CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Wolves of Mactíre Sidhe

Laoghaire, colouring, began to fidget with his table napkin.

"Uh-oh!" I have a mouth like Fingal's Cave."

Cúchulainn smiled sourly.

"Well, well, no wonder Her Majesty and her Royal Highness have been so radiant."

"To tell you the truth," muttered Laoghaire sadly, "theirs is a radiance of anticipation rather than of satiety. If you must know, Conal and I were by simply second best, they really have their sights set on you."

Cúchulainn shook his head and shifted the gaze of his glittering grey-blue eyes to Conal.

"Et tu, Conal? I might have known Laoghaire the conqueror would need help! As for their prospect of seducing me, hell shall have no fury like theirs! However much my Emer embarrassed me at Bricriú's feast she will always be the only woman for me."

Before the others could respond there was a commotion at the entrance to the hall. Men were shouting and there was a clatter of running feet. So noisy was the disturbance that people stood up on the tables to see what was going on. From their vantage point the Ulstermen recognised the Captain of the Guard entering the hall, eyes popping with terror.

Raising his booming baritone voice the Captain made a general announcement.

"All the devils in hell are at large in the countryside. Bolt and bar every gate, door and window. Man the parapets! Every man to arms at once."

As a stunned hush fell on the gathering, a tumultuous howling and snarling could be heard coming from outside. At once women began to scream, men were shouting to the servants to bring their weapons and dogs began to bark in the hall and in the corridors.

"I suppose this is yet another unspoken solicitation for the services of the Sons of Ulster," growled Cúchulainn.

"No doubt it is," grumbled Laoghaire. "Are we to get no rest in this land of intrigue, black magic and bitter desolation?"

Conal cleared his throat nervously and said, half to himself:

"What weapons can we use against whatever beasts of the Infernal Darkness are gathering outside?"

Cúchulainn weighed his puny dress sword in his hand.

"We might have a merry chance if I had Gae Bolga to rear its myriad sharp heads at them, if only I had my cloak, this quill sharpener is hardly suited to.... "

A hand plucked at Cúchulainn's sleeve. As he turned, his magic javelin was slapped into his hand.

"Here y'are, me oul' flower," said a grinning Mickser Kelly, "yer gay bollicker or ever whatcha callit."

Cúchulainn looked with open-mouthed disbelief from the little man to the javelin.

"Mickser a mhic, you are a star rising in the dark night of my soul. This is just the thing, but how did you .... ?"

Mickser, tapped the side of his nose and winked roguishly.

"Say no more, ou'l son, me friend Mactíre Sidhe and his Lupine Host has made short work o' de quare fella, bones, hair an' all. Long before dey were done wit' him didn't I spot yer oul' spear, and only the wan point on it, lyin' on the grass an' divil de brack on it's bright beauty!"

Cúchulainn sat down heavily and laughed with relief.

"So, that is what we heard, your fierce-fanged friends the Wolves of Mactíre Sidhe."

He became aware that the hall was almost empty. The guests had rushed to the doors, some to peer nervously out into the darkness, others charging rashly outside brandishing weapons. As the only ones in the hall to know they were reacting to a false alarm, the Ulstermen and their friends resumed their conversation.

A messenger slipped unobtrusively up behind Cúchulainn's chair and whispered in his ear.

"Compliments of her Majesty, Queen Maeve, to valiant Cúchulainn; would Ulster's bravest warrior slip away discreetly and go to her chamber where she would have a word with him."

Cúchulainn nodded, as he rose, thinking, "and so, the game begins, a royal ruse to compromise my marital fidelity!"

As he left the table Cúchulainn addressed his companions with a casual gesture towards the exit:

"Keep the party going until I return. One of my members wishes to talk to the trees."

The waxing moon, a silver sickle sharp and bright, appeared to be slashing its way through flying sheafs of cloud. Cúchulainn crossed the courtyard to the royal chambers, his feet on the cobbles provoking echoes from the dark walls. A sentry at the entrance snapped to attention as he recognised Maeve's honoured guest. Cúchulainn nodded in acknowledgement and went in.

He climbed the long winding stone stair, his footsteps echoing gloomily from the dark tower above him.

His way was illumined eerily by guttering rushlights burning from ornate bronze lamps whose faintly fishy aroma mingled with the rose-oil perfume of the Queen's presence. A servant stationed outside Maeve's door, announced Cúchulainn's arrival and ushered him into the small chamber.

