1
Halfway across the wide green oval of the yard, Conor paused to consider the building work on the ráth. He wondered if any of the other lords in Eirlandia had a moment’s peace from the relentless beseeching, pleading, and wheedling. He supposed not.
He stood with the sun warm on his back, and drew a deep breath—as if trying to take in all the commotion before him. The air smelled of sawdust and horses, and rang with the sound of axes and hammers. The carpenters and their many helpers were in full cry; their shouts and clamour could be heard from one end of Tara Hill to the other.
In the year and four months since his Lughnasadh wedding, great strides had been made in the work of establishing Tara ráth and settlement. The first of the permanent structures to be erected, the hall, now flaunted its imposing roof above the lesser buildings; the women’s house was well begun, and the large stable and pen for the fianna’s horses was almost finished—along with two of the four new storehouses. But the first of two planned warriors’ houses was still merely wooden stakes pounded into the dirt. A makeshift smith’s forge had been set up behind the ancient burial mound a little distance away, and the two existing storehouses on the hilltop had been converted into workshops for the craftsmen.
Constructing an entire ráth from the ground up was an enterprise that would have challenged even the wealthiest and most well-supplied tribe. Having to do everything at once, and having to do it with whatever materials came to hand, made that challenge a veritable ordeal. Even so, the zeal of all those who daily faced that trial somehow made it bearable and, sometimes, even enjoyable. Conor continually marvelled at the fortitude and resilience of his adopted people, and their undimmed determination to make of Tara’s fabled hill a genuine home.
He lingered, enjoying the warmth of summer and admiring the work of the thatchers as they hoisted bundles of river reed up onto the steeply pitched roof. This hall, his hall, would become the strong beating heart of his realm, and the sight of its fine high roof glowing like gold in the day’s early light swelled his heart with unaccustomed pride. Once, Tara Hill had been the crown of Eirlandia’s sovereignty—the residence of mighty men, lords of legend and renown, high kings all. It would be so again—at least, it would be if Conor had anything to do with it.
‘I am sorry to intrude on your thoughts, lord,’ said a voice behind him. He glanced around to see Dearg, his master of the hearth, and two other men striding purposefully toward him. ‘Conla, here, would speak to you.’
Conor greeted the men and wished them well, then said, ‘What is your pleasure, friends?’
Conla, a short-limbed fellow with a square head bald as a stone hammer, was Lord Cahir’s master builder and presently on extended loan from the Coriondi king. Cahir and Conor’s father, Lord Ardan, had long been close friends and allies; Conor had inherited that friendship, and now leaned heavily on it. The master builder, along with his two assistants, was overseeing the raising of the ráth. Ordinarily, Conor had only to tell them what he wanted and they worked out how best to go about it. They rarely sought his opinion or advice but, when they did, it usually meant they had encountered some new and seemingly intractable difficulty.
‘It’s about the wall,’ said Conla.
‘What about the wall?’ wondered Conor.
‘Aye, well, it is high time we made a start,’ replied the builder. ‘There is timber to cut and ditches to be renewed and holes dug to receive the uprights.’
‘Not to mention gate fittings to be forged,’ put in Partan, the youngest of the two assistants. Realising he had spoken out of turn, he blushed. ‘I do beg your pardon, lord.’
‘True enough.’ Conla gave the youth a reprimanding look, and continued, ‘If we hope to be anywhere near finished before winter—’
‘Winter!’ exclaimed Conor. ‘Winter now, is it? We’ve most of a summer, and an autumn to get through.’
‘That is as may be,’ replied Conla sagely, ‘but a wall will not raise itself. If we’re to be getting the gates hung before the snow flies, we’d better be about making a start. More workers would make the job less of a chore.’
‘More men,’ repeated Dearg. ‘How many do you reckon?’
‘Ten at least—fifteen would be better,’ answered Conla. ‘Strong men who know a thing or two about felling trees and stripping timber, aye—and can go day on day without complaint or injury.’
