Gallicenae (49 page)

The next day Laidchenn said he could not linger, but must get home and attend to things. The Ysans had better make haste themselves, back to their ship on the Mumach coast, if they wanted a safe sea passage. It was a pity that the peace mission had failed, but it was foredoomed from the start, and at least they would have plenty to tell.

That night Rufinus dreamed he made love to Eochaid in the smiling presence of Gratillonius. He woke in the darkness and lay furiously thinking until dawn grayed it. Then he dozed off, and when clatter in the hall wakened him anew, he saw what he was going to attempt. He might well fail, but the challenge, and whatever hazard might await him, sounded trumpets within his skull.

To Laidchenn he said: “This is a miserable rainy day, unfit for anything but sitting at the fire. If the weather is better tomorrow, I would like to take a last ride through these magnificent woods, where the Beings indwell as nowhere else I have been. Will you grant this? The day after that, we can go.”

“I would not call today miserable, only a little damp,” replied the Fer Érennach. “But indeed we must give our host proper notice, so he can send us off as befits his honor. Be it as you wish, darling.”

After noon Rufinus declared that despite the rain, he felt cramped indoors and would take a walk. While he did, around and around the rath, the guards brought the Laginach hostages forth. Rufinus greeted them and presently drew Eochaid aside, as often before.

This time the captive came back shivering, afire beneath a tightly held face. “What is it?” cried his fellows, and “What did he say to you?” demanded the chief of his keepers.

Rufinus smiled. “Why, I told him a ransom I think my lord the King of Ys may agree to offer, as a step toward uniting the Gaels with him against the Saxons,” he answered blandly and grandly. “You will understand that I must not say more than this until later.”

“No need to, ever,” said the chief. “Red Medb Herself cannot swerve Niall from a sworn purpose.”

“There are kindlier Gods,” Rufinus told him, and went back inside the rath.

That night he slept very lightly, but awoke vibrant.

When he declined offers of company on his excursion, no one pressed him. From time to time, an ollam must go off alone and commune with his art. Nor did anyone think it strange that he belted a Gaelic sword at his hip. He could meet a wild beast or a crazed wanderer or an outlaw who did not know him for what he was. Carpre asked him to return well before dark for the farewell feast. Rufinus agreed, sprang onto his horse, and rode off merrily waving.

He was, in fact, back early in the afternoon, when the Lagini were being let out. He rode over to them. “In the morning I go,” he announced, although that was generally known. “Eochaid, friend, come off a short
ways with me, that you may freely tell me whatever is in your heart for me to convey.”

This day was also chill, full of mist. The guards watched idly, shivering a bit within their warm clothes, as the prisoner in his rags followed the splendidly attired rider a few yards. Already there those forms became dim and dull. But what was to fear? Half starved, Eochaid could not outrun them; unarmed, he could put up no fight when he was overtaken—

He seized the ankle of Rufinus and pulled. Rufinus toppled from the saddleless blanket to grass. He lay as if half stunned. Eochaid drew Rufinus’s sword from its sheath, grabbed the horse’s mane, vaulted onto the back.

“Get him!” roared the chief. “Bresslan, Tardelbach, watch the rest!” He plunged forward, spear aimed. A cast shaft flew at Eochaid even as the Lagin was mounting. It missed. From horseback, knees gripping tight, Eochaid swung the blade he had taken. It knocked aside the foremost spear and sent the chief to his knees, blood dripping from a cheek slashed open. Eochaid put heels to belly.

Hoofs thudded away out of hearing. He was lost among the trees, the mists. Before pursuit could get itself together, he would be afar. Hounds or no, it was unlikely that they could find a wily woodsman.

Folk helped Rufinus up and led him to the hall. Laidchenn met him at the doorway. The news had gone ahead. Grimness congealed the poet’s face. “Well,” he rumbled, “and what have you to say for yourself?”

“He t-took me by s-surprise,” Rufinus stuttered. “I’m s-sorry.”

Laidchenn drew breath. “I have my thoughts about that. But you are Carpre’s guest, and under my protection, however unwise I may have been to give it. Now—man of Ys!—my counsel is that you call your followers and pack your baggage and be off at once. Do not wait to bid Carpre farewell, but thank whatever Gods are yours that he is elsewhere. For the sake of my honor, I will soothe him as best I may. But begone, do you hear?”

