Patrick (13 page)

“Some of the sheep are near to lambing,” I suggested.

“We will send someone to help you,” said the first man. “To lose even one lamb would be a shame.”

As he spoke, an idea formed in my head. “When must the payment be made?” I asked.

“Just after Beltaine,” he replied. “It is always the same.”

“And where do you take the cattle?”

“We take them to the high king's ráth at Tara.”

The two left me then, and I sat down to think; for I saw in this the shape of my salvation. When Miliucc departed to take his cattle tribute to Niall, I would be among the herders. And once we were far away from this accursed mountain, I would make good my escape at last.

I
BECAME DILIGENT.
M
Y
neglected sheep were my sole obsession. I led them out early and brought them home late, taking them to the best pastures, moving them from place to place so that the land did not become overgrazed. I watered them, pampered them, guarded them day and night; I even talked to them, praising their excellence and sagacity.

When the day came to deliver the boru tribute to High King Niall, I wanted to be among those making the journey, and my unstinting care of the sheep would create this singular opportunity.

As Miliucc's man had promised, I received some help during lambing time. Three herders came up; one of them was a slave and a fellow Briton—Aud, by name, the thin young farmer who had been taken in the same raid as myself. Ordinarily he worked in the valley with the pigs, so I had not seen him since coming to Sliabh Mis.

“How do they treat you?” I asked. We were sitting out on the windy slope a little apart from the others.

“I have a bed in the shelter behind the swine hut,” he said.

“It is not so bad.”

“Sleeping with pigs?” I said. “You think that is not so bad?”

He pressed his mouth into a firm line and held his silence.

“No doubt pigs are better company than sheep,” I allowed generously. “For myself, I would chose horses.”

He nodded knowingly. “The king would never suffer a slave to tend his horses.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I would rather tend sheep,” he said. “At least they do not smell so bad.”

“That is true.”

He was quiet for a time, and then said, “Did it hurt very much when they beat you with the firebrands?”

“Of course.”

“You must be very brave.”

“I do not like being a slave,” I replied. “Do you? Would you never try to escape?”

“I never would,” said Aud. “I have nowhere to go.”

“You could go home,” I suggested. “Back to Britain.”

He shrugged. “It is not so bad here.”

I regarded him narrowly. Upon my life, I could not believe what I was hearing. “You
like
it here?”

“It is not—”

“I know,” I interrupted, “it is not so bad. So you say.”

He grew petulant. “At least,” he muttered darkly, “it is no worse for me here.”

A great surge of shame drew over me like a cloud passing before the sun. Embarrassment brought the color to my cheeks; my face grew hot with the knowledge that, for Aud, the fate of a slave to barbarians in Éire was not much different from his lot among kinsmen in Britain.

“I am sorry, Aud,” I told him.

He turned to regard me, ignorant suspicion sharpening his gaze. “Why?”

“It must have been a hard life.”

He shrugged again and looked out across the valley. “Was it better for you in Britain?”

Better? It was a thousand times better for me in Britain,
I thought. Instead, I merely nodded and said, “Better, yes.”

“Then you were lucky.”

“I suppose.”

The herders stayed with me through the lambing season, and seven more lambs were added to the flock. All lived, which made the herders happy. When they left to return to
the valley, they said they would tell the king the good news. This made
me
happy. I wanted Lord Miliucc to hear good things about my care of his flock.

Winter departed in a spate of howling gales, and then, suddenly, it was spring. Small flowers appeared on the high meadows, and the winds and rain softened. My sheep and I roamed about the mountainside searching out lush grazing places; besides those Madog had showed me, I discovered others just as good. I groomed the sheep, too—pulling the burrs and matted dung from their wool to improve their normal bedraggled appearance. I also tried to groom myself: tying back my long, uncut hair and mending my tattered clothing. I bided my time, preparing myself as best I could, and at last the day came.

I sat up on the mountain before the sheepfold and watched the king's Beltaine fire in the valley below. I did not go down to the celebration, though I wanted to, lest some unfortunate incident befall me—Ercol, perhaps, might take it into his dull head to sharpen his knife on me again. Wounded, I would be unable to accompany the cattle tribute to Tara.