Conor rubbed his cheek, feeling the old familiar tingle of the strawberry stain—the disfigurement that had shaped so much of his life and set him apart—now awakened to a fresh irritation. More workers … where would they put them? How would they feed them?
‘Lord?’ said Dearg after a moment. ‘If you like, I can ask Donal to form a work party to begin with the trees and digging the ditches for the earthworks.’
‘Nay, nay,’ replied Conor. ‘I have been thinking on this very thing and I can save us all a great deal of time and labour.’
‘How so?’
‘By not building a wall.’
‘Not building…’ Dearg and the carpenter exchanged a puzzled look. ‘You mean delay construction just now?’
‘I mean no offence, my lord, but delaying now will make it very difficult to finish before winter, and if we—’
‘I mean to say,’ said Conor, ‘that my fortress will not have a wall.’
‘No wall?’ wondered Partan, his voice rising in disbelief. ‘None at all?’
Conla frowned. ‘What manner of ráth or dún has no wall?’
Conor smiled. ‘This one. My friends, we are home to the largest warband Eirlandia has seen in living memory. We are surrounded on all sides by strong and generous kinsmen. If danger comes calling, it will find a rough welcome here. The fianna will be our stout wall.’
The carpenter opened his mouth to object, but Dearg quickly quelled any dissent saying, ‘My lord has spoken. You are free to return to your duties.’
Both men made a slight bow of acknowledgement and walked away; after a few steps, Conla could be seen shaking his head while his assistant muttered misgivings.
Conor, watching them, said, ‘Tell me, Dearg, what are your thoughts on the matter? Am I making a mistake?’
‘It is not for me to say, lord. And we have plenty enough to keep us busy until the snow flies.’
‘Ach, well, we shall see.’ He turned to his hearth master. ‘Was there anything else?’
Dearg, shaking his head, took his leave and hurried off. One of the five original members of the fianna, the redheaded warrior had thrown himself into his new civil duties with the same dedication previously reserved for his weapons and training—so much so that, looking at him now, Conor doubted the young Brigantes would ever wield a spear in battle again. A loss, yes, but his services in his current occupation became more indispensable; for, as the tribe grew, so, too, the duties and responsibilities of the master of the hearth to provide the necessaries of life.
Dearg disappeared among the spread of tents and hastily constructed shelters that had mushroomed across Tara’s plateau, and Conor resumed his stroll to the hall, where he was beset by questions and demands from the men thatching its roof before going inside to break his fast with a little bread softened in warm milk into which bits of smoked fish had been flaked and steeped. He was just draining the bowl when Donal appeared. ‘Come, join me, brother,’ he invited. ‘There is more in the pot, I think.’
The dark-haired warrior, Conor’s boyhood friend and now head of his ardféne, took a seat on the bench and spooned warm breccbainne from the squat black cauldron into a wooden bowl. ‘What do you think of the hall so far? Splendid, is it not? It will be finished soon,’ he observed mildly. ‘And I have spoken to Conla and he tells me that the women’s house will have walls and a roof by Beltaine.’
‘Aye, if the weather stays fair,’ agreed Conor. ‘Perhaps in time for the birth of my son.’
‘A boy now, is it?’ said Donal, his broad face breaking into an amused smile. ‘A few days ago, you were certain the child would be a girl. You were even going to name her Rhiannon, as I recall.’
‘What do you expect?’ replied Conor. ‘All I have is guesses. Unless I can persuade you to cast your inner eye upon that path and tell me one way or the other which it will be, I’ll keep on guessing.’
Donal shrugged. ‘Speaking of walls, brother,’ he said, casually breaking chunks of dry brown bread into his bowl, ‘I’m just now hearing that you have decided not to erect a defensive wall around the ráth. Can this be so?’
‘I expect you heard it correctly,’ replied Conor. ‘What do you think?’
‘According to your carpenter, that is a misjudgement that invites disaster.’
‘Ach, I know what Conla thinks. What do you think?’
