Well, who would be in fear of a dead man? Up swaggers Laegaire. “I’m your man,” says he, and Uath lays his head on a block and gives Laegaire the ax, and doesn’t Laegaire swing it and fill the house with the man’s blood right there.
Now, I cannot explain this next part. I, of all people, know that there are many mysteries in the world, that there is magic in the sacred places and in the secret words, but I have never seen a magic like this. Yet all there saw it and believed it too. For Uath rose up all headless, gathered up his head and walked out of that hall. And you can imagine the despair that was upon Laegaire.
The next night, the stranger returned—but Laegaire did not. He hadn’t the heart. It is one thing to face death in battle, when the blood boils in your veins and the spear is eager in your hands. Another thing, it is, to lie down like a sheep to slaughter. So Conall stood up, and said he would take the challenge instead, and sliced off Uath’s neck with a mighty blow.
And the next night—no Conall. And Uath mocked and sneered at the Ulstermen, and then he asked, “Where is the one they call Cuchulainn, till I see if his word is any better than the others’?”
“I will keep my word,” said my father and swept off the man’s head in a second.
The next night my father knew was his last. “For,” he said, “I would rather meet death than break my word.”
And when Uath came, my father laid himself down on the block and submitted to his own death.
The stranger swung his blade up until it crashed into the rafters—and then swept it down with a powerful stroke. But the ax-head bit into the floorboards beside Cuchulainn’s head and never harmed him at all. For it was Cu Roi, under an enchanted disguise, and this was his test.
“Rise up, Cuchulainn,” he said. “The championship of the heroes of Ireland is yours from this day out. For of all the heroes of Ulster, there is not one to compare with you in courage and in bravery and in truth.”
No one tried to put himself before my father after that.
What manner of woman, you may be thinking, could hold her own with a man like Cuchulainn? My mother did so, for she had grace and spirit both, and a quick mind, and was never daunted in the least by my father’s powers. They had their troubles over the years, to be sure, but I do not believe the love between them was ever broken.
I used to love to hear my mother tell of their courtship. And she never minded repeating the story, at least not its first part.
To hear her tell, my father, a boy too young to even grow a beard, arrived at her home very full of himself indeed: “All in his finery and gold, he was, with his hair such beautiful colors all flowing and his wondrous chariot, puffed up from being the darling of every woman in King Conchobor’s court.” And she would sniff as she described him, as no doubt she sniffed as he careered up to her where she sat on the lawn with her needlework and her girl companions.
“He spoke in a riddling tongue to me,” she said, “and he maintains that was by way of keeping his mission secret from the other maids, but it’s only a half-wit could have mistaken his intent. I maintain it was to test my own wits—and fair play to him, for the wife of Cuchulainn should by no means be stupid.” He had little to worry about on that score—my mother was daughter to the druid-king Forgall the Wily and had been better schooled
than many a noble warrior. She gave him riddles right back and wasted no time in letting him know she was not only quick of tongue but also well-guarded by many great champions against upstarts such as himself.
“Why do you not count me as a strong man as good as those others?” he asked her, and she replied tartly, “Why should I then, when you are still but a boy yourself?” And so, rather than evaluating Emer’s worthiness, my father found himself proving his own deeds and training and qualities.
“And then, the cheeky devil”—and my mother always laughed at this part—”he looked right down the top of my dress and announced, ‘On that fair plain will I rest my weapon!’”
That, of course, was the beginning of the now-famous feats my mother set down for him to accomplish before he would be allowed to touch her “fair plain”—impossible feats that he accepted with his usual confidence, saying merely, “It is said, it is done.”
But my mother’s heart was already his before he had completed even the first test, before indeed the end of their conversation, or so I hold. For I saw, as she talked, how this was not her favorite part of the story. Her favorite part came earlier, when she dutifully told Cuchulainn that he should be after wooing her older sister, for Forgall had decreed that the oldest must be the first to wed.
“Truly,” he had replied, “it is not with your sister, but with yourself, I have fallen in love.” And her face would soften and become faraway as she told it, and her mouth curl with a smile that was not for me.
