Thus began the epoch of the Fíanna. During its duration, it would create imperishable legend.
Men who had been born to subjugated tribes and raised in louse-ridden, flea-infested huts stinking of urine and rotting meat would be elevated to a form of nobility, admired and emulated, entertained royally and laden with gifts of the finest craftsmanship. Every child would know their names. Every poet would celebrate their deeds. They would range the length and width of the island as Cormac Mac Airt consolidated his control, bringing all Erin under the overlordship of Tara as even his grandfather had never done.
For the first time in its history, the land became more than a collection of tribes in a constant state of flux between alliance and war. The battles did not cease totally; they were an integral part of society, the means by which men defined themselves. But they became more stylized, a highly developed combination of sport and art, patterned on the specific skills of one man—Finn Mac Cool.
The idealistic ambition of generations of warriors to create a form of battle as elegant as Celtic art had never been achieved, except in the rarest of situations. War had remained barbaric. But with the coming of Finn and his Fíanna, it developed, in Erin, into a complex game rather like chess, though with warriors for the chess pieces and the possibility of a fatal outcome.
Goll Mac Morna approved.
He never told Finn he approved. As one of Finn’s rígfénnidi, he watched without comment, obeyed orders without hesitation, accepted his share of the accolades and the rewards without question. Only once in those years did he remark to Fiachaid—on a star-drenched night at Tara when they had both had too much mead—“Before I ever joined the Fíanna, I used to hear the songs sung and the tales told, and I thought it would be the army as it is today. The army Finn’s made of it.”
“Was it not?” Fiachaid asked in a slurred voice, holding up his cup for yet another refill from a passing servant.
“It was nothing like, not in those days. Och, we all talked about the grand things we would do, and what fine lads we were. But … we were none of us very different from Cuhal Mac Trenmor, not really. We joined the army so we could run wild and plunder with the protection of a king. I’ve always condemned Cuhal for his behaviour, but …” Goll’s words were interrupted by a violent hiccup. His single eye flared wide. “But I suppose he was just doing what we all wanted to do. That’s why so many men were glad to follow him. I should have done, too. I don’t know why I didn’t. Looking back, I think I was rockheaded.”
Fiachaid grinned. “Sometimes you still are,” he told Goll Mac Morna. He leaned closer, squinting at Goll in the light of the countless beeswax candles that illumined the halls of Tara at night. “Can I ask you something?” he enquired with drunken politeness.
“Absolutely.” Goll drained his cup in one long swallow and held it up above his shoulder, awaiting the unfailing refill. “Absolutely.”
“With all the history between you … and you know what I mean, Goll—” Fiachaid stabbed Goll’s chest with a stiff forefinger “—with all the history between you two, why do you follow Finn Mac Cool? Why don’t you simply walk away? You have a home to go to. Why don’t you go?”
The cup was refilled. Goll cradled it in his hands and peered down into the amber depths as if seeking an answer there. “Why don’t I go.” It was not a question. “Indeed.” He looked up blearily. “Shall I tell you a secret, Fiachaid? I don’t go because I’m waiting around for Finn to try to kill me.”
Fiachaid was shocked almost sober. “You’re what?”
Goll nodded to himself, having just articulated a condition of which he had not been consciously aware until the mead loosened his tongue. “You mentioned the history between us. Finn’s always wanted to kill me. Aches to do it. As revenge for Cuhal. I know it even if he doesn’t. And if I walk away, it’s an act of cowardice on my part. Don’t you see that, Fiachaid? Don’t you see?”
20
DURING THE SEASONS THAT FOLLOWED, NEW NAMES WERE added to the pantheon of Fénian heroes, besung by the bards to eager audiences. There was Cron Crither son of Febal, and the swift-footed Taistellach, and Cuban from Muma, and Fidach the Foreigner, who applied three times before Finn would accept him. There was Dubh the Black and Dun the Brown and Glas the Grey and Aig the Battle and Ilar the Eagle. There was even a former rígfénnid from the army of the Ulaid, who turned his back on his tribe to become an officer in the army of the king of Tara.
