“I’m not lazy. I’m just resting before I get tired.”
“And what would Finn say if he saw you?”
“I’ll be on my feet soon enough if he comes this way.”
“You’d better be, or … och, Finn, we were just talking about you,” said Cael to the air above Conan’s head.
Conan leaped to his feet and whirled around.
There was no one behind him.
Chortling, Cael sauntered away.
A good place for meeting women was the Grave of the Dwarf, a stone cist set in a damp hollow. According to the historians, it was the burial site of a dwarf who had been a great favourite of Conn of the Hundred Battles. The tiny man had been killed while trying to separate two blind beggars who were quarreling over their gifts from the king.
Conn had wept for his dwarf and encouraged the women of his household to mourn with him. Since then, the gravesite had become a pilgrimage for women, a place where they could publicly demonstrate the admired tenderness of the female heart by weeping over the long-dead dwarf.
As soon as they learned this, Finn’s companions made a point of passing the grave at every opportunity.
A brehon who discovered Fergus consoling a sobbing servant by slipping his hand down the front of her gown was outraged. “You take advantage!” he cried, rushing at Fergus with upraised ash stick. “You must maintain proper decorum at Samhain!”
That night at the feast, another local brehon ponderously recited the verses describing acceptable public behaviour at gatherings, drawing a distinct line between the Samhain Assembly, the Great Gatherings, and rowdy fairs and festivals.
“Samhain,” he intoned somberly, glowering at his audience, “is a sober time.”
But the fénnidi now flooding into Tara were hard to restrain. They craved action, a last flare of excitement before they settled into their various winter quarterings to endure the monotony of repairing weapons and glaring at grey skies. They quarrelled constantly and bullied bondservants.
Cormac told Finn, “I expect you to control them. You’re their commander now. See they don’t disgrace themselves here.”
It was not an easy assignment. The stern orders Finn issued were not always followed; some fénnidi took delight in ignoring them.
“It’s because you’re so young,” Goll said. “They don’t believe that anyone of your years has been given so much responsibility … or will be able to handle it.”
“I can handle it.”
“Not if the men don’t respect you.”
“They’ll respect me,” vowed Finn Mac Cool.
He prowled Tara until he found a grunting fénnid sprawled atop a giggling servant woman behind the Fort of the Synods. Finn jerked the man upright by his hair and administered a beating with such style that a crowd quickly gathered.
“See that? Kicked him on the point of the chin. That takes agility, that does.”
“And style. He has style, the new commander.”
“Boom, boom, two blows to the head before your man could raise his fists. Impressive. I wouldn’t want him hitting me.”
It was an admirable performance. Enjoying it, Finn made his opponent last as long as possible, almost propping him up at the end so he could deliver one final blow.
When at last the man was allowed to fall, he did not move until sundown. People stepped over him.
The woman he had been with pulled her garments around herself and smiled tentatively at Finn, but he did not notice. One of the spectators was Cruina. She also smiled. The dimple in her chin winked at him.
Finn was young and vigorous, and the restrictions he had just upheld so forcibly did not seem to apply to himself, not when Cruina smiled. When she left the scene of the fight, he followed her.
She glanced over her shoulder a time or two, then turned to face him. “Why are you stalking me?”
“I’m not stalking you.”
“Then why do you have those hounds with you?”
“They’re always with me.”
“Will you tell them to go away? I don’t like the way they’re looking at me, can you understand?”
Finn snapped his fingers and frowned. Bran and Sceolaun obediently trotted from sight. Cruina walked on and he drifted along behind her.
This time when she whirled around, she was angry. “Why do you keep following me when I don’t want you two?”
“I don’t know that.”
“I’m telling you, aren’t I? Why would I want a warrior pursuing me?”
“And why not?” he asked innocently.
“My father says the fénnidi want nothing more from a woman than a marriage of the seventh degree. My father’s a smith, a skilled craftsman. I shouldn’t have to settle for a seventh-degree marriage, should I?”
“Not at all,” Finn hastily assured her, wondering what a seventh-degree marriage was.
“Good.” She lifted her heavy hair off the back of her neck and swung it to fall becomingly over one shoulder instead. “We’re agreed then, are we?” Before Finn could answer, she stepped through the nearest doorway. Finn almost ran his nose into the door she closed behind her.
Cruina had entered the Grianan, the many-windowed chamber set aside for the exclusive use of the women. No man could enter unless expressly invited.
He gazed hard at the door, muttered under his breath, then turned on his heel and made his way back to the Fort of the Synods.
Blamec was on duty outside the door.
“Och, Blamec, how are you keeping?”
“I have a headache and my feet hurt.”
“Interesting work though, is it?”
“Guarding a door? Not particularly. And I’m getting hungry. I’ve been here all day and no one’s asked me where my mouth is.”
“You’re getting as bad as Cailte, thinking about your belly.”
“There’s not much else to think about. That fight you had over there a while ago was a diversion, but it didn’t last long enough. Are you planning another one soon?”
