Conor saw the furtive activity around the hall—warriors running in and out on hurried errands, supplies being readied, fresh horses groomed—and decided to find out what was happening. While he practiced in the yard with some of the other warriors, he kept his eyes open and, when he saw Galart emerge from the hall, he made a point to seek him out later when he could get him alone.
After supper, Conor loitered outside and when Galart appeared, he fell into step beside him as they returned to the Warriors’ House. ‘Will you be joining us at the ale tun tonight, brother?’ he asked.
‘Aye, to that—and about time. I have had nothing to drink since we rode out.’
‘Ach, well, and it looks like you are leaving again for all you’ve just returned.’
The warrior rolled his eyes. ‘Not if I had my way. All these journeys—and for what?’
‘I suppose Lord Brecan needs protection when he meets with his client lords—all kings are like that as we know.’
‘Ha! We are allowed nowhere near any of these meetings,’ the young man huffed. ‘Only Cethern and his druid go with him. We make camp and guard it while they ride off to the meeting place.’
‘Kings are like that,’ Conor replied again with a shrug.
‘I don’t know why we go at all.’
‘Well, at least you have tonight in your own bed.’
‘Only tonight, mind. We leave again in the morning.’
‘Where do you go this time?’ Conor yawned, trying to feign disinterest.
The fellow cast a quick sideways glance at Conor, and lowered his voice. ‘I’m not allowed to say—even if I knew. The king never tells us where we are going until after we’ve left the ráth.’
‘Ach, well,’ replied Conor, ‘kings will have their secrets.’
There was much more Conor wanted to ask, but felt he had pried enough, and the last thing he wanted was to make his best source of information wary of speaking to him. Instead, he was determined to remain alert for any other stray crumbs he might glean around the board later that evening when the ale had loosened a few tongues. In the meantime, he would consider what he had been told—and how he might use it to get himself included among the king’s travelling companions. Only then would he find out where the king went, whom he saw, and what he did.
Unfortunately, there were but few crumbs to be gleaned over the cups that night. The talk was all of hunting and hounds. Yet, Conor did learn something that he thought might yet prove useful. According to Galart, the king was in negotiations with two of his client lords to acquire a number of dogs to be added to his kennel—a fact that caused Conor to say, ‘I didn’t know his lordship had a kennel.’
‘Nor does he,’ replied Médon, settling the bench next to him. He sucked foam from his moustache and returned to his cup.
‘So then?’ Conor prompted.
‘Well, he is building one—see?’
‘Ach, well then,’ said Conor, raising his jar to his lips. ‘I had not noticed. Still, I think I might have seen the carpenters at work.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ offered Galart; he leaned across the table, cradling his cup between his hands. ‘The kennel is not within the ráth at all.’
‘Is it not?’ said Conor. He drank again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Strange that—such valuable animals, too—if I know anything about dogs. I should think he’d want them close to keep an eye on them.’
‘Not beasts like these you wouldn’t,’ replied the half-drunk Médon. ‘They’re no peace-loving creatures.’
Conor thought for a moment. ‘War dogs, then?’
‘Aye,’ agreed Médon, ‘the fiercest fighting dogs you ever saw. Bred to blood and battle they are. Born to kill.’
‘Well, this close to the borderlands and the Scálda always skulking about, having a dog or two around is a good thing.’
‘It is, aye.’ Médon emptied his jar. ‘But it’s not just a dog or two, mind.’ The warrior leaned close. ‘It is twenty at least—maybe more.’
Conor wanted to hear more, but did not wish to appear too inquisitive; so he said nothing and instead rose from the bench. Holding out his hand for Médon’s jar, he said, ‘I will go fetch us another. How about you, Galart?’
Galart took a last gulp and thrust out the cup to Conor. ‘See you hurry back, now,’ he called, slouching contentedly on the bench. ‘A man could die of thirst for all this talking.’ The two laughed as Conor stumped off.
He had to wait his turn at the vat, and by the time he returned, Médon was almost asleep and Galart was looking none too lively. Conor decided he’d pushed matters as far as he could for one night; he asked no more questions, and instead turned to talk of horses. Still, he went to bed thinking that he must find out more about these mysterious war dogs.
