Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Finn Mac Cool (45 page)
Finn had been known to do it four times in one day, but that day was far in the past. As the Ulidians fell, spasming in his death throes, agony flamed through his killer's body.
Finn gasped for breath and almost dropped the sword. His shieldbearer reached out to steady him, but he brushed the man aside. Shaking his head defiantly, he blinked back pain. Something was torn somewhere, back near his shoulder blades. He could feel his fingers going cold.
“Gutting this one's ruined my blade,” he croaked to his shieldbearer. “Needs a new edge.” He managed to give the man the sword just before he lost the ability to grasp anything with his rapidly numbing hands.
“I'll see to it and get you another.”
“Don't think I'll need another,” Finn replied thankfully.
As was customary with battles in Erin, when a leader fell, his men were swiftly disheartened. Ulidians who saw their commander receive his fatal wound shouted the news over their shoulders so it spread rapidly to the outer fringe of the fighting. The northerners either surrendered on the spot or turned and ran.
The battle was over before the Ulidian leader's dying organs had finished gurgling.
Goll Mac Morna joined Finn to stand looking down at the ruin of a man. “You're as fast as ever, I see. Well done, this. The blow would have cut the side off a wild boar.”
“Enough style for you?” Finn asked through gritted teeth. He was determined that Goll should not know what it had cost him.
“Brilliant. I used to do it myself.”
“But you can't now.”
Goll's lips tightened. “I can't now.”
Something of the old merry spirit leaped in Finn's eyes. He took a step closer to his longtime rival. “I'll tell you something,” he said in a voice pitched for Goll's ears alone. “Neither can I. This is my last one.”
Before he could stop himself, Goll gave Finn a look of comradely understanding
Runners were dispatched to search the area and bring Finn the names of the slain. The FÃanna had come so quickly there had been no time to bring women for tending the wounded, so anyone not able to walk would have to be carried back to Tara on a litter by his uninjured companions. Finn, hiding the fact of his own injury, walked around the battlefield assessing the damage done to his men. His hands hung at his sides, but no one noticed.
He was relieved to hear that Oisin was uninjured, though he tried to keep his face impassive. “Donn's son Diarmait has received a blow to the head, however,” the runner reported.
Finn went personally to check on young Diarmait's wound, since Donn was off somewhere on the far side of the battlefield and did not yet know of it. He found Diarmait and Oisin together beside a small stream. Blood from a dead warrior was staining the water farther down, but Oisin knelt on the bank above it and tore a strip of his princely linen tunic to use for bathing his friend's wound.
Diarmait had taken a nasty cut to his cheek, close to his mouth, rather than the head injury Finn had feared.
“There's your beauty spoiled,” Oisin was telling him laughingly as he wiped away the blood.
Finn crouched on his heels to inspect the injury, being careful not to bend his back. “Perhaps not,” he told Diarmait. “It isn't deep.”
“There'll be a scar.”
“Och, there are always scars,” Finn assured the youngsters. “Scars are a warrior's beauty marks.”
True to Finn's words, when the scar healed, it drew up one corner of Diarmait's mouth in the faintest hint of a mysterious smile. Women ever after would find it irresistible.
THE VICTORIOUS FÃANNA RAN ROARING TOWARD TARA, waving their weapons aloft and shouting Cormac's name.
He met them in the open gateway.
The Ard Rig, nowâand for a whiteâundisputed High King of the kings of Erin, was splendidly attired and gleaming with gold ornaments. At his shoulder stood his eldest son, a youngster just entering manhood, who rejoiced in the name of Cairbre Mac Cormac. The boy wore almost as much gold as his father and stood as tall, as handsome.
He had, however, his mother's eyes. Like Ethni the Proud, he disliked seeing honours go elsewhere. He watched with unspoken jealousy as men and women swarmed forward to praise Finn Mac Cool.
“Cormac sometimes treats Finn like his own son,” Ethni had said more than once to Cairbre as the boy was growing up. “Watch that he doesn't get what should be yours.”
Cairbre was watching now, through narrowed eyes.
In the light of Finn's impressive victory, Cormac could hardly be less than gracious, even effusive. Whatever rancour had lain between them must be forgotten. Finn had never betrayed him, he had to admit honestly to himself. Indeed, Finn had come to him and fought for him when he could just as easily have kept the FÃanna at Almhain. and let the Ulaid seize Tara, then sold his services to them. He had made the FÃanna strong enough to be an independent force. And whoever had the FÃanna, had Tara.
Cairbre watched as Finn was shown to the place of honour second only to the king's in the hall. Finn sat down carefully, refusing to wince in spite of the pain of torn back muscles. Later he would have the king's physician, Eogan, look at them. For now, he just wanted to enjoy his triumph. He did not notice the hard stare the king's oldest son was giving him.
