Before

Rumours

Queen

Morrigan’s messenger ruffled its feathers and cawed to get Medb’s attention. Good news or bad? she wondered before deciding it could only be bad. She doubted the Goddess was with her. Not again. Not so soon. She took hold of the charm around her neck and breathed deeply, bringing the smell of new blooms, heady, calming. The early evening sea breeze took the edge off the heat, if not off Mac Roth’s temper. He was swatting at the flies swarming around his bald pate and swearing under his breath.

Sighing, she looked back across the plain.

Despite the crow staring down at her from atop the gatehouse, her moody guard, and the soreness in her thighs, she smiled. The ship’s captain had been wrong. For once, hiring horses and crossing the island had proven problem-free. It was barely past mid-afternoon. She looked back at the hills and meandering narrow path leading to the gates before them. Secluded and hard to get to, Caer Leb was an imposing edifice, as the druids had no doubt intended.

“How long have you been captain of guards, Mac Roth?” she asked.

“Several years, Lady,” he answered without looking.

“Several years ought to be enough time for you to know it is part of your function to announce me.”

“I am aware.”

“What, then, are you waiting for, a royal decree?”

“Sorry, Lady.” He stumbled over the words, redness creeping up from his boiled leather armor. “Hallo the gate,” he called, still without looking at her.

“Who are you?” a surly voice asked.

“We sent ahead, forewarning the council of my Lady’s arrival.”

“As did half a dozen others this morning. Which one of the needy are you?”

“Bodalán,” Mac Roth hissed under his breath. Medb leaned over and took hold of his wrist, squeezing it ungently, ensuring there was a warning in her eyes.

“Well? Not got all day, do I,” the surly voice returned.

“I am Medb, Queen of Connacht,” she called. Known as The Scourge of Babylon, the city of witchcraft, she did not say but smiled inwardly at the thought. The wagging tongues of garrulous bards were useful for some things. Had the gatekeeper seen the crow on the gatehouse, she knew he would now be cursing his surliness.

“Ah, yes. Elders are expecting you. They honor you, Lady. They ordered others to wait. You go straight to the feast hall,” he said as he opened the gate. “Honoured above others is the cailleach of Crúachain.”

Riding through, Medb looked down on the gatekeeper. The little hair he had was grey, wispy. He was wearing a leather vest, naked arms crisscrossed with a latticework of old battle scars, nodding, smiling, what would be a toothy smile if he only had teeth. Her intended reprimand turned to a smile and a nod. The veteran’s scars shone out through a sudden blush.

“You know the way, to be sure,” he said, grinning like a settlement idiot. Medb smiled again before riding on.

“Wait here,” she told Mac Roth as she dismounted.

“I cannot allow it, Lady.”

“Cannot allow it? You forget yourself.”

“I am sworn to protect you.”

“I need no protection. They are elders, more used to dealing out words than sword strokes,” Medb said while frowning at his impertinence.

Mac Roth looked skeptical. “The Druidess Dornoll trains warriors for war, so, knows as much about killing as she does words.”

“You will wait here, Mac Roth. I am not engaging in a debate.’

“Very well, Lady,” he bowed, trying to hide his displeasure by looking away, angering her when she needed to be calm.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“For once, Mac Roth, do as I instruct and with the willingness befitting a retainer,” she hissed before ducking through the door. Remembering why she kept him was becoming more demanding of late—why she elevated him in the first place brought a fleeting smile to her face.

She hesitated before starting up the aisle, time for her eyes to adjust and the smile to be forced away. She felt a tingle as the hairs on her arm became animated, knowing all eyes in the hall were on her. It made her feel like an errant pupil called to the fore by the druid.

“Welcome, Medb,” the druidess Dornoll said with a nod.

Gazing at the head of the table, Medb smiled. Dornoll was in the prime seat, confirming her position as Council Lead. Biróg, the sorceress, was sitting to her immediate right. Myrddin, the druid of Ynys Môn, was opposite Biróg, and Mug, adviser to Mesgegra, king of Leinster, was furthest from Dornoll. The young druid, Taidle, was absent. As the druid of Tara, Medb supposed Taidle was out searching for a new high king. The chairs of Tlachtga, the druidess of Munster, and Kathvar, the druid of Ulster, also stood empty.

