Midhir stepped forward, for custom prevailed and was time for personal statements of loss.
“O Art my lord, you were betrayed to your death; your end is sorrowful to us all. You to die and we to be living! Our parting is a grief forever.” His voice caught and trembled as he said, “Farewell, weapon-companion; farewell, my lord.”
And Branwen said, “Dear to me O my lord Art, was your beautiful ruddiness, dear to us all your manly form and your kindness; dear to us your clear grey eye that saw so much and held such wisdom. Dear-” The housekeeper broke down weeping then, and her husband drew her away, nor were the eyes of Conor dry.
Was Aengus moved then to the fore, nearest that which had been Art mac Comail.
“My lord and my commander,” he said quietly. “There has not come your match to the battle; there had not come and been made wrathful in combat, there had never held up shield on the field of weapons the like of yourself, O Art of Comal!”
As Aengus stepped back, Sualtim switched from the Old Language to their own Gaelic: “…for had the world been searched from Behl’s rising to sunset, Art mac Comail, the like would not have been found of your valiant and wise self. And it is breaking my own heart is in my body, to be here speaking so and listening to the sorrowing of the women and men of Glondrath of Connacht, and Connacht to be in its weakness, and without strength to defend itself, for Red Comal’s son is gone from among us.”
Exaggerations all, as were the loud cries of lament and the wringing of hands and beating of breasts.
Was the way of Eirrin, and none was hypocritical of lament or plaint for well-liked had been Art Comal’s son. And when all, others had spoken their last to the man to be received by the earth and by Donn, Lord of the Dead, his son came forward. Tears shimmered like dewdrops on Cormac’s face.
“I am a raven that has no home,” he said, little above a whisper. “I am a boat tossed from wave to wave; I am a ship that has lost its rudder; I am… the apple left dangling on the tree alone, and it’s little thought I had of your being plucked from beside it. Grief on me! My sorrow, my father! Ochone! Grief and sorrow will be with me from this day to the end of time and life.”
After a long silence Cormac added, “May the gods make smooth the path of Return for you, Art mac Comail, athair na Cormaic Aenfher!”
And he who had been called Cormac Pictslayer and Cormac Bearslayer and who now called himself Cormac the Lonely turned away of a sudden. He would not watch whilst they poured dirt over his father, but returned alone to the rath-house whilst those others completed the funerary rites of the murdered Art mac Comail of Connacht.
Chapter Four:
Master of Glondrath
Cormac mac Art had sat alone in his father’s command chamber all the morning. Outside birds twitted and a jay shrieked his raucous cry, as though angry. Otherwise there were only the somewhat muted sounds of the rath’s going about its normal business; the mournful, ear-grating keening for the dead warrior had ended. Art was in the ground. His son sat in the chamber wherein the master of Glondrath had spent most of his last eleven years. This day Cormac gave to grief, and memories. And there was the encroachment of some bitterness.
His father had been a weapon-man all his years, a man with the blood of conquerors and kings in his veins. Yet he had held little power, little land that was his own. A few acres, well away from here, in stewardship. He had known that his wife was far happier there than here; she had said naught, and he had striven for her peace whilst he kept the king’s.
Among those subject to him, the pigs for which Glondrath was well known were more numerous than human beings. The finest pork in Connacht, any agreed; the finest in all Eirrin, some said. And for this was known the descendant of Niall!
Companions most of their adult lives, Art and Midhir had served the King of Connacht willingly and well. The counsel of Lord Art, however, was seldom asked. Nor was he asked to come up to the capital where lesser men glittered. No war came on Connacht, and the constant necessity of beating off the incursions of Pictish raiding parties brought Art mac Comail no great fame or honour. Wealth and power avoided him-or rather were denied him.
Even Art’s command of this southwestern keep came not by birthright or even as result of his strength, but because of the weakness of another.
