Cethern leapt on him and, straddling him, raised the knife to plunge it into Conor’s heart. Conor grabbed a fistful of dirt and as the champion’s arm started down, he flung the dust and gravel into his assailant’s face. Instinctively, Cethern’s hands went to his eyes, and Conor seized the hand holding the knife and tried to wrest it away. The champion jerked his hand this way and that to free the blade, but Conor held on.
Some in the crowd began to protest that the contest was over. The cry rose louder until finally, the king called out, ‘Enough!’
Several warriors rushed out and, taking Cethern by the shoulders and arms, bodily pulled him off his struggling victim and hauled him aside. Conor, sweating and panting heavily, rolled onto his side and lay for a moment catching his breath and gathering his wits.
Mog Ruith strode to where he lay and, gazing down at Conor with a vicious grin, said, ‘Was that unfair? I doubt the Scálda would make such a fine distinction.’
Conor nodded. ‘True enough. But then again, a Scálda would have killed your champion in the very first clash.’
‘With a sword of hardened ash wood? Ha!’
Conor climbed to his feet and stood to face the false druid. ‘It is twice your champion has attacked me when my back was turned and I had no weapon. Be assured it will not happen again.’
‘And if it does?’
‘Your king will be looking for a new champion.’
32
That night, Conor was taken to one of the Warriors’ Houses; the smallest and least occupied of the three, it housed the younger warriors, and here the men seemed more accepting of his presence, and some—the same who had called out his name in acclaim following the contest—were even friendly. From this, Conor surmised that many of them had also suffered Cethern’s taunts and mindless cruelties, and were glad to see the overbearing champion bested at last. At the very least, Conor had won a modicum of respect among his lordship’s warband. What the king thought, however, remained to be seen.
This he discovered the next morning when, as the day before, the warriors trooped out into the yard for their training. This time, however, Conor was treated as a veritable battlechief and asked to demonstrate some more of his skills; he obliged, and had worked up a healthy sweat when a boy came running with a summons from the king. Conor followed the lad across the yard to the king’s hall; the doors were open and one of the ardféne stood guard—needlessly, it seemed to Conor, because nothing would have induced him to enter that darksome abode unbidden. He halted at the foot of the steps leading up onto the platform fronting the hall.
While he was waiting, two warriors emerged—one of them was Cethern. Conor tensed for a renewal of their conflict but, to his credit, the battlechief let his glance slide over Conor without any hint of animosity, embarrassment, or even recognition. He did not deign to notice Conor at all and, in fact, did not break stride but went on his way without a word. As Conor turned to watch him walk away, he felt the tension release him from its grip.
‘So!’ came a voice from the platform. ‘Here you are.’
Conor swung back to see Lord Brecan looming over him, hands on hips, a scowl on his disapproving face.
‘I was told you wished to see me,’ said Conor with a slight dip of the knee and bow of the head.
Brecan frowned, staring down at him with a sour expression. Conor supposed he was expected to speak, but decided to say no more lest he provide any excuse for confrontation. The king was first to break the silence, saying, ‘You probably think yourself lucky—beating my champion.’
‘I understood it was to be a test of skill,’ Conor replied.
‘You hold yourself so far above Cethern?’ Brecan’s scowl deepened. ‘And him a trusted champion and warleader? You think yourself better than my best?’
‘That is for others to say,’ replied Conor evenly.
‘What, then, do you say?’
‘Only this—that if another blade would be useful to you, then take mine. If not, I will go my way and find another to serve.’
‘You think another lord will be eager to hire you—a despised outcast?’
Conor felt the crimson blotch on his face tingle as anger flickered within him. But he covered the insult with a disinterested shrug. ‘Able warriors are always welcome—somewhere, if not here.’
Brecan considered this for a moment. Finally, his glower lifted and he made up his mind. ‘True enough, and it would be a shame to lose a blade such as yours. I will take you.’
‘And the pay?’
