The Plain of Sorrow, indeed!
And then on the second night, whilst he was at the “guarding” of silent cattle while most of the others slept, he twitched into alertness. The youth sat with his back against a tall old oak wrapped against the night-chill in its leafy hood. Cormac stared, blinked, stared again. At first he saw only the white hair and beard, silvered by the moonlight. They appeared to float, eerily riding the air several feet above the ground. Cormac’s skin writhed with horripilation as he pounced to his feet, spear at the ready.
Then he saw that here was no sorcery; his visitor’s body had merely been invisible in the darkness, for it was swathed in a dark green robe. A woods-green robe; a druid’s robe.
Out of the darkness came Sualtim Fodla. A new prickling assailed Cormac, though not in fear; he assumed he was witness to another vision, another druidic Sending.
Surely Sualtim could not be here, a Connachtish druid of considerable age in Leinster just below Meath’s border. Far and far from Connacht-and far, Cormac thought with some embarrassment, from Airgialla, where he and his old tutor had agreed he’d go.
And then he heard the faint snap of a twig from the great oak that shadowed them both even from moonlight. That told Cormac that the druid was indeed come here, in the flesh.
Cormac was more than surprised. His old fithithir had found him, come to him as if directly, though he was afield in the night. And after Cormac had deliberately deceived him-or so the youth had thought-lest even Sualtim too be traitor!
“You did well, my boy.” The druid spoke very quietly. “You sought to deceive even me.”
Cormac gnawed his lower lip. He could not meet those knowing eyes. He remembered having warned Sualtim against calling him “boy”-and he said nothing.
“I understand,” Sualtim told him, just as quietly; he was but a stride away, now, and there he halted. “So. North you rode, and then swung east… lost all to bandits in the forests… saved a Leinsterish war-leader and have joined his force… and you’re after couching your first woman… or are after being bedded by her! So now it’s a man ye be in all way… Partha mac Othna na Ulaid!”
Astonishment mingled with chagrin in Cormac. Best he say nothing, he decided. He who’d thought himself so much the man but moments agone now felt much the boy, in the presence of him who’d been his tutor so long-and who seemed to know all things, impossible or no.
“Look up, son of your father. Give listen. I have been busy; I have knowledge to share. Think you I came so far only to tell you what you already know?”
Cormac looked up then, sheepishly. Sualtim,looked naught but friendly, rather like a proudly doting parent. Then a cloud came onto his face:
“Aengus mac Domnail… was in fact Eoin mac Gulbain, my b-Partha. Aye: son of that same Lord Gulban your father replaced as toisech in Rath Glondarth. Reasoning and reasonable or no, Eoin held my lord Art responsible for the fall of his father and the ruin of his family.”
“Aengus… Eoin… Gulban’s son…”
“It’s little time I have, Cormac. Eoin sought revenge then, and was inhumanly patient in his waiting for the taking of his dark vengeance. Fault him not in this, C-Partha.” Sualtim glanced around; there was only the darkness, shot with snores. “He felt he was right, and justified; he died feeling that he had done vengeance for his father.”
Cormac’s lips were tightly compressed. Not fault the man who’d slain his father?
I wish Aengus were alive, that I might slay him! Cormac was not so calmly reasoning an animal as Sualtim; Cormac had not the benefit of time in this life.
“Yet methinks another was behind Eoin, Cormac. A priest of the New Faith! A man there is named Milchu-he professes the peaceful mouthings of Iosa Chriost but serves demains; mayhap the Christians’ ‘Devil’ himself! Aye and now I’m after learning that Milchu has the ear of the Highking himself.”
“The… ard-Righ!”
Sualtim nodded. “Milchu is surely his agent and his spy.”
“Mentor… ye-ye be thinking was the High-king’s own hand in my father’s murder?”
“Cormac… I am. It is not unknown that Lugaid mac Laegair our own High-king held no love for Art, on account of his popularity… and on account of the honoured name your father put on yourself.” Sualtim lifted a staying hand against Cormac’s speaking. “Yet no surety is on me, Cormac. It’s the answer to that question I now seek. It’s north I go. Milchu is said to be on a mission to the northern kingdoms. There will I seek out that priest, cairnech of the New Faith or no, and learn what we must needs know.”