“There shouldn’t need to be another, not like that one. But listen here to me, Blamec. Since you’ve been standing here, have you overheard much of what’s going on inside?” Finn nodded his head to indicate the judges’ official chamber, a circular, fortlike structure of timber and wattle.
“Sometimes I can hear them, when they raise their voices.”
“Have you heard them discussing marriage? Degrees of marriage? Something called marriage of the seventh degree, say?”
Blamec looked blank. “I don’t know, I haven’t paid much attention. They talk in fancy language, the brehons. They use words a warrior doesn’t even know. They do it so no one else can understand them, I suppose. It works with me, I don’t listen.”
Finn was disgusted. “I put you here to listen and learn. Don’t you remember?”
“That isn’t the way you said it at the time. Besides, how can I learn from brehons? They’re another class entirely. They spend up to twenty years memorizing all those laws. That’s not for me, I’m a Man of the Bag.”
“You’re a waste of time,” Finn snarled at him.
Blamec refused to be insulted. “If you want to know what the brehons are saying, go in there yourself, Finn. I’ll pass you through. I’m not about to refuse the Rígfénnid Fíanna.”
For a second time that day, Finn hesitated before a closed door. The Fort of the Synods was as forbidden to one of his class as the Grianan was to his sex. He took out his bad humour on the hapless Blamec. “How dare you offer to pass me through! Is that what you call being a good guard? Do your duty and don’t disgrace me.” Finn stalked away.
That night in the hall, Finn stood opposite the Door of Heroes, watching the assemblage. Everyone was seated according to rank. Bards, druids, and brehons were closest to the king. Beyond them were the most powerful chieftains. When the feast of the day was served, the best meats would go to these. By their proximity to the king, one could tell at a glance the status of everyone in the hall. Two of the d
ruids in attendance were women, as was one of the physicians. Wives and daughters, however, feasted in chambers of their own, where they could speak of things that interested women without having to shout over male voices.
Finn’s eye fell on a brehon called Fithel, whom Cormac had that day named to serve as chief brehon at Tara. Short, slim, given to nervous gestures, Fithel had a high forehead atop a long Milesian skull, and thinning fair hair. He looked brittle, almost fragile, but his mind was said to be the keenest in Erin.
Finn eyed him speculatively. Would he be willing to speak to one of the Fir Bolg? His face, Finn decided, was aloof but not unkind.
When the feasting was over, Finn waylaid Fithel outside the hall. “I would speak with you, if it is permitted.”
The night was golden with torchlight. Fithel squinted at Cormac’s new commander. The request surprised him. Brehons usually had little to do with warriors, though there was no specific prohibition.
“You may speak with me,” he decided. “I am not averse to a brief social intercourse with one of your station.”
“Can you teach me the law?”
Primly, Fithel replied, “Members of subjugated tribes are not eligible for an education in Brehon Law. Whatever you may require to know, we shall recite for you.”
“That’s what I meant,” Finn said, conscious he had made an error. “I require to know the laws of marriage.”
“You do not know them?” The judge’s pale eyebrows crawled like worms up his bald dome. “Even subordinate peoples are at least nominally conversant with those aspects of law which govern their lives. Where have you been that you did not absorb such rudimentary information with that most salubrious of beverages, your mother’s milk?”
Finn reddened. “I grew up on my own,” he said in a low, angry voice.
Fithel’s eyebrows climbed higher. He was so startled that his customary speech pattern deserted him. “You did? How could you?”
Be careful, Finn warned himself. Brehons aren’t easily deceived. Don’t reveal anything to this man, and don’t try to play any games with him either.
Because it was a habit by now, Finn put his thumb into his mouth as he mentally constructed a reply. An earnest smile spread across his face. He made certain it warmed his eyes. There was something in his eyes, he knew from experience, that could unnerve people.
He took his thumb from his mouth and said, “On some long night I’d be happy to tell you my history, but I know you’re much too busy during the Assembly. A man as important as yourself has every breath accounted for. All I ask is the merest scrap of knowledge. You have so much, and I have none.”
A most diplomatic rejoinder, Fithel thought approvingly. He gazed up into Finn’s deliberately ingenuous face. “I should like to hear your history,” he said. “But you are correct in your surmise, I am too much occupied with professional obligations during the Assembly to listen to protracted narratives. However, if you will step into my private chamber, we will be out of the wind and I can instruct you in a summary form on matters of law pertaining to marriage.”
Fithel led the way to a timber-and-wattle sleeping chamber at some remove from the Fort of Synods. Ducking through the low doorway, Finn found himself in a small single room dominated by a bed piled with furs, protected from draughts by a screen of painted leather. Fithel indicated two wooden benches against the wall and they sat down.
What would my mother think, Finn wondered, if she could see me now, here at Tara, in a brehon’s private chamber?
“Tell me the law,” he said abruptly.
“You exhibit an eagerness that borders on agitation. Is there a reason?”
“None aside from the fact that I’m now Rígfénnid Fíanna, and I’m thinking of marrying.”