But Goll did. With only one eye, Goll Mac Morna saw more than many men with two. He edged closer to the young man to take a good look at him, measuring him as he would measure an opponent over his shield. Cairbre had his father's sharply moulded, aristocratic features and deep-set eyes. There was something a little weak in the shape of his mouth, however; something a little petulant in the jut of his chin.
Goll concluded Cairbre might be more easily manipulated than Cormac Mac Airt. “It's a grand victory,” he said aloud in a conversational tone. “It's a pity Finn claims all the glory for himself, though.”
Cairbre turned to look at him. “What does that mean?”
“Och, nothing. He's always been like that. He's of Clan Baiscne, you know, and they're a greedy lot. It Finn has his way, this won't be remembered as a victory for Cormac at all, but for Finn and his FÃanna. The High King will be lucky if his name is mentioned by the poets.”
“But the FÃanna is my father's army!” Cairbre protested.
Goll allowed himself the slightest sneer, an expression made sinister by his scars. “It's Finn's army. Ask your father, he knows. When Clan Morna led the FÃanna, things were different, of course. My men and I always gave our total loyalty to the kingship.
“If you ever succeed your father as High King, young Cairbre, you might want to keep that in mind. You'd be better served with officers of Clan Morna.”
Then, before Cairbre could do too much thinking or ask too many questions, Goll changed the subject. The youth could brood on this in private. The seed had been sown. Smiling at Cairbre, Goll enquired, “Are you a good games-player, by the way? I happen to possess the Gold and Silver Chess SetâI'm sure you've heard of it. Now that we're in for a season of peace, apparently, I would enjoy a game or two with you.”
Cairbre was startled, and then flattered that a man of Goll's generation was making such an offer. “I would like that myself,” he said.
Finn Mac Cool had never paid much attention to Cairbre.
Finn was, even now, smiling at his son Oisin, and Cormac Mac Airt was positively beaming on both of them.
Cairbre observed this, then stared into his cup. My father is too impressed with Finn, he thought.
It was only much later, as he lay in his bed too tired to fall asleep, that Goll Mac Morna thought over his conversation with the king's son and asked himself a question: why did I do that?
Does the habit of playing games for the sake of playing games never die?
The celebration lasted for days. Finn graciously accepted the accolades heaped upon him, not once mentioning the recent coolness between himself and Cormac. But there was one thing he never forgot.
“You aren't husband to the High King's daughter anymore,” Goll had told him.
“You aren't husband to the High King's daughter anymore,” Goll had told him.
The terrible drive to achieve that had characterized Finn's earlier career had abated with the loss of Sive and the establishment of the FÃanna in its final form. He could have accepted the diminished status implied in Goll's remarkâhad it not been for Oisin.
For Oisin's sake, Finn wanted everything.
For Sive's son.
There must be no loss of prestige.
He waited until he knew Cormac had reached the maximum mellowness of mood, with just enough mead in his belly and just enough rich food slowing his thought processes. Then, on the third night of the celebratory feasting, Finn leaned across to the king and said quietly, “Both my contract wives are dead, you know.”
Cormac frowned. Is he going to start in on me about not attending the funeral games?
But instead, Finn said, “Such a loss has been terrible for me, of course. I need a new wife, would you not agree?”
With a sense of relief, Cormac nodded. “I would of course.”
“An appropriate wife. Someone you would approve of, to enhance the position of your RÃgfénnid FÃanna.”
“Indeed.” Cormac took another drink from his cup and held it up for refilling. “Indeed.”
“Then I ask for another of your daughters, since we are agreed,” replied Finn Mac Cool with a radiant smile.
Cormac almost dropped his cup.
His gesture was so unexpected that the servant pouring the mead poured it down his arm instead.
Cormac jumped to his feet, shaking his sodden sleeve. Finn continued to sit smiling on his bench. There was a flurry of excitement as servants ran in every direction, finding cloths to mop the king with, bringing more mead. Cormac resumed his seat, but not his serenity.
“Are you serious?” he demanded of Finn.
“I am of course. Would I joke about women? Cael Hundred-Killer was our prankster,” Finn added with a touch of sadness in his voice that disconcerted Cormac, recalling yet another loss the commander had suffered. “I do think,” Finn went on, “that since I was married once to the High King's daughter, I can hardly marry a woman of lower rank now. How would it look? And you do have so many daughters,” he added truthfully.
Cormac Mac Airt had a well-earned and cherished reputation for wisdom. It was only in combat with Finn Mac Cool that he doubted
himself. Finn was surely not as intelligent as a prince of the Milesian raceâyet somehow he won. He always won.
himself. Finn was surely not as intelligent as a prince of the Milesian raceâyet somehow he won. He always won.
Cormac shook his head, trying to clear it of the golden lustre produced by too much mead. He wanted to think sharply and clearly. But there had been three long days and longer nights of celebrating, celebrations that included the captured officers of the Ulaid, as was traditional. Everyone had drunk and eaten and sung too much, and shouted too much, and enjoyed too much. Thoughts were no longer clear and sharp. Wise arguments and clever rebuttals did not leap to the tongue.
