CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Ultimate Dysfunctional Royal Family

A thunder of hooves and the rumble of chariot wheels rose to a crescendo then slowed as the three chariots entered the courtyard and finally halted under the Queen's window.

"Aillil and Maeve, Majesties of the Western Kingdom," sang Cúchulainn.

"We bring greetings from Conor Mac Nessa of Ulster and a humble plea for your wisdom in a matter of deep concern."

"Why, it's Cúchulainn, Laoghaire the Triumphant, and Conal the Victorious," crooned Maeve, withering her blushing daughter with a mirthless smile.

Leaning out of the window she greeted the men profusely and before they could respond she was shouting orders for servants to take charge of the tired and hungry horses, which were clopping and slithering impatiently on the cobbles. Spotting a gangling youth standing indecisively scratching his buttock with red, long-fingered hands she hailed him rudely:

"Hello! Bumtickler! Rouse yourself, take charge of these horses to chariots and get one of your idle fellows to conduct these travel-weary men to the bathhouse and thence to the visitors' chambers."

Cúchulainn, addressing the bum-scratching ostler through the queen, asked:

"Your majesty, may I ask your ostler to take my chariot to your smithy? The axle is broken and only temporarily repaired?"

"Of course, brave Cúchulainn, that's if Bumtickler is not too busy."

The youth gave a reluctant bow, first to the queen and then to the Ulsterman before slinking sullenly away with Grey Macha and the stricken chariot. Maeve directed her attention to her visitors:

"I shall look forward to dining with you in an hour from now."

Turning suddenly she pointed an admonishing finger at Finnabair who had joined her at the window and was unashamedly ogling the sweating Ulster warriors and their charioteers.

"Now Finnabair my daughter, this is your chance to prove your worth and to establish your renown as a hostess. Get downstairs and urge the servants to hasten the preparations of the Baal Teine festivities. And get away from that window! Avert your lustful eyes and confine your deep-breathing exercises to your bedchamber."

As the ungainly girl made her exit, King Aillil, pasty-faced, pot-bellied, dishevelled and bleary-eyed, clad in a long night-shirt and tasselled night cap, emerged yawning from the royal curtained, canopied bed and shuffled to the window. In his arms he carried his teddy bear, Lutheramaun.

"Can it be morning already," he rasped, "what's all the commotion?"

"Morning already? Will you listen to him! It will soon enough be morning again! Since when does the sun rise, ruddy and cool, in the west?"

Aillil, face screwed up against the daylight, peered myopically down into the courtyard.

"Yes, yes, but what's all the commotion?"

"We have visitors from Eamhain Macha," Maeve snapped like a seasoned sergeant-at-arms. "Go and get bathed and dressed. Get the footmen to give you a hand."

The departing King mumbled sadly to himself as he headed for the hot tub.

Soon the hot water and an icy plunge followed by a lively pummelling by the royal masseur, had dispelled the worst of Aillil's hangover, transforming him from a semicomatose drunk into a reasonably amiable host. The festive hall, filled with the tawny light of a thousand beeswax candles in their crystal chandeliers, augmented by hundreds of guttering rushlights in their wall-mounted brackets, helped to conceal the dark shadows of self-indulgence and indolence from under his eyes.

The musicians, singers, magicians, and dancers, aided by wine, conspired to invoke that alchemy of night that transmutes the stark declarations of daylight into extravagant enunciations of praise, carelessly lending to the plainest countenance the comely lineaments of a heavenly being. It was in such a state of conjured radiance that a perfumed and bejewelled King Aillil was found at the top table in earnest conversation with the three Ulster heroes.

Queen Maeve, similarly blessed and deluded by the contrived atmosphere of the banquet, was at his side, leaning across him, eager to be part of such an auspicious meeting of minds.

"Minds, for now," she thought, meetings of their more concrete components later."

"So, handsome men of Ulster," said Aillil, booming above the din and dispensing at last with that small-talk which is the foreplay of more intimate exchange, "in what way am I favoured to serve his Northern Majesty?"

