Chapter One: Defence of Ráth Bládhma
As ever, when winter showed signs of releasing its grip on the land, Bodhmhall was to be found to the north of Ráth Bládhma, overseeing the work being carried out on her lubgort [vegetable garden]. Over the three years since first occupying the ráth, she’d created an impressive series of raised stone-edged, earthen beds that stretched along the gently curving gradient of a nearby, north facing mound. The produce of her garden – an annual bounty of herbs, onions, carrots, parsnips and other vegetables – was of reliable consistency and quality. The nutritional variety it provided also proved popular amongst the inhabitants of the ring fort given a diet otherwise restricted to dairy and cereal products.
Perched on the crest of the mound, Bodhmhall brushed a fist-full of black hair back from either side of her forehead. With a deft twist of her fingers, she looped the strands into a more controllable shape and bound them in place with a bronze hair clasp. By anybody’s reckoning, she was a striking woman. Tall and slender with a generous mouth and intelligent, brown eyes, her looks had been spared the ravages common to many of her contemporaries: the trials of childbirth and the arduous physical labour required to sustain the community. Daughter of Tréanmór, rí of Uí Baoiscne, Bodhmhall had enjoyed a privileged childhood in the fortress of Dún Baoiscne, something she increasingly appreciated as the years rolled by.
Standing with hands on her hips, she considered the garden as she planned out the next stages of work. It was too early for her efforts to produce any substantial results (the low temperatures ensured that any growth remained minimal to non-existent) but she was determined to do as much as practically possible to get an early start on the growing season. Experience had demonstrated that turning the cold earth of the raised beds helped to break down the cow manure mixed in over the autumn. When the warmer weather finally kicked in, the soil creatures would already be hard at work, merging precious nutrients to provide the initial spurt of growth for the herbs she needed to replace her dwindling supply of remedies.
She pointed to a patch of soil at the lowest ridge, positioned so that the gradient might drain the winter rains away.
‘There, Cónán.’
Her hand moved, two slender fingers indicating another area.
‘And there.’
With a sigh of resignation, a dark-haired boy of about eleven years moved forward, lifted a metal-headed hoe and began to turn the soil at the indicated areas.
Bodhmhall watched him work the earth, mixing in the remaining traces of manure with almost effortless ease. She felt no rancour at the boy’s undisguised frustration. Working under her instruction could be taxing at the best of times and Cónán had demonstrated heroic tolerance to this point. Over the course of the morning, she had directed him from one section of the mound to another, a pattern of activity that, from his perspective, must have appeared meaningless. What the boy did not understand, however, was that his perspective differed substantially from her own. Where he saw indistinguishable lumps of frozen soil, Bodhmhall’s tíolacadh – her ‘Gift’– revealed patches that radiated with varying degrees of biological activity; the teeming life force of worms, ants, beetles, and other tiny creatures. Some of these – the areas that she directed him to avoid – glittered like a hundred, thousand stars in the sky at night; minute, exquisite sparks of brilliance. These, she knew, were the secret of her garden’s success, the powerhouse that converted the base organic matter to a bountiful food source. She was adamant that such potential should be protected as far as practicable.
It was in her seventh year that Bodhmhall had come to understand how she differed from the other children at Dún Baoiscne. They did not perceive the flickering lights she associated with life in all its forms and therefore struggled to understand her reluctance to partake in the occasional activity that might extinguish such brilliance. Although she worked it out over time, Bodhmhall’s innate stubbornness also meant that she did not attempt to alter her behaviour to align with that of her peers. This approach gained her a reputation for eccentricity but, more importantly, it brought her to the attention of Dub Tíre. And the cold scrutiny of the druidic order.
But that, of course, had been a lifetime ago.
Bodhmhall pushed such dark memories away, buried them deep within the soil of her garden. Over the years, experience had made her adept at dealing with such unpleasant reflections, developing numerous effective mechanisms and distractions to keep the dark thoughts at bay.
Like the simple action of gardening.
‘To your left. Cónán. No, your left.’
Grumbling, the boy did as he was told.
‘Don’t be cranky, a bhuachaill,’ she chided. ‘You’ll be glad of this effort when your stomach is riddled with gut cramp. That’s where I intend to lay the peirsil chatach and there’s no better remedy for the runs.’
She chuckled to herself for the boy was pretending to ignore her, sighing melodramatically as he helped her to turn the earth. Buoyed by the morning’s accomplishments, Bodhmhall stopped teasing him and turned to gaze up the length of Glenn Ceoch – Valley of Haze – at a view that never failed to give her pleasure.
