Finn Mac Cool (7 page)
Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
“Not enough,” responded Finn in that flat voice Huamor was beginning to know.
“Two, then,” the chieftain said irritably, switching his scowl from Iruis to Finn.
“Not enough.”
Iruis laughed. “At last! Someone who appreciates my worth!”
Huamor rounded on his son. “You stay out of this! If you hadn't gone up on Black Head on your own like a careless cowherd ⦔ In exasperation he began grabbing cups and thrusting them at Finn until the other announced, “That's enough, Huamor. Don't impoverish yourself. Just give us a sack to carry this lot in, and we're gone.”
“Listen here to me, Finn,” Iruis said. “If you ever return to the Burren, remember my promise of hospitality.”
“Have nothing to do with these people,” a bitter Huamor advised his son. “They're little better than robbers themselves.”
“It's an honest debt, Father. If we weren't so tightfisted with Ceth and his people, perhaps theyâ”
“That's enough!” Huamor snapped.
Leaving the lodge, Finn and his men stepped into clamping cold. Spiteful clouds lurked above the Barren. A clatter of sleet mixed with rain passed over them, dwindled, promised to come again.
Red Ridge ran after them. “Wait, Finn!”
Finn paused just inside the gate. “What is it?”
“I can't leave here until after Lannat's wedding in the spring, but then I want to join the FÃanna. If I come to you, will you train me?”
“I don't know where I'll be. If Feircus is dead, everything's changed.”
“Wherever you are, I'll find you. There may be another king at Tara,
but whoever he is, he'll want an army, and you'll be with them. Will you take me?”
but whoever he is, he'll want an army, and you'll be with them. Will you take me?”
Finn's eyes warmed. “If I'm alive and if I'm still in the FÃanna, I will.”
Satisfied, Red Ridge turned and trotted back to the lodge. Finn and his men set off eastward. Lugaid carried a woollen bag clanking with silver cups. Occasionally he opened the neck of the bag and peered inside, just to assure himself they were still there.
Wind beat against their backs, which were protected by the shields slung over their shoulders. They marched stolidly, ignoring cold and discomfort.
Goll moved closer to Finn. “Would you really have used your sword on Huamor?” he wondered aloud.
“I had no intention of letting him hold us.”
“But he's a chieftain, Finn.”
“A chieftain pledged to Feircus, who is reputedly dead. Where does that leave Huamor? If I killed him, who'd punish me? The more important question is, who killed Feircus?”
Goll rubbed the scarred skin of his forehead, massaging the numbed, puckered flesh between thumb and forefinger. After all these years he still could not accept the lack of sensation, but must pinch and pull at his face, trying to force life to return to nerves long dead. “I don't know, Finn. It could have been anyone. There was bad feeling over the Ulaid taking control of Tara. And Feircus's men made matters worse, swanning around the place and insisting that Ulidia was so much better than any other part of Erin. Feircus did the same. He made a lot of enemies in a short time.”
“Including you?”
“I wouldn't call myself his enemy.”
“Though he stripped you of command of the FÃanna?”
“It was inevitable he'd want one of his own to lead the army.”
“If Feircus really is dead, Goll, that could mean there'll be another commander needed.”
Goll almost smiled. “Perhaps Feircus was killed by some of my old friends who were loyal to the Son of the Wolf. If that's the situation, I could be RÃgfénnid FÃanna again myself.” But he said it without real hope.
He trudged along in silence for a time, feeling his age. Then he spoke again. “Tell me something, Finn. When we get to Tara, will you give those silver cups to the king no matter who he may be?”
He's testing me, Finn thought. Goll likes to play games. Any answer might be the wrong answer.
Making sure Goll noticed, Finn put his thumb in his mouth. Wearing an intent expression, he chewed on it for a while. When he withdrew it,
he promptly asked Goll, as if the question had been suggested to him, “What would you do?”
he promptly asked Goll, as if the question had been suggested to him, “What would you do?”
Goll started to answer, hesitated, inhaled, drawing back his reply for rethinking.
Finn Mac Cool was a riddle Goll had yet to solve, a game whose rules he did not yet understand.
