Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Finn Mac Cool (30 page)
“When ⦠I mean, what ⦠I mean ⦔
“Will it be a boy or a girl? I don't know, Finn. You need a druid to tell you those things, and you have no druid here.”
“I'll get one!” Finn promised. “By nightfall there will be a druid in residence on the Hill of Almhain! We must have someone close to you to protect you from evil spirits, to foresee difficulties, andâ”
Sive laid slender fingers across his mouth to silence him. “You protect me, Finn,” she said confidently. “There won't be any difficulties.”
But he could not be sure. He must erect palisades of security around his wife and child. Mere stone and timber were not sufficient, not in Erin.
By the time Finn was ready to leave for Tara, he had expanded his household to include a female physician called Bebinn, a bard known as Suanach Mac Senshenn, whose duty it was to keep Sive entertained, and a druid whose name was Cainnelsciath, meaning Shining Shield.
“Where are we going to put these people?” Sive wondered.
Obviously, new dwellings would have to be built for them and other provisions made for them. In a fever, Finn organized construction to take place in his absence and even found a steward, a man called Garveronan, who would manage the household and relieve Sive of that duty.
None of these appointments were easily achieved. No one seemed anxious to take up residence on the Hill of Almhain. As Cainnelsciath pointed out, “This place has a bad name, Finn. You should have built your stronghold somewhere else.”
“If there are evil spirits here, it's your responsibility to protect my family from them,” Finn replied.
Like many of his class, the druid was a person of indeterminate age.
He had a youthful face and bright, ruddy hair, glossy with health, but his hands were old, as gnarled as tree roots and speckled with brown. He let people guess his age but neither affirmed nor denied. “I am too old to live and too young to die,” was all he would admit.
He had a youthful face and bright, ruddy hair, glossy with health, but his hands were old, as gnarled as tree roots and speckled with brown. He let people guess his age but neither affirmed nor denied. “I am too old to live and too young to die,” was all he would admit.
Sive warmed to the druid immediately. The first time she saw his face, she felt the child move in her womb.
“Your son recognizes a friend,” Cainnelsciath told her.
“My son?”
The druid nodded. “You carry a healthy boy in you.”
She put her hand lightly on his arm. “Don't tell Finn,” she pleaded. “If he knew it was a son, he might not go. And it's important that he go. Being RÃgfénnid FÃanna means everything to him.”
Cainnelsciath's eyes glinted. “Not quite everything,” he said. He had been on the Hill of Almhain for only one day, but he already knew that Sive was its beating heart. Druid sensibilities were attuned to the invisible.
Finn found leave-taking impossible. When the time came to go, he pushed Sive away from him almost roughly. “Go back in our house and close the door,” he told her. “Don't stand where I can see you. Don't.”
She did as he asked, then stood on the other side of the closed door with her back pressed against it and her hands cradling her swelling belly.
Leaving three companies to guard his stronghold, Finn marched to Tara.
Along the way, he talked.
“Incessantly!” Blamec complained. “I don't recall his being such a talker! Now every other word out of his mouth is Sive this and Sive that. He won't talk about war or weapons or anything interesting, just that woman. You'd think she was the only woman in the world.”
“She's not the only woman,” remarked Cailte, who had at last found one of his own.
“Not the only woman at all,” agreed Madan for a similar reason.
The new respectability of the FÃanna was making its members attractive to a higher level of female society than they had enjoyed before. Finn was not the only warrior who had taken a wife at Beltaine. But mindful of his rule, his men accepted no property with their women, whom they treated with utmost courtesy, as if they were the wives of kings.
Erin was changing.
The gathering of the FÃanna at the Samhain Assembly that year saw warriors loyal to Cormac Mac Airt arrive from almost every part of Erin. Even Ulidia had been a hunting ground for the fénnidi that summer, roistering across its hills and chasing its wild hoars. There had, of course, been small wars, but nothing of importance, merely altercations between
clans, or even between individuals, the normal explosions of energy to be expected among vigorous people.
clans, or even between individuals, the normal explosions of energy to be expected among vigorous people.
But Cormac Mac Airt was too wise to expect peace to he a constant.
He was glad to see Finn. “I was almost afraid you weren't combing,” he told his RÃgfénnid FÃanna. “There have been stories circulating about you. It is said you've become something of a hermit on that hill of yours. Some even claim the SÃdhe have captured you.”
Finn grinned the old familiar grin, mischievous and merry. “I am captured,” he told the king.
Cormac's voice was suddenly tight. “What do you mean?”
“A woman has me in thrall,” Finn admitted cheerfully.
The king gave him an incredulous look. No man would make such an admissionâbut then, Finn was unlike other men, Cormac reminded himself. “Are you talking about your wife? What's her name ⦠Sabia?”
“Sive. Her name is Sive, it means sweet.”
“I know what it means, Finn. Is she truly named?”
“Truly.”
“When do we see this paragon of yours at Tara? Why didn't you bring her to the Samhain Assembly?”
“She's carrying a child. I thought she'd be safer at home.”
Cormac clapped Finn on the back. “Your child! And I having one myself with my new wife!”
“Carnait? I thought she'd already hadâ”
“She did. This is another new wife.”
It was Finn's turn to be incredulous. “And Ethni consented? How in the name of the seven stars did you manage that?”
“Once Ethni got into the habit of agreeing about Carnait, it was just a matter of encouraging her to keep on agreeing. In time she came to see the sense of it. Women are very practical, really. Now they are quite good friends, they chatter together daylong, complain to one another about me since they can't complain to anyone else. They share clothing and discover new ways of dressing their hair and are raising their children together. My women have more in common with each other than they do with me anyway, and having them together keeps them amused when I am busy.
