Cormac wished to present himself to King Aedh at once; but this he found impossible as the great chieftain lay sleeping in his hall; wearied out with a skirmish of the previous day upon a neighbouring king who had refused to pay him tribute.
The whole of Ireland was in a state of ferment over the boroim, or cow-tribute, which King Aedh insisted on exacting from his tributary kings. Cormac knew that in Leinster Saint Kevin had inveighed against it, and that the great Saint, Columba, was at present on a visit to Aedh endeavouring to arrange matters peaceably between him and his fellow-kings. And Cormac knew also, with a sense of pride, that Columba had another matter at heart—the welfare of the bards. It pleased the youth to think that the great man was so deeply interested in the men whom he hoped to make his followers. King Aedh had proposed to banish them, looking upon them as a set of swaggering idlers; but Columba was doing his utmost to prevent such a sentence being carried out.
As Cormac looked about him he saw he was in time to take part in the convocation which Columba had assembled in Druimceta to discuss these troublesome matters—for all around the country was littered with tents and hastily built wattled huts; the grass was bruised and broken by the feet of many herds, and scorched and charred by camp-fires lately quenched by the rain. In the distance he could hear the shout and din of a multitude.
With the greatest difficulty he found a shelter for the night for himself and his followers. He and his foster-sister were forced to enter an over-crowded house. There was scarcely room to move; the air was foul; the wattled walls black with smoke and filth, in place of being polished and sweet-smelling; on the stale straw beneath the hounds were eating the refuse of past days.
As he gazed about him from the crowded hearth, Cormac could see, by the great brewing-vat in a corner that he was in the hall of a Flaith or nobleman—noblemen alone having the right to brew. The chief himself was sleeping in the gloom of an alcove—and was doubtless an ally of King Aedh’s and had taken part in the same skirmish, for the space in front of the building was all littered by spoil the victorious warrior had taken from an enemy—vats of good malt, purple cloaks, horse-trappings, honeycomb, and hogs’ flesh.
A hush had fallen now on the great hall—after long feasting; but the steam and smell of flesh remained. Some of the feasters had fallen asleep with half filled platters beside them. The cauldron from which they had eaten still simmered over the central fire; in the great pot was thrust a long ladle of yew-wood—from which had been served the flesh of boar and deer stewed with leeks and hazel-nuts.
A flickering light aloft, strove with the gloom and smoke; the light fell from a molten pool of raw bee’s-wax held in a high vase or bowl of bronze and carved yew. The air was full of the long, deep breath of slumber; for on the floor around the bed of the sleeping chief lay his warriors, slaves, and hounds—sleeping also. Nearly all the hall slumbered except two or three bards playing chess before the fire, some wretched hostages in fetters, and two men of the chief’s or king’s bodyguard who stood with hand on upright pike, on either side of his great bed. The bed was all gloom except when the fitful light gave momentary flashes of the gold with which the limbs of the king were twined—and of the great torque that encircled his waist.
A look of disgust had passed over Ethne’s face when she entered the foul air of the great room. She sighed, more than ever, for the luxury and refinement of her Roman villa in Britain. She looked at the smouldering, central fire with its surrounding ashes and refuse of days long past; the earthen floor strewn with stale straw, gnawn bones, and spilt meal; the rough dressers laden with wooden platters, drinking horns, and vessels of yew and bronze; the gaping chests and cupboards which held meal, and clothes, and skins.
Yet there was a barbaric splendour in the great size of the circular room; in the horse-trappings and arms of the king upon the walls; in the row of suspended shields belonging to the warriors, slumbering around their chief.
Cormac was soon asleep stretched on a long leathern cushion covered by a sheep-skin. He was tired with his long day’s journey and glad to follow the example of the warriors around him.
He did not wake again until long after dawn—when he was roused by the noise and uproar about him. There was scarcely room to move, the hall was so filled with a medley of jesters, horse-boys, clowns, and bards.
A slave was busy at the fire baking oat-cake; trying, at the same time, to stir the soup-cauldron and keep the greedy hounds at his elbow in order. A bard, accompanying himself on a noisy timpan, was reciting a story; there was such a jangle of sounds that Cormac could scarcely hear his own voice or those of some jugglers at coarse conjuring tricks.
A piercing howl from one of the hounds suddenly silenced for the moment all other uproar. The distraught slave at the fire, wofully hindered in his work, had dealt an inquisitive beagle a sharp blow from a scalding ladle.
A general commotion at the hearth ensued.
The owner of the beagle had been lounging before the fire munching brook-lime and hazel-nuts; he now rose and seizing a besom of birch-twigs, dealt the slave a blow that laid him full length on the ground. In falling the slave was thrown against a couple of chess-players—upon whose play a party of idlers had been laying wagers; all of these turned savagely at the interruption of their pastime. The fall, also, disturbed some drunken revellers asleep on the floor; and they too started up with drawn swords. More than a score of dogs rushed forward and added their clamour to the uproar.
“And all this spoil-sport and foolery over a cursed hound!” cried one of the chess-players. “The cursed hound of a cursed bard!”