There was no doubt he was an exceptional athlete. He'd proved it once to join the FÃanna, and again to qualify as an officer. He was intelligent as wellâand surprisingly adept at poetry. He could not only recite the twelve basic poems required for initiation into the FÃanna, he could also compose poetry, which none of the others attempted to do.
Finn Mac Cool was suspended between two contradictory aspects. Warrior and poet. Could a man be both?
And what sort of man would he be?
In the time Goll had been observing Finn with more than casual interest, he had seen him go from merry youth to cold, hard man and back again in the flick of an eye. Finn was deadly with his weapons, but would stop in the middle of a march to stare in delight at a cloud formation. What did that mean?
This latest ploy of his with the thumb might be just a gambit to lay claim to more wisdom than he possessed.
Or it mightâjust mightâbe a demonstration of magic.
Goll did not want to believe it was magic. He did not want to believe in anything other than himself and his weapons. But he had lived his life in Erin and had seen magic before.
“What would I do?” he repeated, stalling for time. It would be dangerous to lie if Finn had access to the truth. “Let me tell you something, Finn. Do you know why I'm still alive? When Feircus overthrew the Son of the Wolf, he could have had me killed. As your father was killed.”
Finn nodded expressionlessly.
“In Erin,” Goll went on, “loyalty has always gone to the man. I broke the pattern. When Feircus seized the kingship, I went to him straightaway, hard though it was for me, and declared my loyalty to the kingship itself. No matter who held it.”
“Did he believe you?” Finn asked with a slight smile.
“He must have done, he let me live. He demoted me, but at least I can still hunt and lie with women and play chess. If I'd been a bold lad your age, I might have done something rash. But I kept my head, in more ways than one.
“That's why I complimented you for having an old head on young shoulders. You're being equally wise, breaking the cycle of vengeance. Any other man would have sought the blood of Clan Morna to pay for Cuhal's blood, but ⦔ Goll stopped talking. There had been no change
of expression on Finn's face, yet something had altered. Perhaps the set of his shoulders. Perhaps the air that surrounded him. Something had changed. Dangerously.
of expression on Finn's face, yet something had altered. Perhaps the set of his shoulders. Perhaps the air that surrounded him. Something had changed. Dangerously.
Goll swiftly moved the conversation back to the original point. “To answer your question, Finn, I would hand over that silver to whoever holds Tara now and pledge loyalty to the kingship. In just those words.”
Finn put his thumb back in his mouth and assumed a listening expression. After a while, he said, “Let's see who the king is first, shall we?”
They travelled by alternately walking and running. Fénnidi walked by swinging their legs from the hip with minimal bending of the knee, and when they ran, they used a ground-eating trot they could maintain for half a day at a time. Their ability to cover distances was legendary.
Ordinarily they would have sung while walking. People thrilled to the sound of the male music of passing companies of the FÃanna chanting paeans to heroism and freedom. Such lusty songs played no small part in encouraging new recruits. But today no one felt like singing. They were edgy, uncertain. Conversation was desultory.
“Finn,” Goll mused, “did it ever occur to you that Huamor might have known in advance someone would try to overthrow Feircus? His problem with the outlaws could have been just an excuse he used to get some of the FÃanna in his possession. Pawns to enhance his prestige with whoever won Tara. A clever move, that.”
Finn was taken aback. The possibility had not occurred to him. “Could be,” he said noncommittally.
He began subtly edging away from Goll. The older man's experienced cynicism made him feel raw, unfinished, his youth and bravado no match for years of successful games-playing on the twin battlefields of war and politics. Finn knew he needed Goll Mac Morna. But he was not comfortable with him. Goll had once been RÃgfénnid FÃanna and would, in Finn's mind, forever wear an invisible but disquieting mantle of authority.
Shadowed by his hounds, Finn drifted across the line of march until he fell into step beside Lugaid instead. “Run now,” he ordered.
