Andrew Offutt: The Sword of the Gael

“How many Picts, you beautiful hero of a warrior?” she asked, from the throat.

Cormac mac Art looked at her, and his face was stony. “In Eirrin, in the month just passed, four on the coast of Munster, with seven witnesses that live. In Alba and among the isles… I cannot say, girl. Many.”

Those words were handed back by anxious listeners, and back, and around among the throng.

“Call me no girl ,” the shining-eyed girl said, pressing against his shield-arm. “It is Dectaira I am, and the High-king my uncle!”

“My apologies,” Cormac said, and he twisted and drew forward, for both these hot-breathed women cloyed, and others pressed close behind. “My lady girl, then.”

And he went round the circle, trying to ignore the shouts and reaching hands, for it was true battle and gushing red death he knew all too well, and not people so civilized as to fawn on heroes of combats fought with the swords of boys. He halted before the end of the nobles’ platform where sat Cumal, and Aine his wife, and the veiled Samaire, and Cumal’s two sons and daughter. He who was to be champion or runner-up gazed into bud-green eyes above a grass-green veil.

“I meet the honoured weapon man of the King of Leinster now, for the championship of Eirrin, my lord and ladies. A token?”

“YE WEAR MY BOAR!” Cumal shouted, with boyish gladsomeness.

Aine’s hand went to a brooch she wore purely for the beauty of it and no good cause, but she remembered to glance questioningly at her husband.

“Carry this against Bress of the Long Hand,” Samaire said, “and would it were Dark Feredach himself, and your sword of good steel rather than mere oak!” And she bent forward to hand Cormac a linen glove. It was of blue, the primrose of her, father’s house and of Feredach’s.

“Were it in my power, I’d make thee lord of lands!” Cumal cried without restraint or dignity, as his “Ceann” held high Samaire’s glove, to show all that he carried Leinster blue against Leinster itself.

“Mayhap it is within my power to make yourself lord of a champion,” Cormac said.

“Mind ye keep your roving eyes on your opponent,” Samaire snapped from behind her green veil, “and off those eager tid-bits I see crowding you, hulking barbarian!”

Cormac smiled, and looked about overhead. “Methinks I hear the Morrigu, and her gone all green of eye,” he said. As he turned away he added, “But a dairlin girl, for all that.”

The Lady Aine turned to give her veiled cousin a long look. Gazing after Cormac, Samaire either affected not to notice, or did not.

Bress basked and Cormac chafed in the adulation of their admirers and well-wishers, and shot each other occasional glances. The clowning pair of “weapon men” in the combat area was called back. A trumpet rose to lips and set a note atrembling on the air. The chief judge rose. Cheers greeted his announcing the name of Bress mac Keth of Carman in Leinster, champion of every fair and twice in Tara of the Kings.

Even on those loyal supporters Bress turned a smile that was open contempt, for he was a superior man and well knew it.

Then was called the name of Ceann mac Cor, of Tara in Meath, and others shouted and cheered. Earrings landed, at his feet and about him, and a steward hurried to clear the ground of those possible obstacles, that might roll beneath the feet of contending men. Cormac looked not from the ruddy, not unhandsome face of his opponent in this final passage of arms.

It was time.

Bress walked away to the opposite side of the large circle, rather than to its center. He turned to stare at Cormac, and the Leinsterman held sword and round blue buckler contemptuously at rest.

Cormac walked forward three paces.

“MEATH ADVANCES ON LEINSTER!” That call rose above the many others, and there were grins-and dark frowns from the nobles on the platform. The shout was repeated by many.

As though ambling on a summer stroll, Bress moved forward three paces.

“LEINSTER COMES TO TARA!”

It’s come to that then , Cormac mac Art thought. First I was of Connacht, and then of Leinster, and then of Dalriada in Alba, and then I strove for none but myself. Now it’s all Tara and Meath I stand for, and the ancient bad feelings over the Boru Tribute that Leinster hates.

He watched Bress, who stood still, arms down.

So he does what I do, then , Cormac mused, and raises not sword or shield-a fine sense of drama the man has! He glanced back. A little farther from the people, Bress dairlin, and then we’ll see.

Cormac paced forward two paces more, and halted, and mocking Bress moved the same.

Cormac pointed, and laughter arose at the one word he called forth.

“Stay!” he ordered, as though to a sheepherding dog, and he turned and walked back toward the spectators.

A pace away from staring, wondering faces-a dark female eye winked-Cormac wheeled, again voiced that awful savage’s shout, and charged at the run.

Bress, like Cormac, was a warrior. A professional studied others, and Bress had done. He’d seen this charging tactic worked on Oisin, and to good purpose. Naturally he was prepared-as Cormac knew he would be. The Leinsterman stood his ground as the other man bore down upon him. At the last moment he pounced aside and swung a mighty chop calculated to strike hard on the back of the Meathish champion as he raced past.

Unlike fighting with steel against strangers, this sort of staged combat, with opportunity for the combatants to study one another’s ways, was like a war between great generals known each to the other. B knew L’s ways, and assumed that L would in all likelihood think first of tactic N. For that, B could prepare. But L knew that B knew and expected, and so he considered other tactics. Still, this B would realize, and try to prepare for a surprise, except that L knew that B knew that L knew, and…

Bress erred early in the sequence of secondguessing. He assumed that the man he knew as Ceann mac Cor was launching upon him the same attack employed so successfully against Oisin. Cormac did not; he did not consider Bress an idiot, but an expert.

The passing back at which Bress struck was not there. Its owner had swerved quite differently, and turned, perhaps as much as a full second before the movement of the supercilious Leinsterman.

The sword of Bress of the Long Hand clove empty air; his shield was not at all in line; the other man’s unpointed sword-end drove forward low to thud against a hard-muscled belly.

Bress looked at once much surprised and much in need of breath.

The crowd went still.

That quiet was shattered by the clarion note of the trumpet, as the air was disturbed by the white cloths dropped by judges. As surprised as Bress, they nevertheless agreed to a man that the Champion of Eirrin had just been stabbed in the entrails.

Withdrawing from that swift hard lunge, Cormac heard the long horn. His peripheral vision caught the white flutter of the judging-cloths. He straightened, triumphant-and Bress’ wooden sword, hard swung in a sideward sweep, crashed into his side.

The crowd muttered and roared. The judges stared. One remembered to signal the trumpeter, who blasted forth another mighty note. By that time Cormac’s grunt of pain had risen and he’d backstepped two full paces, gritting his teeth. His dark slits of eyes were fixed on the man who had struck after the combat was over.

Again Bress struck, his face twisted in rage. Command of his brain was lost to him.

Angered, Cormac knew he was expected to endure or flee until men of the High-king interfered. None had lost aught but Bress; gone was his hold on the championship; gone now too were honour and good name and high esteem. But Cormac mac Art was no civilized player at the game of swords, whether he held steel or bronze or wood. He too ignored the rules.