The Hound of Ulster

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  ‘It seems indeed that you required but little bidding,’ Emer said.

  ‘I would have got none from your father, being not the King of Munster.’

  ‘If you had been, it’s not myself that would have been here waiting for you, for there’s no wish on me to be Munster’s Lady.’

  ‘Come, then,’ Cuchulain said, and catching her up across his shoulder, he turned and ran for the outer courtyard, where the chariots had been drawn back towards the gate, and the dead and wounded littered the ground, and the rest of Forgall’s warriors, with no heart left in them, stood sullenly about the great weapon-stone in the midst of the courtyard, and the flaring light of torches that gilded the autumn mist fell upon cups of gold and silver and fine weapons and jewelled arm-rings piled within the chariots, for Cuchulain’s men had not been idle. They greeted him with a shout as he made for his own chariot, and he set Emer down upon the floor of broad straps, and sprang in beside her, and cried to Laeg to whip up the team. ‘Surely this has been a wedding to surpass all weddings, and as surely no bride ever brought with her a richer dowry!’

  And with the six chariots behind him, he crashed out over the scattered embers of the thornwork gate, Emer clinging to the chariot rim beside him, and her dark hair flying like a storm cloud.

  But the thing was not yet finished, for Forgall had a sister, and that night she raised a great war band on her own account in Meath, and came rushing after Cuchulain. Cuchulain heard their hooves behind him and caught the moonlight on their spears, and knew his own small battle-weary band to be many times outnumbered. But even as he knew it, his battle fury came upon him, and he brought his chariots wheeling about to face those who thundered on their track. And with the fight that followed, the turf was trampled to red mud, and the ford of Glondath ran blood. And turning again and again, he slew a hundred and more of the Meath men at every ford from Olney to the Boyne.

  So for many years afterwards, if a man were telling of a battle that was especially sharp and bloody, he would say, ‘Ach! It was like Cuchulain’s wedding!’

  7. Bricrieu’s Feast

  A YEAR OR two after Cuchulain’s wedding, Bricrieu of the Bitter Tongue made a feast in his Dūn and bade to it King Conor and all the Red Branch Heroes.

  Conor was no fool. He knew that he could not refuse the invitation of one of his most powerful chieftains, for to do so would be to put an affront on the man before the eyes of all Ulster, that doubtless would be repaid full measure and running over, when the chance came. And he knew that to accept would also have its dangers, for Bricrieu was renowned as a trouble-maker, one who found in the stirring up of strife and ill will among his fellows the pleasure that other men found in battle or a day’s hunting or their arms round a girl. So he said to the giver of the feast, looking him straightly in the eye, ‘Bricrieu, you are no stranger to me. Which of my young warriors would you set against each other this time?’

  ‘I? My lord misjudges me. No such thought was in my mind.’ Bricrieu shrugged and smiled. ‘If I would stir up strife in the Red Branch, why should I go to the trouble of making a feast for them, when I could raise my little tempest as well in your hall as mine?’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said the King, ‘I should enjoy my meat more and drink with an easier mind in your hall if you were to feast elsewhere.’

  ‘Somewhat strange, that must seem, in the giver of the feast?’

  ‘Plead sickness. That should serve well enough,’ the King said.

  And Bricrieu knew that there was nothing left but to agree to Conor’s terms with as smooth a face as might be.

  But before he left Emain Macha for his own place, he contrived to meet Laery the Triumphant, who was one of the foremost warriors of the Red Branch, as he brought his chariot horses in from exercise. ‘The sun and the moon on your path, Laery, winner of battles. Those are horses worthy of the Champion of Ireland! Indeed there are none swifter and stronger it seems to me in all Emain Macha—save perhaps for the Grey and the Black of Cuchulain’s that he swears are horses of the Sidhe!’

  For not long since, Cuchulain had chanced upon a great grey stallion splashing ashore out of the grey lough below Slieve Fuad, and had captured it after such a fight as shook Slieve Fuad to its roots. And in the same way, within three days, he had taken the great black water-horse of Lough Seinglend. And these were the Black Seinglend and the Grey of Macha, who were chief among his chariot horses from that time forward until his death-day.

