Finn Mac Cool (25 page)
Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
“Hair like a raven's wings!” Fergus Honey-Tongue said admiringly of a tall woman with a sumptuous bosom.
“She could not drown, that one,” added Blamec with a snigger.
Finn overheard. Before Blamec knew what hit him, he found himself sitting on the ground with a sore jaw. “Speak respectfully of women!” Finn commanded.
“I thought I was.”
“Then think again.”
Blamec looked up at Fergus. “What did I do this time?”
“Opened your mouth,” replied Fergus. “Never a good idea for you.”
One of the women was exceptionally beautiful by any man's standards. That night in the hall, Dubdrenn remarked to Cormac, “There is one female servant you might want to take a look atâprivately.”
A light came into the king's eyes. “Something special?”
“Something very special. You've been talking about a reward for the
RÃgfénnid FÃanna for his defeat of the Ulidians. This might be the very thing.”
RÃgfénnid FÃanna for his defeat of the Ulidians. This might be the very thing.”
“Bring her to meâprivatelyâin the morning. If she's good enough, I think it would do no harm to make Finn a gift of her. I'd say he's ready for a woman; he certainly pays no attention to the one we thought he'd chosen.”
But when Dubdrenn brought the woman in question to Cormac's chamber the next morning, Finn Mac Cool went out of the king's mind.
She was bronze-haired and red-lipped and her eyes were smoky. She did not bow her head in the king's presence, but gave him a long look and then smiled with pleasure at what she saw. “Am I to be yours?” she enquired.
Cormac drew a deep breath. “I have not ⦠ah ⦠decided. What are you called?”
“I am Carmait of the Cruithni.”
“Have you a husband anywhere?”
“None. But I am strong. I could beat strong children,” she added proudly. Her cheeks glowed with the red blood coursing through themâand through her lips. Cormac kept looking at her lips. They would he like drinking wine, he thought.
The king remained in his chamber all day with the door closed. When people asked for him, Dubdrenn said he was occupied with important matters.
When night fell, customarily Cormac would have returned from the House of the King, his official and formal residence, to Cormac's House, his new and private home where Ethni waited. But that night he did not leave the House of the King.
In another break with custom, Dubdrenn personally carried food and drink to him, rather than leaving that chore to lower-ranking servants. Only Dubdrenn saw Cormac; only Dubdrenn knew what was so totally occupying his time.
“This is for me,” the king told his chief steward. “This its something I am doing just for me for a change.”
Built around Cormac Mac Airt. Tara was sensitive to his every mood and undertaking. He had been shut away in the House of the King for less than half a day before people began wondering and speculating. No one spoke openly, but glances were exchanged. Eyes rolled heavenward. Lips smiled or smirked or tightened. A strange sense of playfulness seized the inhabitants of Tara, relieved to discover their king was as human as anyone else.
“I saw that woman,” Madan Bent-Neck told Cael Hundred-Killer. “When she first arrived, I saw her, and the face on her almost put out the eyes in my head.”
“That ugly, was she?”
“That beautiful.”
“Carnait of the Cruithni,” Fergus Honey-Tongue pronounced, “is the sun breaking through a bank of clouds.”
But other clouds were building. Even in a stronghold as large as Tara, such a secret could not long be kept. When on the second day Cormac was still shut up in the House of the King, Ethni the Proud decided there was some aspect of his life from which she was being excluded. A few judicious questions were asked, and by the time the sun was at midpoint in the heavens, she knew as much as anyone else about Carnait of the Cruithni.
Ethni was furious. “I'm his wife,” she complained to Fithel the chief brehon. “He cannot do this.”
Fithel contradicted her. “He can of course. There is nothing in the law that forbids him having as many women as he likes.”
“Then there should be!”
“But,” said the brehon reasonably, “if you legislate to restrict the freedom of the man, you also restrict the freedom of the woman.”
“I'm not asking for freedom to take another man.”
“You are not, but you cannot speak for every member of your sex, Ethni. It is imperative that society be governed in ways that will avoid creating unnatural situations that force people to act counter to natural law.”
A thin, hard line formed between Ethni's black-dyed brows. “What does that mean?”
“It means, simply, that Brehon Law takes into account the desire of men for women and women for men.”
“But what about my children? My status as his wife?”
“Neither of which is under threat,” Fithel pointed out.
“What about my pride?”
