Tossing once more, Medb sighed and felt close to tears. Her sleep was no longer sound. Each noise caused her to start. Each time a warrior called, she thought it was Mórgor returning to her. Each time an owl hooted—Bheara’s disciple—she jumped. The warriors were all wary around her, and she guessed she must look awful. Lack of sleep attacks looks before anything. She knew her hesitancy would also not inspire confidence in her warriors.

She was doubting.

Was the death of Mórgor justified? Could there have been any other way for her to prevent Mac Nessa’s ascension without losing a son? These thoughts were with her constantly, helping the night noises to keep her awake. Sitting in her cot, she watched a moth dance around the flames of her brazier. It came ever closer to the heat before venturing too close and, falling in, turned to ash with its forebears.

She was not only thinking of Mórgor.

Images of Cú Chulainn’s retainer lifting the head of Nadcranntail aloft and showing it to the shocked army were punctuating her night. Tongue lolling, hair dripping with gore, sightless eyes staring at her. She hoped she would never have to see a similar sight again. She, the army, and Ailill all had believed the monster would be too much for the boy, who killed him by driving a boar spear into his open mouth. Had the behemoth been smiling at the boy? There was no other explanation. She shuddered.

Was it the end of her venture?

Nadcranntail was supposed to march down to the river and split the boy from scalp to crotch with his ax. There was to be a big cheer and feasting, followed by a cattle raid into Cooley. Mac Nessa’s time on the throne of Ulster was to come crashing down. The Ulaid were to strangle him and dump him headfirst into the bog next to Honey-Tongued. Instead, a retainer cut the fénnid’s head off and held it aloft, screaming defiance at the watching army.

As the dawn light began to creep into her tent, Medb sighed and looked at her Captain of Guard. She had been so deep in thought that she had not realized Mac Roth was sleeping in his chair, sword resting across his knees. He was snoring slightly. Medb snorted. She climbed naked from the piled hides, picked up a boot, and threw it at him as hard as she could. It struck him upside his sleeping head. Mac Roth started and jumped from his seat, looking around in confusion. His sword fell in the dust with a dull thud, forgotten.

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“Some guard you are,” Medb hissed. Anger welled even further when she caught the look Mac Roth gave her before he hid it behind a mask of subservience. Those looks were becoming more frequent and less guarded.

“Sorry, Lady. I was just resting my eyes for a moment. Nights are long.”

“Resting your eyes. You were snoring. Where is your sword?”

“My Lady?”

“Your sword. Where is your sword?” Medb scoffed as Mac Roth went to feel the hilt in his belt. “It is in the dust at your feet, man. You were asleep. You are meant to protect me, yet you do not know where you left your sword.” Medb knew her tone was becoming higher pitched with each word. Surrounded by incompetents, she could not help it. In Mac Roth’s case, he was incompetent and ambitious. She had seen him eyeing Ailill when he thought she was not looking.

“Pass my robe. As I cannot trust you to guard me, henceforth, you shall be my handmaiden.”

“My Lady?”

“My robe, man. I will away to the stream to wash.”

She heard him hiss, “Tóin,” under his breath but said nothing. She would deal with him in good time. Now, she needed to rinse the night sweats from her body and rid herself of the horrors with icy stream water. Mac Roth tossed the robe and strode from the tent without a word.

Following, Medb was tying her belt, head down, and so walked into him where he had stopped directly outside the tent. “By the Tuatha, what sort of an idiot leaves a tent and stops?” she cried.

Mac Roth said nothing. He stood staring at something Medb could not see. She looked over his shoulder at the crowds gathering and staring. Moving past her guard, she stopped. Nadcranntail was staring at her, mouth agape, and both cheeks slashed, so his lower jaw hung—tongue lolling—the same sightless eyes she had seen at the fords. She gagged and then vomited, unable to hold the puke in.

“Why did he do it?” she whispered, not expecting an answer. Fergus, standing beside the head on its stake, heard the words.

“He did it because he wanted to show he’s in control. Show he can walk into this camp at a whim.” Medb looked at him, but for once, Fergus was not laughing.

“Mac Roth bury the greatest warrior the Five Kingdoms has ever known.”

“Where, Lady?”

“Where? Are you an imbecile? I do not care where. Just get that thing out of my sight,” Medb waved at the hapless Nadcranntail before returning to her tent.

The words, “My Lady, may I have a word?” arrested her before she reached the tent flaps.

“Who are you?”

“I am Caomh of the Brigantes, Lady.”

Medb sighed and nodded. What now, she wondered, holding up a flap for Caomh to enter her tent.