  ‘One day I will challenge Cuchulain to a race between his horses and mine,’ said Laery, who loved his horses and could never bear to hear any other team praised above them.

  ‘So? Maybe it would be better still if you were to challenge Cuchulain himself. For since his time in the Land of Shadows and his marriage to Emer he grows overproud, and would be the better for a lesson. Why, I have even heard that he claims to be the Champion of Ireland himself!’ and Bricrieu laughed softly, with his hand on the chariot rim.

  ‘There are two words as to that,’ said Laery the Triumphant.

  ‘Surely three. They are telling me that Conall Mac Finchoom makes the same claim—two mere striplings, and yourself a seasoned warrior. Ach well, at my house the Champion’s Portion is always worth the having. When the roast boar is carried in tomorrow, bid your charioteer to rise and claim it for you, and we will see what follows!’

  Laery leaned down towards him, suddenly fierce. ‘There are some who shall go to feed the ravens, if my right is denied me!’

  But Bricrieu only laughed a little tauntingly, as though he doubted it, and turned away, while Laery in a fury jabbed his bronze-tipped goad into the haunches of his team and sent them thundering on up the steep track towards the gates of Emain Macha.

  Smiling still behind narrowed eyes, Bricrieu went in search of Conall, and found him testing a new birding bow by shooting at a tuft of kingfisher’s feathers flying in the wind from a slim whippy hazel wand. When the arrow had thrummed away carrying one blue feather on its tip, Bricrieu said, ‘Surely there is no hand quite like yours for the bow in all Ulster. It is no wonder that men begin to call you Conall of the Victories, for none dare face you in battle; not even Cuchulain, for all the hero-light that burns about his head.’

  ‘It is as well, then, that we are not like to be standing against each other,’ Conall said shortly, stooping for another arrow from the row he had set in the ground before him. ‘For his shoulder has a good feel to it, when we stand together against a common foe; and a sorry thing it would be for foster brothers to be facing each other across the rims of their bucklers.’

  ‘A sorry thing it is that all foster kin are not so loyal as Conall of the Victories,’ Bricrieu said idly, and Conall turned to look at him, with the arrow already notched to his string. ‘And what would be the meaning of that, then?’

  ‘Nay, now, why should you pay any heed to the thing Cuchulain says? Yet it is true that all men believe by now you should have been declared Champion of Ireland.’

  ‘It is mine to take when I will,’ Conall said. ‘But what is this that Cuchulain says?’

  ‘That you would be claiming the Championship tomorrow, but that you are afraid of him.’

  Conall’s arrow flew wide and bedded in the turf walls of the Dūn, and his face darkened to a dusky red under the strong fair mane of hair. ‘Truly it is in my mind that he has changed in the Land of Shadows. Not tomorrow but this very night I claim the Championship of Ireland!’

  ‘Tomorrow! Wait until the night that you come with Conor to feast in my house. Then when the roast boar is brought in, bid your charioteer to rise and claim the Champion’s Portion for your share; for the Red Branch Warriors should not be squabbling like starlings in the King’s Hall.’

  And he went on his way, well content, leaving Conall of the Victories hurt and raging, to gather up his arrow and tear down the pretty fluttering target and grind it into muddy pulp under his heel.

  Cuchulain was sitting on the weathered stone well-curb in the courtyard
of the women’s quarters, laughing at some jest with one of Emer’s maidens who had come to draw water. And when the girl had gone her way, Bricrieu sat himself down on the well-curb beside Cuchulain, and laughed also. ‘Truly, being wed has not changed you! Not only are you our spear and shield against all enemies, the mightiest rampart of Ulster, but you must be holding every Ulster girl in the hollow of your hand, beside—whistling them as a bird off a tree. They would not deny you the Championship of Ireland!’

  Cuchulain drew his black brows together. ‘Who then denies me the Championship of Ireland?’

  ‘No, pay no heed. I let my tongue run away with me.’

  ‘That poisoned tongue of yours never yet ran away with you,’ Cuchulain said. ‘Who denies me the Championship of Ireland?’

