Patrick: Son of Ireland

  All night long I walked, without rest, stopping only at dawn when I came to a divide. On one hand the run continued in a wide, lazy arc around the base of the hill; on the other it narrowed to a track which rose into the heart of the hills. One way seemed as good as the other to me, so I chose the second way and hoped for the best.

  All the next day, I followed the track into the wood—stopping to eat when hungry and drinking from the fresh-running streams whenever one could be found. I kept my waterskin filled and refilled it often so the water would not grow stale. Midday on the second day, the wood ended; standing in the shelter of the trees, I looked out upon a hillside field which had been plowed and sown. There seemed to be no habitation nearby, so I continued, keeping to the wood and skirting the field until I could see who tended it.

  As I came around the breast of the hill, two men leading an ox and wagon appeared. They saw me, too, and, fearing that if I ran into the wood a chase might ensue, I decided to brazen it out. Plucking up my courage, I resumed my pace and hailed them as they drew near. “Good day to you,” I called.

  They made no answer but regarded me warily.

  “I’ve come from the boru tribute,” I said, telling them the truth. Touching my slave collar, I continued, “As you see, I am a slave.”

  “What do you want here?” demanded the driver, swinging the ox goad in his hand.

  “My lord has sent me to fetch him word of the nearest settlement,” I replied, departing from the truth altogether.

  “The nearest settlement,” repeated the driver suspiciously.

  “Yes,” I affirmed. “Is your lord and master nearby?”

  They looked at one another, and the second said, “Our lord maintains his ráth at Lios Beag; that is the nearest settlement, and it is not far from here.”

  “But you will not find him there,” said the first. “He and his men have gone to the boru tribute.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “Even so, if it is agreeable to you, I might go there.”

  “Is there any reason we should object, friend?” asked the farmer.

  “None that I can think of,” I replied.

  “The ráth is that way,” the farmer informed me. “We have just come from there, and you are welcome to try your luck at the gate.”

  I thanked the men and continued on my way, making as if I would go to the ráth. Once around the hill, I saw the timber palisade rising up across the way, and I saw also what I hoped to find: a road.

  Hurrying by the small, mean-looking fortress, I headed off along the path instead and was soon passing through a more settled and prosperous-looking farming country of large fields and grazing lands. In some of these, men and women were working; I greeted them as I passed and likewise greeted anyone I happened to meet on the road. Once I met an old man carrying a young child in his arms.

  The child—boy or girl, I could not say—had a swollen eye running with pus and matter. I knew the complaint, for I had seen it once or twice among the children of our estate back home, and knew my mother’s remedy. I stopped to greet the old fellow and asked how far the road continued and what lay ahead.

  “This búthar?” He looked at me as if I were a fool for asking. “Why, it runs to the sea, and some say it goes all the way to Britain and back again.”

  “To the sea, you say.” I nodded respectfully, taking this in.

  “And is it far?”

  “Far for some,” he said, eyeing my slave collar. “Less far for others.”

  “I see.” I thanked him for his inestimable help and said, “I see the child is afflicted with a stye.” Indicating the swollen eye, I offered, “A warm cloth with—” Here I faltered; I knew the remedy, but not the Irish names for the plants. “Wait,” I said and, darting into the wood beside the road, I quickly gathered a handful dock leaves and a few twigs of green willow. “Here,” I said, giving them to the old man. “Mash the leaves and scrape the bark from the branches into a bowl of hot water. Soak a cloth and press it gently to the infant’s eye. Leave it for as long as you can, changing it now and then. This will draw out the venom.”

  The old man stared at me in wonder. “Truly?” he asked. “And are you slave to a Brehon?”

  “I have seen it work before,” I replied, and continued on my way.

  The old fellow stood in the road and watched me until I was out of sight. I waved to him once or twice until I could see him no more.

  Dusk found me on a hillside looking toward the east, where the road descended into a valley to run along the bank of a river. On a rise overlooking the lowland was a large hill fort, and there were a number of huts and barns ranged along the valley floor between the river and the ráth. A trio of herdsmen was leading a small herd up from the river. As it was soon dark, I decided to wait and make my way past the fortress under the cover of night, so I found a hidden place off the road and settled down to sleep until it was time to move on.

  I lay in my secluded hollow listening to the ravens as they flocked to their roosts high in the surrounding trees. They filled the wood with such a cacophony of creaks and croaks that I despaired of getting any rest. I dug into my bag of provisions, brought out some bread and meat, and ate a little while I waited for the sky to grow dark.

  Owing to the commotion raised by the birds, I did not hear the horses on the road until they were well upon me. Probably they would never have found me if not for the hounds. The first I knew of them, they were already bounding into the wood, barking as they came. I threw aside my meal and leapt to my feet. There was no place to hide, and the trees were too tall to climb; I could not outrun them, and even if I could, such a race would only alert the riders that they had found something worth pursuing.

  My only hope, I decided, was to brazen it out with them as I had with the others I had met; it had worked for me before, and the small successes elevated my confidence. So, adopting the air of a weary traveler, I put my food away, hung the bag on my shoulder, took up my staff, and waited for the dogs to arrive.