To her delight, the morning had dawned with clear skies, the habitual early chill diminished by the unexpected rays of watery sunshine. Bathed in this welcome glow, the valley had taken on a beauty that was even more dramatic than usual, patches of dew-lined pasture and the nearby stream glittering like silver in the soft, yellow hue.
Glenn Ceoch had been Bodhmhall’s home since departing the fortress of Dún Baoiscne more than three years earlier. A wide V-shaped spread of flatland, it was enclosed on either side by two steep, tree-coated ridges that converged at the east of the ráth to form a steep and impassable barrier. The spring that fed the stream was located on the lower slopes of this formidable buttress, pooling in a small pond of clear water that emptied down onto the valley floor and flowed out to the west.
Set at the extremes of Clann Baoiscne territory, the isolated Glenn Ceoch was known predominantly for the bloody history associated with the previously deserted ráth. Two earlier attempts at settlement had taken place there many years before Bodhmhall was born. Both had ended disastrously with the colony destroyed, its inhabitants massacred by reavers. Despite the valley’s excellent pasture and the potential of its loamy soil, there had been little appetite for a third attempt. Because of its history and isolation, the territory was still considered too dangerous, a section of the Great Wild best left to the wolves and bandits.
The decision to settle Glenn Ceoch, leaving Dún Baoiscne and the security of home and clan, was not one that Bodhmhall had taken lightly, even though she’d had limited alternatives at the time. In the opinion of her few supporters, the venture to re-establish a colony at that infamous location was doomed to failure. She had recognised the many valid reasons for such pessimism. The population of the proposed colony had been ludicrously small: Bodhmhall; the woman warrior Liath Luachra; the old servant Cairbre – now her rechtaire; his woman and their three son: Cónán; Aodhán and Bearach. The supporting livestock had also been woefully restricted, consisting of little more than eight cows, four goats, four pigs and a selection of fowl. On the day of their departure, their entire possessions and all of their equipment – including the metal workings – had fit into three ox-drawn carts lent to them by Tréanmór. This unexpected act of generosity from her father had surprised her at the time until she realised that the gesture had not been a kindness so much as a desire to see the back of them as quickly as possible.
When the little caravan moved out of sight of the only home she’d ever known, Bodhmhall had felt great desolation and struggled to conceal her rising sense of panic from the companions who had so loyally aligned their fates to hers. Over the course of their journey through the Great Wild, a nerve-racking period of thirty-two days with the carts and cattle on the untamed topography,– that sensation had diminished only to return even more strongly when they reached Glenn Ceoch
and observed the ruins of Ráth Bládhma for the very first time.
Their new home was a significant earthwork centred on the summit of a low drumlin. The original settlers had carried out extensive work to create a high, circular earthen bank that enclosed the central courtyard – the lis – surrounded, in turn, by a flat-bottomed ditch. After more than twenty-five years of neglect, much of the original structure had fallen into disrepair. Several sections of the embankment had caved away, sliding into the waterlogged ditch to bridge the ráth’s principle defence and leave it exposed to attack from a number of different quarters.
Within the lis, there was little visible evidence of the previous colony apart from some rotted wattle, fragments of the ancient habitations buried beneath the fibrous roots of long-established grass. Work on clearing the area, however, had exposed several charred post stubs and a number of human bones, chilling reminders of the settlement’s fate. Bodhmhall had immediately halted all other work and insisted on a cleansing ceremony, removing the remaining bones and burying them solemnly in the neighbouring woods.
Despite their miniscule workforce, the new settlers had launched themselves into the task of reconstruction with a vigour driven by their dread of the Great Wild as much as by their hopes for a new beginning. Out in the isolated wild lands, livestock and goods were an irresistible draw for wolves and marauders. The shelter of the ráth offered their only realistic hope for long-term survival.
In many respects, the new colony was fortunate in that much of the original backbreaking labour had been carried out by the original inhabitants. In truth, all that remained – although it was a substantial piece of work – was to repair and to build on the original.
The initial efforts focussed on creating internal and external revetments to consolidate the earth embankment and prevent further collapse into the ditch. In those areas where slippage had occurred, the fallen detritus was removed and support posts inserted around the inward base. Once this was completed, gaps in the embankment were repaired using upcast from the trench.
Each member of the new colony had taken an active role in the reconstruction. Despite the gruelling physical labour, Bodhmhall had experienced a fierce sense of personal satisfaction as the results of her efforts came together. Ironically, the toil and sweat had also proven a welcome contrast to the years of stifling intellectual training imposed upon her by Dub Tíre during her druidic apprenticeship at Dún Baoiscne.