Gulban mac Luaig had commanded this rath and its people until eleven years agone; was then Gulban embraced the New Faith and commenced to wear the cross rather than the torc and sundisk or lunula. Too, he began to talk of peace with the Picts. With the Picts, who were not considered even so much as men! For the New Faith changed men, as it was changing all Eirrin and thus history-else the sons of Eire would have taken half of fallowing Britain erenow, rather than allow it to be sliced into pieces by pirates from oversea after the Romans’ departure. Battle and slaying were not “right,” Gulban began to say. Honour did not lie therein, as his people had believed for centuries upon centuries. One should turn the other cheek to him who slapped, and do all in one’s power to embrace peace, to spread and maintain peace-without point and edge. This whether the Picts gave heed or no.
Was all well in theory, Cormac remembered Art and Sualtim as saying, despite the obvious fact that the natural state of humankind and that which led it on, ever on-was striving. That striving frequently led to disputes and even war betwixt two strivers or striving peoples. And that led to the survival of the strong over all the ridge of the world. It was hardly unkown that in what remained of the two-headed wolf that had been the Empire of Rome, Christians slew each other with no less zeal than those they were arrogantly pleased to call “heathen” and “pagan.”
Besides, the Picts did not subscribe to such views, either in theory or practice.
Those dark savages would as lief slice the stones off a priest-and later his throat, an they were in a merciful mood-as of a weapon-man. These things Gulban, lord of Glondrath, knew well but seemed to have forgot. Connacht’s king knew, too, and no forgetfulness was on that wise monarch.
Indeed, as reminder, a hideous trophy hung ever on his wall amid the painted shields and flint weapons taken from slain Cruithne, Picts: a pouch stripped from the belt of one of those demons in semi-human guise. It was a hand-made pouch, threaded with drawstrings, made of the breast of a Gaelic woman of Connacht.
Connacht’s king’s reluctance was overcome by his wisdom and concern for his realm; he had Gulban stripped of rank and power. Indeed was said he had bade the man seek employment among the blackbirds, as he called those Romish priests, or at the court of the High-king, who was reportedly leaning in a crossward direction.
Was then that the Connacht-righ handed over command of his important rath to his captain of deeds and strong will and arm, Art, son of Comal. With his wife and very young son, Art mac Comail moved to, Rath Glondarth and took command. Even with the resentment that was on many because of the fall of their former lord and commander, Art had these peoples’ respect at once, their loyalty in a season, and the love of most within a year. For such a man was he.
Cormac well remembered the shame and dishonour on Gulban.
Gulban was changed aforetime, he mused this day after the funeral, and him a good man formerly. It’s no friend of the New Faith, the faith of the Dead God I’ll be, ever, with their carpenter god who makes sleeping dogs of men and would as soon that women were slaves. For such had never been the way of the daughters of Eirrin!
In his father’s chamber, Cormac sat, and he reflected on his growing to youth and manhood here, under the tutelage of Art and of Sualtim and Midhir. Advice he gained, and example, and on some occasions his lessons were accompanied by anguish and grief. Advice in the way of a man he gained, a man of Eirrin; a man of weapons.
Aye, and so he was become, a weapon-man of Eirrin.
First there was respect and later deep friendship with Midhir, his father’s close friend to whom Art always gave listen and whom he trusted to make his son a surpassing warrior. Cormac well remembered that aspect of his life;
their practice and practice, their telling of warlike tales at night by the fire, quaffing weak ale often no more than barley-water. For ale was a staple, and children began early the drinking of that which all adults quaffed as a matter of course. And Cormac remembered how he and Midhir had lied’ shamelessly in those taletellings… each with the knowledge of the other.
Within his head the grieving mac Art saw the face of Midhir that day two years agone, and astonishment on that face. Cormac had watched the expression give way to happiness, and pride.
“Ye’ve won, lad! It’s death ye’ve just done on me, Cormac!”
And Cormac recalled with what delight and pride Midhir had conveyed that information to Art mac Comail. Art watched them next day, at their practice. And of course Cormac lost under those eyes, was “slain” three times by Midhir, and when he looked up after that third defeat, Art was no longer there. Naturally within ten minutes the lad had put defeat on the experienced weapon-man, and his father not there to see. But Art knew, and was proud.