In silence, Cormac mac Art stared at nothing while he pondered the implications of this revelation. A priest of the New Faith! The High-king! So swiftly did his mind plunge into the ugly tangle that the sound of the old man’s voice caused him to jerk.
“Cormac… if this surmising of mine gain the seal of truth, it were best that you put from your head any thought of blood-feud, lad.”
Eyes grim as a wolf’s stared at the druid from the dark, lined face. Grey as sword steel, those eyes were learning to be just as implacably hard.
Sualtim made a gesture that was nigh to pleading. “Think! Far better ye go and present your case to the Kings Assembled at Feis-mor come fall… would be a greater shame and dishonour on Lugaid!”
The grey eyes stared. The face remained grim, impassive-and thoughtful. Only the mouth moved: “Aye-”
“I will find out,” Sualtim said. “And now I must leave. Ere there can be any thought of accusation, it’s firm evidence we must have.”
“The High-king,” Cormac mumbled, and then seemed to emerge from a trance. “Oh-no, mentor, remain ye here and rest. At least till dawn-”
Sualtim shook his head. “It’s no rest there’ll be here, Cormac. Leinster fares not well against Meath. Soon will come the men of the High-king, to claim the Boruma, and no one to be the better of it to the end of life and time.”
While Cormac stared, stunned by shock upon shock, the druid turned and started into the night. At the edge of the tree’s shadow, he turned back.
“My b-Cormac. Remember well all those things I was so at pains to teach you. For it’s knowledge will serve ye, and consideration. A sharp mind will often win out where a sword-arm would fail, or but complicate matters and bring peril. Remember ever that the opinion of none is so important as your own, where it concerns yourself. Just… just ever seek the use of the brain, son of Art, before you go reaching for the blade.”
Surprisingly, Sualtim smiled. “And now put worry from you, weapon-man. When it comes your turn to sleep, do, even if it requires glasreng-blaith.”
Cormac watched the white hair above the green robe until he saw only the hair, and then his longtime mentor was swallowed up by the night. Thinking brain and blade, brain then blade-brain rather than blade? Cormac was left alone with too many thoughts. He stepped back against the tree, hearing the sound of a little breeze humming mournfully over the Plain of Sorrow. Was a lonely wind, moaning about the lone Connachtman in Leinster.
He stared into the darkness and saw nothing. Aye, he mused, alone and lonely. It’s Cormac n-Aenfher I am; Cormac the Lonely!
Chapter Ten:
The Cattle-Raid of Leinster
The grass was still bejeweled with dew when Forgall returned with what remained of his force. Every eye among them was dulled by the cold of defeat and dismay. The battle had been a shield-splitter and Magh Broin was a plain the ravens would long be croaking over.
A full score of Forgall’s men had been slain, and but eleven of the total remained unscathed. On them all was the sour taste of defeat-and weariness, to the bone. They came in like so many hounds who had tracked the quarry long and long, and had lost it. For Leinstermen in the matter of Boruma, victory and honour were elusive quarry indeed.
Shocked at how few returned, shocked at those who did not return, Cormac and Cond, heard the order that went out to all the other Fifties, to all the army. The tribute was to be delivered.
Those who had fought remained in camp while those who had been herdsmen continued, now moving the cattle and the wains containing the other portions of the tribute up northward. The Leinsterish force was most heavy of heart and hardly swift in the performing of that unwelcome task. Without spirit in eyes or gait, Cormac and the others herded the livestock across a plain become a lake of blood.
A great greyed Ogham stone marked Meath’s southern frontier. There, sore longing to draw steel and be men though it meant their deaths, the men of Leinster watched while the jubilant Meathmen took possession of cows fatted on Leinster’s good grass.
Cormac stared deep in thought on the ways of men. He stared at two, for there side by side stood General Fergus of Leinster and Lord Conor, the High-king’s cousin and commander of his force.
Would be a great shame on me, Cormac thought, not to stand well apart from that man who commanded the slayers of my comrades. The ways of nations of men are more strange than those of any man, and the ways of generals and kings are stranger still!
