Household banquets were common matters at his court, but this was to be a State banquet, and every person who could be thought of as noble or notable was invited to the Red Branch.
As well as an aristocracy of birth there was in every Irish court an élite of excellence. Those who were foremost in learning, the arts, or the crafts, had the privilege of visiting the king equally with those whose merit rose from their fathers’ graves or their skill at arms. A king was then close to his people, and he was by training and habit a connoisseur in many things which all could understand. A commonwealth of taste is the only one which can admit equality—it is democracy. He could commend with knowledge the man who built a house or the man who did the carvings in it. He could speak to the maker of his chariots or the breaker of his horses in terms that apprehended to the last shading the matter that was being discussed, and, so, to the expert who cured his bacon or the sturdy master who superintended the brewing of his beer. All arts were household arts; all crafts were arts; and the knowledge of these was culture. A gentleman would know of all the music that was worthy of being played, for a musical person formed part of every household. He would remember the songs that had outlived time and could discuss their excellences; and the only art which he need regard as occult would be poetry itself; for, while all other arts come by memory and experiment, poetry, which is not an art, comes solely by grace.
“Lavarcham,” said Conachúr, “have you heard any talk of the banquet?”
“Indeed, master, I have heard nothing else.”
“Will there be any notable absentees?”
“None but those who are dying of wounds or sickness.”
“Cúchulinn has stayed at home for some time now?”
“For a year after marriage one is still newly married,” the conversation-woman submitted.
“I fear that boy’s love for me has bounds,” Conachúr pursued.
“The king has been too kind to him,” cried Lavarcham harshly.