The Mists of Doom cma-1 Read online

  Chapter One:

  The Plotters

  The cross jumped and gleamed on the chest of the High-king’s visitor when the man coughed. Watching this priest of Jesus come out of the disguising robe, High-king Lugaid reflected that it must sore have irked Milchu to wear the robe of the Old Faith over his execution symbol. Iosa was the enemy of all other gods; Christianity and its “Saints” were the enemy of all other beliefs; the druids of the Old Faith and the priests of the New were hardly friends!

  Lugaid grinned sourly. Toying with the mug of mulled wine, he reflected on how the former shepherd-slave had returned here to Eirrin-from Rome-preaching the New Faith. He attacked the old ways and beliefs directly, that Padraigh or Patriche, claiming that while as all knew the druids could with their powers bring on darkness, only Jesus the Christus brought light. And he had thrown down the great statue of Crom Cruach and its attending statuary on the Plain of Slecht. Nor had that ancient god of Eirrin, no nor Behl either, done aught to avenge the sacrilege.

  Those there were who began to say that Padraigh’s god was God. His faith spread throughout the land of mighty warriors. Somehow the sons of Eirrin took the dictates of peacefulness more seriously than the people of the continent; their Saints slew Saints and all the in the name of Jesus whom they called Christus as though it were his name. Soon, Lugaid mused without pleasure, Padraigh had converted many. Aye, even including the wife of High-king Laegair, for he put guilt on her, and on his chief advisor as well, so that Laegair was no enemy of the Saints. Well Lugaid remembered the changes in his mother, and the change in the relationship between her and his royal father.

  Yet even that had not been enough for the Saints. They wanted all.

  They want all, Lugaid the king thought, and his hand clutched the tighter at his tankard.

  Still, the Ard-righ of Eirrin was no enemy of the Old Faith either, so that druids remained welcome throughout most of the land. That proved not sufficiently satisfactory to the dark-robed priests who came to Eirrin after Padraigh. That stern man with his great pointed staff preached that which had aided the toppling of the Empire of Rome and now survived it in quest of an empire of its own.

  No, Lugaid mac Laegair mused, gazing on the equally stern-faced opportunist Milchu, the Saints will settle for naught less than ownership of Eirrin-and the world. And this fanatical follower of that dead son of a wright of the Jews…

  Lugaid saw Milchu for what he was, for all his ascetic face and pretensions. In the tradition of Padraigh himself was this man, and yet steps beyond him, for the priests had power now in Eirrin, and they were far from averse to using it.

  This weasel face seeks only personal power and influence, Lugaid mused, and all in the name of his religion. It’s more willing this man is even than I or my uncle to set aside his moral convictions and the gentle teachings of his god, for after all there is always their Confession to Him… and surely to Milchu mac Roigh the achievement of the goal ever justifies the means used in its attainment! Indeed, when once man on the ridge of the earth feels that the warm breath of his god is upon him, it’s little there is he cannot justify in his mind!

  A fitting servant for Lugaid mac Laegair then, Lugaid mac Laegair thought. Once the priest had served his purposes, the man with the ever-set lips and stern brow would easily be handled, one way or the other! For surely I, Lugaid Ard-righ thought, am the superior of any at crafty plotting, though I be plotted against on all sides by so many, at all times.

  He was sure, in point of fact, that Milchu the priest plotted independent of him. For who did not? Were it not for the High-king’s supremely powerful uncle Muirchetach mac Erca-and my own genius-Lugaid would surely have been wrested from this highest of abodes years agone. Of this he was convinced.

  “Ye passed safely and with ease,” he said aloud, “for surely none would expect to find a priest of Rome abroad, alurk in the oak-green robe of a druid!”

  The priest tossed aside the robe-to the floor, and with the movement his pectoral cross of silver flashed, for fire and candles lit the room well if fitfully. Nor did he show amusement.

  “It’s no priest of Rome I am, son of L-” he began and broke off to cough. “Son of Laegair, but a priest of Iosa Chriost our Saviour-a priest of Eirrin, as ye be her High-king!”

  With a slow blink of both grey eyes amid the disappearance of his smile, Eirrin’s High-king nodded.

  “The ways of God are strange,” Milchu said. “I but use the tools he places before me, lord King.” And he spurned that latest tool, the druidic robe, with his well-shod foot.