As Bodhmhall’s conradh – military champion – Liath Luachra had assumed overall responsibility for the defence and security of the new settlement. Conscious of the fate of the previous colony and the ever constant threat of attack, she’d insisted on enhancing the earthworks with further fortifications, palisades constructed from split oak poles retrieved from the surrounding forest. She also oversaw the strengthening of the west-facing entrance, expanding the ditch further to create a causeway to the narrow gateway reinforced with sizeable blocks of stone.
The most substantial elements of the reconstruction took the little colony more than four backbreaking months of work but, on completion, they had a secure base from which to grow. Over the intervening years, their defences had been tested on two occasions when they’d been attacked by bands of passing reavers. In both cases, the attacks had been little more than opportunistic raids that they’d withstood by simply withdrawing within the walls. After one or two half-hearted assaults, both raiding parties had withdrawn, their urge for booty dampened by the effectiveness of the defences and the evident preparedness of its defenders.
Bodhmhall shivered as the sun disappeared behind a passing veil of cloud, uncertain as to whether the sense of unease she was experiencing was stirred by unpleasant memories of bitter times or simply the sudden physical drop in temperature. Reverting to one of her tried and trusted methods, she knelt and started to clear some weeds, intending to submerge her anxiety, once more, in the soothing routine of her garden.
It was not to be.
The ‘Gift’ manifested itself with its habitual subtlety, easing in so softly that it was on her before she’d even noticed. Her first inkling of its expression was an unpleasant tingling sensation tugging at her nerves like a loose thread snagged on a branch. Instincts stirred by some provocation she didn’t quite fully understand, she straightened up and anxiously scanned the valley.
Something... there is something ...
She was only vaguely conscious of her heart rate increasing, the flush of blood pulsing through her veins. Then, all at once, it was as though every sense was intensified, each physical sensation magnified one hundred fold. The cheerful murmur of the nearby stream increased in volume until it had taken on the vociferous roar of a surging flood. The rustle of leaves on the surrounding trees crackled like static before an incoming storm. An overpowering smell of iron filled her nostrils and the very texture of the air seemed to scrape her skin.
For a moment her sight blurred then abruptly cleared to focus on the thick line of trees that bordered the far end of the valley. For some inexplicable reason, the sight of those trees suddenly terrified her and, somehow, even at that distance, she could feel them shiver as some invisible force brushed through them. Bundling up into a violent squall, the intrusion gathered impetus as it rolled down the length of the valley towards her. Unable to move, she helplessly watched it draw closer, stirring up dead leaves and moss, casting them skywards like a swarm of angry ravens.
She closed her eyes just before it struck, pummelling her with such ferocity that she was almost knocked from her feet. Somehow, she managed to maintain her balance, standing firm against the onslaught as it screamed and howled like a gale about her. Head bent and shoulders hunched, she channelled her energy into repelling an assault that was not physical so much as mental. Despite her skill at creating such intellectual barriers, she had the vaguest sensation of being probed by some intelligence, prodded like a farmer might prod an animal at a market to see how it would react. When she resisted, her response seemed to provoke an odd sense of outrage, as though the trespassing entity resented her ability to detect it. Enraged, it began to pummel her, to psychically strike again and again.
She had no idea how long the offensive lasted, how much time had passed before the air grew still, the roar dissipating to a jaded background wheeze. Numbed and emotionally drained from her efforts, she wearily opened her eyes. On the pasture south of the ráth, the small herd of cattle were lowing contentedly in the calm of the early afternoon. Beside them, the stream gurgled happily, like a gush of amused infants. Close by, bent over the vegetable garden, Cónán worked with quiet industry. Bodhmhall stared, struggling to understand what had happened. No one else had seen or heard anything.
Off to her right, on the western ridge, a murder of ravens suddenly took flight, crowing up from the trees in an angry flutter of wings. With a shudder, Bodhmhall forced herself to open her mouth and stuck out her tongue to taste the air. Almost immediately, she withdrew it with an expression of revulsion.
‘Bodhmhall’.
Absorbed in her contemplation, she barely noticed this fresh disruption. Startled, she turned to find Cairbre the elderly rechtaire, standing beside her. The old man was studying her with quiet intensity, his left eyebrow curved upwards in a thoughtful arc. From his expression, it appeared that he had been standing there for some time.
‘Are you not well, Bodhmhall? Was it the Gift?’
Somehow, she found the strength to nod.
‘Does it bring good tidings?’
‘When does the Gift ever bring good tidings?’
