Andrew Offutt: The Sword of the Gael

The champion of Eirrin, attired as a weapon man with-empty sword-sheath, entered to applause-and some confusion, since he was no longer red-braided and mustached, but cleanshaven and crowned with a shaggy mane of black. Tall and rangy, he strode half the length of the hall.

He was asked to state his name.

Never, without shouting, had he spoken so loudly. “Cormac, son of Art, of the ua-Neill of Connacht.”

Bedlam was reborn in the Mi Chuarta of Tara, and it was not soon brought under control. Art’s son! The son of murdered Art! What a name this scarred man bore!

“You attacked the attacking Picts on the eastern coast of Munster one night within the year, alone?”

“Aye, lord High-king. Though I was soon joined by others, a fisherman named Dond and his son Dondal-and the Prince and Princess of Leinster, for whom I was acting as guard.”

“You sustained wounds there, on behalf of your fellow Eirrin-born-though not men of your own land?”

“On behalf of women and children of Eirrin as well, lord High-king. But my wounds were only scratches.”

“You experienced other… adventures in Munster, Cormac mac Art?”

“None to speak of, my lord High-king,” Cormac spoke, and his eyes met the gaze of Eogan. That Munsterish ruler showed little, but gazed back impassively from those weak eyes set in his bloodless face. Cormac nodded, almost imperceptibly; neither he nor Eogan was disposed to speak of their… meeting. Good.

“You reached Brosna Wood without again reddening your sword?”

“No, High-king. In an inn in Kilsheed, a drunken weapon man… made advances, with insults, on my lady Samaire of Leinster. I was forced to put defeat on him.”

“He is alive?” Erca ignored the murmurs.

“He was when we departed the next day, High-king. His wound was in the thigh. I had no wish to slay him.”

“There were witnesses?”

“Aye, my lord-and among them my lord Senchann, son of Munster’s king.”

Ignoring the new murmurs, Erca turned to Eogan. “My lord?”

“It is true, and as he said. The man was disciplined-is being disciplined.”

“Methinks the champion of Eirrin saw to that!” someone called, and there was laughter.

Erca stared it down. “Has my lord of Munster aught else to add?”

“No, my lord High-king,” Eogan said. “Only that I did not know this man’s identity at the time. My son acts for me in… some matters.”

Thus was no mention made of the visit to Eogan, or of his awareness of the identity of the two visitors.

Eogan must have succeeded in calling back his courier to Feredach, Cormac thought. Good!

“And it was alone yourself and the prince and princess made your way up and into Brosna Wood?”

“Aye, my lord,” Cormac said with a nod.

“And there you attacked Cairbre Black-beard and four men?”

“There, my lord High-king, Cairbre Black-beard and three men attacked us. Only a medallion saved my lady Samaire from an arrow in the chest. Prince Ceann slew one, and him in the saddle-the prince, I mean. The bandits themselves slew one of their number, for I held him betwixt myself and their arrows. Princess Samaire bowled over another, with her horse; he met justice and his end in Tullamor. It was Prince Ceann slew Cairbre, again from the saddle, and maintaining his seat the while. I did but little, in truth.”

“It was you began the attack on them?” the Connachtish king asked.

“Aye, my lord, for they had spoke of slaying us and of molesting the lady.”

“You have risked much for the royal couple of a realm you have no reason to love,” Erca suggested.

“MY LORD!” That, in an accusing voice, from Feredach’s chief adviser.

“A weapon man of Connacht does not argue with the High-king,” Cormac said, and there was some laughter. Meanwhile, heads still bent and turned around the hall, as men exchanged memories and what knowledge they had of Art of Connacht, and his son, and the events of twelve years agone.

“It may surely be said with truth that you have saved the lives of the prince and princess of Leinster, and of at least one family of Munster, and of future travelers through Brosna. And too that you have saved more than the life of a lady-and finally that you maintained your control when the former champion of Eirrin lost his and attacked you in earnest.”

“I could not gainsay aught of that, lord High-king,” Cormac said.

“Yet all three of ye traveled this land with your names in hooded cloaks,” Erca said, and many leaned forward. “Cormac mac Art: Why?”

“As for the prince and princess, they had been betrayed into the hands of men of Norge, and were captive, and all three of us feared for their safety until we reached Tara Hill.”

The king of Uladh made obvious the fact that he was staring at Feredach the Dark.

“As for myself,” Cormac went on, and he told them of his story.

He was questioned, and assured that he had not again reddened his steel in or on the coasts of Eirrin. The affairs of the soldiers in Kilsheed and the bandits of Brosna Wood were matters for praise, not for the law.

Abruptly Feredach of Leinster rose with a rustle of primrose blue and much silver, which he favored over gold.

“As son of the royal lord in whose service this criminal was, I demand him for judgment and justice.”

But there were scowls and worse; Feredach had been undermined already, despite his foreknowledge of Cormac’s coming here. Recent events had transformed a boyish criminal into a heroic man.

“The previous petitioners,” the King of Connacht observed, “owe their lives to this man. And they have accused my lord of Leinster. Handing over the champion of Eirrin into his hands seems… unwise.”

There were sounds of agreement, and some laughter.

“And it is in your realm that the red-handed champion of Eirrin was born , and your realm from which he fled, my lord! ” Feredach snapped, leaning toward Connacht’s king.

“As such,” that slender man said equably, and with a tiny smile, “I claim prior jurisdiction.”

“I can see from my lord of Connacht’s face that he would welcome not the head of Cormac mac Art, but his arm -and the sword it wields, rather than seek justice!” Feredach returned.

Into the royal squabble spoke its subject. “Were there justice in Leinster, its king’s name would be LIAGH! And there’d be no crimson on my lord Feredach’s hands… see it there!”

Cormac pointed, and his extended finger seemed to draw gazes, to make heads to turn and necks to crane. Feredach’s face went rowanberry red. A staff thumped the floor and a man of many years growled “Unseemly!” Even Cormac agreed, though his little trickery had worked.

“Leave to say that which is seemly,” Cormac said, “with apology for that which was not.” He received that leave. “I am of Connacht, and my father before me, and his. Were I to submit to territorial judgment, it would be to that king’s.” And he bowed to the lord of Connacht-and went on quickly. “But it was the Fair-time Peace I broke, my lords, the High-king’s Peace. It be he had summoned me before this assembly, that all Eirrin may judge.”

There was no warrant from the former king his father, Erca announced, nor from Meath at all, for Cormac mac Art-or Partha mac Othna. And there were cheers.

“An it were a matter for my deliberation,” the king of Uladh said suddenly, “I’d not debate about it all the day. I would say that tricked or no, a young man made an error, and has paid for it- slay me, my lords, rather than send me from these duns and fens for twelve years! Mac Art has made expiation for his act of long ago, thrice over.”