Art continued to give his son word and example in the ways of leading men, and Cormac stored away that knowledge. Again he heard within his head the words of Sualtim the Wise:
A sharp mind, that truly brilliant servant of Behl and Crom was fond of saying, weighs a hundred stone heavier than a sharp sword. And Art had bade them both that the word “swift” could be substituted for “sharp,” and he exchanged a long look with Sualtim, who was his friend of mutual respect.
Then Cormac had begun defeating Midhir again and again. The lessons ceased. They became workouts, to keep both men ready and sharp of brain and reflex. Aye, and Cormac remembered his father’s pride-in-son. More than once had Art recounted the history of their land, enumerating the kings of Connacht and the High-kings in Meath. And Cormac remembered the quiet words of a man who showed no bitterness, though he had cause.
“Perhaps Ailill Molt was the last son of Connacht to sit enthroned on Tara Hill and preside over the assembled kings at Feis-more,” Art had said, gazing on his stout and clever son, “and… perhaps not.”
For Art the Bear had seen his own ancestry and high promise come to little, and held far higher hopes for his son, who would be more man, surely, than himself.
Thus with his brain full of manifold and multiform thoughts of the past did Cormac mac Art sit and wallow in days gone by, and avoid thereby thinking of the present and future. And afternoon came, and deepened.
Gods! But two nights agone he had felt strapping big and mature, much the man!
Now he was aware only of being young, with no sureness on him of either his present position or of the time-to-come-even the morrow. There was little to inherit. Nor would his king be handing over command of this important outpost to one of Cormac’s years, no matter whose son he was.
His mind continued to seek pleasant memories. He was undisturbed as he had requested; not even Branwen came to press food on him. He relived in his mind that battle with the Picts, and him alone against their four, dark and squat with blue paint on their powerful bodies. He remembered his fear that day-and how it had gone, vanished, so that he became what Midhir had so long counselled and demanded: a pure weapon-man. A creature of lightning judgment and reflex-and muscle. Thus had he fared, until four Picts lay dead, the last as surprised as the first. And their conqueror was hardly scratched, the lad they’d sought to make easy victim.
And…
Afternoon deepened the more. Light had long since ceased to find its way into the commandroom of Art. At last he who sat there seemed to come awake, as though he’d been asleep or away. He sighed in the manner of an old man. Realization came on him then; he had accomplished naught by sitting and mourning. Naught would ever be accomplished by wallowing in the past. There was much to be accomplished. Questions wanted answering. Art was dead. Cormac lived, and must live.
No questions will be answered by my sitting and mourning, dwelling in the yester days and mooning for a time that was happier! He gave a few seconds to that thought, and he never did it again. Once again Cormac mac Art began to live for today and tomorrow.
He rose, and frowned at the twinge in his back, at the kinks he felt. On impulse he pounced across the room. That was of some value; he paced, lifting his legs exaggeratedly high while cranking both arms, swinging them in half- and then in full-circles, meanwhile dropping occasionally into a squat or bending from the waist, stiff-legged.
Then Cormac left that chamber of memories.
It was not Sualtim’s quiet counsel he’d seek now; let tomorrow be put off a bit longer. He’d find purpose and some release in the lighter-weight company of Midhir. A moment’s reflection put another thought into his head. He’d ask Midhir for a working out with arms.
With that thought, he went to his own quarters. There he donned quilted long jerkin of leather, with its pendent crotch-protector. With his strength he could get easily into his coat of chain, without aid. He spread its oiled leather wrapping on the desk with which his father had surprised him on a birthday five years agone. On it he laid his coat of linked circles of chain. Bending to ease it up his arms, he mused on his growth. He had reached his father’s height seven months agone-and had not stopped growing.
