Finn Mac Cool

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Blindly, he followed her. His body was no longer his to control. In some small, dark corner of his mind he realized this, but he could not stop himself. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her against him again, grinding himself into her. The pleasure was beyond anything he had imagined but it was not enough, he only wanted more.

  Cruina was trying to back away from him. He pinned her against the wall of the building. “Let me,” he said hoarsely. “Let me …”

  She twisted skillfully, interposing the curve of her hip between his body and hers. “Don’t, Finn!” she commanded.

  I can’t stop, he thought. Don’t try to make me stop. But even as the thought formed in his mind, the tone of her voice reached that portion of Finn’s brain that was inculcated with Fíanna discipline. He hesitated, shuddered, stepped back.

  Sweat was pouring down his face.

  They stared at each other.

  Cruina whispered, “I didn’t think you’d stop.”

  “I didn’t think I could.”

  “But you did.”

  “I did. You wanted me to.”

  “I did?” She gazed up at him, shaken by her own emotions. Now she was not sure she had wanted him to stop. Her body was throbbing with awareness of him. “We could go somewhere,” she heard herself suggest.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I mean … if you want to …”

  Finn’s mouth was so dry he could hardly form words. “I thought you didn’t want a seventh-degree marriage.”

  “I don’t. But.” She put one hand on his chest. “But.” Her fingers closed on the fabric of his tunic, pulled him toward her. “But,” she said again, helplessly. He seemed to be taking up all the air. She could not draw a deep breath. “I want … we could go somewhere, Finn.”

  “Where? We’re quartered in the old stables, I can’t take a woman there.”

  “What about this?” Cruina indicated the wall beside them. “It’s a sleeping chamber. Surely no one’s in it now.”

  “Let’s see.” Taking her hand, Finn led her around to the front of the one-room chamber. The oaken door was ajar. When he peeved inside, he saw no one.

  He pulled Cruina in after him and shut the door. While the woman watched, he drew his shortsword and with both hands plunged it into the earth before the door. He was so strong he buried the blade in the hard-packed ground almost up to its hilt. No one would be able to force the door inward.

  He turned to her. “Now,” he said.

  She gave a breathless little laugh. “Have you ever had a woman, Finn Mac Cool?”

  “I’ve had hun … I’ve never had a woman before,” he said in a low voice, as if speaking was an effort.

  “I’m glad!” In the dusk of the windowless chamber, Cruina’s voice was very bright. “Shall I show you what to do, then?”

  He nodded mutely.

  Finn stood like a child white Cruina unpinned his mantle and dropped it on the ground to make a bed for them. Then she unfastened his belt. It fell, with the empty scabbard. Her hands reached under his tunic.

  Finn groaned again.

  Cruina gasped. “Is all of that you?”

  He could not answer.

  Seizing his trembling hands, she guided them to her clothing. But he did not undress her, nor she him. It disintegrated into a confusion of pulling and tearing, getting obstacles out of the way however they could.

  They tumbled together onto Finn’s cloak. Cruina opened her legs for him and tried to guide him, but he was out of control again and at her first touch, his body seemed to convulse.

  Now she was genuinely frightened. He was immense. She feared he would tear her. She tried to fight him off, but her squirming only excited him more. He was lost in a frenzied need to immerse himself in that hot, sweet core of being from which he had once been expelled, the security he had lost and never regained, the darkness and mystery at the centre of womanhood. Now, now, now! Must do it now! Waves of sensation rolled over him. He plunged wildly, too desperate for any restraint. He ground his penis into her flesh just as a knot of anguish gathered at the base of his spine and exploded upward, shattering Finn Mac Cool into a million fragments.

  He screamed through clenched teeth and spent himself on Cruina’s warm belly.

  For a long time he could do nothing but lie there, panting, letting the waves of pleasure slowly recede. He was afraid he would break into pieces if he moved. Surely the bonds that held flesh to bone had been dissolved.

  Gradually the ability to think returned, and with it came realization.

