In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Read online

  ‘Betrayed us?’ said Morann. ‘Is that what you’re saying? Could he do that?’

  ‘Could and did,’ said Toráin, his voice thick with rage. ‘Vainche has betrayed us and all of Eirlandia into the bargain.’

  ‘They would never do that,’ said Aengus. ‘No Dé Danann warrior could do such a thing to a swordbrother.’

  ‘Truly?’ demanded Conor, his voice shaking with rage. ‘How little you know that double-faced rogue Vainche.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the plain behind him. ‘Unless you find his corpse on the field out there, that is exactly what he did.’

  They were still cursing Vainche’s betrayal when Fergal and the fianna reached them. ‘Look at them out there!’ shouted Fergal, throwing himself down from his mount. ‘Look what they’re doing! The animals!’

  The lords turned back to the battle ground, where the Scálda, having stripped the Dé Danann dead, were cutting off the heads of the warriors and were putting them on spears driven into the ground. All across the plain, spears were being raised, and the blood of good warriors was being smeared on the horses and shields, faces and torsos of their victorious foe.

  Humiliated, shamed, the defenders stood shaking in rage and dismay as the bodies of former friends and kinsmen were cruelly, wickedly defiled: the hands, feet, arms, and legs of their dead swordbrothers were lopped off and heaped in piles while laughing Scálda urinated into the ragged wounds. Then the victors began dragging the bloody remains behind their chariots. Back and forth across Mag Cró they rolled, whooping and ululating in triumph as they hauled the headless, limbless corpses through the battle-churned dirt.

  ‘Taunting us!’ cried Aengus. ‘The shit scum are taunting us!’ He lofted his spear and shouted, ‘To your weapons, brothers. Let’s ride!’

  ‘Stop!’ Conor grabbed hold of the young lord’s arm and spun him around. ‘Look out there. They’ve claimed the battleground. It’s over.’

  ‘We can attack while they’re—’

  ‘Shut up!’ snapped Toráin. ‘Conor is right. They dog-eaters have won. It’s over.’

  Conor, still restraining Aengus, said, ‘Listen to me, brother. We were outnumbered today. With the Brigantes and Darini we had a chance. Without them, whatever chance we had is gone. The Scálda know it. That’s why they taunt us now—hoping to draw us into a fight we can’t win. It’s over.’

  Morann, leaning on his spear, spoke not a word, but the expression of grief and rage over having lost his tribal lands again spoke for them all. They had been beaten by a superior host with a superior weapon. All the Dé Danann could do was to slink away while they still had life and strength enough to cover their retreat.

  By the time the defeated defenders left the battlefield, the smoke from the burning bodies was already curling black and pungent into the clear blue sky.

  Sceana

  The first time he hit me came as a shock. To think that anyone would dare raise a rude hand to a reigning queen in Eirlandia was outrageous. As queen of the Brigantes, no one had ever put a hand to me in anger—not my father, nor my lord Brecan even in his most savage bouts of rage. The thing was unthinkable.

  When it came, the storm roared in out of nowhere. I had dallied with some of my maidens and kept him waiting overlong. My lord had expected us to dine together and had returned from his hunting earlier than I knew. By the time I learned he was waiting and joined him, Vainche was already well and truly enraged.

  At the first words out of my mouth, he seized me by the arm, his hand flicked out, and he struck me hard on the cheek. ‘Who are you to keep me waiting? You are my bitch and I expect you to heel when I call!’

  I could not answer. So appalling were his words … so hateful and cruel. It fair stole the breath from me. If the earth had opened and swallowed me whole, I would not have been more stunned. I fell back, cowering like the dog he said I was.

  At this, he leapt to my side, instantly tender and attentive. He took me in his arms, comforted me with kisses, and told me that I must take heed not to rouse his anger. He said he loved me, adored me more than life itself and would never want harm of any kind to visit me.

  I believed him. How could I not? He had never behaved in such a way before and I thought he would never do it again. We resumed our life together in all the pleasantry and harmony we had enjoyed before.

  But, little by little, he began to behave in ways I had not seen before. He would make demands—deciding who among my ladies and maidens I could confide in, talk to, which could serve me. He convinced me to dismiss all but two of them—the two he approved and trusted.

