Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [59]
Then, after a long pause, and having no alternative, Conall picked up his weapons and sadly followed him.
It was on a grassy strand, with the ford across the Liffey just behind them, that Conall and Finbarr prepared for battle.
There was a ritual to be followed before a Celtic warrior fought. First, the warrior should be naked, though he might paint his face on his body with the bluish dye called woad. But more important than any outward decoration was the inward preparation. For men did not go into battle cold. Armies worked themselves up with fearsome war chants and terrifying battle cries. Druids would shout to the enemy, telling them they were doomed. As the druids cast spells and warriors hurled insults, men from the camp would sometimes throw mud or even human excrement at the faces of their opponents to discourage them. But above all, each warrior had to work himself into that heightened state where strength and skill became something more than mere bone and muscle—where he drew strength from all his ancestors, too, and even the gods. This was the warrior’s sublime inspiration, his battle rage, his “warp spasm,” as the Celtic poets called it.
To achieve this heightened state, a Celtic warrior would go through ritual movements, standing on one leg, twisting his body and contorting his face until it seemed to have been transformed into a living war mask.
Finbarr prepared in the classic manner. Drawing up his right knee, he slowly arched his body as if it were a bow. Closing his left eye, he half tilted his face so that his master eye, wide and glaring, seemed to bore into his opponent in a piercing squint. Conall, meanwhile, stood very still, but it seemed to Finbarr that he was communicating with the gods.
“It will be the worse for you, Conall,” he cried, “that you came here. I am a boar who will gouge you, Conall. A boar.”
But Conall said nothing.
Then they took up their spears and shields, and Finbarr hurled his spear with huge force straight at Conall. It was a perfect throw. Once before, with such a throw, his spear had gone clean through his opponent’s shield and pinned the man to the ground through his chest. But Conall, stepping aside so fast that Finbarr scarcely saw him move, let the spear glance off his shield. With only a moment’s pause, Conall then hurled his in return. It flew from his hand, aimed straight at Finbarr’s heart. And if some other warrior had thrown it, Finbarr would have judged it a fine cast. But he knew the incredible force of Conall’s cast when he really tried and, letting the spear crash into his shield, he inwardly cursed. Then, taking up his sword, he rushed at Conall.
There were few who could match Finbarr with the sword. He was brave, he was swift, and he was strong. As he forced Conall back, it was hard for him to tell whether his friend was deliberately giving ground or was out of practice. As iron rang on iron, the sparks flew. They reached the edge of the shallows. Still Conall was giving ground; but though Conall was soon ankle-deep in the water, Finbarr realised that neither of them had yet drawn blood.
And the more he struck, the more mysteriously Conall seemed to elude him. He shouted a war cry, rushed splashing through the water, hacked and lunged. He used every move he knew. Yet strangely his sword either struck uselessly against the defending blade or shield of Conall, or it missed entirely. Once, when Conall’s shield was lowered and his sword hung wide, Finbarr made a lightning lunge—and encountered nothing at all. It was as if, for an instant, Conall had turned into a mist. I am not fighting a warrior, Finbarr thought, I am fighting a druid.
For some time this strange contest went on, and who knew how it might have ended