Andrew Offutt - The Sword of the Gael

Most magnificent of all-aye, more so than the residence of the Ard-righ himself-was the banqueting hall and meeting-place, the Mi-Chuarta.

Ceann and Samaire of Leinster and Cormac mac Art would have their time in that mighty structure, but now it was Fair-time in Tara of the Kings.

Everywhere were pennons and brightly coloured tents and striped awnings, and what was not bartered for and sold was not worth the having. Horsebacked arrivals could hardly move amid all the colourful-and noisy-press. Cormac was just beginning to wonder where he and his companions would take their nightly rest when a contralto voice called out Samaire’s name, loudly and with much surprise.

Cormac could not be certain who had so shouted, for more than one stared at the mounted trio. Nor would he have expected the hail to have emanated from the young woman in whose ornately-coiffed topaz hair glittered and sparkled a seeming thousand pearls and small blue stones. Tall she was, and willowy in a long heliotrope robe and silken cloak of deep mauve sewn all with silver crescents and moons.

Samaire picked that woman from out the throng at once, for she recognized her-and cautioned her to silence with finger to lips.

It was thus Cormac mac Art met Samaire’s cousin Aine, wife of the noble prince Cumal Uais of the ancient Boar sept, and he of the ua-Neill. Thus too did Cormac and his companions come into one of the noble houses on high Tara, where they were well-housed and fed and treated with honour as royal relatives.

A man of rising forty was Cumal Uais, who had lost much hair above and replaced it with much belly below. He was warm enough to his wife’s cousins and their “protector.” It was he who handled the exchanging of their personal property: the balance of the Viking loot that had seen them all across Eirrin. Ruddy-faced Cumal and milk-skinned Aine would keep secret the trio’s identity for the few more days they wanted. The High-king was more than passing busy with the Fair.

There was a gifting on both sides, with the guests receiving far more than their hosts; Aine, naturally, was horrified by Samaire’s story but delighted by the unexpected visit.

Cormac met burly Tigernach, who’d be representing the house of Cumal the Noble in the martial games that would be the major Fair event two days hence. Cormac and Tigernach agreed to Cumal’s urging, and met under “arms”: shields and swords of hardened wood, blunt of both point and edge. With nothing to gain by putting defeat on his host’s champion, Cormac allowed himself to be put down, narrowly, in three several skirmishes.

Himself no weapon man, Cumal only beamed and nodded, without knowing that Tigernach’s opponent had not striven his best.

But Tigernach knew. “It’s holding back ye’ve been, Cormac mac Othna,” he said quietly. “Ye could have defeated me at any time, not so?”

Cormac looked at the man wearing the Boar-and-the-Red of Cumal Uais.

“What is a man to do, who won’t lie?” he asked piously-and falsely, for he was no amadan or fool, and had lied many times. He stood before Tigernach a liar even now, both in name and deeds: the one was invented, the other hardly his best.

“Enter the arms-striving contests yourself,” the thicker man said, “and show all what prowess is! It’s twice now I have claimed the second honours, with first going to Bress of the Long Hand, mac Keth of Leinster. Now I know he respects my ability, and we will see what comes out this year. But it’s yourself could drive the sneer from off his supercilious face.”

“Bress mac Keth… with sorrel-horse hair and feet on him like loch-boats?”

Tigernach chuckled. “O’course! All know Bress of the Long Hand-and feet!-champion at every Fair these nine years have seen Leinster hog all the honours.”

Aye , Cormac mused, I know him. But not in that way, the mocking sneering young wolf sent to arrest or bring death on me these twelve years agone! Bress had volunteered for that task that many wanted not, Cormac remembered, for Bress mac Keth was far from fond of mac Art of Connacht. Better at arms and far less arrogant and better liked, Cormac had received the Command of Fifty that Bress thought should have been his.

Twelve long years ago. And now Bress was champion of Eirrin.

“It’s yourself must put him down, Tigernach mac Roig, for I have no wish to enter the contests at arms.”

Tigernach sighed. “Because ye be guest in my lord Cumal’s house and would not contest with his champion, whom ye know ye’d best!”

“For reasons of my own.”

They were crossing the practice field to the bronze-girt house, into which the smiling Cumal and his belly had already disappeared. Tigernach said, “Cormac.”

“Aye?”

“A gift to me, Cormac!”

Cormac sighed, and waited for Tigernach to ask his boon.

“Contest with me again, in private, and with might and main!”

“Tigernach… and if it’s harm I bring to your hand or arm? Ye’d be no fit representative of your lord, and I’d be disgraced.”

“We’ll be wearing then full armour, and faulconer’s gloves.”

Tigernach pushed the more; Cormac agreed. Armoured, helmeted, gloved, in a privy place they met with buckler and wooden sword.

Five times was defeat put on Tigernach, though he strove his best. And he was naught but delighted. Yet Cormac shook off the man’s urgings that he enter the “Rites of Srreng,” after the champion of many centuries gone; ’twas Srreng who’d cut off the hand of the De Danaan king in the war for Eirrin.

At last Cormac went surly and worse, so that Tigernach left off urging and each went his own way.

He’s not enough confidence on him , Cormac thought, and it will be his defeat. For a man without confidence was a lamb among foxes.

Caer, a busty girl who served Lady Aine, made heated eyes at Cormac mac Art that afternoon, and they dallied in the room provided him by Cumal. Nor did the passionate wench know that his mind was first much distracted by remembrances and dark thoughts on Bress mac Keth, and later that he thought only of Samaire. Knowing not where his mind had been but only that his body had pleased and him a genuine weapon man with scars and iron muscles, Caer left happy and with stars dancing in her eyes.

Samaire’s appearance at dinner that night did naught to aid Cormac’s mental state. Gone was his companion on sea and half the length of Eirrin, the sword-girt warrioress with her tall boots. The beautifully gowned and bejeweled woman at table, her orange hair elaborately ringleted and besprent with pearls and tiny red stones, was the Lady Samaire, daughter of Ulad and Princess of Leinster.

To the exiled son of Art it was as if an ocean had appeared between them, and him without bark or sail.

It’s girls like Caer for you, exile and riever , he told himself, and the others wondered at his moroseness. He had turned his mind to thoughts of leaving both Tara and Eirrin, this time forever. Samaire watched, and knew there was an ache on him.

It was no happy son of Art went to his bed early that night. The fact that sleep refused to come on him made him the angrier. He was aware, past midnight, of a commotion elsewhere in the Rath of the Boar, but considered it no business of his.

Hearing the stealthy opening of his door, he wrapped his fingers around dagger hilt and waited, holding his breath. But Cormac soon smiled; the hooded visitor was seen to be small in the moonlight. Caer , he thought, or another the silly girl blabbed to!

He was wrong. The visitor who came so stealthily to him in the night was no servant, nor even of Meath, nor a girl either. She was a woman, whose orange-red hair had lately flashed with jewels and pearls. Now it was down, and flowing loose, for it was not as a princess nor yet even a noble that Samaire came to Cormac.