Lion of Ireland Read online

  Bebinn selected the choicest contents of the pot for his bowl, and poured his mead herself, rather than entrust it to the serving woman.

  “Will he tell a tale tonight?” the woman asked eagerly, almost treading on Bebinn’s heels.

  “How can I tell? The physician lives with your family, does he not? And does he set a broken bone every night, or brew a potion at each meal? It is the business of the tribe to care for the members of the filidh, the artists and physicians, the poets and harpers and students of the law, and in return for that they share their talents with us when they are needed. It is not my place to tell the seanchai that one of his stories is wanted tonight, Maire. Nor is it yours.”

  The woman snapped her lips shut and returned to her chores, but she frequently rolled her eyes toward Fiacaid, alert to the possibilities of his magic. If he began to talk she would abandon her tasks and run to the other cottages with the news, that all who could crowd into Cennedi’s house might come and listen to the legends of their people.

  So it happened this night. The old man finally pushed his bowl away and wiped at his stained beard with a square of linen. He tilted his head back to gaze at the underside of the thatch, listening to the rain on the thick straw. He smiled.

  “It is a fine night,” he announced in a deep and musical voice.

  A little sigh of pleasure went up into the smoky air. Bowls were pushed back, hands folded.

  “A fine night,” Cennedi echoed, taking up the thread of tradition.

  “It’s a fine night,” many voices repeated.

  “Rain is good for the memory,” intoned Fiacaid. “When there is rain on the roof and meat in the belly, it is time to look over our shoulders and remember.”

  “We will remember,” chanted his audience. The seanchai had educated all of Cennedi’s tribe; they knew the litany by heart. Since the days of Saint Patrick and before, even to the misty dawn of their race, the chieftains of the island’s numerous tribes had vied with one another to possess the most gifted and knowledgeable seanchaithe. Fiacaid was a great prize, as Cennedi often reminded his family when he felt their whispering and under-the-table pranks jeoparized their ability to learn from the story-teller’s words.

  “As you all remember,” Fiacaid began, “our last discussion was about the invasions of Ireland in ancient times. Long before history was written down, this land was settled by the descendants of Nemed. They were attacked by the Fomorians, a race of sea pirates from Africa. These Fomorians were great warriors and conquered the land, but some of the Nemedians escaped. Of these, some made their way to distant Greece.

  “There they were enslaved by the Greeks and called Firbolgs, a term given them because they were made to carry leathern bags filled with earth to enrich the rocky Greek hillsides. After a long bondage some of them fled from Greece and made their way back to Ireland, armed with Greek weapons and knowledge of warfare.

  “They overran the Fomorians, defeating them by stealth and treachery, fighting in hidden places, and always attacking by night. The victorious Firbolgs partitioned the land into those five sections we know today as Ulster, Leinster, Munster, Connacht, and Meath.

  “But the Firbolgs were a dark and contentious people, never at peace with themselves, loving argument and discord.” The seanchai’s voice dropped to a lower tone to indicate the sinister nature of his subjects, and Niall kicked Conn under the table and hissed at him, “You’re a Firbolg!”

  “I am not!” Conn cried, punching his brother in the arm. There was a general shushing and scowling, but Fiacaid merely smiled.

  “No, boyo, you are not a Firbolg. It is true that many of their blood are still in our land, stirring up trouble; every gossip and liar, every sneak and thief and hater of music may well be a descendant of the Firbolgs. But the sons of Cennedi are of another tribe, and we will learn of them in good time.”

  “What happened to the Firbolgs?” Echtigern wanted to know.

  “Yes, well. The Firbolgs were a doomed race, as the night is doomed by the coming of the day. Although they built many forts and thought themselves supreme, their time was growing short. From a distant place—some say the islands to the north—came the next of the invaders, a bright and magical people known as the Tuatha de Danann, the people of the goddess Dana. They were highly skilled in the arts of Druidry, and could call the wind by whistling for it, or make barren cattle conceive.”