The next morning, the king and his bodyguard rode out once more. Later, as Conor was finishing weapons practice for the day, he noticed two visitors at the fortress gate: one older, one younger, both dressed in blue siarcs and green breecs and high-laced brócs—and both with the distinctive sharp-shaved crowns of the druid kind. After a brief word with the guards, they were admitted and proceeded directly to the Bards’ House. Conor saw them crossing the yard and had the curious sensation that he had seen one of them before—but he could not say where. As they came nearer, so too the feeling of familiarity grew, hardening into a certainty—and more, for the younger one bore more than a passing resemblance to … himself!
The two moved to the door of the house and the young one turned to look across the yard. Conor almost dropped his spear. ‘Rónán!’ he gasped under his breath. ‘Can it be…?’
Glancing around quickly, he saw the last of his battle group leaving the yard and only a few women and children going about their chores. Lowering his head, he made directly to intercept the two visitors.
‘Rónán!’ he called as he drew nearer. The young druid did not so much as glance his way. ‘Rónán! It is me, Conor.…’
The two visitors continued up the steps to the wooden platform fronting the house. Conor caught them just as they reached the door. ‘Why so fast, brother?’ he said, smiling. ‘Did you not hear me call your name?’
‘Do we know you?’ asked the elder of the two.
Ignoring the question, Conor appealed to his brother. ‘Rónán, it’s me, Conor. What are you doing here?’
‘Rónán, you say? I know no one of that name, warrior. My name is Ferdiad,’ the young druid told him. ‘You must have mistaken me for someone else.’
Conor, amazed, stared at the newcomer. Although it had been many years since he had last seen his brother, the man standing before him looked as much like himself as he looked like Ardan. The family resemblance only increased when he spoke. ‘What game is this, friend?’
‘It is no game,’ Conor replied. ‘You look like one of my blood kin—my younger brother. He is one of the Learned, too. His name is Rónán mac Ardan.’
‘We know no such person,’ the elder druid told him. ‘We have come to see Mog Ruith, filidh of the Brigantes, on matters of our own—not that it is anything to you. You will kindly let us go about our business.’
Conor, blinking in disbelief, stepped back, and the two disappeared into the house. With some difficulty, Conor dismissed the incident, and went on his way. Then, late that night, Conor left the hall with some of the warband heading off to bed in the Warriors’ House. The sky was overcast; no moon or stars were visible anywhere. The noisy group moved through the darkness and Conor kept one hand lightly touching the walls beside him—first the hall, then the brew house, and then the bake house. The scent of fresh bread from the day’s production still lingered in the warm air drifting out from the wind hole above him. Arriving at the Warriors’ House, the first of the group entered and, as Conor stepped to the door, a voice called out of the darkness behind him. ‘Conor mac Ardan—a word, if you please.’
Conor halted; the others trooped into the house. As soon as they were gone, the voice said, ‘Follow
me.’
‘Where?’
‘Keep your voice down.’ A face loomed out of the darkness and Conor recognised the older of the two visiting bards. ‘This way.’
The druid led him back along the path to the bake house where, under the wide, overhanging eaves, another figure waited in the shadows. ‘What goes here?’ Conor asked, and was instantly folded into a firm embrace.
‘Conor! You cannot believe how often I have longed to see you. And here you are at last. How I have missed you, brother.’
Conor pushed the other away, straining in the darkness to see his face. ‘Rónán? It is you, after all.’
‘None other.’
Conor, tears started to his eyes, grabbed his brother to him and both clung to one another, sobbing, speaking in choked-off words, the sentiments of longed-for reunion. Finally, when Conor regained control of his voice, he said, ‘How are you? How is it you are here? Did you know I was here? Is that why you came?’ He shook his head, still gripping his brother by the arm. ‘What are you doing here?’
Rónán laughed, ‘Which question am I to answer first?’ He beamed at his brother, shaking his head in the wonder of the moment. ‘After all these years, you are still just as I remembered. You have hardly changed at all.’
