The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  For the first time the man crouched beside Ailill smiled. “A wise man, and scarcely a man yet. Very well, I will hold your wealth for you although to do that I must give you the key to my sidhe. That I cannot give without recompense; my gratitude for your rescue of our child is not enough.”

  “What recompense can such as I give a being who can light up the night?”

  “We are strong, but few. If you Milesians gathered together enough force, you could drown us in numbers. My recompense is that you never seek a quarrel with the Tuatha Dé Dunaan for any reason at all. If you are attacked, you may defend yourself but you may not follow to gain a victory, even from your attacker.”

  Ailill was silent, considering. If the Danaan should attack and he drove them away, he could still lose men and property and if he could not continue the fight, he would not be able to seize compensation. And then he thought that he had never heard of the Danaan attacking anyone who had not first injured them. Most of them did not live in places where they came in contact with ordinary people. A few did live in the world but . . . And then he bit his lip to keep from smiling. He would not need to worry about losses. Medb would retrieve whatever he lost for him.

  He had forgotten his ribs, started to draw a deep breath of relief, began to cough, and groaned. Nonetheless he managed to say, “I will swear to that recompense.” And as the words left his mouth, an odd tingle took hold in his chest. “You have laid a gets on me.” he gasped.

  “So I have,” the tall man said calmly. “It will do you no harm, unless you violate your oath. And even then, it will warn you first by what you now feel. Otherwise you will never know you carry the gets.” He smiled again and his eyes looked kind and the odd tingle disappeared from Ailill’s chest. “My name is Bodb,” he added, offering with his name his trust, “and if you will take no other gift, at least let us see to your injury.”

  To that Ailill agreed with some relief, for the pain in his side was sapping his strength, but he did not expect to fall suddenly asleep and to wake sitting on his horse in bright daylight in a place he had never seen before. Their party seemed to be emerging from a dense wood that, to his right, opened into a wide valley of grass. In the distance, Ailill could see more cattle, like those with the boy, and a small herd of horses.

  To his left was a hill broken by a shallow cave. Ailill could see the bare, unworked rock at the back of the cave because it was illuminated by sunlight.

  “Dismount now,” Bodb said, coming to Ailill’s side and offering an arm to help. “How do you wish to be called while you are healing with us?”

  Ailill laughed aloud and was instantly aware his rib was still painful, if not as excruciatingly painful as it had been. And when he tried to draw breath, he was also aware that his chest had been bound. He took Bodb’s arm and slid to the ground. One of the men who had been in the clearing when the Danaan found him came and took his horse, murmuring that the animal would be cared for. Ailill nodded thanks.

  “My name is Ailill mac Máta,” he said, “my true name since you already have a hand on my heart. And I have also been called Ailill Dubd, Black Ailill, for obvious reasons.”

  “Come with me,” Bobd said, offering his arm as an aid when Ailill swayed.

  They were headed directly into the cave. Ailill hesitated, expecting Bodb to slow down lest in a step or two they walk right into the back wall of the cavern. But when they came under the cave roof, a sharp pang and a sense like a blow on the back of his neck made Ailill cry out and close his eyes in protest.

  He had a moment of bitter shame and rage for allowing himself to be charmed and betrayed, but when his eyes opened an instant later he saw not bare rock nor more Tuatha Dé Danaan to make him a prisoner, but a broad corridor, lit with the same witch-lights that had lit the campsite of the cattle thieves.

  Bodb tightened his grip on Ailill’s arm as he swayed again. The corridor was alive with beauty, with such pictures that the walls seemed to open into successive scenes of Eriu: in a moonlit glade couples of Danaan danced; in a sunlit valley the golden cattle of the Danaan grazed; sharp, bare cliffs rose from a landlocked harbour where fishing boats furled or raised painted sails; fields were tended by women with skirts kilted above their knees, who looked, laughing, over their shoulders.

