Bricriu's Feast

In the days when the Red Branch Knights were the glory of Ulster, there lived a man named Bricriu of the Poisonous Tongue. Bricriu was wealthy and cunning, but above all, he delighted in stirring up trouble among the warriors. His tongue was sharper than any sword, and his words could turn friend against friend with devastating skill.

“I shall build the greatest hall in all of Ireland,” Bricriu announced one day, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “And I shall host a feast so magnificent that it will be remembered for a thousand years!”

For seven years, Bricriu labored on his hall. He hired the finest craftsmen and spared no expense. The walls were adorned with gold and silver, and precious gems sparkled from every corner. When it was complete, the hall was indeed a wonder to behold, rivaling even the great hall of King Conchobar at Emain Macha.

Then Bricriu sent out invitations to all the warriors of Ulster, including the three greatest champions: Cú Chulainn the Hound of Ulster, Conall Cernach the Victorious, and Lóegaire the Triumphant.

“Come to my feast,” the invitation read, “and partake of the finest food and drink in all the land. But know this—whoever arrives first shall receive the champion’s portion, the greatest honor at my table.”

King Conchobar received his invitation with deep suspicion. “This reeks of Bricriu’s mischief,” he muttered to his advisors. “That man cannot hold a gathering without causing strife.”

“We cannot refuse,” replied Cathbad the druid wisely. “To decline would be an insult, and Bricriu would use it to sow discord among us. But we must be careful.”

When the day of the feast arrived, all the warriors of Ulster gathered at Bricriu’s magnificent hall. The tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, golden mead, and delicacies from across the known world. The sight was truly magnificent.

As the guests took their seats, Bricriu stood before them with a sly smile. “Welcome, noble warriors of Ulster! Tonight, we shall feast as gods! But first, let me tell you of the champion’s portion—a whole roasted pig, seven years old, fed on nothing but honey and milk, along with a vat of wine aged for seven winters. This honor shall go to the greatest warrior among you.”

The three champions—Cú Chulainn, Conall, and Lóegaire—all stood simultaneously.

“I am the greatest warrior here,” declared Lóegaire, his hand on his sword hilt. “I have defeated armies and never known defeat!”

“Your boasts are empty air,” retorted Conall Cernach. “My victories are countless, and my enemies lie in unmarked graves!”

But Cú Chulainn’s voice cut through their arguments like thunder. “While you two speak of past glories, I am the Hound of Ulster! I have faced monsters and gods alike. The champion’s portion is mine by right!”

The tension in the hall grew thick as smoke. Warriors reached for their weapons, and King Conchobar rose from his seat in alarm.

“Enough!” the king commanded. “We will not shed blood over a meal. Let us feast in peace tonight, and tomorrow we shall find a way to settle this dispute fairly.”

Bricriu smiled to himself, pleased with the chaos he had sown. But the druids and wise men of Ulster huddled together, seeking a solution.

“We must send them on a quest,” suggested Cathbad. “Let them prove their worth through deeds, not words.”

The next morning, the three champions were summoned before the assembly.

“You must journey to the fortress of Cú Roí mac Dáire in Munster,” King Conchobar announced. “He alone can judge which of you is the greatest warrior. His word will be final.”

The three heroes set out immediately, each determined to prove his superiority. They traveled for many days across the green hills of Ireland until they reached the magical fortress of Cú Roí, which turned like a mill wheel, its entrance never in the same place twice.

Cú Roí was a king and druid of great power, wise beyond measure and fair in all his judgments. When the heroes appeared before him, he listened to their claims with a knowing smile.

“I have heard of your dispute,” he said. “Tonight, each of you shall take a turn guarding my castle. You must face whatever comes in the darkness and prove your courage. Tomorrow, I shall give my judgment.”

That first night, Lóegaire took the watch. As midnight approached, a giant emerged from the mists—a creature as tall as a tower, with eyes like burning coals. The giant hurled massive stones at the fortress, each one capable of crushing a house.

Lóegaire fought bravely, deflecting the stones with his shield and striking back with his spear. But when dawn broke, he was exhausted and shaken. “I fought a giant,” he reported wearily. “I held my ground, but it was the hardest battle of my life.”

The second night, Conall Cernach took his turn. From the darkness came a monstrous hound, larger than a horse, with fangs like daggers and breath like poison. The beast circled the castle, howling with a voice that chilled the soul.

