Lady of Conquest (2 page)

He finished his sentence with an awful grimace, “. . . not while I live.”

The tension was broken, and laughter rang through the hall. A wide smile spread across Conn’s face as he strode to a lower place in the center of the crowd. On the dwarf’s next pass, Conn grabbed the trapeze and swung the acrobat around to face him.

“What in the name of Behl do you think you’re doing, Nimbus?” he hissed.

Lacking a hat of his own in such a precarious position, the jester swept off the hat of the man nearest him. “Sire, what a delightful surprise!”

The crowd guffawed as Conn twirled the trapeze with agonizing slowness.

“I surrender!” Nimbus yelled. “ These loyal subjects of yers may revolt if I dump the thick bean pottage I had for me lunch on their heads.” Several men and women scurried to remove themselves from that vile threat.

“The only thing revolting around here is you,” Conn retorted, pulling the dwarf by his ears until they faced each other again.

Nimbus leaned close to Conn’s ear and whispered, “I feared ye were losing their attention, sire. I sought only to help.”

Conn whispered back, “I guess ‘tis better than swinging in on a noose like you did last time. You almost gave me apoplexy.” Without warning he shoved the trapeze away from his body to send Nimbus squealing through the air.

Conn called to the crowd, “Though it galls me to confess it, the jester speaks the truth. Our spirit triumphs.”

He neatly sidestepped Nimbus’s grab at his nose as the trapeze sailed by again. Cheers of support rose from the floor.

A man marked as a butcher by his rumpled, bloody apron raised his voice and goblet. “We have civilized this country!” The cheers swelled to a roar.

A handsome, brown-eyed soldier added his voice. “Are we not the people who have driven Eoghan Mogh, the enemy of Erin, south to a land as black and barren as his soul?” The jugglers began to toss their golden apples into the air one by one.

“And are not the Romans afraid to set foot on our shores for fear we’ll send them weeping back to their goddesses of war?” proclaimed a rawboned farm woman.

Two of the poets began to tell in unison a tale of Macha Mong Ruad, Red Hugh’s flame-haired Amazon daughter. The room was transformed, eyes shining with hope. Goblets were raised across the hall in toasts to Kevin’s prowess, Conn’s generosity, and the dreams of a new land founded on honor and chivalry.

Conn waited until the trapeze’s momentum died, then plucked the tiny man from it and rested him gently on his feet. They walked to the throne together, Nimbus pausing once to yank on the braid of a sullen blond soldier, whose eyes followed him with a narrowed stare as he rubbed his stinging pate.

“What was the purpose in that?” asked Conn as he sat on the throne.

“Don’t like Ó Caflin. Shifty eyes.”

“If you’re such an astute judge of character, tell me the nature of the creature we have sent Kevin to dispatch?” Conn asked, stroking his beard.

Nimbus perched on the arm of the throne and stroked his smooth chin in perfect imitation. Dodging Conn’s absentminded swat, he said, “The creature is simply a man, not a monster or a giant.”

“A man who could slay four of the Fianna? I scoff, Nimbus.”

“And”—Nimbus continued as if never interrupted— “I think this man is allied with Eoghan Mogh, sent to antagonize ye and distract us all.”

Mer-Nod, who had been listening as he walked over to lean against the wall, said, “Eoghan Mogh has been banished to the south, running like a child to his fosterers. He’ll not trouble us for a long while.”

Conn chuckled derisively. “Some say he builds a kingdom in the south and plans a great strike against Tara. In the state I left him in last, I doubt if he could find the gold to raise a tent.”

Nimbus slid off the throne and began to pluck slyly at Mer-Nod’s feathered mantle.

Conn closed his eyes and leaned back in the throne. “Tell me a tale, Mer-Nod. I am weary and long to hear of glory.”

Mer-Nod opened his mouth to speak and felt the rhythmic tugging behind him. He turned on Nimbus, dark eyes flashing, as the dwarf reappeared with a handful of red and gold feathers.

“May the gods curse you, you runt. Unhand my cloak!”

Conn laughed as Mer-Nod, who prided himself on his dignified demeanor, began to chase a gleeful Nimbus around the throne.