Before Brecan could reply, his druid appeared behind him. Having heard what had passed, Mog Ruith stepped forward and, in a loud voice, declaimed, ‘My lord king, I advise you to refuse this insolent thief and troublemaker. Have nothing more to do with him.’
‘Your counsel comes too late,’ the king told him. ‘The matter is decided.’ To Conor, he said, ‘You will take your place in the ranks of the younger warriors. There will be no pay, but if you prove yourself worthy, you will receive an equal share of all spoils taken in battle.’ He fixed Conor with a firm and steady gaze. ‘Agreed?’
Conor made a little bow to show he accepted the terms. ‘Agreed,’ he said. The king dismissed Conor and, as he turned away, Mog Ruith took hold of Brecan’s arm and whispered something in his lord’s ear. The king recoiled at the touch and, brushing aside the druid’s hand, retreated to the hall. Conor quickly averted his eyes and hurried to rejoin the warriors at their weapons practice.
That first day passed without further incident and, though Cethern apparently accepted the king’s decision to allow Conor to join the warband, Conor remained cautious around the battlechief. He also maintained a wary distance from the king’s druid; he knew Mog Ruith watched him, perhaps waiting for any excuse to punish him, or banish him from the ráth. Nor did he neglect the reason why he had come among the Brigantes in the first place, but stayed alert to any sign of suspicious behaviour on the part of the king. These precautions were fairly easily sustained, but one threat remained: the queen.
Once it was clear that Conor would become part of the king’s warband, Queen Sceana’s interest in him became more palpable, more obvious, more potent. She appeared outside the Women’s House during weapons practice and training and, when she took her place at the king’s table for the evening meal and music, she allowed her gaze to rest upon him from time to time, always with a ready smile and lift of an eyebrow when he caught her watching. Nor did she miss an opportunity to speak an intimate word whenever she happened to pass him in the yard, or in the hall. ‘You do well, Conor,’ she might say. ‘A true master of your weapons. Are you as skilled in more gentle forms of combat as well?’
Each time, Conor tried to deflect such comments with a light word, a smile, or gesture. Though the king did not appear to notice any of this, Conor was only too aware, and found it increasingly difficult to pretend that she was not actively pursuing him. He told himself that the sooner he could discover the nature of Brecan’s dark designs, the sooner he could be restored to his tribe and reunited with Aoife. That was, to Conor, a prize higher than any other he could name, and certainly far higher than any hasty dalliance with a beautiful woman. Conor took to avoiding her as much as possible—difficult to do without seeming to give offense. But, he kept his head down and made certain he always entered and left the hall surrounded by his special coterie of young admiring warriors, and sat as far away from the king’s place at table as possible.
This simple tactic worked well enough—until Brecan departed on one of his frequent travels.
The first Conor heard that the king was leaving was the morning his lordship and druid, along with a small bodyguard drawn from among the ardféne, rode out of the ráth in a clatter of hooves and shouts of farewell. Conor had been with an early-morning band of warriors delegated to one of the hunting parties that, from time to time, helped to provide meat for the table, larder, and smokehouse. Summer was passing, and it was time to begin storing up for the winter ahead. The part
y had gone out into the wood before daybreak, completed their hunt, and were returning to the ráth with two fine young bucks. As they came in sight of the settlement, they saw a body of horsemen issue from the gates, thunder down the long slope of the ramp, and head off toward the east.
‘Was that the king away?’ asked Conor.
‘Aye,’ replied Galart, one of the young warriors in the same house as Conor. ‘That’s our lord off on another of his circuits. The duties of a king never cease.’
‘I did not know he was leaving. Will he be gone very long, do you think?’
‘Not long. A few days is usually all it is.’
‘Do you ever go with them?’
‘Nay, nay—only old Mog and Cethern, and some of the ardféne,’ Galart told him. ‘I wouldn’t like to go myself, you know. All that palaver makes my head ache.’
