by Anna Ciddor
The crowd stamped and cheered.
‘Well done, boys,’ said Faelán, as Ket rose unsteadily to his feet. He wrapped an arm round each of their shoulders. ‘That was very convincing. Now, Nessa . . .’ He turned to look for her. ‘Cast the wren into the fire.’
Nessa stepped forward and in a few minutes the small feathered body was devoured by the flames.
Faelán looked at the dark sky and they all followed his gaze.
‘May Winter die
May the Sun be free
Bring life to the land
And leaf to the tree,’
he called.
The anruth and fosterlings repeated his words.
‘Bring life to the land
And leaf to the tree.’
Around the fire, others took up the chant. Somewhere, a drum began to beat.
‘May Winter die
May the Sun be free
Bring life to the land
And leaf to the tree.’
The words rose louder and faster, pouring towards the sky. Then the darkness split, and a shimmering line of light burst along the horizon. There was a triumphant tremolo from a wooden whistle, and suddenly everyone was clapping their hands, stomping their feet, twirling, singing and dancing.
The druid beamed at Ket.
‘Now, every day, you will see the sun grow stronger,’ he promised. ‘And soon the green of spring will cloak the land.’
Ket gazed on the multitude of rejoicing people, his heart swelling. It was Faelán, his master, who had brought this outpouring of hope and happiness.
‘But some day,’ vowed Ket, ‘I will be the one to make them dance!’
KING’S VISIT
Ket gazed enviously at the druid’s garb: the feathered cloak, the gold fillet binding his hair, and the bronze snake with garnet eyes that coiled up his arm. He gave a disgruntled tweak to his own knee-length tunic, roughly stitched from undyed wool, and wished he had something more suitable to wear for visiting a king. If he’d been an anruth now, he’d have a long grey robe and a circlet of silver around his head. He knelt by the river, scooped some of the freezing water over his head, and tried to comb the tangled mass of his hair with his fingers.
As they set off for Morgor’s ringfort, he glanced at the rest of the retinue. Nessa was dressed in a new robe she’d made for herself, dyed yellow with apple bark. As usual, her hair was neatly braided and beaded in gold. Her nails were coloured with berry juice, and earrings of crimson rowan berries hung over her ears. She looked like a princess. Lorccán’s shimmering fair hair always hung smooth, and he looked so proud no one noticed what he wore. As for Nath-í . . . Ket grinned and felt better. At least his own garments were less torn and stained than Nath-í’s.
They took the route over the plain and through the bog. Crossing the marshy ground, there were squeals and laughter as everyone hopped from plank to plank, trying not to splash in the mud. Nobody was surprised when Nath-í, with a rueful cry, slid knee-deep into the mire.
Only the druid walked with dignity. Ket watched him, intrigued. Even when his feet touched the mud, they left no mark on the moist, yielding surface. He led the way with sure, steady tread, until he stopped abruptly, cocking his head. They all listened. From somewhere to their right came three short cries of a raven.
‘Is it an omen?’ asked Nessa in a hushed voice.
The druid turned. His colourless eyes were glittering like two raindrops caught in the sunlight.
‘Someone in this party will reap great honour from this occasion,’ he said.
The fosterlings continued for a short distance in subdued silence, glancing speculatively at each other.
Then they reached the pale patch of new-laid track and burst into renewed chatter, scurrying forward.
Nessa cast a glance at the ringfort of her Uncle Tirech.
‘I wonder what’s been happening?’ she muttered. ‘Do you think he’s got the calf yet?’
Morgor’s fort looked as grand as the dun of a king. They gazed across the fields at ramparts of stone higher and wider than those of any ringfort they’d passed.
‘Hey, isn’t that Bran?’ cried Nessa.
In the middle of a pasture stood a familiar figure minding a troop of fat, contented cows. He didn’t answer when they waved and shouted.
They all fell silent with awe as they drew near the imposing ramparts. There were wooden lookouts built into the walls; and archers watched their approach, with bows drawn.
‘And there’s more !’ whispered Nath-í as they clattered onto the bridge over the ditch.