“Hound! Hound, sayest thou? And this to a bard—a Flaith, and son of a Flaith! Hound thyself—beguiled and doting tool of a king—and would thy tongue were slit for thy heresy towards us! Take thee, will I, by the apple of thy throat and cast thee forth!”
The owner of the beagle was a long-armed Hibernian Pict clad in bards’ dress; druidical symbols tattooed his naked arms and legs; his beard was plaited and his long hair confined at the back by a conical spiral of bronze and gold; his garments were ragged and filthy—from sloth and not from poverty, for he was verily covered with costly ornaments and amber beads. His mouth was still full of brook-lime and nuts—in his hand was a raw onion, which he had been about to eat.
“Ye cursed beggarly bards! Botch and blain of Hibernia! Paupers and panderers all! Parasites on our folly and vanity! Living by flattery, and eating us out of house and home in return! Take me, wilt thou, and cast me forth!”
The bard was too angry to reply. His gold ear-rings danced with the rage that shook him.
“But wait! A few more hours, and you and your stallions, your beagles and false tongues will be banished for ever! Take me, wilt thou, and cast me forth!”
The bard stuffed the waiting onion in his mouth and seizing the besom with both hands took up a threatening attitude.
“Peace!” said an old man, stepping forward. A sombre figure in his Irish monkish dress, cowled garment of brown frieze, book-wallet and leather-flask slung on shoulder, thick knotted stick as sole weapon.
“Is this the spirit you discuss grave matters we have followed Columba all the leagues from Iona to ponder and pray upon? It is not meet that ye brawl over such things as ye brawl over your chess and your horse-racing!” He turned sternly on the chess-player. “Know you not that Columba has taken the bards under his protection?”
“Ay, that do I know well; and I know better that our Christian spirit of forbearance is ill-suited to them—and I know too that some of them make a cloak of Christianity, when at heart they belong all to one faith—fire and blood! Fili they term themselves and half our men are turning Fili. And why not? ’Tis an easy life—for we must keep them and their mares and their stallions—their greyhounds and beagles! Grow barley for their winter fodder, and dower their daughters when they marry! Drones they are, and like rooks for flocking—ever in hordes—see how they crowd on us now winter is coming—swaggering to our firesides to idle and brag there all the winter and tell their idle tales!” The speaker paused, turned about and wildly waved his sword. “Away with them—away with them. Neither grist nor gold do they bring us! Greedy gules they be, swilling and guzzling all! And now, forsooth, must the Church—the Church—maintain their horses for them! Away with them, I say, away with them! I am aweary of warring against them with tongue and book—let us to work and settle the question with pick and knife!”
The quarrel spread like wild-fire in the hall, till everyone had taken his place on the two sides that were glaring at each other. It was a marvel how the scene had arisen from the simple accident. Cormac found himself in the angry ranks with his hand on his knife. There was a sudden rush to the open air to gain room for combat.
No sooner were they outside than they were driven back by a long line of galloping horsemen. There were shouts of “Back! Back!” and “Make room”; a great procession was passing through the village.
The heralds had already gone by; carrying trumpets twelve feet in length, with deep, vibrating notes like the roar of lions. Pipe, and harp, and clash of battle-axe accompanied the war-songs of the warriors as they rode past in the rain; prancing stallions often added their notes to the din. There was a continual glitter of sword, pike, and javelin; a glare of saffron robes and purple cloaks—woaded limbs and faces. Here and there bronze lance-heads and bronze axes showed themselves, mingled with primitive, leaf-shaped swords of bronze, stone hammers, and hide-covered shields of wicker. Horse and man bristled with tough yew-bows and sheaves of arrows; some of the darts had poison lurking in their tips and others were tipped with stone after the rude manner of their cave-dwelling forefathers. Many bronze shields could be seen; some were heirlooms—all bossy and gleaming with rich ornament. There was little order in the procession; it was a perpetual jostle between horse and woman and man; great Irish hounds slipped in and out among the crowd.
In one part of the procession a note of sombre colour and the sound of hushed music prevailed, where a thousand chanting monks from Iona followed their leader Saint Columba.
Suddenly the glare of saffron and purple streamed brighter, the clash of battle-axe grew sharper; King Aedh passed by, followed by the kings of Munster, of West Munster, of Leinster, and of Ossory; and many other kings, amongst whom was Aidan, son of Gabran, one of the kings of the Alban Picts.
Cormac found himself on his black stallion carried away in the fringe of the procession; down a steep hill-side to a barren stretch of moor, where a race-course had been mapped out, and race-horses by the score were being entered for a contest.
Ethne suddenly appeared beside him mounted on her white horse.
“You are ready Cormac, to fight for your bards—on the side of the saint, Columba?”
“Ready! Ay, more than ready!” cried Cormac, raising himself in his stirrups with a war-shout.
“So! Then—be wary, and wait till I give the signal!”
She left his side and passed, at full gallop, into the mazes of an ancient Druidical temple that adjoined the racecourse.
