There were in Ireland at that time two famous bulls, unlike to any kine that ever have been in Ireland from that time until now. For these bulls were cattle of the gods, and they had come to abide among men for this purpose only, to incite and bring about a war between Connaught and Ulster. For Macha watched o’er men, and she awaited the day when her revenge upon Ulster should fall. Now these cattle were born, one in the Province of Connaught among the cattle of Meave, and the other in Ulster among the cattle of Daire of Cooley, in Cuchulain’s country. Meave knew not that these were immortal beasts, for that was in the secrets of the gods, but she knew well that among her cattle was one bull of extraordinary size, and fierceness, and strength, so that no other member of her herds dared to come near it; moreover, fifty men were required to keep it. And of all her stock, there was not one that Meave counted worth a metal ring beside this bull. She named him the Finn-bennach or “White-horned,” and she believed that not in Ireland nor in the whole world beside, was the equal and the fellow of this bull. One day, before the war began, while Meave was meditating in her mind what challenge she should send to Ulster, she caused all her cattle to be arrayed before her.
From pastures and meadow-lands, from hills and vales, she called in all her stock, her sheep and swine, her cattle and her steeds. Ailill also, her husband, caused his flocks and herds to be brought in, and reckoned alongside of hers. For Meave had boasted to her spouse that in all possessions of kine and live stock, as also in household goods and utensils, in jewels and ornaments, in garments and in stuffs, her share was greater far than his, so that, in fact, she was the better of the two, the real ruler and prince of Connaught.
Ailill liked not this boasting of his wife; so when their flocks were driven in, their vessels and vats and mugs collected, their clasped ornaments and rings, as well arm-rings as thumb-rings, brooches and collars of carven metal-work, with their apparel and stuffs, it pleased the King to find that the share of Meave and of himself was exactly equal and alike. Among Meave’s horses was a special mare, and she thought there was no mare in Ireland to equal it, but Ailill had one just its match. Among the sheep Meave owned one mighty ram, and among the swine one eminent boar, but Ailill proved that amongst his flocks and herds he had the same. Then Meave said: “Among the cattle, however, certain it is, that there is no bull to be named in the same breath with the White-horned.” “Ay, no, indeed,” said the herdsman, “the White-horned surpasseth all beasts; but, a week ago, he left the company of thy cattle, O Queen, and went over to the cattle of the King. ’Tis my opinion that he heard the keepers say that it was strange that so powerful a bull should be under the dominion of a woman; for no sooner were the words out of their mouths, than he broke loose from his stall, and, head in air and bellowing loudly, he passed over to the herds of Ailill. Nought could stay him or bring him back; and all that stood in his path were trampled and gored to death.”
Now when Meave heard that the White-horned was no longer in her keeping, not one of her possessions had any value in her eyes; for, because she had not that especial bull, it was in her esteem as though she owned not so much as a penny’s worth of stock.
When Mac Roth, her herald, who stood at her right hand, saw the Queen’s vexation, he said, “I know, O Queen, where a better bull than the White-horned is to be found, even with Daire of Cooley, in Cuchulain’s country, and the Dun or “Brown Bull” of Cooley is its name; a match it is to the White-horned; nay, I think that it is yet more powerful than he.”
“Whence came these bulls?” said Meave; “and what is their strength and their history? Tell me, Mac Roth, yet further of this bull.”
Then Mac Roth said: “This is the description of the Dun. Brown he is, and dark as night, terrific in strength and size. Upon his back, at evening-tide, full fifty little boys can play their games. He moves about with fifty heifers at his side, and if his keepers trouble him, he tramples them into the earth in his rage. Throughout the land his bellowings can be heard, and on his horns are gold and silver tips. Before the cows he marches as a king, with bull-like front, and with the resistless pace of the long billow rolling on the shore. Like to the fury of a dragon, or like a lion’s fierceness is his rage. Only the Finn-bennach, the White-horned bull, is his mate and match; his pair in strength, in splendour, and in pride.”
And Meave said: “What and whence are these kine, and wherefore did they come to Ireland?”
Mac Roth replied: “These are the cattle of the gods; out of the Fairy Palaces they came to Erin, and into the Fairy Palaces they will return again. For the disturbance and downfall of Erin are they come, to awaken wars and tumults among her people. Before they became cattle, they have lived many lives in many forms, but in whatever form they come to earth destruction and warfare haunt their steps. At the first they were two swineherds of the gods, dwelling in the underworld, and they kept the herds of the fairy gods of Munster and of Connaught. But a mighty war was fought between them, so that all Erin was disturbed and troubled by that war; and each of them tore the other in pieces, so that they died. But they were born again as two ravens, dwelling upon earth, and for three hundred years they lived as birds, but in the end they pecked each other till they died.
“Then they became two monsters of the sea, and after that two warriors and two demon-men. But in each of all these forms they met together in terrific contest, so that the world of men and even the dwellings of the gentle gods were stirred and agitated by their wrath. For when men hear the sighing of the wind, or the wild turmoil of the billows on the shore, then, indeed, it is the bulls in fight wherever they may be, or in whatever form. And now that they are come to earth again, no doubt some mighty contest is at hand; for surely they are come to stir up strife and deadly warfare between man and man, and Connaught and Ulster will be concerned in this.”
“That likes us well,” said Meave, “and for this contest we will well prepare. So, since the fellow of the White-horned dwells in Cooley, take thou with thee a company, Mac Roth, and go and beg this excellent bull from Daire, that henceforth my cattle may compare with Ailill’s kine, or that they may surpass them. Give all conditions he demands and promise what thou wilt, so only Daire give up the bull. And if he give it not up willingly, then will we come and seize the bull by force.”
For to herself she said: “The taking of this bull will be a thing not easy to accomplish; if Daire, as is likely, refuse it to me, war will arise between Connaught and Ulster, and this, seeing that the warriors of Ulster are now lying in their pains, we much could wish. For our hosts are gathered and our provisions ready, while on Ulster’s side there are but women and little children and Cuchulain ready and fit to meet us; quickly in that case we shall march into Ulster’s borders and raid the country up to Emain’s palace gates, carrying off the spoils; the Brown Bull also we will bring with us, and henceforth not Ailill, nor the King of Ulster, nor all Ireland besides, will hold up their heads against ourselves or boast themselves our equal.”
So Mac Roth with nine of his company travelled to the house of Daire in Cooley, and welcome was made for them, and fresh rushes strewn upon the floor and viands of the best were set before them, as became the chief of Ireland’s heralds. But before they sat down to meat, Daire inquired of them: “What is the cause of your journey here to-day?” And Mac Roth replied: “A quarrel that has arisen between Ailill and Meave, the King and Queen of Connaught, about the possession of the White-horned, for Meave is sorrowful and vexed because the King hath a better bull than she. She craves therefore, that a loan of the Dun or Brown Bull of Cooley be made to her, that she may say that she hath the finer kine. And if thou thyself wilt bring the bull to Cruachan, good payment shall be given thee: that is, due payment for the loan of the bull, and fifty heifers into the bargain, besides a stretch of country of the best in Connaught, and Meave’s close friendship along with this.”