Sure enough, when they filed out of the tunnel through the immense stone wall, they saw another ditch, and another rampart.
‘Nobody could break in here!’ said Lorccán, eyes wide with admiration.
Ket glanced at the druid. He was stroking his beard musingly.
In the yard there was a kiln for drying grain, and a granary so brimful of barley, rye and oats that kernels were overflowing out the door onto the cobblestones. The pigsty was full to bursting, and in the calf-pen the yearlings stood shoulder to shoulder, jostling for space.
The chieftain’s hall sprawled in the centre of it all. It was not round, like a normal house, but had long, straight walls, covered with a white coating. Dozens of people were milling around the yard, though it seemed there were even more inside, for the noise coming from the hall sounded loud enough to blow the roof from its rafters.
Nath-í and Ket drew close to Nessa as they stepped over the threshold. There were crowds of people slurping mead or ale and shouting to be heard, their voices slurred and raucous. Lorccán trotted at Faelán’s side, smiling and waving as people reeled out of the druid’s way.
The air was hazy with smoke, and filled with the fumes of food and drink. A whole boar rotated on a spit on the huge hearthfire in the middle of the room, fat trickling down to hiss and smoke in the flames. Nath-í and Ket stopped walking to stare. Ket was so hollow he felt as if his stomach was clamped against his backbone.
‘Ket!’ A hand gripped Ket’s shoulder, and he turned to find his father looking down at him. Ossian jerked his head at the spit. ‘Impressive, hey?’ Ossian gave a wry smile. ‘Morgor has surpassed himself this year.’
Before Ket could answer, his uncles, Ailbe and Senach, sharing a huge mead cup, came rolling up to bear Ossian away.
As the druid and his followers threaded their way down the hall, a strange figure leapt in front of them, capering on the rush-strewn floor. He was dressed in a ridiculously short léine; heavy gold rings swung on his ears, and he wore a speckled white cloak. He tossed a dagger in the air, then another, and another and began to juggle wildly. Around the hall, the drunken applause was deafening.
Beyond the juggler, through the smoke, Ket could see the king on a dais at the end of the hall, with Morgor at his left hand. King Breasal had white-blond hair and lush, drooping whiskers. He wore a heavy crown and his arms were loaded from elbow to wrist with gold and silver bracelets. His ankle-length robe was purple satin embroidered with silver. His long mantle had been woven from threads of many colours and was fastened with a brooch of crystal and bronze. A huge shield hung on the wall behind him.
‘Welcome, Druid of the Forest,’ called Morgor, as they approached.
‘Ah, the druid is come. Do you bring poems or prophecies this day?’ asked the king.
‘Should Your Majesty desire a prophecy,’ Faelán replied, ‘I have my tools of divination.’ He tapped the pouch at his belt. ‘And here . . .’ he gestured to the fosterlings ‘are four admirers to sing your praises.’
The king inclined his head. ‘And I have a gift for you, O Druid. Morgor tells me you have no footwear, so I ordered my silversmith to make you these . . .’
He lifted one finger and a man stepped forward. In his hands was a pair of sandals with thick soles of silver and glittering silver ornaments dangling from the laces.
Ket slid his eyes sideways to catch the druid’s expression. To his surpr
ise, Faelán beamed with pleasure and allowed a servant to tie the sandals to his feet. He was now taller than anyone else in the room.
The chieftain looked up at him with pride on his face. ‘Will you honour this assembly with a prophecy?’ he asked.
‘To what question do you seek an answer?’
Morgor gestured around the room. ‘My household,’ he said. ‘What does the future hold for my household?’
The druid held out his pouch.
‘Make a selection and I will divine the answer.’
‘A prophecy, a prophecy!’ Knives thumped on tables. Everyone craned forward.
Morgor plunged his hand in the pouch and drew out a rod.
‘That’s ogham!’ hissed Nath-í.
‘But it’s one we already know,’ Lorccán complained.
The druid took the feda in his hand and studied it.
‘Tinne,’ he murmured.
There was a breathless hush.
Then Faelán held up the rod for all to see. ‘This is the symbol for battle and bloodshed!’ he declared.
There were exclamations around the room.
