Part 10

Mounted again on his steed, Uachtarán rode west, toward the Hills of Doagh that descended into Dea Verdoya. The burlap sack of coins struck a percussed cascade of clinks with each hoofbeat. Uachtarán spotted a public house and dismounted as the fireflies began their evening flit. He ducked in through its small door and settled into an ale snug. As his eyes adjusted to the snug’s shadows, a man appeared sitting across from him at the table.

Uachtarán slapped his own knee. “Draíocht the Shortshanks! Barkeep, a round!”

“Lord Uachtarán,” the small man objected, “I'm always Tewey in your good presence.”

“Tewey o' the Quaig, my old friend. Let me spot you this ale. I've just been to settlements with Balor.”

Tewey sat down. “Paid up, did he? The cheating swine.”

“A new proclamation, Tewey: Balor's outlawed the weighing of monies. Says it's to punish the merchants.”

Tewey slammed his fist on the table. “That law's not to punish no merchants! It's to hide the clipping he's doin' himself!”

Uachtarán nodded.

“And with your new gallowglass,” Tewey leaned closer, “he's got to settle up for more. Ninety pounds? You'll be lucky to weigh out eighty. His very payment to you, each coin itself, it's a tiny thief, stealing the wealth of your domain as you hold it in your hand!”

Uachtarán ground his jaw on Tewey's words.

“But mark me, Lord Uachtarán: there’s a new moneyer in Ulster out to give Balor a run.” Tewey chuckled.

“And about time. I've heard rumors. What do you know?”

The small man took a long chug of drink and began a tale of the House of the Tuatha Dé Danann who were establishing a bank vault deep in the mounds of Eire’s earth in which to store both base and precious metals. “It’s for safekeeping, but mostly from the prying tools of that clipping coastal prince.” He pointed at the burlap. “You can store those coins with the Tuatha and receive, in turn, ninety receipts for that deposit, each receipt worth a pound.”

Uachtarán tabled his ale. “Pound papers sound a bit lighter than that bag I’m carryin’!”

“Carrion coin!” Tewey laughed from his belly. “But mark me, Uachtarán; pound papers can't be clipped.”

“Well, they can.”

“Surely they can, but to what end, Uachtarán? Slivers of paper--worth nought more than kindling! And mark me, my lord; the bank accepts clipped coins at full value.” Tewey pulled a penny paper from his pocket and held it up to a candle’s grasping flame. “Just don't get it too close,” he grinned.

Uachtarán studied the square bill of paper. In inked script it read, “One Silver Penny, payable to the bearer on demand.” He looked up at Tewey. “Any bearer?”

“The barkeep accepts 'em.” The two men eased their legs from the snug and walked to the bar. Tewey slapped the penny paper down on the wooden bar that had for decades staged many a friendly pub-house exchange. An ale was produced in quick order.

The grinding jaw of Uachtarán fell open.

Tewey slapped his shoulder. “Come to my hoarding house on the morrow, my lord. You can change all your debased coin for the safety of paper.”

Uachtarán smiled. “For the weapon of paper.”

A page from Bawn Guelph pounded on the tower-house door at Faodail. Miss Sally Forth pulled it back and peered around.

“Well?”

“Is this the Castle of the Faodail shire?”

“Aye and I am the seneschal of this tower, Miss Forth of Cloyfin and Blagh, second daughter of the Lord Mealladh.” She looked at the boy. “What do you want?”

“Uachtarán over all Aduaine sends this scroll of summons to Lord Leannán.”

“Very well.” The seneschal took the scroll and started to pull the portal closed.

“Miss?” He placed his small hand on the door. “Could I trouble ya' for some water? A journey of three horsed hours, it was.”

“Three horsed hours? What's a horsed hour?”

The page looked surprised. “It's an hour spent on horseback.”

“Around back. The cook'll see to you.” She heaved on the door again, then stopped. “And we've got no eggs, so don't ask for any.”

The page walked away mumbling to himself as the seneschal replaced the latch. She lifted her skirts, the scroll under her arm, and began the long flight up to the Main Mead Hall. She found the laird slurping his soup at the long table, his scribe reading him the stable inventories.

“My lord, a summons from Aduaine.” She interrupted and handed him the scroll. On it was a red wax seal stamped with the open hand of Ulster.

Leannán thrust the summons toward his scribe and raised his spoon to his mouth. When he next looked up, the seneschal hadn't moved.

“You're dismissed.”

“If it please, sir,” she curtsied. “I was just wondering if you had discussed that matter with your good lady?”

“Presently.”

Sally nodded and turned down the back stair.

The scribe unfurled the scroll and cleared his throat to begin his recitation. “To the knights known as Lord Leannán, Lord Láidreacht, Sir Eònan of the West, and the Ugly Mouth of Mealladh: a summons requesting your presence at the Castle Bawn Guelph to hear tell of a new form of monies that shall be circulated in the shire and that will end the corruption of Balor's clipped coinage currently thieving the hectares of Aduaine. And let it be so recorded in the The Chronicle of Ystrad Fflur, our sister shire of Wales, that in this year Ulster had its money changed, and the penny and the pound were made square. And then was verified the soothsaying of Myrddin, when he said, 'The form of exchange in Ulster shall be split, and the new form shall be pulped, pressed, and cornered.' Signed the Honorable Knight, Lord Uachtarán, with same sent to the scribes of Ystrad Fflur.”

“Myrddin?” Saoirse asked, topping the front stair. “Pray tell, what news is this from Aduaine?”

“Nothing to worry a woman. Oh, but wife,” he turned to her, then dismissed his scribe with a flick of his hand. “The seneschal was to enact some thrifts in the kitchen. Why did you forbid her this?”

“What thrifts, my lord?”

“With, um,” he stammered to recall, “the food.”

“I told my seneschal your fighting men had earned the yolk of an egg, each. She prefers batter, my lord, which will make your warriors but fleshy and slow.”

Leannán frowned. “Men should sup on the fat of an egg. T'isn't extravagant.”

“I will tell her,” Saoirse said, as she turned to leave.

“No.” Leannán put up his hand. “I will.”

Saoirse turned back around. “Tell me, my lord, why I need a seneschal? You said before that Uachtarán insisted, but why?”

“I ride to Bawn Guelph tonight,” he dismissed her with his hand, but the gesture produced no effect. “I will ask him for his reasoning.” Saoirse remained standing in place as Leannán retreated past her down the back stairs. Only when his tender scalp was no longer in her sight did she deign, of her own volition, to quit the room.

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