This pleased Daire so well, that he threw himself upon his couch, and he laughed loud and long, so that the seams of the couch burst asunder under him. “By our good faith,” he said, “the offer is a good one, and whatever the men of Ulster may say to my lending away their precious bull, lend it I will with all my heart.”
Then supper was served, and the messengers of Meave ate and drank, and Daire plied them with strong wines, so that they began to talk at random to each other. “A good house is this to which we have come, and a wealthy man is Daire,” said one to his fellow. “Wealthy he is indeed,” said the other. “Would you say that he was the best man in all Ulster, and the richest?” pursued the first who had spoken. “Surely not,” replied the other, “for Conor the King, at least, is better in every way than he.” “Well, lucky it is, I say,” pursued the first, “that without bloodshed or any difficulty raised, he yields the bull to us nine messengers; for had he refused it, I trow that the warriors of all Ireland’s Provinces could not have carried it off from Ulster.” “Say not so,” cried another, “for in truth, little matter to us had it been if Daire had refused it, for had we not got the bull by fair means, we would have carried it off by foul.”
Now just at that moment in came the steward, with fresh viands to set before the guests, but when he overheard their conversation, and the slighting way in which his master was spoken of by the heralds of Connaught, he set down the meat without a word and without inviting them to partake, and out he went at once and told his master what the heralds had said. Then Daire was very angry, and he exclaimed, “By the gods, I declare, that never will I lend the bull; and that now, unless by foul means they carry him off from me, he never shall be theirs.”
The next morning, the messengers arose, having slept off their carouse, and they went to Daire’s house, and courteously said: “Show us now, noble Sir, the way to the place where the Brown Bull is, that we may proceed with him on our journey back to Cruachan.”
“Not so, indeed,” said Daire, “for were it my habit to deal treacherously with those that come in embassage, not one of you would have seen the light of the sun to-day.” “Why, how now, what is this?” they asked, surprised, for they had forgotten what they had said over their cups the night before. “’Tis plain enough, I think,” said Daire; “your people said last night that if I gave the bull not up of mine own will, yet Meave and Ailill would make me give it up by force. Let Meave and Ailill come and take it if they can. All Ulster will prepare to hold the bull.”
“Come, come,” said Mac Roth, “heed not what foolish men said after food and drink; Ailill and Meave had no ill intent in sending us to ask the bull of you. It were not right to hold them responsible for the loose words of their messengers.” “Nevertheless, Mac Roth, and however this may be, at this time you do not get my bull.”
So Mac Roth and the nine messengers returned to Rath Crogan,[3] and Meave inquired for the bull. And when she heard their tale, she said, “I thought as much, Mac Roth: it was not intended that you should have the bull. The bull, which is not to be got by fair means, must be got by foul; and by fair or foul, he shall be got by us.”
Then Meave gathered her hosts together and set out from Cruachan, each party under its own leader, marching in order of rank, with Fergus mac Roy guiding the entire army, and Meave bringing up the rear, in order that she might keep all her troops under her own eye. Meave’s way of travelling when she went into battle was in a chariot, with her bodyguard of chosen warriors around her, who, in any time of danger, interlocked their shields to form a rampart and protection on every side as she moved along.
Gaily her troops marched in their many-coloured garb, their short kilts falling to the knee, their long cloaks over that. And the colour of the kilts of each troop was different, so that each man knew his own comrades by the pattern of his kilt. In their hands they carried shields and spears upon long shafts, while others had five-pronged spears, or mighty swords, or javelins.
It was in the beginning of winter that they set out, and already snow lay heavy on the ground; on the very first night it fell so thickly, that it reached to the chariot-wheels and almost to their very shoulders, nor could they find any track or way.
Meave called Fergus, and said to him: “Go on before the hosts, O Fergus, and find us out the shortest road into Ulster, for in such weather as this, it is not well that we lose time by wandering out of the right way.” So with a few companions Fergus went on ahead; but as he drove along, the memory of old friends and of his home and country came upon him, and an overwhelming affection for Ulster took hold on him, and in his mind there arose shame and bitter self-reproach that he, the former King of Ulster, should be leading Ulster’s foes against her. For he liked Meave and he liked her not; her kindness to himself and the exiles of Ulster had prevailed with him to aid her in her war upon the province; but her wiles and cunning and manlike ways he cared not for, and in his heart he had no wish to see the province subdued to her. So to the North and the South he misled the host, making them walk all day by difficult paths far out of their way, while in the meantime he sent swift messengers to Conor and the Ulster chiefs, but especially to his own foster-son Cuchulain, whom he loved, to call their men at arms together, because Meave and a host of warriors from all the provinces of Ireland were on their borders. At night, after a long day’s march, the army found itself back in the very spot from which it had set out, not far beyond the banks of the River Shannon. Then Meave called Fergus, and angrily she spoke to him: “A good guide to an army art thou, O Fergus, bringing it back at night to the very place from which in the morning it set out. A good enemy of Ulster this. A good friend to Connaught and its queen!” “Seek out some other leader for your troops, O Meave,” said Fergus, “for never will I lead them against the province of Ulster and against my own people and my foster-son! But this I tell you, beware and look out well for your troops to-night and every night from this; for it may be that Cuchulain will stand between you and Ulster, and the standing of Cuchulain will be as the crouching of the Hounds of War upon your path; therefore beware and guard yourselves well before him!”
Now that very night Cuchulain got the message of Fergus, for he was with his father, Sualtach, not far from this place. Together in their chariot they drove to the borders of the country where the army was encamped to seek for the trail of the hosts; but they found it not easy to discover the trail, because of the snow and because of the wandering path that Fergus had taken the troops. They unyoked the chariots, and turned the horses out to graze at a certain pillar-stone beside a ford; and on one side of the pillar-stone the horses of Sualtach cropped the grass down to the very ground, and on the other the horses of Cuchulain did the same. Then Cuchulain said: “To-night, O father, I have a shrewd suspicion that the host is near; depart thou therefore to warn Ulster, and to bid them arise and come by secret ways to meet the men of Erin.”
Now in his heart was Sualtach glad and pleased to be gone, because he was not a man who loved to stand in the gap of danger, nor to risk his life before an enemy stronger than himself; but yet he was loth to leave his son alone. So he said, “And thou, beloved, what wilt thou do?”
“I will stand between the men of Ireland and the province of Ulster,” said the boy, “so that no harm or hurt befall the province until Ulster be ready for battle; here on the borders do I take my stand, and I will so harry and trouble the hosts of Meave that they will wish the expedition had never been undertaken.”
So Cuchulain hastened his father, and Sualtach bade him farewell, and slipped away to Emain Macha. But when he found the warriors were asleep, his old lethargy came over Sualtach, and he forgot the message of Cuchulain, and under Emain’s ramparts he took up his abode. “Here will I wait in safety,” he thought; “and when the King and chiefs awake, I, with the first of them, will march to war with Meave. I will not be behind, but all alone I have not the heart to fight.”
