Andrew Offutt - The Sword of the Gael

Now the long-exiled Gael felt foreboding. He frowned and his lips were tight.

His Celtic bloodline ran back thousands of years, even to Atlantis, whose cross had been open at the bottom: a symbol of life, not death. He had rather they arrived at some time other than when a dying sun sent that granite cross’s long sullen shadow over Cashel. It reminded him of betrayal and death, and he brooded nervously over their decision to reveal all to Senchann and Eogan his father.

Chapter Fourteen: The King of Munster

The berried quicken-branches lament in lonely sighs,

Through open doorways of the dun a lonely wet wind cries;

And lonely in the hall he sits, with feasting warriors round,

The harp that lauds his fame in fights hath a lonely sound.

– Edna Carberry: Art the Lonely

Once in his riever days Cormac had taken a bone-deep swordcut in the back of the right thigh. It was both agony and danger to his life, and his men sadly took him to a little island above Alba, there to heal or die. There he lay, for a long month. With the aid, whether medical or arcane he never knew, of an Alban Druid, Luchu and the strange voiceless girl Seimsolas-Light of Beauty-mac Art had recovered.

Sure , he mused the morning after their arrival in Cashel, and it’s that wound I’d rather have again than these saddle-born kinks in legs and backside!

At least he had rested well last night. Tired, dusty, saddle-weary, they had assured Senchann they wanted nothing so much as a night’s sleep. The prince had practically smuggled them into the Hall of Guests. In that many-chambered building next the royal house, they had eaten well. After a brief talk, they retired. Out of the conversation had come agreement that Cormac’s true name would continue secret.

Now, in mid-morning of the following day, they followed Prince Senchann into the royal house.

Two spearmen with ornate sword scabbards, gold-worked hilts and tall, lozenge-shaped shields presided over the double-doored entry. Both men wore tunics of white and were well-girt with fine gleaming armour of red leather, studded with faceted bosses of steel. A long plume of white hair fell down each man’s back from his helm; dyed or bleached ox tails, the three pilgrims supposed.

Between those men and the tall doors passed the four, and into that long broad room.

Massive, squared beams of oak roofed the Hall of Kings in Cashel of Munster. Others, even thicker, supported the beams from a floor of cut, set stone; these uprights were stained a deep red-brown and banded about with ruddy bronze. The area they framed could have accommodated easily the milling of a hundred people. Over a hundred more could sit simultaneously at the tables that ran along the sideward walls. Cormac mac Art wondered if so many supped here nightly, and he thought not.

There were no other weapon men; indeed the hall was entirely deserted. Not even the king was in his great hall this day, and the three foreigners wondered.

Well-attired and long-cloaked, the trio exchanged bemused looks as they followed Prince Senchann. Up the center of the broad long hall he strode, and with each step the purple-worked hem of his voluminous and swirly cloak draped over his rising heel. The yellow of primrose was the cloak’s colour; pure shining silk was its cloth.

Cormac walked with no more comfort than he sat. A day in that unaccustomed place-the saddle-had left him with buttocks tender to the bone. They were muscle-sore when he walked, as were his inner thighs. He bore it, and concealed his discomfort, as he followed the son of the king to audience with the king.

But where was the king?

They soon learned: behind an unmarked door with no handle or sidework, disguised as one of ten black-stained panels at the head of the hall. Beyond was an over-warm little parlour hung all about with thick, heavy draperies of deep carmine. The flooring between them was covered from corner to corner with a rich carpet of an even deeper red.

A man sat in a chair on a raised area at the far wall. He was the room’s only occupant.

The room was the colour of blood; its single denizen was not.

Indeed he appeared to have in his veins no more than a pint of the red juice of life, for all his fat. Shadeflower white was this man with the double circlet of twisted gold about his head, resting on thin locks of auburn and grey. The outsize red mustache that bushed beneath his nose and covered his upper lip and part of his cheeks only emphasized his pallor, as did the deep, deep blue of his robe. A great carcanet of gold covered his upper body from neck past the pectorals, where his belly began. The huge necklace winked with garnets and pearls and blue agates.

His visitors entered and stood, for the Eirrin-born did not bend knee even to crowned head.

In addition to the armchair from which presided the king, there were five other seats in the room: backless chairs of wood, like those of the Romans.

His Majesty Eogan Eoghannact, Cormac mused, sped the words and departure of his visitors and petitioners by seating them as uncomfortably as possible! They were bade to sit, and did.

“Majesty,” Senchann said, “I met these three in an inn of Kilsheed two nights agone. A rude weapon man-and him in our white and scarlet-made several remarks about the lady. At last he was so insolent as to approach her and solicit her company even before her brother and her guardian. It was our soldier provoked the fight, and deliberately; it was this man who ended it, and without difficulty. Eogan King of Munster, I bring to you Cormac mac Othna of Uladh, and will let these twain make known themselves to you.”

Eogan regarded Cormac from brown eyes that blinked often and obviously strained to see. “Have you aught to add to what the prince has said, Cormac mac Othna?”

“None, Lord King.”

“A man of arms and few words, then. Seek you the service of a king, weapon man?”

“With your indulgence, Lord King: I do not.”

The king received that with an extra blink, and was silent for a few moments. Then, “And were I guardian to this lovely lady, nor would I seek service under others, be they gods or homely kings! My son has said you will introduce yourselves. Please do, for the prince’s petition for audience was urgent, and I detect mystery here.”

“My sister, Sire, was named Samaire at birth, and I Ceann, by our royal father Ulad King of Leinster.”

Eogan received his second surprise with aplomb and little hint of his shock. He assured them that they were thrice welcome. Then he inquired as to the reason for such a visit, without heraldry or retainers. Cormac and Senchann sat silent then, while the others held royal converse and the king’s Leinsterish guests told their story.

Hearing them out, Eogan let them see that he was both astonished and disturbed. He sat back and thought a space, beringed white hand toying with the end of his leftward mustachio-and joggling his jowels.

“It is your brother’s head wears the crown, no matter how got,” he ventured, but lapsed again into silence. Then he sighed, looked into Ceann’s eyes, and told them that which assured Cormac this was a thoughtful head under its crown, and a pragmatic one withal. Keeping his face as composed and serious as Eogan’s, Cormac listened, with care to remembering.

“I can and will do no less than offer ye, all three, the hospitality of this house, for so long as you would visit. Nor shall I be less than honest.” He regarded them somberly, blinking, leaning a little forward. Cormac wondered whether the king saw more than blurs and hazy features at distances past, the length of his arm-or perhaps his nose.

“It’s troubled ye cause my mind to be, royal guests, and it’s danger your presence here represents, to my land. I must beseech ye both to keep your counsel as to your identity. For it’s bad blood could result between Munster and Leinster were it known to my lord Feredach that I harbour his sibling exiles-and know their woesome story of evil as well.”