  He told me what to wear—only the merest suggestion at first, but if I disagreed and chose a mantle or girdle he did not like, or a brooch he thought unsuitable, he was quick to make his displeasure known—sometimes with the back of his hand. In this way, he enforced his will in most other things as well. If I wanted to ride, he told me which horse I could take, where I could go, and, eventually, whether I was allowed go out at all. Over time, he gave me to know that he did not like me venturing beyond the gates of Aintrén without someone with me. That someone was, as often as not, his battlechief Gioll—a man whose company I found so repugnant that I chose not to ride at all rather than have that leering pig following me, watching my every move. All this time, as I later learned, he was working to turn my own people against me. He told them things—insane things I will not repeat—that gave them to know I was not in my right mind, and so never to be believed or trusted by anyone.

  Through all this, my lord Vainche gave me to know that it was displeasing him that roused his anger, and that we might both avoid the unpleasantness of a slap if I merely obeyed him in all things as, after all, he was only acting in my best interest. He convinced me that it was no one’s fault but my own that he struck me. If I had not angered him so, he would not have lashed out at me. Thus, it was up to me never to cross him again.

  If I doubted this, it was a lesson I was soon to learn in earnest. Once again—as ever was his wont—he had been out hunting with Gioll and some of the warband. I had gone to the hall on some errand or other and on emerging saw Elidhe, one of my former maidens. The side of her face was swollen and discoloured by a nasty bruise. Naturally, I asked about how it happened, and she made light of the matter, saying it was her own fault and that she had been clumsy the night before. She had been serving ale to his lordship and his warriors, and had tripped over her own feet. She had fallen against a bench, she said. It was nothing, she said.

  As it happened, Vainche and the hunters returned just then. They came pounding into the yard and my lord saw me with Elidhe. He flew into a rage and ordered us both to our places. I refused. He dismounted, seized me by the hair, and began dragging me across the yard to the women’s house. I screamed and struck out at him—hardly knowing what I did. He halted, jerked me upright, and swung his fist into my jaw, knocking me to the ground.

  Ach, well, the next day I had the selfsame bruise on my face that Elidhe wore on hers. And I knew full well how she got it.

  Shamed, humiliated, mortified beyond words that he should treat me so before my people, I did not show myself outside the door of the women’s house for two days. I remained inside, unwilling to let anyone see what he had done, stewing over it, refusing food, fretting myself sleepless. It came to me as I lay on my bed that Vainche had not changed at all, that he had always been this same scheming, deceptive creature revealed in the yard, and that he was only beginning to show his true nature.

  I also determined that I would never allow him to raise his hand to me again.

  I have obeyed his whims. I have agreed to his ill-conceived plans. I have been meek and mild to him beyond all his desirings. In this, I have been scrupulous. I have also been vigilant—awaiting my opportunity to free myself from this self-obsessed tyrant. When that opportunity presents itself, I will be ready and I will act. Though it cost my life, I will see him suffer the dishonour he has earned for himself and face the justice he deserves.


  12

  These are the names of the Dé Danann who fell at Mag Cró: Lúgaid mac Lóann, Carillán mac Fiachna, Uisni mac Floda, Rofessa mac Dátho, Briccir mac Bricrú; Ferbaeth mac Rónán and Blai Orlám of Sliabh Cuilinn; Sualdaím mac Buan, Conal mac Cernach, Cimling from Clan Banbha, Senlobar of Clan Celtchar, and Bruchar, Alamac, and Amargin of Clan Muire; Dredas mac Drenhan, Tibraíd mac Rus, Fergus mac Sencha from Clan Cerno Tum, and Tuam mac Dáithi, Malen and Griann from Clan Ess Ruadh; Tibraidh mac Gall, Dorda and Seirid and Serthe from Druim Oblan; Láráin mac Mathar, Ferdia mac Damach, Lúgaid Lechmor, Cúroi mac Conad, and Conall mac Roth.

  These were the dead left on the blood-soaked ground and over which their clans and kinsmen mourned. The warbands of the Concani, Cauci, Ulaid, and Laigini were each diminished and each grieved for their slain swordbrothers. Three of the fianna fell to Scálda blades, too: Torban mac Cael, Uail mac Duri, and Reith mac Rotha.