She immediately regretted her brusqueness. Cairbre was a quiet man, a gentle man and had been a loyal advisor to her family for as long she could remember. He did not deserve such discourtesy and yet she felt almost too overwhelmed and distraught to care. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to calm her mind.
‘Forgive me, Cairbre. The wind brought something new today. Something that leaves a taste of shit in the air. Even the ravens are distu
rbed.’
Cairbre, who was more familiar with her Gift than most, reacted to this news with concern.
‘Should I alert the others, mistress?’
She shook her head in irritation, exhausted by the never ending burden of the Gift and its unsolicited, unwelcomed associations. Over the years, the tíolacadh had revealed many positive manifestations such as the ‘light of life’ but also negative manifestations such as the one she had just experienced. Either way, she had tired of them many years earlier. In the isolation of Glenn Ceoch, she had hoped to find respite, to avoid much that stimulated the Gift and identified her as a bandraoi, a female druid. She had achieved some success in this objective, experiencing no major expression of it for more than two and a half years.
Until now.
‘I don’t know, Cairbre.’ She poked at a loose sod with the toe of her fur-lined boot as she attempted to work out what had just taken place. ‘I think there is another draoi roaming the Great Wild,’ she said at last. ‘He or she has some deliberate intent but I was unable to tell what it was. It didn’t bear me any specific malice or interest but it was not pleased to discover I could detect it.’ She paused then, inspired by sudden flash of insight. ‘It was seeking something. Or somebody. Whatever or whoever it was, it did not find it here so it moved on.’
She looked at the old man.
‘Is Liath Luachra returned?’
‘Not yet, mistress. No sign of her or Bearach.’
Bodhmhall frowned. Liath Luachra had left to hunt the local forests in the dark hours of the previous morning, accompanied by Bearach, Cairbre’s second son. Vaguely conscious of the warrior woman rising from their bed, Bodhmhall had been too entangled in the viscous threads of sleep to waken properly and wish her safe travels. Now she regretted that lapse. The hunters had been due to return by nightfall that same evening but were a full day overdue. Although there were many reasonable explanations for such a delay, the thought of Liath Luachra out in the Big Wild at a time when a fellow draoi was stalking the land, filled her with unease.
Bodhmhall took a deep breath. Her mind was still reeling from her altercation with the intruding draoi and thinking of such complications was making her head spin. A sudden realisation helped to draw her back to more stable ground.
‘You came to seek me out, Cairbre. What is it?’
‘There’s a wan, lady. Seeking refuge.’
‘A wan?’
Even after all these years, Bodhmhall still found the old rechtaire difficult to understand at times. When he spoke, his barely articulate mumble was muffled not only by a dense mat of grey beard but by a thick, guttural accent as well. According to her father, he had been snatched as a child during a raid on the warm lands across the southern sea and this accent was the last vestige of his native tongue, unspoken since his abduction from his people.
Many years later Cairbre had ended up at Dún Baoiscne, traded on as spoils of war when his previous owner had perished on the battlefield. Purchased from a travelling merchant to provide crude brute labour for the maintenance of the fortress walls, his intelligence and natural aptitude for administration had gradually seen him transferred to lighter, more intellectual duties. Twenty-five years later, despite his tragic origins, Cairbre had adapted well to his environment at the Clann Baoiscne stronghold. Over that time he’d become a trusted assistant to Tréanmór’s household, obtained his freedom and had even taken a woman of his own, another ex-slave who subsequently bore him three sons. All of Bodhmhall’s earliest memories included the old man for he’d become her father’s key administrative advisor. Consistently reliable in the running of the stronghold, he would probably still hold this position if she hadn’t convinced him to accompany her and Liath Luachra to Ráth Bládhma.
‘A wan, lady. A young wan.’
Ah! A young one.
Bodhmhall nodded, the mists of incomprehension finally cleared.
‘Who is she?’
The rechtaire ran one wrinkled, leathered hand across his forehead then down the silver stubble of hair cut close to the scalp.
‘I don’t know her. She would not give her name.’
‘She was accompanied?’
She held the old man’s gaze and he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. Every winter for the last few years, he’d suffered increasingly from the curse of stiffening joints. On their first winter at the ráth he had developed an awkward-looking walk that helped him avoid the stinging sensation in his knees. This year, he could barely move without the occasional hiss of pain.
‘No company.’
Bodhmhall grunted in surprise. A single girl, a stranger, travelling alone in the Great Wild without escort or protection? She frowned, suspicion already forming in her mind. The arrival of a mysterious visitor in this isolated land so soon after the revelation of a hostile draoi could hardly be coincidence.
‘The wan’s with child.’
Bodhmhall’s expression conveyed her otherwise silent astonishment.