“Indeed. You have been remarkably elevated for one of your years. And you are old enough to many. There are various laws pertaining to marriage, designed to provide equity according to rank and need. Men and women alike tend to act in their own self-interest. For any law to be obeyed, it must be perceived to be in the interest of the person involved. Brehon Law was not designed for the best of all possible worlds, where everyone is kind and trustworthy, but for the world as it actually is, which is rather different. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Any relationship that results in the birth of a child is considered to be a marriage, thus assuring the child’s rights under law,” Fithel explained with sweeping gestures. He often waved his hands as he spoke, as if opening his mouth pulled them into the air like fluttering birds.
“Marriages of the first three degrees require a contract to be agreed upon by both parties beforehand,” he went on, “and women married under contract become official wives.” He paused, peering narrowly at Finn. “Are you certain you do not know this? Surely you have some learning. You had to become conversant with poetry to qualify for the Fíanna.”
“I learn what I need when I need it,” Finn responded. “Until recently, I didn’t need to know about marriage.”
“Ah.” Fithel nodded to himself, enlightened as to at least one aspect of the new commander’s character.
“A marriage of the first degree,” he resumed, “takes place between partners of equal rank and property.
“A marriage of the second degree is one where the man has more property, and supports the woman.
“A marriage of the third degree is the reverse, with the added stipulation that the man must agree to till his wife’s fields or manage her cattle, in order to keep a man’s dignity and his wife’s respect.
“Fourth-degree marriage is different. No property is taken into consideration, and no contract between partners is agreed upon in advance. This particular type of arrangement is described as ‘the marriage of a loved one.’ The rights of the children are described by law and safeguarded, but the woman is in effect a concubine. She is not an official wife, so if her husband dies, she may not continue to reside beneath his roof but must return to her own people.
“Marriage of the fifth degree is one in which a man and woman share their bodies by mutual agreement, but continue to inhabit separate dwellings.
“When a man forcibly abducts a woman—as a chieftain will sometimes seize his defeated enemy’s wife after a battle—that is a marriage of the sixth degree for as long as he can keep her with him.”
Finn leaned forward tensely. “What about marriage of the seventh degree?”
Fithel gave a dismissive waggle of his fingers. “That is referred to as ‘a soldier’s marriage.’ Such casual unions often last no more than one night.
“A marriage of the eighth degree takes place when a man obtains use of a woman’s body through deception, such as seducing her with lies about his status or his amount of property, or taking advantage of her intoxication.”
Through a change in Finn’s posture, Fithel became aware that the young man’s interest had waned. He sketchily listed the last two degrees. “An act of rape constitutes ninth-degree marriage,” he said, “and tenth-degree marriage is a coupling that involves feebleminded persons.”
“Would a woman be insulted by a seventh-degree marriage?”
“That would depend upon her status, Finn. If she were a person of low rank herself, such as a bondservant, and the man belonged to the Fíanna, which is higher, she might be flattered. Women are very conscious of rank. A woman aspires to produce children of higher status than her own, if possible.”
“Suppose she was a smith’s daughter?”
“Ah. A smith is a skilled craftsman, a valuable man who possesses considerable prestige. His daughter would he highly unlikely to accede to a seventh-degree union.”
Finn muttered something unintelligible. Fithel, in full spate now, was explaining. “Prestige is the control system of our society, as surely you appreciate. For example, in marriages of the first or second degree, the man must be able to pay a dowry, a coibche, each year for the first twenty-one years, in order to maintain prestige within his tribe. In the
first year, it goes to the bride’s father, who shares it with her kinsmen. In the second year, however, a third portion of the coibche is given directly to the wife. In each subsequent year, providing there is no divorce, she receives an increasingly larger portion of the coibche, until twenty-one years have passed. By then she has enough property of her own to be independent if her husband has tired of her, or she of him. If one has divorced the other in the meantime, she of course retains what she has already received. That is the law.”
“What sort of property, Fithel?”
“The coibche would not include the man’s fort or lodge, of course, but it would be made up of cattle, or female servants. Or failing that, carts, sheep, grain, timber—”
“What if all a man had were his weapons and hunting hounds? Good hounds!” Finn added emphatically. “But no cattle. And no lodge.”
Fithel pursed his lips. “Then I would say to you that the first five degrees of marriage are beyond that man.
“If he would take a concubine, he must have a household to install her in, for the law states that such a woman must be well fed and well sheltered. Like every member of society, she does have certain rights. Also, if he would lie with a woman but maintain a separate dwelling for himself, as in fifth-degree marriage, then he must have that dwelling. A housed woman would not accept a nomad, it would damage her prestige.” Fithel’s hands chopped the air decisively.
A crestfallen Finn left Fithel’s chamber to find Goll waiting. “What were you doing in there, Finn?”
“Consulting the brehon.”
“In his private chamber?”
“Why not?” Finn bristled.
“What did you want to know?”
Goll was pushing too hard. Recalling Cruina’s trick of asking questions, Finn responded. “You’ve married, have you not?”
“I’ve had a lot of marriages. And two contract wives,” Goll said proudly.
“So you had property.”
“Loot from war, and a fine, strong fort. My first wife died, but my second still lives there.”
“How did you get the fort, Goll?”
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