Arthur nominated six men to catch the Saxon observers and dispatch them. The six thundered away, heads low, shields beating against the saddle. They had vanished in a few minutes, riding along the river to the deep ford. It was unlikely that they would catch even inexperienced Saxon riders, but it was worth a try.
They crossed the river in late afternoon, and only twenty horses foundered in the deepness. It took an hour to ride down river on both sides and drag the unfortunate beasts from the water, drying them down and calming them before leading them back to the ford for a second attempt.
Since part of the crossing had involved swimming, most of the men were soaked and were glad of a chance to pitch camp and dry themselves off. The Saefern was deep along most of its length and to call this point a ford was mere acquiescence to the fact that it was fractionally less deep there than at anywhere else along its winding length.
The tents were erected in a rough semicircle and cooking fires kindled in hollows in the dry earth. The smell of meat soon rose deliciously into the dusk air, and the babble of conversation became excited and happy. Swords were attended to, the noise of the grindstones loud and searing; spears were checked for firmness of blade, and straightness of shaft. Each man carried his own wooden platter, and those who had forgotten to bring the simple requisites of eating, ate from the boss of their shields, to the utter disgust of most of those who watched them.
Niall sat alone, staring at Reagan who was tying a thick band of leather around the left foreleg of her dark haired mare. Owain rose from the fire, throwing the remnants of his meal on to the flame, and came across to Niall, dropping to a crouch before him. There was anger in his eyes, a bitter twist to his lips.
‘Who lay with Reagan last night?’ he said softly, tensely. Niall frowned and said nothing.
Instantly Owain’s sword was unsheathed and its point fixed firmly and unwaveringly before Niall’s throat. Niall felt anger surging up in him, but he restrained himself.
‘I asked you,’ said Owain, ‘who had knowledge of my sister last night?’
‘Ask her,’ said Niall. ‘She ought to know.’
The boy was obviously furious; his skin burned red and hot, and the sweat broke from him as it breaks from a man who is to die at any second and who has been awaiting it.
‘I sent her to Arthur’s house for Arthur’s pleasure. Reagan is our gift to him
for letting us ride in his troop. She had agreed to it, and that is that. But she will not confirm that Arthur took her. Who lay with her? Was it you?’
‘When she came to the house,’ said Niall, ‘she lay with Arthur. I was asleep and the noise of them woke me. I fell asleep again, and she was gone early in the morning.’
All of which was true, if only half the truth.
Owain’s sword lowered, but his gaze remained fixed on the Erisman. ‘If I thought that it was you who had known her body, and not my great warlord, I should kill you. She is for no man but Arthur. If he denies her, then she is for no man. I resent you even feasting your eyes upon her.’
‘Arthur has a queen,’ Niall reminded him softly.
‘Reagan will be his queen,’ said the boy. He fingered his bull amulet, as Niall remembered fingering it, in times of stress. Niall felt a great surge of rage as he saw that which he had earned in his father’s house caressed by a youth who had not even been born on Erish soil.
Owain rose and walked swiftly away, without finishing what had begun as a threat to any woman who touched Arthur, now that he had decided that Reagan was to be the great man’s consort.
Later, when Niall was slouched forward, relaxing, his head on his knees, he heard a man approaching and tensed, ready for action.
A sword thudded sibilantly into the ground before him and he jerked upright. The great blade shone in the moonlight and in the glowing embers of the fire; the hilt was like a cross, throwing its spell over the Erisman, each jewel, each delicate curve of the carved bronze guard, helping to weave a spell of paralysis in the seated warrior.
Arthur crouched down behind his sword, a knee on either side of it, taking his weight on the hilt so that he leaned close to Niall; his fierce eyes softened, the thin lips stretched in a smile.
‘How is it,’ he asked, ‘that you sit so quiet so long; where are these great rages we had been led to fear so much?’
Niall shrugged. ‘In battle it is the same. But I must admit that the spirits of fury seem remarkably quiet in me. I sense a draining of the violent strength I was born with.’
Arthur laughed softly. ‘And I feel a great surge of strength. Since you have joined us, Erisman, I have felt power rising in my body; it seems to grip my every fibre, to rise from leg to belly and to heart and mind. I sense that there will be great years ahead, years of battle and triumph; I sense that there is nothing I cannot do. It will be good to have you fighting at my side, and more so when you are freed of this Odin.’