‘Near to dropping, I would say,’ the old man continued. ‘Yes. Definitely near to dropping.’
Unsure how to respond, Bodhmhall bit on her lower lip and gestured towards the settlement. ‘Our guest is within?’
‘Yes, lady. I left her in your house with Conchenn.’
‘Very well. I suppose we should offer her the hospitality of the ráth.’
Wiping her hands on the rough material of her tunic, Bodhmhall left her instructions with Cairbre for the final section of the lubgort. Circling the embankment with a heavy heart, she curved around to the entrance of the ring fort and traversed the causeway leading up to the stone gateway. Aodhán, Cairbre’s eldest son, was on sentry duty on the top of the stone structure. Taking a brief respite from his scrutiny of the surrounding countryside, he grinned and gave a brief wave as she passed into the passageway below.
A tall and pleasant youth, Aodhán had inherited his father’s easy manner but was already an óglach, a competent young warrior. Like his brothers, he had undergone martial training with Liath Luachra since their occupation of Ráth Bládhma. Under the woman warrior’s tutelage, both he and Bearach had become more than proficient with sword and shield while Cónán showed promise with the sling. All three boys were adept with the javelins and harpoons that lined the wooden rack on the gateway rampart, however Aodhán, in particular, had demonstrated an uncommon aptitude for casting weapons. After years of practice, the óglach was now lethal with javelins at distances of up to fifty paces, something the reavers had discovered, to their cost, during those early raids.
The lis, the central area of the ráth, comprised a wide circle that held two round houses, a small stockade for holding the cattle at night and a large fire pit over which a metal cauldron had been suspended. Two sturdy lean-tos had been constructed against the internal wall of the embankment to the left of the entrance. Predominantly used as a shelter for the ráth’s precious metal implements and tools, the structures also contained their supply of firewood, a resource well depleted over the cold winter months.
As she emerged from the gate passageway, Bodhmhall noted the ongoing consumption of firewood as Conchenn, Cairbre’s grey-haired woman, fed the fire pit’s insatiable flames. The bubbling of the cauldron’s contents, a vegetable based broth flavoured with bones, was audible from the gateway. Clouds of steam coiled upwards into the frigid air like a veil of angry ghosts.
The smell of food made Bodhmhall’s stomach growl and she realised she’d neglected to eat since rising that morning. Glancing at the sluggish, dark broth, she experienced a sudden, inexplicable craving for the fresh tastes and colours of summer: blooming red strawberries and raspberries, blackberries and blueberries, even the tangy sweetness of rowan.
Approaching the fire she ruefully discarded such notions. Summer was still some way off and harbouring such fancies was not only pointless but foolish to boot.
‘Conchenn. Where is the visitor?’
Mute from birth, Conchenn said nothing
but jerked her head in the direction of the nearest roundhouse. With this, she closed her eyes and raised her hands into the form of a pillow to mime a sleeping person. Bodhmhall smiled at the representation, nodded and turned towards the domed abode she shared with Liath Luachra. Pausing before the oak frame entrance, she stared at the leather flap, oddly reluctant to proceed any further. Privacy was a luxury that most communities could not afford but she’d grown fond of the personal retreat. Over the first year in Glenn Ceoch, she’d invested significant emotional and physical effort into creating that building, arranging the two concentric ring walls of hazel wattles and the insulating layers of straw. She’d also worked hard weaving the thatched reed roof. She had then spent a further two years making that space a home so the presence of an uninvited stranger unsettled her.
Setting her jaw, Bodhmhall lifted the flap and stepped inside.
The interior of the roundhouse was dark and it was difficult to see anything at first. Intimate familiarity, however, allowed Bodhmhall to automatically assign definition to the blurred shapes and contours; the curved brushwood sleeping platform, the narrow posts supporting the roof, even the wooden stand holding Liath Luachra’s leather fighting harness.
A distinct scent of oil competed with the odour of wood smoke from the fire. Although not the most fastidious of housekeepers, Liath Luachra was meticulous when it came to the maintenance of her armour and weapons and spent hours cleaning and oiling them when the weather confined her indoors.
The central feature of the hut was the small, stone-kerbed fire pit where the fire she’d laid down that morning had settled to embers. It was still radiating sufficient heat to repel the chill from outside and its dull glow illuminated the fur-wrapped figure curled up on the floor beside it.
Bodhmhall stood and stared in silence as a gentle snore rustled through the confines of her living area. Their guest was facing the fire with her back to the entrance, however, the bandraoi’s unique Gift allowed her to see the blue-yellow hue of her visitor’s life-force. Within that haze, but slightly lower, she could make out another separate glow; a strikingly vivid yellow.