“Ah.” The brehon made smoothing gestures with his hands. “Your pride. Pride cannot be legislated, it is in the hands of each individual to govern his own. If I assure you the king has chosen a woman of incomparable beauty, can you not take pride in having such a creature become part of the royal family? She may give him children as finely made as herself who will do honour to the household of Cormac Mac Airt. Do you not seek his honour? Was that not part of your marriage contract?”
“Agreeing to concubines wasn't part of my contract.”
“I did not say he wanted her for his concubine.”
Ethni's eyes blazed. “I'll never give permission for her to he a wife! Never. My husband has done this without even consulting me once, he who talked with me about everything. He has made a grave mistake.”
Fithel did not like the look in Ethni's eyes, and privately resolved to speak to Cormac himself as soon as possible.
But still Dubdrenn denied anyone access to the House of the King. Conan Maol had been stationed outside, spear at the ready, looking decidedly unlazy for once, almost menacing.
Fithel went to Finn Mac Cool. “I need to see the king, you must have your man let me in. There is a matter of urgency of which the king must be informed before the situation becomes untenable.”
Finn spoke to Dubdrenn, who spoke to Cormac. The word came back.
Leave things as they are.
All that day Tara brooded under the lowering skies of autumn. In the Grianan, ostensibly sewing with her sewing-women, Ethni the Proud sat in frosty silence and none dared speak to her. Cold rage radiated from her in ever-widening circles.
As the light began to fail, she returned alone to Cormac's House and ordered a huge fire built in the central firepit, beside which she sat brooding and sleepless throughout the night. Her attendants tiptoed around her.
On the morning of the third day, Cormac returned to find a coldly hostile woman whom he hardly knew occupying his house. Ethni barely spoke two consecutive words to him. But she was proud, she did not question him. She simply treated him as if he were a mange-ridden hound who had entered by mistake.
Cormac had been king of Tara long enough to refuse to cower to anyone. “What's wrong with you, woman?” he demanded to know. Better to bring it out into the open than let it fester, he thought. “Are you angry because I have another woman?”
Ethni turned her left side toward him, a deliberate gesture of insult. “I'm surprised you're capable. You've had very little use for your rod with me since I've been here, you're always too busy and preoccupied. I thought it had dried up and fallen off.”
“When did you show any particular interest?” he asked, the quarrel escalating. “You're always busy with your women, your sewing and embroidery, the children, your chatter ⦔
“Things I use to fill my time while waiting for you!” she countered.
“You never wait for me. You live your life, as you should. I'm living mine. This has nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with me! Why have you kept this, this ⦠woman a secret?”
“I haven't kept her a secret. I just didn't run over here to tell you about her because it has nothing to do with you.”
“Stop saying that!” Ethni clamped her hands over her ears.
Cormac was baffled. Other kings had more than one woman. Even the most minor chieftain could have as many women as he could afford to feed and house if he chose, their children raised and tended together, their work shared, forming a small community of their own with common interests under the benevolent protection of one man. Life was not easy; it was important to have as many offspring as possible so that some of them would be assured of survival.
His body still burning with memories of Carnait's body, Cormac wondered if a new child had already begun. If so, he would not have its existence blighted by Ethni's egocentric nature. She had always wanted to be at the centre, at the forefront; she had insisted her foster father agree to her marriage with Cormac Mac Airt primarily because she knew he had great ambition and she wanted to climb the heights with him. She had taken the man; she must take the man as a whose, and part of that whole was now Carnait of the Cruithni.
But how to make her see and accept?
He tried arguing his case reasonably only to discover, as had many a man before him, that few angry women are interested in being reasonable.
“Get rid of her,” Ethni. grated through clenched teeth.
“You cannot demand that of me.”
“I am demanding it! I'll never accept her, Cormac. Never!”
Cormac went to his brehon, but Fithel was not able to offer him much comfort. “Without Ethni's permission, you cannot arrange a contract marriage. Unless you first set Ethni aside, of course. Is that your desire?”
Cormac was angry. “What are the acceptable reasons for setting aside a contract mate?”
“There are two types of divorce. The first is blameless, and may take place if illness of either mate makes cohabitation impossible, or disease renders either incapable of sexual intercourse. A serious blemish or disfiguring injury, if one's mate finds it distressing to view, is reason to end the marriage if desired. Prolonged or perpetual absence from the territory is sufficient to allow for divorce. So is loss of sanity. If one of the couple is incapable of producing a child, that may be used as reason for divorce if desired. Death is also reason for divorce, to keep the surviving mate from claiming penalties against the kin of the deceased.”
