Seer of Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier
Later in the morning, Brenna came to the door to summon us. The men were ready for an audience. As one, the women downed tools and headed for the combat area.
We entered through an archway set in the double wall. The heavy iron gates that usually barred this access had been swung open to let us in. Between the two walls were various chambers in which weaponry was stored and other specialized activities were carried out, including, I presumed, tuition in the more covert parts of the training offered on the island.
Inside the enclosure a broad area of hard-packed earth was circled by a double row of benches. The place could accommodate anything from a bout of wrestling between two men to a mock battle of twenty against twenty. The warriors of the island maintained their skills even when there were no visitors to be trained. Requests for their services came in frequently—such an expert fighting force could handle a broad range of assignments. Johnny chose their missions carefully; I knew he accepted perhaps one in ten such requests. As a future chieftain of Sevenwaters, he could not afford to make new enemies.
The benches soon filled up.
“Everyone’ll be here,” said Brenna, who was seated on my right. “Or nearly everyone. It’ll be loud when things get going, Sibeal.”
It already seemed loud to me, the level of excitement building as more and more folk came in, the women and children being joined by quite a few of the men.
“Only a handful of the men will be fighting,” said Clodagh, who was on my left. “This is carefully planned, to show the visitors what we can do and what they will be striving for while they’re with us. Of course, most of our men will be helping with the training, once it gets going. I expect Muirrin and Evan will have a few bruises and sprains to deal with; it always happens. How’s your man doing?”
“All right,” I said. “He’s not my man, Clodagh. Just a person who cheated death, with a little help from me.”
“Mm-hm. You have been spending rather a lot of time in the infirmary.”
“Look,” I said, changing the subject, “there’s Svala with Knut and Kalev. I didn’t expect to see her here, with so many people around.”
“She looks as if she’d rather be somewhere else,” observed Brenna.
“She certainly keeps herself to herself,” Clodagh said. “I invited her to join us in the work room any morning. Or at least, I asked Kalev to ask Knut to tell her she’d be welcome. Norse-women are usually skilled embroiderers, so I’ve heard. But Knut said she prefers to be on her own. She seems so sad.”
Svala did not look sad now, simply detached. While Knut moved about greeting one man after another, exchanging smiles and friendly words, she remained standing at the back, not watching her husband or anything in particular. Her hair had been tamed into an untidy plait, over which she wore a linen head cloth. It did little to diminish her beauty, and I saw eyes turning toward her, those of the Connacht men in particular. His greetings over, Knut came back to stand beside her. Kalev said something and the two men laughed.
A sudden hush. A pair of combatants moved onto the fighting area, knives at their belts: fair-haired Jouko and the more solidly built Niall, brother of Alba. The combatants faced Johnny, who was seated with Gareth among the throng, and inclined their heads in a gesture of acknowledgment. A moment later they were circling each other in fighting stance, and the crowd erupted in screams of encouragement and shouts of advice: “Go for his knees, Jouko! Niall, watch your back!” If I had thought the gathering loud before, it was nothing to this.
The bout was intense and serious. Jouko was more agile than Niall; he fought like a dancer. Niall seemed stronger. I thought he might prevail, provided he could pin the northerner down at some point. I thought of animals—Jouko a stag, Niall a boar—as they whirled and struck and dodged from one side of the fighting area to the other and back again. Then, to a gasp from the onlookers, Jouko tripped his opponent with a move that was powerful, economical and entirely unexpected. Niall’s knife went flying as he fell. Seizing his advantage, Jouko was kneeling astride the other man in an instant, his own knife against Niall’s throat.
“Cease!” called Johnny. “Well done.” Jouko slipped the knife back into his belt, rose to his feet and held out a hand to help Niall up. They acknowledged the crowd’s enthusiastic approval with brief nods, then left the field of battle.
