Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Finn Mac Cool (44 page)
Finn was coldly furious. “Everything I have I won for myself. Nothing depended upon the women I married. I did not even take property with them.”
“Still,” Goll insisted, “your situation is not quite what it was when Cormac was your father-in-law.”
An angry Finn consulted the local brehons, who confirmed what Goll had told him.
Ignoring them, he ordered the funeral games held in the names of both women.
When he was informed of this, Cormac refused to attend.
The High King had never acquired the soul-friend and confidante he had once envisioned, the position to which Finn had once aspired. It just never happened, the right man did not appear at the right time. He found no Cailte Mac Ronan to love him and trust him implicitly and guard his secrets, so over the years he had been forced to keep his own counsel. There were many matters he could not discuss beforehand with the brehons, for they must remain objective. And the men who were officially designated his counselors would, he had learned, say whatever they thought he wanted them to say.
So Cormac found himself considering this latest problem over Finn Mac Cool alone. At the bottom of the well of night.
“There has to be a point at which I stop giving in to Finn,” he said aloud as he sat on a bench staring into the banked fire in his firepit. His voice was pitched low so the many other occupants of his lodge could not hear him, but he found its human resonance gave him a certain comfort.
“This is that point,” he decided.
Later he would justify his decision to those around him by saying, “In the heel of the hunt, Finn shows his origins. He does not have the same innate sense of what is appropriate that a Milesian would. If he did, he would realize I cannot honour his other wife equally with my daughterânor should he do so. The very fact that he has developed outside the bounds of society and rank makes it all the more important that I, as king, uphold such values and set an example. Without a clear understanding of each person's place in the whole, Erin would disintegrate into chaos, with bondservants demanding to be treated like princes and no man certain of his honour price.”
His court, of course, agreed. “He is wise!” they said.
When Finn was told that the High King would not attend the funeral games, he took the news in a silence so cold, so furious, that the messenger turned heel and ran. The expression in Finn's eyes terrified him.
“The games proceed as planned,” Finn announced with no further comment. But as he strode through Almhain, people stayed out of his way.
Lugaid travelled to Finn's stronghold for the event, where he joined the other original companions, plus Red Ridge, to serve as judges of the games. He and the others exempted themselves only from those contests in which their sons were taking part. At the start of the games, there was considerable boasting and wagering by the various rÃgfénnidi, each man backing his own sons, but it soon became obvious who would do the most winning.
Finn did not act as a judge. He stood watching on the sidelines while Oisin won one competition after another.
The first man to congratulate him was always Diarmait.
“Was ever a young man so generous and so beautiful?” Donn asked the other spectators.
“He may not be able to defeat Oisin,” Blamec conceded, “but he's already made himself very popular.”
The women, watching, were of the same opinion.
When the games were concluded and the poets recited the last praise-poems in honour of Finn's dead wives, Finn sadly gathered their trinkets and treasures. Had either wife brought property to the marriage, he would under the law have been entitled to keep it now, but all that remained were their personal jewels and ornaments, their mirrors, their clothing, their jewelled cups, their looms and needles.
Manissa's things Finn returned to her family, together with a gift the equivalent of her father's honour price, quite astonishing the old chieftain.
But he sent nothing to Cormac Mac Airt.
They sat each on his respective hilltop, with a sea of anger between them.
“I fear you made a mistake,” Fiachaid told Cormac. “You appear to have alienated your commander. What if war breaks out? What ifâ”
“There is peace,” Cormac said firmly.
“This is Erin,” Fiachaid replied.
And so it was. The Ulidians broke the truce at midday on the longest day of the year, storming down from the north with painted faces and howls of fury to attack Tara in force.
Fiachaid, who had grown paunchy and forgotten his battle skills, found himself thrust unprepared into the heart of war, and without even waiting for Cormac's authorization, sent a desperate message south to Almhain. “Come to us!”
