CHAPTER SEVEN
Cavalcade to Dún Rodhraighe

In the sun-dappled shadows high up in the trees on the road to  Dún Rodhraighe, flocks of rooks that were moments before swooping, flapping and caw-cawing, colliding and carping as they jostled for nest sites, stopped to regard a cavalcade of people with interest.

With almost genetic knowledge the birds had learned that a column of people were usually an army, where there was an army there was a fight, and where there was a fight, good carrion pickings were to be found.

In the mellow, spring afternoon light the mile-long column of the Ulster King's warriors, courtiers, ladies with their serving men and handmaidens, wound its way like a gigantic, multicoloured Celtic border motif along the approach road to Dún Rodhraighe. Above the clop-clop of hooves, the tread of marching men, the clink of arms and armour, the jingle of harness metal, the rumble of chariot wheels, the chatter and laughter of thousands of voices, treble, velvety bass and silvery tenor; soprano, mezzo and contralto, floated softly across the green countryside like the murmur of a great river. Over gently rolling hills the procession went, between long arcades of ancient oaks, sycamore, elm and beech.

As the column rounded a bend to emerge from one such sylvan cathedral, they found themselves looking down into a long, wide, treeless valley. On the far side loomed what looked like a celestial apparition. It was the new Fort of Dún Rodhraighe, its glittering splendour set off against the darkening foil of the eastern sky. The column halted, the chatter and clatter stopped, giving way to a rising chorus of soft cries. Somewhere near at hand on a bushy knoll, in a snowy profusion of hawthorn flower, as though the ensuing hush was its cue, a thrush burst into song, its liquid music, like the oil of gladness, anointing the quiet of the early evening.

Even from so far off the travellers could see a brilliant, unearthly light emanating from within the lofty granite walls of the fort. As they drew nearer, the source of the light became gradually more apparent. It was the new banqueting hall's quartz dome reflecting the sunset's green, blue, red and orange components. As the column descended into the gathering shade of the valley they could still see the loom of the fort's unearthly halo in the sky. As the visitors crested the next rise they found themselves again looking down at Bricriú's new hall from a few hundred yards. A buzz like a gigantic swarm of bees rose up from the column of visitors.

The people of Eamhain Macha, who boasted the most spacious and splendid banqueting hall in Ireland, were astounded at the magnificence of what they saw. The quartz dome of the building was supported by a high circular wall punctuated by high, narrow windows and encircled by a startling representation of two intertwined serpents, lavishly executed in multicoloured stone, crystal, silver and gold. Each serpent held an apple in its mouth, one a harsh green, the other a soft, rosy red. King Conor, seated in his scarlet-upholstered ceremonial chariot, was dumfounded by the spectacle. If Bricriú had set out to deflate him, he thought, he had thoroughly succeeded. All of his court were here to share his humiliation. Already his head was filled with wild plans to redress this insufferable balance of opulence.

Farbeg, standing on the chariot cushions and holding onto the rail with both hands, stared in disbelief. Turning his face to the king he said, in a hoarse whisper:

"How could Bricriú achieve such a triumph of architecture, the like of which has never been seen before in all Ireland. Surely he must be in league with the forces of darkness."

Conor, stroking his beard thoughtfully eyed the dwarf through narrowed eyes. Then with a snap of his fingers he leaned from his chariot and touched the shoulder of one of the spearmen marching alongside.

"Please ask my Druid, Cathbhad, to come to me at once."

The man instantly turned and sprinted between the columns of armed men, his armour and shield clinking rhythmically, until he came to the large chariot bearing a party of the King's Druids. He spoke briefly to the charioteer who nodded in response, and then, sounding a long bronze horn, the charioteer left the column and moved up along the ranks of the procession. As they drew abreast of the King's chariot, Conor leaned out, beckoning to the great Cathbhad.

The wisest and oldest of the druids, he had been one of Cúchulainn's boyhood tutors. The old man, taking the handrail of his chariot with both sinewy hands, stood up unsteadily, the wind stirring his sparse white beard. He listened, arms folded to hear what the king had to say.

"Forgive my impatience, Cathbhad, but what do you make of the serpents?"

The old man shook his head solemnly.

"It is an icon, and more, it is an omen of conflict between good and evil. It somehow symbolises an eternal spiritual war in the heavenly places in which humankind, for good or ill, is the coveted prize."

