In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Page 4

  ‘We yearn for the day when we can stand together with you on the battleground and fight the Scálda.’ Docha confided, ‘Truth be told, we would join your warband today if our king would allow it.’

  Prince Fáelán put a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Do not let my father hear you say that—lest he take away your ale portion.’

  ‘Is it true your spears are enchanted?’ asked Irél.

  ‘No more questions, you two,’ interrupted Fáelán. To Conor, he said, ‘Please, forgive my friends. As you can see, their eagerness has outrun their manners.’

  ‘They are men after my own heart,’ replied Fergal. He held out his spear to the warriors. ‘Here now, have a closer look.’

  Irél took the shaft of the spear across his palms and examined it and the intricately engraved blade closely while his two companions looked on in silent wonder. ‘So light,’ he said. He gave it a few exploratory thrusts and jabs. ‘So quick, and supple. It almost feels alive.’

  ‘Ach, but you should try it in battle,’ said Fergal. ‘That is when it truly lives.’

  ‘Are your swords enchanted, too?’ wondered Docha.

  ‘Aye, it is true that our weapons are charmed,’ Conor replied. Drawing his sword, he passed the exquisite blade to Docha. ‘They were gifts from the faéry. How is it that you know this?’

  ‘Those of our swordbrothers who survived the massacre brought back the tale. We didn’t know whether to believe it,’ said Fáelán. ‘But now that I see the craft of these weapons for myself, there can be no doubt.’

  ‘Will you tell us how you came to have them?’ asked Irél.

  ‘Again, too many questions,’ said Fáelán. ‘My father will not be pleased to be kept waiting.’ He took the charmed sword from Docha, hefted it once, and then passed it back to Conor; Irél likewise returned the spear to Fergal. ‘I see your men waiting nearby. Docha and Irél will go and bring them and see to the horses. There is food for you and fodder for the horses. You are to worry for nothing while you are here. My father is waiting to welcome you. He will receive you in the hall.’

  With a word, the Eridani prince set his friends to their errands and then led the visitors through the fortress gates and into the yard—a somewhat cramped expanse due to the imposing size of the hall and the number of buildings contained within the high timber walls. Compared to the other kingdoms of the north, the Eridani were preeminent: their warbands larger, their lands more extensive, their wealth greater, and their power in the region unquestioned. With the enormous upheaval caused by the relentless predations of the Scálda, they were well placed to become Eirlandia’s dominant tribe now that the Brigantes were no longer as strong as they had been under Brecan. This made Lord Corgan the most potent king in the region—a fact that was not lost on the visitors.

  ‘That is a handsome thing,’ Fergal remarked upon seeing Corgan’s hall for the first time. Its round walls were washed with lime, its wide double doors painted green, and its high-pitched roof topped by a spear to which was attached a streaming red banner. ‘I don’t know when I’ve seen better. I always knew the Eridani lived well, but this.…’ He indicated the cobbled yard, the row of large storehouses and roundhouse dwellings with a wave of his hand. He glanced at Conor and saw the bemused look on his face. ‘Our young prince seems pleasant enough, eh? I was not expecting that.’

  ‘Nor I,’ replied Conor. ‘And am I alone in thinking this very odd? Corgan’s messengers treated us like horse thieves, and Corgan’s son wants to join the fianna.’

  ‘There is something curious here, you are right,’ Donal agreed. ‘But whatever it is, at least now you know that you have friends at the table. And if Corgan means for his son to succeed him, he will not be blind to the young man’s admiration. Think on that.’

  Donal would have said more, but Fáelán stopped as they approached the entrance to the hall; he turned and said, ‘I will go and tell the king you have arrived.’

  At that moment, the wide green door opened and out stepped Lord Corgan and two chieftains of his tribe, both white-haired men of advanced years, both wearing silver torcs and armbands. ‘I only just now received word of your arrival or I would have come sooner,’ declared Corgan in a terse but not unfriendly tone. ‘Welcome to Bennaél. You have met my son—be pleased to meet my chief advisor.’ He turned, and out stepped the flat-nosed messenger they had met before. The man inclined his head in a slight nod of acknowledgement. ‘This is Iollan.’

  ‘Him we’ve met,’ said Fergal under his breath.