No sooner had Sualtach gone his way than Cuchulain entered a forest close at hand and out of an oak sapling cut a four-pronged pole, which with one sweep of his swift sword he cleared of all its twigs and leaves and small branches. With the finger-tips of his right hand he hurled it out behind his chariot, going at full pace, so that it sank into the ground in the middle of the stream, and stood up just above the water. Upon the pole he flung a ring or twisted collar of young birch, and on the ring he carved his name and a message in secret runes. Just at that moment two young men of the host of Meave, gone out before the troops to scout, came near and watched him. No time had they to turn and flee, for with one leap Cuchulain was upon them, and both their heads struck off. These and the two heads of their charioteers were soon impaled on the four points of the forked pole; but the chariots he turned back, driving them towards the host of Meave. When the warriors saw the chariots return with headless men, they thought the army of Ulster must be close before them, waiting their coming at the ford. Therefore a great company of them marched forward to the stream, ready and armed for battle, but nothing did they see but a tall pole that stood upright in the swirling waters of the stream, bearing a rude carved collar on its top, and on the point of every branching prong a bleeding new-slain head.
“Go now,” said Ailill to his man, “fetch me the collar here.” But all in vain he tried to read the words engraven on the ring. “What, Fergus, are the words inscribed upon this ring?” said he. “Who could have written them? A strange thing, verily, it seems to me, that two brave scouts could have been slain like this, well-nigh within the sight of all our men. A marvel, I confess, this thing to me.”
“Not that it is at which I marvel,” Fergus said; “I marvel rather that with one sweep of the sword this tree was felled and cleaned of all its twigs. See, it is written on the ring that with one hand this pole was thrown, and fixed firmly in its bed; it is written here, moreover, that the men of Erin are forbidden to pass this ford, until in exactly the same manner it is plucked up again.”
“One man only in the army can do that, namely, you yourself, O Fergus!” answered Meave. “Now help us in this strait and pluck the pole out of the river’s bed for us.”
“Bring me a chariot, then, and I will see what I can do.”
A chariot was brought and Fergus mounted into it. With all his force he dashed down into the water, and with his finger-tips in passing by he tried to draw the pole out of its place. But all in vain; the pole stood fast, and though he tugged and strained, so that the chariot flew into little bits and fragments, he could not stir or move the pole an inch. One chariot after another he essayed, and all of them went into splinters, but not one whit the looser was the pole. At last Meave said: “Give over, Fergus; enough of my people’s chariots are broken with this game. Get your own chariot and pull out the pole. Right well I guess your purpose; for you have in mind to hamper and delay the progress of our host till Ulster be aroused and come to meet us; but that your guidance led us all astray, we might be even now in Ulster’s border-lands.”
Then Fergus’s own mighty chariot was brought, all made of iron, studded o’er with nails, heavy and massive in its make. Upright he stood in it, and with a powerful, superhuman pull he wrenched with one hand’s finger-tips the pole from out its bed, and handed it to Ailill.
Attentively and long the King considered it, and then he asked, “Whom thinkest thou, O Fergus, it might be who threw this pole into the river-bed and slaughtered our two scouts? Was it Conall the victorious, or Celtchar, or even Conor himself? Surely it was some brave, well-seasoned man, some warrior of old renown, who did a deed like this!” “I think,” said Fergus, “that not one of these three heroes would have come alone from Ulster, unattended by their bodyguard and troops.” “Whom, then, thinkest thou was here?” persisted Ailill; “who could have done this deed?” “I think,” said Fergus, “that it was Cuchulain, Ulster’s Hound.”
When Meave heard that already the Hound of Ulster stood upon her path, the words spoken by the fairy Feidelm and the Druid came back into her mind, and she resolved that not a moment would she linger by the way, but now at once, before the men of Ulster were risen from their weakness, she would push on direct to Emain Macha. “If one man alone and single-handed be formidable to us,” she said to Ailill, “still more formidable will he be with the gathered hosts of Ulster at his back, fighting for their country and their fatherland.”
So that very night she gave command that the army should move on, taking the direct way into Ulster; and when the men complained there was no road, she bid her soldiers take their swords and hew for the chariots a path straight through the forests. Haughtily she cried, “Though mountains and high hills stood in my way, yet should they be hewn down before me and smoothed to level lands. So by new paths mayhap we shall slip by Cuchulain unperceived, and fall on Ulster sleeping; thus shall we take Cuchulain in the rear.”
But whichever way the army turned, from that night forward Cuchulain was on the path before it, and though the warriors could not catch sight of him, at every point he cut off twos and threes, whenever scouts were sent before the host. At length they could not get the scouts to go, and whole bands went out together, but even so but few returned alive. And strange things happened, which alarmed the men, and Meave herself at last grew sore afraid. One evening, thinking that all was safe, Meave and her women walked to take the air, she carrying on her shoulders her pet bird and squirrel. They talked together of the wonders that Cuchulain wrought, and how that very day he had fallen alone upon a troop of men who cut a path through woods some miles away beyond the camp to eastward, and how but one of them escaped to tell the tale. Just as they spoke, a short sharp sound was heard, as of a sling-stone passing near their heads, and at Meave’s feet the squirrel dropped, struck through the heart. Startled, she turned to see whose hand had killed her pet, but as she turned, down from the other shoulder dropped the bird, slain also by a stone. “Cuchulain must be near,” the women cried; “no other hand but his so surely and so straight can sling a stone,” and hastily they turned and sought the shelter of the camp again. Meave sat down beside the King to tell him what had happened. “It could not be Cuchulain,” said the King; “he was far off on the other side of the host to-day.” Even as the words passed from his lips, close to them whizzed a hand-sling stone, carrying off the coronet or golden ‘mind’ that bound Meave’s hair, but hurting not so much as a lock upon her head. “A bad stroke that,” laughed out the fool that gambolled round the King, joking to make him merry; “had I been he who shot that stone, the head I would have taken off and left the ‘mind’ behind.”
Hardly were the words out of his foolish mouth, than a second stone, coming from the same direction as the first, in the full middle of his forehead struck the fool, and carried off his head, while at Meave’s feet dropped down his pointed cap. Then Ailill started up and said, “That man will be the death of all our host, before we ever step on Ulster’s soil. If any man henceforth makes mock at Cuchulain, ’tis I myself will make two halves of him. Let the whole host press on by day and night towards the coasts of Ulster, or not one of us will live to see the gates of Emain Macha.”
So day and night the camp moved on, but not thus could they outstrip Cuchulain; march as they would, he still was there before them. Yet, though they chased and sought him day and night, they caught no sight of him; only he cut off their men.
One day a charioteer of Orlam, Ailill’s son, was sent into a wood to cut down poles to mend the chariots broken by the way. It happened that Cuchulain was in this wood, and he took the charioteer to be a man of Ulster come out before their host to scout for them.
“The youth is foolhardy who comes so near the army of Queen Meave,” Cuchulain thought; “I will e’en go and warn him of his danger.”
So he went forwards, and said, “And what, my lad, art thou doing here?” Not knowing who it was who spoke to him, the lad replied, “I am come out to polish chariot-poles, because our chariots have been sorely damaged in our chase of that famous wild deer, Cuchulain; and indeed, good warrior, I am making all the haste I can, for fear this same Cuchulain may pounce down on me. Certainly he would make short work of me; therefore, O Youth, if thou hast time, lend me a hand and help me with my task.” “Willingly,” said Cuchulain, “will I help thee. Take thou thy choice; shall I cut down the holly-poles? or shall I smooth them for thee?” “To trim them is the slowest work; therefore while I hew down the trees do thou smooth off the branches and the twigs.”