‘I think I would like to hear why you would be saying such a thing before deciding.’ Donal took one of the wooden spoons from an empty bowl on the table and began stirring the mixture. He slurped and swallowed, then regarded Conor expectantly. ‘I’m listening.’
Conor took up the ladle and dipped into the cauldron, adding a little more of the savoury liquid to his bowl. The voices of the thatchers on the roof above them could be heard, mingling with the sounds of hammering and sawing coming from the yard; somewhere a dog barked and a horse neighed—all sounds of industry, of life, sounds that had not been heard on Tara Hill since the last high king reigned there in time past memory.
‘It seems to me that every ráth and dún in Eirlandia has good stout walls and yet that does not keep them safe from the Scálda.’
‘Not walls alone,’ Donal agreed. ‘You need warriors to defend them.’
‘Aye, walls are only as good as the warband behind them.’ Conor lifted the bowl to his mouth and emptied it again. ‘Without a warband to defend the ráth, walls are little more than a hurdle to be climbed over, or a stand of timber to be burned.’
‘That is a harsh judgement,’ Donal declared, spooning up breccbainne and chewing thoughtfully.
‘Harsh, perhaps—but true. Walls are only as good as the warriors behind them. Walls did not save the Gangani, and they did not save the Breifne, or the Velabri, the Uterni, the Osraige, or the Menapi—did they? What use were high walls to any of the tribes in the lands the Scálda stole?
‘Ach, but see here,’ said Conor, ‘with the fianna we are on the way to becoming the greatest warband in Eirlandia—certainly the largest.’
‘What so?’
‘The fianna will be my fortress wall,’ said Conor, his voice taking on an edge of excitement. ‘From our high perch here atop this hill, we will command the land as far as we can see. We will be ready to ride out in any direction to defend this island realm. Should the enemy encroach, they will see a ráth that has no need of timber for we possess something far better—a wall of warriors.’
Donal gazed back at him, considering Conor’s vision.
‘And everyone who visits this place, or merely passes by, will know that we fear no one and stand ready to defend ourselves day or night.’ Conor’s grin grew expansive. ‘Not only that, we will see everything that passes on the plain below and in the wider world—as we do even now. Nothing will escape our notice.’
‘Bold words, brother,’ concluded Donal. ‘Perhaps a little reckless as well.’
‘Perhaps,’ allowed Conor, growing serious. ‘But this throne has been raised on recklessness from the beginning. To pull back now, to hoard our gains—that is a sure sign of weakness.’
‘And this is what fortress walls means to you?’
‘Aye, that and more.’ Conor began pacing as he strained for an explanation. ‘See here, Donal. We have begun to fashion a new realm on this hill. Timber walls will make us appear as just another Dé Danann stronghold ruled by a little lord and defended by his little warband. Worse, it would look like we were hiding up here.’
‘Hiding?’ Donal smiled and shook his head slowly. ‘Who would be fool enough to accuse you of a thing like that?’ The glancing reference to Mádoc and the hidden bracelet made Conor groan. ‘All the same, it is not the lords and lordlings you have to worry about,’ continued Donal in a more serious tone, ‘it is Balor Evil Eye. I’m thinking he views this hill as a plum worth plucking. He tried once. He might well try again.’
At Donal’s words, Conor was instantly back in that terrible storm-torn night of the massacre. In a vicious assault, the Scálda warband had attacked a gathering at Tara and succeeded in decimating the flower of Eirlandia’s elite lords and warleaders.
‘Let Balor try to pluck us if he dares,’ said Conor. ‘He will find a plum with a stone to choke him.’
2
Conor and Donal lifted spears and shields from among those hung at the entrance to the hall, and walked out into what was becoming a genuine settlement: as season gave way to season, the clusters of tents and makeshift shelters were slowly giving way to proper dwellings, workshops, and storehouses. Down on Mag Teamhair, the Plain of Tara, the rich earth had been divided into ploughed plots for fields; parts of Mag Coinnem, the Council Plain, had also been cleared and ploughed, and areas marked out for cattle pens, barns, and sheds.
