Andrew Offutt: The Sword of the Gael

The second hard-swung swordcut of Bress he met with a sweep of his own hardwood brand, with all his strength. At the same time he struck with his shield-and drove his foot up like any sensible man of his time or any other, to whom fighting was no game to be played at, bounded about with limits and rules.

Bress was hard jolted, three ways at once. He was commencing to double over even as he fell back. When his elbow struck the ground, his sword flew from his grasp. A spectator cried out, struck in the leg.

Almost instantly, Cormac tossed away his own wooden brand, and with expressionless face he turned to the judges. Handsomely uniformed men were rushing onto the field; Cormac let them pass, and in his face and manner was such that none touched him.

They went instead to Bress, who had broken the King’s Peace.

Then the great roar swelled up, for Eirrin had a new champion, and Leinster had suffered black defeat at the hands of a man wearing her king’s own colours.

He is brave, O gods above us!

He is a noble soldier above all;

Until the wave of death sweep over him,

Och! He is magnificent, and beloved.

– from “Cormac the Gael” by Ceann Ruadh

Once the nervous man in the false mustache and helmet-attached braids was away from the beaming judges and the congratulations of Eirrin’s High-king, he had to cope with the delighted, cheering, and oft-fawning crowd. There were womanly offers, both spoken and silently obvious, even pleas.

Then it was the great hog of an overjoyed Cumal Uais and his loud voice Cormac had to brace. Discretion forbade the more welcome embrace of Samaire.

At last they were away, escorted by handsomely accoutred weapon men of the High-king and of Cumal-the latter hard put to maintain expressions properly stern. To the rath of Cumal they adjourned. There Cormac mac Art told the others he must visit a friend, and him disabled.

Tigernach son of Roig sprang up from his sickbed the moment the new champion entered. Grinning so that his face was like unto the sun of noonday, Tigernach embraced the other man.

“Hail the Champion of all Eirrin!”

Taken much by surprise, Cormac accepted the warrior’s embrace, returned it with but little pressure, and edged back. With his hands high on Tigernach’s upper arms, Cormac looked into his dark eyes.

“Ye recover swiftly, Tigernach mac Roig.”

Tigernach’s grin strove to stretch his smiling mouth even more. “Suspicion was never on ye, was it?”

“Suspicion?”

Tigernach took his hands from his fellow warrior and swung away, laughing. He turned back to say, “I’ve not been ill, Cormac mac Othna. Not at all. I merely saw to it that Bress was met by the best weapon-man in Eirrin, rather than the third, after him and yourself. For I knew what ye’d do to him.”

Cormac stared at this most noble of men, and him no noble. For a passing long while his gaze rested on Tigernach, whilst he pondered with wonder what the man had done. At last he heaved a great sigh, and not without exasperation.

“In the name of the gods my father’s people swore by, Tigernach! There be none other like yourself on all the ridge of the world!”

Tigernach sobered, though his eyes remained merry.

“Though,” Cormac went on thoughtfully, “there is one other I love, and a war-man he, who has put on me this same feeling. Wulfhere the Dane he is, and Skull-splitter he be called, and it’s both his legs I’ve oft felt like breaking, too!”

Tigernach spread his hands and bowed his head. “I’d not take up weapons, Champion of Eirrin. Better to have both legs broke than to defend myself against you and gain red death instead!”

Again there was silence between the two men. Cormac at last snapped, “Bastard!”

Tigernach chuckled. “Och! My secret’s out!”

Then they both laughed, and laughing, they left Tigernach’s sickroom. With their arms each over the other’s shoulders, the two weapon men went to share drink with the boisterous Lord Cumal.

They found him calculating his wager gains.

It was in glittering company and amid fine robes of costly fabrics Cormac supped that evening, and him with his braid-pendent helmet and mustache upon him.

All round about were lords and ladies, poets and judges and historians, aye and both Druids and priests of the new faith-well separated, those robed rivals. The new champion was in company of all those who stood the highest in Tara and thus, so they at least thought, in all Eirrin.

None had any notion that their honored guest would do what he did, not even he himself. It did not come upon him until late in the meal, when there was nought left but the quaffing of ale and wine. The High-king himself raised his voice and his jeweled goblet. All others fell silent and turned expectant gazes on Erca Tireach, King of Meath and High-king of Eirrin.

“Ceann mac Cor,” the king over kings called, “CHAMPION OF EIRRIN!”

On the instant there was great noise of cheering. The stamping of feet and thumping of eating utensils and fine goblets on the thick tabletops thundered in the hall.

Cormac rose, and at that moment he decided.

Up went his hand to doff his helmet with the false braids of dark red, and that hand lowered only far enough to strip away the matching mustache. He hurled both to the inlaid floor. The helmet made a great clatter, rolling and skittering.

Into the silence, gazing directly into the startled eyes of the High-king, the champion called out his revelation.

“No, lord king! Long enough have I worn this demeaning disguise! Long enough have I crept about my homeland with my name and that of my father in a hooded cloak!”

Only gasps disturbed the silence. Every eye fixed its gaze on the new hero of the Fair of Tara.

“It’s Cormac I am, son of Art of Connacht, and it’s the exile’s life I’ve led, these twelve years!”

The magic name of the king two centuries in the ground went round and round the hall: “Cormac! Cormac mac Art!” His neighbors saw that Cumal Uais was no less surprised than they.

Once he’d recovered, even the High-king found it no swift or simple matter to quell the uproar in his banqueting hall. He prevailed at last, by standing and stretching out both robed arms, at right angles to his body.

Cormac had never taken his eyes from the Ard-righ, and he gazed upon him now: a king of kings who was the descendant of kings descended from kings and heroes of Eirrin.

A fine burly figure of a man was Erca Tireach, first among the Eirrin-born. Russet was his hair and scarlet his sleeved cloak of lustrous silk, and besprent with gold, as though it had been sown wet upon the garment of a farmer’s hand. The front-and-back Irish cloak was girt low with a buckle of jewel-flashing gold, nor was there much belly go gird it. Most of his chest, even his upper belly, were covered by his brooch-which was in truth a carcanet bright and atwinkle, fierily aflash with gems and lesser stones of several colours. Four rings circled the fingers of his left hand. On his right arm King Erca wore the plain leather bracer of a weapon man, his constant reminder to all that he was war commander and keeper of the peace, and ever prepared. Like his lady near, Ard-righ Erca Mac Lugaid wore a tunic of white satin, broidered with thick gold thread.

The High-king’s eyes, men had said, were like sapphires, though seldom of such hardness.

And now, with him standing tall and his wine-red sleeves hanging down from arms widespread for silence, all voices fell quiet and all eyes gave him their attention.

“Cormac Mac Art. It is a name not unknown to me,” Erca Tireach said.

Some laughed, thinking he was joking, referring to King Cormac of old. Others were grim; some showed excitement and perhaps apprehension. For many there were who remembered this king’s father, wary of Art of Connacht and his daring though unwise naming of his son-and they remembered. Art’s fate, and his son’s disappearance.