Cuchulain set to work to trim the holly-poles, and quickly were they done. Simply by drawing them between his fingers and his toes, he finished them to perfect smoothness, and threw them down without a twig or bit of bark or any rough excrescence on the ground. Closely and with surprise the young man watched this feat. At last he said: “I am inclined to think that thou art accustomed to some higher work than cutting chariot-poles. Who art thou then at all?”
“I am that notable Cuchulain of whom just now thou spakest,” the hero said. “Art thou indeed? then am I but a dead man,” the youth cried, trembling as he spoke; “no one escapes Cuchulain’s hands alive.”
“Fear nothing,” replied Cuchulain, “for I never slay a man unarmed or charioteer. Whose man art thou, and where is thy master to be found?” “A servant I of Orlam, son of Meave, who awaits my coming near at hand,” replied the charioteer. “Take him this message then,” Cuchulain said. “Tell him the Hound of Ulster is at hand, and bid him guard his head, for if we meet, his head will surely fall.”
Then the charioteer, right glad to get away, sought out his master with all haste; but before he could reach him, Cuchulain had outstripped him, and struck off the head of Orlam, holding it aloft and shaking it before the men of Erin.
From that time forward Cuchulain took up his position nearer to the host, cutting off and destroying them, and at evening he would brandish and shake his weapons before the army, so that men died of pure fear of him.
“Our army will be destroyed before ever we reach Emain Macha,” said Meave at length. “If I could but see this hero who troubles our armies, and speak to him myself, I would offer him terms; for if we could persuade him to forsake Ulster, and come over to our side, it would go hard with us, if all Ulster would not be subdued before us, and ourselves return from this expedition the greatest monarch in Ireland.” Calling Mac Roth, her herald, she said to him, “Prepare your chariot, Mac Roth, and seek out for us this Deer of Ill-luck who is pursuing our army and bringing misfortune upon us. Offer him terms to forsake the service of Conor and to enter our own service. Give him whatever terms he asks, and bid him come himself to-morrow to confer with me, but not to cross the glen. Well should I like to see this mighty man, but I would not have him come too near.”
“I care not to go on this embassy,” quoth Mac Roth; “besides, I know not where to find Cuchulain.” “Fergus will know,” said Meave, for she believed that Fergus was in league with his foster-son, and she forgave him not that he loved Ulster still, in spite of all that she had done for him; so she said, “Fergus will surely know.”
“I know not,” said Fergus, “but this I know, that after any feat of war or combat with an enemy it is not by sleep or lazy loitering Cuchulain rests himself, but by exercising in the open air and sun, letting the cool breezes blow upon his wearied body. Likely it is, that somewhere ’twixt the mountains and the sea he will be found.”
Mac Roth set off. Now all the land was covered with a mantle of fresh snow, and, true enough, Cuchulain warmed himself by practising javelin feats out on the mountain-side, in the full air and sun.
His charioteer looked forth and saw a man approach. “A warrior comes, O little Cu,” he said. “What sort of warrior is he who comes?” Cuchulain asked, but did not cease to fling his javelins in the air. “A massive, goodly, dark-faced man, clad in an ample mantle of dark brown, that fastens at his throat with a delicate, richly ornamented pin of bronze. Beneath the mantle a strong coat of skins, and sandals bound with leather thongs are on his feet. A sharp-edged sword he carries in one hand, and in the other holds a hazel-switch, to keep in order two great noble hounds that play around his steps.”
“These are the trappings of a herald,” said Cuchulain; “no doubt he comes from Meave and Ailill to propose terms to us.”
Mac Roth came to the place where Laeg was awaiting him. “Who is your master, man?” said he. “My master is the young man over there; I am his charioteer,” replied Laeg. Mac Roth turned half round and saw Cuchulain. “And who may you serve, my young man?” quoth he. “I serve King Conor,” said the hero. “Cannot you tell me something more precise than that?” inquired Mac Roth again. “That much will serve your turn,” replied the youth. “Can you then tell me where I could find this renowned Cuchulain, who is so frightening the men of Erin now?” pursued Mac Roth. “What do you want to say to him that cannot be said as well to me?” “I come in embassage from Ailill and from Meave, with power to propose terms of truce, and with an invitation from the Queen that Cuchulain should meet and confer with her.” “What terms do you propose?” he asked again. “With bounteous offers I am come from Meave, promise of wealth in cattle and in flocks, and welcome of an honoured guest to Cruachan and a place near Meave’s own side; all this and more, if he will quit the petty chieftain Conor, and will enter her service, and if, moreover, he will hold his hand from smiting down our hosts; for, in good sooth, the nightly thunder-feats he plays upon the warriors please not the host at all.”
Anger came upon Cuchulain to hear King Conor styled a petty chief by this contemptuous messenger of Meave. “Go back to those who sent you,” he replied, “for if in truth Cuchulain heard your terms, he would reject and fling them back with scorn. To-morrow I engage that the hero will confer with Meave herself, but only if she come under the escort and the charge of Fergus.”
Mac Roth returned with haste, and in the camp he sought out Connaught’s Queen. Eagerly she asked, “Well, did you find the champion, Mac Roth?” “All that I found was a terrible, angry, surly fellow airing himself between the mountains and the sea; but whether it were the formidable hero of whom men speak or no, indeed, I know not.”
“Did he accept our terms?” pursued the Queen. “The man I saw rejected them outright, flinging them back at us with angry scorn. Only he promised that to-morrow, in the glen, Cuchulain would be found to talk of terms, but that you needs must go in company with Fergus.”
“To-morrow I myself will offer terms,” said Meave, “and he will not refuse.” So on the morrow Meave and Fergus sought the glen, the Queen keeping carefully to the far side of the valley, with the wooded dell between themselves and the place where she believed Cuchulain would be found. Eagerly she scanned the glen on every side, expecting on the opposite ridge to see a mighty, ugly warrior, fully armed, who waited for her coming. “Why comes he not, Fergus?” she said at last. But Fergus answered not, for he was standing all engrossed in watching a young stripling, lithe and radiant, who on the other side the glen was practising sling-feats, shooting at the passing birds that flew above his head, and bringing them down alive.
“Cuchulain is there before you,” Fergus said. “I see no one at all save one young lad, who seems expert in feats,” replied the Queen; “I cannot see a warrior near or far.”
“That young lad it is who has done damage to your hosts, however,” was the reply. “Is that boy, the young boy yonder, the famous hero of whom all men speak?” Meave cried astonished. “Small need, methinks, to be afraid of him, myself will speak to him and offer him my terms.” Then in a high and haughty voice, as when a Queen speaks to an underling, Meave called across the valley to Cuchulain. She set before him honourable terms if he would leave the service of King Conor and enter hers. Promptly, without an instant’s thought, he set them all aside. Then as he seemed about to turn away to practise feats again, in despair the Queen called out, “Are there no terms whatever that you will accept? it is not pleasant to our people, nor likes it them at all, to be cut off and slaughtered night by night and harassed by your precious thunder-feats.”
