‘Will you sit by my left side?’ Cruibne asked her formally. Britha looked to Ethne, on Cruibne’s right, for her permission – she didn’t need to but respected the older woman. Ethne nodded. Then she looked to Feroth, on Cruibne’s left. Feroth moved over, always glad of Britha’s counsel and company.
‘I’d say you’re late,’ Cruibne spoke to her quietly, ‘but I think you know exactly what you’re doing.’
‘Don’t speak out of the side of your mouth – it makes them think we have something to hide,’ Britha admonished him.
The inner circle consisted mainly of the chieftains of the Cirig loyal to Cruibne. He had invited the mormaers of all seven of the tribes, but by the looks of it only Finnguinne of the Fib, Deleroith of the Fortrenn, both southern tribes, and Drust of the Fotlaig to the west had come.
None of the northern tribes, the Ce, the Fidach and the Cait, had sent anyone at all. The Cait Britha could understand – it was a long way to come – but the absence of the rest of them worried her.
Britha saw Finnguinne talking quietly with one of his men. This was a breach of hospitality but Britha let it pass. She assumed that Cruibne, Feroth, Ethne and Nechtan would have noticed as well. They had not achieved their positions without being canny, but they chose not to challenge it. Britha hoped that none of the more hot-headed members of the cateran had seen.
‘Cruibne MaqqCirig of the Hundred Heads, meat giver, ale provider,’ the man Finnguinne had been talking to started formally, ‘all of us stand in the shadow of your generosity, but if you will indulge me I have a question.’ Britha took a sip of her own ale from her skull. She was pretty sure the man was called Wroid, an average warrior in the Fib cateran but known for his way with words. He was called Wroid the Provoker.
Britha cursed the Fib. Cursing the Fib was common among the Cirig, as was the reverse. Living across the river from the Fib meant that the Cirig were the most likely targets for Fib raids. Of course the opposite was true as well, and this summer, as it had been for many summers now, the Cirig were the stronger tribe.
Cruibne’s look of irritation was obvious to all. Trying to have the patience to put up with the provocation he knew was coming was Cruibne’s least favourite part of being mormaer.
‘We came because we hoped to see the other descendants of Cruithne. Where are Fergus of the Ce, Oengus of the Fidach and Calgacus of the Cait? I hope it was no mere boast that they would be present,’ Wroid said, a smile on his face. There was muttering from the younger warriors in the Cirig cateran. Boasting was an inevitable part of being a warrior but Wroid had stopped just short of calling Cruibne a liar.
Britha glanced over at Nechtan, who was still lying looking relaxed, but she noticed that his skull was full of ale. Drunk champions don’t live long, she thought.
‘No boast, lad,’ Cruibne said. ‘Messages exchanged, they said they were coming. If you look to our cattle pens you’ll see more than enough beasts to feed more than twice this number. The Fib can take some home with you if it’ll stop your teeth rattling around in your head.’ There was laughter from all but the Fib. That was good, Britha thought. Put him in his place but do so with an act of generosity.
‘They were probably yours to begin with anyway,’ Nechtan said, his tone relaxed but promising easy violence as well. Britha guessed that the body she’d passed had been an example to drive this point home earlier in the festivities. This time the laughter only came from the Cirig. Wroid continued smiling but Finnguinne did not look happy.
‘Then might I ask where they are?’ Wroid continued. Britha could all but hear Cruibne grind his teeth.
‘I can think of no reason why they are not here,’ Cruibne answered.
‘I can,’ Finnguinne said. All faces turned to him. Even Nechtan sat more upright. ‘Because they will not be ruled by a high king and neither will the Fib,’ he spat.
‘Who will stand as a champion for the Ce, the Fidach and the Cait, who are slandered when not here present?’ Britha asked.
‘What?!’ an obviously startled Finnguinne demanded.
‘You think if my spearbrothers thought that I wanted to be high king they’d be too afraid to come and tell me no to my face?’ Cruibne said, trying to sound fierce and not smile into his beard.
‘No, that is not—’ Finnguinne started.
‘Then do not split you tongue; speak clearly!’ Britha demanded. Already warriors, and not just those of the Cirig, were offering to stand as champions for the three absent tribes. ‘We are not sly southrons who require wriggling serpent words. Say what you mean!’
‘I meant no offence,’ Finnguinne muttered.
‘Good,’ Cruibne said, smiling before getting up and grabbing a large earthenware jug of uisge beatha and handing it to Finnguinne. ‘Drink this and then we can be really abusive towards each other.’ There was more laughter as the atmosphere relaxed.
Good, more generosity, Britha thought as she drank more of the heather ale from the skull. Show them we have nothing to fear and all to give. Finnguinne hadn’t been too far from the truth. Cruibne did not want to be high king. There was no need, no external threat sufficient to require it, and the other tribes would never accept it. What he wanted was to make clear his position as first among the mormaers. He wanted to assert the strength of his tribe, their supremacy. He wanted to say that challenging the Cirig, even raiding them, was far more trouble than it was worth. Then he wanted to get on with his real ambition of growing old and fat.
Britha largely agreed with his plan but needed to make sure that the rest of the tribe did not grow fat, lazy and unused to battle. Britha let the circle around the fire lapse into easy conversation. She remained aloof from it, only saying something when directly addressed and then as little as she could. This was a necessary part of her role: it helped promote the mystery and respect required to do what she did, and she found that the people who spoke the least were often considered the wisest and actually listened to.
When she was able, Britha slipped away from the fire. Walked into the night and looked down at the moon reflected in the Tatha. Looking at the water made her think of Cliodna. Wondering where she was. Had she returned to her cave? Britha was already trying to think of excuses to return there and then cursing herself for her weakness. She could not explain the sudden change in the other woman. Britha knew she was being foolish. Her mother and her grandmother before her, when they were teaching her the secrets that the male dryw could not, had warned her against becoming involved with those from the Otherworld.
She felt a large strong hand grab her buttock. Her elbow flew backwards with a satisfying crunch followed by a series of curses. Britha swung round to see which drunken fool wanted to be cursed until his testicles made acorns look large.
She found Cruibne holding his nose and cursing. He was obviously the worse for drink but not insensible. A champion needed to remain sober, a mormaer just needed to hold his drink.
‘My nose! You scabby—’
‘Choose your words, Cruibne. Mormaer or no, I will not be manhandled.’ She respected the king and would not have struck him in front of others, but at the same time that did not give him licence.
‘Ha! I just came to see if there was a ritual we could do to ensure the success of the gathering.’
Britha could not help but smile. She knew exactly what kind of ritual he had in mind. Britha guessed that chancing like this to get what he wanted was probably a useful, if at times irritating, quality in a mormaer.