Finn Mac Cool

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Finn and Cailte exchanged stricken glances, but it was Oisin who put his arms around her and pulled her away.

  That night she sat beside the body until dawn, keening. The rise and fall of her voice rubbed Finn’s nerves raw. He had to leave the tort and stand beneath the Connacht stars, looking blindly into the sky. “I didn’t kill him,” he told the moon.

  I did not kill him, Sive. But he could not find her face in the sky.

  Diarmait Mac Donn was buried beneath a cairn, and a stone each was taken from the cairn to be given to Donn and to Diarmait’s foster father, Angus.

  “He was the noblest of us all, and the most fortunate,” Oisin said. “Everyone who knew him loved him.” He paused. “Except one.”

  His words were a stone in Finn’s heart. I have lost Oisin forever now, he thought.

  I’m sorry, Sive.

  When they were preparing to leave, Finn went to Grania. “The fort is yours, of course, and the landholding with it. When we return to Tara, I can have whatever you need sent to you, and I shall leave some men here with you to be your guards and sentries since you have no man now.”

  Her face was puffy and her eyes red and swollen from weeping, but underneath the soft skin were hard bones, and a strong, practical woman’s mind lived inside her skull. Grania pushed her hair back from her brow and straightened her posture. She had no intention of being left alone in the wilds of Connacht with Diarmait gone.

  “I have a man,” she said to Finn. “I was your contract wife.”

  He was astonished. “You can’t mean that you—”

  “I simply mean I expect you to be responsible for me now and take me back east with you. I don’t want to stay here alone and my heart’s blood dead and gone.”

  I will never, Finn told himself, understand women. They seem soft and men seem hard, but in truth, it may be the other way around. Is it, Sive?

  “I will deliver you safely to your father the king, if that is what you want,” he promised.

  “It is what I want.” Her head was high; her slanted eyes met his with an inscrutable look that made him uncomfortable. “And I want my children … Diarmait’s and mine … to be fostered by chieftains. Can you see to it?”

  “I can of course,” Finn agreed. He waited for her to continue, with the firm conviction there was something else she wanted to say, but she clamped her lips together and turned away from him as if she did not want him trying to read her thoughts.

  What had she not said? I hate you?

  On the morning of departure, Finn made a point of speaking with Cuarag. “As soon as we get home, I want you to send those so-called boarhounds back to the Britons. They failed miserably, they did nothing I expected of them. If we’d had Bran with us, Diarmait would be alive today.”

  During the journey eastward, Finn, trying to keep from thinking too much about Diarmait, regaled his companions with one tale after another about Sceolaun and Bran and other hunts with happier outcomes.

  Only Oisin did not listen. His ears were stoppered against anything his father might say.

  They were on the Slige Asal almost within sight of Tara when Finn realized something was seriously wrong. They had begun meeting the usual sentries at intervals—and none of them were his own men. Or Fiachaid’s.

  None of them were men he knew.

  He signalled for a halt, then led his party off the road altogether and across a sweep of grassland to shelter behind a belt of woodland, out of sight of the road.

  Grania was indignant. “What’s this about? I demand to be taken to my father now!” She was tired and querulous.

  “I’ll take you to him,” Finn told her, “but not until I’m certain it’s safe. Red Ridge, you and Blamec will be in charge here. Cailte, I want you and your men to come with me.” He kicked his horse and rode away.

  Cailte galloped beside him, their fíans, afoot, trotting after. The closer they got to the great stronghold on the ridge, the more apprehension Finn felt.

  Unfamiliar sentries manned the gateway and scowled at him suspiciously as he rode up. “The Rígfénnid Fíanna is here to report to the Ard Ríg!” he cried formally.

  For a moment he thought they would not open the gates to him. Then there was a creak of timber and a groan of iron hinges, and he and Cailte were allowed to enter. But the foot warriors were held outside.

  “Trouble,” said Cailte softly. It was not a question.