“I tell you not my terms,” replied the youth; “it is for you to find them out yourself.”
As Meave and Fergus drove back to the camp, the Queen asked Fergus if he knew the terms Cuchulain would accept.
“I do not know,” said Fergus, “but just now there came into my mind a conversation that I had when Cuchulain was yet a child and in my house as foster-son. We spoke together of a champion who had accepted conditions of his country’s foes, and I remember that Cuchulain thought not well of him for doing so. He coloured up and said, ‘If I were offered conditions by my country’s enemies, these are the sort of terms I would accept. I would demand of them each day one of their foremost warriors to meet me at the ford in single combat; and for the space of time while I am hewing down that man, I would permit them to march onwards with their host, and short would be that space of time, I ween! But when the man was dead, until the sunrise on the morrow’s morn, I would not have them move. Thus I would keep them well in sight, and would pluck off their warriors one by one. Also,’ he said, and laughed, ‘I would require my enemies to keep me well supplied with food and raiment while I fought with them; so would there be much trouble saved, and with their food I would grow strong to fight against themselves. These are the terms that I would ask, O foster-father Fergus, of my foes.’ Those were his words, O Queen, when he was but a child; I trow he will not be contented now with less.”
Then Meave said thoughtfully: “It seems not worse that one man should be slain each day than that a hundred men should fall at night, even were that one man a champion of our host. I think it better to accept his terms. Go back to him, O Fergus, and if he is agreed, say we accept and will abide by those conditions. So we may find at length a little peace.”
So Fergus turned his horses to go back where he had left Cuchulain. He thought to go alone, attended only by his charioteer, but as he drove along, the sound of wheels behind him made him turn, and close to him he saw a youth who, sitting in his chariot, seemed to follow hard behind, as though to catch him up. Fergus recognized the rider as a rich young chief, brave but foolhardy, who was known among the host as one who thought too highly of himself, considering he had little experience of war.
“Whither away, Etarcomal?” said Fergus, for that was the youth’s name. “I wish to go with you,” replied the lad; “I hear that you are on your way to seek this wonderful Cuchulain, of whom all men talk. I feel inclined myself to have a look at him.”
“I give you sound advice,” said Fergus, “and best it were for you to heed my words. Turn round your chariot, and go home again.”
“Why so?” Etarcomal asked. “Because I know full well that if you, with your light-minded insolence, come into contact with this great Hound of War, in all his fierceness and his terrible strength, trouble will befall. You will provoke him with your childishness, and ill will come, before I can prevent it. Go home again, I will not have you come.” “If we fell out, could you not rescue me?” Etarcomal said. “No doubt I should endeavour to succour you; but if you seek a quarrel, or with your foolish words provoke Cuchulain, I make no promises; you must defend yourself, and take your chance.”
“Truly I seek no quarrel with this valiant mighty chief; I will but look upon his powerful form and note his face, and then return with you.” “So be it, then,” said Fergus, “let us on.”
Afar off, Laeg espied them as they came. He and his master sat beneath the trees close on the borders of a little wood, playing a game of chess; but none the less he kept a sharp lookout, watching where lay the distant camp of Meave. A single chariot approaches from the camp, and furiously it drives across the plain: “I think he comes to seek us, Cucuc,” said the man. “What sort is the rider in that chariot?” questioned Cu. “I know him well, and short the time since he was here before. Like to the side of a massive mountain, standing sheer from out the plain, the chariot in which that warrior rides. Mighty as the leafy branching crown of a kingly tree which grows before a chieftain’s door, the bushy, loose, dark-ruddy locks upon that warrior’s head. Around him is a mantle of a noble purple hue, with fringes of bright gold, clasped with a pin of gleaming gold and set with sparkling stones. In his left hand he bears his bossy shield and in his right a polished spear, with rings of metal bound from point to haft. Upon his thigh a sword so long and great, I took it for the rudder of a boat, or for a rainbow arched across the skies. Far-travelled and a man of might, meseems, the guest who cometh here.” “Welcome to me the coming of this hero and old friend,” Cuchulain cried, “my master Fergus, who approaches us.”
“I see behind a second smaller chariot, which seems to accompany the massive chariot of Fergus. Spritely and full of life are the two prancing chariot-steeds, and young and bright the man who sits within.”
“’Tis likely that some one of Erin’s youthful chiefs has ventured out to have a look at me, under the guardianship of Fergus. I hear they all are talking of me in the camp. Perhaps he wants to have a bout with me, good Laeg, but better were it that he stayed at home.”
Up dashed the steeds of Fergus’ chariot, and in an instant he had sprung to earth and stood beside Cuchulain. “Welcome, O Fergus, old familiar friend. Welcome, my foster-master and my guardian,” Cuchulain cried, and warmly he embraced him. “Upon this lonely watch that I am forced to keep all solitary and unaided day by day against the men of Erin, most welcome the dear face of an old friend.”
“Then thou art glad indeed?” Fergus exclaimed, surprised.
“Certainly and indeed, I am right glad! Not much have I to offer in this wild desert place, but all I have is fully at your service. When o’er the plain a flock of wild-duck wings its way, one of them you shall have, with, in good times, the full half of another; if fish come up the estuary, a whole one shall be yours, with all that appertains to it; a handful of fresh cress straight from the brook, a spray of marshwort or of green sorrel shall be yours; ’tis all I have to give. When you are thirsty, from the running stream that trickles through the sand, you’ll get a drink; and if, some fall of day, a hero calls you to come down and wage a single combat at the ford, you shall take rest and sleep, while I will fight your enemy or keep watch.”
“Truly I well believe it,” Fergus said. “Too well I know what straits for food and drink have fallen on thee in this raid, and well I know thy hospitable mind. But at this time we seek not food and drink, nor can we stay for combats or for rest; I come at Ailill’s and at Meave’s command, to tell thee what we think are thy conditions, and that we will hold and keep to them.”
“I too will keep the compact brought by Fergus’ hand, and to the letter I will carry it out,” the hero said; “only abide awhile with me, and let us waste a little time in talk of olden days.”
“I dare not stay to talk at this time, O beloved foster-son,” Fergus replied; “the men of Erin doubt me, and will think that I am proving traitor to their cause, and betraying them to thee; for well they know I love thee, though, alas! at this time I am fighting with my country’s foes and thine. One thing I ask of thee for old affection’s sake, because thou art my pupil and my friend, that if at any moment in this war, thou and myself art found opposing each the other face to face, thou then wilt turn and flee before me, that upon my pupil and my foster-son I be not forced to redden my sword in fight. Promise me this.”
“Though I be indeed thy pupil and thy foster-son,” replied the youth, “yet loth am I to promise this; never have I turned my back on any friend or foe, and to flee even before thee, O Fergus, likes me not. Ask me not this, but any other thing gladly and joyfully I grant to thee.” “No need for thee to feel like this,” Fergus replied; “no shame to thee is what I contemplate, but only that our ancient love and friendship be not marred. Do in this thing but what I ask, and I in my turn, in the final battle of the Raid, when thou art wounded sore and drenched with blood, will turn and flee from thee. And surely if the men of Erin see Fergus in flight, they too will fly, and all the host of Meave will scatter and disperse, like clouds before the sun.”
