“Majesty,” Senchann said, “I met these three in an inn of Kilsheed two nights agone. A rude weapon man-and him in our white and scarlet-made several remarks about the lady. At last he was so insolent as to approach her and solicit her company even before her brother and her guardian. It was our soldier provoked the fight, and deliberately; it was this man who ended it, and without difficulty. Eogan King of Munster, I bring to you Cormac mac Othna of Uladh, and will let these twain make known themselves to you.”
Eogan regarded Cormac from brown eyes that blinked often and obviously strained to see. “Have you aught to add to what the prince has said, Cormac mac Othna?”
“None, Lord King.”
“A man of arms and few words, then. Seek you the service of a king, weapon man?”
“With your indulgence, Lord King: I do not.”
The king received that with an extra blink, and was silent for a few moments. Then, “And were I guardian to this lovely lady, nor would I seek service under others, be they gods or homely kings! My son has said you will introduce yourselves. Please do, for the prince’s petition for audience was urgent, and I detect mystery here.”
“My sister, Sire, was named Samaire at birth, and I Ceann, by our royal father Ulad King of Leinster.”
Eogan received his second surprise with aplomb and little hint of his shock. He assured them that they were thrice welcome. Then he inquired as to the reason for such a visit, without heraldry or retainers. Cormac and Senchann sat silent then, while the others held royal converse and the king’s Leinsterish guests told their story.
Hearing them out, Eogan let them see that he was both astonished and disturbed. He sat back and thought a space, beringed white hand toying with the end of his leftward mustachio-and joggling his jowels.
“It is your brother’s head wears the crown, no matter how got,” he ventured, but lapsed again into silence. Then he sighed, looked into Ceann’s eyes, and told them that which assured Cormac this was a thoughtful head under its crown, and a pragmatic one withal. Keeping his face as composed and serious as Eogan’s, Cormac listened, with care to remembering.
“I can and will do no less than offer ye, all three, the hospitality of this house, for so long as you would visit. Nor shall I be less than honest.” He regarded them somberly, blinking, leaning a little forward. Cormac wondered whether the king saw more than blurs and hazy features at distances past, the length of his arm-or perhaps his nose.
“It’s troubled ye cause my mind to be, royal guests, and it’s danger your presence here represents, to my land. I must beseech ye both to keep your counsel as to your identity. For it’s bad blood could result between Munster and Leinster were it known to my lord Feredach that I harbour his sibling exiles-and know their woesome story of evil as well.”
Ceann spoke with asperity. “It’s long we’ve journeyed since those honourless men of Norge captured us on the fen, Lord King of Munster. Nor do we intend to end that journey here. We thank you for your hospitable offer, and assure you we will depart in short order for Tara and the ear and protection of the High-king.”
“Nor,” Samaire said, for she was no cowed woman to sit silent while men talked, “shall we stop there either. We have a home, Eogan Eoghannact, and it is not Munster or Meath, Cashel or Tara!”
“I liked your upspoken words to the king this morning,” Cormac told Samaire.
“Overly straightforward words,” Ceann said. “Note well that the uncrowned heads of Leinster were not invited to sup at the king’s table!”
The trio sat in the two-room suite they’d been given within the royal house itself. Before them was the meal brought by two servants in red and white. The suite was handsome, sumptuous; the dinner well suited for visiting royalty. Yet there was the pervasive feeling, almost a scent, of their being so treated only out of duty, and them hardly welcome.
“Eating with others would have been difficult,” Cormac pointed out, “for people are curious. Nor could we have been seated high up, remember, for we are all three with names in hooded cloaks.”
“It’s more than that, and we all know it,” Samaire said.
“A Roman gallows stands in granite atop Cashel Rock,” Cormac said, “and broods over Eogan’s capital, and Eogan fears its shadow!”
“And his own!” Samaire snapped. Bringing her tooled goblet of good silver close to her face, she studied its ornate tracery.