“Do you think I plotted—”

“I say nothing other than that the sooner you are out of Mide the better, and never show yourself here again.”

“As my lord wills.” Beneath his meekness and the whirring of what-to-do, how-to-go, Rufinus exulted.

4

Eochaid knew where the home of Laidchenn was. Everything about so famous a man spread widely. What he did not know was why he made for it.

That was not the shortest way to Qóiqet Lagini, though not overly many leagues longer. Of course, he must dodge about if he would throw his hunters off the track. Yet was this a well-chosen mark to set for himself?

His wonderment was faint, like a lamp flame in a cave where winds roared. His haste, later his wretchedness, made him unable really to think. He had lost count of days and nights, but hunger had ceased to torment him. Often thirst still did, for he dared not cast about after a brook or a spring but must wait to chance upon water. Sleeplessness hollowed his head out; he took rest stops merely to keep from killing the horse, and crouched in his hiding places like a hare that has scented a fox. What naps he did snatch were made uneasy by cold. He was nearly naked. In the beginning, he had perforce kept the sword pressed to him by the arm whose hand clutched his ballocks lest the gallop pound them to mush. The edge cut him and cut him. When first he paused, he slashed up most of his tunic to fashion a crude loinstrap and a wrapping for the blade. Wind, rain, dew traveled with him and guested his fireless camps.

Thus was Eochaid emptied, perhaps to become the vessel of a Power.

At last, at last, from a sheltering grove, he beheld at a distance the house of Laidchenn, and well beyond it the Ruirthech, and beyond that his homeland. Daylight prevailed, though the sun was lost in grayness and a wrack of low-flying clouds. He tried, dully, to think whether he should wait till dark before crossing the open ground, or do so at once. After a slow while, he pushed ahead. No one was likely to get in the way of a harmless-looking wanderer. Besides, seeking to cross the stream at night could well be the end of him. He was not sure how, in his feebleness, he was going to do it by day.

The horse shambled and staggered, half dead. Eochaid hunched on its back. He felt so cold that it was as if the wind whistled between his bones.

Off on the left he saw the dwelling. There they sat warm and gorged over their ale horns, but he could not enter, he must pass by. Inchmeal he began to believe he understood what had brought him. Yonder was the one who had blasted his life. “I curse you, Tigernach maqq Laidchinni,” he croaked. “A red stone in your throat. May you melt away like the froth of the river.” They were curses poor and weak, such as a base tenant would utter. He himself was poor and weak. He rocked onward.

“Hoy! You yonder! Stop, if you please!”

The call resounded like a voice heard in a dream. Eochaid turned his weary head. He heard his neck creak. The wind skirled. A man afoot was hastening toward him. A cloak in several colors blew back from coat and trews of rich stuff, golden tore, belt studded with amber. The man was unarmed, aside from a staff. Others appeared in the offing, out from under trees around the buildings.

Eochaid’s mount lurched ahead. “You must stop!” shouted the man. “For my honor’s sake! I want to give you hospitality!”

There was something in the call that Eochaid had heard before. He could not remember what. He thought foggily that anyone trotting, not running, just trotting, could overhaul this wreck that he rode. Maybe
he should heed. He drew rein. The horse whickered and stood with head and tail adroop.

The man laughed. “That’s better,” he said as he came nigh. “I was walking about, making a poem, and saw you. It would be a shame if a wayfarer in need got by the house of Laidchenn—”

He jarred to a halt and gaped. “But you are Eochaid!” he exclaimed. “Eochaid the Fer Lagin.”

Below him Eochaid saw the face of Tigernach, the satirist who had ruined
his
face. Those men who were bound toward him would take him prisoner and return him to the kennel.

He slid down off the horse. In his left hand was the sword. He shook the wrappings off as he took it in his right. Did he or the Power strike? The blow was light, as wasted as his body was, but the iron sharp. Tigernach fell, blood spouting from his neck.

Horror yammered among the approaching men. Eochaid dropped the sword and ran. The Power had him. Husk though he was, he sped weasel-swift. Unable to grasp at once what had happened, and then frantic to care for the son of their master, the men were too slow in giving chase. Eochaid vanished into the reeds along the river. While every male in the household beat them as hounds bayed about, until nightfall, they did not find him.