Finn sought out Cailte. “Walk with me.”
“Where?”
“Just ⦠out. Outside the walls. Under the sky.”
Leaving Almhain of the White Walls, they strolled out across bogland, drifting aimlessly while Finn's sentries stood at his gates, weapons at the ready, and waited. The FÃanna waited also.
Finn walked for a long time without speaking, but Cailte was a patient man. At last Finn said, “He insulted my wife, Cailte.”
“I don't think he meant to insult Manissa. I truly don't. Cormac isn't like that and you know it.”
“I wanted her to have the same honours Ailvi received.”
“And she did, you saw to it.”
“The Ard Rig himself should have wept over her!” Finn cried suddenly.
Cailte waited a moment before replying in a gentle voice, “You didn't.”
Finn turned toward him. “Didn't I? Just because you don't see my tears, Cailte, doesn't mean they are unshed. The bitterest weeping happens inside.”
Cailte changed the subject. “What will you do now? You command the FÃanna and the king has sent for you, for you and the army. Without you ⦔
Finn nodded. “Indeed. Without me ⦠Cormac knows that. He chose to forget it for a time, but now he remembers. I suspect that right this moment he wishes he'd come to the funeral games.”
“He was doing what he had to do, Finn. That's what it means to be the nobility.”
“How would you know?” Finn asked harshly.
“Because you've made us nobility too,” Cailte told him. “You've put
obligations on us we never had before, so I can recognize those on Cormac. And you can too, if you think about it.”
obligations on us we never had before, so I can recognize those on Cormac. And you can too, if you think about it.”
Finn gave the thin man a long, searching look. “And the obligations on myself,” he said at last. “I recognize those.”
He sighed, a sound dragged up from the bottom of his spirit. “It would be a good day to take the greyhounds and chase hares,” he said wistfully, his eyes sweeping the horizon. Then he turned around and set his face toward Almhain. “Come on, Cailte,” he said in a changed voice. “We're needed.”
Before the sun set, Finn and his men were armed, organized, and on their way to Tara.
Oisin and Diarmait were aglow with excitement. “This will be our first really big battle!” they told each other repeatedly as they trotted among the other fénnidi, spears in hand. The time had come to kill and be killed; to live and know that you were alive, because you could so quickly die.
The two young men tingled with the knowledge, like wine coursing in their blood.
In an unprecedented move, Finn kept his warriors traveling through the night. They reached Tara in time to be guided by the glow of Ulidian campfires ringing the ridge and its stronghold.
The very sight brought back Finn's youth in a flood. All the old dreams of triumph and glory, the old joy of being responsible for the king's safety. He forgot his quarrel with Cormac as if it had never been. Compared to the sight of hostile campfires, it seemed no more than the squabbling of two birds over one nest.
The war drums were silenced by Finn's order; he wanted to surprise the enemy. But he could feel the drumbeat anyway, coming up his spine from his groin, into his heart, into his brain.
He reined in his horse and gave her to a horseboy to hold. “Don't let her whinny,” he cautioned. “Pinch her nostrils ⦠like this.” He started forward on foot.
The FÃanna followed.
By Finn's order, they separated into different streams that snaked across the plain of MÃd, seeking to encircle the Ulaid. “Are we going to attack them in the dark, do you think?” Diarmait whispered excitedly to Oisin.
“I'd say not. There's no style in that, it wouldn't be fair to them. They have to have a chance to fight back or when we win, it will be a pitiful victory at best.”
Diarmait nodded, understanding. He was about to become part of the legend; everything must be done right.
Because Finn had summoned them to attend the funeral games and
do honour to his wives, the majority of the FÃanna had been encamped beyond the Hill of Almhain when Cormac was attacked. Ordinarily, Finn might have had to summon them from the four corners of Erin, but the timing was fortuitousâfor him, not for the enemy. He was bringing a total of more than three thousand warriors to hurl against the northern insurrection.
do honour to his wives, the majority of the FÃanna had been encamped beyond the Hill of Almhain when Cormac was attacked. Ordinarily, Finn might have had to summon them from the four corners of Erin, but the timing was fortuitousâfor him, not for the enemy. He was bringing a total of more than three thousand warriors to hurl against the northern insurrection.