His own rich cup newly filled with ale, Cormac leaned back and crossed his ankles. His saddle-sore backside objected; he tensed its halves along with his resolve to show nothing and bear all. He’d soon be back on a horse again, and was angered that his well-toned body was at odds with him, and it not wounded.
“He is not the first king to be so cautious,” he said, “nor will he be the last. A king does, after all, have many people to consider. We know too little of Eogan of The Eoghannachta to judge whether he thinks only of himself. Like Lagaire of the ua-Neill!” He was tight-lipped as he added that last. “But… I have been thinking…”
“When you’ve thought upon you, Cormac mac Art, we be ready to listen,” Ceann said, with the air of a king.
Cormac did not move but remained in his relaxed position, while eyes like ice a hundred’ fathoms deep made cool at the other man. “Play not the king with me, Ceann Ruadh! Guardian I seem in truth to be-in your service I am not!”
There was silence among them, with Samaire looking passing nervous. Then Ceann smiled, though thinly.
“Very well, Cormac the Wolf. If I did sound as prince to subject, I’d correct tone and words.”
Cormac smiled and nodded. He recognized a royally-disguised apology, and was delighted not so much to receive it as with Ceann. “By the blood of the gods, Ceann Ruadh, but it’s a king you’d be making, and this I’d swear!”
“Fealty?” Samaire asked, with great ingenuous innocence, but her brother lashed her with a stare of approbation.
“I remember distinctly there were words I had to share,” Cormac mac Art said, and prince and princess looked chastened-mildly. Both sat attentively gazing at him.
“Consider. Suppose that Eogan is thinking, as he may well be, thus: I am Eogan and king, and whatever else he may be, so too, is Feredach a king. Matters are looked at differently, between kings. Now right well might bond be struck between us-I, Eogan, and Feredach-were I to return Feredach a message.”
Without taking his eyes off Cormac, Ceann reached for his goblet. Samaire sat forward, staring with lowering brows.
“The message would advise Leinster’s king that I, Eogan, have in my household those… troublesome relatives he sought to dispose of, oversea.” Cormac’s hand swept out in a smoothing gesture. “And Feredach is in Eogan’s debt, and Eogan has less to worry about-and you more!”
“Surely,” Samaire began, “no man would-”
“Not a man, but a king,” her brother interrupted. “It may well be as ye say, Cormac. By the gods of my people, there may be serpents in Eirrin after all, and them walking about on two legs.”
“Waddling,” Samaire corrected, but no one smiled.
“Yet he was obviously not anxious for us to tarry here,” Ceann said thoughtfully, seeming to study the wall opposite.
Suddenly Cormac smiled, and his feet came uncrossed and thumped the floor. “Aye, and that before he had time to think or counsel with his poet. And you assured him that we were anxious to be off! Therein our clue lies! We shall know Eogan has taken counsel and decided as I have said-if he undergoes a change of heart and tries to persuade us to tarry here.”
Next day Eogan sent for them, and kindly pointed out that the Great Feis of Tara was not long off, and that he would be traveling up to Tara Hill with royal retinue. Surely the three of them would abide here with him until then, as honoured and welcome guests, so as to travel with proper accompaniment…
Having given Eogan no hint of their suspicion at his half-expected words to persuade them to tarry here-presumably whilst his messenger betook himself in
to Leinster-the trio got themselves well out of the king’s house and into the town that afternoon. There, walking and talking in quiet tones, they took counsel as to what must be done.
“We cannot be certain,” Ceann said with a frown. “His offer”-for they would speak no names on the streets of Cashel-”is, after all, a natural one, and logical as well. Brigands do exist along the roads and in the forests.”
“And in large houses in certain towns of Munster,” Cormac said, affecting not to look at a pair of men lolling against a wall; both wore white tunics and steel-bossed armour of red leather.
“Then we face the dilemma,” Samaire said unhappily. “The dangers of the road, alone, or… the other we have talked about. Either may exist-and both may not!”
Cormac chafed under the self imposed responsibility for the two of them. If it were he alone, he’d be on the northward road from this town already, and without leavetaking or care for dangers ahead: danger was to be kept in mind, and met when it reared.
