In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Page 7

  ‘I, too, can speak to the contemptible character of this man.’ He flung a dismissive hand in Conor’s direction. ‘I know him to be deceitful and greedy, little caring for the pains of others, or the injury caused by his vaunting ambition.…’

  This assertion ignited the anger already smouldering in the hall. Lords threw their fists into the air and shouted loud condemnation: of Conor and his corrupt behaviour, of the Scálda and their evil blight, of all that was wrong in Eirlandia. There were cries for justice, for reckoning, for retribution, for revenge.

  ‘This last rogue,’ whispered Conor, leaning toward Donal, his voice strained and unnatural. ‘Who is he? I have never seen him before.’

  ‘Nor I,’ replied Donal, and Conor looked to Fergal, who shook his head.

  ‘I think that is Toráin, Lord of the Concani,’ said Médon, leaning close to Conor’s ear. ‘One of his warriors joined us at Tara.’

  ‘Joined us how?’ wondered Fergal, also bending close. ‘There are no Concani warriors in the fianna.’

  ‘Fíol is not a warrior in the fianna,’ Médon explained. ‘He serves with hearth master Dearg.’

  A faint memory floated into Conor’s recollection; he dimly remembered talking to Dearg about a kinsman—a wounded warrior—he might ask to help him with his many duties. So much had happened since then, he had forgotten the conversation completely. ‘You mean the fair-haired fella? The one with the limp?’

  ‘Aye, lord, that’s the one. He was sorely wounded the night of the massacre. He was in the Concani warband.’

  ‘So now, this Toráin has his pointy nose out of joint because we took in one of his wounded?’ said Fergal. ‘This whole thing is a steaming heap of horse dung from beginning to end.’

  Lord Corgan’s pleas for silence went unheeded. Snatching up a jar of water from beside the hearth, he raised it and poured the contents onto the fire. A column of steam rose, hissing into the rooftrees. ‘Quiet!’ he shouted. ‘We will have quiet!’ When the irate lords had calmed themselves sufficiently to allow the proceedings to continue, Corgan thanked the Concani lord and dismissed him. Conor, a reply ready, made to rise, but Aengus, King of the Cauci, was already on his feet and moving toward the hearth.

  ‘More trouble,’ muttered Fergal as Conor dropped back into his chair.

  Looking grave and thoughtful, the young lord began, saying, ‘Unlike our friend Toráin, I cannot speak to the dishonesty and greed of this man.’ He paused to point at Conor. ‘But I do know something of his corrupt and unscrupulous rule.…’

  ‘How can he know anything?’ Conor muttered to himself. ‘I never met the man before yesterday.’

  ‘… and I know how he stole our friend Liam’s betrothed and bore her away at spearpoint, and forced unwanted marriage upon her. This is not an act worthy of a lord or nobleman. It is, however, enough to earn the condemnation of this gathering,’ concluded the young lord.

  Donal and Conor exchanged a knowing glance as the source of Aengus’s lies became apparent. ‘Liam,’ Conor grumbled. ‘So that’s how it is to be.’

  Corgan thanked Aengus and offered sympathy for the loss of his uncle, Lord Credne, in whose place he now ruled. Returning to the hearth, he said, ‘We have heard the grievous charges against Conor mac Ardan. As Lord Aengus has just reminded us, these crimes warrant condemnation of the offender and should rightly depose him of his lordship, usurped as it may be. Indeed, I am left wondering how anyone can answer these charges. Do we need to waste our time listening to whatever explanation a guilty man might offer?’ He cast his gaze around the assembly as if defying anyone to disagree. ‘Unless anyone has any further accusations to submit, I think we have heard enough—and more than enough. I know of no reason we should not now move to decide the judgement of the airechtas.’

  ‘I would speak!’ demanded Conor, his voice loud in the hall. He rose and advanced to the hearth, struggling to master his rage.

  ‘The accused cannot stand assurance for himself!’ shouted Toráin, leaping to his feet. ‘Let the judgement be brought now!’

  Before anyone could respond, Conor rounded on the outraged young lord. ‘You have had your say, now I will have mine. Who among you would not demand the same if you were in my place?’

