by Sarah Rayne
Eochaid had pretended to have forgotten about this, but to himself he thought that to outlaw a thing did not necessarily banish it entirely. He thought there were probably a good many people at Court who possessed the Samhailt quite strongly, and he felt a bit wistful about this, because it was something he would very much have liked to have had himself.
“And there is the difficulty,” Bricriu had said, wrestling with creating a whole new set of laws which could be made to fit Eochaid’s accession. “Traditionally, Sire, the Samhailt is the privileged gift of the High Kings and the Bloodline.”
“I know that,” said Eochaid Bres, in what was very nearly a growl.
“But you do not possess it,” said Bricriu, and Eochaid wished that Bricriu would not be quite so blunt. But because he could not think of anything to say, he relapsed into silence and waited. Bricriu went on, “We dare not have a High King who does not have the Samhailt, not while there are others who do have it, you see? To do so, might argue that there are others at Court with a claim to the throne that is as strong as — nearly as strong as yours. It had better be outlawed,” he had decided. “Made punishable by death. That will solve it, Sire, you will see.” And he had gone away and written the new law that banished the Samhailt, although as Mother had pointed out, rather caustically, it was going to be extremely difficult to prove or disprove it either way. You could not actually see the Samhailt unless you had it yourself, and if you had it yourself, you were not going to admit to it if it was outlawed.
All of which had been so complicated, that Eochaid developed another headache and had to lie down and have a soothing draught brought to him.
But there had been a few cases of discovery, and the culprits had been dealt with smartly, because you could not risk having people communicating without speaking. You did not know what they might be plotting. You certainly had to suspect that anyone with the Samhailt might well be a supporter of Cormac.
“To the Miller with them!” cried Bricriu, and managed to make it sound almost gay, as if he were sending the victims on some kind of pleasant holiday. Eochaid spent quite a long time trying to forget what the Giant Miller of Muileann did to his prisoners.
Silver platters and golden goblets … He’d had a nurse, a half-human, who had chanted that to him in his nursery, until Mother found out and dismissed her. He had only Cruithin nurses after that; the Cruithin were apt to be annoyingly stubborn in their allegiance to the Wolfkings, said Mother crossly, but at least they did not chant frightening verses to babies.
But he would not think about any of it tonight. He would remember about being assertive, and he would certainly remember about showing them all that he was the King.
He sat down at table, and felt profoundly depressed. He refused a dish of fresh wood gazelle — “Your Majesty’s favourite!” cried the head cook, almost in tears — and he asked had they not plain honest roast boar in their sculleries. He wrinkled his nose at the wine and called for a flagon of best mead, wondering audibly whether there was a deliberate attempt at discourtesy to his guests that night.
He listened to the music being played and danced in a rather ponderous fashion with the visiting chieftain’s lady, indulging himself in a little portly flirtation, causing the lady, no slouch, to preen herself afterwards and inform her particular crony that she had found the King quite charming.
“They say he’s rather stupid and slow,” said the crony, who had not been sought to dance and did not see why dearest Mugain should give herself airs.
“Oh not in the least!” cried Mugain. “I found him delightful. I fancy I made no small impression, my dear,” and the crony thought it was as she had always suspected; poorest Mugain was a dear soul, but there was no breeding.
Bricriu and Mab watched the stately intimacy with disquiet. “For,” said Mab to Bricriu, “Eochaid simply is not interested in that sort of thing as a rule.”
“No. He’s his father’s son,” said Bricriu rather daringly, but recalling that he had once shared Mab’s bed for a night or two; an experience which Mab had long since forgotten, but which Bricriu had not.
