The numbers were staggering. Fedelm had never seen so much humanity crowded into one place. Laeg told Setanta more than five thousand warriors had gathered on Mag nAí. With followers, there were thousands camped before the palisade of Crúachain. The host looked vast, and they stank. Fedelm wrinkled her nose and thought longingly of herb-scented steam rising from her cauldron. She had wondered about the smell as she neared the forest edge, but now, looking across the plain, she wondered no longer.
She could see a group of spectators perched atop the gatehouse, watching the host. She smiled, knowing Medb to be there, even though she could not see her. Nudging her horse on, the crowds parted without encouragement. They were staring at her with astonished looks. Their reaction did not surprise her. Biróg selected Fedelm as a pupil because of her effect on people. It was also why the spymaster had chosen her for this task. Well, that and her power over the champion. She knew the spymaster did not know Setanta also held power over her; otherwise, he would not have chosen her.
“You are Medb, Queen of Connacht?” she asked as she arrived at the gatehouse, shading her eyes from the glare of the early morning sun.
“Who is asking?”
“I am Fedelm, a sorceress of Meath. I heard of the mustering and came to see for myself.”
“Where are you riding from?”
“I rode from Indber Colptha, Medb Queen. I was in Ynys Môn, studying sorcery and vision under the druidess Biróg.”
“Do you have the Light of Foresight, Fedelm?”
“I do, Lady.”
“Look at my army, seeress, and tell me what you see.”
Fedelm gazed up at the queen and smiled. Medb could not have made her task easier if she had sent ahead and told the witch what to say. The queen was wily and ferocious, but she was also predictable. Still smiling, Fedelm stared over the plain, hand shielding her eyes. She took time studying each of the troops and their followers, being well-practiced in her arts.
Finally, she turned back to Medb with a look of worry, “I see Mag nAí as a crimson field, Lady, blood from the palisade to the forest edge. I see smashed heads and missing limbs. I see an army in full flight.”
“Crimson with blood? How can that be? Fergus, your spies will tell us as soon as the Red Branch has entered The Pangs?”
“They will, Lady.”
Medb frowned.
“So, if they are drunk in the feast hall in Emain Macha, there will be no one to bloody my army. You must be seeing something else, seeress.”
“I see one man, Medb Queen,” Fedelm spoke with an air of mystery. “A hero. He has raven-black hair and the body of a god. He is blood from his head to his boots, the blood of your army. He is a good-looking man who turns the heads of all women. He has been to distant lands to kill the beast and returned.”
Fedelm looked back over the plain with an expression of awe over what she saw. She could see the warriors nearest her enraptured and those not close enough to hear, whispering behind their hands, no doubt asking what she was saying.
“So, they have one man to stay the armies of Connacht, Leinster, and Munster,” Medb laughed. “It is impossible.”
“That may be, Medb Queen. However, I see blood in the future of your army and not the blood of your enemies.”
“That is easily explained. When there is a gathering of so many, there is bound to be the red of rising anger and the occasional bloodletting. What do you think, Tadg?”
Fedelm looked up at the druid. He seemed bored and distracted. She could feel the eyes of the warriors on the plain looking at him in expectation. She had to fight back her need to laugh. Warriors were a superstitious breed, as the warrior to Medb’s right was displaying with the tightness of his grip on the token around his neck. Fedelm guessed him to be Fergus, the one-time foster father of her love. Much the same as Laeg, Setanta had described Fergus in such detail even down to his superstition, she would recognize him anywhere.
The warriors nearest her all looked worried. She marveled at Setanta’s foresight, who told her the army on the plain would be swayed by the words of a seeress.
The druid finally spoke, “You are right, Lady. What the girl sees could mean any number of things. For instance, it could mean tomorrow’s dawn will bathe the plain in red.”
Fedelm looked up at the druid. She kept her face neutral as she said, “Wise words, Druid. In future, I will tell those who ask what I see and let them divine what they will from my prophecy.”
Medb glowered at her, an evident expression distorting her features. Is that hate, Fedelm wondered with a smile as she turned her horse away and goaded it to a steady trot, returning the way she had come. She made sure not to laugh until she was once more under the forest eaves.
***
The mist reflected early afternoon light, the sun diving towards the shroud covering the plains. The camp and the army were visible as half-seen greys and blacks piercing the billows. Standing in the gatehouse watching the troops, Fergus had his mind on the words of Fedelm.
He was worried.
If she genuinely had The Light, then the auspices were not good. Rather than grey mist, some hero would bathe the army in their own blood. The others on the gatehouse had been baffled by the talk of a mystical dark-haired warrior. Not so Conall and Fergus. There was only one who would fit the description. One man should not cause the army issues, but ignoring this one might be a mistake.
Fergus shook his head and smiled. His smile faltered when the wind changed direction and blew a swirl of mist around the gatehouse, causing him to gag and screw up his face. “Why did I ever dream of war?” he hissed.
“Lord?” the guard beside him asked.
“Nothing. I’d forgotten how bad it is.”
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“How bad what is, Lord?”
“Don’t you get the stench?”
“Ah, yes. I am used to it. I stand here all day breathing it in,” the guard laughed. “After a while, it is just part of the makeup of an army.”
Fergus shook his head, wondering how anyone would get used to it. The overriding stench was one of shit. Whether it be cow shit, horseshit, or the shit filling the midden trenches dotted about the plain. Five thousand four hundred warriors, their retainers, their animals, and the thousands of camp followers: their men; their women; their children; merchants, and whores. All produced an astounding amount of waste, and it stank. Fergus fancied he could see the waves of heat rising from the dung, pushing the mist up in billows.