  Bricrieu pretended unwillingness, but when Cuchulain caught him by the shoulder to force it out of him, he told his lie. ‘I thought you would have heard—Laery the Triumphant and Conall who men begin to call Conall of the Victories (forgetting, I suppose, how the High King of Tara died). Each of them has been putting it about that they are better men than you, that all your skill and strength are but a few shadow-tricks that Skatha taught you in the Land of Shadows, that you might make a fine showing before the Lady Emer, like a pied wagtail strutting before his hen.’

  ‘You lie!’ Cuchulain shouted. ‘Even if Laery forgot his friendship he would never speak so of me behind my back; and Conall—Conall is my foster brother, my hearth-companion; as soon would I speak so of him as he speak so of me!’ He gave Bricrieu’s shoulder a thrust that all but tipped him into the well, and Bricrieu jumped clear, rubbing the place where the young warrior’s fingers had bitten, but smiling still with his lips.

  ‘If you do not believe me, put it to the test! Tomorrow night when the Red Branch Warriors feast in my hall, bid your charioteer, when the roast boar is carried in, to rise and claim for you the Champion’s Portion. Then see what these friends of yours will do! Only see!’

  Cuchulain dashed his hand against the well-curb so that the blood sprang from his knuckles, before he could answer. ‘I will do as you bid me, Adder Tongue! And I will see!’

  And Bricrieu went home to his own place to make ready for the feast, promising himself an amusing evening.

  On the night of the feast, Bricrieu welcomed the King and the Red Branch Heroes and their women when they entered his splendid hall at Dūn Drum, and then, excusing himself on the grounds of an old wound that was troubling him. withdrew from the hall, his own warriors with him, while the women of his household led Emer and her companions away to the women’s quarters, for at Dūn Drum they followed the old custom and men and women did not eat together at feast times. But at the foot of the stair that led up to the private chambers behind the hall, he turned and looked back, smiling still. ‘The Champion’s Portion, you will find, is worth the having. Let it be given to the foremost hero in all Ulster.’

  When he was gone, and the Red Branch Warriors were seated at the long tables down the sides of the hall, Bricrieu’s slaves brought in the great chargers piled with oatcakes and curd, with mighty joints of oxen and deer meat and great silver salmon sizzling from the cooking spits; and last of all, borne proudly by four warriors, the great grizzly carcass of roast boar, whose right shoulder was the Champion’s Portion.

  The carriers came forward to do their part, and as the deep shoulder-cut was made amid a sudden silence in the uproar of the hall, the three charioteers of Laery and Conall and Cuchulain rose as one man, each to claim the Portion for his own lord.

  For maybe the time that it would take an arrow to fly three hundred paces, the silence endured; and then tumult roared up through the hall, the three heroes shouting each for himself, and the others shouting for support of this man or that, until the King struck with all his force the silver rod in his hand upon the bronze forepost of the High Seat. And at the sound, like the throbbing clash of a great bell, all men fell silent, and stood looking towards the King.

  But into the hush a new tumult arose, rushing nearer, the voices of many women raised in some quarrel of their own. ‘It is in my mind that Bricrieu has been at his work again,’ said Cathbad into his beard, and above the babble of women’s voices, Emer’s voice sounded, clear as the note of a silver trumpet, and her fists were beating on the postern-door. ‘Cuchulain! Cuchulain! let me in!’

  Cuchulain leapt to fling the bar aside, and dragged open the small heavy door, and Emer sprang through, between rage and laughter, and Fedelm the wife of Laery, and Conall’s young bride Lendabair, that he had taken less than a moon ago, came thrusting after her and behind them all their companions.

  Conor the King leaned forward in the High Seat, again striking the bronze forepost for silence, and demanded the meaning of the uproar.

  Emer had been first into the hall, but Fedelm was the first to speak, flinging back the strong bay hair that had broken loose with her running, and fronting the whole hall with blazing pride. ‘Look upon me, my Lord the King and all you warriors of Ulster. There is royal blood in me, and it is not for nothing that I am called Fedelm the Beautiful, as it is not for nothing that my husband is Laery the Triumphant, Laery of the Red Hand. Look upon me, and deny my right to walk first into the drink hall before all the other women of Ulster!’

