Andrew Offutt - The Sword of the Gael

“Your commander will remain here with me,” Prince Senchann said. “You others will carry-or drag, it makes little difference-back to your barrack… that .” He indicated the man writhing near Cormac with a jerk of his hand, which was without jewelry. “With you also go these two, as miscreants.” He turned.

Ceann and Samaire stepped aside, and the cloaked minstrel-prince faced the two ashy-faced soldiers directly. “Your swords,” he said, and he received them, one by one, hilt-first. Back he turned, in an attitude of waiting, and the soldiers who had been bearing down on Cormac came alive.

They only glanced at him as they picked up their comrade with the bloody thigh. The two men came sheepishly out of the inn to join them. The whole company moved silently off up the street, save for the man who had called out the Munsterish prince’s name. Long silent seconds passed before Cormac realized that the fellow was waiting for him to precede, into the inn.

Sword in hand, Cormac walked those few paces. At the base of the inn’s three steps, he solemnly reversed his sword and offered it to Senchann, hilt foremost.

“A good hilt, well shaped and enhanced,” Senchann observed. “And a good hand, bandage and all. And a good man as well. Sheathe your weapon, warrior, and tell me your name.”

Cormac’s sword scraped and settled into his scabbard with a final thunk. “I am Cormac mac Othna, on my way with my companions to Cashel and then Tara, Lord Prince.”

“Well warrior Cormac, Munster could do worse than to have yourself tarrying long and long in Cashel in our service! Come in.” He looked past Cormac. “Fiacc mac Cumal, is it not?”

There was surprise in the soldier’s voice. “Aye, my lord!”

“Well, be not surprised, Captain Fiacc. I know what’s about in this kingdom, and I assure you that my father does, as well.”

Samaire and Ceann moved aside and Senchann re-entered the inn of the Moon-disk. Cormac followed, also passing between his companions; after him came Captain Fiacc.

“Lord Prince-” the innkeeper began.

Senchann waved a hand, his long brown cloak rippling. “It is a good house ye keep, Master Tuachel. We’ll have ale.”

“Lord Prince, had I but known… lord, I have-”

“Ale.”

“Yes, Lord Prince. At once. Boann!” The landlord whirled, and his wide-eyed daughter came much alive at his call. Soon ale was on its way, and good mugs. Senchann, meanwhile, had bent over Dondal.

“He lives, as we all knew, and is coming awake. Who is this poor strangely-dressed youth with the heart of a lion, mac Othna?”

Cormac told him, briefly, and Senchann looked up at him with lifted brows.

“ Thirteen Picts?”

“Aye, King’s son.

The large brown eves and lifted brows turned to Samaire. “And even yourself took toll among them?”

She nodded.

Chuckling, Senchann of Munster shook his head. “What a band of invaders I have met this night! Why that insolent pig of a soldier was but a yapping puppy, harrying a pack of wolves, wasn’t he! A wonder he was not stretched in the dust by you…” He was looking at Samaire, and he let his voice trail off, on a rising note.

“S-Ess, Lord Prince. And my brother Celthair.”

“Cormac, and Celthair, and Ess, and Dondal son of a fisherman! Ah-he blinks and wonders where he is now. Be still a time, Dondal mac Dond, for it’s your head you struck, and your honour avenged, and your prince at your side.”

“M-my… prince?”

“Aye. And a brave young man I’ve seen ye to be. Cormac mac Othna has told me ye be a warrior born, and were on your way to my father, to offer him your sword. Is’t true?”

Dondal’s eyes shone. “Aye, Lord prince!”

Cormac had already spoken to Senchann on that score. The prince looked up; Cormac gave his head a slow shake. Smiling, Senchann looked down at the fallen boy.

“Know ye now that there’s a matter of being ever ready, and of training for proficiency, and that had he chosen to draw weapon the man ye so valiantly attacked would have robbed your father of his firstborn?”

Dondal flushed, and his eyes closed. His voice was barely audible: “Aye, Lord Prince.” After a moment he added, “And it’s great shame I wear.”

“Well,” Senchann said, “I’ve worn the same, Dondal, and more than once. I prefer a cloak! But put it from your mind. Be assured that the man you hoped to serve would say the same to you: return to the house and service of your father, and ease the water of the fine seafood we cherish even in Cashel. Meanwhile practice , and be ever prepared to defend family and life and country. But-be not anxious to wear sword and see to the reddening of it, Dondal mac Dond.”

Dondal whispered sadly, “Aye, Lord Prince.”

“Understand that I am not anxious to wear Munster’s crown either, Dondal mac Dond, for that would mean that my father is stretched in the earth. But-if ever that day comes, you are to come to me in Cashel, and hand me this.”

From within his cloak the prince brought forth a slender torc twisted of three strands of silver, each no thicker than ten strands of hair. He slipped it about the neck of the fisherman’s son. Dondal was speechless, though his mouth was open.

Senchann rose. “Now get up, mac Dond, and join us at ale.” He looked at the silent soldier. “Captain Fiacc, a lesson learned. First that your men need be told what manners and honour are, and that being in the service of Munster is for peace, not war in taverns and insults made to women, known or unknown. And another: that things are not always as they appear, and questions must be asked, an you serve well and properly. I speak of the five men ye led-had I not called out, the just man in that encounter would have been set upon, and slain, is it not?”

Fiacc was chewing his lip; Senchann caught Cormac’s thin smile. The prince, too, smiled. “Well, an – would have been made to slay Cormac, who but defended woman and self and honour, and more blood would have been spilled. All because the man he wounded is less than a man. Remember, Captain Fiacc.”

“Aye, Lord Prince.”

Senchann heaved a sigh. “Well, now I seem all unwontedly to have struck dumb both Dondal and Fiacc, let us sit down and sip, and see if we be capable of holding speech together.”

Chapter Thirteen: The Capital of Munster

The oak spreads mighty beneath the sun

In a wonderful dazzle of moonlight

green-

Oh, would I might hasten from tasks

undone,

And journey where no grief hath been!

– Edna Carberry: I-Breasil

(the afterworld)

“And practice , “ said Cormac mac Art.

Dondal nodded dolorously. Crestfallen, somehow not quite so large as he’d been yet just as hulking, the boy wore his Pictish armour-in a roll across his shoulders. Stillborn was his brilliant military career, at least for the present. The fisherman’s son turned and set off along the homeward road, like a hound who’d been out overnight and now returned, weary and empty-bellied.

Cormac turned to Prince Senchann. The two men exchanged a smile that was not without empathy for Dondal’s feelings. Senchann’s mustache writhed and his oversized front teeth gleamed in the morning sunlight. His great hooded cloak, with his smallharp, formed a pack behind his saddle, and today the slender noble wore a soldier’s tunic and sandals. Nothing else; the summer day was warm and leggings unnecessary-and Senchann had good well-muscled calves to show off.

He twisted in the saddle to look around at the little company. The innkeeper Tuachel, standing behind his belly in the door of his inn, beamed, thinking the prince had turned to bid him good fortune. He was wrong, but kind Senchann mac Eogain nodded at the man anyhow. Then he looked from face to face of his companions.