Conor watched the riders until they disappeared over the hill. He would, he decided, try to get himself invited along the next time the king rode out and in that way see if he might learn more about where the king went, who he met, and what they talked about. The problem of how to do this occupied his thoughts through the day—so much so that he failed to notice the queen standing outside the Women’s House as the warriors trooped to the hall for the evening meal. Conor, head down as usual, felt a light touch on his arm. He paused and turned to see one of the queen’s ladies. ‘A moment, angclú,’ she said.
Conor wondered at her use of the old word for “champion.” He paused and turned. ‘You must have mistaken me,’ he said. ‘Cethern is away with the king.’
‘No mistake, I think,’ she replied, stepping close and, in a softer tone, said, ‘It is you the queen wishes to see, not Cethern.’ She gave a little shiver and added, ‘Never Cethern.’
‘I am on my way to eat in the hall,’ he said, grasping for a way out of this predicament. ‘Perhaps I might come another time.’
‘My queen has laid a table especially for you, angclú.’ She turned, expecting Conor to follow. ‘She is waiting even now.’
Conor cast a quick glance around. The other warriors had entered the hall and the yard was empty save for a dog or two, and a group of older children playing a game with a sheep’s bladder. ‘Now, you say?’
‘Even now.’ She offered him a winsome smile. ‘It is this way.’
She said this as if Conor might not know the way to the Women’s House. How could he not? For all it was only across the yard. But, seeing as he had not found a way to decline the invitation, Conor made no further attempt to escape; he followed, glad that there was no one to see him enter the queen’s lair.
He was met on the threshold by the céile, Bríd, who offered him a clean siarc and new breecs, and said, ‘My lady the queen thought you might like to bathe before your meal.’ She led him to the back of the house and a small chamber containing a large vat of hot water. ‘She knows warriors do not often have heated water,’ Bríd told him, gesturing toward the vat. ‘There are cloths for drying and also soap. I will bring a razor and mirror if you like.’
‘No need.’ Conor looked at the steaming water and fingered his stubbled jaw. ‘On second thought, I would like that very much.’
As soon as she was gone, Conor shed his clothes and climbed into the warm water. It was true that warriors seldom enjoyed hot water for washing; usually they bathed in a stream or lake, so hot water was a rare indulgence and Conor was determined to make the most of it. He quickly soaped up, washed, and rinsed off, then sank back to enjoy the extravagance. He was sitting half submerged, eyes closed, when Bríd returned with the razor and mirror. ‘Just leave it beside the vat,’ Conor told her.
‘For a kind word, I could be persuaded to shave you as well,’ came the reply.
Instantly, Conor’s eyes flew open. ‘Lady Sceana! Forgive me, I meant no disrespect. I thought you were the maidservant.’
The queen laughed. ‘It is no less than I deserve for intruding on a man at his bath.’ She moved closer and held out the mirror. ‘Even so, it would please me to ply the razor.’
Conor did not know how to refuse without offending her, so replied, ‘If so lowly a task would amuse you, then I would be honoured.’
Taking a small stool from the corner of the room, Sceana sat down next to the vat and gently lathered his face, and with deft, practiced strokes applied the razor. Her mastery was so sure and steady, he sat back and tried to enjoy the experience. But only one woman had ever shaved him before, and that was Aoife. He could not relax entirely for feeling that he was somehow betraying her.
‘That is better,’ said the queen, appraising her handiwork. She held up the disk of polished silver so he could see. ‘What do you think?’
‘Very well done,’ replied Conor, rubbing his hands over his newly smooth cheeks. ‘I thank you for your care.’
‘A queen cannot have her angclú looking like one of the Scálda,’ she told him with a wink. ‘When you are finished, you will find me waiting for you at the table.’
Conor did not linger long. As soon as she was gone, he dried himself on the linen cloths and then dressed in his old clothes—to be seen in new things from the queen’s hand would raise too many eyebrows among the residents of the Warriors’ House. Bríd was waiting outside the door and, without a word, led him to back to the central room where the queen reclined on her couch beside a low table. Dressed in a thin linen robe belted with an embroidered red sash, a slender golden torc at her throat, Queen Sceana beckoned him to join her.