Morgor rubbed his hands.
‘Ha, we have nothing to fear. The Ardal clan will conquer all!’
Faelán smiled enigmatically. ‘And now,’ he announced, ‘the poems in honour of King Breasal.’
The room fell silent apart from a few befuddled cheers.
The fosterlings glanced at each other, then Lorccán stepped forward and stretched his arms wide.
‘No measly weasel
Is King Breasal!’
he announced, and made a flourishing bow.
Ket and Nessa avoided each others’ eyes, trying not to laugh for, unfortunately, the king did look rather like a weasel.
Nessa pinched his arm. ‘Come on, Ket,’ she whispered.
They stepped forward together. Ket cleared his throat.
‘Bountiful as an oak laden with acorns
Tough as an alder shield in battle
Strong as elm in the hull of a ship
Is King Breasal.’
they recited in unison.
Ket squirmed with embarrassment, but the king looked satisfied, and in the sea of faces Ket caught a glimpse of his father smiling proudly.
Now it was Nath-í’s turn. Faelán’s eyes lit up with expectation, and he reached for his harp. Surprised, the others turned to look. Nath-í was kneeling in his mud-caked trews, head thrown back, and the plum sign on his cheek clearly visible. As music rippled from the harp, he broke into song.
‘King Breasal glows
Like a star in the night
I bow my knee
To his shining light
King Breasal is famed
Throughout the land
For his fearless heart
And his generous hand
When the kings all gather
On Uisnech hill
The others will bow
To Breasal’s will.’
There was a moment of silence, then everyone in the room began to whistle and clap. Ket sucked in his breath as King Breasal rose to his feet and slid a wide gold bracelet from his arm. He leaned across the table and held it out to Nath-í.
‘Well done, young bard,’ he said. He glanced at the druid. ‘Faelán, you have a fine pupil there. You must value him very highly.’
Ket felt the familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
More subjects arrived to pay their respects and taxes to the king, and the fosterlings were jostled aside.
‘I’m going to get the news from my clan,’ said Nessa, and she slipped into the boisterous throng.
For a few bewildering moments, Ket seemed to be in everyone’s way. People elbowed past him, trod drunkenly on his feet, thumped him with their swinging sacks, and sent gusts of ale-breath in his face. Then the trumpeter sounded his horn and the rechtaire began directing people to the tables along the walls. He pointed Ket to the lowliest end, near the door. Nessa and Lorccán were there already, behind a table of bare boards, with platters of rough-hewn yew. Along the opposite wall, the tables had linen cloths and dishes of gold and silver. There sat the queen with her ladies, and several men from the clans. Ket saw his father and uncles, and other people he knew – Ragallach, who could have been his foster father, and Brehon Áengus, and Tirech and Gortigern from the clan of Ardal.
‘Where’s Nath-í?’ asked Ket, sliding onto the bench beside Nessa.
Silently, Nessa pointed to the end of the room.
Ket leaned forward to see the dais. A sword-length to the left of the king sat his host, Morgor. And a sword-length to the right, seated with Faelán in the place of honour, was Nath-í!
There was a bitter taste in Ket’s mouth as he dragged his eyes away and turned back to Nessa.
‘I spoke to Uncle Tirech,’ Nessa whispered. ‘And he’s still stuck with that baby. He’s furious. The poor little thing just cries all the time, and piddles all over the house.’
‘But why has he still got the baby?’ Ket asked. ‘It’s been days. Why doesn’t Tirech go back and demand the payment?’
‘From Gortigern?’ asked Nessa, her voice rising in astonishment. ‘You don’t demand anything from Gortigern. Look at him!’
Ket looked at Nessa’s kinsmen seated at the opposite table. Gortigern took up the space of two normal men, and his hands, raising the mead cup, were as big as the swollen udders of a cow.
‘He’s the best fighter in our clan,’ Nessa continued. ‘And that lazy brehon’s no use. I’ve promised to ask Master Faelán what to do.’
The trumpet sounded again and Ket looked expectantly at King Breasal. But it was Faelán the Druid of the Forest who rose to his feet. Ket felt a thrill of pride. It was true. A druid took precedence even over a king.
