KINGS AND QUEENS
CHAPTER 3
Aedh mac Neill, High King of Eriu for nigh these five years, woke with a start, staring wildly at nothing, heart pounding as though he’d just been fighting a battle. Beside him, his wife Eithne stirred, brushing tangled chestnut hair back from her face, blinking sleepily at him.
“Aedh?” she murmured. “What’s wrong?”
He took a deep, steadying breath, then touched her cheek with a gentle hand. “Nothing. Only a dream.”
The woman straightened, raising herself on one elbow, eyes suddenly focused with alarm. “With enough power to it to wake you!”
“Eithne…”
“Don’t give me that superior look! Dreams have meaning, love, you know—”
“Oh, I know nothing of the sort.”
“What did you dream?” Eithne insisted. “Come, tell me.”
Aedh sighed, rolling over onto his back, looking blankly up at the canopy overhead, considering. “It was an odd thing,” he said at last. “Not a nightmare, not exactly… just strange. I dreamed I was in the midst of battle, alone, set round with foes.”
“Och!”
“But just when things were looking very grim indeed,” Aedh continued thoughtfully, “a stranger slipped through the foes to my side.” He glanced sideways at his wife. “Now, I don’t know what made me dream him up, Eithne! He was the most foreign-looking fellow I ever could have imagined: tall, pale of skin, and almost as beautiful as a woman. But whatever else he was, that man could fight like a very devil! And between us, we won the day. I woke up just as we were grinning in triumph at each other.” Aedh turned to look fully at Eithne. “So. That’s the lot of it. Are you satisfied?”
Eithne wouldn’t meet his gaze. “You were right,” she murmured after a moment. “It could only have been a dream, nothing more than that.”
He grunted in satisfaction. “Go back to sleep. The hour’s still early.”
“Mm-hmm.” Eithne curled comfortably against him, all warm, cozy softness, head pillowed against his chest. Aedh smiled and held her close, for the moment wonderfully content.
But his dream-prodded mind refused to relax, insisting on remembering actual battle after battle. And at last he gave up all hope of sleep. He might be Aedh Ordnigh, Aedh the Ordained, rightful High King in the sight of God and man, but that wasn’t making his reign any easier.
And had you expected it to be any other way?
Hardly. The land of Eriu was divided among a seemingly endless number of lesser kings—some of them ruling over as few as a hundred men—and all of them, great and small, were an ambitious, skeptical lot, not particularly willing to see anyone set over them. The very first year of Aedh’s reign, when he should have had at least a short period of grace, had seen him having to ride out against the stubborn king of Meath to prove he, Aedh Ordnigh of the Ui Neill sept, the noblest, most powerful of dynasties, was, and would remain, ruler of all Eriu.
Not that such a victory made much of an impression on the rest of the kings. No, that would have been far too simple.
In these past four years, Aedh realized with a start, he could count maybe ten months all told when he hadn’t been forced to ride out somewhere, sword in hand. And who knew but that someone else wouldn’t be challenging him tomorrow, or the day after that. The king mentally ticked off the most blatant possibilities: There were the two ambitious sons of the late king of Meath to consider, and trouble out of Leinster that might yet lead to war. Add to that the various factions here at court, most of whom were related to other kings and burning with their own ambition. And just to keep matters nicely stirred, there were also those two swift raids to the north of Eriu by the Lochlannach, the seafaring barbarians come down from their frozen northern lands. Those raids just might not be isolated occurrences—
Och, well, nobody ever promised me this would be an easy way to live! And I certainly don’t intend to meekly surrender the crown. The way Father did.
Aedh straightened carefully, not wanting to disturb Eithne (the one quiet, peaceful, loving part of his life, his Eithne, and the two children they’d gotten between them, brave young Niall and pretty little Fainche). He was sturdy of build and, he knew proudly, still fully as fit and strong as a younger man, but now and again he could feel the pull of old wounds warning him he wasn’t invulnerable. There were few enough of those wounds, God be praised, and none of them truly serious: for a warrior king in his mid-thirties, Aedh admitted, he’d been remarkably fortunate—or (who knew?) shielded by some divine Power.
Father? Aedh wondered wryly. Is this your doing?
He sighed, softly so Eithne would not be disturbed. Niall Frasach had been a good man, some said a saintly man. Aedh could remember a boyhood filled with the ever-growing legends of his father quelling demons by sheer sanctity. Niall Frasach, Niall Condail: Niall the Pure of Mind, who had finally abdicated the throne for a monastery.
Ah, yes. And in the process, Aedh thought, his father had conveniently left behind all the unsettled problems and plots of the less pure of mind for his successor to solve, and involved his son in a ten-year struggle to claim the throne and prove himself High King. Being the son of a saint might be good for one’s soul, but it certainly wasn’t an easy thing for someone living in the here and now.
Well, he was High King now, damn all his enemies to the monks’ Hell, and couldn’t imagine being anything other than High King.