  Fiacaid leaned forward, and all his listeners leaned toward him in response. “From their city of Falias they brought the Stone of Fal, which shrieks aloud when the lawful Ard Ri is named king of all kings at Tara.” His audience exchanged glances and knowledgeable nods.

  “From Gorias they brought with them the Spear of Lugh, which insures victory in battle. Out of the city of Findias came the Sword of Nuada, the most deadly and irresistible of weapons; it belonged to the king of the Tuatha de Danann and never left his hand, even sharing his bed at night.

  “And with them from the city of Murias they brought Dagda’s Cauldron; no one who ate from it was ever left unsatisfied.”

  Bebinn’s eyes brightened at the mention of such a cooking pot. Just the thing for the mother of twelve sons, she said to herself wistfully. Is there a chance, I wonder, that the thing still exists?

  “Did they fight with the Sword and the Spear?” asked Dermott, leaning forward so eagerly that he spilled Donncuan’s unfinished cup of mead and was smartly cuffed on the ear for it.

  “Ah, yes,” Fiacaid assured him. “People who think they have superior weapons always find reasons to test them.” Once Fiacaid had enjoyed the thrill of battle with all the gusto of the would-be warrior relegated to watch from the sidelines—members of the filidh being exempt from fighting by reason of their superior and valuable education. But now the chill of winter lingered in his bones through the summertime as well, and the glories of warfare had turned to ashes in the memory of a man who had seen too many friends die.

  Yet as he looked down the table and saw the eager faces turned to his, the old intoxication came as a faint echo in his thinning blood. The heady wine of storytelling, the addiction to the shape and color of words, the desire to pass on his own enthusiasms—it was sweet to yield and feel himself grow young again, telling the tale as it was told to him in his childhood.

  “Oh, they were a beautiful people, the people of Dana!” He raised his head so that his old eyes seemed to look beyond the crowded room, into a past clearer to his vision than the present. “Their king was Nuada, the perfect and fearless, who towered above the lowly Firbolg as the oak above the alder.”

  Brian looked across at Mahon and felt in his heart that King Nuada must have looked very much like that. Fair of hair and broad of brow, Mahon was even taller than his father, a handsome young giant indeed. To Brian, he was the image of a hero-king.

  “The Tuatha de Danann met the Firbolgs in battle on the Plain of Moytura. They came with a blowing of horns, and a shining mist all around them like dust from the stars, and the grass bent down beneath their feet in homage. The battle lasted four days and four nights, and the brilliance of the Tuatha de Danann stayed the darkness so that the Firbolgs could not attack by stealth, as was their custom. They had to stand and fight, face to face, and by the fourth sunrise even the birds and insects had fled the place, so terrible was the fighting.

  “Then it was that the two kings, Nuada the Perfect and Eochai of the Firbolgs, met in single combat to put an end to the slaughter. The Light against the Darkness.”

  Brian saw Mahon standing tall and proud, his invincible sword in his hand, slashing at the evil king who crouched and slavered at his feet.

  “While time stopped and the very land held its breath, the two champions fought in that place. They fought in skill and in silence, with only the hissing of their breath about them, and at last Nuada gained the advantage and killed Eochai!” Fiacaid’s voice rose, filling the room with triumph. “The Tuatha de Danann were victorious, and the time of the Dark People was over!”

>   The inheld excitement of the listeners poured out in a great sigh of pleasure.

  “But wait!” An anxious expression crossed the old man’s face, and he held up his hand to show that his audience must not rejoice too soon. “During that final contest Nuada, great warrior though he was, suffered a fearful wound.”

  Brian’s eyes darted to Mahon again, and the little boy was reassured to see his brother sitting whole and well.

  “Nuada’s hand was cut from his wrist by the dying blow of the Firbolg king. Thus he became imperfect, ineligible to rule under the laws of his people. He was forced to abdicate, and tragic days followed for the People of Light.”

  Fiacaid’s skill was not limited to the extent of his knowledge or the richness of his voice; he also knew when to stop. “The rest of the history of the Tuatha de Danann must wait for another time,” he announced firmly. “My eyes are burning with want of sleep; I will go to my bed now and refresh myself.”