  They rode forward at the walk. Finn’s eyes flicked continually from right to left and back again, noting every change. The most troubling one was the fact that the banners of Cormac Mac Airt no longer flew from ridgepoles. New banners had replaced them, gaudy with fresh dye.

  He halted his horse at the gateway to the House of the King and dismounted, giving a surreptitious hand signal to Cailte, warning him to stay on his animal and be ready.

  The sentry on duty passed Finn into the House of the King without challenge. But the man was another stranger.

  The man who waited inside, sitting at arrogant ease on the carved bench Cormac had occupied for so long, was no stranger. Finn knew the proud eyes and the petulant mouth all too well.

  “Cairbre,” he said tersely, the least possible greeting. “Where’s your father?”

  “Not here, obviously,” Cairbre replied, enjoying this.

  “You should not be sitting on the High King’s bench, whether he’s here or not.”

  “He’s not High King anymore.”

  Finn felt as if someone had hit him in the belly with a knotted fist. “What?”

  “While you were away, doing whatever it is you went to the west to do—”

  “Cormac dispatched the Fíanna to settle a quarrel, you knew that.”

  “And did you bring Goll Mac Morna back with you, since you were in his territory?”

  “We did not go to Goll.”

  “Pity. I should have liked to have him here now. He’s a man I feel I can rely on.”

  Finn’s temper flared. “Where’s Cormac?” He took an angry step toward Cairbre. At once three spearmen had the points of their weapons aimed at the throat of the Rígfénnid Fíanna.

  Finn’s shock was enormous.

  Cairbre made a gesture of studied magnanimity. “Let him go, I’m sure he won’t hurt me. Finn would never lay hands on the next High King.”

  Watching Finn’s eyes, Cairbre’s bodyguards were not so sure. They lowered their spears reluctantly, but only halfway.

  “What happened to Cormac, and what makes you think you can replace him?” Finn demanded to know.

  “While you were not here to defend him, as you should have been doing, there was a battle. A small rising, nothing important, but my father felt it incumbent upon himself to defend Tara and his kingship and prove he was still the man he used to be. He rode out with the warriors, he got embroiled in the fighting, and he took a slingstone in the eye. He’s as blind as Goll Mac Morna now. And no man can be king who is so blemished, according to the law.

  “Even as we speak, Finn, I’m waiting upon a gathering of the elders of our clan and the brehons to elect Cormac’s successor. I expect they will choose me. I am the eldest of his sons, the one with the most experience acquired at his elbow, and the other eligible men of our clan know much less about the kingship he’s created here.

  “You know how devoted he’s always been to the law, how he’s made it central to his rule and spent the better part of his time with the brehons, learning, discussing, enlarging the body of the law. I was privy to much of that. I can continue where he left off.”

  Cairbre spoke so smugly it set Finn’s teeth on edge. And the central question was not yet answered. He repeated it once more, very softly. That softness was deadly. Cairbre’s bodyguards recognized the danger implicit in the tone and raised their spears again.

  This was the fabled Finn Mac Cool. He might do anything.

  If Cairbre was frightened, however, he gave no sign. He had studied his father and learned well. “When it became apparent the blemish
was sufficient to deny him kingship, Cormac wisely retired to a holding at Cenannus. Flaithri went with him, in fact. I daresay they are there this moment, still discussing the law. He seems content enough. He’s an old man anyway, Finn. It’s time he rested.”

  Cormac Mac Airt, old? It was not a concept Finn had ever considered, though he knew the number of the High King’s years and had watched his hair go white.

  Cairbre gave him ample time to digest the information, then said, “What of you, Finn? Will you serve as Rígfénnid Fíanna under me? For the time being, at least? At some future date I may make another appointment. You’re not young either, you’re—”

  “I am able to serve as Rígfénnid Fíanna for as long as you or any other man holds Tara,” Finn said icily.

  For the first time. Cairbre’s arrogant mask slipped. In Finn’s eyes he saw something he did not care to challenge. “Well then,” he said as if to himself. “Well then. That’s settled, I suppose. I, ah, am relieved to hear you’ll serve me. I know it’s what my father would want,” he added as a sop.