"His Majesty, Conor Mac Nessa," said Cúchulainn, a trifle absently as he assessed the attributes of the third dancing girl from the left, "wishes to solicit your valued adjudication. We three are unresolved in the matter of which of us should receive The Champion's Portion at the great feasts."

Aillil essaying the standard, ageless, diplomatic preamble of all adjudicators replied:

"That is truly a difficult assignment, in view of the superlative standards you three have set for knights all over the world. Indeed I am flattered to be judged competent to make such a contribution to the course of world history."

Laoghaire, on the outside of the conversation, leaned rudely across Cúchulainn and Conal to address the King, his breath, rank with wine and a mouthful of venison liberally seasoned with wild garlic.

"His Northern Majesty, bade us tell your learned Western Majesties that you must take whatever time you wish in your deliberations on our, his behalf."

Conal nodded.

"Yes, and we are pledged to accept your verdict without demur."

"Then I shall immediately consult earnestly and searchingly with my learned council, the most erudite in the world," said Aillil with a grave nod, turning to Maeve in invitation to add her agreement.

She simply smiled and signalled her assent with a reciprocal nod. Then, as though in brief conference the King and Queen leaned head to head.

"Learned council indeed! The most erudite in the world? Pshaw!"

Dismissing the jibe with a pained grimace, Aillil turned once more to engage his guests.

"I shall make every effort to meet the wishes of the great Conor Mac Nessa as soon as possible, so that you may be spared the burden of too lengthy a sojourn in my humble domain."

Then giving Maeve a false smile he whispered:

"Gods! How they stink!"

Turning once more to the warriors Aillil resumed his flattery of Conor Mac Nessa and his court at Eamhain Macha. As he spoke, Laoghaire and Conal leaned towards him nodding with feigned gravity, amused by the torrent of royal hyperbola. As he continued his inordinate drinking, Aillil became at first more extravagant in his flattery, then barely articulate and finally hopelessly incoherent. When he suddenly turned blindly and shakily to Maeve she drew back in disgust at the sight of his sodden beard, his slobbering lips and the noxious whiff of his breath.

"Can't you see," he said with a surprising flash of lucidity, "I must decide which ONE of these unspeakably dangerous Ulster ogres is to be my friend, and which TWO my enemies."

"You can consult your precious so aptly named advisor Lutheramaun tomorrow, in the meantime, perhaps mummy can help you."

Aillil slobbered piteously.

"Oh, dear, sweet Maeve I knew I could rely on you. If only we could mine and refine the vast motherload of gold that lies in the rocky depths of your heart!"

"Then leave these Ulstermen entirely in my hands, get thee behind me lustful interpretations of pure and innocent language."

Then composing her face into a semblance of dignity she shouted in the King's ear.

"The quickest route to a resolution will be without consultations with you!"
"But might I suggest the cats, my dear?" blurted Aillil.

"The cats?"

"The phantom cats our druids taught you to conjure up to hasten the departure of tiresome visitors. If with some luck all three should flee before the apparitions we could declare our, my judgement as 'No Contest'!"

Maeve stared at Aillil, eyebrows arched, teeth flashing in a smile of amazement.

"Why Aillil, an idea, you got an idea! Just to acknowledge that rare achievement we will give it a try, tonight, when our guests retire to their chamber. I'll allow you to man the keyhole. Now you must go and lie down for a while after that awesome exercise of your delicate brain."

"The keyhole, why not send Finnabair, she would relish that?"

"Our daughter is peeping tomboy enough without signals of affirmation from us. At this very moment she lurks behind the draperies, spying longingly at our handsome guests. No, you will glue your eye to that keyhole and do what the King of Ulster has requested you to do, study how each of those young men conducts himself under stress. Now run along."

A troupe of step-dancers in colourful costume took the floor. A flautist and a bodhrán player struck up a reel. The sudden change of mood commanded the full attention of the company. All eyes focused on the colourful scene on the dais. Taking advantage of the distraction, a very drunken Aillil signalled to a servant who helped him to leave the table and make a discrete exit.

