The night noises did not penetrate—not the buzzing of insects, the screech of bats, nor the occasional crashing of the undergrowth. There was no way through the barrier of Ailill’s confused thoughts. He had not felt like it since first being aroused at the sight of a naked breast: guilt and pleasure contending—arousal and blushes. He was sitting on his cot looking at the cloth walls hung with tapestry, trying to understand what he had seen in Medb’s hesitation, her look, her apparent need to speak.

He would like to think she was softening.

Could it be she was finally coming to terms with the loss of her favorite son, Sin? If she were, he would take it as a gift from the Dagda. For too long, she had been grieving and forcing the lives of those around her into agony. Ailill was also suffering from the loss of their son, but he was suffering in silence. Medb suffered with a war hammer of a tongue and a bent towards violence.

He was sure there was something in the look she had given, sitting in her cot with her chest exposed. But what? Dare he hope? He took a swig from his flagon, then spat it out and threw the flagon on the floor. The taste was ash in his mouth. Was she ready to forgive the imagined slights?

“Sire, Mac Roth is begging an audience,” Fregola said from the tent flaps.

“What?”

“Mac Roth, Sire. He wishes to speak with you.”

Ailill stared at his retainer, wondering what Medb’s sycophant could want. The hour was late. He should be abed. And then he realized the man had probably come with a message from Medb. It could only be good news. “Very well. Show him in.”

***

Feet up, Mac Roth was sitting on a rock on the forest’s edge, whittling a piece of wood. Looking from under lowered brows, he grimaced at the night noises and thought about the queen. He could not believe how much he had given only to have her treat him with disdain. Dagda take her stupidity, tóin, pushed at his concentration, his whittling becoming more frantic and ill-judged.

“Danu’s tits,” he hissed, sticking his nicked finger in his mouth and sucking. If one thing could have made his day worse, it was whittling his finger instead of the wood. He threw the half-carved stick on the ground and stared at it.

An owl hoot right above caused him to jump and look up just in time to catch sight of Fergus leaving his tent. The captain of Medb’s army looked around furtively before slipping into the forest. Mac Roth smiled, sheathed his dagger, and began to follow. If he understood anything about life in Ériu, it was that to get on, the ambitious had to remove those considered their betters. Removal could be anything from disgrace to murder. Some would consider killing competition as malice, but Mac Roth was not so squeamish. The way Fergus self-consciously left his tent and was slinking through the trees, Mac Roth thought he could advance his cause without resorting to the dagger at his belt.

He kept a respectable distance. Although he was sure of foot and could move through the forest as silently as the morning mist, he did not want a chance snap of a twig to give him away. Fergus was carrying a torch and kept stopping and looking over his shoulder. He would discover Mac Roth if he got too close.

The furtiveness of the captain of Medb’s armies became more pronounced as they slinked through the trees. It was challenging Mac Roth’s willpower to keep himself from rushing. As he moved, the idea that he would profit from the night became surer. Somehow, he managed to keep his distance and stopped on the clearing’s edge, where Fergus had come to a halt. The forest out of reach of his torch was dark. However, there was light from the clearing—someone else was carrying a torch. He chanced a glance around the tree he was behind and sucked in a silent breath.

“I see you came, then?” Medb said. Mac Roth could see no detail, except she had her head down. Although subdued, subservient almost, her voice was unmistakable.

“I always do as I’m told, don’t I, Medb?”

Mac Roth smiled to himself. The cailleach was about to put the bundún in his place. At last. He had been waiting for this moment since the Ulsterman arrived in Crúachain.

“Do as ordered? Yes, I suppose you do, and I am glad of it, Fergus. I truly am. I wish more of my retainers were like you.”

“I’m a retainer?”

“A retainer? No. You know what I mean. I do not want to put you down. I want you to understand what I am about to ask of you.”

“And what do you want me to do now, Lady?”

“Hmm. It is more what I want you not to do, to be honest.”

