Part 7

But a man on a black stallion waited there instead, and the face was the face of Amlaf, brother of Ota the queen!

He looked up and laughed, and the thing he laughed at was Doirenn, who stood on the narrow ledge waiting Ruadan, and in her hand was his dagger.

“You were so keen for his choosing that your heart could not wait that I save your feet this hardship?” said Ruadan, darkly mocking.

And the monk in the cave, and the prince on the black stallion, were as far from them both as was fear, when she looked in his eyes.

“I followed, O Ruadan, lest he do you harm for your life as a man of sin. And I listened, O Ruadan, that your dagger might in truth drink deep if you made me his portion—and you going elsewhere,” and his dagger was held with the book, in love, against her breast.

“To my heart!” he said, and circled her with his arm, and she was borne along the path by him while his eyes searched below for glitter of spears or followers of the prince.

Amlaf fitted an arrow to his bow and waited the turn where Ruadan would be fair target without hurt to the coveted maid of beauty.

But the hand of Ruadan, thrilled by the love of her, was strong and steady. His spear had been sharpened at the altar place of the old gods, and the cast of it took Amlaf in the throat as he looked up laughing. After that he laughed no more on earth but went to his own Norse gods of the summer sailors.

Ruadan stripped him of his warrior garb, and weighted the body with stone, and cast it in the waters of Lough Dearg, while Doirenn stood on the shore holding the quivering steed, alert at the presence of Death.

Ruadan looked about him, and looked at the girl, whose face was a drooping flower, and whose hair was a golden veil.

“Look up, O Doirenn,” said Ruadan, “for this is the end of the dream! This is the shore on which I saw you with Bronach—washer of raiment for the dead. Beyond this all is dark to me on the road.”

“Not so,” she said. “We have walked together through the nights of the evil star, but now the light is ours.”

He caught her to him, and kissed and mocked her.

“This is all your prayers and your glittering book served you against enchantings,” he said.

“They served me well,” she made answer staunchly. “In the sickness of the wound I prayed for your life. Here, where you left me, I prayed that Geroid might take into sanctuary the altar jewels but leave me free for always to walk with you.”

Among the Danes, that wood by Lough Dearg gained weird tales of Irish enchantings, and the reason was that Amlaf the prince had ridden along the marge for his pleasure one summer day, and never came again into the sight of mortals.

Belief it was in these enchantings and in the powers of the mystic books of Christ’s men that went far to lead the invaders, also by this time weary of their raiding, back to their own shores.

Far north in Connaught a youth in dress of the northmen was seen with Ruadan riding a black steed with royal chains of silver in his furnishings. The cropped hair of the youth was the color of the sun, and Latin was his only speech. He was named Angus and called a prince of the foreigners, but heart-companion to Ruadan. Not while Ota and Turgesius held sway in Deasmond did Ruadan go south out of Connaught, or let the youth see the lands of the south.

And when he went again into his own domain of Ardsolais a woman of mystery rode beside him, and for her radiance of beauty she was thought a fairy mistress such as men of olden time had met at some edge of the mortal world.

He called her Brighde the Beautiful, and all the people were calling her that, and she was his wife, and the cattle of Ruadan stayed on his own hills after she came.

Because of the vanishing of Amlaf the prince no Danes climbed again to the cell of the solitary monk, and after the weakening of the Danes the stories of enchantment there went abroad far and wide, and it was a place to shun both day and night, and no one was remembering the young monk who, in that year of the fearful star of Turgesius, had climbed that hard way for holiness.

But in after years, a strange harmless babbler appeared one day among a herd of cattle in Thomond, shouting to them of heavenly crowns and wings of angels.

He had no clear speech to men, and was called the “Nameless” for the reason that no clan knew him, and he knew no mortal and no home.

His dress was of skins, and his hair and beard were his only mantle to the middle. Neither in Gaelic nor in Latin could his life be learned, but no door was closed on him nor food denied him, for gods and saints were known to come under secret and lowly guise to the abodes of men.

