“Do you know what this is about?” Conall asked as he met Fergus at the entrance to the queen’s tent. Fergus shook his head and held out a palm, offering Conall the chance to enter first. As Conall adjusted to the light, he saw Ailill in the tent, standing beside the queen’s chair. He frowned. Galchobhar and Bréannin were absent. Medb had a face telling Conall not to act in his usual offhand manner. There was something serious afoot.
“The captains of Leinster and Munster are absent,” he said.
“That is correct. I did not invite them. Does that meet with your approval, Conall Cernach?”
“Lady,” he said, bowing. “Then we are all here, I think.”
“So you are. Good of you to spare me the time.”
Conall bowed again and fixed his face into a neutral expression. Whatever this was about, he could sense it would not be something to welcome. Ailill was somber. Conall wondered how many flagons he had lifted.
“Well, Lady, what can we do for you?”
“I have been thinking about what you said to me earlier.”
“About what?”
“These warriors. These Galeoin.”
“What about them, Lady?”
“I do not want warriors in my army who are better than my own.”
“What are you driving at, Medb?” Ailill asked, his face showing the worry of someone who has guessed the bad news they are about to hear.
“They are a danger—”
“They are well trained, Lady,” Conall interrupted. “Dornoll trained each of them. That does not make them dangerous.”
“Not dangerous. You are saying my troops are not well-trained, I suppose.”
“They are not, no.”
“But it was you who trained them, Conall. Are you not a good teacher?”
“I am not Dornoll. I do what I can, but the Connacht warriors are not of the same mettle as the Galeoin. It is not reasonable to expect them to make the same soldiers. It would be like taking a herd of those small horses from the northern islands of Alba and trying to train them as war horses. They are not of the right stuff.”
“We must kill them, then.”
“Who?” Conall had heard the words and thought he knew who she meant, but he could not believe his ears. It was a preposterous suggestion.
“The Galeoin. I do not want their swords. I want their heads.”
“What?” each of the men in the tent blurted. Looking around, the queen frowned. Conall could see she did not believe anyone could misunderstand her statement. As far as words were concerned, it was true: the words were simple. It was the context confusing them.
“You cannot kill them, woman. They are our allies,” Ailill hissed. “They came here to fight for our cause.”
“What are you even doing here, Ailill? I do not recall inviting you.”
“Mac Roth told me of the meeting,” Ailill said huffily. Conall looked at the king and saw something in the fixed stare he could not place. It was akin to a man too drunk to be able to discern his own feet from those of a neighbor, but not entirely.
“Mac Roth was not invited either,” Medb scoffed.
“I will have no part of this,” Fergus said.
“As captain of my armies, you will do as I tell you,” the queen hissed through clenched teeth.
“What is it you fear, Lady?” Conall asked, suspecting he knew the answer to be nothing. It was not fear driving her to this act but envy.
“Do we really know them? They are a Leinster tribe. Until recently, Leinster were fast allies with Ulster. What is to say they will not turn on us midway through the battle?”
“They are too few,” Ailill said. “If they turn, we will crush them. Besides, you said we are on a raid. There will not be a battle.”
“We must be prepared to face Ulster in battle even though it’s not our intent,” Fergus said. Conall read the fear in his friend’s look. Although not intended, he thought a battle would be inevitable.
“Aye. We cannot simply march through Windy Gap without preparation,” Conall agreed.
The queen looked at him with an open stare, showing honesty. He thought himself a good judge and could see no guile. “And if a troop of three hundred were to turn mid-battle, what effect would it have?”
“It could be catastrophic depending on when and where they are in the lines. If three hundred men turned in the middle of the shield wall, it would open the wall.” She has a valid point, Conall realized. He did not like to admit it, but if they did turn, they could destroy Connacht’s army. He looked at each of the men in the tent. They were frowning, arms crossed, angry.
“You cannot do this, woman,” Ailill said. “Even if they could turn the battle, the other troops would not forgive such treachery.”