  Then Lendabair spoke out for herself; small she was and sweet, and cherished as a little pet bird, so that it was no wonder that she was called Lendabair the Favourite; and the hair of her soft and pollen-yellow so that sometimes the colour of it would make Cuchulain remember the yellow hair of the Princess Aifa. Now she spoke out fiercely enough, a small thing fighting for its own. ‘I am not without some beauty too, and if I am not so fair as Fedelm, yet I have Conall of the Great Spear for my husband, Conall of the Victories! He goes with brave steps up to the spears of the fight, he brings his bright sword into the battle for Ulster, and none can stand against him. And proud he is, coming back to me afterwards, with the heads of the enemies in his hands! By right of Conall’s war spear I should walk before all other women in Ulster!’

  Then Emer spoke, last of all, fierce as a falcon, standing beside the Royal Fire, and more beautiful than all the rest. ‘I am black, whereas my sisters here are bronze and golden, yet it is I who am called Emer of the Beautiful Hair, and they are not so fair as I am. There is no other woman has the joy of loving or the strength of loving that I have; and my Lord is Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster, the Hound of Battle, the strong keeper of the gateway against all who come with spears. He fights from over the ears of his horses, he leaps like a salmon, he hews down whole armies; and I am the woman of the Hound of Ulster, and there is none worthy to walk before me among the women of the Red Branch or the women of Ulster or the women of all Ireland!’

  ‘Now Bricrieu has spent a happy evening,’ Cathbad murmured to himself, but he scarcely meant to be heard, and none heard him, for now the men were joining in again, Laery and Conall and Cuchulain each shouting for his own wife now as well as for himself, and demanding of the King that he should make the choice. But Connor Mac Nessa, sitting alone on the High Seat, looking with frown-furrowed eyes into the faces of his three heroes and their three wives, knew that if he attempted to decide between them he would but make bitter enemies of the other two, and the struggle between themselves would still go on, unless their hot blood were first given time to cool. ‘If my Queen had not died at young Follaman’s birth,’ he thought, ‘I could have dealt with the women anyway, for they would not dare this wild squabbling if there were a Queen to walk before all three of them.’

  Aloud, he said, ‘This is a feast, not a battle ground! The Champion’s Portion shall be divided among the three of you for this night, and later, we will put the thing to Maeve of Connacht, for being a stranger she may see with a clearer judgement than I among my own Red Branch kinsmen. Only this I say to you, that whatever her decision, you shall abide by it. And now, before the good meat grows cold——’

  So Laery and Conall and Cuchulain sheathe
d their swords that had been out by that time, and sat down again, glaring at each other, but forced to abide by the King’s ruling.

  Only Bricrieu, watching through a chink in the hanging was ill content at the way his evening’s amusement had gone.

  The feast at Dūn Drum lasted for three days and three nights, with hunting by day and eating and drinking and harp music after dark, and during all that time the three heroes kept the peace between them but did not sit on the same bench nor drink from the same wine-cup. And on the fourth morning, when it was ended, they set out for Cruachan in Roscommon of Connacht to demand the judgement of Maeve and the King, as to which of them should be accounted the Champion of Ireland. And many of the Ulster warriors drove with them to see what befell.

  And so by and by, sitting in her bower at Cruachan, beside the Hill of the Sidhe, Queen Maeve wondered, as Emer had done, to hear thunder from a clear sky, but her young daughter Findabair the Fair, who would be Queen after her, looked from the high window, and said, ‘Mother, I see chariots coming.’

  ‘Who drives in them?’ demanded Maeve, looking up from combing her long straight fair hair beside the fire.

  ‘In the first, a big man with blazing red-gold hair and beard. His cloak is purple as a thundercloud and he bears a javelin in his hand.’

  ‘That sounds like Laery the Triumphant, the Storm of War,’ said her mother. ‘Sore trouble there will be in Cruachan, if he comes in anger! Who else?’

  ‘In the second chariot I see a young fair-haired man with a skin as clear red and white as fresh blood spilled on snow. Chequered blue and crimson is his cloak, and his shield is brown with a bronze rim.’

  ‘That sounds to be Conall of the Victories,’ said Maeve. ‘A sad day for Cruachan if he comes with his sword unsheathed!’