By this little battle, he mused, all was settled. All? What? The battle was hardly war though to mothers and wives and sweehearts of dead men it was hardly so minor an encounter. How was anything settled by such? What could a limited war prove? Why then war at all, with boundaries around it, with rules and less than a total commitement?
And the youth of Connacht thought, for the first but not the last time: Kings are fools, and nations of men greater fools, to do the bidding of such men and be commanded by their pettiness-and to die for their whims.
And then the Boruma was in Meathish hands.
Meathmen went to their camp with the noisy enthusiasm born of the joy of battle-winning. Leinstermen turned and tramped silently back to their encampment. Such a vast herd of cattle was not easily driven, and the sun was nigh to the horizon when they reached camp once more.
Spirits around the campfires that night could not have been lower. Though it was not cold, men wrapped their bodies in their cloaks and their minds in cloaks of dark thoughts. Among them, near Forgall, Cormac sat and pondered. Only partway he heard the Captain of Fifty-which was fifty no longer-swear by the blood of the gods, and bemoan the fact that once more had Meath set the bloody crown of defeat on proud Leinster.
“My grief! Once-oh but once in my life would I fain see Leinster prevail!” And Forgall kicked out at a burning log, so that sparks leaped up in spots of bright yellow and ruddy gold. And Cormac sat and pondered.
“As fresh malt is ground in the mill, so shall Meath one day be ground by the steel of Leinster!” So spoke Bress of the Long Arm, for he bore but a scratch on his sword-arm, and that not deep.
No, Cormac thought, not with steel. It’s never with the sword that Leinster will best Meath!
“Och,” groaned Cas mac Con, wearing an ugly wound that would scar his face and likely draw the left corner of his mouth, “weariness is on me like a-a cloak of wet woollen… but how can a man sleep on such a night?”
“How can any of us sleep?” This from Cond the Hair-trimmer, who had not fought.
And Cormac sat and pondered, and thought of battle, and honour, and kings, and generals and of sleep, and he looked round about him with dull eyes. He gazed, hardly seeing, on the squat plants that the cows had refused to eat. And he blinked. He stiffened, and blinked again, and there was a light in his eyes.
Into his mind came the final words of Sualtim Fodla, spoken less than twenty-four hours agone. Why aye, Cormac recognized that plant Sualtim had called blasreng-blath: boar-blossom. Of old had Sualtim told him of it. Those furry leaves, when chewed or crushed for their mucousy juice, were used by the druids and the better leeches-to induce sleep! A man could undergo surgery and not…
An idea circled about at the perimeter of Cormac’s mind, and nipped teasingly in the manner of a dog.
The brain; use the brain when the sword fails…
The nipping dog could not breach the defenses. What seemed an idea could not pierce into his mind. Surrounded by forlorn men who stared drearily into their fires, Cormac wrestled with his own brain.
“Ale!” Forgall called, without enthusiasm. “Ale, that I may drink to forgetfulness of disgrace and sorrow for comrades done to death.”
“Aye-ale!”
Ale!
In the darkness a wounded man groaned Then did Cormac gasp, for he knew that man could be helped a bit or eased at least, by chewing leaves of boar-blossom… or drinking ale into which their juice had been pressed…
Cormac mac Art’s eyes snapped wide. With a lurch, he was up and at Forgall’s side. The youth bent. He murmured to his captain. Few men so much as glanced that way, to see the face of their leader show puzzlement… and then seem to take on a glow of happiness. Of a sudden. he struck grinning at Cormac’s leg, clutched a leathered ankle.
“It’s no proper or decent notion ye’ve had, Partha, nor yet a one for the consideration of sane men. But this is no sane day, and what we’ve done be not the deeds of sane or proper men. And sure your idea’s one that warms a heart heavy within me… and soothes the aches of wounds put on us by Meathish swords and taunts!”
He looked into Cormac’s face, and their eyes flashed.
As though well rested, Forgall sprang up.
“Ale! ALE!” he bellowed. “Casks and casks of ale, lads, and hie-put bounce in your step!”
Darkness lay on the Plain of Sorrow, and through it rattled a cart behind two plodding horses with drooping heads. The cart creaked under burden: a full score stout casks that sloshed with liquid sounds. Atop the cart, hunched, sat two peasants roughly clad in their russet and dirty leathers and mist-hoods.