  The older lords muttered grudging agreement that they would be willing to hear what Conor had to say. However, Vainche and Toráin and one or two others raised such a commotion that the more amenable among them were instantly drowned out.

  ‘Let me speak! I will be heard!’ Conor shouted above the tumult, barely making his words intelligible. ‘Lord Corgan! I demand the right to be heard.’

  Corgan stood and held out his arms as if to still the storm, but the dissenters only increased their uproar. One voice pierced the tumult. It was Vainche: ‘What Lord Toráin says is true—the accused man cannot stand as witness for himself.’

  Toráin, almost hopping with anger, pointed at Conor and cried, ‘He will say anything to save his own skin! We can’t trust a single word he says.’

  ‘Judgement!’ shouted Vainche. Others took up the demand and it became a chant. ‘Judgement now!’

  Conor felt his legs weaken; he steadied himself to face the onslaught, marvelling at the rage stirred up against him. In that moment, he saw the shape of the aggrieved kings’ game: lure him in with the prospect of settling their differences, and then stick the knife in. He looked to Lord Corgan, who, having set himself up as an impartial arbiter, then abandoned that duty when it was most needed.

  ‘Why are we waiting?’ shouted Vainche. ‘What more do we need to hear?’

  Corgan, nodding gravely, intoned, ‘Unless anyone has a reason to delay, I see no reason judgement should not now take place.’

  The words were still hanging in the air when there came a sudden commotion at the entrance to the hall, followed by a flurry of motion, and a loud voice boomed, ‘You ask if anyone knows a reason why judgement should not now take place. I have a reason.’

  ‘Who is it that disrupts this lawful assembly?’ demanded Corgan as the ruckus at the entrance continued.

  Another voice, low and angry, growled, ‘Take your hand away at once, friend—or lose it!’

  A tall figure dressed all in green and grey strode into their midst. His long, dark hair was shaved high on his head in the distinctive style of the bards, and he carried a long staff of rowan wood with a silver top in the shape of a ram’s horn; a large leather sparán hung on a strap across his chest, and his wide cloth belt was richly ornamented with tiny pearls and intricate patterns traced in silver thread. Soft brócs, laced high, were on his feet, a silver torc thick as an infant’s arm adorned his neck, and a fist-sized casán of carved carnelian fastened his cloak at his shoulder. Head erect, exuding confidence and authority, he moved through the gathering looking neither right nor left.

  In all, he looked like a king of the druid kind and took his place at the hearth like a monarch claiming the place of honour at the board.

  ‘Rónán!’ gasped Fergal. ‘How is it that he’s here?’

  6

  Conor took in the regal bearing and aspect of his younger brother, and his heart swelled with pride to see a man so secure in his power and authority. Conor had not seen him since the day of his wedding, almost a year ago, and Rónán seemed to have grown in dignity and stature since then.

  Rónán stood for a moment, taking in the unhappy company gathered around the empty hearth. When he spoke, his voice resounded through the hall. ‘You ask who it is with the right to disturb this assembly?’ said the man. ‘Know you, I am Rónán mac Ardan, a brehon in Eirlandia, and I pose a question to you, Corgan Eridani. By what right do you convene an airechtas without first securing the consent and attendance of a druid?’

  Corgan stared, speechless; Vainche, his mouth half open, halted, the challenge still on his tongue. Behind Rónán appeared King Cahir; the Coriondi lord advanced to take his place beside the druid. ‘My excuses to you all,’ said Cahir. ‘But it seems the messenger sent
to summon me got lost on the way and failed to deliver his message. Otherwise, I would have been here sooner. Fortunately, I found out about this tidy little gathering of yours in time’—he half turned and gave Conor a furtive wink—‘in time to fetch a druid to oversee these proceedings—as is only right and proper.’

  ‘We were just about to begin our deliberations,’ mumbled Corgan. ‘You have come too late.’