Easy in the soft morning light, the three crossed the wide, green oval of the yard and started down toward the smallest of the plains, Mag Rí, the Royal Plain, which served as the training grounds for both horses and men.
‘The crops are coming on well,’ Donal observed. ‘The weather has been kind to us.’
‘An early spring, followed by a fair summer,’ replied Conor, ‘there is every hope of a fine harvest. But we need the cattle Cahir and Garbha promised so we can begin building our own herd. I do grow weary begging for meat and milk.’
‘It is not the begging that makes you weary, brother,’ observed Donal.
‘What so?’ said Conor, catching the edge to his tone.
‘I see you running pillar to post all day long. You have a finger in every cup and a stick in every fire.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You do. Ask Fergal if you don’t believe me.’
‘He’s right, Conor,’ confirmed Fergal. ‘You race about like a man with a hornet in his breecs. But no one can be two places at once—not even you.’
‘Is it that you think I’m doing too much? Or that I’m doing it poorly?’
‘Ach, nay,’ said Donal. ‘All I’m saying is that a moment’s rest now and then would be no bad thing.’
‘You have people now, brother,’ Fergal pointed out.
‘Aye, people who expect me to make good on the promises I have made.’
‘People who stand with you,’ corrected Fergal. ‘People more than willing to do whatever you ask of them.’
‘Only you have to ask,’ concluded Donal. ‘Promise me you’ll ask?’
‘I will,’ replied Conor, and they moved on, descending the winding pathway to the plain. At the base of the hill was the large pen where most of the horses for the fianna were being kept until the stables atop the hill were finished. Here they paused and Conor whistled for Búrach; the grey stallion pricked up his ears and came trotting over to greet his master. ‘Good to see you, old son,’ murmured Conor as he stroked the extended neck. ‘Did you miss me?’ By way of reply, the grey turned his head and gave him a friendly nip on the arm. ‘Here now! Behave yourself,’ Conor told him, and with a pat sent him away. ‘Go and make some colts, why don’t you? We need more horses.’
Cáit, the eldest of the stable master’s three dark-haired daughters, who served as a groom and stable hand, came running up just then. ‘My lord,’ she said, a little out of breath, ‘will you go riding? I will gladly ready your mount for you.’
Conor, watching the grey jog away, replied, ‘Not just now, Cáit.’ He glanced around and saw the eagerness on the young lady’s face. ‘But I have an idea. Why don’t you take him out? He needs a good run, does Búrach. Get one of your sisters to go with you—or one of the lads.’
The girl’s dark eyes grew bigger. ‘Truly? You would allow it?’
‘I would insist upon it,’ Conor told her. ‘You will be doing your lord a good service.’
‘I hear and obey, lord,’ she said, and then raced off to find someone to ride with her.
‘Don’t let him run away with you,’ Conor called after her.
‘You just made someone very happy,’ Donal chuckled.
‘If only everyone was so easily pleased,’ said Conor.
Leaving the pen, they moved on to join the warriors and take part in the day’s training. As weapons master and chief of battle, Fergal held practice sessions most days. He was an exacting teacher, not to say demanding. ‘Our warband is drawn from different tribes, each with their own way of fighting,’ he had explained. ‘But this is to be our warband, and so they will learn to fight our way—only then will they be permitted to join the fianna.’
For the most part, the warriors accepted this: the younger ones were glad to learn the old ways and take on new and proven battle skills from so renowned a teacher. The older ones, of which there were more than a few, put up with Fergal’s stringent regime for the sake of unity and eventual acceptance into the fianna—though some of these, Conor noticed, were likely to fall back into habits of practice that kept Fergal agitated. But no one complained.
