The Romance of Eowain

Chapter Seven, Scene Eighteen

Tnúthgal leaned back on the cushions and took a long draught of ôl. The bitterness rankled at his nose. The men of Ivea brew piss, he grumbled to himself. He preferred honest Droma spirits. He watched his young cousin debase himself before the Ivean king.

The roundhouse of King Dafyd was large, the wooden timbers black with years of soot. The logs in the fire-pit roared high and crisped the flesh of a mountain ram.

The succulent smell made Tnúthgal's stomach growl with anticipation. He'd had nothing but biscuit soaked in water all day. Not unusual fare for a soldier in the field, but it had been three years since his last campaign. Three years since his cousin Findtan's ill-advised rebellion against Murdach of Aileach.

And what did that gain us? Tnúthgal knew it was very little, if anything. Eowain's father had wounded King Murdach and forced his abdication and exile in favor of the usurper, Domnall of Itha. But Murdach was an ambitious man, and not one to accept exile with complacency. Last year, he'd come back into power with a vengeance, put Domnall where he belonged, and settled his past grievance against Droma.

Of course, Findtan was dead by then, and beyond the reach of vengeance. His fool son Lorcán had taken his place, with the support of Findtan's sister and the Lord-Drymyn, and Murdach had limited his revenge to a hefty tribute that had impoverished the men of Droma.

Tnúthgal's stomach growled again. He hadn't realized how accustomed he'd become to three good meals a day, served hot. He grit his back teeth and picked from a plate of cold ham by his side. The smothering of herbs did little to disguise the rank taste. The ham was old, and smoking hadn't done it much good.

Eowain and Lorcán jested with the Ivean king. Tnúthgal thought it unseemly, the way they curried his favor in hope of peace. How can there be peace between our peoples, after all the centuries of blood? Tnúthgal wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.

The Lady Eithne looked at him over the fire with her unsettling green eyes. She had the look of hardship and famine about her, for all her pretenses to health and strength. She was as pale as snow, with rose-red lips and copper hair burnished by the firelight. Her long, lean face reminded him of a mountain wolf in winter, hollow and remorseless. The look of a thing that had starved once too often.

He sneered at her and looked away. I'll not be cowed by a mere woman. He took another long draught of his ôl and silently cursed at the incompetence of Cael the Viper. The bandit chief had failed to seize that damnable woman yet again.

Fool. Tnúthgal wasn't sure whether he cursed the bandit-chief or himself.

Tnúthgal rose to his feet and stepped between and over the Fiatach-men about him. He pushed two men out of his way. They glared at him. The old hatreds were sharp.

Tnúthgal squared his shoulders, looked down his nose at them. Muttering, they slunk away.

Smugly satisfied, Tnúthgal went on to the board and poured more ôl for himself from a pewter flagon there.

He'd lived to regret his decision to ally with Cael. Cael's failure through the winter to discredit Lorcán and defeat Eowain in the field had allowed Eowain to ride popular acclaim to the throne. While the bandit had since had some success harassing trade, terrorizing farmers, and abducting children, it wasn't nearly enough.

He glanced back at Eithne. If Eowain was permitted to marry that woman, he'd settle the old feud with Ivearda and secure a measure of watchful peace with the Cailech. He'd give the people hope for an heir and a dynasty of Eowain's own.

More laughter from across the fire rankled his thoughts. And if he makes peace with Ivea into the bargain? He drank again. Eowain would be that much more difficult to pry loose from the throne. Tnúthgal would have lost his best chance to secure the succession for himself and his own sons.

He stroked his beard. Eowain was no fool. Tnúthgal was watched, he knew. If not by Lorcán or the Lord-Drymyn, then by any of a dozen other men loyal to his cousin.

How can I coordinate Cael's efforts if I can't get messages to the damned man? He had less than a score of his own men with him. No doubt they too were watched.

Caerrhythrs, his chamberlain, stepped up to him, begged pardon. There was some matter with the horses. Tnúthgal waved him away to deal with it however he saw fit.

Then he turned to watch the man as he left.

And what of Caerrhythrs? Could his chamberlain sneak away to deliver a message to Cael?

Tnúthgal frowned. Could Caerrhythrs even find the bandit? He had no skill at woodcraft that Tnúthgal knew. And if Caerrhythrs is intercepted? Would his tongue remain loyal?

No. Tnúthgal had been fortunate in choosing Lord Feoras for his plan. The man's stubbornness and loyalty to Tnúthgal was beyond question. They'd both served in the north in their younger days, and lost kin to the Fiatach. They both believed in the old ways. He knew he could count on Feoras to keep silent.

But Caerrhythrs? He was loyal, Tnúthgal knew, but how far would loyalty carry anyone through torture? Eowain's rage at Feoras had been blind and furious. Tnúthgal doubted Caerrhythrs could bear up under such bearish brutality.

Tnúthgal made his way back to his place and sat once more. He sipped at his ôl.

So if there's no way to get a message to Cael, I'll have to take matters into my own hands, create my own opportunities. Abducting Eithne was the best of all possible outcomes, for her ransom would fetch a pretty glynnid and make Eowain look weak into the bargain. But a knife between her ribs would do the job just as well.

Eithne smiled disarmingly and laughed with King Dafyd. She made merry and played the role of help-meet and peacemaker, as befitted a virtuous lady and a queen.

It's a shame, really, he thought. With those breasts and hips, no doubt she would bear strong sons. Tnúthgal adjusted his seat to relieve the pressure of his breeches. A shame indeed, really. He entertained thoughts of her, bent before him and all unwilling. He would wipe that impertinence off her face, sure and Annwn if he wouldn't.

—33—

Look for the next installment in this Continuing Tale of The Matter of Manred: The Romance of Eowain.

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