The part of the story that I learned later is not so pretty. King Forgall set himself against the match, for the Druid’s Sight had warned him that Cuchulainn would bring him harm. My father had traveled to Alba to train under the famous warrior woman, Scathach. When he returned to Emer, he found her dwelling-place fortified against him by Forgall and his men. And though Cuchulainn managed to spare Emer’s three brothers in the ensuing fight, Forgall fell from the wall and died, and so his prophecy came true, and my mother lost her father in gaining her heart’s desire.
But at Emain Macha they had a great welcome from the king and all his company, and my parents were wed at last.
I came back from the paddock to find our house, Dun Dealgan, in a turmoil, stirred up like an ants’ nest by my father’s return. My parents swept through the main room, sending servants scurrying with messages and tasks. I followed in their wake, unnoticed.
“No, Emer, no carts. You must travel fast. Take only what you can load in the chariot.”
My mother sighed. “I just hate to think of them tramping through Dun Dealgan, helping themselves to our—”
“Emer.” My father reached out and laid his hand over my mother’s arm, stopping her as she stuffed clothing and jewelry into a basket. He turned her around to face him, threaded his hands into her hair and leaned in to kiss her. “It is not our goods, nor our cattle, but yourself and Luaine I would keep from their hands.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
My parents turned, startled to find me in the doorway of their
chamber. My father came over and squatted down in front of me. I eyed him warily. He seemed himself again, though grim and hard.
“Maeve and Ailill of Connaught have invaded Ulster. I caught sight of them on my way home. They have gathered a great army from every province of Ireland, and they are headed through Muirthemne.”
“But why? What quarrel do they have with us?” I asked. At that my mother gave a yelp of laughter, but her voice was bitter.
“There is no quarrel, but only greed and pettiness. That a queen would spend the lives of her people for such trumpery!” Shaking her head in disgust, she turned back to her packing, leaving me as bewildered as before.
“It is Queen Maeve who leads this assault,” explained my father. “And while she is a wise and powerful ruler”—at this my mother sniffed—”I have met her, and she is,” he insisted. “But in this she is in the wrong. For it irks her that she has no match in all her own herds for Ailill’s mighty white bull Finnbennach. Indeed there is only one bull in all of Ireland who is his equal, and that bull is in the Cooley Mountains just beyond Muirthemne.”
“She is after Donn Cooley?” The great brown bull was famous for his size and power, and it was told that he was sired in the Otherworld and protected by the warlike Morrigu herself.
“She is indeed. And while she is at it, she is taking whatever else lies in her road. And so you and your mother must ride to Emain Macha to warn the king and summon our troops.” He dipped his head down a bit to bring our eyes level, and I saw in his a hint of a twinkle. “It is a hero you will be, little dove, for the saving of Ulster,” he said. “Will you do it?”
I nodded solemnly, caught up in the drama of the moment. Then the obvious question struck me.
“What about you? Are you not coming?”
The twinkle died. “This is a border outpost, and I am sworn to defend the border. My men and I will make them pay dear for their passage, until the full might of Ulster falls upon them.”
I was too young to comprehend the numbers involved, or the danger; it seemed to me my father had a great troop of men, and I could hardly see the need of any more. In truth, he had some three thousand serving under him throughout the region of Muirthemne, most of them farmers and craftsmen under bond. Some of his local men he sent as messengers to summon the warriors in outlying areas. Some he sent to warn the settlements and farms that lay in the army’s path; a handful remained at Dun Dealgan to protect our own people. Setting forth with him that day, Cuchulainn had maybe three hundred men.
And Queen Maeve? Her army moved like a cloud of locusts through the land. Eighteen regiments of three thousand, some say, plus the women, druids and bards who traveled with them. And behind them were driven the growing herd of women, children, cattle and sheep they plundered along the way.
The morning haze had gathered itself into islands of fleecy cloud by the time we set off, my mother prancing on her fiery little mare, myself wedged into the chariot amongst baskets and chests and weaponry. Besides us two, there were only the chariot driver and Berach, the arms master, riding guard on his big-boned roan. His ugly face was eager, and I knew his
thoughts flew ahead to my father’s promise that he should return with the Ulstermen to do battle.
