Andrew Offutt - The Sword of the Gael

With sea water, Samaire washed away the sea-creature’s ink-and then scratched, again and again, at salt-encrusted brows…

With good winds their longboat skudded over the dark blue waters, ever north and westward. And Ceann played and muttered, and sang.

Days straggled past, and islands.

“That,” Wulfhere said, “is the Sea of Eirrin-and that Britain.” He pointed to a misty coastland to northward.

Ceann and Samaire looked that way with enthusiasm, and then strained their eyes to the left of that dim-seen land, in search of their own. But Devon and Cornwall hung well below Eirrin’s southernmost coast, and their straining scan of the horizon was unrewarded.

Nor did Wulfhere bring the ship half about, to glide up the waterway that separated the islands of what the Romans called Brittania and Hibernia or Ivernia. Ceann asked, and they conferred.

“We are no force to be inviting a fight,” Wulfhere said. “The Sea of Eirrin is seldom empty of renegades from both lands, as well as my own countrymen, and Norsemen on the Viking path… and Picts, and occasional Jutes and Saxons as well.”

Gazing green-eyed at him, Samaire heard and felt that half the world must be conspiring to prevent their return to their own land.

“An we did sail on up, in hopes of avoiding all those and finding safe landing on the Coast of Meath,” Cormac said, “It’s your own dairlin’ Leinster ye’d be passing, and her great port of Atha Cliath, which some call Dubh-linn: Dark Pool, Wulfhere. For us, it might as well prove to be the latter!”

Ceann sighed, glancing wistfully over his shoulder at the way they would not take. “Aye… and it’s no friendly reception we’d be getting in our own land, now! But… where, then?”

“The coast of Munster, I’m thinking, near Cobh. Well above the Isle of Cat, but… a safe ninety or so miles below Carman of Leinster. Thence to Cashel, I’m thinking, and up into Meath between Leinster and Connacht-where I might well be welcome… and might not.”

“Up the Shannon,” Cormac told her, “but inland from its east bank, aye.”

The young woman heaved a great sigh. “All this time and now this terror-fraught long voyage… and then it’s days and days overland we must make our way. I despair of seeing Tara…” Up came her sun-glinting hair and dimpled chin. “Amend that! I’ll never despair, until the black of death closes over these eyes!”

“That’s a dairlin girl,” Ceann said, appropriating the words he’d heard Cormac apply to his sister so frequently these past few days.

“That’s a woman of Eirrin!” Cormac amended. “And… Samaire… it’s after these many years of exile I return, and another seven-day or so in overland travel seems but little.”

She smiled. “Aye, and it’s pointing out the beauty of Eirrin to ye I’ll be, Cormac mac Art!”

Wulfhere said absolutely nothing, but gazed stonily ahead along their course. Several of those years Cormac had mentioned had been spent in the Dane’s company. Their relationship had been ever good, with many adventures of the sword and good times withal.

The ship slipped across the water. Toward sunset they saw the sight that actually brought tears to one pair of eyes: the far coast of Eirrin. Rather than begin the business of working against the wind at this hour, Wulfhere suggested they furl sail and remain asea until after dark.

“Unnecessary hours with nothing under these feet but the planks of Norse trees and all the water in the world? Ceann groaned. “Methinks I might not be able to bear that, Wulfhere!”

“We’ll not be long in fetching the coast after sunset,” the Danish giant told him. “Consider how much better all three of ye’ll be with a bit of rest and sleep.”

“Sensible,” Cormac said, nodding.

Both Ceann and his sister glanced at their fellow Gael, but neither said aught to the contrary. Despite their being royalty, and of Leinster, it was the son of Art of Connacht they considered leader and best head among them.

Rocking asea, they made their meal, with Ceann plucking tender, lingering notes and singing very quietly:

“The warbling of the blackbird of Litir Lee,

The wave of Rughraidhe lashing the shore;

The bellowing of the ox of Magh-maoin,

And the lowing of the calf of Glenn-da-maoil.

The tossing of the hulls of barks by the waves,

The yell of the hounds of fair Laighin,

The cry of Bran at Cnoc-an-air,

Or the cry of eagles about Mount Leinster.”

“Was there ever a place, above or below,” Samaire murmured,

“Better than Eirrin,

’Tis there Samaire would go,

At the side of Art’s son.”

She did not notice that all three men gazed at her, and that two of them looked at Cormac son of Art, and back at her, and then hastily away.

They rested, but little sleep was got by any. of the four that afternoon.

“But-we have assumed … why Wulfhere, you must join us!”

Twitching the rudder to angle the ship toward the shore, Wulfhere shook his head. “I will miss your minstreling, Prince of Minstrels,” he said. “But no, Eirrin and its business are none of mine. It’s enough danger there is for you three, fugitives all, without your bringing ashore a son of Odin from the land you Lochlinn … my Dane-mark.”

“But Wulfhere-” Samaire began, frowning deep.

“I can handle this craft, and ye have no use for it. Soon I’ll find a crew, and return to… what I know and do best.”

“And love best,” Cormac said, and Samaire noted well the wistfulness in his voice.

“And love best!” Wulfhere agreed, with his back to Cormac.

The little ship slipped shoreward beneath the stars. A division of their spoils was no easy matter, with them wanting to leave Wulfhere more and him refusing, saying they’d need all to make their way through “civilized” countryside-meaning among people where goods or their equivalent, money, spoke loudly.

They contrived to leave him more than he knew, nevertheless, with him busy at the rudder. Ceann and Samaire took little note of Cormac’s staring ahead; they had not the experience to know that any shore was a hostile one, and particularly to those who came quietly by night.

The Dane took their battle-won ship in to a spit of sandy land that came right down to the water and ran up immediately into loamy soil sprouting a wealth of greenery. In the moonlight they looked at each other, and tears sparkled on more than one Gaelic cheek.

“Be there objection to this ship’s being called Minstrel Prince? ” Wulfhere asked, thickly as though he had swallowed something to lodge in his throat.

Ceann shook his head, tried three times, and at last got out his quiet, “None.” After a moment he added, “And it’s honour I’m done, at that.”

Wulfhere’s teeth flashed in a smile. Then he looked at Cormac.

“We two be veterans of many adventures and strong sword-reddening combats,” he said. “Bloodbrothers?”

Cormac nodded. “It’s enough we’ve shed together! Blood-brothers, you ugly great bush-face.”

“Mayhap we’ll meet again, if I were of a mind to have do with a battle-hogging son of a Gaelic pig-farmer.”

“I regret ever the day I told you my father had pigs on our land!”

“Get thee off my ship, ere one of us says the ridiculous!”

“Or weeps,” Samaire murmured, watching the two men. The ship rocked, lapped by gentle tide-waves, bumping the sandy shore.

“All the gods be with you, Wulfhere Skull-splitter, and fair weather!”

“And you, Cormac an Cliuin, and may ye ever avoid Loki and the plots of men and gods.” A moment he stood there, back to the moon, a huge dark figure with a bristling beard. Then he said it again: “Get thee off my ship! I’ve places to sail to, and work to do!”