Maeve, simpering flirtatiously at Cúchulainn, patted the King's empty chair in invitation. The Ulsterman rose and stepped across in front of Conal fleetingly noticing from the corner of his eye, the resentful scowl of his rivals.

"Well, Hound of Culann, is our music and dancing to your taste?"

"Indeed, its like I have neither seen nor heard before."

Maeve coquettishly thrust her face close to Cúchulainn's then, leaning forward in her chair and adopting a more businesslike attitude, she addressed the three men.

"Now then, we have a serious task to perform on behalf of King Conor. By tomorrow morning I will have offered a judgement as to the worth of his three champions."

She paused. Then with a sly wink, added:

"A painful task indeed. I would that the winner could share my sweet agony on some less formal occasion in the future."

A messenger entered the hall and approached the top table. Bowing before the queen, he said:

"Your pardon for this intrusion, your Majesty, but a mysterious matter needs your immediate attention and advice."

"Mysterious, how mysterious?" Maeve snapped with ill-concealed annoyance.

"Please, your majesty, I merely report what one of our patrols has told me."
Maeve, with lips pressed tight, sighed noisily through her nose.

"Reported? Come on man, what have they reported that is so mysterious?

The messenger cleared his throat nervously, pulling a wry face.

"It seems your majesty, that the patrol arrested a, a fairy piper and a .... er. "
The man, now flushed with embarrassment, gestured distractedly.

"Yes, yes," prodded Maeve impatiently. "A fairy piper, have him totter up to me immediately. How mysterious is this other?"

"If you will pardon me, your Majesty .... he, it is a leprechán, your Majesty."
He dropped his gaze as though imploring the floor to yawn and swallow him. By now the entire gathering had fallen silent, all eyes on the top table, ears straining to catch the strange report. In the silence, Maeve drummed the tabletop with her fingertips as she considered her next prod to the reluctant messenger. She affected a gentile cough into her fist, cleared her throat with royal delicacy and asked in a menacing whisper:

"Well then, are these people of the Sidhe resisting arrest?"

"None of these, your Majesty."

"What were they doing when the patrol arrested them?"

"The Captain of the Guard told me that the fairy took the form of a fair, slender young man with gentle features, like those of a maiden."

"Yes, yes, many fairies of my acquaintance have such a form. What was he doing?"

"He was playing on a strange kind of pipes, the like of which our men had never seen or heard before."

"What was so strange about them?"

The messenger was now visibly shaking.

"With deep respect, Majesty, what I have just told you is as much as I know about the matter."

Maeve stared without a trace of compassion at the squirming messenger.

She took a sip of wine from her silver goblet and it was a full minute before she spoke again:

"Bid the Captain of the Guard to offer my respects and my hospitality to our visitors, not to detain them against their will, and specifically, I don't want any avaricious idiot grilling the leprechán as to the whereabouts of his crock of gold. Quarter them in the Guest Wing and we will greet them formally later."

The Messenger bowed limply and departed unsteadily, puffing out his cheeks and blowing with relief. The queen made a vague gesture at nobody in particular, her constellation of jewels on fingers and wrist sending out a cascade of coloured light.

In response the festivities promptly resumed with the lively entrance of a spectacular fire-eating troupe of fifty men and women. Their fiery exhalations soon filled the hall with a sweet-smelling grey smoke.

As they spread among the tables, giving the onlookers a close-up of their terrifying skills, a huge, golden effigy of Baal was carried in, fire billowing from its mouth, as it was carried around the perimeter of the hall.

Down the centre aisle of the hall, from entrance to the royal table, servants brought in a long, shallow, iron trough the full length of the aisle. The trough, standing on metal legs, was already filled with burning charcoal. Laying it on the floor the team of servants made their exit as a second team, carrying flags of limestone made their entrance.

The flags were placed on top of the charcoal and covered with fresh charcoal. The fire was left, first to blaze and then to burn down to a flameless glow.