She was seated behind a massive oaken desk. The heavy dark red woollen drapes, with their intertwined serpentine motifs in blue and yellow, served to kill the echoes, lending an air of quiet intimacy to the otherwise sparsely furnished chamber.

"Thank you, Cúchulainn, for responding so promptly. Promptness is one of the many admirable virtues of the Red Branch Knights. His Majesty King Conor Mac Nessa has placed me in a most invidious position by setting me the task of adjudicating between the flower of his fabled Red Branch Knights."

She sounded as though she were reading her sing-song speech from a scroll on her desk.

"Such feats of valour as I have seen you perform have never before been seen in all of Connacht. However, your valour in the face of the giant of the Fir Bolgs easily distinguishes you from your illustrious competitors."

She paused searching Cúchulainn's face for reaction. Finding none, she continued her speech.

"Rather than suffer the embarrassment of having publicly to announce my judgement as to the prize of the Champion's Portion, I have decided to indicate my verdict in a symbolic way."

Maeve produced a magnificent golden chalice, and as she placed it on the desk the rushlights' dull flicker was transmuted into darts of gold. Cúchulainn emitted a clearly audible gasp.

She made a dramatic sweep of her arm.

"Here, then is the symbol of your matchless valour and untarnishable honour in the face of death itself. It is of the purest Irish gold, made specially for you by Gowa my personal metalsmith, the finest craftsman in his medium in all Ireland. When you return to Eamhain Macha there will be a banquet to welcome you home and you will display this chalice as proof of my verdict.Yours, brave Cúchulainn, is the Champion's Portion."

She had taken him by surprise, as she handed him his prize his eyebrows were raised in astonishment while he wrestled with his thoughts and his emotions. Emer will be overjoyed, he thought, as he visualised her face responding to the announcement.

Beaming with boyish joy he took the trophy.

"Your majesty, it seems you have rendered me literally speechless. "

She stood, spread her hands and smiled lustfully, but then dismissed him.

"Enough! Please go and enjoy the festival."

Filled with elation the Ulsterman bowed and made his way to the guest chamber where he stowed the chalice in the folds of his enchanted cloak. Then he returned to the banquet hall, trying to look as if he had been watering the grass and studying the moon.

His attention divided itself equally between his sweet Emer far away in Eamhain Macha, the thought of the gold chalice, and the aroma of roast meat wafting in from the kitchen. He began to salivate and hurried to the table of honour and resumed his seat but the hall was still almost empty.

Only a few toothless ancients remained, eyeing the confused dancing girls and leering.

The dancing girls nervously resumed their act and Laoghaire rose with a casual air, stretching and yawning.

"I must get out into the open for a while, to stretch my limbs and fill my lungs with cool air, or I will surely go to sleep and give a poor impression."

More guests returned to their seats and at last the food, borne by a throng of colourfully garbed servants, started to flood in from the kitchen.

As the first great dish of roast beef was placed before Cúchulainn he realised he was not merely hungry, he was ravenous.

He worked his way through some dozen courses of meat, fowl, fish, reptiles, insects, green vegetables, fungi and roots, but his thoughts were once again far away from Cruachan and the misty western seaboard.

He was at home in Eamhain Macha, imagining Emer's reaction to his announcement about the Champion's Portion.

He tried to visualise the delight on her face, not to mention that of King Conor Mac Nessa. He also wondered how crestfallen Laoghaire and Conal might feel and to what extent they would reveal their disappointment.

Stewards repeatedly came and refilled the goblets and tankards, and unnoticed Conal surreptitiously left the table, returning later wearing a self-satisfied smirk. Deeply tired now Cúchulainn bid his friends goodnight and made off for their sleeping quarters.

Restless dreams plagued his subconscious and he awoke, groaning and grimacing. He tried to raise his hands to his aching head but they would not move. A great drum was being beaten savagely inside his skull while a family of badgers fought each other mercilessly in his stomach. His bladder, like his head, felt ready to burst.

Opening one eye cautiously against the assaults of light, he took stock first of his contiguous environment. Emer, wearing a white coat, was bending over him murmuring comfortingly.

Wow, Cúchulainn seems to have bi-located back to Ossageel, what kind of wine were those stewards refilling the goblets and tankards with? AND on the subject of such vessels, what's all this about Maeve giving him a golden chalice to claim the Champion's Portion? She has got to be up to something!

Can Cúchulainn get out of that asylum before Conal or Laoghaire take the honour for themselves, or will Doctor Brick get to our hero first with his knock out pills? Log on every Sunday for further chapters.