  I’ve done it wrong.

  He was mortified.

  Does she know?

  Of course she knows. She’s a woman, they know everything, they’re full of secrets.

  She’ll laugh at me. She’ll tell others about my failure.

  Finn lay with his face buried in the curve of her neck and the thicket of her hair, breathing in the smell of her, a mingled fragrance of damp skin and hair and linen and wool and woodsmoke and dried flower petals steeped in oil of white briony. His nose could not separate the scents; it was just the smell of Woman.

  He knew that the moment they separated, his humiliation would begin.

  Pinioned beneath him, Cruina was aware of his premature ejaculation. She was not thinking of it as his failure, however, but as her own. There would be no child from this coupling. It could not be considered a marriage.

  From the first moment she saw Finn, she had wanted him. He was a fénnid, a Fir Bolg, and she was the royal smith’s daughter, but the disparity in their rank had not discouraged her. His elevation to Rígfénnid Fíanna gave him more status, and his spectacular singularity would in time give him still more prestige, Cruina felt certain. She would not be lowering herself if she married him—particularly if he took her as a contract wife.

  That had been the thrust of her campaign. Seem disinterested, offer him a challenge, fan the flames of desire until he offered what she wanted. It was a dance women knew well. Then she had thrown it away in a moment when his proximity had overcome her self-control. She had given that which she meant to withhold. And she had not given it well, she had not made the experience one he would wish to repeat again and again with a wife.

  Lying underneath Finn, Cruina ached with regret. What can I say to him? What can I do?

  When she felt him gather himself, she tightened her arms around him and tried to hold him, but he was far too strong for her. He pushed free and was on his feet in one lithe movement, turning his face from her as he rose.

  He could not bear to have her look at him. He could not bear to see contempt in her eyes.

  “You were wonderful!” she said too brightly.

  He despised her for lying. “I’m always wonderful,” he said coldly. He kept his back to her as he adjusted his clothing.

  He could hear her breathing behind him. Suddenly he wanted to throw himself on her again. The first frantic scramble had scarcely blunted his passion. Youth and energy reasserted themselves, but he dare not try a second time. Two failures would crush him.

  “I have work to do,” he muttered because he must say something. He sidled toward the door, still keeping his face turned from her.

  “Don’t go now!” Cruina pleaded. She got to her knees and held out her arms toward him.

  He thought she was mocking him. “That’s enough of that,” he said harshly. Stooping, he caught the hilt of his shortsword and wrenched it out of the packed earth.

  Too late, he realized he might have broken the blade. But it was intact.

  My father’s sword, he thought. Crimall entrusted me with it and I used it for this …

  He left the chamber feeling like a small boy who had done something unspeakable in the company of adults.

  Sitting on Finn’s cloak, Cruina gazed after him. He had forgotten the garment. When he was gone, she gathered it around herself and began rocking slowly back and forth.

  9

  UNTIL THE COLD WIND HAD BEEN BLOWING OVER HIM for
quite some time, Finn did not realize he was without his mantle.

  Cruina must have it. Surely she would not have left it lying in the chamber, for anyone to find.

  But he could not face her and ask for it. Instead, he went to the king. “My entitlements as commander include three fringed woollen cloaks, I believe?”

  “They do. And linen tunics and—”

  “I’d like the cloaks now, if I may have them.”

  “I’d say you need one,” Cormac replied dryly. “What’s happened to that massive thing you usually wear?”

  With a casual shrug, Finn said, “I left it someplace, and no harm. It’s hardly appropriate for Tara.”

  “You mean you can walk around in this weather without a cloak and not be bothered?”

  “Not bothered at all!” insisted Finn. “I never feel the cold.”

  Cormac shook his head. “You’re a wonder. But you should have a cloak.” Snapping his fingers, he summoned one of his newly appointed stewards. “Take Finn to the storehouses and let him pick out three of the best woollen cloaks sent to me with my tributes. And if there’s nothing there he likes, let him look through my own.”

