“The High-king,” Erca said into the new buzz, which diminished that its makers might hear him, “has no power over the laws, and I seek none. Of this, though, I assure ye all. Cormac mac Art may or may not deserve exile or death, and true it is that there was more to the matter then than met the eyes and ears of all of us. Mayhap he fled justice. Mayhap he fled death. And mayhap he departed his homeland to hope for a less… prejudiced hearing in some future time-as now. But-it’s he who has returned, and revealed himself all willingly, and this be no coward’s act. I repeat: I have no power over the law, and none do I seek. It is within my power to force custody or offer protection. This I now do, that Cormac Art’s son may be heard and judged at the Great Feis.”
In silence then, the High-king gazed upon the returned exile.
“You who have borne more names than one but who were born and remain Cormac mac Art of Connacht, hear my command. You are to remain in the household of the lord Cumal of Tara, until we command your presence before kings and judges assembled, at Feis Mor.”
Cormac inclined his head in a deep nod, and said nothing.
Considerably later that night, Erca mac Lugaid heard the story of Ceann and Samaire, and received the letter from the lord of Tullamor. The High-king listened. He nodded the while, and his face writhed darkly. In the end he granted them sanctuary and welcome in his household-and advised that Feredach their brother was older and thus heir, and that their problem, like Cormac’s, was a matter for the Great Assembly.
“In private,” he said quietly, “I am worse than horrified. It’s welcome I make ye here, with sadness for you and your kingdom. Again in private, I assure ye and your friend Cormac that I do not share my father’s… apprehension for the son of Connacht with the magic old name. I know, Cormac, that it’s tricked and got rid of you were after being. Now I hope to see righted the wrongs against all three of ye. All, though, my lord and lady of Leinster and mac Art, must be up to the Assembly.”
“And Leinster,” Samaire murmured, “is part of it.”
“And Feredach,” her brother said, “is, at present, Leinster.”
Chapter Twenty: Assembly of Kings
“Were all Alba mine
From its centre to its border,
I would rather have the site of a house
In the middle of fair Derry. “
– Colm Cill, exile from Eirrin
Fourteen doors opened into the Mi Chuarta, and they were well separated.
Over seven hundred-fifty feet in length sprawled that ancient banqueting hall, and just under fifty feet in width, while the beamed ceiling soared nearly the same distance above the floor. Twice and a half a hundred years this mighty structure had commanded Tara and awed all Eirrin, and still it stood.
Each third year came all the kings into the Mi Chuarta, in solemn gathering. And it was the third year, and the time was Samain or Hallowday, the Celtic new year known to some as first November. It was a day sacred to the Druids-and hurriedly adopted by the priests of the Jesus-faith, who adapted well and without embarrassment to what they were pleased to call pagan customs and feast-days.
A king named Cormac mac Art had builded the awesome hall. An exile named Cormac mac Art must seek his justice in it.
Within one of those fourteen doorways stood a trumpeter, tall and straight and splendidly arrayed.
Already he had blasted forth two long notes. The first summoned numerous shield-bearers into the massive hall. Directed by a marshal and his aides and presided over by the high genealogist, those colourfully-garbed men had hurried about, carrying the flashing shields of their noble lords. No assemblage of butterflies had ever been more colourful. Soon it was as if gigantic butterflies of every hue had alit upon the walls, for they were festooned with the shields of families both ancient and relatively new. A poet had said it was as if the rainbow had come to Tara Hill, and taken up its abode in the colossal room.
The trumpeter’s second blast had brought more men hurrying in. These bore the symbols of both Druids and the new priests, and more shields. The shields were of men who stood high in the favour and regard of kings, advising them, keeping their records, commanding their armies.
And now the hall was ablaze with shields newly painted and enameled, each behind a sturdy, well-carved chair, and the trumpeter sounded another long sweet note to tremble on the air.
In a rustle of robes and a blaze of jewels, the Kings of Eirrin entered the place of their triennial assembly, and the shields paled before their splendour.
