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

  ‘It’s about the wall,’ said Conla.

  ‘What about the wall?’ wondered Conor.

  ‘Aye, well, it is high time we made a start,’ replied the builder. ‘There is timber to cut and ditches to be renewed and holes dug to receive the uprights.’

  ‘Not to mention gate fittings to be forged,’ put in Partan, the youngest of the two assistants. Realising he had spoken out of turn, he blushed. ‘I do beg your pardon, lord.’

  ‘True enough.’ Conla gave the youth a reprimanding look, and continued, ‘If we hope to be anywhere near finished before winter—’

  ‘Winter!’ exclaimed Conor. ‘Winter now, is it? We’ve most of a summer, and an autumn to get through.’

  ‘That is as may be,’ replied Conla sagely, ‘but a wall will not raise itself. If we’re to be getting the gates hung before the snow flies, we’d better be about making a start. More workers would make the job less of a chore.’

  ‘More men,’ repeated Dearg. ‘How many do you reckon?’

  ‘Ten at least—fifteen would be better,’ answered Conla. ‘Strong men who know a thing or two about felling trees and stripping timber, aye—and can go day on day without complaint or injury.’

  Conor rubbed his cheek, feeling the old familiar tingle of the strawberry stain—the disfigurement that had shaped so much of his life and set him apart—now awakened to a fresh irritation. More workers … where would they put them? How would they feed them?

  ‘Lord?’ said Dearg after a moment. ‘If you like, I can ask Donal to form a work party to begin with the trees and digging the ditches for the earthworks.’

  ‘Nay, nay,’ replied Conor. ‘I have been thinking on this very thing and I can save us all a great deal of time and labour.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘By not building a wall.’

  ‘Not building…’ Dearg and the carpenter exchanged a puzzled look. ‘You mean delay construction just now?’

  ‘I mean no offence, my lord, but delaying now will make it very difficult to finish before winter, and if we—’

  ‘I mean to say,’ said Conor, ‘that my fortress will not have a wall.’

  ‘No wall?’ wondered Partan, his voice rising in disbelief. ‘None at all?’

  Conla frowned. ‘What manner of ráth or dún has no wall?’

  Conor smiled. ‘This one. My friends, we are home to the largest warband Eirlandia has seen in living memory. We are surrounded on all sides by strong and generous kinsmen. If danger comes calling, it will find a rough welcome here. The fianna will be our stout wall.’

  The carpenter opened his mouth to object, but Dearg quickly quelled any dissent saying, ‘My lord has spoken. You are free to return to your duties.’

  Both men made a slight bow of acknowledgement and walked away; after a few steps, Conla could be seen shaking his head while his assistant muttered misgivings.

  Conor, watching them, said, ‘Tell me, Dearg, what are your thoughts on the matter? Am I making a mistake?’

  ‘It is not for me to say, lord. And we have plenty enough to keep us busy until the snow flies.’

  ‘Ach, well, we shall see.’ He turned to his hearth master. ‘Was there anything else?’

  Dearg, shaking his head, took his leave and hurried off. One of the five original members of the fianna, the redheaded warrior had thrown himself into his new civil duties with the same dedication previously reserved for his weapons and training—so much so that, looking at him now, Conor doubted the young Brigantes would ever wield a spear in battle again. A loss, yes, but his services in his current occupation became more indispensable; for, as the tribe grew, so, too, the duties and responsibilities of the master of the hearth to provide the necessaries of life.

  Dearg disappeared among the spread of tents and hastily constructed shelters that had mushroomed across Tara’s plateau, and Conor resumed his stroll to the hall, where he was beset by questions and demands from the men thatching its roof before going inside to break his fast with a little bread softened in warm milk into which bits of smoked fish had been flaked and steeped. He was just draining the bowl when Donal appeared. ‘Come, join me, brother,’ he invited. ‘There is more in the pot, I think.’

