7. The Cattle Raid of Fiachta #2
He chuckled. "The Lady of Horses is already wed, or so the tales all say. And I do not ride so well as to wear out a horse pursuing her as did Pryderi." Nor was he brave enough to face down one who shifted shape from lady to mare and back.
Aisling and her ladies chuckled in turn. She watched Brian and the colt, then turned to him once more. "I like not what waits in the south."
He waited, listening.
"That Pyder's lands do not prosper, that he has not truly taken up the lordship of the land ... It is said that he refuses all offers of marriage." She raised red-gold eyebrows and gave him a knowing look.
"I saw no lady of the household, only servants and bond servants," he said.
"Nor did any speak of a wife. Harvest appeared good—or no worse than the lands around his—, what I saw from the road and the courtyard inside the gates.
" Had he truly looked? No, but what would he have seen different?
"The lack of a lady puzzled me, oh queen, but the time was not fitting to ask.
" Not with Pyder drunk and his men tense.
She frowned. "How came he to lordship?"
"From his father, after his older brother died of battle wounds.
I know nothing of the brother, only the father.
He was open-handed and both his wives bore sons, but few lived to be men.
The coughing sickness struck his lands, in the year that the sea touched this hill and the traveling star hung in the sky for half a moon.
" That had been a year of wonder, alas. Snow had covered the land well past the middle of spring, and two lean years came back-to-back. He'd just begun his studies.
One of the older serving women nodded. "I recall, great queen, because extra gifts were made to the waters, land, and all the gods. The year before had been so rich that the old king ordered extra grain houses built to store all that the land gave."
Aisling turned to the south. "Pyder is a fool.
" With that she departed, going toward the dairy house and cold spring that kept milk and butter in summer.
They'd had the first curd cheese the night before, laced with honey and spring herbs.
Tuathal watched the women as they went, then shook all over.
They rode out four days later. The gray gelding snorted, tried to shed him twice, then settled.
He rode beside Fiachta's truchai for the moment.
The clarsach rode on his back, the drum in a sack on the saddle.
Dust rose from the road. The dust would become mud when the rains fell, as they always did, but for now the sun shone warm and golden.
It had traveled well to the north since the turning of winter, and longer days came with it.
Lambs, foals and colts, and calves nursed, gamboled, and slept in the green lands beside the road.
The first spears of wheat and taller stems of barley and oats graced plowed fields.
Flowers nodded in the grass, white and yellow and pink.
A sword for him rested in a wagon behind the warriors, along with a staff should he choose to walk.
Fiachta set a steady pace. Horses and men both fared better from a steady start, not racing.
This was not an invasion to be met with speed.
Tuathal snorted to himself. Even when his people arrived, the King of the Mounds had not hurried to meet them.
Or so it was said. His mother's people had found the ugly ones waiting on the beach, but the old songs declared that wood had proven no match for awan and bronze.
They turned south, not on the old ones' road but following a different way, one that led to the west of Pyder's ford.
"More grazing," Fiachta had decided. "And Pyder and the others expect us on the trade road.
" Too, the low king needed to see the land, to truly see it.
Eoghan and two others traveled with them, and had approved of the choice.
The farmers along the way watched but did not challenge, or had not yet challenged.
Tuathal listened, watched, and recited battle songs inside his head.
Two nights from the southerly turn, Fiachta sat near the fire. He gestured to Tuathal, who had been brushing the clarsach's strings, not playing a set melody, but letting the music move through him as it would.
He stood and bowed. "Great is the heart, heart of the war song,
"Song of the washer, washing foe's shirts,
"Shirts blood-stained and tattered, sword pierced in battle.
"Wise is the gold crowned, crowned and victorious,
"Victorious in battle, battle of law words,
"Words not sufficient, sufficient to praise
"The courage and honor and glory of Fiachta."
Smiling, the king nodded. "Sing of battle, great allav."
