Scions of the Tuatha Dé

“Lads, go on and take these to the trailer,” said Siobhan. “Maeve and I have one thing to do and then we’ll ride over to the smith.”

Donal shifted the sack to his other shoulder as he approached the wagon. The market fair at Dunfanaghy was an open square bordered by the main road, two side streets, and the bay. He looked past the six tables where various foods were sold. As the day drew on, the crowds thickened and queues for each merchant grew. From his angle Donal could see the remaining supplies of each seller. They would be sold out before midday.

Fishermen sold their catches next to the harbor. Each had three times the stock of their counterparts selling grains, vegetables and fruits. One row to his right, the dairy farmers had double the supply. Across the side street stood a pair of structures with various pieces of metalwork displayed in front.

Donal pointed at the smith closest to the main road.

“Why do we need a wagon to take us there?" he asked. "I can throw this bag and hit him!”

“You used to give me more credit, back when you were a boy,” Siobhan said. “Crack on.”

“He’s not a boy now?” Maeve asked Siobhan.

The hunter’s jab wasn’t in jest. The bag slipped off Donal’s shoulder in his brief demoralized state, but a desperate grab stopped it from hitting the floor. To his relief, nobody witnessed his bumble.

Maeve and Siobhan had returned to the wagon by the time the brothers deposited their purchases. True to their agreement, Maeve climbed into the front. Donal thought about pressing his luck for another go, but he wouldn't risk successive swipes at his pride. He climbed into the back, every effort made to avoid acknowledging his brother’s presence.

The wagon rolled down the main road, past the side street and its two smithies. They passed the town green and turned left down a small road that followed the shore. Behind the two-story home on the corner stretched seven cabins in varied states of upkeep. Four huts followed, each containing just one room. The road skirted a grazing field and ended twenty yards past an oddly-shaped dwelling on the right.

The base structure was an elongated house. Its walls were made of stacked stone, speckled in every shade of grey imaginable. As the wagon drew near Donal could see many of the stones were scored or cut. Stone tiles topped the home with two chimneys rising from the roof. A small thatch cover hung in front of the house on the opposite side from where they approached. Below it several tables were arranged with small, indeterminate items. The front door hung open.

Siobhan led the wagon past the length of the house and pulled the horse to a stop at the road’s end. This end of the house was open but, thanks to three rough-hewn beams of wood, was covered by the main roof. A short oblong trough in the middle of the open area ran back to the exterior wall of the home. Above it stood the widest smoke chamber Donal had ever seen.

Two bellows attached to the left of the forge. One was open, one closed, and a rocker arm in between them ensured that no more than one bellow would open—or close—at a time. The air above the trough wavered over the glowing red embers inside. He could not feel the heat from this far away, but the acrid smell of smoke already clung to the inside of his nose.

Finn’s eyes sized up the wares on the table. Aside from a few random bits of metalwork, the tables were filled with horseshoes.

“A farrier?” Finn asked. “We passed two other smithies and crawled down this road for a farrier. Surely these must be the finest horseshoes in Ulster, then.”

Maeve silenced Finn with a scowl. She locked him in her sights as she hopped down and rounded the front of the wagon. Donal wondered how many animals saw this expression in their final moments of life. Clear of the horse, she donned a thin grin and hurried to the open door, knocking on the jamb as she entered.

Siobhan raised her eyebrows at Finn. He shrugged in appeal.

“He’s more than just a farrier,” she said. “But he’s from Connaught, and he’s a tad… unconventional. The locals haven’t warmed up to him yet.”

Finn closed his eyes and gave a labored nod. He and Donal followed Siobhan into the house.

The entire main structure was a single room, but another room was added to the building after its construction. Metal spikes were driven into cracks between the stones and from them dozens of weapons hung sideways. Along the far wall hung greatswords, longswords, short swords and every other kind of longer blade in the house. Spears of two lengths and four variations of tip hung on the front wall. Maces hung on the wall through which they passed.

Four sturdy bucklers leaned in the corner between the swords and maces. Three kite shields leaned horizontally under the maces. Seven tables were arranged around the room, two against the front wall, four perpendicular to the rear wall. The smallest table stood against the rear wall; Donal assumed its only purpose was for eating. A large pedal-powered grindstone sat in the far corner next to the front wall.

Hauberks, coifs and other bits of chainmail were spread over one of the tables that lined the wall. Breastplates, backplates, and faulds were stacked on another. Several finished leather items were on a third. The remaining tables held various components of unfinished weapons and armor, and at the furthest of the work tables loomed the man responsible for it all.

Only his head was visible to Donal, as Maeve stood across from the host. He examined her bow, testing its draw and the string knocks on each tip. Siobhan approached him and patted his shoulder.

“Finn and Donal MacLaughlin, meet Gavin O’Roarke.”

“Dia daoibh,” Gavin said.

The brothers nodded.

“I see you’ve met Maeve,” Siobhan said to the host.

Her voice was almost in song. Gavin let out a single, polite chuckle. Maeve was less amused.

“MacSweeney, that joke wasn’t funny the first time you told it, and hasn’t gotten any funnier the past five years,” Maeve said.

Gavin stood taller than both Finn and Murrough. Years of swinging a hammer and moving metal prevented his slender frame from a gangly appearance. Black wavy hair fell down the sides of his head, the tips on his left side singed by heat. A few small lines marked his forearms, upon further inspection Donal saw them as burn marks. His body movements flowed with purpose, but his facial expressions fit better with someone bookish and awkward. Smudges of soot and sweat added several years to his face, but he was no more than two years older than Maeve.

As Donal rounded the side of the table he caught Maeve’s face for the first time since the wagon. She leaned toward Gavin as if she was still surrounded by the din of market crowds. Her smile was open, her eyes were narrow, and color flooded her cheeks. A wave of dislike for Gavin washed over Donal, though he was unclear on why.