In the vast room’s center the High-king sat, with his face to westward. Munster’s pale, fat lord took his place on his left hand, while the King of Ulahd sat to the Ard-righ’s right. Behind Erca of Tara in Meath, Connacht’s sword-thin king took his traditional place.
Across from them, facing the High-king, was the blue-and-silver bedecked monarch of Leinster, with his ever-rising forehead and his thin dark mustachios.
Some there were that had said both Leinster and Meath insisted that they must be able to see the other, face and hands, at all times. Some had said that the High-king trusted none behind him but Connacht; others avowed that Connacht thus symbolically backed the High-kingship; still others had opined that Leinster felt comfortable and fully secure only when mighty Connacht was at such a distance, and the Ard-righ betwixt them.
Others still said that all was symbolism, and the true reasons forgot. It was pointed out that such an arrangement could be said to favour Leinster-but so too could Uladh’s position at the right hand of Meath be considered to favour that northern land. All that was certain was that the arrangement did not repeat in miniature the geographical location of the kingdoms.
Munster and Uladh flanked Meath and the high throne, with Connacht behind, and Leinster faced them all.
Jewels glittered in green and blue and yellow and red. Chains of silver and of gold, both delicate and heavy of link, rustled and clinked. Fine brooches and ornate neck-encompassing torcs winked and flashed from many throats, for the room now filled with nobles and advisers, chiefs and priests, Brehons or judges and Seanachies or historians, ollams and sternly robed Druids. To the chairs backed by their colours they solemnly went.
All were aware that the last, the Druids, had failed in their attempts to keep out the priests and their god; all were aware that the priests would not rest until the Druids and ill they represented had been ousted. The Celts were becoming Romanized.
“The Druids represent the snarling, dog-eat-dog Eirrin of the past and are a constant reminder of that which we should forget,” some said of those who represented the son of God.
“The priests represent the transformation of Eirrin’s hopes of Empire and her warhounds into toothless old dogs with but memories of past glories,” others said of the cross-wearing men who represented the son of God.
And mayhap both were right, and their god the same, and cared little for the petty way men acknowledged their creator. But history was upon them all.
The great triennial Feis began.
There were readings of genealogies and histories arid laws, in voices sonorous, or crackling and breaking with age, and, in one case, nervously atremble with a genius’s youth. There were agreements to reconsider and reaffirm, and petitions to be heard and deliberated upon by crowned heads; petitions to be granted in whole or in part, or denied, or held over, or remanded by common agreement to lower courts.
It was Munster’s lord who bespoke an attack on his eastward coast by Picts. Heads nodded and frowns became smiles, amid some cheering, when he told how the barbarians had been slain to a man.
It was the High-king himself who directed the reading of a letter from the lord of Tullamor, of how Cairbre Black-beard, thief and murderer, had been slain with his red-handed trio of men. Again there were gladsome faces and some cheers, and men called out that the slayers of that slayer should be brought before them…
Erca Tireach waved a hand. On one finger gleamed a ring that was a gift from Viking spoils, brought
to him by exiles, but none knew save he-and all knew him to be a man afflicted with conscience and blessed with a high sense of justice.
“The Assembly would greet the slayers of the murderous thief of Brosna Wood,” he called, and most eyes turned to one of the fourteen doors.
It was not weapon men who passed in through that portal.
Into that awesome room bright with jewels and robes of many colours and more gold than the Romans had stolen out of Britain, came two of the three heroes. Leinster’s lord Feredach an-Dubh was shaken, aye and visibly, by their appearance, though only a few noticed that he did not join the others in applause.
“And what would ye have of us, heroes?” called out the High-king himself.
“JUSTICE!” the regally-attired young man with the orange-red hair called back. “Justice for me, and my sister, and our land, and for our murdered brother-LIADH, KING OF LEINSTER!”
The uproar was not soon quieted.
Ceann and Samaire, well-favored of visage and well-attired of form, told their dark story. Their brother, who was prepared for the advent here of Cormac mac Art but not of these two, sat like a sullenly brooding stone.
