10
Conor, his mind numb, the accusation still ringing in his ears, gaped at the old man before him. Impossible! How could anyone think he was a thief?
‘Me?’ was all he could think to say. The crimson patch on his face tingled with the shock and embarrassment. ‘You point at me?’
Grim and gaunt, Mádoc fixed him with a pitiless stare. ‘Yes, even you, Conor mac Ardan.’
‘You accuse me of taking your bracelet?’ Conor, his mouth suddenly dry, looked around to see every eye on him and not a few expressions as astonished as his own. Turning away from the accusing finger, he appealed directly to his father. ‘My lord, I know nothing of this theft—if theft it be. On my life, I swear it.’
‘Do not swear by anything you care to lose,’ roared Mádoc. ‘Do not do it!’ Drawing himself up in his outrage, he cried, ‘I accuse you and the charge will be proved. Before these witnesses, the accusation will stand.’
Conor, almost deafened by the roar of blood in his ears, heard himself say, ‘Go on, then, prove it.’
Ardan stepped forward, interposing himself between the two. ‘Let us not be overhasty. Before this matter goes any further, I think it only fair to remind everyone here that a heavy tribute will be exacted for a false accusation.’ Looking squarely at Cahir, he said, ‘Do you want to proceed, my lord?’
Cahir looked to his chief advisor, who, implacable in his outrage, merely nodded.
‘Then so be it.’ He gestured to the old man to continue.
‘Rest assured, lord king, the proof you require is easily obtained.’ Turning to Cahir, he said, ‘Choose one of your men to assist me, and let King Ardan do the same. Then we will see what we will see.’
Cahir appointed one of his ardféne—a solid and thoughtful man—but before Ardan could choose, Eamon stepped forward and volunteered his services. ‘Allow me, my lord,’ he said, stepping forward, ‘if no one has any objection.’
Ardan accepted both men, and looked to Conor for approval. ‘I am content,’ he said, still thinking that, since he had stolen nothing, nothing could go against him.
The two men stepped forward and stood together. And, Mádoc, satisfied that all was in order, said, ‘Show me where you keep the cups and serving vessels.’
All the camp furniture and utensils had been stored away in wicker baskets to be loaded on the horses for the trip home. Among the baskets was one that contained the beakers and eating bowls, along with other small items. Eamon, who had supervised the packing, pointed out the basket and, at a nod from Mádoc, Cahir’s man lifted it and carried it to where the company stood looking on.
‘Empty it onto the ground,’ commanded Mádoc, and this was done. The articles formed an untidy pile on the grass. Examining the heap from a little distance away, he said, ‘That jar—there’—he pointed to a large pottery water jug—‘pick it up and give it to him.’ He pointed to Eamon.
The man bent down and, shoving aside a few bowls and cups, brought out the chosen jar and held it up, then passed it to Eamon. The movement produced a hollow, rattling sound. Eamon shook the jar and the unmistakable clatter told everyone that there was an object inside.
‘Break it,’ instructed Mádoc.
Eamon gave a little shrug and let the jug fall from his upraised hand. The earthen jar landed with a thud and cracked in three places. With his foot, he broke those pieces into smaller bits. A glint of gold flashed up from the shards of pottery in the grass.
‘There!’ cried the old man, pointing to the gleam of metal. ‘Show me—and show the others. Let everyone here see what you have found.’
Eamon pushed aside the potsherds and retrieved a gold armlet. He took it between thumb and finger and held it high for all to see.
‘That is my bracelet,’ Mádoc said, his voice loud with condemnatory triumph. He directed Eamon to show it to Cahir, who confirmed that it was indeed the same ornament he had given to his advisor years ago.
The Darini looked at one another in amazement. King Ardan was not yet convinced. ‘While I accept that this may be your property,’ he allowed, ‘and that someone must have put it there seems undeniable, it does not follow that that someone must have been Conor. Anyone might have packed that basket.’
‘Indeed, my lord,’ agreed Conor loudly, ‘anyone at all.’ He looked to Eamon for support, but both appeared wavering and doubtful.