  Finn stared at him stonily, then turned on his heel and left the House of the King.

  Cailte was waiting for him, holding his horse’s rein. Finn did not even bother to vault onto the animal. He needed to feel solid ground underneath his feet. The earth seemed to be tilting crazily, threatening to spill him off.

  He stalked across the royal compound with Cailte and the horses following. Livid with inheld anger, he crossed the lawn below the Fort of the Synods and was heading for the nearest gate when yet another strange warrior barred his way.

  “Where are you going?” the man challenged.

  Finn’s jaw dropped. “Who are you to challenge me?”

  “I serve Cairbre Mac Cormac, and I have orders not to let you leave Tara.”

  “I am Rígfénnid Fíanna!”

  “I know that. I mean no disrespect. But Cairbre feels that you should stay here now, within these walls.”

  Instantly, Finn understood. The last thing Cairbre wanted was for him to get back to the Fíanna. The army was the strength of the king, and that same strength meant control of Tara. It could also be turned against anyone who tried to seize the kingship. Finn had only to utter one word. Cairbre must be very afraid he would utter that word.

  But Cairbre, for all his cunning, must not realize that the Fíanna was no longer as solidly Finn’s as it had once been.

  Finn pretended to accept the situation. He turned back toward Cailte and said calmly, “You are not needed here. You might as well go.”

  Cailte understood. He started to turn the horses and ride toward the gate, but the guard cried, “Stay!”

  “Have you any orders concerning this man?” Finn asked.

  “Och, I have not, but—”

  “But he is under my command, not yours. Go, Cailte.”

  The thin man took advantage of the guard’s obvious confusion to ride swiftly away, out the gateway and back to the waiting warriors beyond the trees.

  Age had taken a toll on Cailte’s legs, but not on his wits. With his old rapidity he outlined the situation for Finn’s men, sent messengers to bring reinforcements from loyal Fénians beyond the plains of Míd, dispatched an armed escort to convey Grania to Cormac at Cenannus, and organized a rescue of Finn Mac Cool.

  When what appeared to be the majority of the Fíanna came marching toward Tara along every one of the five roads, holding their weapons aloft and shouting Finn’s name, Cairbre had no choice but to let him go.

  “I was only offering you hospitality,” he tried to claim. “You misunderstood me, Finn.”

  Finn’s face was stone. “While we await the decision of the electors as to the new High King, I prefer to take hospitality from Cormac at Cenannus.”

  Seeing Cormac almost broke his heart. The former High King was truly old, with an empty eye socket and a haggard face. His fingers continually made restless, twitching gestures. But he seemed genuinely delighted to welcome Finn, and glad to have Grania back. “My daughter is welcome to live in my household for the rest of her life,” he said. “My circumstances are somewhat reduced, of course, but—”

  “But you belong at Tara,” said Finn.

  “Ah, Finn, I don’t. Not at all. I have obeyed the law, as we all must if there is to be order rather than chaos. I’m aware you don’t like Cairbre very much, but I’ve been preparing him for a long time. He is the most intelligent of my sons and the one best able to replace me, if he is chosen.”

  “He may not be,” said Finn hopefully.

  “I think he will be. He’s the best of the litter.”

  Cormac’s assessment was correct. Within a few days, the decision was made and word brought to Cenannus. Cairbre Mac Cormac was king of Tara, High King of Erin.

  Finn grieved in his heart. At night, lying on his bed in Cormac’s guesthouse, he spoke of it to Sive. The high times are truly over, I fear, Sive. Cairbre is not the man his father was. Who could be? Cormac and I had our differences, but he has been extraordinary. We’ll not see another like him.

  Now this new one. He expects me to serve under him and lead the Fíanna to his order, but I don’t know, Sive. The army has changed too. My fault, my doing. If you had been with me to talk things through with me, support me … but. But.

  He sighed in the darkness. But everything changes.

  Sive did not deny it.

  Finn fell asleep and tried to find her in his dreams, but they were clouded and filled with undefined turmoil.