Pulling aside a bed-hanging a finger’s breadth, Aedh glanced out at the cool grey light of early morning and sighed anew. A feather bed was a wonderfully comfortable thing, whether or not one had been sleeping, but the day was here and he could hardly lie abed any longer. The life of a king was ringed round with rules and prohibitions, including what he should and should not do each day. And today, the midday of the week, was the one deemed suitable for royal hunting.
“So be it,” Aedh muttered, disentangling himself carefully from his wife, and got to his feet.
“You’re not leaving?” Eithne cried from behind him, and Aedh turned to her.
She was sitting up in bed, bedclothes gathered about her, hair a wild cloud, looking as soft and vulnerable as a girl who’d never borne a child. And for a moment such a wave of pure tenderness surged through Aedh that he ached to rejoin her in their bed and never leave.
Nonsense. He was a man grown, not a romantic boy. “What’s this, wife?” he asked lightly. “Still worried about my dream? Come now, we both know it was nothing but a silly, powerless little thing. Or… is there something you’re keeping from me?”
“No, of course not.” She said that just a touch too quickly, Aedh thought. “But everyone knows you go hunting on this day of the week. Anyone could be lying in wait—”
“Eithne. My dearest. My darling, loving, tenderhearted wife.” Aedh bent to kiss her gently. “I’ve gone hunting before without this fuss. What would they think of a king who hid behind his fortress walls, afraid to stir? How long do you think I would keep my throne?”
“But—”
“I’m not a fool. I will be wary.”
Eithne sighed. “Of course. I’m the one who’s being foolish. Go on, and good hunting to you, love.”
###
Queen Eithne stood at the open window, watching fervently as Aedh rode away. Och, but he was splendid and shining, sitting his horse as straight and proud as a man half his age (not that he was that old, she told herself sternly, no more than ten years her senior; there were only the fewest threads of silver amid the reddish hair and beard, and they gleaming like royal ornaments in the sun). Ahead of him coursed a slew of fine hounds, and all around him rode Aedh’s own chosen guard; Eithne knew them man and dog, and trusted the lot.
At the king’s side rode battle-wise Cadwal ap Dyfri, that rarity among mercenaries: a man who’d made it to middle years. A curt, crusty man, Cadwal, trusting almost no one, guarding his secrets like a miser his gold, but a truly skillful fighter, and in his own bought-and-paid-for way more loyal to Aedh than many a courtier. Eithne knew he would die before he let harm come to the king who’d never once treated him as anything less than a man of honor.
Then why am I so uneasy? What was the meaning of that cursed dream?
Feeling just a touch foolish, she snatched up a small handful of earth from one of the pots of herbs she kept to sweeten the air, and hurled it after her husband, a childish charm to bring him safely back to her. Arms hugged tightly about herself, Eithne stood watching as Aedh rode down from the royal keep, down through the many outbuildings and the earthen rings of defense, down into the endless expanse of forest, till she could see him no more. Only then did she turn away, calling for her women to come and dress her and bring her children to her.
As always, her heart gave a little leap at the sight of the two lovely young things. Niall, now nearly eleven, was straight-backed as his father but as lightly built as a young falcon, his stare Aedh’s steady grey gaze. The boy was just at the age of not wanting to be embarrassed by a mother’s hugs, but little Fainche, all of five, rushed eagerly into Eithne’s arms. The woman lowered her face to the girl, nuzzling the curly reddish hair, delighted by the fresh, clean, baby smell of her.
With a reluctant sigh, Eithne straightened. “Off with you now. To your studies, the both of you. Niall, don’t give me such a long look! Time enough to be following your father to the hunt when you’re older.”
“How much older?”
“Och, child, time passes soon enough, all too soon! Besides, do you think your father would be High King if he had neglected his studying?”
“He would be High King no matter what!” Niall said hotly, and Eithne stifled a smile.
“As will you, someday,” she told him solemnly, “God willing.” But, oh please you listening Ones, not for many long years. “But only if you finish your lessons! Now, off with you, I say! And you,” Eithne added to her servants, “off with you, too. I wish to be alone.”
She waited in sudden tension, listening, feeling, till she was sure no one was watching. Clutching her cloak to her, Eithne hurried to the one secret chamber not even Aedh had seen: the chamber that was barred with Words and Wishes from being discovered. Slipping inside, she shut and bolted the door behind her, then stood for a moment, biting her lip in anxious thought. Yes… this was the ritual she’d work.
Eithne hurriedly cast open a small chest and set out candles at north, south, east, west. She paused, willing everything from her mind but the words of her spell… the words, and an image of Aedh, proud and full of health… Aedh…
Holding that image firmly in her mind, she lit a taper, then the southern candle. As it caught fire, Eithne murmured, “Nothing from the south can harm Aedh, nothing cause him peril.”
