The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (20 page)

Cennedig frowned. There was a truth in what Brónach said. For he knew that, having seized power with the aid of Sitric, he might find it difficult to dislodge Sitric and the men of
Lochlann from demanding a share in the spoils of Mumhan.

“I shall indeed ask Sitric to depart in peace from this land,” agreed Cennedig. “Before I do so, you must all agree that I may put my foot on the stone of destiny, so that it
may roar its greeting to me as rightful king. If you agree that I may eat of the flesh of the sacred mare, so that the royal line may be continued, I shall ask Sitric to depart.”

There was a muttering among the assembled chiefs and then a woman’s voice rang out across the assembly place.

“If you touch the sacred stone of inauguration, it will scream out that you are a false king. If you bite into the flesh of the scared mare, you will vomit, for you
are unworthy. You are a traitor king.”

Fidelma, princess of the Eóghanachta, came forward to challenge Cennedig.

“Silence, woman!” roared Cennedig. “You have no right to speak here.”

“Every right to speak. For I speak with the blood of the Eóghanachta!”

When Cennedig’s warriors began to move forward, the chiefs rose up and surrounded her protectively.

“She has the right, Dál gCais,” cried Brónach. “A right you would know, if you were an Eóghanacht.”

Fidelma raised her chin and stared haughtily at Cennedig. “I repeat that you are a false king.” She turned to the chieftains. “There is one here that bears rightful descent
from the line of Corc and him you must choose as your king, if you would rid yourself of the jealousies of the Dál gCais and the foreigners of Lochlann.”

“Name him!” cried one of the chieftains.

“Let us hear his claim!” yelled another.

The assembly of chiefs began to bang their swords on their shields. Then the Princess Fidelma called forth her son. Cellachain came, surrounded by the three champions of the
Eóghanachta.

“State your claim!” roared the chiefs.

“I am Cellachain, son of Buadachán, son of Lachtnae, son of Artgal, son of Snédgus, son of Donngal, son of Fáelgus, son of Nad Fraích, son of Colgú who
was king at Cashel and of the line of Corc.”

“That is better qualification than Cennedig,” agreed Brónach. “The line that has been recited is that of a true heir of Eóghan Mór!”

Then, with stamping feet and the banging of their swords on their shields, the chiefs called for Cellachain to be their king.

In anger, Cennedig of the Dál gCais had departed from the assembly with his men, saying that the Dál gCais would not recognise any Eóghanachta king.

Now, the stone of destiny on which Cellachain had to set his foot was at Cashel and nothing could be done until the men of Lochlann were dislodged from the Rock.

As for the flesh of the mare, a young girl brought the bowl to Prince Cellachain and held it out to him.

Cellachain took it and held it up so that all might see. Then he chanted ancient words:

And the battle cries of the Eóghanachta rang out and swords beat on shields.

Then Cellachain lowered his eyes and they met the sea-green eyes of the young girl attending him. He saw that she was beautiful and even Áine, goddess of love, nor Deirdriu, nor
Étain, nor Gráinne could have such beauty to compare to hers. Then she lowered her eyes and was lost among the cheering chieftains.

Time was given over to a great festival, whereby Cellachain was given the royal diadem of Mumhan. He swore allegiance to safeguard the people of his kingdom. His great champions came before him
–
Donnchadh, Suilleabhán and Rígbaddán.

Then Cellachain said to his people that the time had come to chase out the Dál gCais from their great fortress at Luimneach, the bare area, which is now called Limerick. Once they had
defeated the Dál gCais, they could turn on
Cashel and drive the men of Lochlann forth. As they made ready for battle, Cellachain turned to his mother, the Princess
Fidelma, and asked quietly:

“That young girl who brought me the sacred flesh of the mare . . . I would know her name, mother.”

Fidelma smiled knowingly. “A wise thing to know her name, o king, my son. For she is Mór, daughter of Aedh Mac Eochaidh, of the line of Bressal. It has been prophesied that his
progeny will be kings at Cashel.”

“Who prophesied that?” demanded her son.

“None other than Áine, the goddess of love and divine patroness of the Eóghanachta. She made this promise to the fiery Aedh, father of Mór. As Mór is his only
child, whoever marries her will sire the kings at Cashel.”

So Cellachain went to battle with a happy spirit. For he was in love with Mór and swore he would make her his queen.

He had his warriors march on Luimneach where the Dál gCais king, Cennedig, stood ready with his men. The Eóghanacht were in good voice. They sang a war song as they marched towards
the city.

The élite warriors bands of Cellachain advanced, surrounding their king, their standards flying, their phalanx of blue blades, golden collars and
shields flashing. Against them stood the hordes of Dál gCais and with them, shield to shield, stood the men of Lochlann, led by Sitric’s warlord, Amhlaibh and his sons, Morann and
Magnus. They were all battle-hardened champions of the long ships of Lochlann. With their mail coats and long shields, the warriors of Lochlann took a heavy toll on the linen-tunic champions of the
Eóghanachta.