Cormac was shaking his head. “What about the other type? Divorce where someone is at fault.”
Fithel waved his hands in small, precise circles as he enumerated, “Couples may separate and end their contract, and the woman take her coibche with her, under the following circumstances: If one mate has
circulated a false story about the other. If one mate has satirized the other and made of him or her a figure of fun.”
circulated a false story about the other. If one mate has satirized the other and made of him or her a figure of fun.”
“Ethni has done neither of those things to me,” the king admitted, “principally because she would bring disrepute on herself.”
“Any woman who has been struck a blow that blemishes her is entitled to divorce,” Fithel went on.
“I've never hit her. At least not yet, though the thought crossed my mind today.”
“A woman who is repudiated for another is entitled to divorce,” the brehon said dispassionately.
“Ah. I haven't repudiated her, I never intended to. She can't claim that. But what can I claim? How can I force her to accept what I want? Tell me the rest of the law.”
“A woman who is deprived of sexual intercourse by her husband may divorce him,” Fithel said. “If her husband gives her a charm or potion of some kind to induce her to sleep with him when she does not wish to do so, she is also entitled to divorce. Likewise, she may divorce a husband who fails to provide her with the food and clothing she desires insofar as he is able.”
Cormac doubled his fist and slammed it against the nearest wall. “All these are to the woman's advantage! What is there for me?”
“You have the right to take other women. As your wife has the right to other men, if you give her permission,” the brehon had in honesty to add. “And you must have her permission to make another woman a contract wife.”
Cormac sank onto a bench and buried his head in his hands. “She'll never give it. She'll never, never give it.”
“Repudiate her, then. Proud as she is, she will divorce you.”
“I never intended to repudiate her, I don't see the necessity for it if she'd just be reasonable.”
Fithel, who had some experience of women himself, laughed hollowly.
ETHNI WAS BEING PERFECTLY REASONABLE. HER HUSBAND, whom she always believed had included her in every aspect of his life, was now excluding her from something. She was owed compensation. She would take compensation in the form of making his new woman miserable.
She informed Cormac, “Since I cannot make you send her away, Carnait will remain at Tara. But as your wife, I insist that she be made my servant.”
Cormac went at once to Fithel, who was sympathetic but unable to help. “Carnait came to you as a captive of the Ulaid, not as a free woman. She is therefore of the servant class and your wife has the right to demand her services.”
“At least,” Cormac subsequently consoled Carnait, “you'll be here I can see you as often as I like.”
“But where will I live?”
He could not keep his wife's servant in the House of the King, nor in his private residence, where Ethni dwelt in undisputed and angry posses sion. And he did not have another separate house to offer Carnait. The recently rebuilt Tara was crowded with buildings, but each was fully occupied or had an official purpose. For some reason, Cormac Mac Airt had neglected to order that houses be prepared for concubines.
So Carnait of the Cruithni was forced to live with the rest of Ethm's attendants, in a rectangular wattle-and-daub chamber with limewashed walls but no firepit and no privacy.
Ethni did not limit her revenge to this small discomfort. “Servants must work,” she decreed, “and Carnait is to be my grinding-woman. She will grind all the corn for the royal household and attendants.”
The amount of corn to be ground daily was nine pecks, a formidable amount considering it was to be done on a stone quern, by hand, by one
woman. Before the arrival of Carnait, Ethni had employed several grinding-women for the purpose, but they were now relieved of this taxing physical duty and rewarded with new clothing and lives of visible ease, while Carnait was sentenced to spend long days in the small, dark grinding-shed, labouring over the quern.
woman. Before the arrival of Carnait, Ethni had employed several grinding-women for the purpose, but they were now relieved of this taxing physical duty and rewarded with new clothing and lives of visible ease, while Carnait was sentenced to spend long days in the small, dark grinding-shed, labouring over the quern.
By nightfall she was exhausted, too exhausted to be enthusiastic when Cormac urged her to meet him in one place or another.
No one at Tara could fail to be aware of the king's distress. He did not formally repudiate Ethniâhe would not give her that satisfaction, he would deny her the freedom she was denying himâbut he slept every night in the House of the King and spent his days in simmering anger.
When he learned that Carnait was expecting his child, the anger exploded.
He unwisely attempted to vent his anger on Finn Mac Cool.
