Andrew Offutt - The Sword of the Gael

Ceann’s breath hissed in between his teeth; the other prince continued talking in that low, hurried voice.

“Too, the messenger will suggest that mayhap a tryst might be made, twixt the kings of these two lands, as they fare forth to the Feis-mor in Tara of Meath and an agreement struck as to your… futures .”

“We’d have none,” Ceann said in a whisper that was close to a guttural growl, “in Feredach’s red hands!”

“Then listen, and with your mouths closed, for I bear no enmity to any of ye, but dislike a betraying of my own father as much!”

And they listened, while Senchann muttered rapidly.

It was a little later in the afternoon when the minstrel, plucking and singing softly, unhurriedly left Cashel by way of her northern gate. He wore a tattered old orange cloak with its hood up, and the watchful weapon men in white and red paid him only the slightest heed.

At another time a little later, a crippled woman hobbled through that same gate, a blowzy wench whose muttering voice proclaimed her to be well past her prime. Her hair was close-covered in the Old Manner to show she was married, and she did not miss one guard’s sneering to another that she must have been within Cashel’s walls to earn her husband’s keep on her back.

At about that same time, a well-mounted man departed Cashel from the Connachta gate to the northeast. Bent he was, and scarred of face, and a filthy tunic and cloak on him. There was nothing remarkable about him, save that the two beasts he led looked remarkably good horseflesh to be pack-animals.

One of the white-and-reds at the gate watched after him, but the dirty scarface did not straighten once he was out on the road, nor did he increase the pace of his roan horse. Then there was a group of merchants approaching the gate, and them to be watched, and the scarface was forgot.

The scarface rounded a turn in the road, saw that a hill now stood between him and any view of Cashel’s gate. Straightening, he tugged sharply at the long rein of the packhorses. At the same time he nudged his mount in the flank with his heel. It was ill-advised, for the man bounced as only a bad rider does, when the horse broke into a fast trot. In the wake of the man and the three horses trailed his curses and grunts.

There were none to see when he swerved off onto the skimpy trail that connected the northern road with that to Connacht. Still he cursed, all the way. As he approached the wide ribbon of the other road, he heard the hallooo from within the trees. He drew rein, and turned in among the cool stand of yew and hazelnut. Two people appeared to meet him.

In short order the blowzy woman and the orange-cloaked minstrel were mounted, and despite the cursing of the other man, all three of them set off northward at the gallop. Thus did a prince, a princess and an exiled warrior gain departure from Cashel of Munster, and without so much as a thankyou or farewell for the king who had extended them the hospitality of his own house.

Red were their swords and dark each heart

Black Carbri’s men of Brosna Wood;

All four they met Cormac mac Art,

And soon each leaf was dark with blood!

– Diarmuid of Tulla Mor (?)

That night the trio of pilgrims, now reduced to the status of fugitives, knew only that they were somewhere east of the Shannon. At dusk they turned off the road and into a heavy stand of timber.

The trees were black, eerie menacing forms rising all about them as they made their way into the forest, without light. They were soon forced to dismount and lead their horses. Cormac winced at the pain his muscles shot up through him as they walked, but he said nothing. The others, more used to riding, had not considered that he might be suffering, and he would not let them know.

Coming to a small clearing, they tethered the horses so that they could avail themselves of what little grazing there was to hand; the animals had drunk at a ford only a short time ago. In darkness and near silence, Ceann, Samaire and Cormac broke out the meat and cheese Cormac had bought in the market at Cashel.

They spent the night there, taking turns at watch. Ceann drew that chore first, and awoke Cormac for his turn. While mac Art sat there fighting to keep awake, there was a rustling and Samaire joined him. She bent, and it was her lips came to him first. With their mouths united, she sank down onto the saddle blanket he’d spread over a great patch of moss. He felt it; her body vibrated against his like the tightly coiled spring of a siege engine.

He spoke very quietly. “Sleep, Samaire, for I’ll not spare ye your turn at watch. We all need what sleep we can gain.”

Sulkily, she settled down beside him, pressed against the body he held under control. He did not touch her. Soon her breathing deepened, and he felt more radiant warmth from her curled body. She slept. Cormac sat, giving his leg and arm vicious pinches from time to time to insure wakefulness.

At last he woke her, and when he was sure she had her wits about her, he slept. Years of the life of a warrior and seafaring coastal riever had given him the necessary ability to be asleep within seconds after he’d decided.

She woke him at dawn, and Ceann roused at their voices. The triple watch had been unnecessary; there had been nothing but normal night-sounds of the forest. They ate, wished there were a stream for bathing, and put that out of their minds.

Suddenly Samaire looked around with wide eyes. Her voice was close to panic. “I-we know not which way the road lies!”

Cormac mac Art smiled at her. “We do, unless there’s been a visitor in the night, and he so silent we heard him not. Follow.”

Leading the horses, they followed. Their direction was marked by the bush Cormac had deliberately broken. A few feet farther on, he paused to pluck forth a gleaming brooch, which was pinned to the bark of a linden.

Samaire began, “How-”

Ceann answered with a chuckle: “Our clever Cormac stuck that there last night, to mark our way back! You and I’d have been lost for certain, sister.”

On they went, and Cormac retrieved the slender chain of gold that dangled from the rough bark of an oak. A little farther another brooch twinkled in the thin rays of sunlight that fought their way through the thick leafy boughs; the brooch was pinned to a tree, above the level of Cormac’s head. It was unnecessary. Past it they saw a thinning of the trees, and bright sunlight.

Cormac’s arm swept straight up and he twisted his head about at the two following him. “Not a sound! Be still! Listen!”

Holding the horses in tight check, the three stood motionless. In seconds, hearing what had caused Cormac to warn them was no problem. Many equine feet rapped the road and so rapidly were they moving that their galloping hoof-falls formed a steady drumming. Those fast-moving horses came closer and closer, and then through the thinning trees the three fugitives saw them.

They went by at the gallop: a troop of eleven men, all well mounted. Red leather armour gleamed over their white tunics. They were past within the space of two breaths-though the trio of watchers in the forest was unconsciously holding air in motionless chests.

A cloud of dust eddied in the rattling drumming wake of the soldiers of Eogan of Munster. The sound of the galloping hooves receded rapidly.

“My grief!” Ceann muttered. “Those be men sent to… escort us-”

“Aye,” Cormac said. “Our escort. Back to Cashel that is, and close-watched ‘hospitality!’ ”

Samaire’s voice held despair. “Vexation upon us!”

Cormac turned back to them. Though his eyes were narrowed into invisibility, he was smiling. “Not at all. We wait but for the stir of the shadow across that branch yonder, and… we follow those north-bent soldiery!”