Andrew Offutt: The Sword of the Gael

Next day he learned the cause of last night’s commotion. An angry and shattered Cumal Uais announced that his champion was ill; indeed he feared the man had been poisoned. Now no less than two priests of the Jesus-god were with Tigernach. A Druid waited impatiently without, for he’d not set foot in the room occupied by Patrick’s followers-nor would they remain, were he to enter.

Cormac visited Tigernach. The man was ill. Both head and lower bowel objected to their existence, he said, with weakness upon his voice and big warrior’s hands. The two men talked, quietly and at length. Then Cormac walked, with his mind turned in, and after a long while he went to his room and fetched his sword.

Astonishment was on Lord Cumal when his guest approached him, grim of face, and sword-girt. “What means this, Cormac mac Othna?”

Cormac tugged forth the sword slowly, with his left hand. He transferred it to his right, but by the blade. Then he extended the hilt to the other man.

“It means I come to offer fealty and service to the House and person of Cumal Uais of the ua-Neill, and hope it will be accepted… until Fair’s end.”

Cumal blinked, frowning. “But… why man, ye be guest in this house!”

“Aye. And the man who-secretly from yourself and at Tigernach’s hard urging-did put defeat on him five times on the day just passed. I claim right to be called champion of Rath Cumal-and to wear your colours on the morrow my lord, in the Rites of Srreng!”

Chapter Eighteen:The Championship of Eirrin

’There hath not come to the battle gory,

Nor hath Eirrin nursed upon her breast,

There hath not come off sea, or land,

Of the sons of Kings, one of better fame.

There hath not come to the body-cutting

combat,

There hath not been aroused by manly

exertion,

There hath not put up shield on the

Field of swords,

Thine equal, O mighty son of Art.”

– Ceann Ruadh, “The Minstrel-King”

The Boar faced the Stag in the Rites of Srreng, and the latter smiled with confidence. For who knew aught of this helmeted, bushy-mustached champion of Rath Cumal of Meath, with his slitted eyes and his long roan-hued braids?

All about them clustered the fairgoers, held back from the area of combat only by many broad flat-topped stakes driven into the ground, and braided cord stretching from one to the next and the next, all around.

Confidently the champion of Rath Fergus advanced, and waited for the other man to attempt the first blow.

He did, and it was both first and last.

Up swept sword of wood hardened to the likeness of iron, and up rose the spiral-decorated cerulean shield of Fergus’s champion. Then, moving so swiftly that even some of the vast crowd of onlookers missed the act, the boar-blazoned shield slammed mightily into the lifted one. The representative of Rath Fergus of Uladh groaned aloud and staggered back. The edge of an unsharpened sword struck his right shoulder with such force that his hand twitched and sprang open to drop his own brand.

The judges were not hard put to decree that the man from Uladh would have been minus an arm, had the sword been of good steel.

Cumal was practically dancing when his victorious champion walked back to him. His eyes at least did, and so did his belly as he laughed with delight.

“Magnificent!” he cried. “Never have I seen a man put down so swiftly! Surely ye have no peer, no peer!”

His champion’s voice was low and snarly. “That was the twelfth man down here this day, my lord, and already two more contend. There be many shields and toy swords betwixt me and Br-the last combat.”

“It is yours, yours,” Cumal enthused, “It’s ours! Why ye were not so much as-he struck not one blow, or even feinted.”

“The next man will not be so disrespectful of me and thus so incautious, my lord. But my main concern is this ridiculous mustache.”

Cumal glanced around. All eyes were directed on the next set of combatants. He bent his red face close and spoke quietly, under the noise of the crowd.

“It will stay, man. It’s the getting off of it that need concern ye-but not till tonight! As to your fine dark-red locks… ye’ve only to remember they be part of your helm, Cormac, and keep it on! ”

“Your pardon my lord,” the disguised man said with ill-contained anger, “but it’s Ceann mac Cor I am. Use that other name in someone’s hearing and it’s gone your smiles and hopes will be, Cumal, for you will have one champion abed and the other disqualified.”

Cormac swung away from him then, and Cumal and his wife exchanged a shocked look. But the green-eyed woman with the veil-obscured face bent out around Aine to speak to them both:

“Look not so pride-smitten, my lord and cousin. You called him by an inappropriate name and he but treated you the same. You endanger his life, husband of my cousin. Oh-and if ye knew him as do I, it’s happy and proud ye’d be to be called your proper name by such a man!”

A trumpet sounded amid the crowd’s sudden roar; a good blow had been struck. Another winner was proclaimed, and soon two new contenders circled each other with bucklers and swords of stony-hard wood.

Wearing the red tunic and boar-blazoned shield of Rath Cumal, Cormac watched every combat-and himself fought to keep his hand from checking his mustache. He noted well the big-footed, ham-handed man in the colours of Leinster’s king.

So too was Cormac watched, for Cumal had two good men set as watchdogs and protectors of his new companion. After assuring himself that Tigernach could not contend and that a false mustache and the old helmet-wig well disguised the dark Cormac, Cumal had approached the judges. They had not been swift to accept the entry of a new champion, and at the eleventh hour, with him some “Ceann mac Cor” unknown to them. Eventually they had, and now Cumal wanted none to do treachery on the man on whom he set such high hopes-and, quietly, stakes. Cumal of the ua-Neill was a lover of the wager, as well as of good food in quantity.

At last all had contended, and after midday’s meal the second round was begun. The number Three was drawn by “Ceann mac Cor of Meath” and also by a Munsterman, a wiry fiery-haired fellow with terrible dark teeth, Iliach mong Ruadh.

The swift smaller man wore a tunic of orange and bore a bronze-faced shield on which a horse’s head was picked out in black and white enamel. It was he who struck first. His sword clattered off Cormac’s quickly-interposed buckler, but Iliach was away before Cormac could strike with a blow of his own. They circled, watching only each other.

Iliach feinted; Cormac ignored the partial thrust, for he’d noted Iliach’s gaze directed elsewhere. The smooth-rounded tip of Cormac’s wooden sword struck the other’s shield directly, with a loud thud and clang, while Iliach’s “edge” slid across the mailed thigh of “Ceann mac Cor.” A trumpet sounded, but no judge called out or dropped his white cloth. Even had the sword been of the best steel, the little slice would hardly have opened Cormac’s armour.

“A gentle blow such as that,” Cormac said, “would not slice a bedsheet, Munsterman!”

“I thought ye looked like a chatter-bird,” Iliach said with a tight smile, and feinted with his shield.

It was meant to be only a little diversion; the other man turned it into war, and carried the battle into Munster.

His left arm whipped across his body and his buckler met Iliach’s with a terrible grating clash. Back he jerked it, his arm straightening and his powerful legs already driving him forward. His foe’s swiftness was of no use to him; Iliach was hurled violently back. Even so he chopped viciously at Cormac, who was following up with a direct charge.