  The dark-haired warrior, Conor’s boyhood friend and now head of his ardféne, took a seat on the bench and spooned warm breccbainne from the squat black cauldron into a wooden bowl. ‘What do you think of the hall so far? Splendid, is it not? It will be finished soon,’ he observed mildly. ‘And I have spoken to Conla and he tells me that the women’s house will have walls and a roof by Beltaine.’

  ‘Aye, if the weather stays fair,’ agreed Conor. ‘Perhaps in time for the birth of my son.’

  ‘A boy now, is it?’ said Donal, his broad face breaking into an amused smile. ‘A few days ago, you were certain the child would be a girl. You were even going to name her Rhiannon, as I recall.’

  ‘What do you expect?’ replied Conor. ‘All I have is guesses. Unless I can persuade you to cast your inner eye upon that path and tell me one way or the other which it will be, I’ll keep on guessing.’

  Donal shrugged. ‘Speaking of walls, brother,’ he said, casually breaking chunks of dry brown bread into his bowl, ‘I’m just now hearing that you have decided not to erect a defensive wall around the ráth. Can this be so?’

  ‘I expect you heard it correctly,’ replied Conor. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘According to your carpenter, that is a misjudgement that invites disaster.’

  ‘Ach, I know what Conla thinks. What do you think?’

  ‘I think I would like to hear why you would be saying such a thing before deciding.’ Donal took one of the wooden spoons from an empty bowl on the table and began stirring the mixture. He slurped and swallowed, then regarded Conor expectantly. ‘I’m listening.’

  Conor took up the ladle and dipped into the cauldron, adding a little more of the savoury liquid to his bowl. The voices of the thatchers on the roof above them could be heard, mingling with the sounds of hammering and sawing coming from the yard; somewhere a dog barked and a horse neighed—all sounds of industry, of life, sounds that had not been heard on Tara Hill since the last high king reigned there in time past memory.

  ‘It seems to me that every ráth and dún in Eirlandia has good stout walls and yet that does not keep them safe from the Scálda.’

  ‘Not walls alone,’ Donal agreed. ‘You need warriors to defend them.’

  ‘Aye, walls are only as good as the warband behind them.’ Conor lifted the bowl to his mouth and emptied it again. ‘Without a warband to defend the ráth, walls are little more than a hurdle to be climbed over, or a stand of timber to be burned.’

  ‘That is a harsh judgement,’ Donal declared, spooning up breccbainne and chewing thoughtfully.

  ‘Harsh, perhaps—but true. Walls are only as good as the warriors behind them. Walls did not save the Gangani, and they did not save the Breifne, or the Velabri, the Uterni, the Osraige, or the Menapi—did they? What use were high walls to any of the tribes in the lands the Scálda stole?

  ‘Ach, but see here,’ said Conor, ‘with the fianna we are on the way to becoming the greatest warband in Eirlandia—certainly the largest.’

  ‘What so?’

  ‘The fianna will be my fortress wall,’ said Conor, his voice taking on an edge of excitement. ‘From our high perch here atop this hill, we will command the land as far as we can see. We will be ready to ride out in any direction to defend this island realm. Should the enemy encroach, they will see a ráth that has no need of timber for we possess something far better—a wall of warriors.’

  Donal gazed back at him, considering Conor’s vision.

  ‘And everyone who visits this place, or merely passes by, will know that we fear no one and stand ready to defend ourselves day or night.’ Conor’s grin grew expansive. ‘Not only that, we will see everything that passes on the plain below and in the wider world—as we do even now. Nothing will escape our notice.’

>   ‘Bold words, brother,’ concluded Donal. ‘Perhaps a little reckless as well.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ allowed Conor, growing serious. ‘But this throne has been raised on recklessness from the beginning. To pull back now, to hoard our gains—that is a sure sign of weakness.’

  ‘And this is what fortress walls means to you?’

  ‘Aye, that and more.’ Conor began pacing as he strained for an explanation. ‘See here, Donal. We have begun to fashion a new realm on this hill. Timber walls will make us appear as just another Dé Danann stronghold ruled by a little lord and defended by his little warband. Worse, it would look like we were hiding up here.’

