Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (3 page)

"Nothing has been decided yet," the High King replied, not answering Dunlaing's question. "The first step is to send emissaries."

"And what if we have no interest in peace with the Bretain?" the Laigin king insisted.

There might now be no raids between Dunlaing and Lóegaire, but there was no love lost between the two. The High King turned, staring at his hereditary enemy. "If I make peace with any of the Bretain tribes, those subject to the High King at Tara would do well to abide by the peace."

"That is not the way decisions are made among the kings of Eriu," Coirpre said, his powerful voice echoing among the wooden beams of the great hall. His comment was calculated to remind the others of the insult to their dignity, and it worked.

"Yes, the Oenach should be consulted!"

"You cannot make peace with the Bretain without consent of the council!"

"Why should we give up the raids across the sea?"

"Peace!" Lóegaire roared, and the shouting finally subsided. "As you all know, the Bretain grow stronger by the year, and our losses greater with each raid. It is not easy to call together the kings of all the tuatha outside of an official Oenach. I thought to save some time by discovering first what the terms of peace might be and will consult with the leaders of the five provinces of Eriu at Lugnasad."

Queen Yseult saw some heads nod in agreement, but many kings and queens still sat stony-faced. The stray thoughts and feelings she picked up were equally mixed, but chief among them was the conviction that Lóegaire was not doing this for the good of Eriu.

He was doing this for the good of Lóegaire.

* * * *

On the last day of the Beltaine festivities, hundreds gathered on the slopes of a hill below the main rath of Tara. The gentle grade provided an excellent natural stage for the poetry competition of the filid. Even a number of foreign merchants had come to watch, those who spoke the tongues of Armorica, Alba or the Pictish tribes, languages close enough to that of Eriu for them to appreciate the poetry of the Erainn bards. Besides, the merchants knew there would be few visitors interested in examining their wares while the bards or Eriu were singing, and there was nothing they liked more than a good song if their bellies were full and their backs warm. A whole
day
of song was that much better.

The great hill-fort of Tara, seat of kings, was situated on a ridge overlooking the valley of the River Boyne, and beyond it, all five provinces of Eriu: Laigin to the south, Mumu to the southwest, Connachta to the west and Ulaid to the north, while Tara itself stood in the province of Midhe. Clustered below stood the wooden and thatch round-houses of artisans and farmers who catered to the needs of the hill-fort or wanted to be near its defenses in times of war. Only a small portion of the Beltaine visitors lived in or near Tara — people came from several days' ride away for the seasonal festivities.

From the earthwork ramparts on the slope of the rath, the poets could be seen by all while they sang their spontaneous compositions. Next to the competitors stood the judges, among them several druids, Queen Yseult, and the ban file Brigid of Druim Dara.

The dew was still on the grass when the first competitors received their challenge. They sang well but with little true inspiration, modest songs suited to the season, of spring grass and sowed fields, of rivers and blood running high. But the words were true and the music fine and the audience happy.

No one expected anything different when the old druid Boinda stepped before Lochru for his challenge, his back straight and his chin high. Although he was
ollamh
, the highest of the seven ranks a druid could achieve, few remembered that he had been a famed bard in his youth. Among the Tuatha Dé Danann it was said the king of the Otherworld Aengus Og himself had praised Boinda's voice and his quick wit. Now Boinda more often left the singing to the younger filid, content with his role as adviser to Yseult the Wise and teacher to her daughter, Yseult the Fair.

Lochru smiled as he gave the old bard his challenge. "Truth, house, weapon."

Boinda stood still for a few moments, lifted his harp, and began to play a series of somber notes. Then his voice lifted clear and high above the heads of the gathered masses.

"The king dwells in truth, and in truth, honor.

"He dwells in a house of duty, a house that will stand.

"The truth of his word builds strong walls.

"The honor of his word is a roof that will not fall.

"His word to his people is a weapon in his hand;

"If he turns against them, he turns against himself.

"If he rules without the word, he rules without honor.

"A king without honor is a bull-king,

"He strikes and is struck,

"He injures and is injured,

"He tosses and is tossed;

"Against him horns are shaken and battles fought.

"His troops will desert him and his dignity will be gone."

Boinda lowered his harp. A stunned silence had taken hold of the crowd, a silence so complete it was a presence, hanging in the air like a spell cast by the old ones.

The whinny of a horse from the race grounds broke the spell, and the applause that rent the morning air shattered the silence, sending it down around them like magic pieces of a rainbow. Boinda had dared and won, wrapping them in his words, capturing and holding them with the power of an accomplished bard. It was clear to everyone standing on the slopes that the most powerful words they were to hear that day had been spoken.

Queen Yseult wished she could cheer Boinda with them, but it wouldn't do to anger her consort even more. She glanced at Lóegaire, wondering how he was taking the references to the
Audacht Moraind
, the classic Erainn work on the honor of kings. Obviously, Boinda was using its philosophy of kingship to criticize a high king who would give up his integrity to avoid a prophecy; a king who would go behind the backs of local rulers to sue for peace with his enemy.