  Corgan said, ‘Iollan, Brenal, and Henda here will be joining me for our deliberations. I don’t expect you will mind as I see you have brought advisors of your own. But all that can wait. Come along, you will be thirsty after your journey. Let us share the welcome cup and get to know one another better.’

  The king led them into the hall, where, despite the warmth of the day, a damp chill still lingered. A fire burned in the hearth, and tallow candles lined the long board. Corgan took his accustomed chair, and offered Conor the place at his right hand. Donal and Fergal took places beside Conor and across from Brenal and Henda, and Médon, Galart, and Calbhan found places on the bench with Fáelán, Docha, and Irél. As they all settled around the table, three serving boys appeared; while two lads set cups and bowls upon the board, the third poured mead spiced with last autumn’s blackcurrants and cherries into a large shallow bowl made of oak and set with a rim of hammered silver.

  Taking up the cúach, Corgan thanked Conor and his men for answering the summons and expressed the hope that the next few days would yield a better understanding among the lords. He then offered the bowl to Conor, who took a drink and passed it back; the welcome cup was then handed on to Fergal and Donal, and then to Brenal and Henda in turn. Then Corgan commanded the other vessels on the board to be filled. Taking up the silver cup, the king drained it and handed it, empty, to Conor, who examined it for a moment.

  Holding that cup, Conor was suddenly transported. He was once again that bare-legged boy, running through his father’s hall, willow-switch sword in hand, waging battle with Fergal and Donal and younger brother Liam. His father was the newly made king of the Darini, and his brother Rónán had been taken away to be raised by the druids. He saw again the boards and trestles being set out for the evening’s meal; and on a board at the back of the hall the cups and bowls stood waiting. His eye was caught by the gleam of a silver-rimmed cup; he went to it and, since no one was watching, took it in his hands to examine it more closely. He raised it to his lips, pretending that he had just drunk the portion of a great warrior. Someone entered the hall then. Quickly replacing the cup, he took up his pretend sword, and ran off to find Liam and the others once more.

  ‘My father had a cúach like this once,’ he mused quietly, tracing the silver band with a finger. ‘I cannot think what became of it.’

  Corgan’s smile was quick and broad. ‘Ach, well, that is easily told. The cup in your hands is that selfsame cup. Lord Ardan gave it to me many years ago. I came to visit him at Dúnaird on some business or other and when I remarked on this fine vessel, he made a gift of it.’

  Conor nodded. ‘No doubt he found in you a valuable ally.’ He smiled and held the bowl out for Corgan to refill.

  ‘Not an ally only, but an honest and trustworthy friend. I hope you will find me the same,’ replied Corgan. ‘Keep the cup. Consider it a gift from a friend who wishes you well.’

  ‘A curious way to begin a friendship,’ remarked Fergal after a moment. ‘Your man here,’ he nodded to Iollan, ‘left us with the impression that this council was more in the way of a trial than a celebration.’

  Corgan glanced sideways at Iollan, who, impassive, stared straight ahead. ‘It seems my message was delivered in a manner you found offensive. I’m sorry. But you should know that each of the lords invited to attend this gathering have expressed serious concerns over recent developments at Tara. My purpose here is to allow everyone a chance to clear the air before things go too
far and, perhaps, get out of hand.’

  ‘If that’s your aim, you’ll find me agreeable,’ replied Conor, shaking off any lingering feelings of melancholy or nostalgia. ‘I welcome the chance to explain my intentions and, as you say, clear the air.’

  The stiffness of the reception eased somewhat then and the cups were refilled. The party drank, and talk drifted into other areas; after a while, Fáelán rose and announced that his duties called him away. To Conor, he added, ‘Places have been prepared for you in the guest lodge. I will go and make certain all is ready for when you finish here.’ Touching the back of his hand to his forehead, he acknowledged his father and Conor, and then left the hall.

  ‘Your son is an impressive fella,’ Conor observed. ‘I can only hope to have a son as courteous and well-spoken one day.’

  ‘You have no children, then?’ asked Corgan, sipping from his cup.

  ‘Nay, not yet,’ replied Conor. ‘But soon. My wife is expecting to deliver our first before Samhain.’