And on a fair day, after seven years, Doire, the childling of Ruadan, divided a cake with the Nameless on the green, and then led him, as a child with a new playmate, through all the garden and to the grianan where the wife of Ruadan sat with her maids and discoursed of the day when the master of Ardsolais would come again from the wars.

All said, “God save you, and Mhoirre bless you,” to the visitor from the wilderness, and food was given and the child watched in wonder that a mortal could feed as the hounds fed.

“The name of me is Doire, son of Ruadan, who is lord of the mountain,” said the boy. “You have eaten my cake and come in my gate; tell to me now whose son are you?”

But the Nameless stared vacant and seeking, and made mutterings, and all they could hear from him was “Ruadan? Ruadan—Ruadan?”

Then the wife of Ruadan, who was called Brighde the Beautiful, called to her son Doire, and whispered in his ear a secret saying, and the lad ran back and spoke.

“May it be that you were once the son of Kineath? And that your name was once Geroid?”

At which saying the Nameless stood up in fear as if for flight, and cried out, “Kineath—and Geroid—and Ruadan! Ruadan and she who was weighed in the balance with the jeweled chalice? Call you your druids, or your priests of wisdom, that I uncover the place of that hiding! Go you in haste ere the mist again covers the knowing!”

In haste they did go—all the maids aflutter, and the wife of Ruadan sat in the shadow ordering all things, speaking no word aloud.

And Fergus, her cleric, came in haste from the oratory, and made prayer, and hearkened, and the Nameless spoke in good Latin, and said:

“Take with you this childling who lifted the mist from me. Go you to the cave in the mountain over the Lough of Dearg; to the cell of Senan the Saint find you the way; and in the stone trough of the bed there find you the jeweled chalice, and the golden treasures. They were the bribe of Hell to bring temptings of the world. Let them be weighed; let them be put in the scales against my name and my soul in the Day of days!”

“Against whose name will I write it for that day?” asked Fergus, “and against whose soul?”

But at the question the Nameless turned away and shook his head. The mist had again fallen, and he wandered again to the fields babbling of crowns and wings.

“He is but a strange innocent,” said Fergus, “and has no likeness to owners of golden service and jeweled treasures. It would be as search for the many-colored palaces of the magical Danaans under the hills about us.”

But the wife of Ruadan had a different thought.

“What the search may uncover rests with God and Mhoirre,” she said. “But a sign has been sent to the son of Ruadan, and to him the honor will be if precious things or holy things are in that cell of a hermit. Take horses and take men, and take Doire, our son, to that place of the cliff on the shore of Dearg, and take well-cured skins and ink for the record and witness. Every jewel write you down as count is made, and every other thing of treasure. If it be that they are holy things of Senan the Saint, their blessings may descend upon another altar.”

Thus it was done, and great glory went to the son of Ruadan, who uncovered the jeweled chalice, and wondrous other golden altar service buried under moss, and shells of eggs, and bones of animals.

Legends grew up about that finding, for after they were blest by the cleric that no evil thing might leave smirch on their beauty, they were placed with prayer in the oratory, and on the altar beside them was found in the morning a jeweled book of holiness, thick set with amber and pearl. No book had been found in the stone cell, and Fergus, the priest, had never before seen or heard of it. Many viewed it, and all thought it had, without doubt, belonged to Senan the Saint, and after two hundred years of death he had come back to gather together the things once precious to him on earth as a proof to pious souls.

This was the thought of Fergus, who had a pride in the holy honors sent to the roof where he was sheltered.

And when Ruadan came back victorious from battle with the Danes, it was Fergus who discoursed to him of a great church as their shrine. He made clear that the wife and son of Ruadan had strange gifts and powers of knowledge. If they were christian gifts it was well for their souls, but if the power was of pagan strength, then fastings and prayers should lift the last doubt. He reminded Ruadan that his own peace with the church was not yet accomplished, and that there were strange tales of how the mother of his son had ridden out of the wilderness on a black stallion and no clan and no country had been named for her claiming. The trappings of her steed were those of a king, and she wore coat of mail like a young warrior of the sea gods, riding out of the waves. No word to her confessor told of her life before that day, and there were times when the soul of Fergus was troubled over these mysteries, and was craving more altars to the saints at Ardsolais.

