Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [19]
“That is Conall, son of Morna,” he replied; and seeing that she had not fully understood: “It’s the nephew of the High King himself.”
“Oh,” said Deirdre.
She watched several races. The men rode bareback. The island horses, though small, were very fleet and the races were exciting. She saw Conall come in just behind the leader in the first race; the second he won. He did not ride in the next two, but meanwhile, more and more people were arriving at the side of the track. One of the main attractions of the day was about to begin.
The chariot races. Already Deirdre could see that the King of Leinster had arrived on the small mound by the track from which vantage point he would preside. For if the racing of horses was the sport of warriors, the riding of chariots represented the highest and most aristocratic of the arts of war. The chariots were strong, lightly built, two-wheeled vehicles with a single shaft between two horses. Each chariot contained a two-man team—the warrior and his charioteer. They were swift and, in the hands of an expert charioteer, wonderfully manoeuverable. Against the disciplined armour of the Roman legions they were not effective, and so in the Roman provinces of Britain and Gaul they had long ago fallen into disuse; but here on the western island, where warfare was conducted along traditional Celtic lines, the ancient art was still practised. Deirdre could see about twenty chariots preparing to enter the track. But first, it seemed there was to be an exhibition. For now two chariots came out, unaccompanied, into the huge, grassy arena.
“There’s Conall,” remarked the man she had spoken to earlier, “and his friend Finbarr.” He grinned. “Now you’ll see something.”
Conall and Finbarr were both stripped, since it was also the tradition that Celtic warriors fought naked. She noticed that Finbarr was very strongly made, a little shorter than Conall, though thicker in the chest, upon which she could see curls of fair brown hair. Standing just behind their charioteers, each man carried a round shield decorated with polished bronze which flashed in the sun. The chariots went out together into the centre of the arena before wheeling apart to opposite ends. Then they began.
It was astounding. Deirdre had seen charioteers at work before, but never anything like this. Hurtling together at breakneck speed, their spoked wheels, each a blur, almost touched as they passed. Out to the ends they went and turned. This time each hero had taken up a great javelin. As they raced together again, they hurled their spears with devastating skill, Finbarr casting his just an instant before Conall. As the two spears crossed in the air, there was a sudden intake of breath from the crowd. And with good reason: for the aim of each was deadly. Conall’s chariot, hitting a small bump in the turf, was slowed just an instant so that the spear thrown by Finbarr would certainly have struck and probably killed the charioteer if Conall had not reached across with lightning speed and deflected it with his shield. Conall’s aim on the other hand, was so perfect that his javelin fell precisely on Finbarr’s shield as he raced forward so that, holding it up before him, Finbarr could neatly turn the sharp point to one side. There was a roar of appreciation from the crowd. This was warfare as a high art.
The two men were taking up their bright swords as the chariots wheeled round again. Now, however, it was the turn of the charioteers to show their skill. They did not dash straight at each other this time; instead, they began an intricate pattern of pursuit and avoidance, making dizzying circles and zigzags all over the field, swooping down upon each other like birds of prey, chasing and being chased. Each time they came close, sometimes careering along side by side, the two warriors struck and parried with sword and shield. If these fights had been choreographed in advance, it was impossible to tell. As the blades flashed and rang out, Deirdre expected to see blood gush from the pale skin of