A trumpet blast from outside the rampart halted Mer-Nod’s murderous attempt as well as all other activity in the hall. Conn’s hands tightened into unrelenting fists. Nimbus walked around to stand at his feet while Mer-Nod resumed his posture against the wall, composing his face into indifference with effort. Golden apples fell to the floor, as a juggler’s eyes fixed on the door. The poets halted in mid-sentence, their stories aborted in mid-battle. Children darting here and there were stilled by the grasping hands of their mothers.

Conn rose as the massive double doors swung open. A protective veil lowered itself over his eyes. Like a sunny field smothered by a great thundercloud, his face closed to an unreadable mask.

Standing in the doorway were a man and woman, covered with sweat and grime. They were runners, legendary athletes who could circle the Isle of Erin in a single day.

The woman stepped out of the doorway for a long moment and as she reappeared, the cause of their delay became wrenchingly clear. She led a roan into the gathering. On its speckled back, Kevin Ó hArtagain had taken his last ride. A muffled sob burst from the crowd and a young girl slid to the floor in a dead faint.

Kevin’s body was draped over the horse’s back, blood caked thick in his red hair. The rusty stains stood in startling contrast to his death pallor. His head was twisted to one side; his eyes stared blindly into the crowd as the horse was led to the center of the hall. Those closest shuddered and stepped back, wondering what was last beheld by those terrified orbs. The ragged edges of a wound gaped in his back where a sword had exited his heart. More than one of the Fianna thought they heard Kevin’s excited laughter echoing in the corridors of their memories. A soldier watching the grim procession drained his ale in a single swig, his hands trembling for the first time.

Only the sound of weeping accompanied Conn as he moved off the dais, enthralled by the sight before him. His eyes were chips of blue ice. As he reached the horse, he stretched out his hands and cradled the head of his dead friend. Leaning down as if to whisper something, Conn made a noise that started as a growl in the deepest part of his throat. The hairs on the back of Nimbus’s neck stood erect as a fierce battle cry was wrung from Conn’s grief.

The hall sprang into fevered activity. Men from the Fianna surrounded Conn, bloody and black oaths pouring from tightened lips. He turned to the nearest soldier and whispered something that drained all the color from the man’s face. The man darted to the door, Nimbus fast on his heels.

Raising his hands over his head, Conn silenced the hall. “I am going to kill the bastard myself.” His lips twisted in a bitter grimace. “Sean Ó Firm has gone to prepare my mount. Mer-Nod will act as regent until my return.”

The silence of the hall exploded in an uproar. Loud protests, blended with shouts of encouragement, climbed to deafening bedlam.

Mer-Nod left his position along the wall and strode toward Conn, fighting to make himself heard over the cacophony of voices. “Conn, that’s insane! We can’t afford to lose you!”

Eyes gleaming, Conn replied, “You won’t lose me. When I return to Tara, I will bear the head of the monster that slew Kevin. Be it man or beast, it will die at my hands.”

Sean Ó Finn returned. Eyes averted, he told Conn, “Your mount is prepared. There are supplies for five days.”

Nimbus also reappeared, struggling with a sword as long as his body.

Conn took the sword and raised it in the air. His voice rang through the hall. “For Kevin, for the Fianna, for Erin, the creature shall die!”

Sheathing the sword, he ran through the door and leapt upon the back of the huge stallion that awaited him. Kicking the horse into full gallop, he thundered through the gates of the rampart.

Nimbus stood unnoticed in the flurry of the crowd. One small grubby hand went up to rub his throbbing temples.

The bleak sky began its surrender to an even bleaker darkness as Conn galloped away from the fortress. Wispy clouds scuttled across the horizon, blown by nervous bursts of cool wind. Lacking the warmth of sunshine, the day’s dampness had failed to wear off and only became more pronounced as the light faded in the east. The leaves on the trees trembled in anticipation of the darkness to come. The eerie purple glow of twilight suffused the landscape, transforming the green fields into darkened velvet. The only sounds that cut through the deepening twilight were the steady hoof beats of Conn’s horse and the lonely cry of a tern in the distance. As Conn left the path and descended into a sodden field, a light drizzle began to fall. The last light of dusk vanished as he slowed his horse to a walk and entered a forest thick with tangled vines and clinging bracken.