The Beltaine observances lasted all night. From time to time, the sounds of the revel reached me as a raucous commotion, more akin to a battle than a festivity. It ended at dawn, and I roused myself, retrieved my grass-cloth bag and water bladder, took up my crook, and, without waiting for them to come to me, I pulled the timber poles from the entrance to the fold and led out all but twelve of the sheep.

We arrived in the valley well before any of the others were ready, but I set the flock to graze on the soft new grass beside the river and waited. After a time the gates of the ráth opened, and some men emerged. I watched as they busied themselves at the cattle enclosure below the settlement mound; presently one of the men came to me. “You are ready,” he said, and I sensed approval in his tone. “When the cattle have been gathered, we will leave.”

Not wishing to give any hint of the excitement I felt, I
merely nodded with what I hoped was dull indifference. As soon as he had gone, I complimented myself on my cunning and forethought. I watched as the cows and pigs were led out, and before anyone could tell me otherwise, I joined the train, keeping my flock a short distance apart—as if to allow them to snatch at the grass along the way.

As we prepared to set off, I heard someone shout, and I turned. Two men came running, calling me to halt. “What are you doing?” demanded the first to reach me.

“I am leading the sheep for the boru tribute.”

“Go back to your bothy,” he said, swelling with importance. “We do not need you. Slaves have no part in this.”

“Very well,” I replied. “
You
lead the sheep.” I shoved Madog's crook into his hand.

I saw the two glance at the quickly scattering flock as I turned and stumped away. I could hear the two men arguing, and I had not gone far when the second man called me back. “Do not heed Ladra,” he said, returning the crook to me. “You have care of the sheep. See you keep them out of the way.”

We moved through the valley toward the hills to the east in a slow migration—twenty-five or so men with three wagons full of provisions and more than a hundred head of cattle, pigs, and sheep. As we gained the slope of the first hill, there came a rattle and clatter behind us as Lord Miliucc and a dozen members of his warband and retinue galloped past. They would go ahead of us and prepare the place where we would camp for the night. With cattle it was a seven-day journey to Tara, and the king wanted to secure all the best places along the way for his livestock to graze and water.

One hill and valley, one wood and rill, gave way to another—through sun mostly, but also fits of rain, and the long day ended in a meadow beside a sweet-running stream. The next six days were as the first. As twilight descended over the land on the seventh day, we crested the last hill and saw the immense Magh Fál, the Plain of Fál, spread out like a table. Many another tribute party had reached the plain be
fore us, for the great flat expanse glittered with the winking light from dozens of campfires.

Looming over all stood the brooding black mound of the Hill of Tara, royal residence of the Éireann kings, with its triple ring of ditches surrounding not one but two great ráths, strong behind stout timber. From this hill the Aird Righ ruled the petty kings of the north and kept a tight grip on the reluctant, contentious subject lords of the south—many of whom had come to bestow their tribute also.

It was dark by the time we found our place among the camps and settled the livestock for the night. As had become my custom, I took my food and ate apart from the others, then lay down to sleep near the sheep. Next morning we joined the great gathering.

King Niall of the Nine Hostages, High King of Éire, had established a pavilion on the plain below the royal ráth. Beneath a canopy of red cloth stretched between a half circle of yellow-painted pine poles was his throne. Here he received the boru tribute of his subject kings, of which our Lord Miliucc was but one of many—far more now than the nine that had won Niall his name.

The whole first day was given to ceremony, most of which I observed from a short distance. Many filidh were in attendance, dressed in their colorful robes. The leader of the druids was an old man whose cloak was made from the feathers of birds, mostly crows and ravens, as it seemed to me, but others also—red, blue, green, and white—so that when he moved about in the sunlight, he glistened and gleamed like a giant speckled bird himself.

The druid chief held forth with a long, obscure recitation. It was difficult for me to follow, because the druid used many words I did not understand; but the declamation seemed to consist mainly of an exhaustive list of names—kings and more than a few queens—and the salient qualities of their various reigns. It went something like this: Brocmal Leather Cloak, King of Má Turand, peace and plenty blessed his nine years and two…. Scoriath Long Jaw, King
of Fir Morcha, increased his realm through toil and battle; short his rule, cut down in the sixth year of his reign…. Conn of the Hundred Battles, wise and generous host, father of six kings; two tens and two his reign…and so on and on.