Cairbre had it right, then. The visitor’s with child.
She studied the fiery glimmer with curiosity, surprised by the intensity of colour in one that had not yet been born. In her experience most people, even those not yet fully formed, tended to exude a pale blue or green coloured aura. There were occasional exceptions like Liath Luachra where tinted flickers of orange or red could also be observed. She had never before, however, seen one burn as bright and intense as the flame from this unborn child.
Advancing towards the fire, Bodhmhall tossed in some scraps of dried turf from a wicker basket beside the hearth and stoked it up as quietly as she could. Puffs of blue smoke drifted slowly to the roof of the hut and there was a brief crackle as the turf caught alight. A sudden flicker of flame briefly illuminated the face of the sleeping figure. Bodhmhall’s eyes widened.
She buried her shock in a surge of activity, busying herself until she had regained her composure. Crossing to a low, rough bench she grabbed a handful of dried herbs from one of the many that had been ground and stored in a series of little bowls, to be steeped as the need required. Sprinkling the herbs into a fresh clay beaker, she added some warm water from a pitcher sitting in the embers and started to stir. The sounds of swirling liquid and the sharp tap of a wooden spoon against the lip of the beaker did not rouse the sleeping woman.
Settling onto her haunches beside the fire, the bandraoi reached over and shook her roughly. It took several attempts before her visitor finally released a low moan. Rolling onto her back, the woman opened a pair of sleep-ridden blue eyes.
‘Hallo, cousin,’ said Bodhmhall.
The girl attempted to rise but was thwarted by the bulk of her stomach. Blinking and stupid with sleep, she succeeded in sitting upright on her second attempt and gazed about her in bleary-eyed confusion. She looked depleted. Pale and exhausted, despite her slumber.
Understandable, given the rigours of travelling in winter. And the weight of that child in her belly.
‘Bodhmhall.’
The voice was husky, tight with tension.
Bodhmhall busied herself with her potion, silencing her guest with a raised forefinger as she poured the mixture from the beaker into a smaller bowl. The extended silence seemed to disconcert her visitor. She shrank back on herself, clutching her woollen cloak and drawing it more tightly about her.
She was scared, Bodhmhall realised with a start. Muirne Muncháem, Flower of Almhu, wife to her brother Cumhal, was scared.
Unsettled by this realisation, she stared at her visitor, once more recalling the spectral assault she’d repelled at the lubgort. The convergence of events did little to reassure her.
‘I come seeking sanctuary.’
Bodhmhall’s posture tensed as she glared at Muirne Muncháem. It was rare for her to experience true fury but she knew that the contorted emotions twisting up inside her could be nothing else.
‘Sanctuary. You come to Ráth Bládhma, refuge of An Cailleach Dubh to seek sanctuary?’
Muirne blanched at the mention of An Cailleach Dubh – The Dark Hag – and Bodhmhall found herself unable to repress a bitter sense of satisfaction. It had been Muirne, after all, who’d originally contrived that cynical epithet and there was a righteous sense of balance in using it back against her.
Muirne let her head drop, unable to bear the wrathful expression of her host.
‘Cumhal is dead.’
‘What?’
Bodhmhall stared, her fury deflected but still too inflamed to completely absorb what the younger woman had just told her.
‘Cumhal is dead.’
Bodhmhall studied the woman’s face more carefully, scrutinising it for any sign of deceit, any trace of duplicity. The pain she saw in those features served only to confirm the tone of her words. Muirne was telling the truth. Which meant that ...
Cumhal!
Her brother, future leader of Clann Baoiscne, blond, vivacious and full of life was ...
Dead.
Bodhmhall stiffened, the news striking her like a blow to the stomach. Her guts lurched and shoulders sagged as though compressed by some sudden, unfathomable burden. Head whirling, she struggled to assemble some coherent thought through the maelstrom of questions and notions in her head.
Muirne tactfully looked to one side until her host gathered herself together.
‘How?’
Under normal circumstances Bodhmhall would have been embarrassed by the catch in her voice, the exposure of such brittle weakness. Now, gutted by shock and grief, she simply didn’t care.
‘A battle with Clann Morna. There was a dispute about stolen cattle from an earlier raid. A confrontation was arranged by the draoi of both clans ...’ Muirne’s voice trailed off momentarily as an involuntary blaze of contempt flickered across Bodhmhall’s features. ‘It was to be a limited engagement, a clash of champions but Clann Morna treacherously broke the established tradition. The party from Dún Baoiscne was ambushed as it passed through Cnucha on its way to the agreed battle lands. Our men were taken completely by surprise. They fought well but they were overwhelmed. Cumhal fell. And seventeen other warriors.’
