Andrew Offutt - The Sword of the Gael

Against the wall, the hooded minstrel brought forth several soft, lingering notes.

“We’d be leaving ye now,” Cormac said, “with thanks. And would you ask your father to-ah.” The father was coming out of the kitchen that quickly, with anxious glances in the direction of the soldiers.

The girl’s head jerked up and her eyes widened; a sneering voice spoke from Cormac’s other side, and just behind him.

“Surely one who has lived here nigh onto a year, and a military man besides who’s capable of protecting you, would be a better companion in the night outside, prettygirl.”

Cormac transferred his alejack from his right to his left hand. Samaire continued to lavish her attention on the remains of her dinner awhile, then looked up. Her face was open, her eyes clear and the brows above them innocently arched; her tone was infinitely equable.

“I had not noted that it had grown dark,” she said. “Nor have I need of protection, surely, with such fine soldiers about.”

Silence followed. Under the table, Cormac very slowly moved his feet, bracing for a sideward lunge. He did not smile, but silently saluted “his woman”; her words might well cook the fellow’s arrogance and ardour and return him like a chastised sheepdog to this table.

“And a good thing it is,” the soldier at last said, “and you in the company of this moon-dark scarface and that hound-eared boy in his funny clothes!”

“Fish-mouthed ass!” Dondal snapped, more picturesquely than with attention to likelihood. He stood with dramatic suddenness that toppled his chair behind him-and raised one edge of his trencher high enough to spill grease and a gnawed bone onto the table.

“Dondal!”

It was Cormac’s voice rapped out, but the boy in his undersize armour was already around the table, moving with more speed than grace for the soldier. Backing his chair around, for the daughter of his host was in the way, Cormac looked up in time to see the briefest of encounters.

Almost negligently, the corner of his upper lip lifted in a despising sneer, the big soldier swept a hand out. Dondal was shoved, and staggered, and first his feet and then a table got in his way. He fell over it with, a crash and a bang, his head struck the floor good and hard, and he lay still. Cormac gave him only a glance to note that the boy’s eyes were closed, not open; he was alive then, and unconscious. Then Cormac was on his feet.

“You are a loudmouthed braying jackass who disgraces womanhood and the service of your king,” he advised quietly. “And,” he added smoothly as the man flushed and reached for his sword, “so unconcerned with the property of this good man our host as to fight here and endanger his property. Now it’s outside I go. You are welcome to seek my company.”

Cormac turned his back on the man, whose sword was half out of its handsomely enameled sheath. Cormac walked to the inn’s door, and went out onto a twilit street darkened at intervals by the shadows of houses.

He turned to find the king’s weapon-man rushing from the doorway with long sword in hand. It was too late for Cormac to meet him with his own blade.

Hand to hilt, Cormac awaited that charge, and at the last moment moved with hurricane swiftness. Sideward he stepped, listening to the whistle of the blade meant for his head, and he left his foot behind. The charging soldier tripped and stretched his great hulk on the ground with a crash. He grunted loudly, was still a moment while he gathered his wits, and then rolled swiftly to avoid an attack. None was in progress. He stared up at the other man, who stood gazing coolly at him, sword in sheath.

“Unless his head be broke, in which case yours shall be, we are at quits,” Cormac said. “You had no trouble measuring the boy’s length; I had no more with yours.” That should have been enough, but Cormac was not the pacifist he was trying so hard to be. He could not help adding, “It’s boys and women you’re more suited for troubling-though the woman’s words would have sent slinking a man who knew his father well enough to have been properly reared.”

For a number of dragging seconds the fallen man stared at him in astonishment. His face changed as his anger rose. Then he was narrowing his eyes, gaining a firmer grip on his sword, and rising.

“I have been called Cuchulain this very day,” Cormac told him, “and ye’ve not the appearance of a man to cross swords with such.”

“There’ll be no crossing of swords, arrogant pig from a peasant’s muddy wallow! Mine wants only a sheathing-in your insolent belly!” And the weapon-man charged again.

The blade of mac Art scraped from its sheath and rushed in the air. It caught the other’s sword on it, and pushed, so that steel scraped on steel rather than slammed down upon it; Cormac had had swords broken in his hand afore. Shieldless as was his antagonist, he lunged then to strike the bigger man in the chest with a shoulder. The soldier was staggered both mentally and physically. It was backward his uncertain steps carried him, and it was behind his ankle Cormac’s foot sped.

The big man crashed to earth a second time.

Instantly Cormac glanced back at the inn; where were this man’s companions, that they came not to his aid? Ceann and Samaire were boiling forth-and damnation on the luck, men were running down the street, and with a most martial clanking!

It’s trouble I’ve purchased with this sour coin , Cormac mac Art thought-but his regret was only that he had no shield, for he had cavalierly left it within the inn.

Back came his opponent, at the rush. With a sigh and a gritting of his teeth Cormac decided that if more foes were coming, it were better for him to lessen the odds now. The soldier struck a blow that should have sheared through corselet and flesh to the bone-had not its target dropped into a squat and stabbed him through the thigh.

The Munsterman fell for the third time. Nor did he rise, but remained prostrate, writhing in pain. Cormac turned to face the naked swords of five helmeted, shield-bearing soldiers of the king. They were now no more than fifteen feet away, and running.

“HO-O-OLLLLLLD!” a voice bawled from the inn.

They held, Cormac and the king’s men, and all looked at the inn door. There, flanked by Ceann and Samaire and with the other two soldiers, behind him, stood the hooded minstrel. With a swift gesture he put back that hood, to reveal himself a slim young man, dark-haired, wearing a mustache and a slender silver fillet about his head at mid-forehead.

“Let those who do not recognize me, ask.”

The body of soldiers who had been charging Cormac did obeisance to the long-cloaked man, while Cormac frowned. The leader of the military contingent soon solved for him the problem of the minstrel’s identity:

“We know you, Prince Senchann Eoghanachta mac Eogain!”

Senchann of Munster pointed at Cormac. “That man is a man, and worthy of my father’s service. Him in the dust at his feet, where he best belongs, is not worthy of that service, or of Munster or indeed Eirrin. Ye all know well it is my wont to wander hither and thither in disguise, to hear the words and will of the people of our land. This night I heard and saw how that arrogant and insolent man-with the backing of these two behind me, who want disciplining-insulted a woman in this inn, and her gentle, and deliberately sought war with her companions. It is god’s will that he found a man better at arms than himself, and now wallows in the dust like the base pig that he is.”

There was silence. Cormac withheld his smile, but let it warm him inwardly. The little company of weapon-men in the street stood stiffly, awaiting the pleasure of their king’s son. The two behind him stood just as stiffly-and the inn’s lights showed them to be pale and apprehensive.