“That is well enough,” said Ruadan. “She shall have a temple of her own fashion for the housing of her sacred things—women and priests have hunger for such. Guard you the souls by prayers in the temple, Fergus, and my spearman will guard the temple if our shields are lucky. That is the task of the man.”

And with his wife, the Beautiful, in her bower, he laughed, and stroked her white shoulder, and mocked as was his wont.

“Thus I pay for temples to guard your soul from enchantments,” he said, “for Fergus the priest finds you in a grievous way.”

She mounted the black steed and rode beside Ruadan with Doire, their son, and sought a fair level on a green height where huge stone slabs stood upright with other slabs resting on them like high altars. It was the place of ancient fires and for that was called the Hill of Lights.

“Here, by this circle, are the hearts of the people,” she said, “for at new moon they are coming, and at the rise of sun they are coming in certain summer days. Why build the new altar in another place?”

She paced with her child the great space where the new temple would be built for sinners, and the eyes of Ruadan looked their love on her, and on the son she had borne him.

And in the edge of the wild field where the forest came down from the mountains, the cattle lifted their heads as a man, hairy and clad in skins, strode among them with proud authority shouting to them of crowns and wings.

“Whose is the voice?” asked Ruadan.

And his “heart-companion” of the wilderness touched his shoulder and spoke low and awed.

“That is the voice of the man who saw no holiness in battle to protect the helpless—it is the voice of the man who saw in love only the mating of beasts—and his reward is his.”

[Music]

LIADAN AND KURITHIR

“_I am Liadan Who loved Kurithir. It is true as they say._

“_The music of the forest Would sing to me when with Kurithir, Together with the voice of the purple sea._”

It was the time of Hugh Finnliath, Ard-Ri (High King) of Erinn, and glad youth of May lay on the land.

The hawthorn was in bloom against the hills, and the cuckoo was calling as it flew in long billowy glides to its mate in the yew-tree nest.

As the bird to its mate, went the gray eyes and the heart of Liadan na Donal, when she looked on Kurithir, the poet and friend of kings, in Far Connaught. Fair and gracious was he among the friends of her host, and fair and gracious was Flann Siona, prince of the Sionan, beside him as they greeted her, and greeted Aevil, her sister, who was beautiful as a night of stars.

It was not the beauty of bronze-gold hair, or blue eyes of Kurithir, by which she was held, and it was not the beauty of raiment and the jeweled links of his garments, for the daughters of the Ui Maic of Far Kerry were not without grandeur in the castle of Donal, their father. Out of all the guests and the greetings, she knew not if Kurithir, son of Doborchū, bent head or knee more graciously than others. She knew only that his eyes looked deep, and looked steady, into her own, and that without words they bore to her a message.

The message was strange because her heart leaped in her bosom to meet it, and that was a new thing in her life.

And that message was this: “We have found the way to each other at last, and both of us knowing it!”

Other eyes saw that look, and the wild-rose flush on her white throat, and Aevil, her half-sister, spoke bitter words when they were safe within their chamber, and there was present only the dark nurse of Aevil, whose name was Moria, and whose lore was deep in herbs and curious knowledge of druidcraft.

“Know you not that as elder sister my day of marriage must pass before your day of courting?” raged Aevil. “For that reason I am making this circuit of visits to see the lands and the furnishings of our friends. It was in my charity that I brought you by me, and an ill day it was to me!”

Liadan sat by the window and looked down into the enclosed garden where a red rose tree and a white rose vine were twining against the stone wall, and she mode no reply, for her thoughts were all of Kurithir, and that look in his eyes, and she felt close to him as the white rose twining to the tree of the red bloom.