When they were not down on the training field, the warriors were out with the hunters and foragers scouring the woodlands and forest to the south and east in an attempt to satisfy the constant demand for food—a demand that grew as word spread and more people, most of them displaced by enemy raids, arrived to join the nascent tribe. This steady trickle of incomers might have been encouraging if not for the strain it put on their already overburdened resources. To be sure, the new tribe needed people—the industry, skill, and will to succeed the refugees brought were vital if the new realm was to thrive in the future. Conor knew this, but it did not make the day-to-day stresses any less. Indeed, that the settlement had survived the first winter at all was due largely to the generosity of Lord Cahir, who had been the lifelong friend of Conor’s father. Cahir had supplied them out of his own stores, and that, as well as smaller gifts from various others who owed debts of honour to Conor and his fianna for saving them on the terrible night of the Tara massacre, had sufficed to see them through the long months of cold wind, rain, and snow.
Now that summer had settled in and, with it, the raiding season, more refugees fleeing enemy attacks could be expected. The arrival of each new family or, sometimes, entire clans, did severely stretch meagre provisions. Many of the newcomers brought welcome supplies—items of food and clothing, tools and weapons saved from the Scálda raids that had driven them from their homes. Others, however, arrived having escaped with little more than the cloaks on their backs. But they came, and Conor was determined to find a place for all of them and welcome them to Tara.
Just now, as Conor and Donal walked down to join Fergal and the warriors, they were discussing the fact that there were not enough horses for each of the warriors to be mounted—a situation which effectively reduced the size and fighting ability of the fianna. Conor looked out onto the plain below them and saw the various groups of men at their weapons practice. Fergal and his second, Médon, had divided the warband into five roughly equal groups, each to work on a separate skill or technique. Over the course of the day’s session, the groups would change places so that by the end of practice every warrior would have trained in all five areas. This method was Fergal’s innovation, and his pride and confidence in it were absolute.
‘We may be able to convince some of the lords with lands along the borders to lend us horses in exchange for protection,’ Conor mused aloud.
‘It would be easier to capture them from the Scálda,’ replied Donal. He paused, then said, ‘What is this?’
Conor heard the change in Donal’s tone and glanced up. ‘Where?’
‘Just there.’ Donal pointed out across the plain where a company of riders was making its way toward Fergal and the warriors on the training ground.
‘Who is that?’ wondered Conor. ‘Can you see?’
Donal shook his head. ‘Not that far.’
‘I mean with your—’ Conor abandoned the query. ‘Never mind. Let’s go find out what they want.’
They hurried on to where Fergal had halted the strangers and arrived to see frowns all around. ‘These men have come to see you, lord,’ Fergal said, without taking his eyes off the lead rider. ‘It would seem they have something weighty on their minds, though they will not say what that might be.’
The leader of the group, a lean, flat-nosed chieftain with a silver torc and three gold bands on his bare right arm, looked down from his horse and with a sneer in his voice said, ‘Aye, we’re looking for the one called Conor who is rumoured to be lurking hereabouts.’ He glanced down at Conor and sniffed dismissively.
Conor replied, ‘If that is who you seek, your search is at an end. What is it you want?’
‘Are you Conor mac Ardan?’
‘Lord Conor mac Ardan to you, friend,’ said Donal. ‘I suggest you try asking again—and this time let us see some better manners if you have any.’
‘Who are you to speak to us this way?’ demanded the rider next to the flat-nosed one.
‘Only a fella who has your best interest at heart,’ answered Donal lightly. ‘You will have heard, no doubt, of the terrible temper of our lord. I would spare you the beating you so richly deserve should you persist with your careless insults.’
The warrior’s hand went to the sword at his side and Fergal, spear ready, moved to take his place beside Conor and Donal. ‘Why not do as our brother has advised?’ said Fergal, tapping the spear shaft against the palm of his hand. ‘It would save you a deal of pain, I do believe.’
The affronted warrior removed his hand from his sword, and the leader of the group forced a grim smile and said, ‘Our apologies if we have bruised your tender feelings. We had no idea the new lord of Tara had such thin and delicate skin.’