They turned down a noisy street that formed an open market. There they made pause to examine a great array of juniper berries set colourfully side by side with piles of crinkly sloke, or sea-spinach. A foot thumped Cormac’s, and not by accident. He looked around to find beside him an old man, bent, leaning heavily on a staff. A white beard scraggled forth from the face-shadowing hood of his tattered orange cloak.
The staff swung to gesture, and the old fellow hobbled off. Cormac stood staring at the bent, orange-covered back until the hood swung back his way, surely to see if he followed. With a hand on each arm, he bent between Samaire and Ceann.
“We are beckoned. Come with me, but as if aimlessly.”
The old fellow made good time, for all his bowed back and leaning on his staff, and the trio pushed their way through buyers and sellers halfway along the street. Their hooded leader swerved into an alley made dark by a great awning of deep green sailcloth. Cormac entered after him, with his hand wrapped around his dagger hilt.
In the gloom, the old fellow partially straightened and with both hands pushed back his hood. His face was revealed for but an instant, but it was long enough for recognition of the mustached young man’s face and overlarge front teeth. It was disguise-loving Senchann mac Eogain!
“This day a messenger leaves Cashel,” he muttered, and Ceann and Samaire crowded close. “He rides to the house. of Feredach in Leinster. That king will be advised that it’s safe and watched ye three are here, and that it’s safe here ye’ll be held.”
Ceann’s breath hissed in between his teeth; the other prince continued talking in that low, hurried voice.
“Too, the messenger will suggest that mayhap a tryst might be made, twixt the kings of these two lands, as they fare forth to the Feis-mor in Tara of Meath and an agreement struck as to your… futures.”
“We’d have none,” Ceann said in a whisper that was close to a guttural growl, “in Feredach’s red hands!”
“Then listen, and with your mouths closed, for I bear no enmity to any of ye, but dislike a betraying of my own father as much!”
And they listened, while Senchann muttered rapidly.
It was a little later in the afternoon when the minstrel, plucking and singing softly, unhurriedly left Cashel by way of her northern gate. He wore a tattered old orange cloak with its hood up, and the watchful weapon men in white and red paid him only the slightest heed.
At another time a little later, a crippled woman hobbled through that same gate, a blowzy wench whose muttering voice proclaimed her to be well past her prime. Her hair was close-covered in the Old Manner to show she was married, and she did not miss one guard’s sneering to another that she must have been within Cashel’s walls to earn her husband’s keep on her back.
At about that same time, a well-mounted man departed Cashel from the Connachta gate to the northeast. Bent he was, and scarred of face, and a filthy tunic and cloak on him. There was nothing remarkable about him, save that the two beasts he led looked remarkably good horseflesh to be pack-animals.
One of the white-and-reds at the gate watched after him, but the dirty scarface did not straighten once he was out on the road, nor did he increase the pace of his roan horse. Then there was a group of merchants approaching the gate, and them to be watched, and the scarface was forgot.
The scarface rounded a turn in the road, saw that a hill now stood between him and any view of Cashel’s gate. Straightening, he tugged sharply at the long rein of the packhorses. At the same time he nudged his mount in the flank with his heel. It was ill-advised, for the man bounced as only a bad rider does, when the horse broke into a fast trot. In the wake of the man and the three horses trailed his curses and grunts.
There were none to see when he swerved off onto the skimpy trail that connected the northern road with that to Connacht. Still he cursed, all the way. As he approached the wide ribbon of the other road, he heard the hallooo from within the trees. He drew rein, and turned in among the cool stand of yew and hazelnut. Two people appeared to meet him.
In short order the blowzy woman and the orange-cloaked minstrel were mounted, and despite the cursing of the other man, all three of them set off northward at the gallop. Thus did a prince, a princess and an exiled warrior gain departure from Cashel of Munster, and without so much as a thankyou or farewell for the king who had extended them the hospitality of his own house.