Objections were raised. Feredach and his counsellors conferred again and again, in low voices and behind ring-bedizened hands. But the two finished their ugly narrative, and dark indeed went the face of Feredach the Dark-a sobriquet used not in public. Yet many including himself heard the whisper:
“Feredach the Dark, indeed!”
“Thus do we make accusation,” Ceann Ruadh finished, gazing upon his older brother, “and now do we call for rectification of wrongs.”
A scarred man in plain weapon-man’s garb awaited just without one of those twice-seven doors, and he held his breath the better to hear.
Cormac heard that which he expected: that all this matter was one of the Leinsterish succession, an internal affair of that realm and not for this assembly that represented all Eirrin. Cormac’s lips widened a bit in the hint of a smile nevertheless, for the chief judge and poet spoke with open disrespect for King Feredach, nor did any call him to task.
The decision was made: the assembly would not decide. Feredach’s thin mustache seemed to writhe as his thin lips parted and drew back in a smile of triumph that few indeed took for justification.
“The will of the Feis-mor has been stated,” the High-king said solemnly, “and it is written. I speak now only as King of Meath and as one with respect for the royal-born, as for all Eirrin-born of whatever realm: I Erca Tireach mac Lugaid make known to all men that Prince Ceann and Princess Samaire will remain in my personal household for so long as they choose, for they are Eirrin-born, and free.” He paused, then added, “And under my protection.”
The smile of Feredach faded like the mist of a sunny morning.
Hardly pleased, but with dignity, Ceann and Samaire departed the hall. They were welcome in Eirrin; they remained exiles from their home.
My lord the King of Uladh changed his position ever so slightly, so that without moving his chair he seemed somehow closer to Erca and farther from Feredach.
Again the Ard-righ spoke, turning his head about so that as many might hear as possible, even in the echoic vastness of that building that could have contained many, many houses.
“The leader of the tiny band that put defeat on the Pictish invaders of my lord of Munster’s demesne, aided by Munsterish fisher-folk, is the same as he who laid low Oisin Pictslayer: The third member of the trio that put defeat on the land-pirates of Brosna Wood is the same as he who brought down Bress of the Long Hand. And all are the same man, a man who has borne several names, and birthed legends over half the length of Eirrin, and who is called even mac Cuchulain and Curoi mac Dairi. ADMIT THE CHAMPION OF EIRRIN!”
The champion of Eirrin, attired as a weapon man with-empty sword-sheath, entered to applause-and some confusion, since he was no longer red-braided and mustached, but cleanshaven and crowned with a shaggy mane of black. Tall and rangy, he strode half the length of the hall.
He was asked to state his name.
Never, without shouting, had he spoken so loudly. “Cormac, son of Art, of the ua-Neill of Connacht.”
Bedlam was reborn in the Mi Chuarta of Tara, and it was not soon brought under control. Art’s son! The son of murdered Art! What a name this scarred man bore!
“You attacked the attacking Picts on the eastern coast of Munster one night within the year, alone?”
“Aye, lord High-king. Though I was soon joined by others, a fisherman named Dond and his son Dondal-and the Prince and Princess of Leinster, for whom I was acting as guard.”
“You sustained wounds there, on behalf of your fellow Eirrin-born-though not men of your own land?”
“On behalf of women and children of Eirrin as well, lord High-king. But my wounds were only scratches.”
“You experienced other… adventures in Munster, Cormac mac Art?”
“None to speak of, my lord High-king,” Cormac spoke, and his eyes met the gaze of Eogan. That Munsterish ruler showed little, but gazed back impassively from those weak eyes set in his bloodless face. Cormac nodded, almost imperceptibly; neither he nor Eogan was disposed to speak of their… meeting. Good.
“You reached Brosna Wood without again reddening your sword?”
“No, High-king. In an inn in Kilsheed, a drunken weapon man… made advances, with insults, on my lady Samaire of Leinster. I was forced to put defeat on him.”