“Oh, his father was never interested either,” said Mab and sent Bricriu one of her brief blinding smiles, which made him wriggle inside his robes, and recall the young Mab who twenty years earlier had been called the Intoxicating One. He quelled an incipient heartburn, along with an incipient rush of heat between his legs, and thought he would have to partake sparingly of the feast tonight. He would have to summon one of the chambermaids to his bed later to relieve his body, and he never performed well when he had indigestion. It would not do to have it blabbed all over the Court that he could not get it up any more, which might very well prove the case if he ate too much roast boar …
Eochaid had returned Mugain to her lord’s side, and was eyeing the Court impatiently. Well come on, you clever ones, where is my entertainment tonight? What is the good of being the High King at the most dazzling Court in the western world if I am to be bored and be jaded after my dinner every night? Several of the more impressionable courtiers remembered the King’s ancestry, and told each other that he resembled an angry lion at the mouth of a cave, and several more found themselves regretting Cormac’s exile rather more strongly than usual. Wolves might be a bit unpredictable; they might certainly be erratic, but no one had ever been bored when the Wolfkings reigned, and, rather curiously, no one had ever been frightened either. A number of the Court remembered that Cormac had had a sense of humour, and if Eochaid Bres possessed such a thing, he was keeping it very well hidden. He’s a tricky one, thought the courtiers; yes, he’s very tricky. A weak man’s obstinancy. And certainly a stupid one’s vanity.
Cormac had laughed and quarrelled, seduced the women and got drunk with the men, and made up the rules as he went along, and then broken them if he had felt like it. But he had been a King, thought Eochaid’s Court rather dismally. He had been arrogant and brilliant and impatient, but he had been a King. Eochaid was handsome and strong, but he was dull, thought those who could remember the dazzling years of Cormac’s rule. Oh dear yes, he was as dull as he could be. Just a heavy handsome animal, thought the courtiers, horrified at their own disloyalty, and those who possessed a streak of the Mindsong quenched it at once, lest it should be picked up and orders given for their immediate despatch to the Miller. Silver platters and golden goblets … Everyone knew the old rhyme and no one wanted to test its veracity.
The Sun Chamber turned with relief to the message sent up from Phineas on the West Gate that two travellers had requested admittance, and shelter, and waited resignedly for, it went without saying, the usual dismissal. It would come, of course, as it always did, and Phineas on the West Gate knew it as well as everyone else. But he would not have dared suppress the travellers’ visit, because Bricriu the Fox had to know everything that happened at Tara.
Cormac had been famous for his hospitality; he had delighted in gathering to the Court the travellers and the scholars, the musicians and the poets, and in the days of the Wolfking, Tara had become the great and glittering Court that would live on in Ireland’s legends. In Cormac’s time you went down into the Sun Chamber every evening in the knowledge that gathered there would be a glorious cornucopia of rich talent and beauty and life, sometimes oddly matched but somehow never jarring, because Cormac had had the rare gift of being able to blend together any assortment of people. No one had ever been turned away; everyone had been brought in, welcomed, given food and drink and a bed for the night. Tara was big enough for them all, Cormac had said, with regal disdain for the problems it had sometimes created for his household who often had to play put and take with the sleeping arrangements. Although to be fair, that had frequently been rather enjoyable as well.
Eochaid, ruled by the Fox, permitted no one to enter Tara’s portals without an exhaustive inquiry into that person’s antecedents, probable loyalties, and likely degree of treachery. You could not entirely blame him, said the courtiers, trying to be fair. Any usurper
was prone to attacks from the former occupant of his throne and it was not to be expected that Cormac would stay quiescent for long out at Scáthach. Eochaid was surely entitled to his insecurity. Several people remembered the really shocking story of an entire army being sneaked inside an enemy’s city hidden inside a huge wooden horse. Somewhere in the East had it been? Anyway, Eochaid Bres must be allowed his caution, but it was a great pity that the Court could not, as a result, enjoy the company of travellers, who usually had a few interesting tales to tell, and of pilgrims and men of other cultures. They turned to wait for the King’s usual dismissal of the travellers who were at the West Gate.
Eochaid Bres said loudly and defiantly, “Bring the travellers in.” And, as the gasp went round the Sun Chamber, “Lay places at the table for them.”
*
Flynn and Amairgen had not wanted to leave Portan behind, but she had been immovable.
“No,” she had said, her eyes never leaving Flynn’s face. “It is better I do not come.”
“But we cannot leave you here,” Flynn said.
“Why not? It is a mild night. I have warmth and food.” She hugged about her the thick woven cloak Flynn had brought from the farmhouse, and touched their food sack.
