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.