Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
NIALL
Two days before the feast of Imbolc, Niall sat astride his horse with Aden and Deaglan at his flank, the witch on his right side and his sister – the wrong sister, he couldn’t help but think, even now – on his left, and stared down at a veritable sea of soldiers clad all in blue-and-gold, their spears glinting in the afternoon sun.
“Shite,” he breathed. “That’s quite an army.”
Eilis made an anxious keening sound, but Aoife remained unperturbed.
“I told you, little prince,” she said dreamily.
“It matters not. The Lia Fáil will roar for you, and their numbers will be decimated by the mere sound of its righteousness. The armies of all the provinces will come thundering to your side, and –”
“And victory will be his,” Eilis snapped.
“So you have said.” She twisted in her saddle, her fingers wrapping around Niall’s wrist. “Do you understand now, Niall? Do you at last see the madness to which she has counseled you? Gods, just look at them! Thousands upon thousands of enemies, Niall! They will destroy us.”
Niall’s gaze wandered away from the unending ocean of blue-and-gold soldiers to seek out the various banners of the other clans who had gathered here at Cnoc na Teamhrach – the flash of crimson from Ulaid, the three gilded crowns of Munster, each followed by the dozens upon dozens of subsequent banners signifying the minor clans of each of the great provinces – the yellow-and-black of Bréifne and the stripes of Meath and the scarlet stag of Cianachta and the black wolf of Osraige.
And of course, from above his own head, flapping lazily in the wind, the white-bronze flag of Connacht, emblazoned with its familiar sigil of the falcon and the sword.
Even if they all came together, united as one, they would still be outnumbered, three-to-one at least.
Niall swallowed thickly, doubt and fear churning within him. “Perhaps,” he said through trembling lips, “we ought to parley for peace.”
“There will be no peace, Niall.” Eilis gestured wildly at the waiting army.
“This is an annihilation, Niall, an extinction – not a war. We need to run – to gather our forces and flee in the night, regroup among the craggy rocks and high mountains of Connacht where we cannot be so easily overcome.” She shook her head. “Because this is suicide.”
Aoife said nothing, merely sat by his side smiling that same eerie, dreamlike smile, and Niall forced to keep his hands tight on his reins, not to wander upwards and rub agitatedly through his hair, like the frightened little boy he was on the inside.
HIs people needed a king right now, strong and clear-headed and calm, not a weak and cowardly child – or worse, a fool.
“Call together the kings and leaders of the other clans, the provinces that remain loyal to éire,” he at last ordered over his shoulder to a pale-faced Aden, a queasy-looking Deaglan. “Have them convene at my tent tomorrow morning to discuss our options.”
“There is no option but war,” Aoife said, her sea-swept eyes glowing with an unholy light. “To place your foot upon the rock of the Lia Fáil and unleash the wrath of the gods on your enemies.”
Niall clenched his jaw. “Send word,” he said again. “At the first light of dawn, we shall meet.”
He yanked on the reins, swinging his horse around, turning his back on the ominous gray slab of stone looming atop the green grassy knoll in the distance, the steep sloping mound of the Cnoc na Teamhrach, and the multitude of cairns it contained, the seat of the high kings of the past, the resting place for so many thousands of warriors of yore, faded to naught but dust and bone beneath the long strands of grass waving in the breeze.
His warriors, his people, would soon join them, if he could not save them, if he proved unworthy.
It shouldn’t be me, he thought miserably, not for the first time. It shouldn’t be me at all.
It should, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, be Rory.
It was a crisp cool day in autumn, the preparations for Samhain in full swing, when their father actually did die at last – not from a fever or from a pox, but from a sword in his back, driven deep between his shoulder blades by the former king of Leinster, Dáithí MacMurchada.
He should have been more prepared. After all, he had faced the fact of his father’s mortality a mere four short years ago, on an autumn afternoon much like this one, when Rory had taken his hand into hers and soothed him, comforted him, protected him from the worst parts of himself, the parts that were fearful and frightened and unsure, as she always did.
But truthfully, he was not at all prepared to take on the mantle of king, to sit on his father’s throne and wear his crown and the weight of all the decisions and all the responsibilities that went along with it.
He was, to put it quite frankly, scared shiteless.
