Blurb

Five Kingdoms. One Invader. One Hero.

Connery is made high king because the druids of the Elder Council want a peaceful kingdom. They fear invasion by the horde from the south, the Romans. Inadvertently, their manipulations weaken the Five Kingdoms and war does come to Ireland, but from an unexpected place.

After a bloodletting at the hands of a British pirate, The Kingdoms are eventually saved by the Red Branch warriors of Ulster, but not before The Peaceful King is killed by the invaders.

When Connery is killed, the Kingdoms are in turmoil. The council still wants a strong king. Connavar Mac Nessa, King of Ulster, tries everything in his repertoire of evil skills to gain the high kingship but he is opposed by Queen Medb, the Warrior Queen of Connacht.

Their rivalry gives birth to Ireland’s greatest hero, The Hound of Ulster.

Five Kingdoms. One Invader. One Hero.

Excerpt

Ailill was sitting in the royal roundhouse of Crúachain, jiggling his toes in front of the fire. The clang of sword on sword was testimony to Conall Cernach’s driving the recruits hard, which pleased him. If the queen had her way, the army needed to prepare. Conall understood the need and agreed to train them despite calling them pups. Ailill did not know if they were pups, but compared to the warrior of Ulster, most would consider them immature.

He lifted his flagon and frowned at it. Of late, he always had a flagon, a testament to his grief; well, grief and Medb having become a harridan, which he loathed even more than the loss of his son.

Taking a pull, he whispered at the fire, “I would call you loving wife if I thought it in any way true.”

The guard standing at the door studiously ignored the whisper, but Ailill saw her tense. Will she report back? he wondered. He was sure many spies surrounded him, servers, warriors, and probably even his retainer, Ferloga. He knew there were spies because nothing escaped her attention. He did not much care. If she felt she needed to keep some eyes on him, then so be it.

Ailill sighed and took another pull.

He was glad she was away. Her absence at least afforded him peace from the nagging voice in his ear, company to the nagging voice in his head. She had been gone these two days, and Ailill guessed she would be nearing the island, if not the settlement of Caer Leb. Much would depend on the winds, but usually, at this time, they were favorable. She would be standing before The Elder Council soon.

Ailill shook his head and pulled a face. Things were getting steadily worse. Their marriage was failing slowly, driven by her need to prevent Ulster from becoming high king, which was now all-consuming. Yet another visit to the Elder Council with the same petition: prevent Ulster from his overriding desire. She continually claimed her obsession was born of a desire to protect The Five Kingdoms; she had the good of the people in mind, she said. Ailill was not convinced. There was no one to corroborate her allegations of brutality on the banks of the Bóand. There were no outward signs: Ulster prospered under Mac Nessa’s tutelage. Some said Kathvar was the reason, but that could not be true. If the druid of Ulster were anything like the druid of Connacht, he would take no hand in the king’s politics. He would mix his potions, sit, and watch, nodding when the king needed affirmation.

Can we afford to wait? he wondered. “No, I say.”

“Sire?” the guard asked.

Ailill looked at her and frowned. “Nothing. I was speaking my thoughts.” No. And no, again. It was time Ériu chose a high king to succeed Lugaid. If there was any truth to the rumors about these Southrons, these Romans, the Five Kingdoms, needed to be united, not under the sway of internal strife, as seemed the norm.

The queen said Mac Nessa was not worthy and that he would destroy the kingdoms from the inside out. She called him The Defiler, thinking no one knew, but Ailill knew. He had heard her call him such in her sleep, which was becoming more fraught. She tossed, turned, and spoke his name: Mac Nessa, The Defiler. Ailill knew where her obsession originated: it was on the banks of the Bóand where the hatred began.

She was much more fragile than she professed.

The rape, followed by the death of Sin, who she called Maine Honey-Tongued, their eldest son, had hurt her deeply. Sin had always been her favorite. She did not love the others less but respected Sin more.

She needs my help but is too proud to admit it. I have no way in, he concluded, a guess if anything. She no longer confided in him: not since the Assembly when Sin died, executed for treason. There was one in whom she did confide: Mac Roth, her captain of guards.

“Send Mac Roth to me. I need company,” he called into the smoky air.

“He is gone, Sire. Away to Ynys Môn with the queen.”

“Oh.” He lifted his flagon once more before realizing it was empty and throwing it against the wall. “Get me more mead.”