  In all, thirty-two died in that ill-fated battle that day. Others would later succumb to wounds received in battle, and they were no less mourned. Conor and Fergal reckoned each death and every injury a defeat and a failure. The only kings who did not suffer any loss were Vainche and Liam; their betrayal added to the heavy hearts and sour mood of the survivors and made their defeat that much more intolerable. Thus, when the low clouds turned the sky grey and heavy with rain, it matched the desolation they all felt.

  Tired, disheartened, aching in mind and heart and body, the Dé Danann warhost came to Glasbrú, a small Cauci farming settlement near the green, reed-fringed banks of Lough Glas on the border of the Lord Toráin’s territory. The clan chief and two of the elders came out onto the trail to greet them, displaying an awkward regard for their lord, and he for them—which served to remind Conor just how inexperienced was the young nobleman as a ruler.

  Toráin quickly explained to his clansmen about the battle that had taken place at Mag Cró and the need for a place to rest and heal their wounds. Daragh, the chieftain—a brusque fellow with a brown, weatherworn face and large, splay-fingered hands—pointed out that it would be tight quarters but they would do their best by their lord. Some of the settlement’s boys had gathered to gawk at all the warriors and their horses, and the chieftain sent them running back to the ráth to alert the women that food and drink would be needed—and that soon!—for upward of sixty or seventy hungry and thirsty men.

  ‘I would that you slaughter a bullock for us tonight,’ the lord said, ‘and bring out your best ale—and mead, if you have it.’ The head man nodded agreeably, but rubbed his chin with a thoughtful expression. Toráin, mindful of the man’s hesitance, said, ‘I will replace the beast from my own herd as well as anything else you provide.’ Still the chieftain hesitated. ‘Man, we have come fresh from battle and care nothing for the cost,’ Toráin told him in tight, exasperated tones. ‘We have wounded with us and many already faint from hunger. Do as I say, and be quick about it!’

  This propelled the whole settlement into motion as the clan set about preparing food and lodging for the warriors. Glasbrú, the sleepy farm holding, was transformed into a crowded and busy armed camp. The boys and young men ran to help take care of the horses, and the older men put up boards and set cooking fires in the yard and hauled provisions from the storehouses. While the food was being prepared, several of the older women who had experience of treating and dressing injuries of various kinds directed the wounded to be brought into the steading’s hall, where their wounds could be washed and bound. Some of the younger women filled tubs and vats with water and brought out fist-sized lumps of soap for the warriors.

  Conor and the fianna took full advantage of the soap and water to wash away the sweat and grime and gore of the day’s fighting. They spoke little and haltingly, and went about cleaning themselves with a sort of grim determination—as if to remove the awful stain of defeat. Then, bone-weary, but grateful for the small comfort provided, the warriors went to join their swordbrothers at the ale vats and Conor and Fergal found a quiet spot on a bench under the sheltering eaves of the chieftain’s modest hall to talk and share the first of many cups that night. Toráin and Morann joined them for their discussion.

  ‘I hate losing a battle,’ said Fergal, as Daragh’s youngest son offered two jars to them and then ran off to fetch more cups. ‘All the more because this is one we should have won.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Morann unhappily. ‘If not for Vainche we would be celebrating a victory tonight.’

  ‘How many men did we lose today?’ asked Toráin.

  ‘Counting the six from the fianna, I make it thirty-two,’ answered Conor, staring into his jar.

  ‘And at least half that many wounded,’ added Fergal. ‘How many wounded among your men?’

  ‘Nine—including five before you came,’ said Toráin. ‘But we were luckier than Aengus and Laegaire, I think. I saw them only briefly after the battle. They could not wait to leave Mag Cró.’

  ‘Do you blame them?’ said Morann. ‘I would we were home, too. But that is not to be—at least not anytime soon.’ His sigh of frustration and fatigue spoke for them all. ‘If not for Vainche—the Black Hag take him! I curse his name.’

  ‘Touching on that,’ said Fergal, ‘I know Vainche holds us low in his sight, but I would never have expected him to abandon the battle—and all for the sake of dealing us a blow.’

  ‘Me, you mean,’ suggested Conor. ‘He wanted to deal me a blow.’

  ‘What can Vainche have been thinking?’ wondered Morann.