Our shadows stretched long on the ground before the recitation ended, only for another to begin: a song this time, in exaltation of King Niall's life and reign, sung by a filidh accompanied by another with a harp. The song was easier for me to follow, for although it was extremely elaborate in its lengthy, looping, intricate melodies and continuously repeated refrains, the story was that of a prince born into the noble house of King Eochaid, who took to wife a British-born slave girl named Carthann and made her queen. By another wife Eochaid had four more sons. This wife, the daughter of an Irish king, a bitter, ambitious, and conniving woman named Mongfhinn, soon grew jealous of her rival and plotted to make certain one of her sons succeeded the old king as Aird Righ.

But Niall, owing to his bright and winsome nature, won his father's heart while still a child. Seeing this, the jealous queen did not rest until she had soured the king's good opinion and made outcasts of Queen Carthann and her son. Through treachery, subtlety, and lies, Mongfhinn turned the king's heart against his British beauty, and she became a menial in the king's court; day and night she was made to serve the Irish queen, who made her water carrier for the royal house.

One day, Niall was discovered at play with some of the boys of the tuath by Torna, the king's ollamh and chief advisor. The old druid observed the remarkable qualities of the boy, took pity on him, and rescued him; he took young Niall into fosterage and educated him in kingcraft. When Niall came of age, Torna brought him back to court and restored him to his rightful place. The first thing the young prince did was liberate his mother from the drudgery of her slavery and install her in a house with servants of her own.

The old king was overjoyed to have his son restored, and he devised a test by which he might choose from among his five sons which was best suited to be king after him. So old Eochaid sent the princes to the blacksmith's forge in the middle of the ráth to choose weapons for themselves from among those the smith was making. While they were about this task, the smithy caught fire and the youths, seeking to rescue what they could from the flames, rushed from the forge with the items they reckoned of most value.

The eldest, Brian, saved a newly finished chariot, pulling it from the flames by hand; next Ailill rushed through the door carrying the sword and shield he had been examining; Fiachra followed, bearing the smith's good water trough on his broad shoulders; Fergus came close behind, carrying the king's fine harness for his favorite horse and an iron war cap. And then they waited. When waiting availed nothing, they shouted, “Niall!” They cried, “Out with you now! The flames are upon you!”

Niall emerged from the smoke-filled doorway bearing in his arms the anvil, hammer, bellows, and tongs. Torna, standing in watchful observance beside the king, raised his hands and called out, “See here! I call upon everyone to witness: Alone among his brothers Niall has rescued the soul of the forge and saved the smithy from ruin.”

At this, King Eochaid leapt to his feet and declared, “By virtue of his quick wit and good judgment, it is Niall who shall succeed me to the throne!”

When the hardhearted Mongfhinn heard about this, she tore her hair and raged so hotly that no one dared approach her for two days. Even so, the vengeful queen buried her spite deep and set dark schemes in motion, so that when the aged king died soon after, she took the sovereignty to herself and bestowed it upon her brother Crimthann, who agreed to hold it until young Brian came into his manhood.

The plan succeeded wonderfully well; Crimthann took the crown, and Niall fled with his mother that same night to a remote and lonely place. But Mongfhinn, at first satisfied
with her handiwork, grew increasingly worried as her brother developed a taste for the kingship. As Aird Righ, Crimthann gathered his power and made successful raids in the south of Éire, and against the Britons, capturing many slaves and winning a mountain of plunder—which he shared out to his warriors and noblemen, so they continued to uphold and acclaim him.

As Crimthann's fame increased, so, too, did his sister's wrath. When her anger and bitterness reached the boiling point, she plotted his downfall. In secret she concocted a strong poison, which she introduced to his cup one night when he sat at meat with his retinue. The Aird Righ drank from the cup and died screaming in the night; he was laid to rest, and Brian, the bitter queen's favorite, was at last proclaimed king. As the young man stood in the assembly of noblemen and was about to take the kingship into his hands, who should appear but Niall, with three fifties of warriors at his back.