5

Tigernach lived long enough to cough out the name of his killer.

Eochaid crossed the Ruirthech in the dark after all. Having skulked evasive or lain moveless under water with little but his nose above, he found a log that had drifted against the bank. With its help he swam the river. On the far side, he somehow walked until he came on a shieling. The family there was impoverished, but they took him in and shared with him what milk and gruel they had: for the Gods love this. He caught a fever and lay drowsy for days.

That may have been as well for him. A war band from the north side came over and ranged in search. They did not happen on the hovel, and must withdraw when the neighborhood mustered force against them. Belike he had drowned, they supposed, the which was too good for him.

In time, Eochaid became able to make his painful way to Dun Alinni. The news had gone faster. “You cannot stay here, you who have violated the home of a poet,” his father King Éndae said. “All Mide and Condacht would come after you once they heard, and this Fifth would itself deliver you up to them.” The breath sobbed into him. “Yet you are my son. If I must disown you, I will not forsake you.”

And he gave Eochaid a galley of the Saxon kind, and let it be known that men were wanted to go adventuring abroad. There were not a few ruined by the war or despairing of the morrow at home or simply
restless and aspiring, who overlooked Eochaid’s deed and risked any bad luck that might flow from it because they remembered what a peerless leader he had been. The upshot was that he departed with a full crew and several large currachs besides.

They fared south along Britannia, raiding where they could. That was not often, and pickings were lean. Stilicho’s expeditionary force had lately withdrawn, but after expelling the Scoti who had settled there. Though it was against Roman law, the Ordovices and Demetae were now well armed to protect themselves, while the Silures and Dumnonii had a legion not so far away to call upon. Eventually Eochaid and his men settled down for the winter on an island off Gallia, as various other sea rovers were wont to do.

During a spell of fairly good weather he sent a currach back to learn what had happened meanwhile. It returned with ill tidings.

Laidchenn had arrived home shortly before the killing. He was indoors when his folk brought him the news and the body of his son. Loud was the keening; but the poet remained silent until he had a lament ready to give at the funeral feast. The next day he went forth by himself. He climbed the raw earth of the barrow, faced south, and drew his harp out of its case. Sharp with early autumn, the wind at his back blew his words toward the river. Certain black birds circled overhead. When he was done, they also flew that way. Some workmen could not help hearing him. They shuddered.

“Lagini, I sing now.

Wing now to cravens,

Ravens; bespeak them!

Seek them will bold men.

Old men can only,

Lonely, send greeting,

Meeting them never:

‘Ever to sorrow

Morrow shall wake you,

Take you like cattle—

Battle-won plunder—

Under its keeping.

Reaping is mirthless,

Worthless is sowing;

Growing dry thistles,

Bristles the plowland.

Cowland lies calfless.

Laughless the hall is.

All is turned sickly,

Quickly, O Lagini.”

And every day thereafter, for a full year, did the ollam poet mount the grave of his son to satirize yonder country, its King ana its people.
And during that year, neither grain nor grass nor any green thing grew there. Herds starved in barren fields, flocks in sere forests, folk in foodless dwellings. When finally Laidchenn maqq Barchedo reckoned his vengeance complete, and the blight and the famine had lifted, that Fifth of Ériu took long to recover its health. Meanwhile pirates made free of the coasts, raiders and rebels of the interior.

Such was the tale that, above the fire of past wrongs, hammered the soul of Eochaid into a knife meant for Niall.

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I

Chairs:
In the ancient world these were usually reserved for persons of status. Ordinary folk sat on stools, benches, or the floor.

Augustus:
At this time there was more than one Roman Emperor. The
senior of two was titled “Augustus,” his colleague and heir apparent “Caesar.” Usually both the Western and Eastern parts of the Empire had such a double monarchy. (Occasionally a given Augustus had two or more Caesars, each responsible for a part of his domains.) Hence the name “Tetrarchy.” Evidently Maximus’s designation as Augustus amounted to recognition that the Empire had now split into three coequal realms,
de facto
if not quite
de jure.
St. Ambrose, bishop of Milan, had played a leading role in persuading him to settle for that, rather than trying to take over the entire West. In 387 he would break the agreement and invade Italy.