‘I don’t think I had a moustache then. But you, now—’ Conor grinned, smearing away the tears with the back of his hand. ‘You have grown up. But I knew it was you! I knew it was you—and then when you claimed to be Ferdiad and spurned me, I did begin to think I had made a mistake.… Yet, it is you after all. Have you been back to Dúnaird? Have you seen our da?’
‘Not yet,’ Rónán told him. ‘I will go to him after this. I wanted to see how you were getting on. Are they treating you well here?’
‘Exceedingly well … better than I could have hoped. The queen is a double handful and no mistake—’ Rónán raised his eyebrows in concern. Conor hastened to reassure him, saying, ‘But I think I have cooled her passion for a while. Why are you here?’
‘To see you, brother. After all that has happened, I wanted to see for myself how you fared.’
‘But how did you know I was here?’ asked Conor; and before Rónán could answer, he guessed, ‘Tuán.’
‘Tuán,’ echoed his brother. ‘When he found out you were my brother, he came to me and told me all that had happened—about Mádoc and the exile and your escape from the Scálda.’ Rónán grinned. ‘Did you really steal one of the Black Ships? And wreck it?’
‘We did.’ Conor went on to explain Mádoc’s elaborate scheme to uncover evidence of Brecan mac Lergath’s treacherous ambition, the discovery and rescue of the faéry. ‘Fergal and Donal were with me,’ he said, ‘Donal was wounded in the escape, but Fergal—do you remember Fergal?’
Rónán ran his hand over the top of his head, along the shaved edge of his tonsure. ‘I remember only you and da and Liam—maybe one or two others.’
‘Well, the Darini will remember you,’ Conor told him. ‘Go to Dúnaird. They will be glad to see you. I would go with you, but for the work I have set myself here. Still, I would give a golden torc to see the look on their faces when you walk through the gate—all grown up and a druid, now.’
‘You think the Brigantes lord is a traitor?’ asked Rónán, lowering his voice even further.
‘That is what I am trying to discover.’ Conor shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘I still cannot believe you are here—and grown. Tuán said you were to be an ollamh.’
‘One day, perhaps. We shall see.’
The other druid, who had been standing by keeping silent watch as the two enjoyed their reunion, spoke up. ‘Someone’s coming!’
They paused. Voices sounded on the path yet some small distance away.
‘We must go,’ said Rónán. ‘It will be better for you if we were not seen together. Is there anything you’d like me to tell Father?’
‘Tell him that I thrive and that, if all goes well, I will return with evidence of the Brigantes treachery one day soon.’
‘Only that and nothing else?’
‘Tell Aoife that I miss her and long to be with her.’
‘Aoife? I don’t know her.’
‘She is my betrothed. We are—or were—to be married at Lughnasadh.’
‘I will find her,’ replied Rónán, ‘and when I do, I will tell her you are a mere scrap of a man pining away for the love of her.’
‘Tell her that,’ Conor replied, ‘and she will believe you never saw me.’
Conor put his hand to his brother’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘I’m glad you came, Rónán. Will I see you again tomorrow? After weapons practice we could go—’
‘Rónán!’ whispered their sentry. ‘They’re coming!’
‘We depart tomorrow at dawn. We’re on our way to help cure a foundered cow and an Eblani man with a runny eye. It would not do to have Brecan or Mog Ruith find us here. But I will come again when I can.’ Rónán gripped his brother’s arm and said, ‘Fare you well, Conor. Until we meet again.’
Conor gathered him in a brotherly embrace. ‘Until then,’ he said, and released him with a firm pat on the back.
Rónán stepped away, already fading into the darkness. ‘Tread lightly, brother—you’ve set your feet on a dangerous path.’
34
Conor found it hard to sleep that night. Seeing Rónán again after all these years not only lifted his spirits, but filled him with an almost giddy delight. Rónán … all grown up … how well he looked, how he’d grown in stature and authority. No longer the skinny frightened little boy taken away by the druid, here he was a man—and one to be admired and obeyed at that. Conor could not quite believe the change he’d seen with his own eyes; with great pleasure he turned it over and over in his mind.