“I suspect,” Finn had remarked to Cailte, “that the Ulidian princes heard through their spies that Cormac and I were, ah, not as close as we once were and thought it an ideal time to try to regain Tara.” He smiled thinly. “Their spies did them a disservice.”
The might of the FÃanna silently surrounded the encamped Ulidian forces during the night, careful that no twig snapped under any Fénian foot to give them away. Then they waited.
Battle broke with the dawn. The first Ulidian sentry to realize he was looking not at a forest of trees but a forest of men gave an alarmed shriek, but it was too late. The FÃanna were upon them.
The war cries could be heard at the gates of Tara.
Diarmait and Oisin were in the front rank of the warriors. Holding their shields in front of their bodies, they raced forward screaming. Everyone was screaming. Battle was cacophony. Cries of rage drowned howls of painâat first.
Finn's choice of weapon was no longer the shortsword, but the latest in a series of greatswords first forged by Lochan the smith. Finn's own smith at Almhain made them now. Son of the Waves had been precisely shaped to Lochan's original model, however.
With two hands firmly grasping its massive hilt, Finn began hacking his way through the ranks of the Ulaid. A shieldbearer ran beside him, holding up the Storm Shield to protect Finn as much as possible, for a man wielding a two-handed sword could hardly manipulate a shield as well.
Only Finn's original companions carried greatswords, a symbol of status. Everyone else, including Oisin and Diarmait, used the shorter blade, and privately they assured each other that it was a much more modern design.
“You!” Oisin was now screaming at every man he attacked with his sword. “You! You! You!”
He had been well trained. His blade flashed in the light of the rising sun until it was too bloody to reflect light at all. The Ulidians carried yew-wood shields bound in bronze, hard to damage, but Finn's warriors had been taught numerous ways of going over or around such shieldsâand under them when all else failed, attacking the genitals, though that was not considered good style.
Afire with youth, Oisin felt as if his sword were wielding him rather
than the other way around. He had no sense of time passing He fought. Men fell. It was glorious. Diarmait fought with equal brilliance, clearing a space around himself, as Finn Mac Cool was doing elsewhere.
than the other way around. He had no sense of time passing He fought. Men fell. It was glorious. Diarmait fought with equal brilliance, clearing a space around himself, as Finn Mac Cool was doing elsewhere.
Finn was seeking the commander of the Ulaid. He would he recognizable by his face-paint. The Ulidian had never abandoned the old wild custom, or begun identifying themselves in the Milesian style, with banners. Only their commander would wear the sun's colour on his face, however.
The Rigfennid FÃanna had a sun-gold banner.
Gold met gold as the sun gleamed golden on the thatched roofs of Tara.
The Ulidian commander had a name Finn knew but chose not to remember. He had a face Finn had seen gilded by firelight at friendly feasts, and hands that had shared meat and fruit in the Banquetting Hall at Tara. Now he was simply The Enemy. He could not be considered in any other way.
Finn looked at the face-paint and not at the man behind it, and with one terrible, angled downstroke of his two-handed greatsword, tore open the man's body from heart to groin.
Blood geysered. Intestines erupted from the body cavity like huge glistening worms.
The Ulidian gave a frightful groan and clutched at his belly. He staggered forward. Finn stepped back to give him room to fall, which he did, when the combination of pain and shock reached his brain. He was cut almost in half.
It had been an awesome blow, forcing the already battle-blunted iron sword blade through highly resistant skin and tough muscle fibers to grate, ultimately, on bone. It was the sort of blow a man might manage once in a battle without doing his own shoulders and back muscles damage.
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