The Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Osgar took up the first verse, chanting it firmly:

  I rise today,

  My spirit mighty;

  I call on the Three,

  The Trinity;

  I confess the One

  Creator of Creation.

  Then Sister Martha took up the second:

  I arise today

  By the birth of Christ …

  Her voice had a cheerful strength. It was almost musical. She was a good companion, thought Osgar, as they went across the open space together. And as they came to the great druidical centre of the poem, they found themselves naturally taking turns, line by line, alternating the chant between them:

  I arise today

  By the power of heaven:

  Light as the sun,

  Bright as the moon,

  Splendid as fire,

  Quick as lightning,

  Fast as wind,

  Deep as the sea …

  The evening air was growing cold; but as they chanted the stirring poem together in that echoing place with the harsh green turf all round, and feeling the cold air raw on his reddening cheeks, Osgar experienced a quickening of the spirits; there was a boldness and manliness in his voice, and Sister Martha smiled. And they did not finish their hymn until, in the gathering darkness, they saw the walls of Kildare looming ahead of them.

  The following morning, having said goodbye to the nun, the two men prepared to go their separate ways. The weather had changed. It was cold, but the sky was clear and the day was crisp and bright. The journey from Kildare to Glendalough was not a difficult one, and as they had encountered no trouble upon the way, Osgar was happy enough to continue alone. First he would go to a small religious house that nestled below the western slopes of the Wicklow Mountains, not a dozen miles away. By good fortune, the monks there had recently lent a horse to one of the abbey’s servants, and it was agreed that Osgar should return it. After a night there, he proposed to take the mountain path that led up to Glendalough, a familiar path that would easily bring him there by the next afternoon.

  Morann, meanwhile, intended to spend the morning conducting his business at Kildare, then leave on the road that went past Carmun. He, too, would break his journey, and arrive at Dyflin the following day.

  As there was no need to hurry, Osgar spent a pleasant couple of hours looking around the monastery town of Kildare.

  The place had always been a holy site. Osgar was aware that, before Christianity came to the island, there had been a shrine there, in an oak grove, sacred to Brigid, the Celtic goddess of healing, whose festival was Imbolc, at the start of February. A patron of crafts and poetry, Brigid had also protected the province of Leinster, and to make sure of this favour, the priestess at the shrine kept a sacred fire always alight, night and day. The exact details had never been clear, but it seemed likely that, a generation or so after Saint Patrick’s activities in the north, the then high priestess of the shrine, who would have been known by her title, the priestess of Brigid, had taken the new Roman religion. In the centuries that followed, not only had the shrine acquired a new name—Kildare, Cill Dara, the church of the oak—but the nameless priestess had been transformed into a Christian saint with the same associations as the old pagan goddess, and a life story and attendant miracles on the usual pattern. As a learned man, Osgar knew that the chroniclers always had such biographies preprepared for the necessary manufacture of the lives of saints. But that did not take away from the essential point, which was that Saint Brigid, the patron saint of poets, blacksmiths, and healing, had entered the Christian calendar, along with her saint’s day, February 1, the ancient pagan festival of Imbolc.

  It was a great place nowadays, bigger even than Kells. A large township—with a sacred centre, an inner ring of monastic buildings, and outer secular quarters—it contained a double monastery, one for monks and another for nuns, under the rule of a single head. Rich and powerful, Kildare even had its own retinue of armed men for its protection.

  It was while he was inspecting one of the town’s fine crosses that Osgar decided to change his plans.

  The idea had first occurred to him while he was still working at Kells, but he had dismissed it as unnecessary. During the journey, it had once or twice come into his mind again. But now, perhaps because of the sun shining so cheerfully on the frosty ground, and doubtless also because Morann was already going there, he suddenly felt an urge to visit Dyflin.

  After all, he reminded himself, it wasn’t as if he was expected on any particular day at Glendalough. If he hadn’t gone down to Kildare on account of Sister Martha, he’d probably have been returning to Glendalough through Dyflin anyway. It was surely his family duty, with all the present troubles going on, to check on the well-being of his old uncle. Moreover, since the little family monastery was nominally under the auspices of Glendalough, he could imagine that the Abbot of Glendalough would be grateful for a report on the state of things there. And if he should happen to see Caoilinn, whom Morann had told him was staying with her father in the city now, there could surely be no harm in that. So when Morann emerged from his meeting, Osgar asked the surprised craftsman if, instead of going to Glendalough, he might ride in his cart with him into the city.

  The craftsman gave him a cautious look.

  “It could still be dangerous out there,” he warned.

  “Yet you are going.” Osgar smiled. “I’m sure I shall be safe with you.”

  They set off an hour before noon. For the first two hours, their journey was uneventful. There was a sheen of frost on the ground, and as they passed across the huge open spaces of Carmun, the terrain was sparkling green in the reflected sun. Osgar felt a strange happiness and a sense of tingling excitement that grew with every mile they passed. And though at first he told himself that this was because he was going once again to see his family at the monastery, he finally gave up and admitted, with an inward smile, that it was because he might be seeing Caoilinn. By early afternoon they had started up a wide track that led northwards, with the sweeping slopes of the Wicklow Mountains rising up some miles away to the west.

  It was Osgar who spotted the first horseman. He was riding along a track about a mile away to their right. Even as he pointed him out to Morann, he saw that there were others not far behind. There were men on foot as well. Then he saw a cart in the distance, and more horsemen. And gazing southwards he realised that they were about to encounter a great stream of people flowing raggedly up the edge of the plain below the Wicklow Mountains. It wasn’t long before they came close enough to hail one of them. He was a middle-aged man, with a blanket wrapped round him. One side of his face was streaked with dried blood. What had happened, they asked.