Johnny now stood up in his place; heads turned toward him. “Welcome, all.” My cousin did not raise his voice, but the crowd hushed; some men have a natural authority, and Johnny had more than most. “A particular greeting to our contingent from Connacht; you’ve made a long journey to be here. That bout was just a taste of what’s to come. Today we have on show some of our skills, some of our weapons, some of the men who’ll be working with you during your stay. Your chieftain has explained to me what he needs you to learn, and from tomorrow you’ll be divided into groups and allocated one of our men as tutor. You’re here because you’re the best of the best. Our job is to make you even better. Work hard, observe our rules, and you’ll return to Connacht sharpened to precision.
“The rules are simple on Inis Eala. Your tutors will explain them again later, but here’s the gist of it. If you break the codes of behavior we observe here, you’ll not only be sent home straightaway, but so will the rest of your group. We don’t ask any more of you than we ask of our own men and women. The first rule is respect. That goes for all of us, all the time: put it into practice in word and deed, every moment of every day. The second rule is that nobody leaves the island without my permission. Our boats go across to the mainland every few days, and there may be reason for one or two of you to go with them on occasion. Don’t even think of expeditions of your own.
“The third rule is honesty. If you make an error, face up to it, come out with it. The last rule is this: we don’t let the sun set on our anger. Likely there’ll be disputes as we go along. We’re none of us beyond annoyance, jealousy, the feelings that arise when we’re working hard and getting tired and bruised, and something happens to cause offense. Settle your grievances quickly, and if you can’t, bring them to me after supper on the same day and I’ll help you sort things out. If you feel a need to use your fists to resolve a problem, do it properly, out in the open with a third man as arbiter, and once the bout’s done, let that be an end of it.” Johnny looked around as if to include each of the Connacht men in his speech. “You’ll have questions. We’ll make time for them when today’s bouts are over. We’re going to show you some new swords fashioned by our expert smith here. Stand up, Sam, so everyone can see you.”
Sam rose to his full, imposing height, his buttercup hair bright in the sunlight. He gave a genial grin.
“The new weapons are lighter, easier to handle, in every way an improvement on the heavy swords most of us have been using,” Johnny went on. “We’ll be training you in their use—skill with the traditional broadsword won’t make you an expert with these—and we’ll ask for your comments, too. If your chieftain wants to make use of such weapons in future he’ll need to have a smith trained in their manufacture. We can provide that training.”
We watched Spider and Otter testing Sam’s new blades. They looked ill-matched, one tall and thin, the other sturdy and barrel-chested. But neither easily gained the advantage. The bout had them moving light-footed across the open space, their agility and strength belying the fact that each had seen more than forty summers.
“These swords allow the men to move about much more easily,” explained Brenna. “Sam learned how to make them from a Frankish smith who stayed here a couple of winters. And he’s added some improvements of his own. See how quickly the men recover from a swing? You couldn’t do that with the old swords unless you had arms like Cú Chulainn’s.”
“And these have a sharper point,” said Clodagh. “More like a spear point. They can inflict a wound by stabbing, not just hacking. You can’t do that with the old ones; they’re simply too heavy for it.”
“Mm-hm,” I murmured. Living at Inis Eala
Otter got under Spider’s guard and could have slashed him across the thighs, but made the blow a smack with the flat of the blade, demonstrating remarkable control. Some time later, Spider turned unexpectedly and delivered, not a knockout hit, but a delicate tap to Otter’s leather-capped head. Johnny called out to them to stop, and they did. Spider draped a long arm around his friend’s shoulders; Otter brought his blade up in a salute to Johnny and to the cheering onlookers.
Next up was Rat, who defeated the much younger Oran after a lengthy bout. Flidais, a wisp of a woman, screamed fit to scare the gulls from the sky, and once the battle was over her husband stepped over the benches to gather her up in his arms and give her a hearty kiss.
Gareth took on a big man whose name I did not catch and eventually won, though to my untutored eye the contest looked very even. Then a pair of others battled it out with heavy broad-swords, which restricted the combatants—well-muscled men, the two of them—to ponderous swings and lurching movements. It was dramatically clear how the new blades changed the manner of fighting.