‘That will be soon,’ said Niall. ‘After this battle we shall ride, you and I, to the stone henge.’
Arthur nodded. ‘The place lies not far from where we will fight Cerdic for once and for all.’ His face lifted to the dark skies so that the bright moon highlighted the crags of his jaw and the fierce glitter of his eyes; his teeth were white, bright white as he smiled in anticipation of triumph. ‘Nothing can stop me. Since you have come to my cause, Niall,’ his gaze met the Connachtman’s, ‘I have sensed such a growing power that it frightens me to contemplate where it will end. But there is nothing that can stop me, now. This war is as good as won.’
He rose to his feet and pulled the broad sword from the ground, slipping it into its slings with ease, despite the weapon’s enormous weight. ‘Come to the fire, Niall. It’s too cold over here. Our tent is up, and that young wench lusts for you again. I can smell it on her.’
‘Her brother will kill me if I touch her again … or will try to.’
Arthur grinned. ‘She has a mind of her own. Owain has not realised that you cannot control another person’s destiny … especially not a woman’s.’ He laughed, then grew serious for a moment. ‘But spare the boy, Niall; even if he provokes you, spare him. He fills me with gladness and hope, in the same way that you do. I need you both.’
Niall walked to the fire, and the wide circle of ground that was fully lit by torches. He ate, and joined in the low key banter of the men about the fire; most were asleep in their tents, by now, but both Owain and Reagan were awake. Niall made sure he sat no nearer to the girl than to her brother. Every time he looked at Reagan she ran her tongue along her lips in what Niall knew to be the most unsubtle of invitations. In his own country a woman would merely have stared at him, allowing him to read her desires from the fires that burned in her eyes. In this country women were unbothered by teasing. If she hadn’t known that it would cause trouble, Reagan would probably have called over to him. Niall was glad of her silence.
Arthur retired to his tent, and Owain glared at his sister for not following. She shook her head at him and Niall heard his barely suppressed anger.
A few minutes later there came a terrible din from the forest around them, and Arthur came running.
The noise was the sound of shield being beaten by sword; the warning sound of the guards that said that riders were converging on the camp.
Every man drew his sword in an instant, and cast away the scabbard. A few found time to put helmets across their heads, and even to buckle on the thick, iron-studded body leathers that served them as armour. Naked of leg and crotch they bulked big and strange in just their top armour, but this was no time for worrying about looks.
A minute or so later there came a second sound, the shrill pipe-whistling that said the alarm was false, that it was friends that approached. The camp
relaxed, all save Niall who remained standing, growling deep in his throat as his own excitement refused to ebb.
Into the camp rode seven men. Or rather, six men and their beautiful, grinning female leader. Arthur yelled his delight and ran to yank her down from her horse. She laughed and hugged him, and her companions climbed down from the saddle, stripped off their leather tunics and massaged their groins with infinite pleasure as they hobbled towards the fire.
Niall subsided and sheathed his sword. He remained standing and staring at the re-united warlord and war queen, and when, after a moment, they separated and the woman looked towards the fire, Niall’s strongest beliefs were proven true.
Older, more scarred, but every bit as full and beautiful as when he had nearly known her at Cnocba, he stared at the violent war queen, Grania.
She recognised him at once and froze; a fleeting panic passed across her face, and immediately was replaced by a look of interest. Arthur noticed this and seemed to understand immediately that it was Grania who had taken the amulet from Niall. That they had known each other before did not, of course, anger him. But he brought her across to the fire and faced her to the Erisman, a look of intrigue and devilment making boyish his normally hard features.
‘You know each other,’ he said loudly, and there was a ripple of interest among the watching men.
‘He wields his sword in an interesting way,’ said Grania.
‘She wields persuasion better than I wield a sword,’ said Niall, and Grania smiled.
‘To kill me will cost you dearly. There’s not a man here who will not stand between us.’
Niall said, ‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I had thought you slain by Fergus. He came after you …’
‘Did he? I never saw him. I ran fast that night, and killed a hundred men to get fresh horses for my escape.’