"Do you think Bricriú knows this? Is he perhaps in league with the eternal enemy? Unwittingly, perhaps?"

"I rather think Bricriú is an unwitting agent of the powers of darkness. His own natural vanity and lust for power have provided the hook by which he has been hoisted into the twilight of the spiritual battle zone between this world and the other worlds of light and darkness."

The King stared at the awesome building, deep in thought for a few moments.

"Thank you Cathbhad, we must talk at length about this when we return to Eamhain Macha."

Cathbad's charioteer gestured to the charioteer directly behind the King's chariot to fall back and allow him to fall in behind the Royal chariot. There was still more cause for wonderment as the visitors filed through the gateway into a great courtyard, elaborately paved in quartzite, green Connemara marble and Mourne granite.

They were greeted by a harmonious fanfare of trumpets. Liveried men came out of the banqueting hall and helped the guests to dismount from the chariots while a team of ostlers took charge of the vehicles and the horses. Fifty young girls in multicoloured robes and carrying baskets woven in fine golden rope and filled with flower petals emerged to take up their position in two rows flanking the approaches and the dozen marble steps to the entrance of the banqueting hall.

Another fanfare of trumpets and Bricriú and his beautiful wife Gráinne appeared, marching sedately down the steps. Bricriú, his sinisterly handsome face aglow, his red hair gleaming with oil, wore a turquoise tunic with gold torque at the neck. Sleeves and hem were lavishly embroidered with gold and silver. Gráinne wore a full-length saffron gown similarly adorned with gold and silver. Bowing deeply in unison before the King and Queen, they stepped aside and with sweeping gestures, invited them to precede them into the hall. As they made their way towards the steps the young girls began to scatter the flower petals on the ground before them.

Bricriú and Gráinne, in accordance with the condition laid down by the King that they should not breathe the same air as his guests in the hall, smiled sweetly and disappeared around the curving wall towards the rear of the building. Inside the massive hall, pervaded with a strange, sweet incense, there was more to wonder at. The high, narrow, translucent windows, set at close intervals around the curved wall, admitted dramatic shafts of sunlight from every direction. In the high, vaulted roof and the gilded walls a dazzling profusion of jewels and precious stones of every hue sent spears of colour shafting through the sunlight, while the walls were heavily gilded and studded with rubies, lapis lazuli, opals, emeralds and many other jewels which had never been seen in Ireland before. These fabulous walls suffused the great chamber with an unworldly glow, bristling with needles of glancing light. The entire, great expanse of floor, was tiled with highly polished quartz so that, as the guests moved about, the subtle amalgam of colour flickering like soft firelight, eerily underlit their amazed features.

In addition to these astounding effects, the armour of the warriors, the jewellery of the women and the courtiers flashed and glittered grandly. Living lights twinkled from the eyes of the guests and gleamed on the oiled hair of the ladies, imparting to their countenances an ethereal radiance. The tables of dark, highly polished oak were laid out with gold and silver dishes, goblets, chalices and exquisitely cut crystal glasses. Each place had a high-backed chair of polished oak inlaid with an intricately intertwined convolvus of silver, gold and bronze.

An assortment of silver cutlery laid with scarlet napkins completed the display.

The gaze of the guests, although drawn in every direction by the wonders of the hall, drifted inexorably to a powerful focal point: On a high gallery behind a golden handrail overlooking the dining hall sat Conor Mac Nessa and his wife, Mughain, flanked by Cathbhad the druid and Sencha, the chief judge. The royal couple, resplendent in their robes of state, were seated on an elaborately carved couch gleaming with gold leaf and studded with jewels. Yet an even more arresting sight assailed them:

Oily Bricriú, smiling smugly, sat with his beautiful but shifty-eyed Gráinne on a similar couch, on the gallery, on the same level as the king, but, to their guests astonishment, enclosed in a tall glass, cylinder. The wily Chieftain had fulfilled the King's conditions to the letter only.

Two servants were taking turns operating a large bellows, pumping air into the cylinder through a leather hose connected to a duct in the roof. Bricriú, in his inimitably cunning way, had accepted the King's condition that he would not breathe the same air as the people of Eamhain Macha during the feast! Conor had not stipulated that he should not appear at the feast and be witness to its every moment.