Was his fourth coat of armour, this one that had been Midhir’s. The making and linking of slim steel rings into armour was a lengthy process of painstaking labour and considerable skill, his father had impressed upon him. Grow more, Art had said, and he could have a new coat next year, made for himself. Cormac swallowed. Would he ever see that promised mail?
At present, Midhir’s chaincoat fit. Midhir was thick and brawny; Cormac was built more rangily, with muscles like those of a cat. Already Midhir’s coat fell not so low on the youth as it had on the man of twoscore and one. Having pulled it up his arms and, with a little grunt, over his head-the while being careful about his ears and face-he let it jingle down his body and moved his shoulders under its weight, nigh twoscore pounds. He strapped on his scabbard-belt with its huge clasp of shining brass, pulled his buckler from the wall. Brass-faced and leather-backed it was, over the thick circle of wood, with both its bracer and grip padded with leather over wool. Sliding his hand through the bracer, he fisted the grip and departed the room. His cloak was heavy on his shoulders; the bearskin collar extended halfway down his back.
His stomach snarled, and he made Branwen relatively happy by stuffing his mouth with ham and his hand with pan-bread. Was not enough, she scolded; but he pointed to his overfull mouth, made a few wordless sounds, and left.
Outside he was greeted with restraint, the way that he durst not smile had the urge come on him. Midhir he found armed and wearing a leathern armour-coat, watching two youngsters. They worked away with smallish bucklers and leather-covered swords of wood. The warrior was happy to have his company sought by Cormac, and happy to be drawn away.
They walked in silence to the gate. Midhir gestured; they were passed through and set out across the broad plain. They talked, now.
The fact of death was one thing. That it had been murder was another. Who had slain Art mac Comail? Why? Could it have been an act of the moment, an act of rage; or… had someone wanted the man dead?
“If so,” Midhir said, “then it’s yourself’s in great danger, Cormac. For he’ll want the son in the earth with the father.”
“I cannot believe it. Who?”
“That,” Midhir said as they walked toward the woods, “we must learn.”
Cormac’s brain churned. Aye, And-how?”
“And then it’s vengeance ye must have, lad. It’s a matter for blood-feud.”
“Agreed, Midhir. And-”
“Know that whatever the situation may be or become at Glondrath, Cormac, Midhir mac Fionn will ever be with you.” Midhir slapped his swordhilt. “Vengeance, Cormac! Vengeance for Art!”
“Aye, and I’m thanking ye, Midhir. But-”
“Gods of my fathers-Art murdered! Vengeance I say, blood-feud and vengeance I vow, friend of my life!” And M
idhir’s sword scraped partway out of his sheath in his passion.
And of a sudden Cormac mac Art grew older still.
Of a sudden he was aware of a great difference between himself and this pure man of weapons. Cormac had been trained by him, aye, until he was the equal and then the better of the master. He had also been trained, though, by Sualtim Fodla. Trained not to go thundering-blundering ever forward without taking careful stock, and counsel with himself. True, that thinking was to be done with all swiftness. Consideration and planning, these he had been taught-and to seek the answer that was not so obvious as a gnat perched on his nose.
“We have no name, Midhir. Whom shall we suspect? We-”
“We shall have a name!”
“Aye,” Cormac said, with a long aspiration. “Nor do we know whether it’s a plotter we seek, or… someone who… flew into a rage.” He was only just able to govern his voice then, and he paused a moment to gain control. “There is much to learn, Midhir, and more matters to be considered than we have knowledge of.”
“What matter? We find him! If it’s ten of them there be, we find and do death on ten then, Cormac Bear-slayer! Here-this path. ’Ware that fallen branch.”
The coolth and dimness of the woods closed about them. Cormac strove to explain. He had no notion of his own future, much less of his father’s slayer. He was glad he would at least have Midhir for companion, that he be not totally alone, now. Still, he had learned well his lessons from Sualtim and Art mac Comail. When there was opportunity, the two men of wisdom had impressed upon him, and the contemplated act merited action, it must needs be second to thinking and planning.
“And swift,” the voice of hiss father intoned in his mind, “as the situation demands.”
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