Summoning the RÃgfénnid FÃanna, Cormac roared at him, “Your men lack proper respect for their king! I see them smirking at me, I overhear them talking behind their hands. Control them, Finn! No matter what you've tried to make of the FÃanna, they are still little better than animals and I won't have them laughing at me behind my back.”
Finn replied in a tight voice, “The FÃanna are not animals. They're men, and entitled to as much respect as you are.”
Cormac was shocked. “I'm a king!”
“You squat to empty your bowels just as we do, and the result smells just as bad.”
“Don't be insolent with me!”
“Then don't misdirect your spears.”
Underneath his anger, Cormac Mac Airt was both intelligent and fair-minded. He recognized the truth when he heard it. He would not apologize, but he could redirect the conversation.
They were in the House of the King, a large circular structure with a soaring roof supported by posts of fragrant cedar. A broad, carefully laid flagstone hearth surrounded the firepit, which was appointed with elaborate iron firedogs. Brilliantly dyed woollen hangings all but covered the walls, and as soon as one set became blackened by smoke, another was woven. The finest craftsmanship was employed in every detail of the building; the tiniest hinge and pin were embossed and set with polished stones.
Slumping uncharacteristically on a couch piled with furs, Cormac surveyed Finn through bloodshot eyes. “I have a problem,” he admitted.
Finn said nothing.
“A problem with women.”
Finn said nothing.
“My wife is slowly killing a woman I care about very much, and I seem unable to do anything about it.”
Finn, who was as aware as everyone else of the situation, nodded. “You should have spoken to me sooner. I can.”
“You what?” Cormac sat up straight. “I don't want either of them hurt, Finn. When I've had too much ale, I tell myself I want to break Ethni's neck, but I don't. I'm still ⦠fond of the woman. It's just thatâ”
“I know. And I wouldn't hurt a woman. The FÃanna are sworn to be gentle always in their dealings with women.”
“That's a new one,” commented the king. “You've made a lot of changes.”
“I can make another. I can relieve Carnait of the chore of grinding corn.”
“Assigning one of the FÃanna to the quern is a ridiculous notion.”
“I can do away with the querm altogether,” said Finn, “and you'll still have all the corn you need for Tara.”
Finn approached Lugaid, who understood at once what was wanted. Taking Blamec with him, he searched the countryside surrounding Tara until he found a stream ideally suited for the purpose. There he constructed the mill he had carried in his mind since the day he saw its prototype on the banks of the Shannon.
When the mill was completed, Cormac was invited on a tour of inspection. With due formality, he invited Ethni to join himâthe first such invitation he had issued her since the problem arose with Carnait.
“Bring your grinding-woman,” he added. “Let her see what is to replace the quern.”
When she saw the mill Lugaid had built, Ethni bit her lip. It was sturdy, sizable, and capable of grinding an impressive amount of grain. Compared to the new mill with its two horizontal water wheels, an old-fashioned stone quernâa shallow trough fitted with a grindstone and labouriously hand-operatedâwas not only slow, but embarrassingly primitive, unsuitable for a royal establishment.
Sullenly, Ethni conceded, “I shan't need a grinding-woman now. But I can find another use for”
“Not for Cairnait,” interrupted Cormac in a loud voice. “She's heavy with my child.”
The assortment of officials and dignitaries gathered to observe the new mill heard him. Ethni realized that any response she wanted to make would sound petty. With everyone aware of the situation, she did not dare assign Cairnait to some other demeaning labour.
She gave her husband a long, cold stare and favoured Lugaid with another. Then, gathering her dignity in both hands, she paced with stately tread back to Cormac's House.
The king caught Finn's eye ⦠and winked.
“Reward your man well,” he told Finn that night. “Give him whatever he desires for building that mill.”
Lugaid knew exactly what he wanted. She had a bush of flaming red hair and lived with her family half a day's walk from Tara.
“Go to her,” said Finn with a smile. “Spend the winter with her and come back to us for battle season.”
But Lugaid had given much thought to the sort of life he would like, if he had his choice. Now he told Finn, “I don't want to return to the FÃanna. I've enjoyed my service with you, but I'd prefer a different future. I want to stay with my woman and build another mill beside swift water and run it myself. I don't want to be a spear target any longer. I want to bounce my children on my knee.”
Finn felt a spasm of envy. “Send me your firstborn son and I'll make him an officer of the FÃanna.”
“How do you know you'll still be commanding the FÃanna by the time I have a son old enough to take up weapons?”