  Farther down the corridor a metalsmith worked, the flames of his forge seeming to leap out of the painted image. Danaans sat before looms on which the half-formed weavings were of superlative beauty, a minstrel, lap-harp on his knee, sang to a spellbound audience. Only one part of life did not appear; there were no images of war. No Danaan attired in precious armour swung a shining sword; no Danaan rushed upon another with upraised axe.

  Ailill was surprised. It was true that most of the few Danaan he had come across had been minstrels or bards, but the others had served as men-at-arms in the households he knew and they were superb fighters. It seemed that despite their proficiency in arms they did not honour the art of war. Before he could ask about that oddity, the corridor opened out into a huge room. A fire burned in the centre on a polished marble hearth without smoke, although heat waves distorted the air above the leaping flames.

  Such flames . . . red and orange and yellow, yes, but among them and around them were glints of green and lavender, blue and silver. And they seemed to sway and leap and dance to the sound of such music as Ailill had never heard.

  Beyond the fire was a dais on which was a high chair cast, it seemed, of silver. Lower than the chair were stools, three grouped together. From one a silver-haired Danaan stood, abruptly cutting off the music of his harp with a hand flat on the strings.

  “Lord,” he called, “what of the child?”

  A crowd of Danaan rose from the benches that circled the fire and turned to look at them.

  “In by a lesser gate with his mother,” Bobd said, laughing. “He was unrepentant enough, proud of how the cattle obeyed him, so that I would not further flatter his vanity by having you all petting him and telling him how glad you are to have him again.” Then the laughter was gone. “That little devil went right out of the lios into the unprotected land where no one thought to look for him at first. We were near two days behind and might have lost him, except for our guest here.”

  The bard or minstrel frowned. “A hard-used guest,” he said uncertainly.

  “Not by us,” Bodb said, smiling. “This is Ailill mac Máta, who was injured in wresting our ill-behaved babe from the two villains who had seized him.”

  A murmur passed through the watching crowd, and two men and a woman began to work their way around the benches to come to where Bobd and Ailill stood. Bobd continued to speak.

  “If not for Ailill Dubd’s injury, which I think we must heal before we return him to the world, I would say we had wasted our effort in following the boy’s trail. Ailill was intending to bring the child back to us.” The smile on his lips disappeared. “The thieves he delivered to us bound, and bound they will remain, to labour in the depths of the sidhe without sight of sun or moon until they die.”

  The woman had reached them, and she stretched a hand to touch Ailill’s side very gently. She shook her head. “And if you would hold your tongue for a moment or two,” she said severely to Bodb, “we could make a start on the curing. First do something useful. Call for a litter.”

  Those words were the last thing Ailill remembered clearly. Because of his sense of wonder at what he had been seeing and hearing, Ailill had been fighting the intense pain in his side and a growing weakness. He remembered fingers gently prying his hand from Bobd’s arm, to which he had been clinging with increasing need. Then he was lying down and seeing with amazement above him a clear blue sky with white clouds and a bright sun.

  Ailill closed his eyes. He knew they were underground. He remembered entering the shallow cave, feeling a pain in his head and neck, and then seeing the long corridor form. When he opened his eyes again the sunlit sky was gone and he was lying in an ordinary chamber with a whitewashed ceiling. Beside the bed wa
s an open window that looked out on a corner of the forest and a patch of meadow. Ailill raised a hand and touched cold stone.

  The woman from the large hall bent over him, smiling. “It is only an image. You are still in the sidhe.”

  Ailill blinked and nodded, understanding. He shifted slightly. The sheet above him was incredibly smooth and the blanket was light and warm, but . . . He shifted again.

  The woman shook her head. “I am sorry the bed is so hard but your ribs will hurt less if you move in your sleep. Now—” she put an arm behind him and raised him up; Ailill was amazed at her strength because she was so slender and looked frail “— drink this and you will soon begin to feel much better.”

