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 before 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—s
o 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.
In the hearing of all, Niall reminded the noblemen that his father, Eochaid, had decreed that he should be king after him; he praised the dead Crimthann for keeping the kingship so well and thanked Brian for his willingness to step into the breach and occupy the throne in the absence of the rightful ruler. “But I am here now,” said Niall, “so your services, and those of your mother, are no longer needed. Stay with me if you like, or go. The choice is yours.”
Brian eyed the massed warriors thoughtfully and, to his mother’s horror, chose to stay and uphold Niall in his kingship. The old woman was so outraged by this twist of events that her flintlike heart swelled with anger and burst; she gave out a scream of rage and fell down dead. Niall wasted no time but gathered a fleet of ships and set out to put the Picti and the Albanach Irish beneath his reign. With his warrior host he sailed to Alba and was warmly received by the Dal Riada tribes, who welcomed him as savior from the ever-encroaching predations of the cruel Picti.
In Alba, Niall rallied the Irish tribes of the Scotti and harried the Picti over the moors; Niall chased the troublesome Picti back to their mountain strongholds, where he fought them and defeated them and claimed a hostage from each of the three largest tribes. Then the young Aird Righ turned his attention to the south, waged war on the Saecsen settlements along the northeast coast, and made them acknowledge his rule—again taking royal hostages in order to bind the belligerent tribes to observe peace with him. He raided in Britain and in Armorica, carrying all before him by the might of his warhost. When the battle season ended, he had established himself as king of Éire and Alba and overlord of nine subject tribes.
Thus, with this reminder of the high king’s authority and power fresh in our heads, did the ritual of the boru tribute commence.
As with most ceremonies of the Irish, it began with a feast. Thirty oxen had been roasting since early that morning and, after another recitation by the ollamh, the great king invited his lords to eat and drink with him. Since no one told me otherwise, I joined in the feast, too. Indeed, there were so many noblemen and servants of noblemen that no one paid any attention to me. I took some meat as it was carried through the throng by servants bearing enormous wooden troughlike vessels on poles. Beer circulated in wooden buckets, brass bowls, and large clay jars. There was other food, too: salmon, venison, boiled eggs, and three kinds of bread.
I helped myself liberally to all that came my way, and what I did not eat I secretly tucked away in the bag I wore beneath my shirt. I did very well, and soon the bag was bulging, so I found a place where I could retrieve it later and stashed it there for safekeeping.
Then I sharpened my eye for the best opportunity to make my escape.
The chance came the next day when, having eaten and drunk their fill, the subje
ct kings were summoned to council and, as their names were called, stepped forward to declare the size and composition of the tribute they had brought. I stood with Miliucc and his men and sensed their growing unease as one by one the lords, upon delivering the tally of their livestock, were informed by the Aird Righ that their tribute was not enough.
“This is very bad,” I heard one of Miliucc’s men mutter. “If Gulban’s tribute falls short, ours will not fare better.”
“We shall have to raid this summer to make up the difference,” another grumbled. “And that, too, is costly.”
When the audiences ended for the day, there was more eating and drinking. This time, however, the mood was ugly. The first noblemen were angry and agitated by the failure of the high king to accept the payment of their tribute, and the rest were anxious that theirs, too, would fall short. As is ever the way of things, they took out their frustration on one another.
At first it assumed the form of boasting and raucous humor at one another’s expense—the sort of thing I had seen often enough in the Black Wolf when the legionaries were displeased with their commander. As drink took hold, the humor turned cruel and tempers began to simmer, flaring now and then as when fat hits the fire.
I did not wait for the fights to start. As night drew in on the increasingly brawly festivities, I left the flock, collected my bag of provisions, ran for the shelter of the nearest wood, and disappeared into the all-concealing shadows.
FIFTEEN
THE PLAIN OF Fál stretches far to the west and south, but to the east there are thickly wooded hills and streams. This is the direction I chose, and I reached the edge of the wood before night was half gone—pausing briefly to climb an oak tree to see if I had been followed. Pulling myself up into the upper branches, I looked out over the moonlit plain. There was no sign of pursuit, so I quickly clambered down and hastened into the wood, following an old and well-used hunting run.