Shielding his eyes, he scanned the forest edge, only to see a horseman gallop out from the grey, a silhouette racing through the tent lines. Is this the moment? he wondered, knowing the answer even before he had finished thinking the question. There was only one reason for a messenger to hasten.
“What news?” Fergus called down as the man reined in under the gatehouse.
“The Ulstermen have entered The Pangs, Captain.”
“You’re sure?”
“Aye, sure. I could hear the revelry from the forest.”
“Go to each of the chieftains and tell them to break camp. We march.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Fergus climbed down the ladder and ran to the feast hall in the center of the settlement. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see Medb, Conall, and Longas leaning in a huddle, looking at something. As he neared, he saw they were looking at a map scratched in the dust.
Medb looked up at his approach and said, “Fergus. Good of you to join us. Did you not get my message?”
“What message, Lady?”
“I sent for my captains. Rather than being idle while we wait, I thought we should discuss tactics.”
Fergus frowned. He had been in the gatehouse all morning. He had not been difficult to find. Why was I not asked to the planning meeting? he wondered before remembering his news. “We wait no longer. The messenger arrived. The warriors of Ulster have entered The Pangs. We’ve days to get about stealing this bull.”
Conall and Longas looked up from the map. Medb gazed at Fergus like a young girl looking at her first festival dress. “So, it begins. And not before time, I think.”
“Not before time, she says,” Conall whispered, overheard by all present. Medb ignored him.
“When?”
“The rider just arrived. I sent him to tell the chieftains to break camp. I suspect he would not have tarried on the ride from Emain Macha. I think they will be nearing the end of the first day’s celebrations.”
“So, we have at least four days after today?”
“Yes, Lady.”
“At least four days. Then I say we march.”
“As I said, I’ve ordered the camp broken.”
“Your troop will take the van, Fergus?”
“They will. Longas will take the command. I’ll ride with you.”
“I expect you, Conall, to also ride with me.” The warrior bowed.
“And where shall I ride, Medb,” Ailill asked. No one had seen him arrive in the shadows of the feast hall. Fergus looked over at him, wondering how it was he sounded sober.
“No one cares where you ride, Ailill. Just be sure to keep out of everyone’s way. In fact, why not stay here and keep your constant companion company.” Ailill did not answer but strode from the roundhouse, head high and shoulders pushed back. Medb snorted before turning to Fergus and saying, “What are you waiting for, a royal command?”
Fergus ran from the hall, swung onto his horse, and looked around the plain. The warriors were bustling about, falling over each other to get mounted. They needed to ride and make use of the light. Those not ready could catch up in their own time.
Nodding at Longas, he lifted a hand and called, “Onward.”
Lieutenants repeated the command. Slowly, like some monstrous leviathan, the army started to move down the road to the Sinann. Fergus watched them pass while waiting for the queen. He felt a surge of sadness at the sight. Time would tell, but he was worried the campaign would lead to him killing his brethren.
***
Riding into the clearing near Granard, Medb reined in and frowned at the confusion. Riders were blocking each other, throwing curses, threatening bloody violence. She could see it would not take much for the short tempers of her army to result in blood. These were men and women more used to killing each other than collaborating. Looking at the seething mass of humanity before her, Medb thought she understood where the girl’s prophecy had been pointing.
She was about to swing down from her horse when she noticed one of the troops sitting around, already burning fires and eating. Some were tuning their harps, preparing for when the others finished their meal. They were laughing. Relaxed. Medb could hear their banter from where she was sitting.
“Who are that troop there, already eating, with their tents pitched?” she asked of Fergus.
“They’re the Galeoin, Lady, a tribe from North Leinster.”
“From North Leinster, you say. They are good. I watched them while breaking camp. They were marching and in good order while the rest of the warriors were still pulling up their triús or with their arses hanging over the midden.”
“The druidess Dornoll trained them, Lady,” Conall said. “Bull’s balls, but what I would not give for a complete troop trained by the druidess.”
“All of them?”
“As far as I know. Ball sacks are a tribe that believes in having a strong army.”
“More so than any other?” Medb tilted her head.
“More so than most, Lady. The Red Branch is also martial, but they are farmers and warriors called to serve when needed. The Galeoin have a standing army. They remain throughout the year and do not withdraw to tend fields during planting and harvest.”
“That is the answer, then, to have a standing army.”
“When an army lives together, eats, sleeps, and humps together, they become as one. They know each other so well it is almost as if they are reading each other’s mind.”
“If they are humping each other, will that not distract them?”
“The ancient Greeks thought warriors humping each other would die defending each other.”
“They had women in their armies?”
“No, Lady, only male warriors and retainers.”
“I see. So, you think our men should hump each other?”
“I think an army of close-knit warriors stands a better chance of success. Nothing more, nothing less.” Medb looked at Conall. He was staring off into the distance, deep in his own thoughts. She shook her head and smiled.
“So, my army will never be as good as these Galeoin?”
“Do not take it to heart, Lady. No army will be as good.”
“Not even the Red Branch?”
“Man for man, no. The Galeoin can field three hundred, but the Red Branch can field two thousand. Overwhelming odds.”
“Thank you, Conall.”
“For what?”
“For being honest with me.”
“Lady,” Conall said before riding away in search of a campsite.
“He likes them, these Galeoin,” Medb said to Fergus.
“He likes his warriors well-trained.”