But Moria talked much as she smoothed the black hair of Aevil, and vowed by the Elements that the beauty of Aevil exceeded by much all other beauty at the Dun of Dearg. And that the eyes of Flann, Ri Domna of Erinn, had not passed her by—nor had the other men.

There was truth in this, for black and red and rich cream was the beauty of Aevil, and her pride was great because of her beauty to which all men did honor. Liadan had heard all her life that there was no beauty in Connaught to compare with Aevil who should, for beauty alone, be a queen, and Liadan was well content that the crown go to her sister so long as she had her harp and her garden, and now—two blue eyes for mirrors!

But Aevil stormed and threw off the hand of Moria and would have no caressing of words.

“Well you know there is one man spoke of here for my meeting, and that man is Kurithir the poet,” she said. “He is the man whose songs are sung by many, and my greeting was spoiled by a gray rat!”

“Only my eyes are gray, sister,” said Liadan, “and if you like not my gray robe, it shall be put aside for our visit. What you choose shall be done; all is one to me.”

For the song of joy was so strong in her heart that all the world was shining summer for her. Her slender gray-clad feet trod as on the clouds of heaven because of that look in his eyes. She donned a robe of green with a girdle of silver, and in the brown curls of her hair she fastened green jewels from oversea, and in the rush light of the great hall she slipped quiet as a moonbeam, but Flann and Kurithir, who were foster brothers and friends ever, left all others to bow before her.

“We look for Maighdenmara in the old sea waves where the white foam is,” said Flann. “Men never hope to see her drive in a chariot from the forest.”

Kurithir said nothing, but his eyes were on hers, and she liked that best, and dreamed of him sweetly that night on her maiden pillow.

In the dawn Flann and Kurithir walked along the sea cliff and spoke as brothers in bond.

“There are other maids and many for you, Flann. For me there is only this one and I loving her.”

“You speak your heart and that is best, comrade. My eyes will look the other way, and her sister is a fair queen for any castle.”

“I am thinking no castles,” said Kurithir, “I am thinking of a little house under the oaks where the thrushes sing, and where heart can hear heart away from sound of the steps of man. My harp I will take, and hers. The hands of her were like white lilies on the strings when she touched them last night. I could have knelt at her feet for joy that we have found each other.”

“It is good to be you, Kurithir,” said Flann, who was a king’s son. “May you hear the thrushes sing.”

And Kurithir went back at sunrise, and watched her window in the tower until her face looked down on him. Speak she dare not because of Aevil and Moria. Go to him she could not for the locked door and the key on the chain of Moria. But look at him with all her heart in her eyes she could and she did, and a white rose she let fall from her breast to his, and that was the first gift of Liadan and Kurithir.

That day was fair with beauty, and all went riding gaily to a neighbor castle of friends, and gaily home at the setting of sun; but Aevil put Aillain, the son of her host, to ride with Liadan, under strict word that their visit would end if he heeded not her order—for Liadan must either be guarded, or sent home at the dawn; so Aevil rode with Kurithir and talked much with Flann, and was a sweet and gracious lady to charm all. But Liadan sat quiet, smiling ever like sun touching mist of the morning. Her heart was full of joy only to hear his voice, even though the words were to another—which is Love itself.

And that night was a very poet’s night of a young moon and the scent of dew on the hawthorn, and under the tower Kurithir sang, and touched the harp, and this was his song:

Sweet-scented branch of silver Abloom above me, Lean low to love me!

Gray bird of harmonies Honey voice, morning star, Wake to love’s dreaming!

His voice and the strings of the harp were whispers soft on the night, yet in her heart every whisper was held, and the fury of Aevil was as a storm seen afar in the valley. For Liadan was as snow on the mountain shining in the sun.

When she left the locked door of her chamber, the dark woman, Moria, carried her shuttle and thread, or her tablet of white birch and the stylus, or the tiny harp of the six strings, but not apart the length of a spear did she walk, and she listening.

But the love of Kurithir forced him to the speech of a man to his mate, and he spoke.