Cuchulainn strode out to see us off. He had put on his war-harness—the stiff hide breastplate and wide belt to repel spear and sword thrusts—so that he looked to have just hacked himself free of some great beast that still clutched at him. My mother leaned far over her saddle to embrace him. “Ride fast and be wary, Emer,” he said. “There may be scouts far ahead of the main troops.”
My mother straightened and turned her horse around. “Be wary, yourself,” she said briskly. “The might of Ulster will soon be at your side.”
But my father motioned her to wait, and came to the chariot and pulled me to my feet. From within the stiff crust of armor that enclosed him, he pulled a richly tooled leather scabbard and slowly drew from it a sword, exquisite but slim—made for a woman’s hand. “This is for you.” My eyes widened at the sheen of the blade, the green gems studded into the hand guard, the smooth bronze grip. I reached for it—and he drew it away.
“It is not yet yours to keep, mind. It will take a few years’ growth and training before you can be mistress of such a weapon. But it does not do to travel unarmed in wartime.” He threaded the strap around my waist and cinched it tight. “If you have need of it, you will know how to wield it.” And though the sword, in truth, was too long for my small frame, I felt the pride and courage swell up in me at the thought of carrying such a fine thing.
And then we were off, and my dreams of glory were swept away in the need to keep from careening right out of the jolting chariot. Chariots are built for speed and maneuverability, not comfort, with only two iron-rimmed wheels and bare room for
two standing men and their weapons and gear. I clutched at the side-rails and wished I were big enough to ride free like my mother. She floated ahead at an easy canter, the red flanks of her horse and the bronze of her hair both lighting up like beacons when a shaft of sunlight found them.
I will never forget my first sight of Emain Macha, King Conchobor’s great hill fort. Our shadows slanted long behind us, though the spring sun would not set for some hours. It had been a long afternoon’s ride, the broad way that led us across Muirthemne’s open skies shrinking to a narrow track threading its way through the forested hill-country. The boggy stretches where the road was reinforced with planking were the worst—I thought the drumming of the chariot wheels would rattle the teeth out of my very head. Then the trees gave way once more to cleared land and the hills smoothed out to gentle swells. At last my mother pointed out a bump on the horizon, and I watched it grow before us into a looming mound, walled and studded with buildings. Once their destination was plain the horses’ pace quickened, so that at the end we came pounding up the hill to the gate with such a flourish that there was quite a crowd gathered to meet us.
I had longed to visit Emain Macha ever since I first heard my parents’ tales of Conchobor’s court. The huge Royal House of red yew, the troupe of boys training at games and warriors’ arts on the great playing field, the poets and bards, the valiant champions of the Red Branch...and of course the feasts. I could not wait to be old enough to attend a grand feast.
Mind you, those feasts could be very rough. There were all kinds of contests, challenges and jockeying for position, which
with men quick to anger and full of ale could quickly lead to an out-and-out fight. There was a poet there at the time, one Bricriu, who took perverse delight in stirring up trouble. My father said Bricriu once told three different wives, each on their way to join the men in the feasting hall, that if they arrived first they would be set above all the other women of Ulster. And so they began running, my mother and two others, each with all their women, and my father said the noise of them approaching made the very ground shake. “We thought it was the enemy rushing toward us,” he said, “but when Sencha realized that Bricriu had set the women to quarreling, that terrified him more than any foe. ‘Shut the door of the hall against them,’ he yelled, ‘or those that are dead among us will be more than those that are living!’ And with that the doorkeepers shut the doors.” How it made me giggle when he told it, to picture all the great heroes of Ulster locked in their feasting hall, afraid of their own women!
“Emer was there first,” my father told me, grinning with pride, “but the door was barred. So they bade the women to have a war of words to prove who was best, but Laegaire and Conall did not like the outcome, for Emer was like a very poet singing the praises of herself and myself.”