“He is alive?” Erca ignored the murmurs.
“He was when we departed the next day, High-king. His wound was in the thigh. I had no wish to slay him.”
“There were witnesses?”
“Aye, my lord-and among them my lord Senchann, son of Munster’s king.”
Ignoring the new murmurs, Erca turned to Eogan. “My lord?”
“It is true, and as he said. The man was disciplined-is being disciplined.”
“Methinks the champion of Eirrin saw to that!” someone called, and there was laughter.
Erca stared it down. “Has my lord of Munster aught else to add?”
“No, my lord High-king,” Eogan said. “Only that I did not know this man’s identity at the time. My son acts for me in… some matters.”
Thus was no mention made of the visit to Eogan, or of his awareness of the identity of the two visitors.
Eogan must have succeeded in calling back his courier to Feredach, Cormac thought. Good!
“And it was alone yourself and the prince and princess made your way up and into Brosna Wood?”
“Aye, my lord,” Cormac said with a nod.
“And there you attacked Cairbre Black-beard and four men?”
“There, my lord High-king, Cairbre Black-beard and three men attacked us. Only a medallion saved my lady Samaire from an arrow in the chest. Prince Ceann slew one, and him in the saddle-the prince, I mean. The bandits themselves slew one of their number, for I held him betwixt myself and their arrows. Princess Samaire bowled over another, with her horse; he met justice and his end in Tullamor. It was Prince Ceann slew Cairbre, again from the saddle, and maintaining his seat the while. I did but little, in truth.”
“It was you began the attack on them?” the Connachtish king asked.
“Aye, my lord, for they had spoke of slaying us and of molesting the lady.”
“You have risked much for the royal couple of a realm you have no reason to love,” Erca suggested.
“MY LORD!” That, in an accusing voice, from Feredach’s chief adviser.
“A weapon man of Connacht does not argue with the High-king,” Cormac said, and there was some laughter. Meanwhile, heads still bent and turned around the hall, as men exchanged memories and what knowledge they had of Art of Connacht, and his son, and the events of twelve years agone.
“It may surely be said with truth that you have saved the lives of the prince and princess of Leinster, and of at least one family of Munster, and of future travelers through Brosna. And too that you have saved m
ore than the life of a lady-and finally that you maintained your control when the former champion of Eirrin lost his and attacked you in earnest.”
“I could not gainsay aught of that, lord High-king,” Cormac said.
“Yet all three of ye traveled this land with your names in hooded cloaks,” Erca said, and many leaned forward. “Cormac mac Art: Why?”
“As for the prince and princess, they had been betrayed into the hands of men of Norge, and were captive, and all three of us feared for their safety until we reached Tara Hill.”
The king of Uladh made obvious the fact that he was staring at Feredach the Dark.
“As for myself,” Cormac went on, and he told them of his story.
He was questioned, and assured that he had not again reddened his steel in or on the coasts of Eirrin. The affairs of the soldiers in Kilsheed and the bandits of Brosna Wood were matters for praise, not for the law.
Abruptly Feredach of Leinster rose with a rustle of primrose blue and much silver, which he favored over gold.
“As son of the royal lord in whose service this criminal was, I demand him for judgment and justice.”
But there were scowls and worse; Feredach had been undermined already, despite his foreknowledge of Cormac’s coming here. Recent events had transformed a boyish criminal into a heroic man.
“The previous petitioners,” the King of Connacht observed, “owe their lives to this man. And they have accused my lord of Leinster. Handing over the champion of Eirrin into his hands seems… unwise.”
There were sounds of agreement, and some laughter.
“And it is in your realm that the red-handed champion of Eirrin was born, and your realm from which he fled, my lord!” Feredach snapped, leaning toward Connacht’s king.
“As such,” that slender man said equably, and with a tiny smile, “I claim prior jurisdiction.”
“I can see from my lord of Connacht’s face that he would welcome not the head of Cormac mac Art, but his arm-and the sword it wields, rather than seek justice!” Feredach returned.
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