The western, northern, eastern candles were lit as well, the spell repeated. Eithne sat in the small space between the candles, watching them burn, concentrating with all her might on feeling any danger to Aedh burning as well, melting harmlessly away, leaving him safe, safe, safe…
At last, drained, Eithne got to her feet, staggering a little, then damped the candle stubs and returned them to the chest. For a time she stood motionless, trying to regain her strength, then let out her breath in a long sigh. She’d done what she could to protect her husband. The rest was up to the gods.
Ah, yes, the gods, Eithne thought with the tiniest of shivers, the Dagda and Brigit—whom the Christians had tried so earnestly to turn into one of their saints—and bright, shining Aengus. Father Seadna, the High King’s priest, was a tolerant man, but there were limits. And Aedh… oh, Aedh loved her, she never doubted that, but he must never, never learn, he who had been ordained king by the Christian priests, that his wife secretly practiced a far older religion, that she secretly worked her magics to protect him.
Wearily, Eithne returned to the royal chambers. Aedh was shielded by God and man and magic. Everything would be well.
Then why did a darkness still seem to hang over him for all her spells, to hang over them all?
###
Outside the grianan, the ladies’ house, of the royal palace of Clonach, the small kingdom that lay several days’ riding north from the High King’s seat, the morning shone clear and fine, the distant sea deepest blue sparkling with sunlight. The roar of surf on rocks was far enough away to be muted to a familiar, soothing thrum, but Queen Derval of Clonach paid all that no heed. Slender and golden-haired, her pale, smooth skin the love of poets and despair of other women, she put down her needlework with an impatient sigh and sat watching her tall, auburn-haired husband pace restlessly back and forth till at last she could stand it no longer. “Now what’s the matter?”
Donnchadh, King of Clonach, stopped short to stare at her. Like a deer caught by wolves, Derval thought in disapproval. Or a little boy in fear of punishment. “Am I doing the right thing?” he challenged her. “Am I?”
Derval let out her breath in a sharp hiss. “That again! Do you wish justice or not?”
“Of course, but—”
“But what? You are of the Ui Neill sept, just like Aedh, you are every bit as worthy as—”
“He has been crowned Ard Ri before God and man,” Donnchadh said severely, and Derval sighed yet again.
“A man made king,” she said as carefully as though speaking to a child, “can still be unmade. I thought we had settled all this, husband. We both agreed Aedh is too weak, son of a saint that he is, too… educated a man to properly guard Eriu—particularly with this new threat of longboat raids hanging over us.”
“Yes. Yes. It’s my lands that lie in direct peril from those raiders, not his.”
“Will you stop that pacing?” Derval rose, nearly as tall as her husband, to block his path. “Listen to yourself! For shame, Donnchadh!”
“What—”
“Whining like this—you sound like a frightened child, not a king.”
Face dark with sudden rage, he raised a hand to strike, and just for an instant, seeing the fury in his eyes, Derval felt a spasm of genuine fear. But even though her heart was pounding, she refused to flinch, staring steadily back at him. And Donnchadh was the first to give way, turning suddenly aside to look out the unshuttered window.
Weakling! Derval thought in contempt, and moved to stand beside him, staring out to where their son, golden young Fearghal, at sixteen already nearly as tall as his sire, was testing his swordplay against one of his comrades. A sudden unexpected pang stabbed her heart at the sight. Fearghal, though no one dared remind him of it, was the second-born, not the true heir to Clonach. That claim belonged to the firstborn son, to Breasal. Breasal, who was hostage for his father’s good behavior, there at the High King’s court so far from Clonach, where he’d lived for so many years he must now be King Aedh’s creature. You always were a sickly child, poor boy, Derval thought, so slight and gentle I could almost think you a changeling. You could never have held a throne.
Look at this. She was already thinking of him in the past tense. Fiercely shutting her mind against the pain she felt, a mother’s pain, Derval added, If I must sacrifice you, my firstborn son, I will. Though it will tear at my heart to do it, I will do what must be done. At least one of my children will sit on the High King’s throne.
“Good,” Donnchadh muttered, watching Fearghal closely. “Yes. Hit him again, there, and there. Ah, yes, well struck.”
Does he even remember Breasal? Derval wondered, and in that moment hated her husband with all her heart.
Fearghal, meanwhile, beat his opponent back and back again, finally trapping him against a whitewashed stone wall. The other boy tried to surrender, but Fearghal struck the sword from his hand, then swept his feet roughly out from under him. As the other boy went crashing to the ground, Fearghal stood over him, laughing.
“So,” Derval said softly. “Do you want our son on the High King’s throne or not?”
Donnchadh’s hands tightened on the sill. “You know I do.”
“Well, then.”
The man’s shoulders sagged in sudden resignation. “I know, I know.” The glance he gave her was full of despair. “And I have done what I must. Treason though it might be, I have done what I must.”
It is no treason if it sets my son, my Fearghal on the High King’s throne, Derval thought, but said nothing.