  Within moments they came plunging into my little glade—three of them, great black, slat-sided beasts; they tumbled in one after another, saw me, and halted at the perimeter, where they stood stiff-legged, baying as if at a prize stag.

  Right behind them came two warriors on foot with spears at the ready. I suppose they thought they had a wild boar or a badger, but the sight of a lone youth standing calmly in the center of the hollow brought them up short. While one of the warriors called off the dogs, the other approached, his spear leveled.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  I greeted him politely and said, “I am as you find me—a traveler seeking a little rest beside the road.”

  “This is King Eoghan mac Fionn’s land,” he informed me stiffly.

  “I am glad to know it,” I answered. “Please give my respects to your lord when next you see him.”

  He looked at me, unable to decide what to make of me. His friend, having leashed the dogs, called something over his shoulder as he led the pack away. “You can pay him your respects yourself. He is waiting on the road.”

  He gestured with the spear, indicating that I was to go before him. We walked the short distance to the road, where eight riders were waiting. The warrior presented me to a white-haired man with a red cloak over his shoulders, saying, “We found him lurking in the wood. He says he is a traveler.”

  I raised my hand in greeting. “Mo tiarna,” I said. “My lord, I am a stranger to these lands. It was not my intention to trouble you or your people in any way.”

  “Why are you hiding in the wood?”

  “I am about an errand on behalf of my master,” I replied. “I hid because I was afraid of the dogs.”

  The nobleman nodded. “Who is your master?”

  “Lord Miliucc of Sliabh Mis and the Vale of Braghad.”

  “Your collar,” said the sharp-eyed king, “declares you a slave.”

  “And so I am,” I replied calmly. “I serve at my master’s pleasure.”
r />   A frown appeared on the lord’s wide, good-natured face. My free admission of slavery and my forthright answers to his questions perplexed him. He scratched his jaw, then gestured to the man who had fetched me from the wood. “Bring him,” he said, lifting the reins, and he and his retinue rode on.

  I fell in behind the dog handlers who, once they saw I meant to do as I was bade, ignored me. It was no use trying to run away in any case. I could hear them talking as they walked along but could judge little from their voices, save that the tone was strained and peevish.

  The ominous mood continued after we reached the fortress. The tuath came out to welcome home their king and the menfolk, but after the greeting the crowd departed in a somber humor. The boru tribute had gone badly for everyone, I suppose, and now that it was over, tribes were having to come to terms with how to deal with the shortfall penalty imposed upon them by the Aird Righ.

  I was taken to Eoghan’s hall, which was similar to Miliucc’s except that it was larger and the houses which surrounded it more numerous and in better repair. I was brought to stand before the king, who sat in his big chair beside the hearth, while his queen and sons greeted him and his handmaids prepared his bowl.

  The white-haired lord was served, drank deep, and set the bowl aside. Only then did he deign to notice me. He slapped his knee with his hand and said, “A slave you are, a slave you shall remain.”

  “My lord,” I objected, “I am Miliucc’s man.”

  “Miliucc’s loss is my gain.”

  “Certainly I am not worth the trouble which will come of this. I think it would be best for all that I should be allowed to continue my journey.”

  Ignoring my implied threat, he said, “Your loyalty to your previous lord is laudable. What service did you perform for Miliucc?”

  I saw the way the thing was going and swallowed my disappointment; to resist would only make matters worse, so I tried to improve my position as best I could. “I was chief of my lord’s stables,” I told him.

  His white eyebrows arched in surprise. “Indeed?”

  “My lord keeps but six horses,” I added. It helps to mix in as much of the truth as possible in these situations. “Most of his wealth is in sheep and pigs.”

  Eoghan rubbed his whiskered chin and slowly made up his mind. “Then you shall serve me likewise.” He gestured to one of the men standing ready beside the door. “Take this one to the stable.”

  The man took me by the arm and pulled me away. As I reached the door, the king called out, “What is your name, slave?”

  “I am called Succat.”

  “You will find me a fair and generous master. Serve me well, Succat, and you will be well treated.”

  I did not know what to say, so I thanked him and followed the king’s man to the stable, where I was put under the command of the chief stabler, a grunting, humpbacked fellow with a potbelly and a squint.

  “Eoghan sends you to me, does he?”

  “He does,” I replied.

  “You a Briton?”

  “I am that.”

  “You smell like one.”

  “Thank you.”

  That brought a smile to the stabler’s lips. “I like you, British.”

  “My name is Succat.”

  “I am Gamal. I keep fifteen horses, but only five in the ráth at any time. I will show you the others tomorrow. You sleep over there.” He pointed to an empty stall. “Hungry?”

  “Of course.”

  “We eat after the king eats. They bring us our food here. You look a strong lad. Mind what I say, and we will get on.”

  “Fifteen horses are a good many for one man,” I said. “Do you care for them all by yourself?”

  “I had two servants to help me,” Gamal answered. “One was kicked in the head by a horse and died. The other allowed a mare to founder; she died with loss of the colt besides.”

  I shook my head as if in dismay at this regrettable news.

  “Aye,” said Gamal. “It cost him a hand, and he is now herding pigs.” He nodded, satisfied with this punishment. “Lord Eoghan is a fair-minded king.”