Not only Fin Bolg, but sons of chieftains and kings began appearing wherever Finn was and requesting to be tested for membership in the Fíanna. But no matter what their rank, Finn accepted them only if they passed his most stringent requirements.
“It’s surprising how many do pass,” Cormac commented to Flaithri the brehon.
The other man replied, “Men do what they really want to do, no matter how hard it is. It seems that almost every man in Erin today who hasn’t three legs and a squint wants to be numbered with the Fíanna.”
“If I were not king of Tara, I would apply to join them myself,” Cormac. admitted ruefully.
The brehon chuckled. “So would I. Even the women …”
Cormac nodded. “Indeed. Even the women.”
For the women had, without invitation, made themselves part of the army. When the Fíanna were marching, a sizable contingent of women, not all of them young, followed them, to tend the wounded and do the foraging and free the men to fight. Like Celtic warrior women of the past, a few even took up weapons and fought alongside the men, and not a few became wives and loved ones of members of the Fíanna.
But Gael Hundred-Killer took his wife from a different level of society.
It was late in the summer, and there had been hard campaigning in Muma. Several southern kings had rebelled against Cormac’s authority and refused to send their harvest tributes the year before, so this year the Fíanna had come in person to oversee their collection. Battles had ensued. The Fíanna had, to the surprise of no one but a few disappointed kings, triumphed, and were rewarding themselves with a period of hunting and sport on Fionntulach, the White Hill.
Even when going to battle, Finn Mac Cool always traveled with his hounds. To Bran and Sceolaun had been added a pack of similar breed, lean-hipped and red-eared, and a man called Caurag to mind them. “Train these hounds to take only stags,” Finn had cautioned Caurag sternly. “In the event they flush a doe, always hold back all but Bran and Sceolaun. If those two go up to her but make no effort to bring her down, and seem to know her, send for me at once no matter where I am, and keep that deer safe until I arrive if you value your life!”
Caurag, a thickset, bandy-legged man who loved hunting more than eating or women, was baffled by the order but obedient. “Your hounds will kill no doe unauthorized,” he promised.
Every member of the Fíanna was given similar orders. The result was to make stags scarce wherever the army went, including this part of Muma, the region of Kerry. After a long day spent with only a few animals taken, Finn and his men were refreshing themselves with berries and haws while waiting for the evening meal to be prepared. Suddenly they heard a shout.
“I saw a huge stag!” cried Cael, who with his company was at the periphery of the encampment. He raced away with his men pelting after him.
The others resumed their customary conversation, mostly about battles and women. The sun had long since set and the bones of the meal picked clean before someone remarked on Cael’s continuing absence.
“He knows his way back,” said Goll, unconcerned.
But Finn worried. When two days passed with no sign of Cael, he took a search party and went looking for him.
They did not find him until the fourth dawn, when they met him on a narrow trail through gorse, wearing a glow that had nothing to do with the sunrise. His three nines, following, merely looked weary.
“Where have you been?” Finn wanted to know.
Wearing a foolish grin unbefitting a rígfénnid, Cael waved his hand vaguely in the direct
ion he had come from. “Och … there.”
There was no sword in the hand.
“Where’s your sword?” Finn demanded to know with a growing feeling of alarm. Cael did not look like himself at all.
“The one with the gemstone in the hilt?”
“The one Cormac gave you, indeed. Where is it?”
Cael said blithely, “I gave it away.”
“You what?”
Under Finn’s furious glare, Cael’s bravado withered. “I, uh, gave it away. To this woman. I mean … it was a token, you might say. She took us in for the night. Hers was a noble household and we had brought no presents worthy, so … och, I, uh …”
“Gave your sword away.” Finn spat the words. “You’d better grow roots where you stand until you explain this to my satisfaction. If it’s one of your jokes—”
“It’s no joke,” Cael assured him hastily. “Her name is Creide and her father’s a king in Kerry. She was very … uh … good to me.”
