Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Finn Mac Cool (13 page)
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.”
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.
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 RÃgfénnid FÃanna.”
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 druids 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.
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 RÃgfénnid FÃanna, 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 FÃanna.”
“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 âthe 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.
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