‘Then perhaps he is still fumbling around Meath, searching under stones for you.’
‘Perhaps.’
She unbuckled her sword and sat down by the fire, warming herself, and accepting a bowl of hot broth from the remnants of the food in the burned copper cauldron. She and Arthur talked softly and laughed often, and Niall sat near them, glad that there was no hostility between himself and the woman, but remembering the urgency of that moment, so long ago. It was as if he was as inexperienced now as then, and he found his eyes drawn to her body, and his mind to the remembrance of how she had looked naked. Clad, now, in leather leggings and a tightly drawn leather jerkin, overlaid
with mail links, it was difficult to see the sensuous form that lay beneath the garments.
But he remembered. And the memory hurt him.
Hurt in a different way was young Owain. He watched Grania with a solemn and angry face, and Niall knew that there would be trouble. Reagan talked urgently to her brother, her voice lost below the noisy crackle of wood on the fire, and the general hubbub of conversation among those who remained awake into the night.
It was soon apparent that Reagan and Owain were arguing, and that Owain was getting loud and indiscreet. Perhaps unused to the heady brew that they had brought with them, a meld of mead and the fermented barley liquid that burned so much as it was swallowed, Owain’s boorishness and aggressiveness became dangerous.
Soon Grania and Arthur were watching the antics of the two youths, and quite suddenly Owain was aware of that attention.
He jumped to his feet and dragged Reagan up with him. She slapped him hard across the face, and pulled away. He tensed, his arm raised to strike her with his drawn sword, but he stopped himself in time, then looked angrily at Grania.
‘You have been replaced!’ he yelled, and pointed his sword at the Erish war queen. Reagan begged him to be silent, but he brushed her away. ‘My sister is Arthur’s consort now!’
‘Be quiet!’ shouted Arthur, but he made no move to get up. Grania listened impassively. Niall was amused.
‘I’ll not be quiet,’ cried Owain. ‘No man, not even you my lord, takes my sister and makes a woman of her, only to cast her aside.’
‘Owain, be silent!’ shrieked Reagan, and her own sword was in her hand, but Owain knocked the blade from her in a swift motion, and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her forward. He glared at Grania.
‘It’s true, you Erish cow. Arthur has lain with Reagan and will take her as his queen. Ride while you may, into the forest, away to your distant islands.’
Grania was white faced with fury. She rose stiffly to her feet, brushed down her armour, and glancing for a frozen moment at Arthur – who shook his head almost imperceptibly – she took up her sword and girded the belt around her waist.
The fire burned loud, and Niall edged back from the flame, as did everyone who sat around it, save for Owain and Reagan.
As if the sudden threat had changed her attitudes, even Reagan now stood firm, facing the war queen. She reached down and picked up her sword, glanced once at Niall, then back at the angry woman opposite her. Owain’s youthful face was alive, in the light of the fire, with excitement and arrogant pride.
Grania said, ‘Arthur denies your claim, girl. Retract this false boast and I shall spare you.’
‘She retracts nothing,’ said Owain, ‘because it is true. You can’t deny it, my lord …’ this last was an almost impassioned plea at Arthur.
The Bull Chief said, ‘I choose with whom I sleep, and when. I would choose none whilst Grania is my queen.’
Reagan looked uncomfortable, but Owain was surprised.
‘But two nights ago … you slept with my sister … I sent her …’
Arthur cut him off. ‘She slept with my prize warrior, Niall Swiftaxe of Connacht. That is enough that she should feel proud. She came to me first, but I put honour before my sex.’
For a second Owain looked as if he would cry, then he backed away from his sister, his sword raising and pointing slowly towards her.
Reagan panicked, for perhaps she knew from experience that her brother could better her with the iron blade. ‘Arthur lies. He took me, he and no other.’
Owain shook his head, looked about him, then shrieked with anger. He cast his sword into the ground and turned to walk stiffly into the darkness.
Grania approached the fire. ‘You lie,’ she told the girl.
‘Do I?’
Grania jumped across the fire, landing heavily in front of Reagan and striking at her with all her force. Reagan caught the blow on her blade and calmly deflected it, knocking the war queen away with the power of the deflection and backing around towards Niall.