  Lord Vainche charged in. ‘As a well-known ally and supporter of Conor mac Ardan, you were not summoned, Cahir—lest your blind, unthinking bias prevent you from making a proper assessment and judgement.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Cahir passed his gaze slowly around the ring of familiar faces. ‘Am I to assume that this is the reason you also failed to summon Cruim and Celchar?’ The Coriondi king, his tone taking on a darker note, continued, ‘The Venceni and Laigini also lean toward Conor and they are not among us.’ He looked around as if expecting to see them; when he did not, he concluded, ‘But I see that this blind, unthinking bias you profess to fear has not prevented you from summoning Conor’s well-known opponents. Why is that, I wonder?’

  ‘You have no place here,’ Vainche insisted. ‘The airechtas is nearly finished. You come too late.’

  Corgan put out a hand to the Brigantes king and tried to calm him, saying, ‘Lord Cahir is here now. There is nothing we can do about that. But, he will have no part in the discussions, nor any voice in the judgement.’

  ‘We shall see about that,’ replied Cahir. ‘Bring me a chair!’

  While the serving boys raced away to find another chair, the Coriondi lord nodded to Rónán, who stepped into the centre of the ring and said, ‘As to any further deliberations and judgements, everyone here will have his say. But I tell you now that I alone will judge.’

  ‘Outrageous!’ shouted Vainche. ‘Do you think—’

  Rónán slammed the end of his staff on the floor, and a sound like a peal of thunder boomed through the hall. He advanced further into the ring of chairs around the hearth, and appeared to grow taller and more formidable with every step. ‘Beware!’ he roared. ‘You are speaking to a brehon—one who holds the power to overthrow you with a word! Anyone here who cannot behave with courtesy and restraint will be removed from this place.’ He stared with cold, pitiless eyes on the seething Brigantes lord, who at last allowed himself to be pulled back to his seat by his advisors.

  ‘As to the deliberations—as you call them,’ continued Rónán, speaking slowly, as if to truculent children, ‘we will rehearse the grievances and allegations again for the benefit of Lord Cahir. Then, I shall consider the accusations and evidence, and I will render fair judgement.’ He passed his stern gaze slowly around the ring of chastened faces. ‘And, know you, that judgement will endure in this age and in the age to come.’

  Rónán tapped the end of his staff on the floor three times and then said, ‘Since many of you seem to have forgotten, I will enumerate the laws and customs of this assembly.’

  To the sound of muttering, shuffling of feet, and one or two moans, Rónán undertook a long and detailed discourse on the ancient legal statutes relating to the rights and responsibilities of kings and the proper conduct of a judicial gathering. These edicts and rulings had been handed down and refined through the ages and memorised by the high-ranking druid caste called brehons. All the while, Rónán stood before the lords, upright as the rowan rod in his hand, stern and unbending, until he had delivered the law and all those present understood their responsibilities and limitations. After that, the grievance and accusations that had been levelled at Conor were quickly stated and judgement rapidly followed.

  The initial charge was simple: Conor had taken unwarranted authority to himself by making himself king, seizing Tara, and establishing the sacred precinct as the centre of his realm. It was, as Rónán quickly surmised, an allegation born primarily out of jealousy and envy. But did it have legal validity? That was his main concern. ‘I have heard your complaint and listened to the reasons for your grievance,’ he declared. ‘Has anyone anything to say now that will add to what has already been said?’

  He paused, waiting for someone to speak. No one did. Perhaps out of caution, or mere exhaustion, no one raised any further points of clarification or contention.

  ‘Well and good,’ concluded Rónán after a moment. ‘I will now render judgement.’

  So saying, he drew his cloak over his head and stood at the hearth, gripping his staff before him with both hands. He remained motionless and silent for a long time, to the utter fascination of those looking on. The hall remained silent; rapt, unwilling to interrupt his curious meditations. After a time he was heard to groan. His grip on his staff tightened, his knuckles turned white, and his body trembled and rocked from side to side. More time passed and he relieved himself of another groan, and then pulled back his cloak and looked up, his face red, sweating from the effort expended. ‘Hear, O Eirlandia, the judgement of a true brehon.’

  He put out a hand to his brother. ‘Rise, Conor mac Ardan, and receive the justice you deserve. Accusations have been made within the hearing of those present that your lordship is unlawful and, further, that in pursuit of this illegal nobility you have transgressed the laws of the realm by seizing the sacred precinct of Tara, its hill and ancient tombs and dwellings, and taking them for your own.’