“You don’t want me to do what?”

“I do not want you to… I do not want us to…” she hesitated before lifting her head and continuing, “I think we must stop our liaisons. It is becoming too risky. We are too close to the rest of the army. If Ailill were to catch us, there is no telling what he would do.”

Fergus said nothing. Even from behind his tree, Mac Roth could feel the tension buzzing through the air. The cailleach was dumping her latest conquest. A song of the bards would not beat the beauty of it. He wanted to sing with joy.

“What do you think?” Medb asked with the same subdued voice. Mac Roth wanted to laugh and dance. She was being canny, pushing the brainless bodalán in the direction she wanted him to take.

“What I think, Lady, is you’ll do what you will. My thoughts on the matter don’t have any bearing.”

Mac Roth’s heart picked up pace as Fergus stormed away, not more than an arm’s length from where he was hiding. Mac Roth was visible in the torchlight. Had Fergus looked up from his feet, he would have seen him. As the crashing of Fergus’s progress receded, Mac Roth sighed his silent relief and risked a look around the tree. Medb was standing with her back to him. He thought he saw her chest heave as though she were sobbing. It could not be, though. The queen did not weep over unrequited love. She usually did not even tell the no longer required they were redundant, as he knew well enough.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

***

“The king wants you in his tent,” Mac Roth hissed at Fergus across the fire. Fergus looked up at him and wondered how easy it would be to kill him. He did not think it would take much. Warriors who blustered and mistreated their retainers were always the first to run from the shield wall.

“Since when have you been the king’s messenger?”

“Since your bundún sidekick stole my position as Captain of the Queen’s Guard,” Mac Roth hissed with a level of vehemence Fergus found surprising.

“I can see that isn’t to your liking. Little friendly advice: you’d do well not to let Conall hear you call him an arse. You’d look a bit strange without a head.”

“Go and tell me magairlí, bodalán. You think I give a rat’s hole for your words? An Ulsterman who is cuckolding my king. I would cut your throat for a copper ring and throw Conall’s in for free.”

“I’d wager you would. I’d also wager you’d wait until we were both asleep. Your type never changes. You’re a coward, treading on those you think are juniors and licking the holes of those above. I’d be wary of threatening me, though. And Conall. Even Longas could squash you like the dung beetle you are.”

“Words. Nothing more than words.”

“You’ll find in time, unlike words, I can kill you, Mac Roth.”

“I am not afeard of you, Ulaid,” Mac Roth spat.

“What does the king want?” Fergus asked with a sigh. Watching the way Mac Roth’s mouth twitched and his eyes danced, he felt a misgiving start in the pit of his gut.

“Go and find out for yourself. Despite what you think, I am not the king’s messenger. I was just doing him a favor.”

As he passed Mac Roth, Fergus made as if to grab the hilt of his sword. Mac Roth cowered and took a step backward, tripping over a fallen log and landing on his arse. “Not scared, you say. You’ve a strange way of showing it.”

Fergus laughed to himself while walking to see Ailill. Entering the king’s presence, his laugh stopped mid-chortle. Ailill was sitting in his chair, knees apart, head down. He was tense as though holding a writhing child close until it calmed. The atmosphere in the tent engendered a sense of impending doom.

The king did not look up until Fergus spoke. “Sire?”

The eyes Ailill turned on him made Fergus blanch. Anyone who thought the king was weak and saw that look would change their mind, showing Fergus why Connacht chose Ailill as their king. He wondered what had caused the king to flounder so badly. The witch’s treatment of him and the death of Maine Milscothach were not enough, surely. Infidelity and death were integral to the way of the warrior.

“Tell me it is not true, Fergus.”

“I don’t understand you, Sire. What isn’t true?”

“Tell me you are not humping my wife.”