  Fergal gave a snort of sharp disdain. ‘It is rank treachery—that’s what it is. And treachery in the midst of battle, as any druid would tell us, is one of the three loathly treasons.’

  ‘Aye,’ confirmed Morann. ‘Treason it is, and death is the proper punishment.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Conor, swirling the ale in his cup. ‘Any warrior in my fianna who behaved so would not be drawing breath in the Land of the Living even now.’ He raised his eyes to Morann and added, ‘But you have stirred my curiosity. I want Vainche punished, but I want to know why he did such a contemptible thing, aye, and what he hoped to gain by it.’

  Daragh’s boy appeared with more foaming jars and passed them to the lords and all drank in silence.

  ‘Where were the Coriondi?’ wondered Morann after a moment. ‘They should have been here. With them at least, we might have carried the day without the Brigantes at all.’

  ‘And the Eridani,’ said Fergal. ‘Corgan should have been here, too.’

  ‘And what of your kinsman, Liam?’ asked Toráin, a hint of his old, sly insinuation edging into his tone. ‘Do you plan to invoke the justice of a brehon for Liam’s part, too?’

  ‘Whatever judgement is meted to Vainche will be shared by my wayward and unwise brother,’ Conor replied darkly. ‘Liam chose his portion when he sided with Lord Vainche and so must suffer the consequences accordingly.’

  Lord Toráin regarded Conor for a long moment and his demeanour altered. He took a drink and gazed into his cup, saying, ‘I was wrong about you, Conor mac Ardan. After what happened at the council, I would not blame you if you had planted a spear between my shoulders.’

  ‘Nay, brother, I never would,’ Conor told him lightly. ‘My spear knows only one enemy and that is the Scálda. You have nothing to fear from me.’

  ‘Too many Dé Danann have died today already, we would not be about adding to that number,’ Fergal said.

  ‘Now we have the enemy here on the coast, we must look to strengthen the defence of our borders,’ observed Morann, bitterness edging into his tone. ‘At least those of you who still have settlements and strongholds to defend.’

  ‘Aye, and for that my people owe you our thanks, Conor mac Ardan. I am sorry for doubting you. Believe me when I tell you that I was influenced by some very bad advice. I’m finished with Vainche and I will never seek his aid or counsel again. Twice I’ve trusted him and twice been led astray against my own best interests. I have learned a hard lesson this tim
e, and no mistake. I hope you’ll accept my apologies for my part in Corgan’s airechtas. I was a fool.’

  ‘All that is behind us,’ Conor told him. ‘We need speak of it no more.’

  ‘If anyone deserved to be judged it is surely Vainche,’ said Morann. ‘After his behaviour on the battlefield…’ He spat. ‘Disgraceful.’

  ‘Criminal,’ agreed Toráin. ‘It’s him we should be raising a charge against and this time get a druid or two to stand as judge. That’s what he deserves.’

  ‘He deserves to be stripped naked and horse-whipped to within a hair of his life. That’s what he deserves,’ said Morann.

  The talk went on like this and the day closed gently around them. The exhausted warriors sat and watched the Cauci clan prepare the meal and allowed the sweet ale to ease the pain in their battered bodies.

  The pain of defeat would take much longer to heal.

  The defenders had lost good men and Conor did not know which hurt the more: being unable to recover the bodies for a warrior’s burial, or that those warriors were betrayed by one of their own. Conor carried the hurt like a wound and he knew that, like a wound, it would leave a scar. Every wound left a scar, and every scar a lasting memory.

  Later, after a morose and melancholy meal, Conor went off to sleep in the overcrowded barn. Anxious to be on his way back to Tara, he rose at dawn and ordered the fianna to get ready to leave. ‘You’ll be stopping by Dúnaird on the way home?’ Toráin asked as Conor and Fergal waited for their horses to be brought out.

  ‘Nothing good would happen there,’ Conor replied. ‘My brother knows what he did, and there will be a reckoning one day soon. This is far from finished.’

  ‘Then I wish you all speed,’ the Cauci lord told him. ‘I’m certain we will be meeting again very soon.’

  ‘Count on it,’ said Conor. ‘Perhaps sooner than we know. The Scálda are on the move again, and I doubt they’ll be satisfied with the gains they’ve made. They’ll try for more. We can only hope that next time, we’re better prepared.’