“On these terms willingly I give my word; for so will Ulster profit by my flight. Now fare thee well, good Fergus. Bid the host of Meave to send their strongest and their best to combat with me, one by one, and I will give a good account to Ulster of them, or will die.” Then a right loving leave they took each of the other, and Fergus set out to return to the camp.
But the lad Etarcomal sat on still, looking at Cuchulain, and for the first time the hero noticed him.
“Who are you, and what are you staring at, fellow?” he asked. “I look at you,” he said. “You can see me easily enough, I am not very big. But if you knew it, little animals can be dangerous sometimes, and so can I. But now that you have had a good look at me, tell me what you think of me.”
“I do not think much of you,” Etarcomal said. “You seem to me a very nice, wonderfully pretty youth and clever at playing sports and feats; but that anyone should think of you as a good warrior or a brave man, or should call you the ‘Hero of Valour’ or the ‘Hammer of Destruction,’ that I cannot understand. I do not know, indeed, why anyone should be afraid of you. I am not afraid of you at all.”
“I am aware,” said Cuchulain, “that you came hither under the protection of my master Fergus, and that he is surety for your safe return; but by the gods whom I adore, I swear that if it were not for the honour of Fergus, only your broken bones and disjointed members should have been sent back to Meave after those insolent words.”
“No need to threaten me,” said Etarcomal; “I was here when you made an agreement with Fergus to fight every day one of the men of Ireland. By that wonderful agreement that he made with you, none other of the men of Erin shall come to-morrow to meet you but only I myself. To-day I do not touch you, but let you live a little longer.”
“However early you may choose to come to the ford,” said Cuchulain, “you will find me there before you. I promise you I will not run away.”
Etarcomal turned his chariot to drive back to the camp. But hardly had he started when he exclaimed, “Do you know, fellow, I have promised to fight the famous Cuchulain to-morrow at the dawn? Now, do you think it best to wait till then, or to go back and fight him now? I do not know that I can wait.”
“I should say,” replied the charioteer, “that if you mean to fight Cuchulain at all, ’twere better to get it over while he is close at hand.” “Turn the chariot, and drive it left-handwise towards Cuchulain, for by that sign we challenge him. I swear by all my gods, I never will go back until I take the head of this wild youth, and stick it up on high before the host.”
Laeg saw the chariot returning over the plain. “The last chariot-rider who went from us is coming back again, Cucuc!” said he. “What does he want?” said Cu. “He is challenging us by driving with the left side of the chariot towards us,” answered Laeg.
“I do not want to fight the boy,” Cuchulain said. “Shamed should I be were I to slay a lad who came hither under the guardianship of Fergus. Get me my sword out of its sheath, however, Laeg; I’ll give him a good fright and send him home.”
Etarcomal came up. “What do you want now, fellow?” cried Cuchulain, vexed. “I am come back to fight you,” said the lad. “I will not fight you, now or any time,” Cuchulain said. “By all the rules of war you are obliged to fight, for I have challenged you.”
Then Cuchulain took his sword, and with one stroke he sliced away the sod beneath Etarcomal’s feet, laying him flat upon the ground, his face turned upwards. “Now go,” Cuchulain said, “I wash my hands of you. Had you not come under the care of my good master Fergus, I would have cut you into little bits a while ago. Beware, for I have given you a warning.” Slowly Etarcomal rose from the ground. “I will not budge a step until I have your head,” he said doggedly, though in his heart he began to be afraid. Then Cuchulain played on him another sword-feat; with one clean stroke he shore off all his hair, from back to front, from ear to ear, till not a hair remained; but not a single drop of blood he drew or even scratched his skin. “Now off with you,” he said a second time, “you look absurd enough, I promise you. The men of Erin and the chiefs will laugh when you go back, and cool your pride a bit.”
“I will not stir until I have your head; either you gain the victory over me, and win renown, or I take off your head from you, and get the glory and the praise of it,” he sullenly replied.
“Well, let it be as you desire, then, and I am he who takes your head from you, and I shall win the glory and renown of which you make so much.” And at that word, with one stroke of his weapon Cuchulain smote the boy, and cut him right in twain, so that he fell divided to the ground. Terrified, the charioteer turned round the horse’s head and fled back towards the camp. Close to the tents he came on Fergus, who leisurely and thoughtfully drove home. He saw the empty chariot passing him. “Where is your master, fellow?” Fergus cried. “Has he not come with you?” “Even now he has been cut in twain by that fierce, powerful hero, at the ford,” the man cried, looking scared; and, waiting not for any answer, he tore on to the camp.
“O come, my wild young fosterling,” thought Fergus to himself, “this is too bad indeed, to slay a lad who came under my protection. Turn back the chariot,” said he aloud, “we go back to Cuchulain at the ford.”
No sooner had they come where Cuchulain stood brooding above the body of Etarcomal, and wiping down his bloody sword, than Fergus called aloud, “What came to you, you hasty sprite, you hot-headed young fury; could you not keep your hands from slaying even a lad who came merely to look at you and under my protection? This act of yours I do not understand at all. It is not like the deed or custom of my foster-son.”
“Be not so angry, O my friend and master,” gently Cuchulain replied; “all that I could I did to send him safely home. Ask his own charioteer all that has taken place. He would not take a warning, and in the end I must have stood and had my head chopped off without defence, or, as I did, taken his head from him. Would it have pleased you better had I let the lad take off my head from me?”
“Indeed, I should not have been pleased at all; the lad was insolent and foolhardy, and right well deserved his ignominious death. Tie his feet to the chariot-tail, my charioteer, and I will take him home.” So to his own chariot Fergus tied the boy, and dragged him back to camp. Meave saw them come, and heard the people shouting as they passed, the bleeding body draggled in the dust.
“Why, how is this?” she cried. “Is this, O Fergus of the mighty deeds, the fashion in which you bring back the tender whelp who went out from us but some hours ago, brilliant in life and gaiety and youth? the whelp we sent out safely, as we thought, in Fergus’ guardianship? Of wondrous value is the guardianship of Fergus; and safe is he who trusts himself to it!”
“It is not well, O Queen, that whelps so brazen and untried as this should face the Hound of War; let them remain henceforth in safety in their kennels, gnawing their bones. The lad Etarcomal was bold and insolent; full well he reaped the fate he brought upon himself!”
Sadly, but with all honour, they buried Etarcomal, heaping his grave, and rearing a stone above it with his name engraven thereupon in ogam lines. That night Cuchulain did not molest the men of Erin because they were occupied with funeral rites; but provisions and apparel were sent to him, according to the treaty made between them.
Thenceforward day by day some warrior of the camp of Meave and Ailill went forth to fight Cuchulain, and day by day they fell before him. But at first, because he was young, the prime warriors of Connaught despised him, and refused to fight with him, and Meave offered them great gifts and made large promises to persuade them to contend with him. Among the chiefs was a rough burly man and a good fighter, whose name was Nacrantal, whom Meave used all her arts to force to challenge Cuchulain. And in the end, when she had promised him large gifts of land and even Finnabar, her daughter, to be his wife, he was induced to go. But even so he went not out as though to fight an equal. No arms or armour would he take, but for his sole protection nine spits of holly-wood, sharp at the points and hardened in the fire.