‘I would not be talking about bruising if I were you,’ said Fergal. ‘Look around. I think you’ll find we can give far better than we get.’
The strangers stole a glance at the ranks of warriors even now forming up behind them.
‘Am I right in thinking that this is the vaunted fianna we are hearing so much about?’ asked the leader. ‘I am impressed. We had heard it was a fair-sized troop, but I did not expect so many—or to meet them all at once like this.’
‘Nor would you if you and your companions were not intent on riding through a training ground,’ said Conor. He regarded the man. Older than the others by a good few years, his dark hair was streaked with grey and there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth; his face was smooth-shaven and set in an insolent expression. ‘But I think you did not come here to practice discourtesy or discuss the size of our warband.’
‘I did not,’ replied the man. ‘I am Iollan mac Datho, and I come bearing a message from my lord and others.’
‘And who might your lord be?’ said Fergal.
‘Lord Corgan of the Eridani,’ replied Iollan.
‘And these others?’
‘Lords and kings of northern tribes, let us say.’
‘That’s not saying much,’ said Fergal. He looked to Conor. ‘Are we to be tolerating this?’
‘Let’s hear your message,’ Conor said. ‘And then you and your friends can be on your way. No doubt your lord is pining for your cheerful presence.’
‘What is this? No welcome cup for a king’s messenger? My lord will be displeased when I tell him how his men were treated.’
‘Had you sent your man on ahead—’ began Donal.
‘And with a better tongue in his mouth,’ added Fergal.
‘—you would have been received with a welcome deserving of your rank,’ Donal continued. ‘But as your errand seems calculated to provoke, you must take us as you find us.’
The chieftain returned an icy smile and shook his head slowly. ‘Gracious to the end,’ he sniffed. ‘I will tell you how we find you, shall I? We find you taking possession of lands that do not belong to you and, unless I am much mistaken, you are even now in the midst of raising a fortress on Tara’s hill.’
‘You are not mistaken,’ Conor told him. ‘All the world can see that has become the sole ambition of my heart.’
‘And yet,’ called the truculent warrior on horseback, in a strident voice, ‘this land has been sacred to all Eirlandia. By what authority do you presume to take this place for your own?’
Fergal looked at Donal. ‘Did someone speak just now? Or was that a horse fart? Did you hear it, brother?’
‘It must have been a fart in the wind,’ answered Donal, levelling his gaze upon the mounted warrior. ‘Any fella who wished to address a nobleman would do so face-to-face and not babble nonsense from the back of a flea-bitten nag.’
Iollan glanced at his companions and gave a warning shake of his head. To Conor, he said, ‘My king and his brother lords have taken an interest in what you are doing here,’ he continued, ‘and they would have a ready accounting.’
‘A ready accounting…,’ Donal repeated. ‘To my ear that sounds more like a summons to answer for an offence.’
Iollan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I cannot answer for the sound in your ear, but you would not be far wrong to think that.’
‘We have been here since the night of the massacre these many months past,’ Fergal pointed out. ‘All this time and you only just now come to us with this?’
‘Your presence here has naturally raised many questions,’ intoned the messenger, ‘—questions that require answers. In fact, accusations have been made that cannot be ignored. The kings considered that an airechtas is the proper way to give you a chance to explain yourself. I need not point out that failure to attend will be considered an admission of guilt.’
‘Guilt implies a crime,’ said Conor, his tone growing flat. ‘And what crime is it they think me guilty of?’
‘Stealing land sacred to Eirlandia—a crime that will be most forcefully punished.’
‘Say that again and slowly,’ Fergal said, his voice low and laced with menace. ‘Better still, choose softer words for they will be the last you utter through those foul teeth of yours.’
The warriors on horseback drew their swords and started forth, but Iollan raised a restraining hand. ‘Enough!’ he said. ‘We have done what we came to do.’ To Conor, he said, ‘We are leaving now, but know this—Lord Corgan will host the airechtas at his ráth at Bennáel three days following the next full moon.’ He turned, walked to his horse, swung up onto its back, and, with a nod to his men, rode away.