‘True enough,’ replied Mádoc. ‘Let me ask who then packed the basket?’ He passed his gaze around the circle of onlookers. ‘Hmm? The question is simple enough. Who among you packed that basket for leaving?’
No one made bold to answer; each either looked at his feet or at his neighbour. It was Eamon who broke the silence. In a voice of deep regret, he said, ‘Sorry, Conor. The truth will be told in the end.’ To Mádoc he said, ‘I helped oversee the striking of camp. It was Conor who packed up the cups and bowls and such.’
Conor could not believe his ears. ‘Eamon—what are you saying?’
‘Silence, thief!’ Mádoc snapped. To Eamon, he said, ‘Did you see him with the jar?’
‘I did,’ replied the warrior with some reluctance. ‘But I did not see him with the bracelet,’ he added quickly.
‘Did you not?’ said Mádoc, his voice a sneer. ‘Well, only a fool would let himself be seen with his stolen goods in his hands. He deceived you as he has sought to deceive everyone else.’
‘Conor?’ said Ardan, appealing to his son. ‘What do you have to say to this?’
Staring at the incriminating evidence as if in a trance, Conor replied, ‘What have I to say? Only this—how is it that Mádoc knew exactly where to look for that bracelet of his? It might have been hidden anywhere. How did he know it would be in that jar?’
‘You ask this of a druid?’ sniffed Mádoc.
‘Former druid,’ said Conor. He pointed to the armband. ‘Let this druid tell, if he can, how this crime was accomplished, for I cannot.’
‘That is easily told,’ replied Mádoc. ‘At my lord’s request, I came to this camp to treat the injuries this man received at the hands of the Brigantes. Many here would have seen us together.’ He flung out a hand in appeal to the company. ‘As is my custom, I removed my gold in order to wash and bind his wounds. This I did—and it is beyond doubt that while I laboured, he took my bracelet for himself and hid it in the very jar I used to bathe him. In this way, my possession was stolen from me.’ The old man’s gaze was stern as he surveyed the unhappy faces around him. ‘As you yourselves have witnessed, the crime is exposed and explained. I demand justice.’
‘Conor,’ said Ardan, looking to his son. ‘The evidence of your crime demands an answer.’
‘What can I say? If I protest my innocence, I risk adding the unjust charge of liar to my shame. But if I acknowledge guilt, then I am lying to myself—and that I will never do.’
Ardan stiffened at the words, yet his voice was steady as he turned to Mádoc and asked, ‘What justice would you accept?’
‘Nothing less than the full weight of the law,’ sniffed the druid. ‘I appeal to the Cáin Nuada.’
This caused a murmur among those present who knew something of the legal code set forth in the decree of King Nuada. ‘That is a heavy weight to bear for a crime such as this,’ Ardan said. ‘Your ornament has been found and returned to you, the theft exposed and the thief humiliated. Perhaps this would suffice to satisfy you for the slight distress you have suffered.’
Mádoc drew himself full height. ‘Never! Are we to believe you would tolerate a known thief to live among you as a companion of your hearth? Noblemen and warriors must forever remain above reproach.’ The druid shook his grizzled head slowly. ‘The crime is grave enough. That it was perpetrated by a trusted member of your retinue at an Oenach is cause enough for the full penalty to be rendered.’
Ardan, unwilling to accept the verdict, searched among the company for any to speak a word of mitigation for his son. But no one stepped forth. Therefore, with a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, he replied,
‘Let it be as you say. What does the Cáin command?’
Mádoc turned to Lord Cahir and the two spoke briefly for a moment; then the king said, ‘The accusation has been made and theft demonstrated. Though the thief has not confessed, his guilt is manifest—therefore the punishment is clear. The thief, when a member of a royal household, must be cast out of his ráth at once, and under pain of death not to return for three years from the date of his crime.’
Ardan put out a hand to his friend. ‘You would have me make of my son an outcast?’
‘The law is clear,’ replied Mádoc gravely. ‘He must be banished from the tribe.’
Conor, who had been listening to this with mounting disbelief and anger, could barely absorb what had just taken place—as if it were happening in a dream, or to some other hapless wretch. ‘Outcast?’ he whispered, feeling his birthmark tingle and burn as anger mounted. He turned in appeal to Eamon, still standing over the broken pottery; the elder warrior would not meet his gaze, but looked down at the ground instead.