  Turning once more to the assembly, he continued, ‘Regarding the legitimacy of Conor’s lordship, I find that he has not violated any laws. For, as in the time of Céthur mac Gréine, so it is now. This is the way of it. Let everyone hear and remember.

  ‘Céthur was a bold and cunning warrior. He fought with valor and pride against the enemies of his people and of Eirlandia. Following the great Battle of Mag Teamhair, in which his warhost, combined with those of his brothers Éthur and Téthur, emerged victorious, he and his men retreated to Cnoc Teamhair—as it was called in those days—and there he rested to heal his wounds and allow his people to enjoy the peace he had won by the strength of his arm and the edge of his blade.

  ‘As he rested there to restore himself, he found it pleasant and, because it belonged to no one, he decided to erect a dún for himself and a ráth for his people. He and his clan dwelt there for a year and two seasons. When in time Céthur gained the high kingship—which he shared with his brothers, each in his turn—he made of Tara Hill a haven and refuge. Any man, woman, or child needing such a home could find a welcome there. And this … this is what made of Tara a sacred place. Not its stones and tombs and dolmens—for sanctity does not reside in stones and such as that, but in the care and concern we have for one another.’

  Rónán paused and looked around at Conor, and the shadow of a smile flitted across his face. ‘As it was then, so it is now.’ Turning back to address the assembly, he said, ‘It is my judgement that Eirlandia has been too long divided by our tribes and territories, our realms and kingdoms, and that Conor has revived an ancient and honourable tradition, restoring a practice long forgotten and too long neglected in this worlds-realm—unstinting hospitality to those fleeing oppression. I find no transgression in this.’

  There was some muttering among the lords, but Rónán smacked the floor with his staff and silenced them.

  ‘My judgement is this: Against the accusation that Conor has seized the kingship and made himself lord, I find no charge to answer. The reason is well established, and self-evident. Any man or woman is sovereign only so far as his people are willing to serve and follow. Wearing a torc of silver or gold does not make a lady queen, or a lord a king. Rather, it is the will of the people who submit to the rule of a leader, who grant and bestow the rights and privileges of sovereignty.

  ‘In this, I find that Conor mac Ardan has not claimed another man’s throne, nor forced anyone to serve him as lord. People have chosen to follow him and it is they who have given him the power and authority to rule over them. Thus, Conor is lord, not by imposition of his will on others, but by acclamation of the people who serve him. In this, he is bla
meless.’

  In the shocked silence that followed this pronouncement, a single voice cried out. ‘Unfair!’

  Rónán turned around slowly. ‘Someone among you deems this unfair? Who said that?’

  ‘A real brehon would know who said it,’ quipped one of the lords.

  Rónán drew himself up, growing formidable. ‘Let me remind you all—since some among you seem to have forgotten—that questioning the legal judgement of a brehon is an offence worthy of a fine and punishment. If I show leniency for your ignorance, Aengus mac Alpan,’ he said, turning to speak directly to the offending lord, ‘it is only out of pity for your people who must endure your belligerent stupidity. Keep your tongue from flapping or, I tell you the truth, I will have it tied as a trophy to my belt.’ Rónán made a small pinching motion in the air with his thumb and forefinger, and Aengus gave out a little squeal and put a hand over his mouth.

  Then raising his hand—palm outward at shoulder height—Rónán thumped his staff on the floor three times. ‘The judgement of the airechtas has been made. Let all Eirlandia hear and obey.’

  He made to dismiss the lords, but Conor, who was still standing just inside the ring, spoke up: ‘A word if you please, wise brehon.’

  ‘I will allow it.’

  ‘Before your arrival, it was agreed by everyone here that compensation should be paid if the accusations against me were judged false. Since that eventuality has come to pass, I request a fair judgement. What compensation shall I have?’

  This did not sit well with the assembled lords; they grumbled and squirmed in their chairs; having failed to obtain the judgement they sought, they were not keen to have to pay for their failure. ‘I protest!’ shouted Vainche, leaping from his chair. ‘We have done him no harm.’