  What little I knew of horses I had gained on our own estate. In truth, I knew far more about riding than stabling, but I reckoned it would not be difficult to learn—and to disguise my ignorance in the meantime. In any event, I did not plan to stay in Eoghan’s employ any longer than necessary. As soon as the next opportunity presented itself, I would be gone.

  Eoghan proved better than his word. He was indeed a generous lord, and on the whole I did not mind my work. It was not demanding, and it gave me a chance to gain the measure of the tuath and search out the ways by which I might make my escape.

  The aftermath of the boru tribute continued to exercise Eoghan and his people mightily. The tuath was so unsettled that even I, a stranger, could tell that they were not only displeased but near to despairing. The dark undercurrent of fretfulness and unease bubbled away like a caldron on the boil. I was not surprised when, a few days after my arrival at the ráth, the announcement came that, in consequence of failing to meet the demand of the boru, the king had no choice but to raise his warband and go raiding.

  I thought this meant they would sail across to Britain, and I saw my chance. When those boats set sail, I wanted to be on board. Once I set foot on shore, they would not see me again. Of that, I was more than confident.

  I schemed how best to get myself included in the raiding party but could come to no firm decision on how to bring this about, and after two days I was no closer to finding a solution.

  “Oh, a raid is a very fearsome thing,” Gamal informed me when I asked when it would likely take place. “It’s the horses that pay the heaviest cost.”

  “I do not doubt it,” I replied, remembering poor Boreas’ last ride.

  “We have not raided in more than fifteen years,” he said.

  “I used to go.”

  “Truly?”

  “Oh, aye,” he said, “I may not look like much now, but there was a time I could fight with the best of them.” He patted his potbelly. “I am too old now, of course.”

  Before I could respond, he said, “Maybe you should go.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye, there is no need to look so surprised. The king often takes a man along to mind the horses. You would not have to fight.”

  “Well,” I allowed, “if you think I might lend a helpful hand, I have no objection.”

  The next day I was called before King Eoghan. “Gamal thinks you would be helpful on the raid, and I agree.”

  “My lord,” I said in all humility, “I know nothing about boats, but if you think—”

  “Boats?” replied Eoghan, his face creasing in bewilderment before I could finish. “I have neither boats nor need of them.”

  “How then shall we reach Britain?”

  “Ah!” answered the king. “We are not going to raid in Britain. We are going to Tir Brefni of the Connachta.”

  I had no idea where this might be but reckoned that if I was not to be taken to Britain, at least I would get a horse. With a horse many things are possible. “Forgive your servant’s stupidity, my lord. I await your command.”

  Thus, when the warband departed three days later, I rode with them.

  SIXTEEN

  THE PEOPLE OF the Connachta are as harsh and wild as their wind-ravaged, crag-riven land. If the people I had lived among until now were barbarians, these were feral savages. Little liked or respected—even by their own kind—they were forever warring with one another and with everyone else. The tuatha of Connacht were a race without: without learning, without culture, without virtue, without hope.

  Thus, whenever any of the other tribes decided to raid in Ireland, it was to Connacht that they went. Raiding in that untamed realm was chancy and it was perilous, but it brought no worrisome backlash of condemnation or retaliation from other tribes, for everyone did it, and the Connachta were so fractious they could never unite under one war leader to mount a serious raid beyo
nd their own borders.

  King Eoghan kept but a dozen warriors. My private qualms about such a small warband were quickly dispelled, however; by the end of the first day’s journey, we had been joined by two more lords and their retinues. On the third day our number had effectively quadrupled, and by the fifth day the warhost had swelled to ten times the size it was when we first set out, and more joined the nearer we came to our destination.

  The evening before we crossed over into the realm of the Connachta, there was a celebration of sorts: a riotous revel of the kind common to gatherings of warriors—useful, I suppose, for exciting courage and hardihood in men who must fight the next day. As one of the many slaves and servants who did not take part, I stayed near the horses and watched as the warriors engaged one another in trials of mock combat. As the sun faded in the west, the vigorous boasting and foolhardy demonstrations of skill took on an increasingly threatening aspect. I was more than content to remain a safe distance apart.

  As I had the care of the king’s horses, it was my normal chore to water them at sunset before settling them for the night. I was leading two of the beasts down to the stream when I met a group of late-arriving warriors hurrying to the celebration. As they passed me, I glanced over at one of them, and my heart seized in my chest. It was Forgall, Lord Miliucc’s chief of battle.

  I quickly turned my face away, fell back a step to hide behind one of the horses I was leading, and hurried on.

  While the horses drank, I stood at the water’s edge quivering in frantic distraction, trying desperately to think what to do. There was no telling where or when I might encounter my former master or one of his men. Next time they would recognize me.

  I decided that the only course open to me was flight—as soon and as swiftly as possible. I would leave at once. Now.

  Pulling the horses’ heads from the water, I led them back to the picket. Stealing a horse was a serious offense, and I was of two minds: while it represented my best hope of getting away fast, if I were to be caught with a stolen horse, I would certainly lose a hand—or worse.