  “Aye. It’s not the psalms of your god ye were to bring me, though; but information. Sit, Milchu. And speak.”

  Milchu sat, sipped, leaned forward to fix the king with a gaze from the bright round eyes of a fanatic.

  “Information, aye. From Connacht.”

  “Ah, Connacht, Connacht. Long did it supply our land with its High-kings… until I, grandson of Niall Noiqiallach, united with the other ui-Neill and even those of Leinster, and overthrew Connacht’s power and strangle-hold on this hill! Dead is my predecessor Ailill Molt; dead is Connachtish power.” He too leaned forward, his hand only toying unconsciously with the design of his mug’s handle. “And doubtless Connachtish nobles plot, and plot! Eh, Milchu? Eh,eh?”

  “Aye, High-king. There are those in Connacht who plot.”

  “Ah. Against the High-king of all Eirrin!”

  “Aye, High-king. Even against yourself.”

  “Ah.”

  A glow that came not from the fire entered into Lugaid’s grey eyes, for so he had surmised, and with Lugaid who dwelt ever in the shadow of his mighty uncle Mac Erca and the misty fogs of his own suspicions, to surmise in the matter of plotting was to believe. And in truth gladness was on him for Milchu’s confirming his suspicion-become-belief, For had the priest said otherwise, then Lugaid Laegair’s son must suspect him. Which would be to disbelieve him.

  And one, Lugaid thought, must believe one’s spies… so long as one has them watched and checked now and again.

  “Aye,” Milchu said again. “And plots are laid up in Ulster, too, lord King, and Munster, and even in Leinster-”

  “Aye, aye, and in Meath and even here on Tara Hill!” The king’s eyes fair glittered. “But what of Connacht, priest?”

  “-and we who are united in Christ and who are everywhere, king son of a king, are your eyes and ears and, with some small increase in numbers, your protection.”

  Milchu spoiled his own dramatic effect then, for whilst he sought to fix the king with a meaningful gaze of steel, that feather the fog seemed to have put into his throat tickled again, so that he coughed.

  Power, Lugaid thought. Increase in numbers, is it? That means increase in power! I hear ye, priest. I hear even the words ye speak not.

  “Milchu.”

  “Lord King?”

  “Connacht.”

  “Let me tell the High-king not of those who plot, but of a perhaps worse danger in Coiced Connachta of the west.”

  And Lugaid listened with attentiveness and narrowed eyes grey and impenetrable as fog, and forgot the tankard of ale and the mug of good mulled wine.

  “It is of a youth only recently turned fourteen I’d be speaking, lord King.”

  “Fourteen! A boy! Milchu-”

  Milchu but raised a pale, pale hand a little, fingers up, palm to the king. The king stared, silencing himself. And waiting.

  “And is ten and four not the age of manhood, lord King? -and most especially when the youthful man in question is rising six feet in height, with an athlete’s muscle on him, and druid-taught craftiness in him, and a consummate weaponish skill, a natural talent? And when he all alone but a single moon’s passage agone did battle with no less than four Cruithne on the rocky shores of westernmost Connacht, and sustained him but a scratch, and left four Pictish corpses to rot in sun and tide?”

  Staring bright-eyes, his knuckles nigh white on his tankard’s zoomorphic handle, Lugaid gestur
ed impatiently with his other hand, for the spy had paused as if to tease.

  “This is fact, Milchu?”

  “This-” Milchu broke off coughing, and coughed, nor did he bring up aught of phlegm or curses. Blinking, he sipped, drank, wiped at the corner of his eye with a long thin index finger.

  “This is fact, son of Laegair. He cut them down all four as trees are felled in the wood.”

  “It sounds like legend.”

  “Ah! Doesn’t it! It is what Connachtmen are saying of this youth… his name Cormac, son of Art son of Comal.”

  “Art!”

  “Aye.”

  “Gods of Eirrin, what a name! Legend itself: Cormac mac Art! How dare one so named as Art give his son the name of that great High-king of long ago!”

  “He does, my lord King, and with calculation. For the lord Art of Connacht has naught of the fool about him, and knew what the sound of that name he gave his son would be, in the ears and minds of all men of Eirrin… your Eirrin, mac Laegair.”

  “My Eirrin,” Lugaid said, tasting the words and looking ready to smack his lips over them.

