BARDS OF HIBERNIA.
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!”