CHAPTER I
On a day not long after the Blessed Saint Patrick banished all manner of snakes from the island of Eiru, two men fought for a woman. One wore the cloak of the Ui Neill clan, and wielded his sword with the ferocity of a pledged warrior fighting for the honor of his liege's daughter. The other wore homespun garments, stained brown from a life in the surrounding boglands. The maid's honor mattered little to him, he fought for her treasures so that he might feed his family.
About them lay the bodies of their fellows, the eternal enmity of guard and brigand finding a measure of peace in death. Only the two champions remained. The two spun and parried, iron blades clashing as they circled each other warily, too evenly matched for either to claim victory.
The object of their struggle lay on her chariot in a swoon. Bronwen O Conaill was the daughter of a Ui Neill lord, a descendent of Naill of Tara himself. She wore a linen robe bright with Saxon embroidery, one that barely contained the fullness of her womanly figure. Her hair was braided, pulled back from a comely round face.
Unnoticed by the two combatants, a second chariot crested the ridge above the battle. From his vantage point, Eoin Mac Ceile regarded the scene as a lion might survey his territory before stooping to kill, and the blood of the Tuatha shone in the beauty and symmetry of his face. His fiery red mane glowed like the sun setting on the Western Ocean; his beard resembled the bristles of a tusked wild boar. A cloak of the finest dyed wool billowed out from shoulders as wide as an ox's. Underneath it, his chest was bare to the waist, revealing muscles that might have been carved out of marble by a sculptor in far away Greece, so perfectly were they outlined in his pale skin.
One hand held a shield, embossed with triskelions of bronze and the most powerful of runic enchantments. In the other was a spear longer than the tallest of men, topped by an iron leaf that glittered and flashed in the sunlight.
"Look yonder, Wart! A fair maiden lies in grave peril!" His voice rumbled with a majestic thunder.
Next to him crouched his charioteer, Wart, who was almost certainly human. There were those in his home village who maintained he was a changeling, left behind by goblins after they took a human baby, but they said it softly and behind closed doors, because his mother had a quick temper and a strong arm with the rolling pin. He did look the part, though, with a long, drooping nose, a gaunt frame all knobby with joints and sinews, and overly large feet. How, exactly, such a wretched creature came to serve a hero like Eoin Mac Ceile is a fascinating tale, but one which must wait for another time.
"Onward, Wart!" Eoin roared, holding his spear aloft so it caught the noonday sun. Obedient to his master, Wart snapped the reins and sent the chariot plunging headlong down the rutted track.
Surprised by the clamor, both men turned to look. Hope must surely have blossomed in the guard's heart at the sight, for only a just man could wear such a lordly mien as did Eoin Mac Ceile. As it is written, though, the gods raise mortals up only to dash them down again.
A beam of sunlight reflecting off of Eoin's spear crossed the brave guard's face, blinding him at the precise moment the brigand launched a final, desperate attack. Throwing up his hand to block the light, he stumbled back, but before he could take two steps the highwayman's blade found his unguarded heart. He fell back in the muddy grass, whispering a last prayer ere he died.
The blackguard's victory lasted no longer than his opponent's had. Deciding that the isolated copse nearby offered little escape, he turned and ran for the wet lowlands where the narrow iron-shod wheels of the chariot couldn't follow. He might have escaped a lesser man, but Eoin was upon him like a falcon. With one swift blow the brave hero drove his long spear through the man's back, skewering him like a rabbit.
"A good day for the ravens!" He laughed loud and long, looking over the carnage as Wart calmed the horses.
"I allow it is, Master." Wart lowered his voice. "A bad day for the widows, though."
"Let us wake the fair maiden!" He bounded from the chariot like a young gazelle and knelt beside Bronwen's prostate form.
Wart found the corpses more interesting. In his experience, living women were much more likely to object to his rifling their pockets for coins and whatnot than the dead were.
"Ohhhh," the maiden groaned as she roused from her swoon. Her eyes flashed open as she saw the form looming over her, taking in Eoin's beautiful countenance and lordly figure. "Oh, my."