But, over the following days and weeks, as the joy of their glad reunion faded, Rónán’s warning lingered.
King Brecan and his retinue returned to Aintrén two days after Rónán’s visit, and Conor redoubled his efforts to worm his way into his lordship’s ardféne, where he would be in a position to be chosen to accompany the king on his next foray. To this end, he threw himself into the life of the Brigantes settlement. At weapons practice, he undertook to lead some of the sessions, teaching the young warriors his skills and developing their confidence and proficiency. When they went hunting, he made certain to ride in the forefront so as to be in on any kill made. When they rode for sport, he helped out in the stables afterward, walking the horses to cool them; other times, he lent a hand at feeding and grooming the animals, working his way to becoming a favourite of the stable master. At meals, he picked out a younger warrior or two to join them at table with their higher-ranking elders; and when other warriors began telling stories, Conor fetched the ale for the table.
In this way, Conor rose steadily in the estimation of his fellows. He became an accepted, and valued, member of the warband and the clan as a whole and, as such, enjoyed the benefits. The Brigantes, under the rule of their lord, flourished.
Lughnasadh came and the festivities around him cast Conor into a melancholy mood for several days. He missed Aoife and made himself miserable lamenting the fact that it was to have been his wedding he was celebrating, not the harvest. Even so, his sulky humour went unremarked, if unnoticed.
Autumn turned the land golden and Conor’s spirits rose. As the days passed, the reaping progressed, and proved abundant—pleasing the farmers with ample reward for their labours, and gratifying the brewers with a wealth of grain with which to fill their vats and tuns and turn into sweet brown ale. The herdsmen began slaughtering beef, sheep, goats, and pigs for the winter larder, and success crowned the various hunting parties, keeping the cooks busy preserving and storing the beef and pork, as well as the venison, wild boar, hare, ducks, geese, and other fowl. The fishing camps on the coast brought in fish—smoked or salted or dried—by the wagonload. The abundance of the land was demonstrated by the bounty of the table; everyone in the ráth and others throughou
t the territory ate well.
The warriors worked hard at honing and perfecting their skills and, as summer dwindled down, there were games organised in the yard and gleaned fields for the whole ráth and others to enjoy: horse races, spear-throwing contests, and wrestling matches where two or more combatants drenched themselves in bear grease and went at it hand-to-hand. By far the favourite pastime was cammán—with its massed teams armed with stout, curved sticks, a little hard ball, and the inevitable melee—often involving not only the players but partisan spectators as well. The black bruises, bloody scrapes, and scratches earned in these games were worn like trophies gained in battle.
Conor took part in the games as mood and the urging of his fellow warriors moved him. He wrestled a few times—twice drawing Cethern as an opponent and, through this, earning the champion’s grudging respect, and a nascent friendship formed. He entered the spear-throwing contests, and rode Búrach in some of the races—winning one of them, and earning himself a copper arm ring from the hand of the king himself.
Nights were filled with music and stories: musicians came to the settlement to gain places for the winter; harps, flutes, and pipes were heard at mealtimes and far into the night. Mog Ruith, or visiting bards, told the old hero tales and stories of love and death, of triumph and ruin.
Amidst such lavish excess, it was easy to forget that not every tribe throughout Eirlandia enjoyed the same luxury the Brigantes commanded with such ease. And Brecan showed himself to be a generous lord to his people. He gave liberally and happily. True, he plucked the best plums for himself, but that was a king’s privilege—and in this he was no different than most other monarchs. Thus, as the weeks went by, and autumn ripened on the vine, Aintrén hummed with a satisfying industry and everyone looked forward to a snug and comfortable winter. Moreover, the king had curtailed his travels; he made no more clandestine circuits, no more hurried and unexplained departures. Instead, he remained in his stronghold, feasting in his hall, enjoying his own largesse. Queen Sceana curtailed her advances—with her husband in residence, she could not renew her pursuit beyond the occasional smile or seductive lift of a shapely eyebrow, which Conor easily ignored.