The rising of a drepanoid moon saw them approaching a broad cluster of campfires, just north of Leinster’s northern border. Not the main encampment of the Meathish army this, but that special space apart from it where the stenchy tribute was under guard. Well away from the sprawling encampment of the High-king’s troops it was, that the nostrils of triumphant soldiery might be spared animal odours and night-noises.
A sentry came abruptly alive. He challenged; the carters halted their dray-breasts. The sentry half turned to call to his superior. That man came, stared, frowned, set his fists against his hips, and stared on.
“What means this? Who be ye? What is this load?”
“We be but two good honest men, Captain your worthiness,” one of the carters said, adding swiftly, “and us unarmed! ’Tis the cart of our master. We would but pass, Captain. It’s good honest men we be, but honest peasants, and-”
“Yes, yes, and unarmed, as if we’d be fearing ye two if ye bore axes and swords both. And why would ye be passing along here at this hour, two good honest men?”
“We… we’re to be paid well by an honourable innkeeper but a halfscore or so miles hence, good Captain, up beyond yourself. Mightn’t we be passing, Captain? We be no army, to be rousing noble well armed weapon-men such as yourself.”
“Ah-huh. An innkeeper, eh?” The captain’s eyes seemed to gleam, though the moonlight scarce touched them. “And what is it ye be fetching to a moneygrubbing brughaid but a half score or so miles hence, eh, eh? Brion… go ye and rap on one or two of those interesting kegs.”
“Oh, oh captain,” one of the peasants nervously began, while the soldier was pacing forward, to the side of the cart.
Thump, went his spear-haft against a wooden cask, and the sound that returned was not from hollowness. Catching his spear-butt at the edge of that keg, he rocked it.
Slosh.
“Ale!” The Meathish captain’s voice was as of one in awe in the presence of the very gods. “Ale, by Lugh’s cup!”
“Well,” the cart’s driver said, “ah…”
“Ale!”
“Ah… well… aye, Captain.” And hurriedly, “Mightn’t we be passing now, Captain sir your worthiness?”
“Ha! Not without paying the toll! It’s war we’ve had this day, man, and your innkeeper untouched by it-why had we failed in our steadfas
t duty, his inn might have been invaded by barbarians and who knows what damage done? Brion-tap that keg!’
And Brion did. And the dark liquid came spilling forth, gurgling happily like a mountain brook. And the captain, his eyes fair emitting sparks now, used his helmet to catch some, so that it frothed up golden foam in the steel pot. And the captain drank.
“How… how tastes it?” This from Brion the sentry, with hope.
“Like sweat,” muttered one of the carters, and his companion introduced an elbow to his ribs.
“Ha! Good! Good, by Crom’s beard. It’s ale-Good ale! Not our pale stuff,” the delighted captain cried out. “It’s Leinster’s good ale this be!”
“Wh-why yes, Captain, aye your worthiness, the innkeeper our lord’s always wont to say there’s no comparing Meathish ale to this. He imports this for Meath, Captain, ye see, your worship. Might we be going on along our honest way now ye’ve quenched your thirst, good Captain?”
The sentry muttered to his superior. The captain nodded, with exuberance. His teeth flashed in a grin.
“So your innkeeper says that, does he? Why, that’s treason! And he’s trafficking with the knavish people we’ve after fighting this very day. Och! For shame! I do fear me this load of ale is hereby declared contraband, my man, and confiscated in the High-King’s name!”
“The High-king!” The carter almost whispered, in his awe.
“Aye. Hoho! And why should not we be celebrating with the rest of the army, we those others are after turning into smelly-booted nursemaids to an army of cattle? Did not these swords spill Leinsterish blood as well and as redly as theirs?”
One of the two carters tensed and his knuckles went white on the fist gripping his horse’s reins. His companion of the sword-grey eyes squeezed his arm.
“But-but Captain, fine honoured Captain, surely ye can’t be meaning to…”
The younger carter, he of the darkish skin and the grey eyes, broke off. The captain had drawn steel, and it shone like silver in the moon’s cold light. The captain’s eyes were as cold.
“It’s… to the count of twenty I’ll be giving ye, boys, to hush your voices and become scarce hereabouts. Else-”
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