Twisted bands of bronze or silver-gilt or even gold flashed from womanly arms, and he was hard put not to gawk at one young woman-married; she wore the rolled linen hood. The bust of her rowanberry-hued gown was decorated with miniature shield-bosses! Of silver they were, the inward-whirling design of each centering in a wrought rowanberry of red enamel. A carnelian dangled and flashed from each of her ears, and her eyelids fairly dripped some pale violet dye.
King Ulad himself, in white and yellow and gold and wearing a lunula big as his head, bespoke the heroics, the genius, and the courage of the guests of honour. Then his own filay, chief poet of Leinster, had ready a narrative for the occasion. Proud was Leinster; proud the poet; exaggerated was his droning account-and long. Ale or mead wetted his lips-and the listeners quaffed each time he did.
The eye of mac Art was drawn quite naturally to a passing pretty young lady of worth. Seated at the high table she was, and nigh-orange of pearl strewn hair, with beside her a flame-topped lordling. Both wore plaides of Leinster blue crisscrossed with yellow stripes. They to the king’s left; on his other side sat his elder sons. Cormac’s mouth went dry and he trembled. Stunned, he promptly poured a draught of ale down the wrong tube and embarrassed himself with a long coughing fit.
Wiping away the choke-tears, he demanded of a solicitous servant the identities of the two youths to the king’s left.
“Why, my lord Tara-baiter: those are Ceann Mong Ruadh and Samaire, younger son and only daughter of our king!”
And Cormac stared on them, for last time he’d seen those two they had been but a rag-tag minstrel and a merchant’s daughter named Aine.
He continued to stare, helplessly, the while his full belly sank and strove to convince him it was empty. He’d thought he had lost his love, his first love, and her gone home to Ailenn. Och and ochone, but no! He had, lost her the more! For it was Samaire ingin Ulaid-Ri she was: Daybreak, daughter of King Ulad!
It’s the blood of old nobility warms my veins, but… it’s no suitor for the king’s own daughter my father’s after raising in me! Behl preserve and Crom protect, she and I have… we have…
And gone from mac Art was the celebratory fever-though hardly from his comrades-at-arms. And he ached and felt hollow and chill within, as though some part of him were missing and his heart pumped not hot blood but cool.
At last the poem ended. Cormac hardly noticed. Up rose the king, and called out the name of Aed’s son Forgall, who rose amid cheers and was asked to speak. Ablush with embarrassment and much ale, Forgall falteringly said he would not, could not take much credit. Then-once renewed cheering and board-drumming had risen and sunk-he pointed out and called loudly the name of their successful plot’s master mind.
That same Partha mac Othna had to be nudged into attention, and nigh shoved to his feet, for he’d been elsewise distracted. Another great cheer rose: for this young warrior from afar who’d be receiving a golden torc from the king’s own artisan. Another poet seized the opportunity to begin to put together words about Othna’s crafty son, and soon Partha’s canniness was being compared with that of the heroes of Eirrish legend. Cormac’s blood warmed again; his face, at least, seemed to burn.
And sure all were most impressed and thricehappy… saving only Bress Long-arm. His hate-filled glower Cormac saw, though he was too doubly flustered to take note. As for the young woman beside Bress-hmp. Never had Cormac seen so much bosom displayed, on a clothed woman.
Somehow he managed to express his love for his “adopted land” and its “noble king” and his happiness for having aided in “easing its Burden,” and the throng thundered acclaim, and ormac sank swiftly down intohis seat. There followed more drinking, and eating, and more drinking still. Only the most private of conversations could now be attended, for the members of each pair or trio of speakers sought to make himself heard above all others in the hall.
Cormac could not wrest his gaze from the high table. Thus he noted disagreement betwixt the younger royal siblings. He caught too the darkish look Prince Ceann shot him, and was amazed. Even then Princess Samaire, orange-gold ringlets of hair dangling, dancing before either ear, was calling a wand-slim servant to herself. The two girlish heads bent close, and for an instant the gaze of Aine/Samaire locked with that of Partha/Cormac. His stomach promptly executed a curvet like an unbroken stallion, and he swallowed hard.
“What think ye of our pretty princess?” he was asked, by Cethern of Dinn Rig, who sat at his left.
“Ah-she-oh. The king’s daughter? It’s on that girl she just spoke to I’ve had these eyes, Ceth-ye be looking at the king’s daughter, man?”
“Och-I but look! And that servant of hers has less meat on her than my spear!”
Then Cethrn had to lean away-for the servant in question was there! Cethern made a ridiculous face at Cormacover her back, as she bent between them. She whispered in Cormac’s ear, whilst he sat bolt-still and his colour rose.
“Put your hand around me and pat my backside, Partha mac Othna, so these louts think we’re at the flirting, and attend me: Drink lightly, I am commanded to tell ye, for one called Aine would have converse with yourself later this eve. Come, man, act flirtatious-there. Not so hard!”
And she straightened, and went away, and Cethern laughed and kissed his palm; Cormac had not touched the girl at all.
Elated, he did as she’d bidden, and suffered Cethern’s jesting-and Cas’s too-powerful nudge in his right side-when she passed again later, behind him, and trailed her hand caressingly across the span of his shoulders. Nervous but forcing himself not to drink, he soon became very alone in that hall. At the king’s leave, some nobles departed. Cormac was not even aware that he received a sheep’s-eye or two from this or that noble lady. All others meanwhile, aye, including the women of Eirrin who were not chattel to their men, descended with great gusto and passing swiftness into stuffed, barbaric drunkenness. That gave way by degrees to stunned drunkenness, so that most of the assemblage were passed out across crumb- and bone-strewn boards, or amid the rushes on the floor.
Cormac smelled both vomit and fresh urine and bethought him that feasts began better than they ended.
Then the king himself rose to depart-aye, and lurching a bit, as befit the ruler of triumphant sons of Eirrin. In passing he paused to do words on “Partha mac Othna our most valuable import.” Cormac flushed. King Ulad passed on, and out of the hall with his family. Instantly Cormac was up, stumbling over Cethern and then hurrying past and over and around other fallen comrades. Those whom the Meathmen had not scathed now lay downed by the sharp edge and point of fermented grains and honey.
The door led not directly outside but to an inner gallery of passing dimness. There waited the so-slender servant of the princess herself. She led him-by the damp hand, like lovers-into even darker realms and to a closed door of richly carven oak. She tapped, released his hand, patted his backside, and departed on swift feet.
He entered a most private chamber, and paused; all within was darkness.
“Do close the door, and bar it, and I shall light this candle.”
He did; sparks were struck; again; a candle came alive in a yellow point that drew the eyes.
“Ah, Partha! I admit to some dizziness-I hope you drank but little!”
“Ye did dissemblage on me-why?”
“Ah. You use ‘ye’ to me then, do you?” Aine/ Samaire sighed. “Ah, Partha! My father does do his best to keep me most sheltered indeed-and watched! His only daughter-valuable trade-goods, you see. So… my brother Ceann and I make our own plots. It’s good friends we are, though siblings. We disguise ourselves and slip out from that prison called the King’s-house whenever we can, to wander Carman as people-real people!” She held high the candle; now she shrugged, and watched his eyes drop their gaze from her face. She smiled. “Hence the ‘Aine the merchant’s daughter role. How was I to know I’d be… be taking a-a liking to your huge self?-and brainy self too, isn’t it, Hero of Boruma!” She gave her head a swift shake and little curls flew, dark gold in the candle’s light. “Never have I heard poets compare a living man with a Cuchulain afore, Partha mac Cuchulain!”