Andrew Offutt: The Mists of Doom

“Oho!”

That from the man who stood at Cormac’s right, a Meathish soldier. He went on, “So! this is the great Partha mac Othna of Ulster, hero of Leinster’s king! The great herder of cows.”

Most of the crowd continued to shout and wager; silence fell on Cormac’s men. They stared at the Meathmen. Cormac kept his gaze on the two contenders, a young lord of Ailech and a weapon-man who represented a noble of Cruachain in Connacht.

Loud snuffing noises arose on Cormac’s right. “I say this be no hero here beside me, but a coward… with the stench of Connachtish pigs on him!”

Eoghan gasped. Cormac tensed and his jaw clamped. He stared fixedly at the contenders.

“Aye, a base coward of the foullest kind… not a man at all, this cattle-thief who sells his blade to Leinster whilst claiming to be of Ulster!”

Cormac turned to look at the speaker. His was not a face Cormac knew. The fellow was not ill-favoured, and of perhaps a score of years, perhaps less. He was essaying to wear his brows as did Bress; it did not become him either.

“Why seek ye to provoke me?”

“Provoke ye? Whyever should ye be provoked by the hearing of truth? And how could I possibly seek such-why ’tis Fair-time, weapon-boy. Even Leinsterish cattle-thieves are welcome here in my Meath during these days!”

“It’s hardly a welcoming speech ye’re after giving me, man!”

“And why should I be doing that, Partha mac Othna? It’s disgrace ye and your plan put on a good captain of Meath!”

“Ah. Ye-be ye the captain of the Meathish tribute-guards?”

“Not I. He’s disgraced, bereft of command and respect, for allowing himself to be tricked by some graceless fugitive who fled his own homeland rather than seek out his father’s murderer.”

“Partha-”

“Easy, Eoghan,” Cormac put back a hand to Eoghan without looking at him; he kept his grey gaze on the Meathish weapon-man. How could the man know so much?

“It’s much ye affect to know, and much noises ye allow yourself to make.”

The man stared in anger. His mouth worked, drew in on itself, like a spiteful boy’s. “Noise? Affect to know? Noise? Come away for a stroll with me, Captain Cloak-name, and it’s more noises I’ll be making for ye!”

“Rather would I see ye go for a stroll alone and let me rejoin those who watch real weapon-men.” Cormac’s voice remained quiet-with effort.

“ Real! Ho-would that those two were I and yourself, swineherd turned kine-thief! Ye’d soon see what comes of facing a real weapon-man!”

“ Words ,” Eoghan mac Foil said, pushing up to face the Meathman. “None others may enter, the Games now, nor can Partha fight yourself, at Fair tune. What would ye have him do then, man?”

“I’d have him speak for himself, Leinsterman.”

“Eoghan,” Cormac said quietly, desperately reminding himself of his rank and responsibility. “I do believe I’ll be going along now, peradventure to taste a bit of ale.”

Eoghan’s face was dark and he was aquiver under the hand his captain laid on his shoulder. Without taking his eyes off the Meathman’s face he said, “I do believe I’ll be going with ye, Captain. The air is gone stale here.”

And they moved back through the crowd, which pressed forward to fill their space. As they stepped free of the press, that same voice rose behind them; the mouthy fool had followed! “It’s not staleness ye notice, Leinsterman, but the stench from that Connachtish pig-boy ye accompany.”

An alarum clanged in Cormac’s mind. Why was he fellow so set on trouble? How knew he so much? Why was he so-so crude and obvious? But beside Cormac Eoghan was saying “- ye!” and spinning about, hand on hilt.

The Leinsterman faced the Meathish weapon-man; the latter drew; Eoghan drew.

“Eoghan-NO!” Cormac shouted.

Eoghan paused at the cry, and thus he did not complete the movement of his blade toward the other man’s, for neither of them carried buckler. The Meathish blade swerved only a little-and took Eoghan in the sword-arm. It bit deep and blood gushed.

“Eoghan! Cormac called again, and he had a vision of a good young weapon-man no longer able to follow his trade because of a crippled sword arm, and Cormac forgot all. His blade streaked from his scabbard.

He did not hear the sudden new shouts from the crowd; a battle was being fought with real steel; blood dyed a sleeve of Leinsterish blue-and Meathish earth! Now others turned. They saw the darker man in the blue shirt strike, saw the Meathman catch the blow on his own blade with a ringing grating scream of steel on steel, and they saw Cormac’s sword slide down that other blade and drive four inches of its blade into the Meathman’s chest.

Onlookers were horrified; moreso Cormac mac Art, for now his full senses returned. He knew from the man’s wound and his face that he’d not live to see another dawn, if indeed he survived to sunset. Cormac knew that he had slain, though he’d had no such intention.

“I broke the King’s Peace at Fair-time, Samaire! I slew a man! Witnesses there were aplenty; I’m a dead man!”

She hugged him, pressing hard. “Oh Partha! Oh Crom preserve and Behl protect! Partha…” She was sobbing, heedlessly crushing herself against steel mail.

“I’d be dead already,” he said wonderingly, for he could hardly believe it had happened yet, days later, nor was he yet able to assimilate it. “But all were as frozen in horror-myself included. What I did does not happen. The law is ancient, and clear: the punishment is death. I’d not be here,” he said, looking about the inn room with eyes that scarcely saw, “but for the fact that all were bemazed, rooted. Then the King’s Watch came bustling through the crowd. And I came awake-and fled. My companions accidentally got in the way of those Meathmen. I came upon a horse. I took it, and rode. I think I did not even slow until I realized I was entering Atha Cliath. Gods, gods! Blood of the gods; I know not even the name of the boy who bore my message to you when I learned your father’s party had stopped here on the way home.”

“Nor I,” she said squeezing him, “but he’s a circle of silver the richer-Partha! Cormac! We must flee.”

“Flee? But-”

She thrust herself back to look into his face, though her hands clung to him still. “Oh dairlin, “dairlin boy! Would ye remain and be slain? Think, my love. The Meathman… he provoked you deliberately. He had no fear on him, of the Law. How is that possible?”

“I have thought of that. He was assured of pardon, of impunity… and only the High-king himself could have assured him of such safety.”

“Falsely?”

He looked down into her green, green eyes. “What?”

“Oh Partha… Cormac! Don’t you see? The High-king did indeed assure him he’d be pardoned, or somehow taken care of. He wanted swords drawn. He had been well worked up over his captain, the one you tricked that night you gained back the Boruma. But-think! The High-king knows your prowess! My father knows your prowess. They knew you’d do death on their man!”

“It… must be. Aye…”

“We must flee, my love. We must .”

No way now for me to receive any sort of hearing, fair or otherwise, before the Assembly of Kings; it’s a wanted, hunted fugitive I am! She’s right; it’s stay and die, or flee! Gods! Flee! First an exile from Connacht… but… leave Eirrin?

His voice caught when he said, “Not we, Samaire. I. It’s I must flee.”

“No! No-oo,” she cried, moaning the word. “Not without me! ”

Was then the knock came, on the door of that inn of Baile Atha Cliath, and when she asked fearfully who was there, a familiar voice replied. “Your brother.”