Amairgen said gently, “But my dear, it is not to be thought of that you should remain out here in the forest by yourself,” and in the dim light they saw her smile.
“I think I am safer here than inside the House of Mutants,” said Portan. “I think I am certainly more comfortable. Freedom. And to listen to the trees and to the wind in the trees … You could not know the joy that is for me.” She looked at Flynn again. “And here there is a — I have not the words, but there is a sense of homecoming for me.” She paused. “We all feel that.”
“Yes,” said Flynn slowly. “Yes, we are all of us at home here.” And this is my rightful place in the world. Aloud he said, “My dear, if you are quite sure —”
“I am quite sure, Flynn. Inside there,” she nodded in the direction of the glittering shape of Tara, “I should be an object of curiosity. I should be stared at and pointed at. It is a beautiful place and there will be beautiful men and women inside it. There would be the comparison … Out here with you I do not mind, but there I should. And it is safer for you. There should be nothing about you to cause comment.” She said this entirely without bitterness, and Flynn felt pity twist his guts again.
“We will leave you the large knife and the food. And — yes, look, there is a place over here. At the base of these trees, half cut into the bank, almost a cave. You would be quite warm and snug. And if you light a fire —”
“I shall not need a fire. The trees will not harm me. And I have your cloak. That is warmth and safety enough. I will be here waiting for you. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow or the next day,” say Amairgen. “No longer, I promise. But if we are not back then —”
“Then I will find a way to come into Tara,” said Portan, “I will come in and get you out.”
*
Flynn was dazzled and bewitched by Tara. From the moment they approached the great West Gate and sent in their request — “Food and a night’s rest for two weary travellers” — to the moment when the doors of the Sun Chamber swung wide to admit them, he was intoxicated and charmed and held in thrall. How beautiful. How right. Oh yes, this is where I was meant to be.
Their welcome was cautious, for the Gatekeeper, used to the Wolfkings and only paying the most cursory of respect to Eochaid Bres, was voluble in his explanations.
No travellers to be admitted under any pretext at all, said Phineas, and wouldn’t that give a man a dismal face from here to next Beltane’s Eve? Not that he wasn’t the King’s man, of course, well weren’t they all of them the King’s men? But a fine dismal time Eochaid Bres was giving them, and didn’t all Ireland know how he was under the thumb of Bricriu the Fox, and didn’t all Ireland know that Bricriu was under the thumb of the Queen Mother, always supposing that she wasn’t under his, and the Gatekeeper didn’t exactly mean thumb neither, although it wouldn’t do to be more specific.
“You can’t be sure who might be listening,” he said. “And you can’t be sure the sidh aren’t in Bricriu’s pay, neither. Well, I put it to you, what creature makes a better spy than an invisible one? And Bricriu isn’t the one to be choosy; he’d have half a dozen sidh inside Tara before you could say Dagda, for all some people believe they’ve sworn allegiance to the Erl-King. But that’s another story again. And as for allegiances — well,” said the gatekeeper, “we all know how binding that sort of thing is nowadays. Look at the sorcerers — well you can’t look at them, of course, because they hardly ever come out into the light of day — immersed in the Sorcery Chambers from dawn to dusk, and if they’re any more loyal to His Majesty than the stable cat, it’ll be a matter for comment. I wouldn’t trust a sorcerer from here to that door. Greedy. They’ll spin an enchantment for anyone who’ll pay them enough.
“You’ll take a drop of wine while we wait, I daresay, although I can tell you now that you’ll be sent on your way. Quite politely it’ll be done, of course.
“Here you are, sirs, you’ll forgive the discourtesy of poking the mugs through the grille to you as if you were no better than common tinkers, which any man can see you’re not.
“Ah, that’s the stuff, isn’t it? Yes, it does make you cough just a touch, doesn’t it? I don’t notice it myself, but they tell me it’s a mite strong. That’s the King, ordering in the young wine because it’s cheaper. No breeding. Well, did you ever hear of a High King who inspected the household accounts? No, and no more did anyone else. Give me the Wolfkings any day. Cormac now, there was a King. Snarl and snap at you he would, but it was all over in a minute, and everyone the best of friends after it. Now this one’s prone to sulks, and if there’s one thing you can’t be having in a High King, it’s —
“Ah, there you are Sean, and is it the dismissal you’ve brought us?”