  Surprised and flattered, Finn protested, “That isn’t necessary.”

  “I have plenty, just take whatever pleases you.”

  The comradely gesture almost prompted Finn to mention the unfilled position of king’s companion and confidante. But he said nothing. He had suffered enough embarrassment; he did not want Cormac to remind him that he came from a subordinate people.

  Someday, he thought. The word was a talisman encapsulating an inchoate longing. Someday these things won’t matter. Someday the fact that my mother …

  None of it will matter. I shall be so famous none of it can hurt me anymore.

  But that was someday and this was today. Even his status as commander of the Fíanna did not cushion Finn from the memory of his failure with Cruina. His dawning manhood was blemished.

  He examined every cloak the steward showed him, finding none splendid enough to hide his shame. “You’d better show me the king’s cloaks,” he said at last, though with a sense of effrontery in spite of having Cormac’s permission. On this day he did not feel like a man who could wear a king’s cloak.

  Cormac’s clothing was kept in huge oak chests carved with curvilinear Celtic designs. While the king’s new residence was under construction, his belongings were somewhat carelessly stored in a nearby shed. One of Fiachaid’s men stood guard, however.

  “I’ve brought Finn Mac Cool to make selections from the king’s wardrobe,” the steward told the guard.

  Fiachaid’s man gave Finn a cold look expressing the rivalry simmering between Fiachaid’s warriors of noble birth and Finn’s fénnidi. Fiachaid’s men felt they were being supplanted by inferiors, and they were not happy.

  “Nothing was said to me about this,” the guard growled, continuing to block the doorway with his body.

  On any other day Finn would have pushed him aside and strode past him. Today he hesitated. “The king said I could have one of his cloaks.” His voice did not sound as convincing as it should have done, he realized.

  The guard realized it too. “Did he now?” the man drawled insolently. “Do I have anything other than your word for that?”

  The steward was horrified. “I heard …” he started to say, but he was too late.

  Finn had recovered himself.

  Lights shifted deep in his eyes. A slight movement of his lips might have been interpreted as a smile—or a preliminary baring of fangs.

  “You want something other than words?” asked Finn Mac Cool.

  The scream rang across Tara Hill.

  People came running from every direction to find the horrified steward dancing in ineffectual circles around an enraged colossus who was holding a fully grown man at arm’s length above his head. Spinning around and around, Finn gained enough momentum to hurl the fortunate guard for the distance of an ordinary spear’s throw.

  The man sailed through the air, shrieking.

  He fell in a heap at the feet of Cormac Mac Airt.

  The king stared down at the guard, then raised his eyes to meet those of Finn’s. His new commander’s face was transfigured by a wild rapture. For a moment Cormac feared he would seize the next nearest man and throw him too, for the joy of it.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” the king cried to forestall further damage.

  With an effort, Finn dragged himself back from a fine, free place where action—crisp, decisive, uncomplicated——took precedence over confusing emotion. He forced his eyes to focus on Cormac.

  But the feral light was still in them. For the first time, the king saw what others had seen in Finn Mac Cool. In spite of his warm cloak, Cormac shivered.

  Finn said harshly, “He wouldn’t give me access to your cloaks.”

  “Is that all? You may have killed him!”

  Finn’s blood still raced through his body. He did not want to think about consequences. For a while longer he wanted to enjoy the elation that came from the unfettered use of his total strength. Tossing his hair out of his eyes, he continued to dance on the balls of his feet, hoping someone else would challenge him.

  “Finn!” Cormac cried in a voice of command. “Follow!” He turned and went to the fallen man.

  Somehow Finn obeyed, feeling the joy drain out of him. A crowd had gathered. He heard someone say, “It’s not possible! Did you see where the commander was standing? No one could throw a grown man that far!” Finn smiled.

  The man who had been thrown grunted, coughed, opened his eyes. When he saw Cormac and Finn, he closed them again. “Please,” he tried to say.