  It was true enough. The pain in his side disappeared almost completely, but Ailill continued to be weak and very sleepy. By what seemed to him the next day, however, he was able to sit up with only the faintest ache in his side. And the day after that, Bodb came and helped him walk around the sidhe. Ailill was surprised at how feeble he felt although by now the pain was completely gone. He could bend and twist without a twinge. Bodb said he was longer healing than a Danaan would be and suggested that he exercise a bit before he left the safety of the sidhe.

  Ailill was in no hurry. Medb had five more months to carry the child and he doubted she would leave Conchobar before her babe had survived the illnesses of childhood. He thanked Bodb for the invitation and sought out those who would be willing to spar with him and teach him.

  A week passed. Ailill was thrilled by what the Danaan were willing to show him. His sword work, which had been good, was now superlative. They gave him a bow – he needed time to master its pull without strain. A month passed, and then another. He rode out with a hunting troop and took a boar without help, other than from the dogs, and when he looked at his arms and legs he realized they had lost any hint of boy. He was all man now. Another month passed and another. Ailill bethought him of what he still needed to do to match Medb’s wealth and he told Bodb he would need to leave soon.

  A week later, his horse was readied and saddlebags generously filled with travel supplies, his bedroll tied atop. Ailill once again thanked Bodb for his kindness and hospitality and asked, “When I have gathered what I need, how will I find the sidhe?”

  Bodb smiled. “Only desire to find it, and you will be drawn.”

  * * *

  Now and again during her pregnancy Medb thought of the dark-haired boy and wondered what had happened to him. With her belly full and the child within acknowledged, Medb tasted this man and that – circumspectly, as she did not wish to annoy Conchobar further. But there were none among Conchobar’s liegemen or among the visitors who came that were much to her taste and she thought again of Ailill mac Máta and the red hunger in his eyes.

  However, as her time drew near, Medb began to think of what she would do about the child. Less than ever did she intend to stay in Ulster and she did not want to be tied to suckling a babe. She would need a wet nurse.

  She looked at the women who were also with child and due a little ahead of her. Among them, Ethne of the High Hills seemed suited. She was neither unkind nor too tender-hearted; it did a child no good, especially not the child of a king, to be too much indulged. One fault Ethne had was that she was too fond of her husband; she might get with child again too soon. Medb considered whether there was a way to have the man sent away on a long mission but, most conveniently, he went on a raid . . . and died.

  The shock of grief brought on the woman’s labour and she delivered a boy child a few weeks early. Medb thought Ethne might have died of grief herself, except for the child who held her to the world. He lived, but was frail. Medb went to Ethne and asked if she would suckle her child also. Ethne’s breasts ran with milk and her own boy took little.

  “Why not?” Ethne said.

  Medb made her bargain but she also saw Ethne’s eyes were dark with fear as she looked at her own child. If he died she would have nothing. She would cleave to Medb’s young one.

  “You will have the keeping of him,” Medb assured her. “I will be busy with other things.”

  She was within days of her time. She had been doing women’s easy tasks for a few weeks, carding and spinning wool, for she was heavy and awkward, but now she took up her sword practice again and went to run down game in the forest. It was no surprise to anyone when her labour pains started. Nor was it much of a surprise when her bearing was quick and easy and a big, strong man-child howled on her belly.

  The women sent to Conchobar as soon as Medb was clean, and he came and looked at his son. “What will you name him?” Medb asked.

  Conchobar scowled, but his expression softened when his eyes rested on the child. “Name him Glaisne,” he said, and turned and left the house. Medb watched him go. That he had named the boy was important and during the months of their silent, wary truce she had discovered some worth in Conchobar. He ruled his people well. She had learned much sitting beside him as Banríon of Ulster.

  Ethne had attended the delivery and when Conchobar was gone she took up the child and cleaned him and wrapped him. Glaisne took the breast she offered and suckled hard.

  “I will watch over him,” Ethne said, and Medb turned on her side and slept.

  In a week, Medb was well recovered. After that she was seldom in the house. She was giving all her attention to her weapons practice and her herd, which had diminished under the care of Conchobar’s herdsmen. Seeking widely in the pasturage, she found three calves – with the red and white markings of her cows – separated from their mothers. For a moment she fingered the knife on her belt, but then dropped her hand and instead sent her youngest lover to Tara to bring back servants bound only to her.