Another bow, and he brushed the clarsach's strings. Wild, fierce sounds cut the evening air. "How shall I find words sufficient for telling
"The glory of Cadri at the vale of Dunachren?
"Sharp was the shining of sun on the spear points
"Only the brave returned from Dunachren.
"Dark red the water like blood on a spear blade
"Only the mighty returned from Dunachren."
He sang the tale of war and feasting, wild and proud words to send hearts high and spur boldness. Names flowed with notes, names of great valor and ancient days, names still remembered and living.
"... All of the brave returned from Dunachren," he declared at least, clarsach and voice both falling still. The snapping of flame tongues and flowing of water, calls of night birds and rustling of horses made more sound than did the warriors.
Odhran shifted at last. "Ten fell by my blade at the battle of the ford. Ten more heads will return with me."
"A score of cattle will come back with me," Rian declared. "And their keepers, and women."
The others shook loose of the word spell and joined the boasting.
Tuathal eased out of the firelight and put the clarsach in its case.
He caressed the use-smoothed wood of the neck, touching each peg in turn.
No wires felt worn or weak, so he closed the flaps and secured them.
Bathing in dew did not bring beauty to instruments, only to women.
When talk quieted, he left the fire and walked to the river.
Starlight rippled on the dark waters, silvery sparks dancing.
"Gold on the waters, foam on the ale/ Who can tell me how they are joined?
/ Oaken heart, cold's defeater/ Who can tell me how they are joined?
" He murmured the song, refreshing the memory, then tucked it away once more.
Two days later they forded the river at a trot.
The others joked and boasted as they dried under the warm sun.
Tuathal half listened, watching the gleam of spears and torcs, sun glinting on horse harnesses and sword hilts.
Words came. He took them and tucked them away for later.
Right now, the horse needed more of his attention.
He did not care to take flight like a bird, Tuathal the Horse-Tossed!
As the sun's wagon began to descend in the west, Odhran's driver guided the light vehicle closer. "Allav, came you this way in the fall?" the old warrior asked.
"No. I came on the old ones' road north, then bent west at Hirly's Forge."
"Huh." The arms man looked at the land east of them. "Did you see aught amiss?"
He considered, comparing memory to sight. "No. One burnt house, caused by carelessness or so I was told, but the fields and meadows, woods, all appeared as they should for a harvest-heavy time."
"Not like that." Odhan gestured to the half-empty field beside them. The ground near the road grew no crops, the dirt bare and muddy. Farther up the gentle slope, barely—or was it wheat?—struggled to reach the sun. Only at the crest did the crops grow properly, green and proud.
"Not like that, no," Tuathal said. Even barley should not shun the lower ground.
The road yielded dust and dryness. So why did mud fill the field?
Unease darkened the day for a moment, like a cloud before the sun, then passed.
Roads sometimes dried faster than crop land if none churned them to mud, or if they lay on stony ground.
"Huh." The older man tapped his driver's shoulder, and the young lad urged the horses into a faster walk. Tuathal's mount snorted and twitched, but plodded on.
As they rested that night, Tuathal stared into the growing darkness.
Clouds hid the rising stars. The fields and meadows held water close, for all that it had not rained recently.
He considered. Galtach map Morwen had called water to the land, after shaking it, when Rhodri breached the great laws and called down curses on the innocent, or so it was said.
And Gwydion ... Had he flooded Kaeirrishog or had it been the Wave-driver's own judgement of the ungenerous? The night birds' calls gave no answer.
Clouds hid and revealed the waning moon as it appeared in the east. The stars shimmered, watery, warning that rain might come with the dawn.
He'd be wet, then since protecting the clarsach came before keeping himself dry.
One of his fellow students had grumbled that old songs blessing the rain had been a long-gone poet's attempt to appease the storm so it left him alone.
Would it work? Tuathal considered and shook his head.
Driving away rain would likely cause it to return with anger at a less-auspicious-for-him place.
Better a little wet now than drowning along with others.