  He could not find Sive, but in the morning there was Grania emerging from the women’s chamber, plumped with maturity, mellowed by tragedy. Finn found himself hungry for a woman’s voice and fell into step beside her, discussing recent events pertaining to the kingship, and also to her future.

  On the journey from Rath Grania, Finn had hardly said three words to the woman. The very sight of her made him feel guilty for Diarmait’s harrying and, to some extent, for Diarmait’s death, whose details became increasingly blurred in his mind as the days passed. Grania had not openly accused him of killing Diarmait as Oisin had done, yet he had begun to wonder. Did he do it?

  Did I, Sive?

  So he was pleasantly surprised that Grania was being friendly toward him now. She walked with him and talked with him, and her female presence was curiously comforting.

  He did not see, hidden behind her slanted eyes, the plan in her mind: the slow and subtle and very female revenge she had long since determined to take on Finn Mac Cool.

  Later, she found her father closeted with Flaithri the brehons, discussing some obscure point of law pertaining to the size of outbuildings. She asked Cormac to dismiss the brehon, then got straight to the point.

  “I want you to ask Finn Mac Cool to accept me back as his wife, Father.”

  Cormac could not hide his astonishment. “You do?”

  “I do. When my period of mourning is over. Will you ask him to do it … as a favour to you?”

  When Cormac made the request of him, Finn was equally astonished. But the former king asked so beseechingly he could not refuse, though his every instinct was to do so.

  “Take care of my daughter for me,” Cormac said pleadingly. “She’s had a terrible time these past years, and only you can make it up to her.”

  “I should think I’m the last person she’d want to make it up to her.”

  “I would have thought the same,” Cormac agreed, “but apparently not. She seems to feel she should in all honesty revert to her former position as your wife. She actually seems to feel some guilt for having been disloyal to you all those years ago, and says she wants to make it up to you. So if you come together again, you can bind each other’s wounds and wipe away the past.”

  Finn gave Cormac a dubious look. Once the former king would have been too wise for such fatuous talk. But he was old … changed.

  And he did seem to desire the reconciliation.

  As if he could hear Finn’s silent thoughts, Cormac said, “It will be th
e last formal request I ever make of you, Finn. It will put my mind at ease, knowing the two of you have forgiven one another.”

  Finn started to put his thumb into his mouth before answering, then dismissed the idea. It seemed childish at the moment, a silly prank. “If that’s what you really want.” he said stiffly.

  Cormac. smiled, a faint light briefly glowing in his one remaining eye like an echo of an ancient sun. “It is what I want, because it is what my daughter wants,” he said.

  So it was agreed between them. When Grania ended her season of mourning, she would move into Almhain. Finn would care for her and protect her for Cormac’s sake.

  He was not entirely comfortable with the idea, but he accepted it.

  It did not matter very much. Nothing seemed to matter as it once had. He was going through the motions more out of habit than conviction, even when it came to commanding the army.

  But Cairbre made it obvious from the beginning that he wanted an energetic, dedicated Rígfénnid Fíanna, and that Finn Mac Cool was not his favourite in that position. There was frequent friction between them.

  It came to a head when Finn learned that Cairbre had secretly sent to Connacht for some of Goll’s own kinsmen, promising the men from Clan Morna they could be officers in the Fíanna if they were loyal to him.

  Finn stormed into the House of the King with some of his old authority and a face like thunder. “The rígfénnidi don’t give allegiance to the king, you fool!” he shouted at Cairbre. “They swear their loyalty to me. I swear to the king of Tara!”

  Cairbre tried to stare him down. “Do you call the king of Tara, to whom you have sworn your loyalty, a fool? That sounds like the act of an oath-breaker to me.”

  The mention of that epithet, last heard from Goll’s lips, enraged Finn. He almost repeated Goll’s action and deserted Tara then and there. At the last moment he caught himself and realized what he would throw away.

  The Fíanna. Not the Fíanna it had been, but still … his creation. Shaped to his desire. If he left now, by sunset Cairbre would have given it to someone else to command.