“No cakes shall be baked to-day, not till the night.”
But the cry of the child was in his ears, and he could not rest. So
early in the morning he was out again, and bitter was the cry of the
child as he passed the copse—
“Mother, mother!” it said, “I have had no milk, I have had no cake; let
me lay down my head on your breast and die.”
“Wait,” said the mother, “some one will die before you, my darling. Let
the old man look to his son, for he will be killed in battle before
many days are over; and then the curse will be lifted from the poor,
and we shall have food in plenty.”
But the farmer laughed. “There is no war in Ireland now,” he said to
himself. “How then can my son be killed in battle?” And he went home
to his own house, and there in the courtyard was his son cleaning
his spear and sharpening his arrows. He was a comely youth, tall and
slender as a young oak-tree, and his brown hair fell in long curls over
his shoulders.
“Father,” he said, “I am summoned by the king, for he is at war with
the other kings. So give me the swiftest horse you have, for I must
be off to-night to join the king’s men. And see, I have my spears and
arrows ready.”
Now at that time in Ireland there were four great kings, and each of
them had two deputies. And the king of Leinster made a great feast
for the deputies, and to seven of them he gave a brooch of gold each,
but to the eighth only a brooch of silver, for, he said, the man is
not a prince like the others. Then the eighth deputy was angry, and he
struck the king’s page full in the face for handing him the brooch. On
this all the knights sprang up and drew their swords, and some took one
part and some another, and there was a great fight in the hall. And
afterwards the four kings quarrelled, and the king of Leinster sent out
messengers to bid all his people come to help him. So the farmer’s son
got the message as well as the others, and he made ready at once to
join the battle with a proud heart for the sake of the king and a young
man’s love of adventure.
Then the farmer was filled with rage.
“This is the wicked work of the witch woman,” he said; “but as I would
not give her the milk to spill, nor the cakes when baked, so I will not
give her the life of my only son.”
And he took large stones and built up great walls the height of a man,
round a hut, and set a great stone at the top to close it, only leaving
places for a vessel of food to be handed down. And he placed the lad
within the hut.
“Now,” he said, “the king shall not have him, nor the king’s men; he is
safe from the battle and the spears of the warriors.”
So the next morning he rose up quite content, and was out at sunrise as
usual; and as he walked by the churchyard, he heard the child laughing.
And the mother said—
“Child, you laugh by a grave. For the farmer’s son will be laid in that
ground before three days are over, and then the curse will be lifted
from the poor. He would not let the milk be spilled, nor the cakes to
be baked, but he cannot keep his son from death. The spell is on him
for evil.”