To everyone’s astonishment, Cael Hundred Killer blushed bright red.
When they returned to camp, Finn asked Goll it he knew anything about Creide. “I do know. She’s the daughter of a rig tuatha, all right, but she hasn’t lived with her clan for years. She’s said to be very fond of possessions. She’s accepted no husband, but she’s accepted the gifts of many who aspired to take her as wife.”
Cael, listening, scuffed his toe in the dirt. “She accepted me,” he said softly.
Finn and Goll exchanged glances. “Are you trying to claim,” said Finn to Cael, “that this woman’s agreed to many you?”
“Not exactly. I mean, not yet. I think she will, but I …”
“But you nothing,” Finn interrupted. “We’d better go with you to see this woman. I don’t want one of my rígfénnidi tied in knots by any woman.” His voice was harsh.
They found Creide presiding over a spacious fort shielded by the mountains called the Paps of Danu. Sentries challenged Finn’s approach and only reluctantly admitted him and a select group of his officers into the protective palisade. But Finn noted that all gates and doors were opened without question for Cael, who swept through them as if returning home.
A yellow-haired woman with eyebrows dyed dark in the height of fashion hurried forward to capture Cael’s two hands with hers.
The erstwhile Hundred-Killer glanced over his shoulder to be certain his companions were watching. “This is Creide,” he said proudly. “She’s always like this, she’s mad for me. I don’t like even one side of her, of course,” he added with a laugh.
“Nor I of you,” retorted Creide, also laughing. “You’re hard on my eyes entirely. So when I see you, I close them.” She put deed to word.
Cael promptly kissed her on both closed eyelids.
The watching Fíanna gaped. “Do you suppose,” Blamec whispered to Cailte, “we should just go away and leave them alone?”
Cailte looked around the interior of Creide’s dwelling. It was sumptuously equipped with fur strewn couches and dyed wall hangings on rods of copper. Bronze and copper inlaid the vertical timbers supporting the roof. Bustling servants carried laden dishes and cups wrought of precious metal. “They wouldn’t be alone if we did leave,” he drawled. “Look at all her bondwomen! This woman lives like one of Cormac’s wives.”
“Better,” Cael interjected. He lifted a heavily embossed silver cup bearing a beaded rim and held it for his friends to admire. “Creide actually has three score of these and enough mead and ale to fill them all at once.”
Creide positively beamed. “The night Cael arrived, he made himself free of my house and examined my possessions, and him a stranger with no right to do so. Then he wove them all into poetry. An appallingly bad poem,” she said, her fond tone belying her words, “but it gave me a record of everything I own, which was more than my steward knew. I never expected such a skill from a warrior.”
Finn told her, “Every member of the Fíanna has to learn poetry before joining us. A warrior has to have a proven mind, and poetry is good for strengthening the memory. An officer does not want to have to repeat orders because someone forgot them, or to repeat directions to a meeting place because someone did not remember whether to go east at the ford or west. We can, any of us, recite a battle epic. Any of us with the possible exception of that one,” he Could not resist adding, glancing with a grin toward Conan.
The hairless man refused to be abashed. “My brain’s as good as anyone else’s. Better; it gets more exposure to the sun.”
Creide left them for a few moments to issue orders to her steward and servants. Cael drifted away in her wake.
“What can a woman with all this possibly want with old Hundred Killer?” Red Ridge asked Blamed when they were out of earshot.
“It’s beyond knowing,” the other replied.
But Creide obviously did want Cael, and he her. They could keep neither their eyes nor their hands off one another. Simultaneously they exchanged a constant stream of fond insults totally at variance with the flowery conversations favoured by Fergus Honey Tongue.
The Fíanna were mystified.
Cael was delighted with himself.
“She really is a wretched woman,” he said to his companions as they feasted on huge salmon served on yew-wood platters. “She’s had countless suitors and given every one of them tasks to perform that were quite beyond them. When a man fails, she sends him away in disgrace, with no saving of his pride at all.”