“A broadsword like those can cleave a man’s skull in two,” explained Clodagh calmly. “Or hew off his arm or leg. But what makes them lethal also hampers the user. Once you start the swing, the whole weight of your body goes into it.”
“I see.”
“And that means,” put in Brenna, “that if your weapon comes down in the wrong place, your opponent can kill you while you’re still trying to retrieve it.”
Quite soon Johnny called a halt. The combatants were glistening with sweat and breathing hard as they came forward to acknowledge the crowd’s applause. When the cheering died down, Johnny stood to speak again.
“While our visitors are here, we’ll have an open session like this once every seven days. Next time, you Connacht men are welcome to participate. It’ll be on the basis of challenges. If you want to take part, let Rat know a few days beforehand. Choose an opponent, one of yours or one of ours. If that man accepts, the bout goes ahead. Rat, stand up.”
Rat obliged.
“Rat’s been fighting since I was a babe in swaddling,” Johnny said. “He’s in charge of the challenge days. Connacht men, we’ll expect to see each of you participate at least once before your departure.” Judging by the buzz of talk among the men, I thought Rat was likely to have more takers than there would be time for. “I’ll answer everyone’s questions after this final bout. Ready, men?”
Now it seemed Cathal was to fight, and his opponent was Kalev. As they stepped out onto the open ground, what looked like the entire complement of Inis Eala warriors came in ones and twos to settle on the benches around the practice area, until every seat was full and folk were standing all around the outside of the circle.
“Big audience,” I whispered to my sister.
“The men like to watch Cathal fight,” Clodagh murmured. She sounded calm, but she had gripped my hand hard enough to bruise me.
Both combatants wore the same kind of clothing as the other fighters had: padded wool garments with a leather breast-piece over the tunic, protective straps buckled around forearms and shins, and a cap-like leather helm. Each bore one of the lightweight swords.
Now that his bout was over, Niall had come to sit between Brenna and Alba. “Count of fifty,” I heard him say to the man behind him.
“I’ll give you seventy.”
“Done. Don’t like your chances.”
“Five-and-forty,” someone else was saying.
“Wagers?” I asked, wondering how you could lay a wager without naming the man you expected to win.
“That’s right,” Niall said, touching a clenched fist with that of the man behind him, which seemed to denote an agreement. “You don’t wager on anyone beating Cathal. Not unless he’s fighting Johnny. We put our stake on how long his opponent can last. Mind you, Johnny may have asked them to keep it going today, since this is in the nature of a demonstration. I might lose my two coppers. Doesn’t matter; I’ll win them back soon enough.”
“I see.” I watched as the two men adopted the fighting pose, swords at the ready, eyes intent on each other, ready to read a move when it was no more than a gleam in the opponent’s eye. “And if Cathal fights Johnny, who gets your wager?”
Niall grinned. “We don’t wager on those bouts. Johnny always seems to have a little something in reserve. Must be his father’s magic. They say Bran was a superb fighter. Fearless.”
I did not look at Clodagh. If Cathal had chosen to use his father’s magic, he could have defeated any human opponent, even the superbly gifted Johnny.
Kalev and Cathal were of similar build, tall and spare; they appeared well-matched. It was apparent within moments why this bout had been kept until last: it was a cut above anything we had seen. I was surprised at Kalev’s adept touch, his lightning-quick feet, for when I had seen him before he always looked a little awkward, as if he had hardly grown into his height. But of course he would not have been selected for this particular bout unless he had been able to make his opponent work hard, at least for the count of fifty or seventy or whatever it was to be.
“Kalev’s good,” I hissed into Clodagh’s ear as the crowd yelled and stamped its feet in encouragement.
“One of our best.” She was still holding my hand uncomfortably tight.