"I am Eoin Mac Ceile! I rescued you from those wicked villains!" He rumbled proudly, with a sweep of his hand at the corpses littering the muddy battlefield.
"Oh!" The maiden squeaked as he lifted her from the chariot and set her on the ground. Her bounteous chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath.
"I am Bronwen O Conaill, daughter of Murdeach of Ailech, and I give thanks for your timely rescue," she finally managed to speak, still supporting herself on Eoin's muscular arm.
"I rescued a princess!" He crowed to his charioteer.
"Wonderful, Master." Wart replied in a nonplussed voice, busy looting a particularly nice bracelet. That finished, he looked up, and at that moment, he decided that living women might be more interesting than corpses after all.
The princess had wide green eyes that sparkled as she watched Eoin, a cute upturned nose, and freckles that danced like mayflies over a rushing creek. What held his attention, though, was her alluring plushness. He couldn't help but admire how she swayed in all the right places when she moved. She was the kind of woman that a peasant like Wart could dream of his entire life and never come closer to than he was right then.
The princess told them of how she had been returning home from visiting her cousins when bandits had set upon her guards. Her father's fortress was only three days ride to the north, but in these uncertain times, even a great lord like him couldn't entirely suppress the low-born trouble makers that haunted the uninhabited forest and boglands between fiefs.
"We shall take her home!" Eoin proudly informed Wart, accompanied by an audible sigh of delight from Bronwen.
The charioteer saw no reason to object. Bronwen's appearance would make the travel pleasant, and visiting her father's home would be a welcome relief from the drudgery of setting up camp and the monotony of grilled rabbit and dried bread. In his experience, there would also be pretty young maids who fancied a nighttime frolic with the brave warrior's companion, even if they would make sure the lamps were doused first.
The trio made their way north through the green valleys of Eiru towards her father's palisade at Ailech. Stands of purple heather nodded in the breeze, and the soft drone of bees lent a hypnotic quality to the steady clopping of the horses' feet. The hours passed with no more excitement than the occasional glimpse of a fox pouncing on its hidden prey or the slow wheeling of a hawk overhead.
A chorus of frogs announced the coming of evening, and Eoin announced they would be stopping for the night on a low rise of ground near the trail. Wart busied himself with gathering wood and laying out camp while the highborn pair chatted.
Bronwen's intent was all too obvious. Her ardent gaze never strayed from Eoin's face, except to slide along the grooves and ridges of his manly figure. Her hands never left him alone-tracing little circles along the arm and thigh to incite his interest. But most telling of all, Wart thought as he watched with sly sidelong glances, were the lewd displays that stretched her bodice dangerously close to breaking.
No matter how overt her flirtation, though, Eoin remained unmoved. He contributed little more monosyllabic responses to the conversation, coming alive only for occasional recounts of his victories. He had taken a stone from their gear, and no matter how obviously Bronwen displayed her prodigious charms, his attention stayed focused on the snick, snick of the sharpening.
With a sigh for the knowledge that a lady like Bronwen would never put on a show for one such as him, Wart took his sling and set out to find supper for the company. By the time he returned with a pair of rabbits for the fire, she had given up, and the two were sitting in silence.
After they finished eating, Eoin announced that he would scout the surrounding area for any signs of further bandits-the other two should sleep.
"My lord, you would leave me alone in a place like this?" Bronwen objected.
"No harm will come to you! Like an owl I will fall upon any villains in the night!" He reassured her in a deep, booming voice that carried far into the still night air. Refusing further protest, he took his spear and slipped into the night.
Bronwen watched his retreating back with a glum sigh. Then her eyebrows knit in thought, and she fastened her gaze on Wart. This, however, wasn't the eye-batting, swooning sort of look she gave Eoin; this was a purposeful, focused one that made the charioteer sweat.
Wart's suspicions grew as Bronwen made her way to where he was sitting by the fire. On the one hand, he had no objections to the presence of her womanly presence, especially when it threatened to spill from a partially unlaced bodice. On the other hand, in his experience highborn women meant nothing but extra work.
"Your ladyship." He bobbed his head as she approached and sat beside him.