  “Would you rather I speak to you?” Finn asked softly, “or lay hands on you?”

  “Speak to me,” said the man, gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of him, “but don’t touch me again!”

  “My words are good enough for you now, are they?”

  “I’d not question them,” was the heartfelt reply.

  A few remained to help him to his feet and check for injuries, but the majority of the spectators followed Finn to the shed. They waited outside, talking in excited voices about this latest of his feats, while he, Cormac, and the steward went in.

  The king stood to one side, watching with folded arms and an air of quiet amusement as his steward lifted piles of clothing out of the chests. Finn’s face was a study in astonishment that Cormac enjoyed.

  The new king of Tara possessed stacks of tight-fitting linen shirts with voluminous bell-shaped sleeves sewn into countless tiny pleats. He had finely woven linen undergarments made in one piece to serve as stockings and trews, tight to the leg to show off its shape, and held in place with ribbons passing under the arch of the foot. His tunics were elaborately embroidered, with folds and plaits using excessive amounts of material. There were short, tight coats of wool or leather, to be worn over the shirts and fastened at the throat with jewelled brooches. He also had short capes, with or without cowls, made of unbleached black wool from the common sheep of Erin. But even this simple fabric was enriched with linings of brilliantly dyed silk obtained from the sea traders who frequented the coasts.

  It was the first time Finn had been intimate enough with any member of the ruling aristocracy to see a royal wardrobe thus displayed. He was speechless with realization of the wealth of Erin.

  The steward held up a selection of knee-length hooded mantles composed of stripes or chevrons of bleached and dyed wool sewn together. But most splendid of all were the full-length cloaks. These great mantles were either lined with fur or finished with row upon row of thick fringe as long as a man’s forearm, sewn along the outer edges of the garment to keep the wearer’s throat and wrists and ankles warm.

  Like a dazzled child, Finn reached for the nearest, a vivid polychrome-striped cloak fringed with crimson.

  The steward laid a timorous hand on his arm. “Not this,” he said, half expecting a blow. “If you ple
ase, that contains seven colours, which only a king may wear.” When Finn did not hit him, the man was encouraged to continue, “Six colours are allowed bards and brehons and a king’s senior wife. Noble princes may wear five according to Brehon Law; four colours are permitted to teachers and hostellers; clan leaders wear three—”

  “And the Rígfénnid Fíanna?” Finn interrupted, looking not at the steward, but at Cormac.

  The king’s lips silently shaped the word. Four.

  Finn turned back to the steward. “I’ll have this, then,” he decided, taking a cloak composed of squares of wool in black, white, and brilliant blue, with a yellow fringe. He swirled it dramatically around his shoulders.

  Cormac’s amusement deepened. “You do that as if you’d always worn fringed cloaks.”

  “I’ve never worn anything,” Finn told him, “but what I made with my own two hands. Not since I was weaned.”

  Cormac gave him a long look. “You could wear a saffron tunic under that cloak,” he said at last, “and still be wearing but four colours, as the fringe is yellow too.”

  When Finn left the shed, he wore the chequered cloak and carried an armload of other garments. He stepped into an icy rain. Beyond the doorway stood the guard who had challenged him, on his feet again but shivering with cold and reaction.

  Finn walked over to him. From the armload he carried, he extracted a black woollen mantle lined with fox fur and handed it to the guard.

  The man gaped at it. “What’s this in aid of?”

  “It’s for you.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You can. The king gave it to me, and I give it to you.”

  “But—”

  “It’s only the one colour,” said Finn with the air of the newly knowledgeable, having questioned the steward closely when he made this selection. “Fur isn’t considered a colour.”

  When the man seemed too stunned to respond, Finn draped the mantle around his shoulders with his own hands and walked away.

  That night in the stable, Fergus Honey-Tongue said, “If the leaves falling from the trees were gold, or the foam on the waves silver, Fionn son of Cuhal would give them away. None can match him for generosity.”