As soon as they had gone, Conor turned to Fergal and Donal. ‘Let’s talk.’
Fergal called to Médon and said, ‘Continue with the training. We will join you in a moment.’ He followed Conor and Donal a few paces away where they would not be overheard.
‘What do we make of that?’ wondered Conor, watching the fianna resume their weapons practice.
‘High-handed rogues,’ replied Fergal. ‘If anyone should ask me.’
‘You were right to remind them, brother,’ suggested Donal, ‘we’ve been here for a goodly length of time, and only now do these lords find cause to object?’
‘Aye, and after all you did for them during the battle?’ He spat onto the ground. ‘Disgusting.’
‘They are worried,’ Donal pointed out.
‘About what?’ said Fergal. ‘What is there to worry about? We’re not doing anything now that we haven’t done from the beginning.’
‘We were just a few wandering warriors camped out on the hill when we began,’ Donal pointed out. ‘Now we are a fair-sized warband building a substantial settlement.’
‘Aye, so?’ wondered Fergal.
‘Our numbers continue to grow—and so, too, the threat in their eyes. We can no longer be conveniently ignored.’ Lifting a hand to the fianna spread across the practice field, Donal said, ‘We are a veritable tribe possessing what is soon to become—if not already—the largest warband in Eirlandia. I can well imagine that alone would be enough to make some of our brother lords anxious. Word of the fianna has reached all corners of the island. I doubt there is a Dé Danann clan that has not heard about what Conor and the fianna achieved on the night of the massacre. People talk, rumours grow. You know how it goes.’
‘Ach, well, if that is what worries these tepid lords, then they are right to worry,’ crowed Fergal. ‘Our warband is the equal of any and better than most.’ He looked to Conor and said, ‘Do you mean to attend this council of theirs?’
Conor rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment and took his time answering. ‘Aye, I do. It would be good to go and clear the air. This is not like the Corgan I know. I’m thinking there must be more to it than what we’ve been told so far.’
‘A sad waste of time better spent here, if you ask me. They question your authority to take Tara, aye? Well, by what authority do they think to lay judgements on anyone? Answer me that.’
‘Fergal’s right,’ Donal agreed. ‘They have no authority over us, and you need not submit to their whims. Even so, might this be a chance to explain yourself—tell them what you plan to do here, show them you mean only good for the people and for Eirlandia.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Fergal, ‘show them you are not another Brecan Big Brócs come to trample on their tender toes.’
‘Poor dead Brecan wanted to be high king, so he did,’ continued Donal, ‘but even he did not dare seize the torc for himself. He knew he needed the support of his brother kings. So will you if you hope ever to live in peace on Tara Hill.’
‘Brecan allowed his reach to exceed his grasp, and it drove him to commit an act of pure insanity,’ Fergal pointed out. He squinted at Conor. ‘We would not like to see that happen to you, brother.’
Conor smiled. ‘It may be that all kings are a little mad. An otherwise sane man would never take it on.’
‘So, are we going to this attend Corgan’s council?’ said Fergal.
‘Aye, we will—but not because these worried lords demand it.’
‘Nay?’
‘We go because it suits me,’ replied Conor. ‘And if our luck is with us we may be able to bend it to our purpose.’
‘Ach, but if you go at their bidding,’ Donal cautioned, ‘they will be seen to have authority over you. What is more, they will believe it.’
‘Then we must go and show them the folly of false belief,’ answered Conor. Shouldering his spear, he strode off to join the fianna at their training.
Fergal watched him for a moment—so easy in his stride, so full of confidence, grace, and strength, untiring in the face of all the trials ranged against them and their grand scheme. He glanced at Donal and said, ‘He is a bit mad, you know.’
‘Aye, so he is,’ agreed Donal with a sigh. ‘But his heart is in the right place.’
Copyright © 2020 by Stephen R. Lawhead