With these small weapons in his hand, one morning early he set forth to seek Cuchulain. He found the hero busied in pursuing wild-fowl that were flying overhead; for from the birds of the air and fish of the streams, and from the berries of the hedge and cresses of the brook, long had he been obliged to get his daily meal. And even now, although at times Meave kept her word and sent provision over to her foe, yet often she forgot or failed to keep her promise, so angry was she when from day to day her strong men were cut down before his sword.
He spied Nacrantal advancing thus unarmed, and, all as though he had not seen him come, he went on with the stalking of the birds.
Closer the warrior drew and with good aim he flung his spits of wood to pierce Cuchulain. But still the youth, not stopping for a moment in his task, leaped lightly over each spit as it fell, so that they struck the ground quite harmlessly, not one of them so much as touching him. The nine spits thrown, Nacrantal turned away and sought the camp. “Not much I think of this renowned Cuchulain of whom men talk so big; hardly had he perceived me coming up, than off he ran as fast as he could go!”
“We thought as much,” said Meave; “right well we knew that if a warrior brave and fully trained were sent against him, soon would this beardless braggart take to his heels.”
When Fergus heard these boasts of Meave, he grew ashamed; for strange, indeed, it seemed to him to hear it said that his young foster-son would flee from any single man, however bold or stout that man might be. Straightway he called for one of the princes of Ulster who was in Meave’s camp, and sent him to Cuchulain. This was the message that he bore. “Fergus would have Cuchulain understand, that though when standing before warriors he once had done great deeds, better it were that he should hide himself in some secret place where none could find him or hear of him more, than that he should run away from any single man, whoever that man might be. Say to Cuchulain that not greater is the shame that falls upon himself, than Ulster’s shame and ignominy and disgrace, because he stands to watch the border-land in Ulster’s stead.”
“Who said I ran away?” Cuchulain said, surprised, when the message was delivered to him. “Who dared to brag and tell such tales of me?”
“Nacrantal told this story in the camp, and all the warriors boast among themselves that at the very sight of a trained warrior you were afraid and quickly put to flight.”
“Did you and Fergus heed a boast like that?” replied the youth. “Do you and Fergus not yet understand that I, Cuchulain, fight no men unarmed, or messengers, or charioteers, but only men-at-arms, fully equipped? That man came out against me all unarmed; no weapons in his hand but bits of wood, with which he played some childish games, throwing them in the air. Let but Nacrantal come to-morrow morn and fight me like a warrior at the ford, with all his weapons, man-like, in his hand; he then shall take his answer back from me. And tell him, that if he comes before the day dawn, or long after it, he will find Cuchulain waiting there for him.”
Long and tedious seemed that night to Nacrantal, for eagerly he watched the coming of the hour when he should meet Cuchulain at the ford, and make an end of him. Early he rose, and bade his charioteer to bring his heavy weapons in a cart, while he went forwards to the meeting-place. There at the ford he saw Cuchulain stand, awaiting his coming, as he had promised.
“Are you Cuchulain?” said Nacrantal, for now he stood much closer to him and observed his youthfulness.
“What if I were?” said he. “If you are Cuchulain, indeed, I am come here to tell you that I will not fight with any beardless boy; not in the least inclined am I to carry back to camp the head of a little playful lamb!”
“I am not the man you seek at all,” Cuchulain cried; “go round the hill and you will find him there.”
Now while Nacrantal made his way to the other side of the hill, Cuchulain came to Laeg, his charioteer. “Smear me a false beard with blackberry juice,” he said. “No warrior of fame will fight with me, because I have no beard.” Laeg took the juice of blackberries, and sheep’s wool, and with it made a long two-pointed beard, such as prime warriors wore, and twined the ends and caught them in his belt, dyeing it black with juice. Then on the hero came anger and his battle-fury, such as came on him when a combat lay before him with a good warrior, or when he alone should fight a host.
A subtle change came over all his face. The radiant youthfulness passed away, and all the boyishness Nacrantal had seen a while ago, and in its place a stern ferocious look, as of a prime warrior waiting for his foe. His stature seemed to grow, his form to enlarge, and terrible in its strength and fierceness was his aspect as he donned his fighting-gear. He grasped his weapons in his hand, and with great strides he hastened round the hill.
So great his wrath and eagerness for combat, that as he passed a standing pillar-stone no smaller than himself, in flinging his mantle round him as he went he caught the stone up in his mantle’s folds and carried it along with him, but never was he conscious of its weight, or even knew he carried it.
Now in this guise Nacrantal knew him not. “Where is Cuchulain?” inquired he of the men who came with him. “The lad said that we should find him round the hill.”
“Cuchulain stands before you yonder,” said the Ulstermen who had come out to watch the fight.
“It was not thus that he appeared before me yesterday,” Nacrantal said. “Cuchulain seemed a stripling, and his beard not grown, but this prime warrior hath a mighty beard.”
“Nevertheless, I counsel you, defend yourself from this prime warrior,” Fergus replied; “that will be much the same to you as though you did contend with Cuchulain himself.”
Then Nacrantal made a furious onset at Cuchulain with his sword, but it struck on the pillar-stone that he carried beneath his cloak, and broke off short, close to his hand. Before he could recover from the thrust, Cuchulain sprang upon him, and lifting his sword on high with both hands, he brought it down on his adversary’s head, and there on his own shield he fell dead, smitten with one blow. “Alas!” said Nacrantal as he fell, “they said true who said that you were the best warrior in all Ireland.”
From that time forward, it was not easy for Meave to get her men of war to enter into combat with Cuchulain; for each one of them said, “Not I; I will not go, why should my clan furnish a man to go out to certain death?” So Meave was forced to promise great rewards and possessions to her warriors before she could induce them to take arms against Cuchulain.
Now among the hosts of Meave was Ferdia, son of Daman, Cuchulain’s companion and friend when together they learned warlike feats in Shadow-land.
All the while that Cuchulain fought with the chiefs of Connaught, Ferdia remained aloof, keeping within his tent, far from the tent of Ailill and of Meave, whose ways and cunning plans he liked not. For though against the men of Ulster in general he would have aided them, he would not take part in single combat against his friend and fellow-pupil. For he thought on his love for his old comrade, and the days of youth that they had spent together, and the conflicts and dangers that side by side they twain had faced; and day by day he sent his messengers to watch the fighting and to bring him word, for he feared lest harm should come to Cuchulain, fighting alone and single-handed against all the mighty men of Meave. Each evening came his watchers back, bringing him tidings, and greatly he rejoiced because he heard of the prowess of Cuchulain and of destruction inflicted on the hosts of Meave.
But one day, when the fighting had been going on for weeks, and many of her best men and fighting warriors had been plucked off, Meave thought of Ferdia; and at the council-meeting of that night, when the chief men and counsellors met to settle who should go on the morrow to fight Cuchulain, she said, “Who should go, if not Ferdia, son of Daman, the warrior whose valour and feats are as the valour and feats of Cuchulain himself? For in the one school were they trained, and equal they are in every way, in courage and the knowledge of weapons and in skill in feats of strength. Well matched these two would be, if they were to fight together.” And all the men of war said, “It is a good thought; Ferdia shall go.”