  Medb would not abide treachery. Three things she required of a husband: that he be without fear, meanness or jealousy. Conchobar was brave enough and he took no revenge on the men she now and again took to her bed. But it is mean to steal from a wife’s herd to keep her subservient. He had taken her cattle; she would take his son as soon as he was weaned. But when she returned to her house at the time when usually she was at weapons practice, she found Conchobar bent over the child’s cradle.

  Knife in hand, Medb stepped silently towards her husband. To harm his own son just because she was Glaisne’s mother . . .

  But now, close enough, she heard Conchobar’s soft murmur of praise, of love. What held him bent over the cradle with a hand outstretched was no desire to do harm but the tight grip of baby fingers on his thumb.

  So Medb waited warily, and the men she had bound to her by lust and by admiration and by the judicious giving of rings and armlets watched her back and helped her avoid strange accidents. She waited a whole year longer, until Glaisne had teeth in his mouth and toddled among the men, already reaching for their bright attractions, their swords, their knives.

  She waited until she saw Conchobar teaching the boy with more patience than she suspected he had. Then in the autumn of the year when Conchobar rode out hunting she called the men who answered to her, gathered up her possessions – the silver plates and cups, the gold armbands and neck torcs, the embroidered linens and fur-trimmed wool mantles – and bade her herdsmen drive her cattle south, to Tara.

  Eochaid Feidleach was not overjoyed to see her, but he was in contention with Tinni mac Conri, Rí of Connacht, and when Medb offered to lead the men who had come with her in Eochaid’s support he agreed. She did so well that when Tinni was driven out, Eochaid gave Connacht and the dun at Cruachan into Medb’s hands.

  For almost a month Medb watched from the walls for a dark-haired, dark-eyed warrior with just her equal of goods. When he did not come, she laughed at herself for being a fool and wondered instead what it would be like to utterly rule her husband. So she welcomed Tinni back into Cruachan and into her bed, making sure he got no child upon her.

  That was no success. Although Tinni raised no challenge to her, she learned that her father had not put the man out for nothing. He was useless in the defence of th
e lands and people of Connacht against any active threat, and he was not honest; he stole, an armband here a neck torc there, to buy warriors. Medb only learned that after he was gone, but it taught her that a husband without possessions was no better than a husband richer than she.

  She was rid of Tinni without much effort though. It so happened that Eochaid Dála had conceived a hot desire for her during the war against Tinni and he came and challenged Tinni for his place. Medb made no protest, although she did not yet know Tinni had robbed her; she had no distaste for Eochaid and was pleased to take him to her bed and share with him the rule of Connacht.

  Yet she still took care not to conceive although she knew she would need an heir for Connacht. She did not know for what she was waiting until, in the spring of the fifth year since she had come to be Conchobar’s wife, she came to the central of the seven doors of Cruachan to welcome a visitor – and her gaze met the hot eyes of Ailill mac Máta.

  “You are a little late in coming to find me,” Medb said, Eochaid standing behind her and staring at the black hair and black eyes of her guest.

  Ailill bowed his head. “I will tell you why, Medb of Cruachan, but not now when it would seem I was excusing myself for not holding to my word. When you have cause to trust me better I will tell you. Now I will offer my services in what capacity you wish to use me.”

  She looked him over as she would a horse offered for sale, except that she did not examine his teeth. There was no need for that; they shone white and strong in his dark face when he smiled. But scrawny was not a word that fitted him now – as even Conchobar would have admitted the phrase no longer suited Medb either. Ailill’s limbs were thick with corded muscle, his chest deep and strong, and his shoulders were three axe-handles wide.

  “Conchobar has not forgiven me for leaving him and taking with me my possessions,” Medb said. “Though they do not wear his plaids, raiders come from Ulster to steal my cattle and harass my farmers. I have need of fighting men to protect my land.”