Seventeen!
Bodhmhall gasped. Seventeen warriors! Most of them individuals she would have known, played with as children and watched grow into young men. She shook her head in disbelief. Such a loss of manpower, of leadership, was catastrophic for Clann Baoiscne, a substantial threat to the ongoing survival of the clan.
‘And Crimall. Is he –’
‘Your other brother lives. They say he’s fled to the West.’
‘Lugaid the Lightning Stroke?’
‘Dead.’
‘Ernán mac Donn?’
‘Dead.’
‘Fergus?’
‘Alive. But he will never use his right hand again.’
Bodhmhall paused. ‘Fiacail mac Codhna?’
There was a silence as Muirne looked away. Her exhaustion was evident now, her posture slack, her natural beauty strained and haggard.
‘He lives. He was at Seiscenn Uarbhaoil during the battle. A new love is said to detain him there.’
As always when distressed, Bodhmhall compressed her emotion beneath a mask of impassivity, submerging all trace of sentiment in the depths of a bottomless black loch, sunk and hidden deep within herself. The reaction was an instinctive response, a coping mechanism developed during her time with draoi Dub Tíre. She imagined her lips curve in a cynical smile, a grimace that was not reproduced on her face. The bitter lessons of that time, it seemed, served some practical purpose after all.
Fiacail? How typical! The man’s cock has saved his life.
‘My father?’
The Flower of Almhu shrugged. ‘What do you expect? His favourite son is dead. His second son fled like a coward. All his plans died with Cumhal. Cumhal was the tánaiste, the heir destined to lead Clann Baoiscne to great deeds. There is no clear replacement.’
A burning sensation in the palms of her hands made Bodhmhall look down and she realised that she’d unconsciously gouged the soft skin with her fingernails. Blood was now trickling freely down the inside of her wrists. Folding them onto her lap, she exhaled slowly and drew upon all her reserves to focus solely on the issue confronting her. She nodded at the stomach of the younger woman.
‘This is Cumhal’s child?’
A protective hand dropped to cradle the bulge.
‘Yes.’
‘Huh.’ A muted grunt of comprehension. Muirne’s departure from Dún Baoiscne made some sense then. With their victory at Cnucha, Clann Morna would move quickly to establish dominance over their old rivals, Clann Baoiscne. A direct assault on Dún Baoiscne was unlikely given the cost in men needed to capture the fortress. They could, however, sue for peace under advantageous conditions. With the death of their future leader and the loss of so many warriors, Clann Baoiscne’s power was seriously diminished. Clann Morna would be determined to eliminate any future challenge to their dominion by obliterating the hereditary lines of Clann Baoiscne leadership.
For Muirne, the ramifications were serious. If male, Clann Morna would demand the death of her child or, at the very least, insist on fosterage with one of their own. To cement their hold, it was also likely they would demand her union through marriage with a suitable member of their sept.
Bodhmhall sighed and got to her feet. She suddenly felt weary, much older than her twenty-three years. On leaving Dún Baoiscne, she had thought to leave this world of tribal politics and kingship squabbles behind.
Despite her personal anguish, she experienced an unexpected surge of sympathy for Muirne and the threat to which she was now exposed. Almost immediately, she smothered that reaction. Previous experience with Muirne Muncháem had too often demonstrated that such goodwill was unlikely to be reciprocated. In this particular case, there were also significant ramifications to becoming too involved.
‘You are the raven, Muirne Muncháem. You bring pain and dismay wherever you descend to rest your feet.’ She brushed her hands and sighed. ‘Why have you come here?’
‘I come seeking sanctuary.’ The blond haired woman raised her hands, palm outwards. ‘I have nowhere else to go. Would you deny me refuge?’
‘Of course, I would. The wrath of Clann Morna is not a threat we would willingly bring down upon ourselves.’
The bluntness of the response took Muirne by surprise. She stared at the taller woman with wide eyes.
‘Clann Morna does not know where I was headed.’
Bodhmhall ignored her. ‘You turned your nose up at us for years with your airs and graces. Now, when misfortune pulls you from your heights of privilege you throw yourself at our door. You know full well you are neither welcome, nor have any rights to hospitality here.’
‘Of course, I know! There are many places I could have sought help; family and bonds that owe me fealty and protection. Everyone is well aware that you and Liath Luachra bear me no love. Our antipathy is well known.’
‘And yet here you are.’
‘Because I carry Cumhal’s child.’