Medb sighed in relief. She had feared meeting Kathvar since setting off from Connacht. It was not the man so much as what he would say and do when he heard her petition.

“How may the council help you this time?” Dornoll asked with a smile.

Medb looked at the druidess and wondered whether there was sarcasm in the question. She could only see a genuine smile and a welcoming expression in the limited light. More welcome than the last time, she realized. But then, they could not have been less welcoming than the last time. Even word of the rape had elicited little reaction from them.

“I have come before you once more to request the council stand opposed to Mac Nessa’s election during the next Assembly of Kings.”

“Yes, we thought that might be the reason, which is why Kathvar is not here,” Biróg laughed.

“I see. And why did you think that, might I ask?”

“You are not as much of an enigma to us as you might wish. Your petitions are of a theme, shall we say.”

The druids around the table smiled and nodded, making Medb feel foolish. Dornoll frowned as she asked, “Do you have a suitable alternative?”

“There are many worthy, surely?”

“We have not been able to find a replacement, Medb. Taidle has been out scouring the Five Kingdoms for many months.”

“I see,” Medb said, unable to keep the scorn from her tone.

Dornoll sucked in a breath before continuing, “There is still a threat from the south and east. Since crushing the Gauls, these Romans have invaded Alba twice. A full invasion and suppression of the Britons will soon follow. After them, who do you think will be next?” Dornoll looked around the table. Medb looked at each of the druids, who were staring at various points in the hall, lost in their own thoughts. “The Five Kingdoms will be next. Ériu needs to be strong and united to face the threat. Ériu needs a high king. Without alternatives, Ériu needs the king of the Ulaid.”

“There must be someone else. We cannot have Five Kingdoms full of chieftains and warriors without one suitable candidate for high king.” One who is not known as The Deceiver and capable of atrocity, Medb thought, unwilling to voice it again.

“Perhaps there are some. However, time is running short. We will stand around the Bull Ring during the next Beltane. It takes a lot of effort to train a new high king. Mac Nessa is already trained.”

“It was his champion who murdered the women of Temuir.” And he raped me on the banks of the Bóand during an earlier assembly, she did not say. Repeating her claim would appear weak.

“Yes, that was a tragic incident, all those women—”

“Tragic. Really. Are you sure?’ Medb interrupted, unable to help herself.

Dornoll looked up sharply, staring into Medb’s eyes, not breaking contact as she said, “It was the warrior who killed them. Mac Nessa had nothing to do with it.”

‘You know this how?”

“Kathvar was there when The Hound gave the warriors in the feast hall his ultimatum.”

“Ultimatum. Which ultimatum?”

“He stood in the hall and admitted what he had done. He told the warriors it was an execution, and they should either accept it or face him.”

“Execution?”

“The courtly wives killed the queen—tore her apart because of some jealousy over a beauty competition. The Hound executed them.”

Medb shook her head, trying to clear it of the images Dornoll’s words evoked. She had been in Temuir and left just before the murder began. She was sure Morrigan had been watching over her that day. She touched the amulet around her neck, a golden crow, crudely carved by the Elder Race, full of Morrigan’s power.

“When he found Dervla and Lugaid dead, The Hound rampaged through Temuir and crushed everything with teats wearing a dress. He was indiscriminate. He did not care if the women were involved. Can we have a high king whose champion is a born killer?”

“Ah, Medb. Warriors are born killers. It is the nature of what they do. Could we afford to have a champion who is not a born killer? Would that be more apt as a question?”

“What about his indiscriminate killing? It was a rage killing, not an execution.”

“Kathvar says the boy was like ice, showing no emotion at all.”

“And you believe what Kathvar says?”

“Why would we not? He is a senior member of this council.”

“Yet, you do not trust him to be here during this meeting.”

“It is not that we do not trust him, Medb. We just wanted to spare you the discomfort of his presence. We know your feelings about Kathvar and his allegiance to Ulster.”

“That is well,” said a deep voice from the rear of the hall. “Because if I thought this council would hold meetings and exclude me for any other reason, the consequences would be dire.”