  “No! Please … just a little more!”

  Fiacaid shook his head. “Not tonight. But soon I shall tell you of Nuada and the Silver Hand, of Second Moytura, of the destruction of the monster Balor of the Baleful Eye, and”—his voice trailed away, leaving an aching emptiness in the room—“and many other things,” he finished brightly. “But that will be another day. I bid you all God’s peace this night.”

  He wrapped his bratt around him with a dramatic flourish and left the table. The others reluctantly shook off his spell and busied themselves with their own pursuits. Only Brian sat, quiet and dazzled, still seeing wonders.

  Cennedi also lingered on his stool at the head of the table, enjoying the moment and watching his family. Bebinn looked up and saw him there, an inward smile just touching his lips; she poured fresh goblets of the Danish brew they both liked and carried them to the table, slipping into place beside him as easily as a foot in a well-worn sandal.

  He did not turn to look at her, merely reached out and put his broad hand on the abundant roundness of her thigh. The flesh was not as firm now as it had been in the days when she ran in the hills with him like a wild thing, but it was infinitely more dear, its growing flaccidity a reminder that life was short and each hour must be savored while it lasted.

  They sat in companionable silence. Bebinn gazed at the room that seemed composed of atoms of her own being: the walls glazed with the patina of thousands of smoky fires, the strong timber posts that supported the thatched roof and were hung with pots and baskets and household articles. She looked at the big central hearth and watched Brian drag his little stool closer to it, that he might sit and stare into the flames as she liked to do at the close of the day. A connecting doorway led from the main room to an additional apartment which Cennedi had been forced to add as his family grew; there were the beds and chests for clothes, and the partitioned corner that was the separate chamber of the chief and his lady. Cennedi’s warm hand on her thigh prompted Bebinn to think of that private corner.

  She saw her sons moving about the house, their ruddy flesh glowing against the soft linen of their knee-length tunics. Fine boys, handsome men; soon they would begin marrying and there would be more babies to carry and dandle and fret over. Bebinn’s shoulders slumped. She had dandled a great number of babies already; she hoped for a little rest before the onslaught of the next generation.

  His attention drawn by her slight movement, Cennedi squeezed her thigh. “Tired?”

  “A little. Thinking about the future makes me tired.”

  “The future? Why, the future is full of good things, woman!” Looking at his sons, Cennedi saw beyond hearth and home; he saw his immortality. Twelve equal heirs to his cattle and land, twelve branches of a tree that would carry his blood into the distant future. And more than that. It had become his secret dream to see one of them, his favorite, carry the Dal Cais to glory by becoming the king not only of the tribe, but of all Munster.

  “What an honor that would be for the line of Lorcan!” he absentmindedly mused aloud.

  “What say?” Bebinn, her thoughts elsewhere, gave him a curious glance.

  “I might as well tell you. I have had it in my mind of late that the tribe of the Owenachts is worn past its strength. The Owenacht Callachan is king of all Munster now, but he is tired and weakened from his battles against the Northmen and his imprisonment by Muirchertach mac Neill. He’s begun to make deals with the Northmen instead of making war against them, and it’s time for a stronger tribe to lay claim to Cashel and the kingship of Munster. Callachan no longer bothers to defend north Munster from the Norse and the Leinstermen; Thomond will be ravaged by the kings of other Irish tribes as well as by the foreigners unless we establish ourselves in a position of strength.”

  “You are thinking to lay a Dal Cais claim to the kingship of all Munster?” Bebinn asked in horror. “That would bring us nothing but trouble and bloodshed, my dear! We have our cattle, our healthy sons, and the land is sufficient for our needs; why should we risk all that by disputing with the Owenachts for the kingship?”

  “You have no understanding of such things!” Cennedi roared, his quick temper flaring like a dry twig on the hearth. “The kingship of Munster has been passed from tribe to tribe down through the centuries, always claimed and held by the strongest. Some day Callachan will die, and the people will repudiate the alliances he has made with the foreigners; they will want a king who abides by the old ways and has no traffic with the Northmen. They will flock to the Dalcassian standard, they will accept the supremacy of our tribe, and we will have great leaders to offer them, such as our splendid Mahon, there. Ah, there would be a worthy claimant to Cashel, an honor to my own famed sire, King Lorcan!”

