Deirdre of Contentions
Years passed away, and the memory of their old feuds died down
between Fergus mac Roy and King Conor mac Nessa. Fergus in his
old age wearied for his home and country, and for the comrades of
his youth. The private wars of Meave had little interest for him,
and the tidings that came from time to time from his own province
stirred in him a longing to be back. So at length he bade farewell
to Meave, and with the most part of his followers he returned to
Ulster, and settled in his own fort again. In order to keep his
allegiance, King Conor gave him a position next himself, and in all
outward things showed him honour, but all the while he watched him
jealously, and Fergus knew well that the King would be glad to find
a good excuse to shut him up in bonds or to put him to death. Conor
feared his power with the people, and their pride and affection
for him who once had been their king, and in his mind Conor knew
well that he sat in Fergus’ seat, and that many of the older chiefs
would willingly have seen their rightful prince once more upon the
throne. As old age came on him, Conor grew more wily and suspicious
year by year, so that some men dreaded and some hated him, and few
felt for him affection or true reverence. Yet among the youthful
generation growing up, the reign of Fergus and his mighty deeds
were but a tale told by their fathers of their own youthful
days; and though they looked with awe upon his mighty stature and
his massive form, Fergus seemed to them more like a giant of the
ancient time, or like a hoary god, than like a being of human kind
as they were, feeling the needs and passions of a man.
Ulster was now at peace, and quietly the days rolled by. Once
more the sound of laughter rang out from the playing-fields. New
boys, grown out of babyhood, played the old sports, lads brave
and manly as those of other days; but older men, passing, would
shake their heads and wipe away a tear, for still the shadow of
the tragedy that met the boy-corps at the ford hung over them. And
many a mother wept at night remembering a bright boy, her pride and
darling, swept away contending for Cuchulain and for Ulster against
the warriors of Meave.
From time to time, in days of peace, the chiefs of Ulster, each in
his turn, made a feast for Conor and the nobles in his company,
the famous Champions of the Red Branch. In his turn, Felim, son of
Doll, the chief of the King’s story-tellers and his close friend,
made such a feast for Conor.
For a whole year had Felim been preparing for the coming of the
King. He built a noble banqueting hall close to his house, and
sleeping rooms for the King’s followers, and stables for their
steeds. From all the country round the farmers brought butter and
cream, fresh curds and cheeses, cakes and wheaten bread. Cattle and
sheep and swine worthy of the royal banquet were brought in, and
fruits and onions, honey and strong ale were stored in plenty in
Felim’s vats and store-houses.
He gathered together singing men and singing women, musicians
who played upon the fiddle and the harp, and the best tellers of
stories that were to be found in all the country-side.
On the day appointed, the King set out in state from Emain, with
the Champions of the Red Branch in his train.
Fair was the day and bright when Conor and his followers set out,
each in his chariot drawn by two spirited steeds, each decked in
his festal array, in mantles of rich crimson, blue or purple,
fastened with massive brooches of pure gold, wondrously chased and
set with stones of price brought out of distant lands. Upon their
heads their helmets of bright bronze shone in the sun, and on their
spear-points the sunlight danced so that they seemed to move along
beneath a flashing line of gold.
But as they neared the hall the sky grew overcast and black with
clouds, and at the fall of night a wind arose and blew up clouds of
heavy dust that dimmed their brilliancy, so that they reached the
mansion of Felim besmirched and blown about and very weary.
Hardly had the chariot of the King drawn up within the court, than
a roll of thunder, loud and terrible, resounded overhead, while
floods of rain poured down, and a fierce tempest seemed to shake
the building to its foundations. “An awful night is this,” said
Felim; “close to the doors and bid the singing men and women make
bright cheerful music in the hall.” But all in vain they tried
to cheer the guests. Louder the tempest roared, and peal on peal
of thunder, such as none of them had ever heard before, made all
hearts quail. “No common storm is this,” the monarch said, “I have
forebodings that some ill will fall upon the province from this
night.” But Felim busied himself to push on the feast, and when all
were seated at the board, with servers carving the great joints
and wine poured out, a lull came in the storm, and Felim thought
that all was well at last. But scarcely had the King begun to eat,
when a swift messenger came running in. “O King,” he proclaimed, “a
child is born to Felim, a fine fair-fashioned girl; let Felim come
and see his wife and child.” But Felim said, “Be silent now, let
not the feast be broken by your news. When once the feast is done
and the King served, I’ll come and see the child.”
