Andrew Offutt - The Sword of the Gael

First Ceann and then Cormac became afflicted with the disease of drunkenness, and they were soon joined by Dond-and his son, despite his mother’s efforts to keep the boy away from the ale. But he was now a countryside hero, and it was not only his father’s ale he drank but that brought by this neighbour and that. Smiling, they plied the boy with it. In return they learned how Cormac and Ceann had saved them all-and how Dondal mac Dond had saved each man of them as well, meanwhile slaying seven fierce Picts. His head swelled and swelled, and so did his story, and it was not only the result of alefumes.

All were delighted that the trio spent another night there, save Samaire. There was little she could do about it, though. For Ceann and Cormac, like Dondal and Dond and no less than five others, fishermen from up and down the coast hereabouts were quite asleep before the fall of night.

On the morning of the morrow, Lendabaer had reason to wail. And wail she did. It was her son Dondal she saw, and him in Pictish armour too small for him, and wearing a helmet, and with sword and dagger on him. He stood grinning in the doorway.

The boy announced that he would guide the trio of visitors to Cashel, the capital, and there seek service himself as a weapon-man of the king.

“Oh grief on me!” Lendabaer cried, flinging up her hands before her ruddy face.

Dond insisted that he needed’ the boy here. Lendabaer wept. And Dondal, a changed person and that overnight, remained adamant. The boy even sneered at such a weapons-handler and Pict-slayer as he wielding net and oar and fish-spear for the rest of his life, and the king mayhap in need of such a man for the good of crown and land!

Samaire gave Cormac a look, and his face and demeanor grew worse than sheepish.

“It was you, bloodthirsty hulk,” Samaire muttered, “who just had to say ‘Ye be a warrior born’ to that poor peasant’s son. Oh, Cormac! He’ll be getting himself killed within the month for it!”

Quietly, walking along the shoreline just before dawn, Cormac mac Art told Dond mac Forgall a few facts. Around and about them birds twittered and called, and the sound of the sea was in their ears.

“I have pride in me, Dond, and-”

“Aye, and with good cause!”

“Hush a moment, friend, and list to this prideful man,” Cormac said quietly. He shot a glance in the direction of the hut. “That pride will not let me continue to lie, and have a good man as yourself, Eirrin-born and of heroic bent in the protection of his family… what was I saying?”

Dond suppressed his smile. “I suffer from the same iron ball rolling about within my skull, son of Othna,” he said. “Ye were-”

“I know now, for you have said it. I have no father named Othna, nor have I ever. I am Connacht-born, Dond, and it’s Art my father was, and a name hard to wear he gave me.”

Dond stopped stock-still, and he stared. “My lord!”,

Cormac squeezed his shoulder. “Do not insult me by ceasing to call me ‘friend Cormac,’ friend. At any rate-it was long ago I was forced to flee Connacht, for the High-king then was fearful of a man bearing the name I do.”

“Sure, and it be a name even greater than Cuchulain, Cormac mac Art. The High-king ye speak of was Laegair Niall’s son?”

“The same. With, I think, the aid of Leinster’s king, he did treachery on me, and I fled, years and years ago. Now it’s on my way to Tara I am, and the High-king and assembly I hope to see, for a man Eirrin-born does not forget his land. But none must know this until I have made my way there, and had my reception, whatever form it takes.”

“You mean to confront them all at the Feis of Tara, my lor-friend Cormac?”

“I do.”

“Then until well after that time, it is Cormac mac Othna and his friends I have known and loved-but by Yuletide next, all will know that it was Cormac mac Art of Connacht who slept and slew here.” Abruptly Dond chuckled. “And shared a headache with me!”

“Be careful, Dond. My name may be even less then than now, for many have forgot, in twelve years.”

“Twel-why, ye were a mere boy!”

“Aye. And that be something else I’d talk with ye about. So is Dondal a mere boy, Dond, and not so proficient as was I with arms then, for I have been trained by fighting men, and Druid-taught. I make you this promise, friend: I’ll not depart Cashel before I’ve sent the boy home to you.”

Dond went pale, and actually stumbled. Cormac had seen men weak with joy before, and affected not to notice.

“Tell his mother and still her cries and her mind. But know this, Dond, and seek to set yourself and that good woman Lendabaer at peace on it: your son Dondal is a warrior born. It’s made to wield a sword of good steel he was, not a fleching-knife or net or barbed spear, and sure one day all the land will have the name of Dondal mac Dond in their mouths!”

“Ye… think so.”

“Ye know me for a weapon-man, Dond, and one who has reddened his arms many times, though only once in Eirrin. Oh-twice, now…”

“Picts don’t count!” Dond said in a boyish rush.

“At any rate-I know a warrior born, yes.”

Dond nodded, and no more was said of the matter.

Even though he trusted the man implicitly as friend and one he had both saved and reddened arms with, Cormac said no word about the identities of “Celthair” and “Ess.” True, their business was now his. But the telling of it, in Cormac’s personal code, was not. Later he knew that Dond had already shared with his wife news that Cormac would see to their son’s return, for she gave him a great hug and a cheek-kiss as they prepared to take leave.

Nowhere approaching so fine as he thought he looked, Dondal was their guide, in his Pictish armour and girt with their weapons. Samaire had retained the tall boots she loved, though now a tunic of homespun covered them past her knees. Ceann and Cormac, too, wore clothing loomed and sewn by a fisherman’s wife. All three of them retained their broad long cloaks, into which Samaire had sewn secret pouches.

With the birds singing all about and the sun smiling as if happy with the thirteen savage bodies now nurturing its soil, the little quartet set out inland. Behind them danced and jabbered the two younger children of Dond and Lendabaer, until their brother paused to bid them return. With great respect, they showed him crestfallen faces but made no complaint. Back they went, with tears staining their cheeks. Dondal walked tall and Cormac was forced to slow the boy’s long stride.

Stiff-tipped, Samaire pointed out that they had enough wealth off the Vikings to buy horses sufficient to seat all Munster.

“This is peasant country, dairlin girl. It were best as we’ve agreed to make no bold display of our wealth. Horse or chariot would be the boldest. We continue afoot to Cashel.”

“I swear by the gods the great tribes of Leinster swore by before Padraigh,” Samaire/Ess muttered, “this walking will be the death of me, a good and strong woman who’s fought the good fight even as a man!”

“No one told you to wear boots that fit you but ill,” Cormac reminded her, and received a black look from beneath new-stained lashes.

Later in the day, when occasion arose, Dondal asked Cormac quietly-and nervously, with stammers and a licking of the lips that ill became a companion-at-arms, whether Ess Sun-tress was his woman.

Cormac thought a moment. Why, the boy actually-he dared-hmm! Well , Cormac told himself, he’s old enough, for all that! Best not give him opportunity to undertake some ridiculous wooing of the handsomest woman he’d ever seen, then.

“Aye,” Cormac said.

“Oh,” Dondal said, downcast, and then, “I thought so,” even more morosely. Then, after a few steps, he added hurriedly, “And it’s a fine handsome woman ye’ve made your own, Cormac mac Othna, and her a fighting companion too!”