Finn took a handful of boiled eggs from a basket proffered by an attentive servant. “I take it you succeeded, however?” he enquired dryly.
“I did of course. Any man who has met the challenges of Finn Mac Cool can run faster and jump higher and be more agile than mere chieftains and cattle lords,” he said contemptuously.
“I took pity on him for the trials you’d given him,” Creide said. To the unspoken astonishment of the Fíanna, she had taken her place among them for the feast, rather than eating in a place reserved for women. She sat now as a male host might and entered fully into the conversation. “When Gael told me the things you’d made him do,” she said to Finn. “I felt quite sorry for him. I have a tender heart.”
“Exactly as tender as a stone,” Cael added quickly. He reached out and cupped her breast over her heart as if they were alone. A look so weighted with desire passed between them that the most hardened warrior dropped his eyes in embarrassment.
After the meal, Creide herself showed Finn and his officers to couches reserved for them. As was the custom, all slept in the one large room, but at Creide’s the room was divided into sleeping compartments by carved wooden screens and linen hangings.
Fergus could not resist remarking aloud on the luxury of the accommodations.
“I earned it,” Creide said with unexpected bitterness.
“Earned it?” Fergus started to question her, but Goll Mac Morna dug his elbow into Honey-Tongue’s ribs and he closed his mouth.
“Women become wealthy in their own right when male members of the clan die without leaving sons,” Goll said smoothly.
That night Finn found himself sleeping on the couch adjacent to Goll’s, separated only by a wooden screen. When there was enough snoring to drown the sound of his voice, he put his head close to the screen and called Goll’s name. “Are you still awake?”
“I am.”
“Why did Creide say she’d earned her wealth? Do you know?”
“I knew a man who carried a spear for Creide’s father,” Goll replied in his husky whisper, meant for Finn’s ears only. “He said the father spent too much time on the couch of the daughter.”
“Warming her bed as people do?”
Goll gave a coarse laugh. “I’d say not. Something more. He warmed something more. He supposedly got her with a child, or children, that were immediately put out to fosterage. At last Creide’s mother, his chief wife, lost her temper and threatened war between her tribe and his. So he sent Creide away—almost impoverished himself to do it, but
it cost him less than a war with his chief wife’s people. Everything you see here, Creide earned, if the story is to be believed, by submitting to her father.”
“I’m surprised she’ll look at a man at all.”
“She has no history of treating them well,” Goll replied. “Our Cael seems to be the exception.”
“Why, do you suppose?”
“Unlike the men of Kerry, he wouldn’t have known the story. They probably came at her with a leer in their eyes. He treats her as he treats all women, as boys treat their sisters, and she’s obviously comfortable with that.”
“She seems a strong woman.”
“I’d say she is,” Goll agreed. “Did you notice his body when he stripped to bathe? Bruises and claw marks the length of him, and a grin on his face like a hound lying in the sun. And if they marry, he’ll be supported by her property, by all of this. Provided he does his share of conserving and defending it, of course. Not bad for a man who was born in a herder’s summer hut.”
Finn said quietly, “You need not remain where you are born.”
“This is true. You left the Bog of Almhain, didn’t you? Now here you are in Kerry.”
Recognizing the sly insinuation in Goll’s voice, Finn knew what direction the conversation was meant to take. He moved back from the screen.
“Do you mean to visit your mother while we’re in Kerry?” Goll’s disembodied voice followed him. “Do you even know if she’s still alive?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Finn said coldly.
“Your own mother?” Goll’s voice pretended to be shocked. “And you not knowing?”
Finn spat out his words. “I’ve had other things on my mind, Goll.”
“But it would be no more than a day’s march from here if you wanted to—”
“Leave it, Goll!” commanded the Rígfénnid Fíanna.
Goll subsided, smiling to himself. That subject’s still very tender with Finn, he thought, like flesh with a thorn festering. It might be something to use against him some day, some way. It might indeed.
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