His face was buried in his hands, elbows resting wearily on the edge of the table, as his father’s councilors – his councilors, he thought dully, they were his advisors now, because he would, soon enough, be named the new king of Connacht – shouted and argued with one another, the cacophony of voices strident with panic and with dread.
“We must take swift action.” Breandán’s fist crashed against the table, rattling the goblets and sending the quill pens skittering across the surface and onto the floor.
“Our king was murdered, killed in cold blood at a peacekeeping parley – he traveled to that damned encampment at the explicit invitation of the banished MacMurchada, lured to his doom under the guise of compromise, and yet we sit here, behind our high walls, wasting time with useless words. We must act.”
“What would you have us do, Breandán?” Eilis’ voice was thin and sharp with exhaustion, with stress, and Niall’s shoulders hunched even further.
Poor Eilis. She had taken on so many of the tasks and the duties that should have been his, over the past few days, while Niall wept with grief over the loss of his father, instead of swallowing his tears and stepping up to be the king his father had raised him to be.
“Leinster is rumored to have the support of foreign allies – friends in Albion. The last thing we should do is invite foes from abroad to invade our shores, to pick a fight that we cannot and would not win.”
Breandán sneered. “Spoken like a child,” he spat. “A weak and worrisome child.”
“You mean a girl,” said Eilis, lip curling. “Speak plain, Lord Seóla. I assure you, I am strong enough to take it.”
Even though he knew her words were not intended to be an attack on him, Niall flinched anyway, especially when Breandán grinned, humorless and cruel.
“Very well,” he said. “Know then – a man would act first and deliberate later. He would take his vengeance, the éraic owed to him for the murder of a kinsman – the killing of a king, for the love of the gods!” His furious gaze slid to Niall, deliberate and scornful “And let come what may as a result.”
“Dáithí MacMurchada is not a man to be trifled with,” Eilis said. “He has been driven made with rage ever since the our father deposed him.”
“Justly deposed him – the man abducted the wife of the king of Bréifne!” Breandán huffed. “Connacht had no choice but to do exactly as he did – a justified censure.”
Niall rubbed at his temples. “For the gods’ sakes, what does it matter? My father is dead – the reason why is hardly relevant,” and then bit his lip, cursing himself silently.
A long silence met this pronouncement, and from the corner of his eye, Niall saw Rory wince from where she lurked in the corner, half-hidden in the shadows.
You donkey, he could almost hear her say, almost feel the twinge on his ear as she flicked it.
You know very well it matters why. Stop being a muppet and act like the king you soon will be.
Niall cleared his throat. “I meant that MacMurchada’s censure is long done, two years ago. There must be another cause, as to why he would strike so boldly, and murder the king of Connacht in cold blood.”
“The rumors.”
As one, they turned towards the far corner of the room in which Rory still lingered, her shoulder against the wall, arms folded across her chest. “Ror,” said Niall, puzzled, because his sister never spoke up in such assemblies, preferring to remain silent and unseen, watching and listening and absorbing, until they could meet later in the privacy of the barn or among the trees and discuss together whatever had transpired.
This – this was unprecedented. “What do you mean, the rumors?”
Rory shifted on her feet. “As Eilis said,” she said with a subtle jerk of her chin, and Niall caught a glimpse of his other sister’s scowl, her eyes bright with disdain.
“MacMurchada is rumored to have made friends – allies – across the sea during the time of his exile. They might very well be powerful ones; greedy, grasping men who would love nothing more to seize upon an opportunity of weakness, and strike.”
“You are suggesting that MacMurchada would facilitate an invasion of his motherland all for the sake of some woman?” Breandán scoffed. “Traitor he may be, but not a fool. Realms do not fall over the love of a woman. Men do not ride to war for the sake of a pretty face and a roll in the sheets.”
“Except that they do,” said Rory coolly. “Deirdre of the Sorrows, for example.”
“A legend, a mere myth –”
“My own ancestor,” Rory continued, silver eyes cold and dark. “étaín, princess of Ulaid, for whose love both men and gods alike strove and fought – and died.”
Breandán opened his mouth to argue again, then shut it abruptly. Niall stole a glance in Rory’s direction, still leaning against the wall, half-shrouded in shadow.
It did feel a bit chillier, a bit gloomier in the room than it had a moment ago, though.