The savage hills around gave a wild setting to the temple or winding avenue of stone columns into which she passed. As she rode through the circle, in which the rude pillars were arranged, she uttered Druidical incantations in a low, piercing voice. The place was thronged with bards and their steeds and beagles—they were riding and walking through the two long avenues and the great central circle; a group in white robes were assembled around the stone of sacrifice—one of these ran to Ethne’s side as she reined in her horse.
“Fortune favours us!” she said, in a low impressive voice. “You fight for your liberty not only under Cormac of Fail, but under the protection of the saint, Columba! Remember!”
Cormac meanwhile, looking proudly around, saw the place was thronged with his followers. There were bards horse-racing and making wagers on horse and hound; bards as jugglers, sorcerers, and minstrels; bards at sword play, ball-tossing and serpent-playing.
Ethne, also, cast her eye over the assembled bards, as she looked out on the race-course from the temple. And she recognised them all as Druids—both those within the columns and without.
Chief among them was the bard who had quarrelled over the hound so short a time before; he was riding races on a swift white mare, and outstripping all who rode with him.
At the height of the revelry it was this man who headed the mead-drunk bards as they circled round Cormac—on their lips cries of “Ethne!” “Tara!” “Cormac of Fail!” “Cormac, The Horse—the Black Horse!”
They flocked around him on their matchless Hibernian horses—creatures all quivering from the race-courses, their bodies flecked with the foam and blood of their own rivalry. Some of the animals had been freshly driven in from the plains and wastes—roped with difficulty, and throwing one after another of their nimble riders. In the ranks about Cormac many startled, riderless creatures strove towards him, as though seeking his protection—this sight appealed to his followers, who renewed their cries of “The Horse—the Black Horse!”
The sight alone of those beautiful creatures, with their scarlet nostrils and flowing manes, was enough to quicken a young man’s blood. Cormac pressed forward, so proud and elated that he was scarcely aware of the words that were cried around him; only hearing shouts and battle-cries.
“Fire and Sword! Pict and Scot!” cried the bards, surging round him. “Men we make white with fear! Babes and women feed our swords. Ahoi! Come, Cormac, brother of Ethne! Ethne daughter of Druids! Come, Brother and Druids!”
They danced savage, prancing dances—rough, red limbs tossing and twirling. With broad, expanded nostrils they uttered screaming Pictish war-cries.
“Away with the Christians!” they yelled. “Away with cave-dwellers, fools, and fasters! Hibernia shall have men and warriors—not saints and hermits! Away with monks and virgins!”
Cormac dashed forward with Ethne by his side. Where he was going he did not know. He only knew that he was fighting for the liberty of his bards, and that Columba was on his side. Once the strange cry against the Christians came to his ear; that it concerned his own undertaking he did not, for one moment, realise—but it angered and puzzled him.
Then it seemed to him they were charging full upon the long procession that had passed through the village a few minutes before: But there was no time for thought or conjecture then; for, on a sudden, they were in the midst of their enemies and his men began to fall around him.
He was conscious that the attack he was leading was weak; that his followers fought badly; that Ethne, wildly and angrily, was calling upon them to do better—to be men, not cowards!
Then he knew that disaster had befallen them, because his men were fleeing.
Afterwards, in trying to recall the swift attack and defeat, he could remember nothing clearly, except the strange shock and tumult of the moment when he saw his bards put to flight by warriors in monkish dress!
Long afterwards, in his life, he was haunted by vague memories of that disastrous flight—that proof of his bards’ cowardice—that end of his hopes and dreams. For long it would suddenly come on him at times as a nightmare of shame.
The greater number of his Druid followers were taken prisoners; some were killed, a few escaped to the sea-shore.
Cormac fought on bravely, determined to die rather than yield.
A sword-gash across his temples filled his eyes with blood; he dashed his hand across them; and saw, before him, a tall figure mounted on one of the half-tamed Hibernian horses, so numerous everywhere. The animal had met its master now, for it tried in vain to unseat the man who rode without saddle and with only a rough bridle of hemp about the creature’s head; he urged it forward to meet Cormac; it advanced, rearing on its hindquarters.
Cormac saw the face of the rider towering above him—a beautiful face, pale as marble with large, flashing brown eyes.
Cormac advanced also holding his sword ready to strike. He had a sudden strange presentiment that his life was within the power of the man before him, who had the invincible air belonging to one of Nature’s own warriors.
Suddenly the untrained horse swerved to one side and bounded away. In an instant its rider had slipped from its back and advanced towards Cormac, a tall thin figure in the dress of a monk, with the front of the head shaven after the manner of the Hibernian tonsure. Then the blood from the young warrior’s wound came and blinded his eyes once more. All was darkness.
He felt sick and giddy from pain and confusion of thought—why was he fighting against the Ionian monks?
A hand closed on his like a vice of iron—a strong arm was thrown about him. He was dragged from his saddle and forced to render up his sword.
Someone wiped the blood from his eyes. He looked up and saw again the white, beautiful face and flashing eyes that had faced him on the battle field.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Columba!”