  “Have you told Mahon of this idea of yours?”

  Cennedi shook his head. “Not now; everything in its own time. He only knows that he is my choice to succeed me as chieftain of the tribe; I will not tell him the rest, yet, and have his brothers at his throat. That Lachtna is a jealous fellow, and besides, I have not yet gotten the approval of the tribal elders for my plans.”

  Bebinn said nothing. Inside her clothes, she moved a tiny space away from her husband. It was wrong to doubt his wisdom, but of all her sons, Bebinn saw herself most in Mahon. He was strong and an excellent warrior, but she knew him to have a gentle heart, a love of comfort and harmony. Was such a man meant to be sacrificed in a dynastic struggle?

  Mahon was sitting by the fire, carving new straps for his sandals from a piece of leather. He worked slowly and carefully; Lachtna would have been singing a tune over such a task, Niall would have been intent on creating a new and better version of footgear, but Mahon was patiently duplicating the old straps, his mind absorbed in the process and undistracted by imagination.

  Brian edged closer to watch. To him, everything Mahon did was wonderful, and his eyes grew round as he saw the leather curve upward from his brother’s staghandle hipknife.

  “Show me how to do that, Mahon!”

  The young man smiled the easy, brilliant smile that endeared him to all, but did not relinquish his knife to eager little fingers. “When you’re older, Brian. Someday soon.”

  “Someday” had no meaning for Brian. There were too few days in his memory to stretch it; he could not conceive of a distant future when he would be granted the rights so casually given to his brothers. Too bored to sit and not tired enough to sleep, he wandered away, searching for something.

  Cennedi had gone out, Bebinn and her serving woman were scrubbing the dishes with wood ash and rinsing them in a pot. Some of the older boys had gone to visit other families—families with daughters. Conn and Muiredach were fighting, Marcan had gone to bed to say his prayers, and Anluan had curled up under the table with his father’s hounds and gone to sleep.

  Brian took his dry bratt from its peg and wrapped himself in it, for the adjoining chamber was cold. But it contained most of the beds, including Fiacaid’s.

  The seanchai had already left the everyday world to go back in dreams to the golden ag
e he preferred. When Brian tugged at his blanket he was annoyed. “What do you want, boyo?” he snapped, knuckling the sagging flesh beneath his eyes. “Is it a fire? Have the Northmen attacked? Has the Day of Judgment been announced? If not, God help you for disturbing an old man!”

  Slightly abashed, Brian took a half step backward and stared at the dark shape of the seanchai, as Fiacaid hoisted himself to a sitting position with much wheezing and groaning.

  “I just wanted to hear the rest of the story, the one about Nuada,” the child said softly.

  “What? What!” roared the seanchai, fully awake now.

  “The story! It was so exciting, I wanted to hear the rest of it and find out what happened to King Nuada.”

  “Sweet Jesus Christ! You woke me up in the middle of the night for that?”

  “It’s not the middle of the night,” Brian argued, feeling more sure of himself now that he had a defensible point. “Everyone else is still awake and busy. But nothing is happening that’s as interesting as your story.”

  The old man could not overlook the child’s deliberate flattery, nor could he resist the effect it had upon him. A young mind such as this, eager for the histories, as excited as he had been when he first heard them! Perhaps this would be the gifted one, to be apprenticed to him and someday replace him as the seanchai of the Dal Cais. If that were the case, he must be very careful to train the boy in discipline and respect from the beginning. With an effort, he set aside the temptation to weave a web of magic in the darkness for Brian alone, and adopted a stern, instructional voice.

  “Our merciful Father, in His wisdom, made you last and least of your family so that you might learn humility, Brian. It is His special gift to you. Please do not abuse it by making demands out of keeping with your station.”

  “I didn’t ask to be last and least!” Brian objected.

  “In this life, we do not always get what we ask for.” Fiacaid repeated the timeworn truism by rote.