He pulled his cloak tight around him as his mount picked its way through the undergrowth. Fury was running circles in his mind. He felt the chill in the air as if someone else was cold and it was his duty to wrap that mortal up warmly. Kevin’s lifeless form was imprinted on his brain by a burning brand. Bright-eyed, quick-tempered Kevin, broken and bleeding. His body would be shrouded, carried to his clan by the Fianna as a grim reminder of the oath they had taken when Kevin was sent to join their ranks: “We swear to accept Kevin’s death or maiming without seeking satisfaction or vengeance, except that which his brother warriors will reap.” The blackness of rage bubbled through Conn’s veins. As he left the forest for a meadow, he urged the stallion into a gallop.

Rain was falling, and the moon had begun its descent when he slipped off the horse in a clearing. The apple in his knapsack found its way into the horse’s mouth, and Conn smiled for the first time since leaving the fortress. Silent Thunder had sailed far over the ocean in a crowded cargo hold to become his battle steed. He ran his hands over the satiny blackness of the horse’s haunches. Not one marking marred the starkness of its beauty. He looped the reins around a bush and left the beast to graze.

Shaking the rain from his hair, he foraged through the forest until he had gathered enough branches and greenery to shelter both himself and a fire from the steady downpour. He warmed his hands over the flames and absently wished that Nimbus were there to ease the silence. Memories of other forests gathered around him; the heat of other fires warmed his hands. The spirits of the five dead surrounded him, laughing and boasting, planning battles for the morrow. For a fleeting instant his nose caught the aroma of fresh venison roasting over an open pit.

He stood, cursing himself for his fancies. The forest seemed to stir around him, and he sat again, wondering if sleep would be difficult or just impossible. His tense fingers smeared cheese across a thick chunk of bread. The fires of his anger burned too deeply to leave room for fear. He would unmask this hooded slayer and put him to a merciless death. Wrapping himself in his cloak, he settled down to sleep. At this time on the morrow he would reach the cavern. He must be ready. He sank into an abyss of sleep mercifully devoid of dreams.

Conn and Silent Thunder were already traveling north when the sun rose the next morning. The day dawned with a warm southerly breeze that played over his features as if to smooth away the lines of tension creasing his forehead. Larks and martins sang into a sky that was the delicate blue of the inside of a robin’s egg. An occasional cloud, as white and fleecy as the underbelly of a newly birthed lamb, floated across its serene canvas. As he moved north, the terrain grew hillier and the rolling emerald sward gave way to rocks and loose shrubs beneath the horse’s hooves.

The sun sank in an orange ball of glory behind the western horizon, so different from the past day’s muted departure. He had reached the drumlins. The foothills were steep but lay between the mountains and the plains that surrounded the misty hill of Tara.

Darkness shrouded the landscape. He lit a torch to guide their steps. Treacherous stones lay waiting to send a horse into a fatal misstep. Conn’s eyes could faintly discern shadowed indentations in the cliffs that he knew to be small caves. According to his calculations, the larger cavern he sought must be less than a league away. A trickle of sweat eased its way down the back of his neck.

He halted Silent Thunder and sat, eyes closed, deep in thought. A young lad, desperate to join the Fianna, had made this same journey to conquer the creature who had already sent three of the Fianna to gory deaths. He had been the only one to return. His hysterical tale of a cloaked giant who had at the last moment removed the sword’s point from his fear-constricted throat and released him had traveled quickly to Conn. Just as the beast intended, he thought bitterly.

Eyes still closed, he called to mind the face of each man who had died in that cavern. Five fierce warriors gone, leaving him to avenge their blood.

Opening his eyes and kicking Silent Thunder into a canter, he once again let out the battle cry that had so chilled Nimbus. It reverberated through the drumlins with a roaring echo. He knew that if someone or something lay in wait for him, he was giving it enough warning to bait the trap. The wind fanned the torch clutched in his left hand to a glowing beacon as he guided the horse, using only his knees.