The visitors, not least among them Potchacarey King Conor's alchemist, contemplated the astounding beauty wrought by this judicious marriage of art and technology. His thoughts were normally occupied by the development of cruel and unusual weapons of Cet-destruction, such as the processing of the Fomorian Chief Murrodock's head into a petrified missile to be kept in reserve for the Connachtman, Cet, who in the past had belted King Conor with one such missile from his sling during the Táin Bó Cuailnghe. (Cattle raid of Cooley), but on this occasion he was astounded as he gazed at the glass chamber.

A young woman, seated on a circular dais in the centre of the dining hall among the tables began to sing to her own harp accompaniment. Servants took the cloaks of the guests and ushered them to their places. Tiny frowns of annoyance, barely concealed, flitted across the singer's pretty face as her chattering, inattentive audience took their places at the tables.

Conor leaned down to Farbeg, seated on a red cushion between the King's feet and touched his shoulder, whispering in his bardic voice:

"So, Bricriú's cunning has not failed him! We cannot fault him on the legalistic aplomb with which he mocks the gods of truth."

Farbeg agreed with a sour grin.

"No, and what subtlety to hoodwink us with such transparency! See how he leers his contempt through a glass, brightly!"

Sencha leaned over and murmured:

"Perhaps we see a portent of the gods' revenge, Bricriú captured at last like an insolent wasp in a jam jar, there to remain for eternity. But hark! Speaking of jam, the dark fruit of Bricriú's soul is first on the menu."

The assembly was called to order abruptly by a brief fanfare. A herald appeared on the central dais and in dramatic tones announced the serving of the Champion's Portion.

Immediately a troop of gorgeously attired servants appeared bearing, on golden platters mounds of extravagant fare: roast swan and crane; a whole wild boar with an apple in its mouth; an entire bull, bedecked with flowers and covered in rose petals was lying on a huge pewter and silver platter and a dozen golden trays of honey-sweetened wheat cakes completed the feast.

The charioteers of each of the champions, Laoghaire and Conal, promptly sprang to their feet calling to the servants to bring the portion to their master's table. Voices were raised in angry protest as the charioteers argued loudly as to the rightful recipient of the portion.

Yet another fanfare of bronze trumpets brought a hush, perhaps in anticipation of an official declaration as to the recipient of the Portion. All heads turned expectantly to the royal gallery; but as the King half rose, smiling staring wide-eyed towards the entrance, all eyes followed the royal gaze.

There, in the golden light was the object of the King's surprise: Cúchulainn, erect and splendidly handsome, dressed in striking ceremonial robes of scarlet and black.

Emer, petite and demure as ever, dressed in a long white gown with gold trimmings, stood smiling by his side. Cúchulainn, speaking in his stentorian public address voice, and catching and holding the impudent gaze of Bricriú, cried:

"I have been given to understand that you should set the Champion's Portion upon my table to be shared among my men and their ladies."

Laoghaire rose angrily, eyes blazing. He shouted across the hall at Cúchulainn:

"How can you presume to claim the honour of a noble champion, you who once took the place of a blacksmith's dog!"

Conal, incensed sprang to his feet, his short dress-sword flashing.

"If anyone other than my retinue lays a finger on the Champion's Portion I will cleave his head. It has been set aside for me."

The three champions, weapons drawn, sprang at each other, converging on the dais. The terrified singer abandoned her harp and fled as the King sprang to his feet at the first ring of sword on sword, loudly ordering his trumpeter to call the gathering to order. The trumpeter blew two long blasts and all three warriors froze, weapons raised, still standing defiantly in ferocious eye-contact for several seconds before desisting and turning to face the King.

In his glass viewing chamber Bricriú stared, poker-faced, except for eyes glinting with glee, knowing the King's proviso to exclude him had back-fired on him. Effectively not in the hall, Bricriú was not obliged to play the referee in the dispute.

A shocked Conor, struggling to assume a dignified stance, stood erect, taking long, deep breaths. A tense hush fell over the gathering. It was broken only by the scrape of the three swords being returned to their bronze scabbards. Conor took three more deep breaths, exhaling in loud, exasperated sighs as the King spoke in a distressed whisper..