‘Come,’ said Lord Cahir. ‘It is hard enough—do not make it harder still with needless delay. The thing is best done swiftly.’
Ardan, seeing no way out of this predicament, drew a deep breath and addressed his son. ‘Unless you can offer a better explanation for this crime, I have no other choice but to declare your guilt.’
Conor, rigid with anger, spat, ‘I will not answer their lies, nor confess to something I did not do.’
His father shook his head sadly. ‘I am sorry. It is out of my hands.’
‘Father, I—’
Mádoc turned on him. ‘Do not think to add to your disgrace with tears.’
‘Tears!’ shouted Conor, the blood-tinged birthmark throbbing with fire. ‘How little you know me if you think an unjust accusation and excessive punishment will break me or reduce me to weeping. Though mountains fall upon me, I will not be crushed.’
‘Conor mac Ardan, you have been found guilty of this crime in the judgement of your brothers,’ said Lord Cahir, invoking the ancient law. ‘You are forthwith cast out of the warband, and out of the ráth of your people.’
The Coriondi king turned to his friend to ratify the ruling. Ardan swallowed hard and, after a moment, said, ‘Go where you will, my son. If you can find anyone to take you in, lodge there and serve in whatever way is given you. At the end of three years, return to us…’ He lowered his head. ‘.… if life is left in you and you so desire.’
Full angry now—filled with righteous rage at the gross injustice perpetrated against him—Conor nevertheless held his temper in check. Mouth hard and jaw set, his ruby birthmark searing his cheek, he removed the sling from his arm, tossed it away, and, with some difficulty, strapped his sword to his side; he retrieved his shield, cloak, and spear and strode resolutely to the picket line of horses, and untied the first one on the line—the grey stallion.
‘You cannot be taking a horse!’ began Liam, starting forth. ‘They belong to—’
Ardan threw an arm across the chest of his battlechief to restrain him. ‘Let him have the beast,’ said the king. ‘It is the only help I can give him.’
With some little difficulty owing to his injuries, Conor clambered up onto the horse’s back. He picked up the reins and paused to look his last upon those who had been his friends and family. ‘I would bid you all farewell,’ he called, his voice cracking, ‘but for the injustice served me this day, the words would stick in my throat and choke me dead.’
With that, the outlaw wheeled his mount and rode west in the direction of the sea.
11
Stunned by the speed of his descent into exile, Conor rode for the coast. By the time he reached the plain, however, he had begun to impose a rough order on the chaos of his thoughts and feelings. That he had been made the victim of a colossal injustice was manifestly evident, but railing against it would not serve him now. Instead, he funnelled his energy into one paramount desire: to see Aoife one last time.
Thus, as soon as he was beyond sight of Tara’s kingly mound, he pulled up hard and waited to see if anyone followed. ‘Not to return on pain of death…,’ he muttered. ‘Well, let them try to keep me away.’
The grey stallion chafed the ground with a forehoof, as if eager to be away. Conor’s lips curved into a grim smile and he reached down to pat his mount’s finely muscled shoulder. ‘You’re angry, too, aye?’ He stroked the animal’s gleaming coat. ‘Then come, Búrach,’ he said, naming his mount for the rage coursing through his veins at that moment, ‘we’re going home.’
He rode all day and most of the night, stopping only for water and to rest his mount and, occasionally, for Conor to ease the pain of his injured arm. Conor slept in fits and snatches—sheltering in a copse here, a spinney there—and pressed a reckless pace. The grey responded to all Conor asked of him, and more, and Conor’s admiration of the beast grew with every hill and valley and stream ford they crossed. Owing to the speed of the horse, no less than to the determination of the rider, they completed the journey, riding through the gates of Dúnaird some little time before sunset on the third day.
Conor’s clansmen were surprised to see him—mounted and alone, and battered as he was—they naturally feared that some disaster had befallen the king and his ardféne. Conor quickly assured them that all was well and that Ardan and his retinue would arrive in a day or two. ‘I was sent ahead,’ he explained simply, ‘on account of my wounds, to bring word of the gathering and ready the king’s welcome.’
