Andrew Offutt - The Sword of the Gael

Ceann spoke with asperity. “It’s long we’ve journeyed since those honourless men of Norge captured us on the fen, Lord King of Munster. Nor do we intend to end that journey here. We thank you for your hospitable offer, and assure you we will depart in short order for Tara and the ear and protection of the High-king.”

“Nor,” Samaire said, for she was no cowed woman to sit silent while men talked, “shall we stop there either. We have a home, Eogan Eoghannact, and it is not Munster or Meath, Cashel or Tara!”

“I liked your upspoken words to the king this morning,” Cormac told Samaire.

“Overly straightforward words,” Ceann said. “Note well that the uncrowned heads of Leinster were not invited to sup at the king’s table!”

The trio sat in the two-room suite they’d been given within the royal house itself. Before them was the meal brought by two servants in red and white. The suite was handsome, sumptuous; the dinner well suited for visiting royalty. Yet there was the pervasive feeling, almost a scent, of their being so treated only out of duty, and them hardly welcome.

“Eating with others would have been difficult,” Cormac pointed out, “for people are curious. Nor could we have been seated high up, remember, for we are all three with names in hooded cloaks.”

“It’s more than that, and we all know it,” Samaire said.

“A Roman gallows stands in granite atop Cashel Rock,” Cormac said, “and broods over Eogan’s capital, and Eogan fears its shadow!”

“And his own!” Samaire snapped. Bringing her tooled goblet of good silver close to her face, she studied its ornate tracery.

His own rich cup newly filled with ale, Cormac leaned back and crossed his ankles. His saddle-sore backside objected; he tensed its halves along with his resolve to show nothing and bear all. He’d soon be back on a horse again, and was angered that his well-toned body was at odds with him, and it not wounded.

“He is not the first king to be so cautious,” he said, “nor will he be the last. A king does, after all, have many people to consider. We know too little of Eogan of The Eoghannachta to judge whether he thinks only of himself. Like Lagaire of the ua-Neill!” He was tight-lipped as he added that last. “But… I have been thinking…”

“When you’ve thought upon you, Cormac mac Art, we be ready to listen,” Ceann said, with the air of a king.

Cormac did not move but remained in his relaxed position, while eyes like ice a hundred’ fathoms deep made cool at the other man. “Play not the king with me, Ceann Ruadh! Guardian I seem in truth to be-in your service I am not!”

There was silence among them, with Samaire looking passing nervous. Then Ceann smiled, though thinly.

“Very well, Cormac the Wolf. If I did sound as prince to subject, I’d correct tone and words.”

Cormac smiled and nodded. He recognized a royally-disguised apology, and was delighted not so much to receive it as with Ceann. “By the blood of the gods, Ceann Ruadh, but it’s a king you’d be making, and this I’d swear!”

“Fealty?” Samaire asked, with great ingenuous innocence, but her brother lashed her with a stare of approbation.

“I remember distinctly there were words I had to share,” Cormac mac Art said, and prince and princess looked chastened-mildly. Both sat attentively gazing at him.

“Consider. Suppose that Eogan is thinking, as he may well be, thus: I am Eogan and king, and whatever else he may be, so too, is Feredach a king. Matters are looked at differently, between kings. Now right well might bond be struck between us-I, Eogan, and Feredach-were I to return Feredach a message. ”

Without taking his eyes off Cormac, Ceann reached for his goblet. Samaire sat forward, staring with lowering brows.

“The message would advise Leinster’s king that I, Eogan, have in my household those… troublesome relatives he sought to dispose of, oversea.” Cormac’s hand swept out in a smoothing gesture. “And Feredach is in Eogan’s debt, and Eogan has less to worry about-and you more!”

“Surely,” Samaire began, “no man would-”

“Not a man, but a king,” her brother interrupted. “It may well be as ye say, Cormac. By the gods of my people, there may be serpents in Eirrin after all, and them walking about on two legs.”

“Waddling,” Samaire corrected, but no one smiled.

“Yet he was obviously not anxious for us to tarry here,” Ceann said thoughtfully, seeming to study the wall opposite.

Suddenly Cormac smiled, and his feet came uncrossed and thumped the floor. “Aye, and that before he had time to think or counsel with his poet. And you assured him that we were anxious to be off! Therein our clue lies! We shall know Eogan has taken counsel and decided as I have said-if he undergoes a change of heart and tries to persuade us to tarry here.”

Next day Eogan sent for them, and kindly pointed out that the Great Feis of Tara was not long off, and that he would be traveling up to Tara Hill with royal retinue. Surely the three of them would abide here with him until then, as honoured and welcome guests, so as to travel with proper accompaniment…

Having given Eogan no hint of their suspicion at his half-expected words to persuade them to tarry here-presumably whilst his messenger betook himself into Leinster-the trio got themselves well out of the king’s house and into the town that afternoon. There, walking and talking in quiet tones, they took counsel as to what must be done.

“We cannot be certain,” Ceann said with a frown. “ His offer”-for they would speak no names on the streets of Cashel-”is, after all, a natural one, and logical as well. Brigands do exist along the roads and in the forests.”

“And in large houses in certain towns of Munster,” Cormac said, affecting not to look at a pair of men lolling against a wall; both wore white tunics and steel-bossed armour of red leather.

“Then we face the dilemma,” Samaire said unhappily. “The dangers of the road, alone, or… the other we have talked about. Either may exist-and both may not!”

Cormac chafed under the self imposed responsibility for the two of them. If it were he alone, he’d be on the northward road from this town already, and without leavetaking or care for dangers ahead: danger was to be kept in mind, and met when it reared.

They turned down a noisy street that formed an open market. There they made pause to examine a great array of juniper berries set colourfully side by side with piles of crinkly sloke, or sea-spinach. A foot thumped Cormac’s, and not by accident. He looked around to find beside him an old man, bent, leaning heavily on a staff. A white beard scraggled forth from the face-shadowing hood of his tattered orange cloak.

The staff swung to gesture, and the old fellow hobbled off. Cormac stood staring at the bent, orange-covered back until the hood swung back his way, surely to see if he followed. With a hand on each arm, he bent between Samaire and Ceann.

“We are beckoned. Come with me, but as if aimlessly.”

The old fellow made good time, for all his bowed back and leaning on his staff, and the trio pushed their way through buyers and sellers halfway along the street. Their hooded leader swerved into an alley made dark by a great awning of deep green sailcloth. Cormac entered after him, with his hand wrapped around his dagger hilt.

In the gloom, the old fellow partially straightened and with both hands pushed back his hood. His face was revealed for but an instant, but it was long enough for recognition of the mustached young man’s face and overlarge front teeth. It was disguise-loving Senchann mac Eogain!

“This day a messenger leaves Cashel,” he muttered, and Ceann and Samaire crowded close. “He rides to the house. of Feredach in Leinster. That king will be advised that it’s safe and watched ye three are here, and that it’s safe here ye’ll be held .”