“In time you might think of taking a second wife yourself, Finn. Lochan's daughter is still here, you know. In fact, I gather she considers herself yours already.”
Finn tried to recall Cruina's face. But he could see only Sive. “I don't want any other woman,” he told the king.
That night in the hall, Cormac repeated their conversation to an amused audience, adding, “Our Finn will change his mind once the new wife becomes old cheese.”
Finn's face darkened dangerously. “Don't speak of her,” he grated through clenched teeth.
The atmosphere in the hall changed abruptly. In one heartbeat it went from amiable conviviality to crouching tension. Radiating invisibly from Finn, his anger infected the fénnidi standing around the walls. Their eyes narrowed, their lips pressed tightly together. They became an extension of himself.
Cormac recognized the danger. This was what he had long feared, the power held in check not by his own authority, but by Finn Mac Cool. It could be turned against anyone at any moment, according to Finn's whim.
Finn is too dangerous to have at Tara, Cormac thought. And it would be even more dangerous to have him elsewhere.
With a casual remark, the king changed the subject. For the rest of the evening he was an expansive host, urging his poets to entertain, encouraging his musicians to play, calling for more food and drink, laughing at witticisms, taking part wholeheartedly in various conversationsâavoiding the eyes of Finn Mac Cool.
The dangerous moment slid by like turbulence in a river and was gone, but the memory lingered with Cormac.
Next morning, Goll Mac Morna arrived at Tara.
While Finn had spent the battle season with Sive, Goll, unsummoned, had remained at his own residence, increasingly curious as to why his services were not being required. He had sent messengers to Tara to enquire, only to be repeatedly informed, “The FÃanna are free this summer.”
Goll knew what that meant, or thought he did. The fénnidi were running wild across Erin, hunting, pillaging, getting into mischief in spite of Finn's efforts to force self-discipline upon them. “I am better off out of it,” he told his wife.
Still, he worried.
Neither the ground opening nor the sky falling could have prevented his journeying to Tara for the Samhain Assembly to find out what was happening.
Among Goll's survival skills was a highly developed sensitivity to every change in the wind. Even from a distance, he recognized change at Tara. There were more banners flying above the palisade than he remembered, and more roofs showing, too. And fénnidi, rather than Fiachaid's men, were patrolling the approaches.
Tara was thronged with the FÃanna, not just officers but common spear warriors, stalking arrogantly through precincts once reserved for royalty.
Goll felt a stab of alarm.
Before reporting to Finn, he went in search of Fiachaid, whom he found in a hazel grove beside the palisade, sitting in feathery shade and calmly cracking nuts. Wearing no weapons.
“Why aren't you on duty?” Goll demanded to know.
Fiachaid put one hand over his eyes to shade them as he looked up at Goll. “What duty?”
“You're in charge of the king's guard, aren't you?”
“I'm eating nuts, that's what I'm doing. Have some?”
“I didn't come here for nuts! What's going on? Where are your sword and spear?”
Fiachaid paused to pick a bit of shell out of his teeth before replying, “Finn Mac Cool has my spear, remember? He handles it better than I ever did. I suppose you could say I've retired from active service in the military.”
“Shame on your beard!” cried Goll. “A warrior's supposed to die in battle!”
“A fénnid perhaps. But I'm Milesian, the king's kinsman, and I'm entitled to certain advantages now that Cormac is securely established here. One of those is the right to enjoy some leisure and let others do the fighting if need be.”
“Finn won't fight for you. He'll take over. I know him.”
Fiachaid seemed unperturbed. “Take over what? He can't be king, he's Fir Bolg. He already has everything else one of his class could hope to win, so what's left for him to take over?”
Goll could hardly believe his ears. “You've accepted his ascendancy without a fight?”
“I fought in Cormac's service to regain power for our tribe. We have that now. Let the professionals keep it for us, men like you. And Finn. Men born and bred for the work.”
“Aren't you even jealous of Finn?”
“How could I be jealous of a Fir Bolg?” Fiachaid asked reasonably.
Goll strode away muttering to himself.
He still did not seek out and report to Finn. Instead, he made his way toward the House of the King, noting how many additions had been made to Tara since he saw it last. The great stronghold was more sprawling than ever, its palisades extended to accommodate a total of seven forts, including both Cormac's official house and his private residence, plus five others of almost equal grandeur for visiting kings. A long, timbered building known as the Hall of a Thousand Warriors now housed members of the FÃanna, and a House of the Hostages had recently been completed to contain prisoners of battle.
In addition to being a kingly centre, Tara, fragrant with cedar and brazen with bronze, was very obviously a military fortification unparalleled
in Erin. And construction was continuing on the very eve of the Samhain Assembly.
in Erin. And construction was continuing on the very eve of the Samhain Assembly.
Goll paused to question a man adzing planking. “Who designed all this?” He waved his hand to indicate the entire complex.
The woodworker looked at him in surprise. “The king, of course. He designs everything.”
“But where did he get his ideas? All these walls separating one structure from another ⦠it's a maze in here, it isn't broad and gracious anymore at all.”
The woodworker shrugged. “That's to make it harder to attack any one building, I think.”
“And that was the king's idea?”
“Och, perhaps not. I believe the RÃgfénnid FÃanna had something to do with the plan.”
“I believe he did,” Goll said grimly.
In much of the design of Tara, Goll recognized the patterns of Finn's mind, a mind accustomed to the wild ways of the wilderness, to tangled forests and secretive glens. A mind most comfortable when hiding behind elaborate constructs of the imagination.
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