So messengers were sent to Ferdia to bring him to Meave, for she said she would see him herself, to persuade him with her own mouth to go against his comrade. But when the heralds came to the tent of Ferdia, he knew well enough for what purpose they had come, and he refused to see them, neither would he go with them to Meave.
When Meave heard that, she sent again, but her messengers this time were not men of war and heralds, but satirists, to abuse him and to warn him that he should die a shameful death, and that disgrace should fall upon him before all the host, if he obeyed not the Queen’s commands. And they gave their message to Ferdia, and told him that his warrior fame would pass away from him, and that he would be spoken of by his comrades with ignominy and disgrace if he did not come.
When Ferdia heard that they would spread evil tales about him, and disgrace him before the host of his own fellow-warriors, he said, “If I must die, it were better to die in fair and open fight, even with a friend, than to die disgraced, skulking as a coward before my fellow-men and comrades.”
So he went with the messengers, and when he came to the Queen’s tent, all who were in the tent, both great lords and nobles, rose up to receive Ferdia, and he was conducted with honour and reverence to the presence of the Queen. Then the Queen greeted him and rose up and placed him at her right hand, and spoke kindly to him. And a great feast was made, and that night Ferdia was entertained with right great dignity, and food and pleasant liquors were served out of the best, so that he became merry and disposed to do all that Meave demanded. Then, when he was forgetful of all but the company in which he was, Meave set before his mind the princely gifts that she would bestow upon him if he would free her from her enemy Cuchulain, the destroyer of her host. These were the great rewards she offered him; a noble chariot with steeds such as befitted a king, and a train of twelve men-at-arms, fully equipped, to accompany him, as princes and great chiefs are accompanied, wherever he moved. Moreover, she promised him lands broad and fertile on the plains of Connaught, free of tribute or rent for ever, and that he should be her own son-in-law and next the throne, for she said that she would give him her daughter Finnabar to wife. Now Finnabar sat next to Ferdia at his left hand, and she was fair to look upon, with ruddy cheeks and hair of gold, and the garments of a princess flowing round her; and Ferdia was dazzled with her beauty, and with the lavish offers made by Meave, until he was ready to promise anything in life she wished. And when, the banquet over, young Finnabar arose and filled a cup brim full with mead, and kissed the cup and handed it to him, he knew not what to say. For still the memory of his youth in Shadow-land, Cuchulain’s love to him and his love to Cuchulain came over him again, and more than half he loathed what he had done. So looking now behind and now before, and loitering in his mind, he said aloud, “Rather, O Meave, than do the thing you ask, and ply my warrior-hand upon my friend, I would pick out six champions of your host, the best and bravest among all your men, and fight with them. With each alone or all together willingly would I contend.”
Then from her queenly robe Meave plucked her brooch, more precious to her than any gift, for all the kings and queens of Connaught had worn that splendid brooch, the sign and symbol of their sovereignty; she stooped, and with her own royal hands, she placed the glittering jewelled pin in Ferdia’s mantle.
“See, warrior,” she said, “I have bestowed on you the princely dignity, so that you now will rank beside the King; and as for those six chosen champions you have named, I give them to you as your sureties that these our promises will be fulfilled; go now and fight Cuchulain.” At that Ferdia looked up, and caught the glance of Finnabar most sweetly smiling down into his face, and close beside her the queen bending over him, and Erin’s chiefs and warriors standing round; and all his mind was lifted up within his breast, and he forgot Cuchulain and their ancient love, and said: “Though in this fight I fall, O Queen, I go to meet the Hound.”
Fergus was standing at the king’s right hand, and when he overheard those words that Ferdia spoke, fear for his foster-son rose in his heart. For well he knew the might of Ferdia’s arms, and that he was of all the chiefs of Meave the bravest and the best, and well he knew that all the feats that Scáth had taught to Cuchulain, save only the “Gae Bolga” or Body Spear, she taught to Ferdia likewise. Ferdia besides was older than Cuchulain, and riper in experience of war, well-built and powerful. So when he heard those words, Fergus went out in haste, and though the night was late he sprang into his chariot, and set forth to find Cuchulain.
“I am rejoiced at thy coming, my good friend Fergus,” said Cuchulain, as the chariot drew up beside him; “too seldom is it that on this Raid of Cooley we twain meet face to face.”
“Gladly I accept thy welcome, O foster-son and pupil,” Fergus said. “I come to tell thee who it is that on the morrow has bound himself to meet thee at the ford, and urge thee to beware of him.”
“I am attentive,” Cuchulain answered. “Who is the man who comes?”
“’Tis thine own friend, thy comrade and fellow-pupil, the great and valiant champion of the west, Ferdia, son of Daman, called of all men the ‘Horn-Skin,’ so tough and strong for fight is he, so hard to pierce or wound with sword or spear. Beware of him, it may be even the Gae Bolga will not avail to harm the flesh of Ferdia.”
“Upon my word and truly,” cried Cuchulain, “this is ill news you bring; never should I have thought my friend would challenge me.”
“We thought as much,” Fergus replied; “we all avowed thou wouldst not relish the coming of Ferdia; for of all warriors that have hitherto come to the combat at the ford, he is most formidable and best prepared. Be wary, therefore, rest well this night, and try and prove thine arms; come to the combat fresh and amply armed.”
“Utterly dost thou mistake my meaning, Fergus, my friend; not from any fear of him, but from the greatness of my love for him, I hold his challenge strange and unwelcome. For this cause only I regret his coming.”
“Yet and in truth,” Fergus replied, “no shame to thee or any man to be afraid of Ferdia, for in his arms is strength as of a hundred men; swords wound him not, spears pierce him not, and tried and mettlesome his heart and arms.”
“Now this, O Fergus, deem I strange indeed, that thou of all men shouldst warn me to be careful before any single warrior in Ireland; well it is that it was thee, O Fergus, and not another man, who brought me such a warning. From the beginning of winter till the coming of spring have I stood here alone, fighting each day a hardy warrior, and never have I turned back before the best fighting man whom Meave has sent against me, nor shall I turn back before Ferdia, O Fergus. For as the rush bows down before the torrent in the midst of the stream, so will Ferdia bow down under my sword, if once he shows himself here in combat with the Hound of Ulster.”
That night there was no cheerfulness nor gaiety nor quiet pleasure in the tent of Ferdia, as there was wont to be on other nights; for he had made known what Meave had said to him and the command laid upon him to go on the morrow to combat with Cuchulain; and though Ferdia was merry and triumphant on his return, because of the gifts of the queen and the affection of Finnabar, and all the flattery that had been skilfully put upon him, it was not so with the men that were of his own household, for they understood that wherever those two champions of battle, those two slayers of a hundred should meet together, one of the two must fall, or both must fall: and well they knew that if one only should fall there, it would not be Cuchulain who would give way, for it was not easy to combat with Cuchulain on the Raid of the Kine of Cooley.