  “Now this lad has done deeds to call attention to himself so that his name is heard throughout Connacht. And too, to him is applied another name, now. For it’s yourself has said it, lord King; his deed sounds like one of legend. For not only did he perform this deed with spear and sword and buckler, and him alone, but when afterward others came upon him he stood against a great standing stone on the shore, with the four death-hacked Cruithne at his feet.”

  “Four,” Lugaid muttered.

  “Winded he was, and splashed with Pictish gore, and he leaned panting against the great rock rising up from the sand. To those who first came onto the strand, it appeared the lad was bound there, that he was dead there, standing… as,” Milchu said on, emphasizing each several word now, “was Eirrin’s greatest hero at his death-”

  “Cuchulain of Muirthemne!” Lugaid’s voice was an explosive whisper. Hey pronounced the name of the Irish Akilles or Odysseos/Ulysses; his land’s greatest folk-hero whose deeds were known to every lad. And the colour of the High-king came and went as quickly as the aspen by the stream.

  “Even Cuchulain,” Milchu said.

  Then Lugaid cocked his head and came nigh to smiling. “So was it at the death of Cuchulain, Chulan’s hound-and was Art’s son of Connact dead, then?”

  “Far from it, lord King. Merely dazed and exhausted was the youth and his long-used arms atremble, whilst all victorious he supported himself against a stone taller than he and four times as broad.”

  Lugaid’s eyes were ugly and his lips tight. “I much prefer a dead legend to a live hero, Milchu-especially with his parentage and that name.”

  “Aye,” Milchu said, and he was silent then, seeing that the High-king pondered.

  Known well to Lugaid was Art of Connacht. Well-birthed the man was, a descendant of the family of High-kings so many of whom had come from Connact that it had been called the Cradle of Kings and even Tara of the West. Aye, Lugaid knew of Art mac Comail. A brave and fearless fighter in the service of Connacht’s king the man was. For many a year he had done mayhem among the ever-restless Cruithne, or Picts, on Connacht’s shores.

  Art, too, was of the descendants of Niall.

  Seventy years dead was Niall, great High-king who had sallied forth into Alba and Britain and even into Gaul over the water. Sons he had in plenty, Fiacaid and Laegair, Conal Crimthanni of the Britonish mother, and Mani, and Conal Gulban and Eoghan and Cairbri and Enna… only thirteen years dead was Conal of Tir Connail. And these were the ui-Neill, the descendants of Niall, and so was Art, Comal’s son of Connact. Yet he was king not in Tara nor in Connacht.

  Without real power the man was, and watched even by his own king for what and who he was. Lugaid knew he was popular and a hero, commander of a rath he protected well… a coastal command far from the capital at Cruachan.

  I like not the man’s arrogance in naming his son Cormac, for that greatest of High-kings whose father was Art Aenfher, Art the Lonely. Too easily, he mused, staring at Milchu while hardly seeing him, do legends and popular fervors grow. And in Connacht…!

  “And so… now even the son of Art of the Connachtish ui-Neill, and him bearing so auspicious and magnetic a name, is a hero…”

  “Aye, lord King.”

  “And him but fourteen.”

  “Aye, lord King.”

  “With many years ahead of him.”

  “Lord King, yourself has said it.”

  Aye, and a threat to the highest crown, Lugaid did not say, a threat to me!

  “Now… Milchu… this is fact…”

  “Lord King, the information comes from one in my service, and him of Connacht, close to Lord Art.”

  “You will tell me his name.”

  Milchu bowed to that and made answer at once, for it was no question but a command.

  “Eoin mac Gulbain, High-king.”

  “Gulban! Ah.”

  “Even so, my lord King. The Lord Gulban’s son Eoin is a weapon-man among those who serve the lord Art. A brave man and a loyal warrior, Eoin… though he wears another name, keeping his own under a cloak of deception. For he has with Art a blood-feud-”

  “Ahhh. And this time Lugaid did not smile, for possibilities of counteractions took shape in his mind nigh as swiftly as plots.

  “Aye, lord King,” Milchu said with a nod. He knew he need not explain the significance to this ever-mistrustful man, this calculating plotter on Eirrin’s highest throne. “Aye. Nor would Eoin mac Gulbain wish good on Art, for he feels that Art was responsible for the ruination of his father and the sinking of his family.”