Blood stained the field and the sky became grey-red as the men of Mumhan staggered under the blows of the battle-axes. The day could have been lost, but the bright-headed Cellachain rode down on
the enemy with his great sword, and when he reached Amhlaibh of the Hosts, he split the champion of Lochlann’s war-bonnet with one wild stroke, leaving the man bare-headed on the field.

A great shout went up among the Eóghanachta and Suilleabhán, with one hundred and fifty brave champions, cleaved a path to their Cellachain’s side. Suilleabhán smote
Amhlaibh dead. Then Morann and Magnus in battle fury came at him and there stood Donnchadh and Rígbaddán, shield and sword in their path.

Rígbaddán gave a shout of joy and, sword beating on his shield, he composed the following song:

Morann and Magnus fell and Cennedig fled to Cashel to seek safety with Sitric and his Lochlann men.

Meanwhile, on the gentle banks of the Suir, the lovely Mór, the tall one, daughter of Aedh of the fire, was bathing. She had offered up prayers that Cellachain of Cashel might return
safely, for to him she had secretly given her heart and determined to be his joyous queen, in victory or in defeat.

She heard the soft meowing of a cat. When she peered up from her bathing, she saw a large black cat sitting on the bank.

“Who do you love, Mór?” the cat asked.

Frowning, the girl swam to the side of the bank and looked at the animal. “A strange thing is it that you, a cat, should be talking and asking such a question,” she observed.

“A stranger thing if I do not, for I am Áine, your guardian in love.”

Then Mór smiled warmly. “If that is so, it is a strange disguise you have put on yourself. And if so, then I may tell you it is the bright-headed one that I love.”

“Then you shall be at his side, in victory or in his defeat.”

Along the broad river, there came a boat and the cat leapt onto its prow. “If you truly love Cellachain of Cashel, climb in and follow me.”

So Mór, full of happiness, went into the boat with the cat. A great mist came down and the boat sped away along the River Suir. And the cat began to sing:

In spite of herself, Mór found herself lulled into sleep at the strange words of the song and when she awakened she was in a small room in the tallest tower of the great
castle on the Rock of Cashel.

A tall red-bearded giant of a warrior stood at the door.

“No fear on you, maiden,” he grunted. “I am Sitric, king of the men of Lochlann, and you are now my prisoner.”

Mór raised a hand to her head, for the sleep had been created by sorcery and she felt the effect of it still.

“Where is the black cat . . . ?” she began, trying to recall what had happened to her.

Sitric bellowed with laughter. He stood aside and a thin, evil-looking fellow came through the door. He was clad all in black and a great black cloak dropped from his shoulders. She blinked for,
in a moment, the thin dark man had turned into a purring cat, rubbing itself at the feet of Sitric Red-beard.

“Cellachain of the yellow hair will not be your lover, lady,” the cat purred. “At least, not in this world.”

Then the cat grew back into the shape of a man again.

Sitric grinned at the girl.

“My brother, Torna, is a man of magic. We shall hold Cashel against the Eóghanachta. For you will be our hostage against their attack.”

Then Sitric and his evil magician of a brother departed, leaving Mór to despair.

When Cellachain and his men heard word that the men of Lochlann were now preparing a last defence in the fortress of Cashel, they hastened back from Luimneach. Rígbaddán chanted as
they hurried forward:

It was the Princess Fidelma who greeted her son with the terrible news that Mór, daughter of Aedh, had been taken prisoner by Sitric and was held as hostage.

“We must attack, my lord,” cried stout Suilleabhán, the hawk-eyed.

“Yet if we attack, Sitric will lose his steel in the fairest maiden in the kingdom,” protested Rígbaddán.

So Cellachain and his army sat down before the great grey walls of Cashel and searched their minds to find a plan as to what they could do.

Then Rígbaddán, the royal poet, went to Cellachain’s tent and said: “I know the
sídh
of Drom Collchoille where the goddess Áine dwells.”

Cellachain looked at the poet-warrior in curiosity.

“No one knows that,” he said dismissively. “And if anyone did, what good would it avail us?”

“It is a closely guarded secret among poets,” agreed Rígbaddán. “But good it might well do, for isn’t it Áine who is the guardian of the
Eóghanachta, and isn’t it Áine who foretold that Mór would be mother to a dynasty of kings in Cashel?”

Now Áine, the love goddess, was the daughter of Mannánan Mac Lir, the ocean god. The story went that Oilill Olomh, son of Eóghan Mór, was lying asleep on a hill, the
hill of Drom Collchoille, the hill of the ridge of the hazel wood, when he heard sweet music and wakened to find a maiden playing on a bronze instrument. And Oilill seduced this maiden and she
begat the generations of the Eóghanachta and she was none other than the goddess of love herself. Thus Áine was patroness not only of love but of the Eóghanachta.

Cellachain saw the point and laid a hand on the shoulder of his comrade.

“Then go there, Rígbaddán. Find out if she will intercede for us.”

So Rígbaddán went to the ridge of the hazel wood, which is also called Cnoc Áine, that is today called Knockainey in Co. Limerick and, it being the Midsummer Day, he sat
down and concentrated his thoughts. Then he sang his best love poem, hoping to stir the interest of the goddess so that she would emerge from her dwelling under the hill.