Athenry, Connacht
Word had reached the ears of its petty king, Mael Sechnaill mac Cathal — read aloud in the dim hall by Brother Ciarán, monk, scholar, and the king's personal court tutor.
"Our spy in the lands of House Uí Fiachrach Aidhne reports that a fleet of Norsemen came from the sea in the dead of night and ravaged the coast."
There was a pause. Perhaps a silent prayer for the dead. Or the weight of what came next.
"They looted all the value they could carry. What remained, they burned. Rí Aidhne Conchobar mac Murchadha's strength is shattered. His port is ash. His townships gone. He cannot raise an army to contest your ambitions, my liege."
The air shifted.
Men looked toward the throne, expecting satisfaction. Connacht had known no peace in a generation. Petty kings bled one another over claims and cattle, and Mael had spent his life reaching for the title of Rí Connacht.
Yet instead of triumph, his face darkened.
"And the monastery at Kilmacduagh?" he asked.