Chapter Fifteen: The Highwaymen
Red were their swords and dark each heart
Black Carbri’s men of Brosna Wood;
All four they met Cormac mac Art,
And soon each leaf was dark with blood!
– Diarmuid of Tulla Mor (?)
That night the trio of pilgrims, now reduced to the status of fugitives, knew only that they were somewhere east of the Shannon. At dusk they turned off the road and into a heavy stand of timber.
The trees were black, eerie menacing forms rising all about them as they made their way into the forest, without light. They were soon forced to dismount and lead their horses. Cormac winced at the pain his muscles shot up through him as they walked, but he said nothing. The others, more used to riding, had not considered that he might be suffering, and he would not let them know.
Coming to a small clearing, they tethered the horses so that they could avail themselves of what little grazing there was to hand; the animals had drunk at a ford only a short time ago. In darkness and near silence, Ceann, Samaire and Cormac broke out the meat and cheese Cormac had bought in the market at Cashel.
They spent the night there, taking turns at watch. Ceann drew that chore first, and awoke Cormac for his turn. While mac Art sat there fighting to keep awake, there was a rustling and Samaire joined him. She bent, and it was her lips came to him first. With their mouths united, she sank down onto the saddle blanket he’d spread over a great patch of moss. He felt it; her body vibrated against his like the tightly coiled spring of a siege engine.
He spoke very quietly. “Sleep, Samaire, for I’ll not spare ye your turn at watch. We all need what sleep we can gain.”
Sulkily, she settled down beside him, pressed against the body he held under control. He did not touch her. Soon her breathing deepened, and he felt more radiant warmth from her curled body. She slept. Cormac sat, giving his leg and arm vicious pinches from time to time to insure wakefulness.
At last he woke her, and when he was sure she had her wits about her, he slept. Years of the life of a warrior and seafaring coastal riever had given him the necessary ability to be asleep within seconds after he’d decided.
She woke him at dawn, and Ceann roused at their voices. The triple watch had been unnecessary; there had been nothing but normal night-sounds of the forest. They ate, wished there were a stream for bathing, and put that out of their minds.
Suddenly Samaire looked around with wide eyes. Her voice was close to panic. “I-we know not which way the road lies!”
Cormac mac Art smiled at her. “We do, unless there’s been a visitor in
the night, and he so silent we heard him not. Follow.”
Leading the horses, they followed. Their direction was marked by the bush Cormac had deliberately broken. A few feet farther on, he paused to pluck forth a gleaming brooch, which was pinned to the bark of a linden.
Samaire began, “How-”
Ceann answered with a chuckle: “Our clever Cormac stuck that there last night, to mark our way back! You and I’d have been lost for certain, sister.”
On they went, and Cormac retrieved the slender chain of gold that dangled from the rough bark of an oak. A little farther another brooch twinkled in the thin rays of sunlight that fought their way through the thick leafy boughs; the brooch was pinned to a tree, above the level of Cormac’s head. It was unnecessary. Past it they saw a thinning of the trees, and bright sunlight.
Cormac’s arm swept straight up and he twisted his head about at the two following him. “Not a sound! Be still! Listen!”
Holding the horses in tight check, the three stood motionless. In seconds, hearing what had caused Cormac to warn them was no problem. Many equine feet rapped the road and so rapidly were they moving that their galloping hoof-falls formed a steady drumming. Those fast-moving horses came closer and closer, and then through the thinning trees the three fugitives saw them.
They went by at the gallop: a troop of eleven men, all well mounted. Red leather armour gleamed over their white tunics. They were past within the space of two breaths-though the trio of watchers in the forest was unconsciously holding air in motionless chests.
A cloud of dust eddied in the rattling drumming wake of the soldiers of Eogan of Munster. The sound of the galloping hooves receded rapidly.
“My grief!” Ceann muttered. “Those be men sent to… escort us-”
“Aye,” Cormac said. “Our escort. Back to Cashel that is, and close-watched ‘hospitality!’”
Samaire’s voice held despair. “Vexation upon us!”
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