Fergus tried to speak, but no words would come. He should have answered the king without hesitation but was not as good as Conall at hiding his feelings and knew his hesitation condemned him. He could feel the heat of his blush rising. “I don’t know—”

“Do not speak, Fergus,” the king interrupted. “You have been sufficiently eloquent with your silence, truth be told.”

“Sire?”

“What am I to do with you?”

“I don’t know—”

“It was not a question,” Ailill interrupted again. “I was merely thinking aloud. I am surprised, though I know I should not be. You are an Ulsterman, after all. I have no idea why my wife… No, I will rephrase. I had no idea why my wife thought having you three in court was necessary. Now I know.”

“No, Sire. It isn’t true. I swear by the Dagda, it was an accident.”

“Humping the queen of Connacht was an accident? Really? You just fell on top of her with your cock out, did you?”

“The others had nothing to do with my affair with the queen.”

“I find that hard to believe. You three have been up to no good since you arrived in Crúachain. I would not be surprised to learn you have been working for The Deceiver from the outset.”

“No, Sire. Mac Nessa betrayed and killed my friends—”

"Yes, Naoise and Dierdre. I have heard you speak of it. Let us say that is true. It explains your presence here. It does not explain the presence of the others. Why are they here?”

“Conall is my friend, and Longas despises the king for what he’s done.”

“A son who despises his own father. Do you believe that? If you do, you are more naïve than Medb thinks me to be.”

Fergus shook his head and put his hands on the pommel of his sword because he did not know what else to do with them. The king’s reaction was immediate and baffling.

“Guards! Guards! You will disarm this man.”

Fergus swung around to see two of the king’s guards advancing on him with swords drawn. He pulled his own and fell into a half crouch, point raised, one foot slightly ahead of the other, in his element, finally sure how to act and react. A smile creased his face, and he nodded at his assailants. “Come then. Let’s play.”

“Give it up, Fergus,” Conall said from the tent flaps.

“Conall, what’re you doing here?” Fergus asked, without taking his eyes off the guards.

“The king’s voice was getting ever louder. I came to see what all the fuss was about. You been a boar’s arse again?”

“Not so. Just put my hands where I always put them. King here thought it was a threat.”

“You were drawing your sword,” Ailill hissed.

“I wasn’t. Always stand with my hands on my pommel.”

“It is true, king, boar’s arse always stands with his hands on the pommel. Now, lads, I think we should agree that there has been a misunderstanding and put away our swords. Sire?”

“Do as Conall says,” Ailill nodded at the guards.

“You two can return to your posts while we unravel this knot.” Conall waited for the guards to leave before turning to the king. “What is amiss, Sire?”

“Your friend has been humping my queen.”

“Ah. I thought you did not know,” Conall said, rubbing his chin with an audible rasping.

“You knew?”

“I did, Sire. Tried to talk some sense into the boar’s arse, but he would not listen.” Fergus looked at Conall and wondered what he was doing. It had been his idea. He was about to say something when Conall put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “What would you have me do, Sire?”

“Do? I have no idea. One thing I know for sure: I cannot have Fergus walking around camp with that sword. I would not feel safe.”

“You want me to give up my sword? It won’t happen.”

“It will happen, Sire,” Conall said, squeezing Fergus’s shoulder harder. Fergus guessed he had some way of retrieving the weapon and so relented.

“If anything should befall this sword, heads will be forfeit, starting with yours, Ailill,” Fergus said, unbuckling his belt and letting the sword fall where he stood.

“Now we shall leave you to your rest,” Conall said. The king nodded. Fergus felt his friend dragging him from the king’s tent. “Where is the queen?” he asked as soon as they were far enough from the tent not to be overheard.

Fergus looked at him and shrugged. He had not seen Medb since he left her in the clearing. “Last I saw, she was in the forest.”

“What were you at in the forest, stallion’s cock?”

“It’s not what you think, Conall. Now, I’d prefer if we spoke about other things.”

“Yes. Like how in the name of the Dagda are you going to get your sword back? Difficult to fight a battle without a sword.”