Bodhmhall took a deep breath.
Clever. Oh, very clever.
The bandraoi scowled. Although not a stunt that she was in a position to appreciate, she had to admire the younger girl’s political astuteness. As spouse to the tánaiste of Clann Baoiscne, Muirne automatically inherited the ancient rights of fealty due from the clan retainers, subject families and associated allies. Such networks of obligations and alliances had always cemented the authority of the ruling lineage. In times of adversity it was expected that these would be drawn on, that all favours would be called in.
Because of the circumstances behind Bodhmhall’s expulsion from Dún Baoiscne, Ráth Bládhma and its inhabitants were outside of such conventions. Despite this, Muirne had come here in secret, gambling her safety on Bodhmhall’s personal loyalty to her brother as opposed to the loyalty of clan obligation.
Yes. It was a very clever manoeuvre. Clann Morna would certainly not have expected it and by telling no-one of her destination, her location would be secure.
Provided Bodhmhall responded as anticipated.
She held the girl’s eyes. Muirne returned the stare with an anxious expression then, unable to withstand its intensity, dropped her own eyes to the floor. ‘Cumhal would always defend you,’ she whispered. ‘At Dún Baoiscne, when the people turned against you, he argued to let you stay. And yet ...’ Her voice filled with bitterness. ‘You would deny sanctuary to his son, your nephew. Your blood kin.’
‘So it’s a boy, then?’
‘It kicks like a boy,’ Muirne snarled and despite her fatigue, some of the woman’s natural fieriness flared in her eyes. ‘But you’re An Cailleach Dubh. You tell me.’
With a sigh, Bodhmhall considered her guest and suddenly wished her gone. Departed with her tragic news, her lust for power, her games and abrasive personality. Right there and then, she wished nothing more than to lie down in the darkness, to grieve in silence for her brother, and to worry over Liath Luachra until she could find the strength to face the world again.
Of course, that was a luxury she did not have. Muirne Muncháem’s gamble had been well played. Her loyalty to her brother, even deceased, was too strong. There were some responsibilities she could not shirk, irrespective of the circumstances.
She exhaled very slowly, as though she had been holding her breath for a very long time.
‘You have the safety of Ráth Bládhma for tonight, Muirne Muncháem. But you have no friends here and the news you bring makes you all the more unwelcome. You also place Muinntir Bládhma in potential conflict with Clann Morna.’
‘Muinntir Bládhma?’ Her sister by marriage arched one eyebrow in surprise.
‘We’re our own clan now, Muirne. Muinntir Bládhma.’
Bodhmhall had plucked the words from the air. Muinntir Bládhma; the household of Bládhma. And yet as she’d said it the words had felt right to her. The settlement was not associated with any particular ancestor or family dynasty, nothing but the location in which they were settled. Bládhma. Its members were outcasts or misfits, every one of them. A disgraced bandraoi, a female warrior, an old slave, a mute woman, three landless sons. It was a new beginning for all of them.
Such aspirations were lost on the likes of Muirne Muncháem who continued with her habitual obtuseness. ‘Well, Muinntir Bládhma has a limited future if it lacks the men to procreate. That is unless you intend to depend on the likes of your old slave and those boys I saw earlier.’
The bandraoi’s expression hardened but she could not deny the truth of her visitor’s words. Over the past three years, the settlement had clawed its way to a state of relative security but it was still a precarious existence. Despite their achievements, it did not have a future while its population remained so restricted.
Not that she would ever admit as much to Muirne Mu
ncháem.
With exaggerated assurance, Bodhmhall smiled and brushed a loose strand of hair back from her face. ‘I understand you’re tired after your hardships in reaching us.’ She leaned forward so abruptly, her face so close to Muirne Muncháem’s, that the other woman drew back in alarm. ‘Nevertheless, you should not forget that you remain here by my leave.’
Bodhmhall got to her feet. ‘I will leave you to rest now. You may use this roundhouse for tonight. I will consult my rechtaire and my conradh with respect to your request for sanctuary and inform you on my final decision after we have eaten this evening.’
Picking up the beaker that she’d let settle on the ashes, she gave it a final shake, added a dollop of honey from another pot and held it out to her visitor.
‘Drink this. It will ease the pains and help you to sleep.’
Cowed, Muirne accepted the vessel but considered its contents with a dubious expression.
Bodhmhall stood up to leave. ‘I may be An Cailleach Dubh, Muirne Muncháem, but I have yet to cause hurt to a child or a visitor in my home.’
Without waiting to for Muirne’s reaction, she departed through the doorway. The thick leather covering dropped back in place with a heavy flap.