  ‘Hiding?’ Donal smiled and shook his head slowly. ‘Who would be fool enough to accuse you of a thing like that?’ The glancing reference to Mádoc and the hidden bracelet made Conor groan. ‘All the same, it is not the lords and lordlings you have to worry about,’ continued Donal in a more serious tone, ‘it is Balor Evil Eye. I’m thinking he views this hill as a plum worth plucking. He tried once. He might well try again.’

  At Donal’s words, Conor was instantly back in that terrible storm-torn night of the massacre. In a vicious assault, the Scálda warband had attacked a gathering at Tara and succeeded in decimating the flower of Eirlandia’s elite lords and warleaders.

  ‘Let Balor try to pluck us if he dares,’ said Conor. ‘He will find a plum with a stone to choke him.’

  2

  Conor and Donal lifted spears and shields from among those hung at the entrance to the hall, and walked out into what was becoming a genuine settlement: as season gave way to season, the clusters of tents and makeshift shelters were slowly giving way to proper dwellings, workshops, and storehouses. Down on Mag Teamhair, the Plain of Tara, the rich earth had been divided into ploughed plots for fields; parts of Mag Coinnem, the Council Plain, had also been cleared and ploughed, and areas marked out for cattle pens, barns, and sheds.

  Easy in the soft morning light, the three crossed the wide, green oval of the yard and started down toward the smallest of the plains, Mag Rí, the Royal Plain, which served as the training grounds for both horses and men.

  ‘The crops are coming on well,’ Donal observed. ‘The weather has been kind to us.’

  ‘An early spring, followed by a fair summer,’ replied Conor, ‘there is every hope of a fine harvest. But we need the cattle Cahir and Garbha promised so we can begin building our own herd. I do grow weary begging for meat and milk.’

  ‘It is not the begging that makes you weary, brother,’ observed Donal.

  ‘What so?’ said Conor, catching the edge to his tone.

  ‘I see you running pillar to post all day long. You have a finger in every cup and a stick in every fire.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You do. Ask Fergal if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘He’s right, Conor,’ confirmed Fergal. ‘You race about like a man with a hornet in his breecs. But no one can be two places at once—not even you.’

  ‘Is it that you think I’m doing too much? Or that I’m doing it poorly?’

  ‘Ach, nay,’ said Donal. ‘All I’m saying is that a moment’s rest now and then would be no bad thing.’

  ‘You have people now, brother,’ Fergal pointed out.

  ‘Aye, people who expect me to make good on the promises I have made.’

  ‘People who stand with you,’ corrected Fergal. ‘People more than willing to do whatever you ask of them.’

  ‘Only you have to ask,’ concluded Donal. ‘Promise me you’ll ask?’

  ‘I will,’ replied Conor, and they moved on, descending the winding pathway to the plain. At the base of the hill was the large pen where most of the horses for the fianna were being kept until the stables atop the hill were finished. Here they paused and Conor whistled for Búrach; the grey stallion pricked up his ears and came trotting over to greet his master. ‘Good to see you, old son,’ murmured Conor as he stroked the extended neck. ‘Did you miss me?’ By way of reply, the grey turned his head and gave him a friendly nip on the arm. ‘Here now! Behave yourself,’ Conor told him, and with a pat sent him away. ‘Go and make some colts, why don’t you? We need more horses.’

  Cáit, the eldest of the stable master’s three dark-haired daughters, who served as a groom and stable hand, came running up just then. ‘My lord,’ she said, a little out of breath, ‘will you go riding? I will gladly ready your mount for you.’

  Conor, watching the grey jog away, replied, ‘Not just now, Cáit.’ He glanced around and saw the eagerness on the young lady’s face. ‘But I have an idea. Why don’t you take him out? He needs a good run, does Búrach. Get one of your sisters to go with you—or one of the lads.’

  The girl’s dark eyes grew bigger. ‘Truly? You would allow it?’

  ‘I would insist upon it,’ Conor told her. ‘You will be doing your lord a good service.’

  ‘I hear and obey, lord,’ she said, and then raced off to find someone to ride with her.

  ‘Don’t let him run away with you,’ Conor called after her.