"This is not behaviour becoming the Red Branch Knights! It is more like that of Fomorian pirates brawling over baubles and trinkets. Therefore, with the utmost respect to our host, I hereby disqualify all three of you. The settlement of this unseemly dispute is this: I solemnly command that the Champion's Portion, so generously provided by our hospitable host, Bricriú, be shared equally among all the guests at this festival. Meanwhile I will give my closest consideration to the problem of devising some other way of adjudicating fairly between my knights, judging which of you demonstrates the qualities of a true champion, honour, valour, integrity, dignity, kindness, you know the other virtues in which you have been well schooled since childhood."

The King fell silent, eyes cast down, a look of ineffable sadness on his face. Then raising his eyes again he addressed them quietly:

"Now, I must order you to return immediately to your tables."

Reluctantly the champions separated, still glowering sullenly at one another and only gradually giving their King the obeisance of their full attention. Conor's erect bearing and expression of pained reproach at length took effect and, as one, they bowed to Conor, took a pace to the rear and left the dais.

Cúchulainn first went to Emer who was still standing at the entrance, and taking her arm, escorted her to where Laeg was beckoning them to their places.

Only gradually, as the Champion's Portion was served at all the tables did the murmur of conversation resume. A troupe of musicians with pipes, harps and drums sprang onto the dais and struck up a lively tune. They were followed by a troupe of high-prancing dancers, their brightly buckled shoes deftly tip-tapping their intricate tattoo on the oaken tiles of the dais. A quintet of singers, male and female, added a merry song to the music and dancing. By now the artists had gained the full attention of the gathering, now well warmed with wine and mead.

The floor show continued with an enthralling variety of entertainment, dancers, jugglers, conjurers and acrobats. A troupe of jesters evoked a storm of laughter at their antics. As the evening light died, a team of servants bearing lighted tapers, lowered a score of massive chandeliers and lit their constellations of beeswax candles. As the chandeliers were raised again a whole new set of subtle, softer light values flooded the hall. It had, evidently, a soothing effect on the gathering, for their faces became more relaxed and their conversation more spontaneous.

As the meal got under way, a pack of massive grey wolfhounds, tall as a pony at the shoulder but docile and affectionate, were allowed, as was the custom, into the hall to deal with leftovers. The guests placed their plates and dishes of leavings on the floor underneath the tables and the animals proved themselves most efficient at their task, for they left hardly a splinter of bone or even a morsel of vegetable.

As the last of the dishes were cleared away a pipe and drum band marched into the hall drowning out the chatter and laughter. One of the hounds began to howl mournfully at the sound of the pipes, and they were all hastily summoned by their blushing handlers and removed from the hall.

An announcement followed.

"It is time for the ladies to retire to the flower gardens."

They were ushered out through an exit by a team of maidservants. As they disappeared, their shrill laughter and chatter gave way to robust male guffaws and irreverent banter. To Conor's dismay, the intoxicated men rushed for the gilded and bejewelled walls of the chamber, there to raise their tunics to ease their bladders, loudly venting their post-prandial gases, laughing and nodding agreeably to one another. There were many ribald jests clearly audible to the king as he tried vainly to signal his disapproval with fierce glares and other facial contortions.

He noted Bricriú's inscrutable stare freeze and dissolve into a grimace of rage as one lusty voice rose above the rest with some reference to 'putting Bricriú's gold to the acid test'. But Bricriú's face darkened only for a moment. A gleeful smirk quickly took its place when he looked at Conor and read his open-mouthed horror at the unseemly exhibition.

While the men were thus engaged, a team of servants set about clearing the tables, laying down large bowls of flowers while others, wrinkling their noses, waved large fans, goatskins stretched on wicker frames, to dispel the vapours emitted by the malodorous guests. There followed an interlude of even more ribald, noisier exchanges between the drunken men. Some began to engage in boyish horseplay, pushing and shoving each other as they returned to the tables.

"It's the Fomorians!" someone shouted.

"It's the Fir Bolg," roared another. "They are the people of darkness, they prefer to fight at night."

Outside the garden door there were men shouting, sounds of running feet, dogs barking furiously, women's voices raised in a frenzied babble interspersed with unearthly screams.

Have the Fomorians captured the ladies of the court? Could Cúchulainn have lost his beautiful Emer? Log on every Sunday for further chapters.