“True enough,’ Conall agreed. “If you order their throats cut in the night, tomorrow you would have no army left. You could face them fairly in battle, but that would involve huge losses, so your army would be heavily reduced to the same effect.”
“What do you propose?”
“We could leave them here,” Ailill said.
“Leave them here. Leave them in our rear, where we have taken the warriors away? That sounds like a good plan, Ailill,” Medb scoffed. Again, Conall had to admit her logic was not flawed. If, as she suspected, they were not as loyal as they could be, leaving them in an undefended rear would be disastrous.
“We could disperse them among the other troops. If they are separated, what harm could they be?” Conall suggested.
***
Leaning against a thick oak, Mac Roth was staring at the silhouette of the queen’s tent and listening to the arguments within. Arguments with Conal, Fergus, and Ailill. Why was she in her tent arguing with the Ulstermen? She was risking much by leaving her warriors aside. Captain of the Queen’s Guard, my hole, he thought, kicking the bole of the oak and wincing.
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She had been abusing him for too long.
No more.
With no sense of her true allies, the cailleach had excluded him once too often. Connachtmen. They were the warriors she could rely on. Ulstermen were the enemy, and she needed to realize it. She needed someone to show her the risks inherent in trusting her enemies. But not him. He did not intend to stay any longer. As soon as the camp bedded down, he would ride for Emain Macha. He would give The Deceiver the army’s planned disposition if it came to battle. To the pit with the cailleach, her husband, and their pet Ulstermen. They would realize the folly of treating him like a bodalán when the Red Branch broke their shield wall.
“It irritates you, I see.”
“What? What irritates me?” Mac Roth hissed, looking over his shoulder into a cowled face on the other side of the tree, shaded, hidden, dangerous. He thought he recognized the voice but could not place it. A heavy cloak covered the man’s lower face, muffling the words. Mac Roth felt for the dagger at his belt. The ivory hilt comforted him as he said, “Well?”
“She has a command meeting with Conall and Fergus, warriors of Ulster. Leaving you fuming in the forest, sucking on a flagon, and feeling like an arse, no doubt. Must be an insult.”
“I do not know what you mean,” Mac Roth said. He did not care for the stranger’s tone, which was still evident despite the muffling. Nor for his implication. Mac Roth was a warrior. She had not excluded him because he was not a warrior. There must be something else, he guessed. In truth, he did not know why the queen ignored him. He had served her faithfully. At least as far as she was aware. There was no way she could know he left the ceremonial helmet in the dirt outside Dun Fiachna, tired of carrying it. Nor could she know his words killed Usnech. She would never know he used her for his own ends until it was too late.
“Come now, Mac Roth. You are Captain of the Queen’s Guard. You should be in the tent, protecting her from her enemies.”
Mac Roth scowled. The man’s intuition was scaring him. It was as though he could read minds. Is he a druid? He wears the cowl of a druid. Is it Kathvar? “Who are you?”
“I am a friend.”
“You say. But how do I know it as truth?”
“I will give you my information, and you can decide what to do with it. For me, it matters not a rat’s cock.”
Mac Roth looked at the shadowed face. He knew he could not trust it but did not need to because he was under no threat. He could listen and then decide. “What is your news then, friendly stranger?”
“Conall Cernach has been giving key information to Ulster. He is in the pay of The Deceiver.”
“What information?”
“Which routes the army might take. How the cailleach will react to tactics. Information that could be used to massive advantage.”
“How?”
“I do not follow you, Mac Roth.”
“It is not difficult, bundún. How is he providing the information?”
The stranger hesitated, looking over his shoulder. Mac Roth raised an eyebrow and took a pull on his flagon, spitting the mead into the loam at his feet.
“Let us just say the rat’s cock has a go-between. Someone to run back and forth giving tips and hints to Ulster’s captains?”
“They are in their pangs, drunk in Emain Macha.”