Rushlights and candles had been lit and a small fire burned on the round hearth in the centre of the room. From somewhere the sound of a harp spun silvery music into the air, reminding Conor of a crystal fountain splashing in a forest pool. A brazier had been set up nearby and was being tended by one of the queen’s ladies who was turning spits on which cubes of meat sizzled over coals, filling the air with the smell of roasting meat flavoured with sage—and something else Conor could not name; but it titillated his nostrils and made him think of something dark and sweet and rare.
‘Ah! Conor mac Ardan, my very own champion, it is so good of you to join me,’ she said—as if they had not already shared a most intimate moment. This, Conor suspected, was for the benefit of any gossips within hearing. She rose slowly and stepped around the table to meet him. ‘And have you come to cheer me in my abject loneliness now the king is away?’
She made it sound as if this little tryst were all Conor’s idea. He heard himself reply, ‘I believe you summoned me, my lady.’
‘And here you are.’ She put a hand on his arm and the skin warmed beneath her touch. ‘Come and sit. You must be ferociously hungry—a strong and active man like you.’
‘The warriors at the king’s table eat very well. We rarely go away hungry.’
‘Ach, well and good, I suppose,’ she said, arching one graceful eyebrow, ‘if you are not overly particular. But the queen’s table is more lavish.’ She clapped her hands and called for the cups to be brought. This time, the mead was poured from a silver jar into shallow silver bowls. The ordinarily golden liquid had been stained deepest blue from black currants used for flavour. Conor accepted the bowl from the serving maid’s hand and the queen said, ‘I drink to you, my angclú—if you will accept.’
She lifted the bowl to her lips and took a long, lingering draught. Conor drank and felt the sticky, sweet liquor slide down his throat, warming him all the way down. ‘Angclú,’ Conor repeated. ‘It is an old word for ‘champion,’ or ‘hero’—is it not?’
‘I expect you are wondering why I chose it.’
‘The question did occur to me.’
‘The king has his champion,’ she said. ‘The queen should have one, too. Do you not think so?’
‘Cethern would happily serve you both,’ Conor ventured. ‘Of that you may be certain.’
‘Cethern is a brute.’
‘Perhaps a brute is required—if a king and his family are to be best protected.’
‘Perhaps,’ she allowed with a laz
y smile. She lifted the bowl to her lips and drank. ‘But you bettered the king’s brute. And if a queen is to be best protected, she would certainly require the better of the two. That is you, I think.’
‘Lord Brecan might not look on such a turn with friendly eyes,’ Conor countered. ‘I am a member of his warband and his to command.’
‘My husband views little enough with friendly eyes,’ replied Sceana with some force. ‘In any event, as my champion, it is my eyes you should be worried about.’
Conor raised his cup to her and took another drink, thinking furiously how he might extricate himself from this dangerous conversation. He was saved having to make a reply by the appearance of a serving maid bearing a large wooden tray laden with bread and salt, and tidbits of succulent pork, lamb, and duck. She placed the tray on the table between the diners, and then retreated—only to return with bowls of creamy sweet walnuts boiled in sheep’s milk, greens, mashed beans, and stewed plums in honey. She refilled both bowls with spiced mead and then, with a bow to the queen, retreated.
Sceana offered her guest first helping of the choicest morsels and they began to eat. While they ate, the queen told him of her early life in the far south with the Luceni—a fishing people of the coastal waters. ‘Everything smelled of fish,’ she laughed, ‘even our hair!’
‘How did you find your way here?’ asked Conor.
‘You mean how did I find my way to the king’s bedchamber?’ The queen offered a sad smile. ‘Like most tribes of the south, we were driven from our homes by the wicked invaders. They burned everything that could not move. All with wings or feet fled before them. My father was chieftain of the clan and when we came north, he sought alliance with the Brigantes. Old Lergath, Brecan’s father, was king then—he and my father became good friends. Brecan was already the warleader—and years older—but he took me for his wife. When Lergath died, Brecan was acclaimed lord and king.’ She raised an indifferent palm. ‘I have been queen ever since.’