  Now Lugaid straightened. Now he took note of his mug, with beaming eye. He drank off a draught of wine.

  “What said ye, Milchu, of God’s placing tools before us…”

  Milchu smiled, very thinly, as if with reluctance to allow such interference with his ascetic mien.

  “Even so,” he said. “And it is of interest that Eoin is baptised as one of us, one of the Saints.”

  Lugaid was grinning. Shoulders hunched, he leaned forward on his table. “And will do as bids a priest of his faith?”

  “It’s only a priest of Connacht has stayed him from having his feud-vengeance on Art, lord King. Nor does he refrain with much willingness on him. This has he said of his lord, Art: ‘If he did fifty good deeds on me, surely this would be my thanks, I would not give him peace, and him in distress, but every great want I could put on him.”’

  “A fine worthy young son of Eirrin! And does he have a brain within him, as well?”

  “He stays his hand, lord King.”

  “Umm. But unwillingly.”

  “Even so, lord King.”

  “Ho.” Lugaid drank. “Ha. And were a priest to speak otherwise, counsel the opposite course, perhaps point out that Art is a great enemy of Iosa Chriost-”

  “In truth, lord King, he is no friend-”

  “Surely then would be this fine young man’s holy duty to avenge his poor father!”

  “Surely, my lord. Were he to be so convinced.” And as if he’d forgot and only just thought of it, Milchu coughed again.

  “A bad cough,” the High-king commented.

  “The… night air… the fog,” Milchu said weakly, bent forward so that his chin was nearly on the table.

  He did not move from that strange posture, for the other man’s eyes were upon him. The two gazed steadily at each other. Nor did either misunderstand the other. The fire crackled and played games of light and shadow with their faces, though not with their eyes.

  So, the Ard-righ of Eirrin thought, so simple it appears, and now we are come down to it. Will it be so simple, Milchu’s agreement to gain? Methinks not. He waits now… for he wants something. And that something, whatever it may be, lies here in these hands, for I am High-king in Eirrin!

  “Shall I ask, Priest?”

  “My lord?”

  “Seek ye not to
play at games with me, Milchu, who has played so many for so long, and who wears Eirrin’s highest crown!”

  “My lord High-king. I-”

  “Nor will I bargain as with some merchant over pigs or embroidery-work! Ye know well my meaning. What is it ye’d be having, Milchu, Priest, to… counsel with Eoin as to his honour and his duty?”

  “My lord!”

  Lugaid said nothing. Again his fingers were tracing out the shape and the inlays of his tankard’s handle. He waited.

  At last Milchu leaned back, though he did not relax. “Great honour would accrue to my lord God,” he said reflectively, “and to my lord High-king and thus to Eirrin, were it Lugaid. Laegair’s son who approved my buiding a fine church in the town of Ath Cliath, with myself as Bishop once it’s done, to do glory to both God and the High-king who pleases Him.”

  For a time Lugaid remained as if frozen. Then he too sat back. He bethought him. Well he knew that men said his crown rested shakily on his thinning russet locks… that he was a man who like a child abroad alone at night saw demain shapes in every shadow…

  Such men of course were fools. The demons of treachery, Lugaid was convinced, did lurk in all places. The cleverer he, who with such hidden eyes as those of Milchu could pierce the shadows and draw away the dark veils from those who made plots against him. Fail to discover them and surely he’d not be toppled, for there was his uncle Mac Erca with the weaponish host But… if Muirchetach mac Erca decided that a High-king who had to be protected, nephew or no, were not, worthy of remaining enthroned?

  Besides, Lugaid was sure that it was Mac Erca’s plan to make the High-kingship more than it was, not only the highest seat in Eirrin, but actually king over the other kings of the Emerald Isle. And were a western ui-Neill to be no longer available to defend that land against Picts… or… others, and his heroic son to be nipped whilst still abudding like a rose never to be seen, an acorn fed as mast to the pigs rather than allowed to grow into a great strong oak…

  Aye.

  Not shaky my crown; neither is my seat on Eirrin ‘s highest chair. Solid both, and to be made the more so for my sons to follow. That is, if I prepare the way for those to follow me… preserve crown and throne and thus serve Eirrin best; for how could I do elsewise, the High-king?…by removing any who offer the slightest threat to crown, or throne, or honour, and future… suzerainty!