  ‘I hope all goes well. Give her my best regards,’ replied Corgan. He raised his cup to Conor, took a sip, and put the cup aside. Folding his hands on the table, he said, ‘I was sorry to hear about your father. I did not see him at that ill-fated gathering and thought he had escaped the massacre.’

  ‘The Darini were there,’ Conor told him, ‘but they were trapped on the plain when the attack began. They were never able to reach the top of the hill, so fought on alone.’

  ‘Ach, well…’ Corgan sighed and shook his head slowly. ‘A very great pity that. We did not see as much of one another in these last years as I would have liked. I tried, of course, but something always seemed to get in the way.’ The king smiled faintly and shrugged, as if to suggest things could not have been any different.

  ‘Is that so?’ replied Conor, suddenly wary. The Eridani lord’s clumsy attempt at whitewashing his past allegiance raised Conor’s hackles. ‘It seemed to me that the Eridani always had time for Brecan mac Lergath. Perhaps it was your eagerness to pitch your tent in the Brigantes camp that kept the two of you from seeing one another as often as you would have liked.’

  Corgan bristled at the reproach. In the sudden renewal of tension, talk around the table hushed, and all eyes turned toward the king, whose smile had developed an icy cast. For an awkward moment, it appeared the king would retaliate. Instead, he pulled his mead cup to him once more and took a drink. ‘We may have spent time in Brecan’s camp, but we were never in his keep. Be that as it may, everything changed when Brecan was killed.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘And now the fortunes of many have changed again with the massacre … so many good men lost that night … too many.’

  ‘Far too many,’ Conor agreed. ‘My father among them. But we survived, and now we have the chance to form new friendships and alliances.’

  ‘I could not have said it better,’ replied the king stiffly. An edgy mood settled over the table as the talk turned to insipid observations about herds, and crops, and weather—until a messenger appeared at the entrance to announce that other lords were arriving. Corgan pushed back his chair quickly and rose to leave, inviting his guests to rest and take their ease. Then, he and his advisors—and even the serving boys—cleared the hall in almost unseemly haste. Conor’s men, just then entering the hall, stepped quickly aside lest they be trampled in the rush. ‘Is the hall on fire then?’ asked Calbhan as he came to the table.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ replied Fergal, staring into his empty cup. ‘Our lord has been practicing his uncanny tact is all.’

  4

  ‘Would you mind telling me, brother, why you thought it necessary to insult our lordly host?’ demanded Fergal. ‘And this, considering he had just given you a valuable gift and all. A fella might have imagined that offending a king in his own hall was maybe a thing to be avoided.’

  ‘Our host might be a king in his own hall,’ Conor countered, ‘but he was lying to me.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Fergal. ‘From my seat on the bench, it appeared that he was more pleasant to us than we had any cause to expect. All the more seeing as how his man Iollan came on to us like a rabid cat.’

  ‘Pleasant, maybe, but do not let the smiles and soft words sway you. The Eridani supported Brecan Big Breecs in all things—and that for several years. The whole world knows this. It is no secret.’

  Fergal shook his head and clucked his tongue. ‘Shame, brother.’

  ‘So now, Corgan comes over all forlorn because he did not enjoy my father’s company as much as he would have liked! That was a lie.’

  ‘How so?’ challenged Fergal.

  ‘Dúnaird is no great distance from here and our lordly host could have gone to see my father anytime the notion took him. There was nothing preventing him—except his blind obedience to Brecan and his own grasping ambition. He considered my father unworthy of his attention and friendship, and that is the truth of the matter.’

  Fergal stared at him, then rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Ach, well, you have me there,’ he conceded. ‘But did you have to throw it back at him like that? And with his advisors looking on?’

  Conor made no further comment, but drained the dregs, took up his cup, and rose from the board. Médon and the others went to finish grooming the horses, and Conor, Fergal, and Donal moved on to the Eridani guest lodge: a large wattle-and-daub building across the yard from the hall. As soon as they were alone, Fergal had rounded on Conor for insulting their host.

  ‘Insult? Open your eyes, man,’ said Conor. ‘Our Lord Corgan is not above making fools of us. He sends his men to demand we attend this airechtas or stand accused of a crime. He treats me as an apple-stealing boy to be banished from the orchard and then treats me like a long-lost kinsman and lies to my face about how he regretted not spending more time with my father.’