The fire-eating team removed their footwear and were walking the length of the trough on the searing hot stones. By now the hall was filled with the smoke of the fire-eaters, the acrid breath of the golden idol and the fiery trough. When the last firewalker stepped out of the trough near the queen's table, the team leader invited anyone from the gathering to walk on the stones.

One brash taker rushed out from among the tables, took off his boots and stuck a tentative big toe onto the stones. He screamed in agony and withdrew the seared digit.

Without a word, Cúchulainn removed his boots and walked nonchalantly to the edge of the trough. A pall of breathless silence fell over the gathering as he placed one bare foot then the other onto the flagstones. Then, smiling amiably he strolled the length of the trough, pausing at the end to acknowledge the applause, he turned and strolled back to the other end. He bowed once more in acknowledgement of the thunderous applause and returned to his seat. His fellow knights stared in disbelief as he put his unmarked feet back into his boots.

"How on earth did you do that?" Laoghaire gasped as Cúchulainn resumed his seat at the table.

"Come on," urged Conal, "share the secret with us."

Cúchulainn took a swig of wine from his tankard and smiled sweetly at them as he swallowed it.

Firewalking is something I learned from an Albannach wizard when I was on military training in Scáth."

"But how do you do it? What's the secret?" Laoghaire persisted.

"Easy, you simply tell your feet that the flagstones are cold. Not only will your feet believe you, but they will tell the stones that they too are cold, and the flagstones will believe your feet."

The two warriors searched their companion's face for some trace of facetiousness. There was none. As they stared, Cúchulainn kept giving them reassuring nods. Then, gesturing towards the smoking trough he said softly:

"Off you go. Off with your boots and step into the trough."

They made no such move, but one of the royal servants, a tall strong man of middle years with no hair, addressed Cúchulainn out of the side of his mouth whilst keeping an eye on Maeve who had begun to doze in her chair.

"Great Ulsterman, could I walk in the fire if I simply tell my feet the stones are not hot?"

Cúchulainn regarded the man, who had a sincere, intelligent face.

"No, the magic will not work with that formula. It is negative. Your feet want to know that the stones are cold, not that they are not hot. If you use the word 'hot' they will assuredly be hot. But if you assure your feet that the stones are cold, they will feel cold. Be positive you see?"

The man glanced nervously at Maeve. She gave a loud snore and her head lolled on her shoulder.

The servant suddenly made a decisive lunge forward, took a bow, pulled off his boots and stepped onto the flagstones. He stood there for a moment, a look of amazement on his face, before pacing athletically the full length of the trough.

Seeing such bravado in an older man, a pink-eared youth rushed to the trough, removed his boots and leaped in, only to leap out again with greater alacrity, screaming in agony. There were no further takers.

Conal and Laoghaire, nursing their tankards, scowled dejectedly out of disgust at their own cowardice. It worked for the older man, it didn't work for the youth. What if it didn't work for them? Now lost for words, they were glad of the distraction that followed. The fire-eaters began to display yet another talent. With whoops and whistles they leaped, one after the other, into the trough at the far end of the hall and began to perform handsprings, somersaults and cartwheels in a pattern and sequence of movement that gave the illusion of an undulating serpent writhing menacingly down the full length of the trough.

The tumult of the applause that followed jolted Maeve out of her intoxicated slumber. She turned her head from side to side in short, frantic jerks as though looking for a familiar landmark, a friendly face, any assurance that she had not died and gone to some fiery realm of the Otherworld. Wide-eyed, she pushed herself back into her chair in fright at the torrent of colour that seemed to be bearing down on her out of the smoke. It was the troupe of fire-eaters tumbling from the fiery trough. Her old servant, anticipating her needs made a series of elaborate hand signals to a colleague at the rear exit. Almost instantly two of the queen's handmaids entered the hall and helped her to her feet and propelled her gently towards the exit.

Maeve paused to call a murmured apology over her shoulder to the three guests of honour.

The three men stood and bowed in unison to their departing hostess.

"Meow," she whispered as she left the hall.

What's all this about cats? These brave Ulster Warriors are not going to be bothered by a few feisty felines, or are they? Log on every Sunday for further chapters.