistinct memory by the time he was fully awake, just an uncomfortable feeling in the back of his mind. He shook his head and rubbed his face, looking up at the warrior.
“Bradán. What is it?”
“Mac Roth has returned.” Fergus could see worry etched into the warrior’s face.
Sitting up, he looked at the glade. Warriors were bustling about in the limited light thrown by several campfires. ‘What hour is it?”
“It is still not yet the witching hour. The middle of the night is maybe an hour away.”
“How long did I sleep?”
“Two, maybe three hours.”
“You said Mac Roth is back. What of Usnech?”
“Dead.”
“What do you mean, dead?”
“Fiachna executed him. His guards have savagely beaten Mac Roth with camáin, it looks like. It is a wonder he survived.”
“Where is he?”
“His wounds are being tended.”
“Bring me to him.”
Looking down on Mac Roth, seated on a log with a warrior bathing his wounds, Fergus could not decipher the look in the guard captain’s eyes. He did not know him, but there was something there, partially veiled and disconcerting.
“What happened?” he asked.
Mac Roth looked up from under blackening eyes. A warrior was bathing a nasty gash on his head. He winced and said, “Careful, bodalán, you will hang by your magairlí if you hurt me again.”
“Sorry, Captain,” the warrior mumbled, a slight shake to his hand. Fergus wondered if Mac Roth treated his warriors the same way he treated his mare.
“What happened, Mac Roth?” he repeated, trying not to show impatience. “They say Usnech is dead.”
“Leave me in peace, Fergus. Can you not see I am a little indisposed?”
“I’ll leave you in peace when you tell me what happened.”
“Usnech insulted the madman Fiachna—too much meat and mead. I tried to apologize, but someone knocked me senseless. They splashed a pale in my face to wake me. I watched as they dragged Usnech’s corpse through the gates. Judging by the hang of his head, they strangled him. Fiachna did not have me killed because of my status, but he ordered them to beat me with their camáin.”
Fergus did not hesitate, “Wake everyone. We attack at once.”
“We do not,” Mac Roth mumbled through swollen lips.
“What do you mean? We must avenge the death of Usnech and your beating. It is a slight on your honor, the honor of your queen, and the honor of Connacht.”
“What do you care about the honor of Connacht? You are an Ulsterman,” Mac Roth hissed.
Fergus felt his hand straying towards the hilt of a sword he had left beside his fire. Frowning, he looked around at the warriors standing in a circle. Despite their professed support of him only a few hours before, he could see they would follow their captain’s orders.
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“You have to be jesting,” Fergus tried again. “If this gets out, every vassal in Ériu will try us.”
“Try us, Fergus? You are not one of us. But that aside, I have never been more serious. We will wait for the dawn and then ride for Crúachain. It is an order.”
“I thought I was in command of the company?”
“It is true, Fergus, that you were to command during the march. The march is done. I am in command now. Post sentries,” he called to no one. “We ride for Crúachain at first light.”
“Whatever you say, Captain,” Fergus put as much insult into the title as he could. When he was sure all had heard and knew he was not being cowardly, he went back to his fire, wrapped himself in his rug, and lay down to sleep.
***
Fergus looked back at the barred gates, spears bristling over the silhouetted palisade. He could see they were nervous, even at a distance and with the limited dawn light. No more than twenty spears were dancing in the breeze. He knew there might be archers behind the palisade, but if there were, they would not be many. If not for the stench of weary warriors and horses, he knew he would be able to smell the fear wafting off Dun Fiachna.
“Look at them, Mac Roth. We could take them with only a small loss.”
“No. I told you already. We return to Crúachain.”
“They murdered an envoy. They must pay.”
“And so they shall, just not yet. We ride for Crúachain.”
Fergus turned away in disgust. He could see the warriors closest to him were showing nothing. He knew, even though adept at hiding emotions from Mac Roth, they wanted to avenge the loss of a comrade. Despite that, Fergus would not forget their look from the night before. They might not like what Mac Roth ordered, but they would not go against it. The men feared too much for their balls. He could guess what the women feared, which was not a happy thought. On a sudden whim, he spurred his horse towards the palisade, hoping to evoke a flight of arrows, forcing the Connacht warriors into battle, but nothing happened. It seemed the warriors of Cooley were as set against a fight as Mac Roth. Shaking his head, Fergus turned his horse and spurred for Crúachain, not waiting to see if the warriors under Mac Roth’s command bothered to follow.
***
The stink of warriors at play was making Medb gag slightly. It was not only the stink annoying her. Their noise was giving her a headache. They were drunk. All decorum fled in the face of the mead. Even the women warriors were uncouth, farting and belching with the men.
Medb felt her patience stretched to near snapping.
It was the third day since Mac Roth had ridden for Cooley. He would be back at some time during the day, and the queen was eager to hear what he had achieved at the dun of Daire Fiachna. The future of her plans relied on Mac Roth’s success, which made the queen fidgety. Ailill was trying to sing, much to the crowd’s delight within the hall but to Medb’s distress. He was again making a fool of himself and his station. Did he not realize the people were laughing at him and not with him?
Medb guessed he did not. She considered ordering her guards to escort him to his roundhouse when a sudden hush assailed the hall.
Her blood began to rush, ears and cheeks seeming to swell with the buzz. There was no steady decline in noise. It was there one moment and gone the next. The depth of the silence was enough to cause Ailill to pause in his singing, confusion in his mead-clouded eyes. Medb looked at the entrance, where warriors and courtiers stepped back to make room.
“What is happening?” she called into the quiet.
“It is Mac Roth, Lady.”
She felt her heart pick up a pace, flattening her skirts with sweaty palms. “Mac Roth. Come, tell me your news.”
There was a sigh from the courtiers and warriors nearest the entrance as they parted to let the envoy through. As Mac Roth came into view, Medb saw he could only just keep his feet. Someone had beaten him badly. Black swelling closed one of his eyes; the other, also swollen, was only just open. Dried blood caked his lips. He was using the shaft of a spear as a crutch.
Medb got up and ran up the aisle, holding her skirts aloft. “Mac Roth, were you waylaid during your return?”
He slipped to the dust of the hall as Medb reached him. “I am sorry, my Lady. I have let you down,” he mumbled, only just audible.
“Do not say that, Mac Roth. Tell me what happened.”
“I was drunk and made a fatal error. Usnech is dead.”
“Dead? What do you mean, dead? How did he die?”
“He was killed by the warrior Áedh of the house of Fiachna.”
“Killed by Áedh of house Fiachna. Fiachna killed an envoy of Connacht?”
“He did, my Lady, and it is all my fault.” Medb could see the guilt in Mac Roth’s eyes. He was in more than just physical pain. She stood and turned to face her audience, making sure her look of worry was visible to the courtiers and warriors forming a circle around where her captain sat in the dust, head hanging, the pain still clear.
“Did Fiachna refuse my request for a milch herd?”
“He did, my Lady. He said he would never supply a herd, not even if the number of summers equaled the number of stars in a clear night sky nor if promised every red-curled mound in Connacht. He took the ceremonial helmet.”
“He dares the beast. You have done well, Mac Roth. I do not blame you for Fiachna’s actions. You will rest now. Conall Cernach can act for me during your healing.”
Medb frowned as Mac Roth looked up suddenly. Mention of the Ulsterman caused some consternation in her retainer. Black-lidded eyes soon masked his anger. He pulled himself to his feet using the spear shaft and said, “Very good, Lady.”
“Someone, help Mac Roth to his roundhouse.”