Lóegaire stood stiff, frozen and angry.

Boinda's song was only the beginning. With it, he set the tone; fili after fili sang a political song aimed against some enemy or another, songs almost as dangerous in intent as satire. And many of them were subtly directed against the High King. A more unusual poetry competition had not been seen at Tara in generations. Queen Yseult could feel Lóegaire's agitation growing, too strong for him to hide it from her.

As the warmth of the day began to pass and the sun neared the horizon, Lucet stepped forward, harp in hand. His talent for spontaneous composition was famed throughout the five fifths of Eriu.

Lochru gave him his challenge. "Barley, blood, man."

Lucet began playing almost immediately.

"I am not a sheaf of barley

"To be blown by the wind or cut by the sickle.

"I am not a white bull

"To be led to the grove to spill my blood.

"I am not a son of Adam

"With sins on my head I have not committed.

"I do not answer for the fall of one man.

"No one man answers for my own fall.

"If I remain true to the law,

"The joys of the Otherworld await me.

"My fame in this world is of my own making.

"My fate in the other mine as well."

It was a day for challenges. But while the majority of the audience would be aware of the challenge in Boinda's song, only few would know that Lucet was attacking the religion of the Christ with his poem. The man in the white robes of a druid pushing his way through the crowd even now, however, was certainly one of those.

Patraic stepped before the judges, his color high. "I too would participate in the competition."

"Only filid or those trained as filid have a right to sing here," Brigid said.

"I received training from my master, Miliuc."

Even though he was her enemy, Queen Yseult could not deny the truth of what he said. She touched the wise woman's elbow. "He speaks the truth, Brigid. According to the rules, he is allowed to participate."

"Then step forward for your challenge," she said, eyeing Patraic warily.

The Christian wise man turned to Lochru.

"As you wish to answer Lucet directly, I will give you the same challenge," the druid said. "Barley, blood, man."

Patraic had no harp, so he stood with head bowed and hands laced together in front of him for a moment. Then he lifted his head, looked first at Brigid and then directly into Queen Yseult's eyes and began.

"I am not a sheaf of barley

"To be cut down and traded for a bushel of eggs.

"I am not a white bull

"To be sold at a fair for a ring of gold.

"I am a son of Adam,

"A man like any man,

"With blood in my veins and needs of my own.

"I do not answer to any but God.

"No man owns me; I make my own way.

"If I remain true to God's will,

"The joys of heaven await me.

"Truth and honor will stand

"Between me and the powers of darkness."

Lucet strode forward. "That was no answer. Slavery has nothing to do with the doctrine of original sin which your religion proclaims."

Patraic turned away from the judges and faced the angry druid. "You based your argument on the idea of free will, did you not? A slave is robbed of his free will."

"Does your religion forbid slavery? I have read nothing of that in your holy books."

Before Patraic could answer, Lóegaire stepped between the druid and the Christian wise man. "Enough, both of you!"

Lucet and Patraic stared at the High King as if he had interrupted a discussion of philosophy in the house of druids. The queen suppressed a desire to laugh.

"I am probably not the only one who has had enough of the arguments about whose truth is true," the High King began. "I want each of you to fetch a book containing your truth. We will bury this now."

Lucet looked mildly confused at the turn events had taken, but he motioned to the young bard Aneirin standing at the front of the crowd to come and join him. Patraic summoned the first disciple he could locate, Ciaran. After a brief consultation, the two hurried off to fetch the desired books. Queen Yseult wondered what Lóegaire was about now; his mind was closed to her.

Aneirin returned with a set of ogham staffs of hazelwood, the letters carved in the sides and the whole bound at the top with a leather thong. The book Ciaran brought was in Latin, written in ink on parchment. The young men presented the books to the High King.

"Now we will see which book retains its truth," Lóegaire proclaimed, his voice rising above the curious crowd. "Come with me."

He led the way down the hill, while the audience of the competition followed him, the druid and the Christian wise man at their head. When they arrived at the banks of a stream, he turned to the expectant onlookers.

"We will subject these books to trial by water." At these words, he threw the staffs and the parchment into the stream. Finally the queen understood what he was doing, and she turned to Brigid and smiled.

The current was sluggish where Lóegaire had tossed the books, and the ogham staffs bobbed at the surface as they headed slowly downstream. The Bible followed a short way until the pages absorbed too much water, and it began to sink below the surface.

"Fetch the books back," the king said to Aneirin and Ciaran. The young men stripped quickly and waded into the stream. The hazelwood staffs were still clearly visible, and Aneirin had soon retrieved the druid book, but Ciaran had to dive beneath the surface. When he finally located the Bible and returned to the shore, his blond hair was dark with water and the book he carried covered in mud, the ink running off the pages.

"Which book contains the truth now?" Lóegaire asked the two wise men.

Lucet was smiling, knowing himself the victor, but Patraic stood straight, his face expressionless. "Not that one," Patraic said in his musical voice, pointing at the ogham staffs. The markings carved into the sides were still clearly legible.