The fÃan sped across an Erin divided into countless clan holdings occupied by extended families. The clan chieftains paid tribute in the form of goods and services to a
rÃg tuatha,
or tribal king, who was responsible for a confederation of several clans. Such responsibility was based partly on blood and kinship, but largely on territory. There were almost two hundred tribal kings. Some tribes were subordinate to others, but all owed tribute to their provincial kings. The west was ruled by a Connachta overlord; the Erainn held Muma in the south; the king of the Ulaid dominated the north; the east was under the control of the Laigin.
rÃg tuatha,
or tribal king, who was responsible for a confederation of several clans. Such responsibility was based partly on blood and kinship, but largely on territory. There were almost two hundred tribal kings. Some tribes were subordinate to others, but all owed tribute to their provincial kings. The west was ruled by a Connachta overlord; the Erainn held Muma in the south; the king of the Ulaid dominated the north; the east was under the control of the Laigin.
The central province of Mid was ruled from Tara ever since Conn of the Hundred Battles, originally a Connachta prince, had established himself there and attempted to claim sovereignty over and tribute from all other kings. Such a claim was, of course, frequently disputed down the years.
Warriors of the FÃanna were drawn from subjugated tribes. Both Clan Baiscne and Clan Morna had long since been conquered and forced into submission, and were now a source of spear carriers for dominant warlords. The most that men of such clans could hope for was to rise to position of importance within the army, as they were shut out of the ruling class.
When a man was initiated into the FÃanna, his clan loyalties were transferred to his rÃgfénnid, and through him to the RÃgfénnid FÃanna and the king. This placed the FÃanna beyond the bounds of structured society. Many considered them outcasts; they preferred to think of themselves as possessing a unique freedom. No longer subject to familial obligations, they ranged Erin as nomads, answerable only to their officers and king.
To reach Tara, Finn and his men would climb hills rounded like the backs of crouching beasts, force their way through almost impenetrable forests, traverse fertile valleys jealously guarded from sprawling hill forts. squelch through sodden emerald moss, wade glittering, peaty streams, subsist on their own hunting and foraging, and endure whatever weather they met.
“It's stopped raining!” Cael rejoiced.
“That only means it will begin again,” Conan grumbled.
When they camped for the night, Finn slept a little apart from the others, If he cried in his sleepâas he sometimes did he wanted no one to know.
The next day, a reluctant ferryman was forcibly reminded that it was a privilege to pole members of the FÃanna across the Shannon. Donn's knife pressed gently against his throat proved quite persuasive.
Once across the great river, they set off northward along its bank. meaning to intersect the Tara bound road that ran close by the Hill of Uisneach. they had been following the river for some time when Finn halted abruptly. “What's that sound?”
The others paused to listen to a muffled, repetitive thud up ahead. “It's as rhythmic as a drumbeat,” murmured Lugaid, intrigued. “Some thing man-made. I'd say.”
“Whoever it is,” Cailte remarked, “I hope they have some food on them!”
Weapons at the ready, they advanced. The path had grown wider and was now deeply rutted with cart tracks that made walking difficult. At a
signal from Finn, his men fanned out to advance on either side of the trackway itself, shouldering their way through encroaching undergrowth, their eyes constantly darting.
signal from Finn, his men fanned out to advance on either side of the trackway itself, shouldering their way through encroaching undergrowth, their eyes constantly darting.
Lugaid found himself bobbing his head in rhythm with the strange beat they were following.
The riverbank led them around a forested spur of land, and an unexpected vista opened before them. Tucked into the bend of the river like an infant in the curve of its mother's arm was a man-made structure of unfamiliar design, but obviously the source of the sound. It was a timber building, almost square, erected upon a foundation of boulders fitted against timber pilings sunk deep into the mud of the riverbed.
The thudding sound was not so muffled now. Accompanied by a curious hiss and slap, it echoed along the waterway.
“Did you ever hear anything like that before?” Finn asked Goll.
“Never. Be ready; it could be danger.”
Finn grinned. “Is that a promise?”
When they were but a few paces from the building, a door opened and a man stepped out. He was dressed in the simplest long tunic and woven mantle, but around his waist was a swath of cloth in the pattern favoured by the inhabitants of Alba. As soon as he spoke, his accent confirmed his foreign origins.
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