Before he could say more, old Hano, one of the tribe’s elders, pushed himself forward. ‘So, you bring news, eh?’ he called. ‘Tell us, then, how went the Oenach?’
Conor offered a somewhat shaded account of what had taken place at the gathering. He told about catching the Scálda spies, the fight and capture of one of them; and gave a highly biased account of the overbearing Lord Brecan’s odd behaviour; and he mentioned one or two other bits of more mundane business. He told them as much as he thought they would like to know—pointedly leaving out any mention of the incident that had led to his being branded a thief and forced into exile. Of that, he breathed not a word.
‘Was there a fight, then, Conor?’ asked another of the elders, indicating the young man’s bruises.
‘Aye, there was,’ he replied, and related how he was attacked by Lord Brecan’s men in reprisal for speaking above his rank at the council. He concluded, saying, ‘If I never attend another Oenach, it will be all the same to me.’ Conor promised to tell more later and then, glancing around the group but failing to find the one face he most wished to see, he asked, ‘Where is Aoife?’
‘Ach, I expect she is with that brown cow of hers,’ replied one of the women as people began to disperse. ‘It is calving any moment now, and she is that anxious over it. You’ll find her in the byre, so you will.’
Conor thanked the woman and hurried off to see his beloved, threading his way along the narrow paths between lodges and dwellings to the small shed built up against the wall at the far side of the fortress. Ordinarily, the cattle remained in their pens outside the ráth, but sick animals or any requiring special care were brought to the birthing byre. On his way, Conor greeted all he met, saying it was good to be home and that no doubt he would have more to say tomorrow—all the while knowing that by tomorrow he must be far away from Dúnaird.
The sun was slanting low in the west as he approached the hut. He put his hand to the wattle door and paused to listen. Someone was speaking within … no, not speaking … singing. The voice was Aoife’s, no mistake, and she was singing to the cow. Conor smiled and then he joined the song.
Aoife, startled, rose up on her knees and turned her head as he pushed open the door, letting in a flood of light that illuminated his lady in a golden glow. And, oh, his breath caught in his throat. She was so very lovely. How was he to live without her?
Conor fought down the lump in his throat and simply gazed, drinking in the sight of the dark-haired young woman he would soon be mi
ssing. This would be the last he saw of her for a very long time, and he wanted to remember her just this way: her shapely form wrapped in a simple green tunic held at her slender shoulder by a silver leaf casán—the brooch he had given her as a betrothal gift, a simple girdle of corded buckskin around her waist, her hair gathered in back to fall loose, bare feet tucked neatly under her long mantle.… It was an image to impel a bard to song.
‘Conor!’ she cried, jumping up. ‘Is it you?’
‘It is myself,’ he said. ‘I am back.’
‘But I did not hear the sounding iron.’
‘The others have not yet returned,’ Conor said when they parted. ‘Just me. I came on ahead. I could not wait one day more to see my love.’ He moved into the shed. The cow lay on its side, the great swollen dome of its belly heaving with every breath. It rolled a big brown eye at his intrusion.
‘Why did—?’
Conor silenced her question with a kiss. She moulded her body to his and returned the kiss with the ardour of the bride she hoped to be. Winding her arms around him, she gathered him in a lover’s embrace, which promptly drew a sharp gasp of pain.
‘But what is this?’ Putting her hands to his chest, she pushed back and held him at arm’s length, taking in his battered face for the first time. ‘You’re injured! My love, what happened?’
‘There was a discussion,’ he said. ‘It is nothing.’
‘It is something,’ insisted Aoife, ‘I never heard of any mere conversation leaving such bruises on flesh and bone.’
‘Ach, well, you have never been to Tara of the Kings, I suppose. The discussions there are often conducted with fists and clubs. It is much the quickest way.’
Lifting a hand to his discoloured cheek and eye, she said, ‘Does it hurt very much?’
‘Now that I am here with you, I feel better already.’
She peered at him doubtfully, then embraced him again, gently, and led him into the byre. ‘Sit with me and rest yourself,’ she said. ‘I will go fetch some mead and we will—’