The two men were pressed together, their weapons locked, their eyes hard. The swords scraped, the sound harsh as the scream of a crow, and the position broke. The combatants circled each other. Kalev was breathing hard. Several men around me were counting on their fingers.
Kalev stepped to the left, feinted to the right, came up behind Cathal, ready to strike. But Cathal was not there; his move had been so swift I had hardly seen it. My eyes met Clodagh’s.
“He’s just very quick,” my sister said. “No tricks; at least, not the kind you’re thinking of.”
She was right. It became plain, as Kalev tried one technique after another and Cathal was always a little too fast for him, that my brother-in-law was simply the better fighter.
The Connacht men were on the edge of their seats, silent amid the raucous throng. Johnny was not shouting. He was not even watching the fight, it seemed to me, but observing the behavior of the visitors, as if he had started assessing their quality before they had even begun their training.
“Eight-and-forty, nine-and-forty,” Niall was muttering. “A pox on it.”
Kalev was still on his feet. His contribution had been far more than mere self-defence. Several good blows had met their targets, but Cathal’s speed—almost, but not quite, uncanny—gave him the advantage. Kalev’s features were intent, his eyes narrowed. If he knew defeat was inevitable, that wasn’t stopping him from putting all he had into the fight.
“Eight-and-fifty, nine-and-fifty . . . ”
Suddenly Kalev was in retreat, backing across the open ground before the swift and deadly action of Cathal’s sword arm. He staggered, went down on one knee, braced himself as best he could to hold back the onslaught. With his weapon’s hilt gripped in both hands, Cathal performed a twisting maneuver, and Kalev’s sword fell to the ground.
“Cease.” Johnny’s tone was level; if he had any opinion on the skill just demonstrated by his men, he gave no indication of it. Kalev got up, retrieved his weapon, came to stand by Cathal. The crowd roared its appreciation, and the two men acknowledged it with the customary slight dip of the head. Kalev looked tired. Cathal was impassive. “Well done, all who participated today,” Johnny said. “That’s the end of our display. Food and drink for everyone in the dining hall shortly. Connacht men, gather around. We’ll give you some further details and introduce you to your tutors. And I’ll answer any questions.”
The women and children, and many of the men, headed for the exit.
“Wait, Sibeal, we’ll go out when the worst of the crowd is through the gate,” Clodagh said. “I’m getting so big now, I tend to be in people’s way.”
My sister and I were heading out at the back of the throng when I heard raised voices behind me, an intense exchange in Norse. Then came Knut’s voice, speaking in heavily accented Irish.
“I fight. New sword, seven days. I fight that one.”
We turned, Clodagh and I. Knut had moved against the flow of the crowd, and now stood in the group next to Johnny. Jouko had hold of the Norseman’s arm and was addressing him in a fierce undertone, probably saying something like, be quiet, you fool, this is not how it’s done. He might as well not have been there. Knut’s attention was all on Johnny. His gaze was fierce, his shoulders were set square and his booted feet were apart; it was a warrior’s pose. He had certainly grabbed the attention of the group. The Connacht men eyed him with curiosity; the Inis Eala men with bemused astonishment.
It was hard to surprise Johnny, but for a moment I saw him lost for words.
“Jouko,” said Rat, “explain to Knut that the bouts are only for the men in training, our summer visitors. Besides, nobody’s going to be proficient with the new sword in seven days. Even supposing a man could be, he wouldn’t last to the count of ten against Cathal.”
So it was Cathal that the Norseman had challenged. Knut must be stupid. Hadn’t he seen that last bout?
Knut’s response to Jouko was emphatic.
“Knut is keen to test his skills against Cathal’s.” There was a note of apology in Jouko’s translation. “He asks this as a special favor of you, Johnny. He does not expect to be part of the training, only to have the use of one of Sam’s blades for practice until the next challenges. He is a fighting man, and wishes to show you what he can do. I’m sorry. I did explain, as well as I could.”
“I fight,” Knut said in Irish. “Show heart. Strong. Fight best man here.”