But the man called Sean, who was bright-eyed and bow-legged, and had a face like seamed oak, had not brought any such thing.
They were to go along with him that very minute, he said, right up to the Sun Chamber and the High King, and the Gatekeeper, who had rearranged himself into a more comfortable position and refilled the mugs, was caught in mid-sup and swallowed several draughts down the wrong way. He had to be thumped on the back by Sean, who said it was a terrible waste to see all that grand wine being spat out on the floor, and hadn’t Phineas any better respect for his drink? To which Phineas wiped his mouth, sneezed a couple of times, and retorted that it was all very well for those up in the fine Sun Chamber, drinking the King’s best mead and it a proper strong brew such as a man would never dream of choking on, but down here they had thin sour stuff you wouldn’t call fit for the cat.
“You’ll be forgiving Phineas for any irreverencies, I expect,” said Sean, as they were led through echoing corridors and a great high-ceilinged chamber with inverted windows and doors. There was a rich unfamiliar scent — or have I tasted it before? wondered Flynn. That night on Tara’s Hill? When I learned of the Time Curtain? When I became forever homesick for this place? Perhaps …
“We pay Phineas no attention at all,” said Sean, scurrying along ahead of them with surprising agility. “He’ll have talked a lot of treason, no doubt, it’ll be better if you don’t tell me. Well, it’ll be better if you don’t think about it either, for the King’s very strict about the Samhailt, he won’t have the smallest whiff of it within an archer’s range of Tara, and I shouldn’t be surprised to learn you both possess it. I wonder are you of royal blood at all? No, I’d rather not know, because if I did know I’d have to tell the King. I’m his ollam, you see, and I took the Vow to serve him, not that there was much option at the time, because who’d want to go out to Scáthach with Cormac? Nasty gloomy place, Scáthach. It’s kept for traitors and pretenders, of course, not that there’ve been many pretenders, although some people still look on Eochaid Bres as
a pretender really. You won’t repeat that I daresay? Or that I’ve mentioned the Wolfking? They don’t like his name mentioned here any more.
“Anyway, I took the Vow,” said Sean, preceding them down a flight of steps, “and that means I’m constrained to report any treason. You never know who might be listening these days either, so it doesn’t do to let the smallest morsel of treason go unreported. Well, Eochaid Bres hasn’t the strongest of rights to the Ancient Throne, you see, and they have to be very careful. You didn’t hear me say that though.”
“No,” said Flynn and Amairgen, half mesmerised by the rapid flow of information.
“And when you remember that they send all traitors straight to the Miller — well it’s a nasty end,” said Sean. “It’s one I don’t care to think about. I ignore anything unpleasant,” he said seriously. “And of course, we all know what being sent to the Miller means.”
“Yes,” said Flynn and Amairgen, who did not.
“You’d think they’d want to put it out of their minds,” said Sean, leading them across a deserted hall with mosaic floors and symbols etched in gold on the walls. “You’d think they’d be glad to ignore the Miller. But no! Every Beltane Eve and every Samain there they are, wanting plays and masques and all manner of things about him. It’s my belief,” said Sean severely, “that they like being frightened. But if you’ve ever tried to make entertainment out of a subject like the Miller, you’ll know it’s no bed of roses. Well, it’s an impossibility really, but there it is, Bricriu commands and we all have to obey.” He bent to unlock a door. “Bricriu says it’s the King’s wishes,” said Sean, “but of course, we all know it isn’t.”
Flynn said, “Isn’t it?”
“Oh dear me no,” said Sean. “Oh, rentless land to us all, no!” He pushed the doors open and led them into a kind of antechamber, silk-hung and studded with low couches. Skin rugs lay on the floors. “Wolfskin,” said Sean with a gesture of disassociating himself. “Eochaid’s idea of supremacy over the Wolfking. Myself I think it’s petty.