Donal looked away from the trio at the table and caught his brother lifting a broadsword off of the wall. What light came through the door reflected off the blade toward Donal and revealed part of an etching that led from a crossguard lined with gold. Finn pulled the blade close to his face for a detailed read.

“Pretty good for a simple farrier, dya’think?” Gavin said to Finn.

The forge added a premature rasp to Gavin’s voice and extra scuff to his jab. Finn rehung the sword and looked back at him. The color in his cheeks matched Maeve’s.

“S’alright, fella,” Gavin said. “Most here can only afford my shoes, and laying them out there in front lets me hide the good stuff in here.”

“Speaking of,” Siobhan said, “are they ready?”

Gavin shook his head.

“Ever the doubting one,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Gavin retreated into the additional room. The interior door led Donal’s eyes to the small dining table. A stack of papers were fanned across one side. Drawings and diagrams were scrawled across those sheets left visible. After a few grunts, thuds and clatters, Gavin rejoined them and dropped a large wooden chest on the only open work table. He sat in the corner while Siobhan rifled through the contents of the chest.

“This should hold you for a while,” he said to Siobhan. “Until you get to your place.”

She turned to show him her full glare.

“It’s not my place, is it?” she asked.

Gavin threw up his hands. A thought shifted his eyes, and he retreated back to the interior room.

Siobhan pulled out a hauberk and held it against Donal’s chest to size it up. He stiffened his back and puffed out his chest. He checked to see if Maeve was watching, but she was too occupied with the leather armor, dyed dark green, that she took from the chest.

“How many arrows did you get me?” Maeve called to the back room.

“Six dozen total—three with broadheads and three with field points.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Gavin wasn’t in the room to see her smirk.

“No, I bundled three dozen more shafts with broadheads and a pouch full of fletchings with some skin glue. I figured you were skilled enough to fletch your own arrows in a pinch.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” Maeve said.

She mouthed some words to Siobhan, her mouth widened for exaggeration. Gavin returned holding a spear and short sword and watched Siobhan size up Donal’s hauberk. The smith inhaled a fake gasp.

“Don’t tell me that it fits!” he said.

Siobhan’s grin undercut the annoyed look she gave him from the side of her eye.

“You’re going to hate this, then,” he said.

He lobbed a short sword in her direction. Siobhan dropped the hauberk into Donal’s arms and caught the sword by the leather hilt. A thread of gold spiraled around the hilt from its pommel to its narrow semicircle crossguard, from which a gorgeously-proportioned leaf blade extended.

“Just awful,” she said.

Her eyes followed the blade as it widened away from the hilt and narrowed to a tip.

“I love it.”

“Where’s my sword?” Donal asked.

Gavin walked toward Donal and clicked the spear’s handle on the ground in front of him.

“This is the one for you, fella,” Gavin said.

The tip had four edges and stood atop a four-foot handle. As he reached in, Gavin tilted the weapon away from Donal to grab his attention.

“No swinging this around in here,” Gavin said. “Or anywhere until you’ve trained a bit with Niall.”

Donal resented the implication but chose the weapon over his pride. He nodded to Gavin and set the hauberk on the side of the nearest table and took the spear from its maker. He examined it without moving it too far from upright.

“So you’re Goibniu?” Finn asked. “Or at least your great-great-great-whatever-grandad was Goibniu?”

“And you’re the bard-to-be,” Gavin said. “The real introductions are made.”

“Who’s Goibniu?” Donal asked.

“The master blacksmith of the Tuatha Dé,” Finn said. “In Goibniu’s case, the word ‘master’ still might be an understatement. So then, forgemaster, what have you got for me?”

Maeve smirked and threw a heavy blue shirt at Finn. He held it up and compared it to Maeve’s armor and Donal’s chainmail. Finn squashed his eyes with his brows and dropped the corners of his mouth.

“Is this meant to protect me from the cold?” he said. “It’s the middle of summer!”

A mite of hospitality faded from Gavin’s face.

“Oi! That’s one of the best gambesons that I’ve ever made. The dye alone—do you have any idea how hard it is to get enough cobalt to cover the entire outer layer?”

“You’re right,” Finn said. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand why I’m not getting a hauberk or leather to protect myself.”

“That has twenty layers of wool and linen on the body, fifteen on the arms,” Gavin said. “The average gambeson helps against cuts and blows, even an arrow--if you’re very lucky. They also have more layers than this, but don’t forget who you’re talking to. This should hold you a long time and, indeed, when it gets cold it won’t be too bad to look at, either.”

“Niall and Murrough aren’t looking to put someone the likes of you out in front, anyway,” Maeve said.

Her tone matched the color of Finn’s new tunic.

“What will I use as a weapon?” Finn asked.

“Whatever it is, I wasn’t asked to make it.”

Finn drew quiet and nodded in gratitude to Gavin and the smith’s smile returned.

“Not to sound ungrateful myself,” Siobhan said, “but what about those extra items?”

“I’m missing some materials, things that aren’t just laying about here. I’ll personally deliver them to your—excuse me—your grandfather’s place at Doe when they are finished.”

“And then you’ll join us?” Siobhan asked.

“I thought I made myself clear on that.”

“Can’t blame us for trying,” she said. “Thank you, Gavin. These are lovely. We’ll do our best to not ruin them.”

“Wouldn’t that defeat their purpose?” he asked.

Siobhan laughed. Donal watched her smile fade as her mind seemingly lingered on the smith’s last comment.

“Alright, everyone,” she said. “Let’s get this loaded and hope that there’s still room for the fellas.”

“I wouldn’t lose sleep over it,” Maeve said with a final wave and a smile over her shoulder at Gavin.