Cormac found himself trying to remember if Finn had refilled his cup as often as the rest of them.
“My men have claimed the Ulidian weapons abandoned on the battlefield,” Finn reminded the king in a calm, relentless voice, “but I have asked for no reward for myself. Nothing at all.” The thought lay unspoken on the air between themâI did not have to come and fight for you this time.
Honour compelled Cormac's reply. “I shall give you whatever you think appropriate as a reward.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I take it, that means my daughter.”
“If you have a daughter who is willing to marry me.”
“What if I don't?”
Finn's smile was as guileless as a child's. “Surely you have some influence with your daughters, Cormac?”
How does he do this to me? wondered Cormac Mac Airt.
By the light of the following day, the king surveyed his unwed daughters. They were a comely lot. Ethni had borne many girl children, but the loveliest of all was Carnait's daughter, the one called Grania.
Cormac looked at her, went on, came back to her. She had her mother's slightly exotic cast of feature, with tilted eyes and a creamy, poreless skin. Carnait had made Cormac happy. Perhaps her daughter would do the same for Finn.
If Finn is happy, the king told himself, he might be less of a thorn in my foot.
Cormac broached the question tactfully but got no response. Grania did not seem interested.
He spoke to her mother. “Finn wants a daughter of mine as wife, Carnait, and for various reasons, I need to give him what he wants. Our Grania is perfect for him in my judgment. Can you not bring a mother's influence to bear on her? Remember, it was through Finn's intercession that the mill down below was built and you ceased being Ethni's grinding-woman.”
Carnait could hardly argue. She spoke long and earnestly to Grania,
who at last approached the king. “I'll talk with Finn Mac Cool,” the girl agreed. “But if he doesn't please me, I won't marry him!”
who at last approached the king. “I'll talk with Finn Mac Cool,” the girl agreed. “But if he doesn't please me, I won't marry him!”
Cormac was relieved. “That goes without saying, and he knows it.”
He offered them the use of the House of the King for their first interview. Servants were ordered to keep out of sight. A huge fire was built in the central firepit, every bench was hand-rubbed to be certain there were no splinters, and cups of both mead and wine were poured out and left waiting beside platters heaped with apples.
Grania, attired in her second-best dress, waited for the RÃgfénnid FÃanna with barely concealed impatience, tapping her foot and taking one bite out of every apple. None of them were sweet enough.
When Finn arrived at the House of the King, he paused for a moment in the open doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the change in light. Against a rectangle of sunny sky, he stood in huge silhouette, his silvery hair like a crown.
Grania stopped chewing her apple.
He strode into the room. The light of fire and lamp and candle was kind to a face scored by weather and war and the pillage of seasons.
As Finn looked down at Grania, sitting on her bench and staring up at him with a bulge in her cheek from uneaten fruit, he was struck by the difference in their ages. She was hardly more than a child.
But she was very pretty, as pretty as Carnait had been when she first attracted the High King's attention.
It was almost too much to hope that Carnait's daughter would prove to be an intelligent companion as well.
“What do you know of me?” Finn asked the girl.
She gave a couple of quick chews, swallowed the apple. “My father says you're his sword arm.” She peered up at him; her eyes were slightly tilted, a pale grey-green. “Who do you say you are?” she asked disconcertingly.
Finn was pleased. She was quick. On long winter nights he would not be bored. “I'm a warrior,” he told Grania. “And a poet. And commander of the FÃanna. And a man with no wife. And possessor of a fine fort on a hill, and enormous prestige.”
“All of that? How impressive.”
He could not tell if she was really impressed or not. Her young face was as bland as the surface of an apple. She studied her fingertips, dyed with berry juice, then looked back up at Finn. “And are you a skillful lover?”
He was disconcerted. “I know how to pleasure a woman,” he replied gruffly. He undertook to sit down beside her and put an arm around her by way of a beginning. But when he raised his arm and tried to encircle
her with it, the pain of damaged muscles ripped along his nerve endings. He could not complete the gesture.
her with it, the pain of damaged muscles ripped along his nerve endings. He could not complete the gesture.
She felt him hesitate and gave him a sharp look. Seen up close, his face was older somehow, with lines of tension around the eyes and mouth.
Finn forced himself to clasp Crania with his arm. The pain was intense. “It will pass in a few days if you keep hot compresses on your back,” Eogan had told him, but the injury was taking longer to heal than he had anticipated. In his youth, he had seemed to heal almost overnight.
He must not be old and crippled with this young one.
He squeezed her, hard. “I can give you all the pleasure you can stand.” he said.
In his youth, he would not have been so blunt. He would have used poetic phrases; he would have tried to read her eyes and see what she responded to, as he had always done with Sive. But seasons had passed and he was no longer young. He was impatient, and in pain.
“If you don't give me sufficient pleasure,” Crania reminded him, “under the law, I can seek it with another man.”
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