CHAPTER III
The king and the guests of honour, mainly members of his family and their wives, sat on a raised dais overlooking the banqueting hall.
It was at the heart of the banquet. The food had been eaten, and mead and ale and wine were circulating. Gentlemen were politely pledging each other’s ladies, and the ladies were feverishly considering each other’s costumes and ornaments.
“Every one,” Emer explained in her clear, sweet voice to Cúchulinn, “every one who has any hair at all wears it this way.”
“It is the Connacht fashion,” said Cruscraid the Stammerer.
“It is Maeve’s fashion,” Emer corrected.
“There must be three plaits,” she continued; “two twisted round the head andcaught in a brooch, and one hanging down the back. I think it is a charming fashion.”
“I think,” Conachúr smiled, “that our ladies might content themselves with our own good Ulster customs.”
“There are Ulster customs, indeed,” said Emer, “but there are no fashions. One must go to Connacht for that.”
“If it depended on the ladies,” said Laerí, “we might let the grass grow over the Black Pig’s Dyke.”
“Shoulder torques are worn smaller in Connacht just now,” Emer continued, eyeing superciliously the ornaments of a neighbour. “Just like mine,” she added complacently.
Cúchulinn laughed boisterously.
“Just like yours,” he mocked. “Why, you know well, my dove, I took that torque on the last spoil I made in Connacht.”
Great good humour descended on Conachúr.
“Is that where the torque came from, my soul? Your sweet lady must show it to me more closely. You had a hard fight on that occasion?”
“I got away from them,” the Cú answered modestly.
“You got away from them only when you got home,” Bricriu jeered. “It was good running, my sweet.”
“They were very persistent,” the Cú admitted laughingly, “but I got away with my spoil.”
“You know how the Connacht men explain the fact that you are still alive?”
“It will be an unpleasant explanation if it is explained by Bricriu,” said Emer.
“I should like to hear it,” said Conachúr.
“They are telling each other that our Cú was so beautiful they could not bear to kill him: think of that, Cúcuc.”
“It is a stupid sentimental reason,” growled Laerí.
“It is a good, honourable reason,” Emer flashed. “It is not a reason you will ever give for letting a man escape.”
“No,” said Bricriu; “Laerí’s excuse when he doesn’t bring his man home is that he couldn’t catch him.”
“And that,” Laerí retorted, “would be the Connacht men’s reason for not getting the Cú, if a Connachtman could tell the truth about anything.”
“They tell the truth when it is pleasant,” said Emer, “and when it is not pleasant they tell a lie: they are a polite people, which is more than we are.”
“Oh! Oh!” Conachúr laughed.
“Their lies come from a good heart and a love of happiness, while our truths come grumph, grumph, grumph like the snarling of a badly trained dog.”
“Oh! Oh!” Conachúr roared.
“Conall, what do you say of these Connacht people? You also have been among them lately.”
“They are honourable fighters,” said Conall.
“No man can pray for a better enemy than a Connachtman,” Fergus assented. “They come on where another would go back, and when they go back it is either through pity or poetry.”
“Come,” said Conachúr, “their compliment to the Cú has been repaid, and we can talk of something else. What do you think of our banquet?”
“There is nothing to be said,” cried Emer; “it is perfect.”
“Everybody seems happy,” said the complacentking, as he looked down the Red Branch.
His guests also stared down the hall.
“They seem happy and are happy,” said Cúchulinn. He turned to his servant and charioteer:
“Laeg,” he cried, “you do not love me! My cup is empty.”
“My darling,” Laeg replied, “you have drunk as much as is good for you.”
“I shall drink as much as is bad for me if I please,” said Cúchulinn, “so bring me some mead, my treasure.”
“I shall bring you ale or cider.”
“Mead,” said the Cú.
“Ale, my little love,” said the charioteer.
“Bring mead for the Cú when he wants it,” Emer ordered indignantly.
“Sweet mistress,” said Laeg, “we have to bring him home to-night.”
“Then give him ale,” said Emer.
“It will surely be ale,” cried the delighted Conachúr.
“Mead,” Cúchulinn pleaded.
“You will want to fight the moon and stars as we go home,” Emer rebuked him.
“I can fight on ale just as well,” Cúchulinn asserted.
“And it is good heady ale,” the king assured him.
“Let it be ale, then,” said Cúchulinn.
“I think that not one person whom we know is absent from this banquet,” said Fiachra the Fair, Conachúr’s youngest son.
The conversation turned as they all looked down the great hall. “There is So-and-so, and So-and-so.”
“Who,” said Emer, “is that tall, sad man with three men’s chins about him?”
“He is such a one,” said Fiachra.
“And the black bulk beside him with the beard that was stolen from a porcupine?”
“His name is Borach, the son of Annté. He has a fortified rock half in and half out of the sea. He catches sharks through his window, and his banquets are all made of fish.”
“He is preparing a banquet for me,” Conachúr cried.
“I shall not accept a feast from that man,” said Fergus.
“You must if he asks you,” Cúchulinnreplied, “for it is geasa[10]on you not to refuse a feast.”
“That is so; but the feast must be ready before I am offered it, and as I do not visit his part of the world I shall never have to eat his sharks.”
“You think there is no one absent?” asked Conachúr.
“Not one,” they agreed.
“I am sharper than you all,” he continued, “for I can count three who are not here.”
Again they scrutinized the hall without finding any missing friends. They appealed to the herald who stood by Conachúr’s chair. He, too, was mystified.
“What three are they?” said Fiachra.
“The three sons of Uisneac,” the king replied smilingly. “The three Lights of Valour of the Gael.”
At the words a moment’s silence came on the dais and no person knew exactly what to say or do. Fergus turned his direct gaze on the king.
“They are in Scotland,” he said.
“They went there seven years ago when Naoise ran away with Deirdre,” said Conachúr.
Conall Cearnach turned his harsh forehead to the king:
“They are in great distress,” he said.
“I have just heard so,” the king replied gravely. “We must bring them home.”
At the words the face of every person changed. It was as though a cordial had been dropped into each heart.
Cúchulinn flashed enthusiasm and delight at the king:
“You will let them come back?”
“They shall be at our next banquet.”
“If I could love you more,” Fergus affirmed, “I would love you more for that.”
“I know you love me well,” said Conachúr, “and I love you, my heart.”
“We have been wearying to see Naoise again,” cried Cúchulinn.
“What is he like?” said Emer.
“He is under geasa about his return,” Bricriu interposed.
Conachúr turned abruptly to him.
“What geasa is that?”
“He will come back in the company of Fergus or of Conall or of the Cú, otherwise he will not come back.”
“Ah!” said Conachúr.
“He was always a sensible, far-seeing boy,” Bricriu continued thoughtfully.
The king’s eye rested on Bricriu for one weighty moment ere he replied:
“We shall send one of the three, or all of the three to fetch him.”
“What is she like?” Emer insisted.
Bricriu replied:
“She has been sleeping in ditches for six years. She will be like nothing that you have ever heard of, sweet lady.”
“She——” said Cúchulinn.
“She——” said every voice at the one moment.
“She,” said Conachúr with a grave smile, “was called the Troubler; she has given and received her share of trouble.”
[10]Geasa = taboo.
[10]Geasa = taboo.