Conall met the creature with sword and shield, dancing a deadly dance around the fortress walls. By morning, he had driven the beast away, but he too was greatly wearied. “A demon hound,” he gasped. “I have never faced such a terror.”

On the third night, it was Cú Chulainn’s turn. As the young warrior took his position, the darkness itself seemed to come alive. Shapes moved in the shadows, and the air grew thick with malevolent presence.

But Cú Chulainn stood firm, his magical spear Gáe Bolga in his hand. When the creatures of the night attacked—demons, spirits, and monsters beyond counting—he fought with the fury of his ríastrad, his battle-frenzy transforming him into an unstoppable force.

By dawn, the ground around the castle was littered with the remains of supernatural foes, and Cú Chulainn stood unharmed, barely breathing hard.

Cú Roí emerged from his castle with a satisfied nod. “The judgment is clear,” he announced. “Cú Chulainn has proven himself the greatest warrior. To him belongs the champion’s portion.”

But when the three heroes returned to Ulster, Lóegaire and Conall refused to accept the verdict.

“Cú Roí is from Munster,” Lóegaire protested. “Of course he would favor the youngest among us!”

“This judgment means nothing in Ulster,” added Conall. “We demand a trial from our own people.”

The dispute continued to rage, with supporters of each champion taking sides. Bricriu watched with glee as the unity of Ulster crumbled before his eyes.

Finally, the druids proposed a final test. “Let each champion meet the enchanter who has come to Emain Macha,” they declared. “He carries an axe and offers a challenge. Whoever accepts and survives shall be the true champion.”

A mysterious figure had indeed appeared at the court—a giant of a man with skin like tree bark and hair like moss. In his hands, he carried an enormous axe that gleamed with supernatural light.

“I offer a challenge,” the giant announced in a voice like distant thunder. “Any man may strike me with this axe, cutting off my head. But the next day, I shall return the favor. Who among you has the courage to accept?”

Lóegaire stepped forward first, his pride overcoming his caution. He took the axe and, with a mighty swing, severed the giant’s head cleanly from his shoulders. The head rolled across the floor as the body collapsed.

But the next evening, the giant returned, his head firmly attached, carrying his terrible axe.

“Come, Lóegaire,” he called. “It is your turn to lay your head upon the block.”

But Lóegaire was nowhere to be found. He had fled Emain Macha in terror, unable to face the return stroke.

The following night, Conall accepted the challenge. He too struck off the giant’s head with a powerful blow, watching it roll into the darkness. But when the giant returned the next evening, calling for Conall to take his turn, the warrior had also vanished.

On the third night, Cú Chulainn faced the giant. Without hesitation, he took the axe and struck the fatal blow, watching the head fly from the shoulders.

The next evening, when the giant returned yet again, Cú Chulainn stood waiting. The hall fell silent as the young warrior knelt and placed his neck upon the chopping block.

“You alone have kept your word,” the giant said, raising his axe high. “You alone have shown true courage.”

The axe descended—but stopped just short of Cú Chulainn’s neck.

Suddenly, the giant’s form shimmered and changed. Before them stood Cú Roí mac Dáire, the king and druid of Munster, his eyes twinkling with approval.

“The test is complete,” he announced. “Cú Chulainn has proven himself the bravest and most honorable warrior in Ulster. To him belongs the champion’s portion, now and forever.”

This time, even Lóegaire and Conall could not dispute the judgment. They had shown themselves to be cowards when faced with the ultimate test, while Cú Chulainn had demonstrated courage beyond question.

At the next great feast in Emain Macha, Cú Chulainn was awarded the champion’s portion without protest. But the young hero, wise beyond his years, shared the honor with his fellow warriors.

“A true champion lifts up those around him,” he declared. “We are all knights of the Red Branch, and together we make Ulster strong.”

As for Bricriu of the Poisonous Tongue, his scheme had ultimately failed. Instead of destroying the unity of Ulster, he had helped to establish Cú Chulainn as the undisputed champion. And though he would continue to plot and scheme, never again would his words carry quite the same power to divide the warriors of the Red Branch.

The tale of Bricriu’s Feast became a legend told throughout Ireland, a reminder that true honor is proven not through boasts and challenges, but through courage, integrity, and the willingness to face one’s fears with an honest heart.