Beside the King sat Caffa, the first Druid of the province, an aged
man. He heard the message, and up-rose. “A child is born to our
host, O King, while we are present here. I will go forth and by the
stars find out her destiny, whether to Felim and his wife comes joy
or woe with this girl’s birth.” “Go forth,” the King replied, “not
less than this is due to our good host. Fair be the fate that will
befall to him and all his house because this child is born.”
Then Caffa went far out beyond the house, and at the outer rath
he stood awhile, trying behind the drifting clouds to read the
stars. The quarter of the moon he calculated carefully, and in what
constellations the wandering stars, the planets, lay. In his old
books and tablets, carried within the folds of his wide flowing
robes, was gathered all the ancient wizard’s lore, the wisdom of
his craft. Closely he scanned the lines, and with unusual care he
drew the horoscope. And now and then he started, as though things
surprising to himself were found therein.
So long he lingered, that, when at length he closed his tablets
made of soft wood and written o’er with runes, and turned him to
the house, the King and all his company had quite forgot the child,
and loud uproarious laughter rang throughout the hall, and sallies
of keen wit and merry song as the full horns of mead and ale passed
round from hand to hand. So at the door a moment Caffa stood; and
in his face was dreadful warning, and a look so strange, that all
the laughter died away, and silence, sudden and complete, fell on
the company.
“Well,” said the King, and laughed, though fear smote on his mind,
“we hope the omens prophesy good luck; we drink a horn of mead to
the maid’s good health; may she thrive, grow fair and marry well,
and to her parents bring no harm or ill.”
“Not to her parents will this child bring ill, but to the province,
and to Ulster’s king and chiefs. Fair she will be, so fair that
queens will soon grow jealous of her beauty, and kings will wage
red war to gain her hand. I see her, tall and stately as a swan or
as the sapling of the mountain-side; her cheek the ruddy foxglove
puts to shame, her skin is white as winter’s driven snow. Like
the soft hyacinth is the deep, liquid blue of her sweet eyes, and
teeth, like pearls, gleam between crimson lips. Like to a crown
of gold her clustering hair, gathered in rolls about her shapely
head. She walks apart, alone, like a fair flower hidden within a
dell, yet all around her and where’er she comes are tumults and the
sounds of rolling war, and broken friendships and black treachery.
I see that she is destined to a king, but something comes between
her and her fate. Beware, O King; this maid is born for ill to
Ulster, and the downfall of the Red Branch and its noble Champions.”
Up-sprang the Heroes of the Red Branch then, and one and all cried
out that if upon the province ill must fall because of this one
babe, ’twere better far to put the child to death while she was
young, and rid the land of her. But the King held them back. “Bring
the babe hither,” he said, “and let us see this harbinger of ill.”
Then came the babe all swathed in white and lying, soft and fair,
within her nurse’s arms. And when the infant saw the lights and
heard the sounds of singing, she was pleased, and puckered up her
baby face and looked up at the King and crowed and smiled. At this
the King was moved to gentleness; he rose up from his seat and took
the babe out of her nurse’s arms and loudly he proclaimed before
them all: “The prophecies and omens of the seers I do most strictly
honour and believe. No man can fly from fate, nor can man set
aside his destiny. The mandates of the gods of earth and air and
fire, the Unchanging Elements, must be fulfilled. Yet will I not
believe that any good can come of an ignoble act. No man or hero of
a noble mind for his own good would slay a helpless babe, neither
then for the good of Ulster shall this foul, cowardly deed be done.
The child shall live, and if she prove as fair as Caffa says, one
part at least of his grim prophecy shall be fulfilled, for I will
take the girl as my own wife when she is come to marriageable age,
and so she shall be wedded to a king. And here I do declare to one
and all, I take this child under my special charge and make myself
responsible for her. I bring her up in my own way, and he who lifts
his hand against the child must after reckon with the king himself.”
Then Fergus, Conall Cernach, and the rest arose and said: “The
King’s protection is a circling wall through which no man may
break. We, the Champions of the Red Branch and thy own chiefs, do
well observe and will fulfil your will. Even though trouble happen
through her life, the child shall live.” So said they all. Then
Caffa said: “Alas! Alas! O King, you and your chiefs will live to
rue this day. Great woes are bound up with the destiny before this
little maid, and all the world will hear of them and weep. A child
of sorrow is this child, and ‘Deirdre of Contentions’ is her name.”
“So be it,” said the King, “I like the name; when Deirdre is of age
to foster with a nurse, bring her to me.”