Maeve had her own bodyguard of soldiers, close on one thousand men,
who had come with her from Connacht, and from whom she refused to
be parted. She was herself their captain, and each man of them was
devoted to her. They were mostly her own countrymen, and she drilled
and exercised and was good to them with untiring patience and skill.
She was the mother of the force, but a wag called her the wife of the
regiment. These thousand men were in Conachúr’s mind as he arranged
his visit to Leinster. He had often thought he must disband this force
and replace it by his own men, or that he must win its allegiance and
destroy it, so he also had been especially kind to the strange soldiers.
Now, on the eve of his journey, he thought it would be a good thing to
bring them with him to Leinster; thus, as he explained to Maeve, giving
them entertainment and exercise, while at the same time doing honour
to his queen and her native province. But the proposition raised such
a dreadful ire in the queen, she trod the chamber in such dudgeon and
was so free in her speech, that Conachúr hastily and good-humouredly
withdrew the suggestion; and bade her bear the soldiers’ discontent
when they learned who stood between them and one of the pleasantest
marches that a soldier could have.
Indeed, an argument with Maeve was not to be lightly undertaken. It
was likely to last a long time, in the first place; and in the second,
she had so precipitate a manner of speech and so copious a command of
words that the listener’s mind quickly began to feel as if it were in
a whirlpool, his head would fly round and round, and he must run away
lest his brains burst out from his ears and he die giddily.
No one but Conachúr could hearken to Maeve’s speech on such occasions,
and he only did it when he particularly wanted to. For, at times, that
which would drive another man mad had a strangely soothing effect on
him, and he could sit under that shrill tornado as peacefully as a
daisy sits in the sunshine. At times, as one forces a restive horse
much farther than it desires to go, he would impel into the brief
tail-end of her sentence a philosophic and peaceful interjection which
acted on her as the spur on the horse, so that he would drive her
beyond the very bounds of utterance, and she would at last, from sheer
tongue-weariness, topple from the peaks of speech into a silence so
profound that nothing, it seemed, could ever draw her thence again; and
then Conachúr would talk to her soothingly, reasonably, unforgivably,
and it was Maeve would run.
But this time Conachúr fled: he was in no mood and had not the time for
argument; he knew she would not yield, and he was so angry and hurried
that he could not be the patient, humorous, and watchful comrade he had
intended to be.
When he spoke of this matter to Lavarcham he did not speak with good
humour, but he did not empty his mind even to the conversation-woman.
It was not necessary.
“When I return from Leinster ...!” said he.
But the wise woman nodded only a half-hearted agreement, for she
thought that, although it might only take two days to bury a thousand
men, it would take a long time to bury those who would march to avenge
them.
The rage and agitation into which his suggestion had thrown the queen
was so great that she fell ill, and could not accompany her husband to
Leinster. So that, as on a previous occasion, he had to travel without
her, the understanding being that she would take the road after him,
and, travelling more lightly, could perhaps catch on his company before
they reached Naas, the court and capital of the King of Leinster.
With his force, but unknown to it, there went a youth--a long-striding,
active, bull-like young man with a freckled face and red hair, and
than whom there was no more jovial person in all Ireland, for if a
man was striking at him with a spear he could make that man laugh
so much that he would not be able to hit straight. His name was mac
Roth. He was Maeve’s personal servant, her herald. But just as the
word “conversation-woman” cloaked another occupation for Lavarcham, so
the word “herald” hid the same usefulness in mac Roth. He was Maeve’s
personal spy, but he also was her herald, and in after days, because of
his knowledge, address, and courage, he was to be the chief herald of
all Ireland.
He accompanied Conachúr’s force, but he was not with it. He was a mile
in advance, or a perch behind, or he was to the right of it just at a
small distance, or he was looking from a hill on the left as the gay
cavalcade and silver-shining chariots went by in the valley.
He accompanied them in that manner unseen for two days, and then,
murmuring a blessing on them and on their encampment, he left them in
the night, taking from them the loan of an unwatched horse, and he rode
back by short cuts to Emain.
When he reached the palace he was able to report that the king had gone
so far he could not easily turn back; and at that news Maeve’s illness
departed from her as suddenly as it had come.
In the morning she called for twenty of the chief men of her bodyguard
and gave them careful, separate instruction. Then she informed the
domestics that her quarters must be thoroughly cleaned while the king
was away, and that everything she owned must be put out on the sunny
lawn for airing and counting.
The palace chamberlain came in great haste, but that suave man was
soothed by Maeve and sent away with his dignity unhurt, but his mind
exercised. He communicated his news to Lavarcham, who had retired to
the company of her “babe” outside Emania. Within the hour Lavarcham
despatched a flying messenger to Conachúr, but just outside the city
mac Roth, who was waiting for him in a hedge, buzzed a spear through
that man’s back as he went thundering past. But in the night Lavarcham,
who left little to chance, sent other messengers, so that if some
miscarried others would not.
But Maeve’s plan was at work, the men she had chosen for a particular
part were acting in that part, and inside of ten hours her company
was deployed behind her baggage, her march to Connacht had begun, and
Conachúr was a bachelor again.