“Not all, Mac Roth. Not all.”
“How do I know this to be true?”
“I already said I have given you the information. What you choose to do with it is your own affair.”
Mac Roth looked at his boots. He knew he could use the information to return to her inner circle. If he told her of the betrayal, the queen would not ignore him anymore. On the other hand, maybe the king would be a better choice. She seemed to have gone too far with the demand for summary executions.
The sound of raised voices interrupted his thinking. “Is it really necessary, woman?”
“Is what really necessary?”
“To humiliate me in front of your, your…” a slight hesitation. “Never mind.”
Mac Roth turned in time to see Ailill storm from the command tent. He turned back to thank the stranger and discover who he was, but the cowled figure had gone, evaporated into the night forest, as silent as a vole.
***
Ailill frowned at his feet. He did not know what to make of Medb’s bloodthirstiness. She had ever been quick to anger, but to order the deaths of three hundred warriors because they were better than her own caused his anger to flare.
“You cannot have these warriors murdered because they have been well-trained,” he hissed.
“Are you drunk, Ailill? Silly question. Of course you are. You are always drunk. We have decided to disperse them.”
“Is it really necessary, woman?”
“Is what really necessary?”
“To humiliate me in front of your, your…” Ailill looked around at the men in the tent. He did not know what to say. The men surrounding the queen were her enemies. Men who had served the very king she professed to hate. “Never mind,” he said as he stormed from the tent.
Ailill did not stop walking until he was well under the forest’s eaves. He would have continued, except the light from the fires did not penetrate far enough under the boughs. He had entered a world of dark shadows and unexplained noises. A fitting place to sit and think, he decided—fitting for him to sit in the dark, out of reach of any light.
He slumped onto a log and sighed.
They might have dissuaded the woman from her choice; she might have agreed to disperse the Galeoin, but that did not mean she had not made the choice. He had no idea when she became so bloodthirsty. She had been single-minded before the death of Sin. And then both single-minded and impossible to be with after. But when had she become so violent?
“I am with you, Sire,” caused him to look up suspiciously. He could not see the warrior’s features but recognized the sword’s pommel dancing in the flickering light.
“It is you, Mac Roth. With me in what way?”
“I think the queen is wrong to trust those Ulstermen, the bodaláin, as implicitly as she does. On the one hand, she is saying we cannot trust the Leinster Galeoin, and then she is asking counsel from Ulstermen.”
“How do you know about the Galeoin?” Ailill asked with a frown.
“I have ears, Sire. As her guard, I was outside the tent.”
“Mayhap, she is a little misguided. She is only doing what she thinks is best for Ériu.”
“She is doing what she thinks is best for Medb, Sire. She does not do anything for The Five Kingdoms.”
“How dare you impinge on her good—”
“I know what I am saying. She needs to be removed from her position of power,” Mac Roth interrupted.
Ailill rose, fists clenched, and said, “You are her Captain of Guards. You dare stand there and propose treason against your queen and my wife?” Mac Roth looked over his shoulder, hesitating. Ailill could feel his stress. He obviously wanted to say something of import. “You have something to say, Mac Roth?”
“Nothing, Sire,” the warrior finally said. Ailill frowned at him, fists unclenching, fight leaching out of him.
“Good. Now, leave me in peace. I know you have had a flagon or two, so I will let this discussion vanish into the forest.”
“Yes, Sire,” Mac Roth said, turning to go.
“But be sure, Mac Roth, if I ever hear you uttering treason again or hear of someone else who has heard you, I will order you strangled with the knotted hide and dumped in the bog.”
Ailill watched Mac Roth stumbling back towards the campsite. The warrior was mumbling under his breath. Ailill wondered what Mac Roth had wanted to say but was too afraid to, even though he was drunk. Whatever it was, he was not wrong. Medb had to be stopped before she damaged Connacht so severely that there would be no way to recover.
“How can I stop her,” he whispered into the night.