‘Welcome to each and every one of you,’ said Faelán. ‘I take this opportunity to thank Morgor for hosting this feast. I thank the Spirits of the Hearth and the generous Earth for their bounty. I thank the animals that gave their lives that we might eat. I now call on the rannaire to perform his duties.’
The boy attending the spit skipped out of the way, and the rannaire stepped forward, brandishing his carving knife. Flames leapt up with a loud hiss as he sliced into the juicy carcass. He slapped the first portions onto a platter, and the attendant staggered with them to the dais. The king and the druid were served, and then an eager silence fell as Breasal scanned the hall.
‘Who is worthy of the hero’s joint?’ demanded the king.
A babble of excited chatter broke out, some voices rising loud and angry, then Gortigern mac Ardal, with a flourish of his cloak, sprang atop the table brandishing his dagger. Dishes flew from under his feet, and clanged to the floor.
‘I’m the champion!’ he roared.
‘Go, Gortigern!’ squealed someone.
But another burly figure rose in his seat. ‘I challenge you, Gortigern!’ he bellowed. He grasped the side of the table, and with a mighty heave sent it clattering on its side.
Gortigern’s dagger flew from his grasp as he thudded to the ground. He sprang up, fists raised, as the other fellow bounded over the fallen table and charged him, head lowered like a bull.
‘Kill him, Cellach!’ cried a few fervent voices.
‘Go, Gortigern!’ retorted the others.
With a juddering crash the two challengers toppled to the ground, rolling and writhing. Gortigern’s sleeve was ripped from his shoulder and his bare arm bulged as he pummelled his opponent. Everyone was on their feet now, cheering their heroes.
Gortigern’s flailing hand fell on his dagger and he raised it in the air. The cries in the room rose to hysterical fervour.
‘Go! Go! Go!’
The blade flashed and stabbed and a cursing Cellach rolled away, spouting blood.
‘Gortigern, Gortigern, Gortigern!’ The screams rose to a crescendo as the fighter staggered to his feet brandishing his bloodied dagger. Cellach wormed his way to the side of the room, scattering a
trail of red among the rushes.
Ket clambered down from his table, his voice hoarse with screaming. Lorccán was ecstatic.
‘Did you see those muscles?’ he demanded.
‘I told you he was strong!’ cried Nessa, her eyes shining.
Ket stared at her, dumbfounded.
‘I thought you didn’t like Gortigern,’ he said.
Nessa tilted her chin. ‘He’s my kinsman!’ she said.
‘But . . . he didn’t fight fairly,’ protested Ket.
‘The main thing was, he won!’ crowed Lorccán.
‘And Faelán’s prophecy came true already,’ said Nessa. ‘Battle and bloodshed!’
Everyone was relaxed and laughing now. The attendant carried a thigh portion of boar to the preening Gortigern, and another to the queen, then moved down the room with the rest of the meat. Other serving lads hurried around, bringing more platters filled with tasty delights: small round mulach cheeses, intestines stuffed with minced flesh, blood and herbs, boiled goose with apple sauce, and cranberry tarts.
‘Bet I eat the most!’ said Lorccán, piling his plate with food.
The queen rose from her seat and drifted around the room. Ket glanced up from sucking on a neck bone, to find her looking down at them.
‘You children did very well with your poetry. Keep up your efforts.’ Three slender silver bangles were slid from her wrist and dropped on the table in front of them. As Ket picked his up, he couldn’t help thinking of the heavy band of gold now adorning Nath-í’s arm.
A wooden mead cup, bigger than Ket’s head, was passed down the table towards them.
‘Mm,’ said Lorccán, smacking his lips, ‘that’s a man’s drink.’
Nessa took a sip and made a face. ‘Yuck, you can have it.’
Ket took a big gulp and almost choked. Secretly he agreed with Nessa, but he took another swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand the way the men did. He wondered how honey and apples could be made to taste so disgusting.
A sulky-looking boy was working his way down the table, serving sauce from a bronze jug.
‘Hey, look at that, it’s Bran!’ grinned Lorccán.