“I will,” said Finn Mac Cool.
Red Ridge was named to Lugaid's place in Finn's original fÃan. Each of those nine was then appointed a rÃgfénnid and given three nines of his own.
That winter Fithel the chief brehon fell ill. With the care of Eogan the chief physician, he lingered until nearly Beltaine before dying. The funeral games held in his honour almost overshadowed the Beltaine Festival. The historians recited in poetry the list of his achievements and wise judgments, commanding the next generation of poets to memorize them exactly, “with no word put to it and no word taken from it.” One word altered was sufficient to discredit oral record.
In further honour of Fithel, Cormac ordered the next Great Assembly due to be held at Tata postponed until a replacement for Fithel was named and had time to grow into the position.
Death and life were celebrated jointly that Beltaine. The funeral games were followed by marriages, and there was joyful dancing around the ritual Beltaine pole.
Finn Mac Cool was very much in evidence.
He stood, hiding his thoughts behind opaque eyes, as various couples recited their contracts before the regional brehons and made the vows of wedding: to honour one another in public, to respect the other's rights, to guard the other's back.
I would guard you if you were here, he said in his mind to she who was always in his thoughts.
With the other members of the FÃanna, Finn competed in the funeral games. He was unbeatable at javelin-throwing and high-jumping. No
one would challenge him with the sword. On the last day he found himself matched against the victor of the earlier footracesâCailte Mac Ronanâfor the championship.
one would challenge him with the sword. On the last day he found himself matched against the victor of the earlier footracesâCailte Mac Ronanâfor the championship.
Before the race began, they walked together over the grassy course, looking for sharp stones or hidden holes, their eyes fixed on the ground. “I beat you once,” Finn said out of the side of his mouth. “On Black Head.”
“I had a bad day.” Cailte hent to pick up a stone and toss it clean of the course.
“I hope you have a good day today, then. I only want to beat the best.”
“I'll have a good day,” Cailte promised, laughing.
When the signal was given, they raced each other across the green sward of Tara, down a lane lined with spectators screaming for their favourite and laying wagers with every stride. Banners snapped and crackled in a warm wind. Cormac. Mac Airt waited at the finish line with an ivy wreath in his hands.
Cailte was at the top of his form, inarguably the fastest of the FÃanna. He knew he could beat Finn. He almost did. Then, at the last moment, he deliberately broke the rhythm of his stride just enough â¦
⦠and Finn passed him.
The crowd roared, “Fin Mac Gool!”
Finn stood, eyes closed, in a pool of sunlight and felt the wreath settle onto his brow.
This is the best, said something in him. This is the best it will ever be.
Then he thought of her, waiting in a corner of his mind, and amended, this is the best it has ever been.
Ethni the Proud stood on one side of Cormac, and on his other side stood Carnait of Cruithni. The two women did not look at one another, or speak to one another, but they were not at war. Some subtle shift had taken place, an acceptance and adjustment growing as organically as the child grew within Carnait.
Perhaps it was the fact of the child. Ethni found she could not hate a woman big with child, with life; life the most sacred of forces.
But I am his senior wife, she told herself proudly, standing with her head high.
It was to be another battle summer, of course. Some of the tribal kings who had originally sworn to Connac had changed their minds. Others were willing to be persuaded. A few old battles must be refought. The Ulaid, discontent as always, hovered on the fringes of Cormac's consciousness, vociferously reiterating their claims to Tara from a safe distance.
They were not eager to face Finn Mac Cool again.
Having allowed Lugaid the reward of his choice, Cormac was aware of an injustice toward Finn. “You've served me brilliantly,” he said to his RÃgfénnid FÃanna, “and asked nothing for yourself.”
“You've given me my share of permissible plunder.”
“We had a discussion about your entitlements before, I believeâ”
“And you promised to improve my situation,” Finn quoted.
“I did. The time has come to deliver on my promise.” Cormac was feeling expansive. His new happiness made him desire similar pleasure for the tall, baffling young man who stood before him. “A landholding appropriate to the RÃgfénnid FÃanna is certainly required,” he said. “Is there a particular territory you would like to hold as your own? Your birthland, perhaps?”
A glow entered Finn's eyes as if a light were burning in deep water. He thrust his thumb into his mouth, waited, then said, “A landholding in Laigin territory?”
“My relationship with the Laigin is amicable, at least for now. I could demand a landholding for you, though I would have to offer them something in return.”
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