  Donal, having listened to this exchange for a while, now broke in. ‘Brothers, set aside your argument for a moment if you will. I believe I see the shape of Lord Corgan’s scheme.’

  ‘Ach, now this is what we need,’ said Conor, turning to Donal. ‘Speak.’

  ‘I’m thinking our host seeks to disarm us with courtesy,’ Donal said simply.

  ‘That is it?’ cried Fergal. ‘That is your grand insight?’

  ‘Kindness can be a weapon,’ Donal told him. ‘When allied to keen ambition it can become a most powerful weapon.’ Fergal made a sour face, but Donal continued, ‘Think you now, we already know why we have been summoned. You said it yourself, Fergal.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘They mean to pluck our wing feathers lest we fly too high. Your words, brother—and you were right. See now, the northern kings have become alarmed at the prospect of a powerful new tribe arising in Eirlandia and claiming Tara.’

  ‘They tolerated Brecan Brigantes well enough,’ Conor pointed out. ‘They didn’t seem to mind him flashing his gold baubles around.’

  ‘Maybe Corgan wants the high kingship for himself and thinks Conor stands in his way.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Donal replied. ‘But even if Corgan or any of the others have no desire for Tara, that does not mean they are willing for anyone else to have it.’

  ‘Least of all me,’ said Conor. ‘Outcast and upstart that I am.’

  ‘Least of all someone who flaunts ten generations of Dé Danann tradition and seizes the prize for himself,’ amended Donal. ‘This is what everyone thinks you are doing. Corgan and his friends have decided it is time to slap you down.’

  ‘Where does all this kindly courtesy come into it?’ asked Fergal.

  ‘Ach, well, I’m thinking Lord Corgan hopes to humble us and give us a taste of how well we could be treated if Conor will only agree to give up raising a settlement at Tara—and this before we become too powerful to stop without bloodshed.’

  Conor took a moment to consider all that Donal was telling him. On the face of it, this did seem a likely explanation for their host’s strange behaviour. ‘So now, supposing it is as you say, I cannot see how this should cha
nge what we came here to do.’

  ‘Nor should it,’ Donal replied. ‘I only tell you so you can be on your guard in the discussions to come.’

  Just then Médon appeared at the door and said, ‘Lord Conor. I thought you might like to know, your brother has arrived.’

  ‘Liam is here?’ said Conor.

  ‘Himself. He just came through the gate. If you hurry you may still meet him before he reaches the hall.’

  They left the guesthouse and stepped into the yard, where, as Médon had said, four riders had just reined up. Leading them was Liam mac Ardan. Conor had neither seen nor spoken to Liam since the day Conor had ridden to Dúnaird to claim his beloved Aoife and take her away to Tara. It was true that, for a time, Liam had imagined that in his brother’s extended absence Aoife would come to accept him and warm to his affections. Her stubborn refusal had done much to stoke Liam’s long-simmering jealousy and distrust of his brother. But surely, Conor reasoned, after these many months to reflect, Liam could see how badly he had misjudged the entire affair and that, perhaps, the time was right for a reconciliation.

  They waited until the Darini delegation had dismounted, then walked over to meet them. Of those accompanying Liam, Conor recognised only one: Eamon, foremost among his father’s hearth companions.

  ‘Greetings, brother,’ said Conor, extending his arms in welcome. ‘I hope I find you well.’

  ‘Conor,’ said Liam, his tone flat. He stood unmoving beside his horse, gazing at Conor, his mouth tight, his eyes hard. ‘Still playing king in that pretend kingdom of yours?’

  Ignoring the insult, Conor said, ‘I wondered whether we might see you here. Corgan did not tell me who would be attending this gathering.’

  ‘I knew,’ replied Liam, ‘but I expected you would stay as far away as possible.’

  Eamon, seeing how poorly this meeting between the two was progressing, stepped forward and, seizing Conor by the shoulders, pulled him into a firm, brotherly embrace. ‘Conor, it is good to see you.’ He thumped Conor on the back, then turned to Fergal and Donal, flinging an arm toward each of them, saying, ‘And you, Fergal … Donal … ach, it gladdens the heart, so it does. You all look in fine feather. Not settling for the soft life yet, I see.’