The Combat with Ferdia
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.
As for Ferdia, through the first part of the night, he slept
heavily, being overcome with the liquor he had taken, and the
fatigues of the day; but towards the middle of the night, he awoke
from his slumber, and remembered the combat on the morrow, and
anxiety and heavy care began to weigh him down; fear of Cuchulain
on the one hand, and sorrow that he had promised to do combat with
his friend, and fear of losing Finnabar and Meave’s great promises
on the other; and he tossed about, and could sleep no longer. So he
arose and called his charioteer, and said, “Yoke me my horses, and
come with me; I shall sleep better at the ford.” But his charioteer
began to dissuade him, “It would be better for you not to go,”
said he, “trouble will come of this meeting. It is not a small
thing for any warrior in the world to do combat against the Bulwark
of Ulster, even against Cuchulain.” “Be silent, my servant,” he
said; “though the ravens of carnage croak over the ford, ready to
tear my flesh, it is not the part of a valiant man to turn back
from his challenge; away with us to the ford before the break of
dawn.” So the horses were harnessed and the chariot yoked, and
they dashed onwards to the ford. “Take the cushions and skins out
of the chariot, good my lad,” said Ferdia, “and spread them under
me upon the bank that I may take deep repose and refreshing sleep
upon them; little sleep I got this night, on account of the anxiety
of the combat that is before me on the morn.” So the servant
unharnessed the horses, and spread the skins and chariot-cushions
under Ferdia, and yet he could not sleep.
“Look out, lad, and see that Cuchulain is not coming,” he said. “He
is not, I am sure,” said the lad. “But look again for certain,”
said the warrior. “Cuchulain is not such a little speck that we
should not see him if he were there,” replied the lad. “You are
right, O boy; Cuchulain has heard that a prime warrior is coming
to meet him to-day, and he has thought well to keep away on that
account.”
“I should not say bad things about Cuchulain in his absence,”
said the lad. “Do you not remember how, when you were fighting in
Eastern lands, your sword was wrenched from you, and you would
have perished by the hands of your enemies, but that Cuchulain
rushed forward to recover it, and he slew a hundred warriors on
his path before he got your sword and brought it back to you? Do
you remember where we were that night?” “I have forgotten,” Ferdia
said. “We were in the house of Scáth’s steward,” said the boy; “and
do you not remember how the ugly churl of a cook hit you in the
back with a three-pronged meat-spit, and sent you out over the door
like a shot? And do you not recollect, how Cuchulain came into the
house and gave the rascal a blow with his sword, and chopped him in
two to avenge you? If it were only on that account, you should not
say that you are a better warrior than Cuchulain.” “Why did you not
remind me of all these things before we came here?” said Ferdia; “I
doubt whether I should have come if I had remembered all this at
first. Pull up the cushions under my head, or I shall never get to
sleep. Will you be sure to keep a sharp look-out?” “I will watch so
well, that unless men drop out of the clouds to fight with you, no
one shall escape me,” said the boy; “and I will sing you to sleep
with a lullaby.” Then as Ferdia sank into repose and refreshing
slumber, he began to croon this ancient song which Grainne sang
over Dermot, when he was hiding from Finn in the forests of the
west.
“Sleep a little, a little little, thou need’st feel no fear or dread,
Youth to whom my love is given, I am watching near thy head.
Sleep a little, with my blessing, Dermot of the lightsome eye,
I will guard thee as thou dreamest, none shall harm while I am by.
Sleep, O little lamb, whose home-land was the country of the lakes,
In whose womb the torrents rumble, from whose sides the river breaks.
Sleep as slept the ancient Poet, Dedach, minstrel of the South,
When he snatched from Conall Cernach, Eithne of the laughing mouth.
Sleep as slept the comely Finncha ‘neath the falls of Assaroe,
Who, when stately Slaine sought him, laid the Hard-head Failbe low.
Sleep in joy, as slept fair Aine, Gailan’s daughter of the West,
Where, amid the flaming torches, she and Duvac found their rest.
Sleep as Dega, who in triumph, ‘ere the sun sank o’er the land,
Stole the maiden he had craved for, plucked her from fierce Decell’s
hand.
Fold of Valour, sleep a little, Glory of the Western World,
I am wondering at thy beauty, marvelling how thy locks are curled.
Like the parting of two children, bred together in one home,
Like the breaking of two spirits, if I did not see you come.
Swirl the leaves before the tempest, moans the night-wind o’er the
lea,
Down its stoney bed the streamlet hurries onward to the sea.
In the swaying boughs the linnet twitters in the darkling light,
On the upland wastes of heather wings the grouse its heavy flight.
In the marshland by the river sulks the otter in its den,
And the piping of the peeweet sounds across the distant fen.
On the stormy mere the wild-duck pushes outward from the brake,
With her downy brood around her seeks the centre of the lake.
In the east the restless roe-deer bellows to its frightened hind,
On thy track the wolf-hounds gather, sniffing up against the wind.
Yet, O Dermot, sleep a little, this one night our fear hath fled,
Lad to whom my love is given, see, I watch beside thy bed.”