“The song of the night was to you, Liadan, and all of me calls for you more strongly than song can be telling. Liadan, marriage is well for two singers who find the same song. It is by that choosing the bird of the forest seeks ever its own mate, for the song is the soul of the winged things. That is so of the birds and it is so of men, Liadan. Thus the nightingale holds his song pure in rapture, thus the children of us will sing our songs, and their own songs, in the future years, Liadan.”

The soul of her moved to him that she trembled, but the dark woman, Moria, behind the arras, was ears for Aevil who walked the garden with Flann, and Liadan veiled her gray eyes lest he read them too well, and spoke in sweet courtesy.

“Fair friend, it must be in the rath of my father I give troth to a man and not in another place,” she said. “That gate will be open to you on a day to come, and your singing will win you fair welcome when you are coming there.”

“Your words are as snowfall at harvest time and the sheaves golden,” spoke Kurithir. “Your eyes make themselves shadows of gray and are veiling their sweetness. But I am servant of Liadan what day of days I may ride her way through the forests.”

“The day may be long—the length of days rests in the heart itself,” said Liadan. “A far circle of visiting is pledged to the friends of our father. That circle must be closed ere we welcome poets or princes at the portal of our own castle.”

“Honey mouth, the sweet coldness of you would freeze the red rose, and all its flame could not save life to it,” he said. “But within me is a deeper flame, and I wait my day, and I wait some sign from you for speech again.”

But the bodkin of the dark woman touched the arm of Liadan through the arras as a warning against other words, and she spoke no more but bent her head over the harp as if alone, and Kurithir looked at her, pondering, and then called for his stallion, and rode alone and apart from the rest that day.

But Liadan rode not at all lest the hand of another man touch her hand, or the hem of her garment, or offer her cup which another than Kurithir had kissed.

But the harp of his in the hall was the only one she touched that day, and she wished that forbidden druid power could be hers to charm the strings into speech for his ear alone. With bodkin she traced one word in ogham on the harp frame, but Moria watching! More she feared to do, and her tablets of writing had been broken in the rage of Aevil.

The dark woman told to Aevil all that discourse of the day, and Aevil laughed her victory.

“Tomorrow’s sun takes us away from this place and this blind-eyed poet,” she said. “I have a secret to tell, for Flann has desire of me, and a king’s rath will yet be my abiding place. But I choose to be away from the roof of my father ere these poet songs again make night sleepless. My marriage comes before her betrothal. See you to that!”

The dark woman promised and praised the maid Aevil, and had joy of the thought of Flann who was king’s son and of power to be.

At the supper time, Aevil held up her square cup of mead and asked a good wish on the road for the morrow. Her journey of joy was a circle, and their chariot must start with the sun on the round.

There were words of pleading from many, but Kurithir said no word, only stared at Liadan for a sign—and she there frozen with the grief on her!

It was the first word she was given of the journey, but he could not be knowing that, and his pride was a cloak as he stood before her.

“Sun-rise or sun-setting makes no change in me but to leave me in darkness,” he said, “and the servant of Liadan is ever her servant.”

But Aevil laughed at his shoulder, and bade him not practice poet’s art for the sake of practice, for Liadan knew the light worth of a rhyme—and herself turned all things, from cock crow until moonrise, to such usage!

Then she sent Liadan to her chamber on an empty errand, and laughed again at Kurithir, and watched him, and his face white.

She knew that he felt hate for her, and would sing grief and disaster on her but for the bond of one father and sisterhood with Liadan. The dark woman plucked her by the sleeve and whispered warning lest he do that thing and shame her before Flann and the host. Aevil was green-jealous and was going far!

But the laughter of her scarce touched him, for the reason that he saw only the face of Liadan who had gone past him, dumb and without word of courtesy, and she hard struck at the fear of great forest and wilderness between them.

It was that fear made her bold to dare what she dared not do before the people. No tablet of writing could she send. No secret friend could she trust in the castle of the Dun of Dearg where Aevil bore casket of gifts for service rendered.