  ‘You just made someone very happy,’ Donal chuckled.

  ‘If only everyone was so easily pleased,’ said Conor.

  Leaving the pen, they moved on to join the warriors and take part in the day’s training. As weapons master and chief of battle, Fergal held practice sessions most days. He was an exacting teacher, not to say demanding. ‘Our warband is drawn from different tribes, each with their own way of fighting,’ he had explained. ‘But this is to be our warband, and so they will learn to fight our way—only then will they be permitted to join the fianna.’

  For the most part, the warriors accepted this: the younger ones were glad to learn the old ways and take on new and proven battle skills from so renowned a teacher. The older ones, of which there were more than a few, put up with Fergal’s stringent regime for the sake of unity and eventual acceptance into the fianna—though some of these, Conor noticed, were likely to fall back into habits of practice that kept Fergal agitated. But no one complained.

  When they were not down on the training field, the warriors were out with the hunters and foragers scouring the woodlands and forest to the south and east in an attempt to satisfy the constant demand for food—a demand that grew as word spread and more people, most of them displaced by enemy raids, arrived to join the nascent tribe. This steady trickle of incomers might have been encouraging if not for the strain it put on their already overburdened resources. To be sure, the new tribe needed people—the industry, skill, and will to succeed the refugees brought were vital if the new realm was to thrive in the future. Conor knew this, but it did not make the day-to-day stresses any less. Indeed, that the settlement had survived the first winter at all was due largely to the generosity of Lord Cahir, who had been the lifelong friend of Conor’s father. Cahir had supplied them out of his own stores, and that, as well as smaller gifts from various others who owed debts of honour to Conor and his fianna for saving them on the terrible night of the Tara massacre, had sufficed to see them through the long months of cold wind, rain, and snow.

  Now that summer had settled in and, with it, the raiding season, more refugees fleeing enemy attacks could be expected. The arrival of each new family or, sometimes, entire clans, did severely stretch meagre provisions. Many of the newcomers brought welcome supplies—items of food and clothing, tools and weapons saved from the Scálda raids that had driven them from their homes. Others, however, arrived having escaped with little more than the cloaks on their backs. But they came, and Conor was determined to find a place for all of them and welcome them to Tara.

  Just now, as Conor and Donal walked down to join Fergal and the warriors, they were discussing the fact that there were not enough horses for each of the warriors to be mounted—a situation which effectively reduced the size and fighting ability of the fianna. Conor looked out onto the plain below them and saw the various groups of men at their weapons practice. Fergal and his second, Médon, had divided the
warband into five roughly equal groups, each to work on a separate skill or technique. Over the course of the day’s session, the groups would change places so that by the end of practice every warrior would have trained in all five areas. This method was Fergal’s innovation, and his pride and confidence in it were absolute.

  ‘We may be able to convince some of the lords with lands along the borders to lend us horses in exchange for protection,’ Conor mused aloud.

  ‘It would be easier to capture them from the Scálda,’ replied Donal. He paused, then said, ‘What is this?’

  Conor heard the change in Donal’s tone and glanced up. ‘Where?’

  ‘Just there.’ Donal pointed out across the plain where a company of riders was making its way toward Fergal and the warriors on the training ground.

  ‘Who is that?’ wondered Conor. ‘Can you see?’

  Donal shook his head. ‘Not that far.’

  ‘I mean with your—’ Conor abandoned the query. ‘Never mind. Let’s go find out what they want.’

  They hurried on to where Fergal had halted the strangers and arrived to see frowns all around. ‘These men have come to see you, lord,’ Fergal said, without taking his eyes off the lead rider. ‘It would seem they have something weighty on their minds, though they will not say what that might be.’

  The leader of the group, a lean, flat-nosed chieftain with a silver torc and three gold bands on his bare right arm, looked down from his horse and with a sneer in his voice said, ‘Aye, we’re looking for the one called Conor who is rumoured to be lurking hereabouts.’ He glanced down at Conor and sniffed dismissively.

  Conor replied, ‘If that is who you seek, your search is at an end. What is it you want?’