  “A big battle,” he called out. “Down there.” He waved towards the south. “At Glen Mama, by the mountains. Brian smashed us. We were destroyed.”

  “Where is Brian now?” asked Morann.

  “You’ve missed him. He and his men would have passed this way long ago. He’d have been riding like the devil,” he cried grimly. “He’ll be in Dyflin already by now.”

  Morann pursed his lips. Osgar felt a little stab of fear, but said nothing. The horseman moved away. After a short pause, Morann turned to Osgar.

  “I have to go on. But you’ve no need to. You could walk back to Kildare now and be there before dark.”

  Osgar considered for a moment. He thought of his uncle at the family monastery. He thought of Caoilinn.

  “No,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

  As the afternoon went on they found themselves merging into a stream of men returning home. Many were wounded. Here and there were carts carrying those who could not walk or ride. There was not much talking. Those who did speak all told the same story. “We left more dead than living down there at Glen Mama,” they said. The short afternoon was drawing to a close when they came in sight of a small religious house beside a stream. “That’s where we’ll stop,” Morann announced. “If we leave early from here tomorrow, we’l
l be in sight of Dyflin before the end of the morning.” Osgar could see that there was already a large collection of people resting there.

  Morann was worried. He hadn’t really wanted to bring the monk with him. Not that he didn’t like him; but he was a complication, an additional responsibility, possibly a risk.

  What lay ahead? A conquering army after battle is a dangerous animal. Looting, pillage, rape: it was always the same. Even a king as strong as Brian would not necessarily be able to control his men. Most commanders let their troops do what they wanted for a day or two and then reined them in afterwards. The religious houses with their walled compounds would probably be safe. Brian would see to that. But going into the area round Dyflin would be perilous. How would the quiet monk cope with these things? What use could he be? Was he just going to get in the way and need to be looked after? There was another consideration, too. Morann’s first objective would be to find Astrid and her children and, if necessary, help them escape. He certainly didn’t want the monk taking up valuable space in the cart. He wished that Osgar hadn’t come.

  And yet you couldn’t help admiring him. The religious house where they had broken their journey was a small place, with less than a dozen inmates. The monks there were accustomed to giving shelter to travellers, but by nightfall, their resources were completely overwhelmed. There must have been fifty or sixty tired and wounded men, some of them close to death, camped in the little yard or outside the gates; the monks were giving them what food and bandaging they could. And Osgar was aiding them.

  He was impressive. Moving about amongst the wounded and the dying, giving food and water to one, bandaging the wounds of another, sitting quietly talking to some poor fellow whom food and bandages could no longer help, he seemed to possess not only a quiet competence but an extraordinary, gentle grace. During the night—for he appeared to be able to do without sleep—he sat with two men who were dying, praying with them and, when it was time, giving them the last unction. And you could see from their faces that he brought them peace and comfort. It was not only what he did, Morann concluded, but something in his manner, a quietness that radiated from his elegant, spare body, of which he himself was probably not conscious. “You have a gift,” the craftsman remarked to him once during a break in his vigil, but Osgar only looked surprised.

  When morning came, the monks would obviously have been glad if he remained. A number of the men resting there were unfit to go on and others were still arriving.

  “There will be raiding parties about this morning,” Morann pointed out to Osgar. “Are you sure you would not do better to stay here?”

  “No,” said Osgar, “I’ll come with you.”

  The morning was crystalline. The sky was blue. There was a dusting of snow, shining in the sunlight on the tops of the Wicklow Mountains.

  Despite the sad scenes of the night and the possible danger ahead, Osgar felt a sense of excitement mixed with a glow of warm joy. He was going to see Caoilinn. The first part of their journey was quiet, and he allowed his mind to wander a little. He imagined her in danger; he imagined himself arriving, her look of surprise and joy. He imagined himself saving her, fighting off assailants, bringing her to safety. He shook his head. Unlikely visions, boyish dreams. But he dreamed them all the same, several times, as the little cart bumped along below the gleaming mountains.

  Then he felt Morann nudge him.

  There was a small rise ahead. Just below it was a farmstead. And by the farmstead there were horsemen.

  “Trouble.” Morann was looking grim.

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t, but I suspect.” He narrowed his eyes. “It’s a raiding party.” He glanced at Osgar. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  As they went forward, they could see what was happening. The raiding party consisted of three horsemen. They had come to collect cattle, and finding only a few at the farmstead had evidently decided to take them all. Osgar could see a woman standing at the entrance to the farmstead. There was a child behind her. A man, her husband presumably, was trying to argue with the raiders, who were taking no notice of him.

  “Osgar,” Morann’s voice was low, “reach down behind you. There’s a blanket there with a sword underneath it. Put the blanket over your knees and keep the sword between your legs.”

  Osgar felt for the sword and did as Morann had asked.

  “Let me know when you want it,” he said quietly, as they drew closer.

  The man at the farmstead was shouting now, as the cattle were being driven out of their pen. Osgar saw the man run forward and catch one of the riders by the leg, remonstrating with him. He was tugging at the leg, wildly.

  The movement was so swift that Osgar never saw the horseman’s hand move at all. He saw the blade though, a single, sudden flash in the morning sun. Then he saw the farmer falling, saw him crumple on the ground.

  The horseman did not even cast an eye upon him, but rode on, driving the cattle, as the woman with a scream ran forward with the child.

  He was dying when they reached him. The raiders were already moving away. Osgar got down. The poor fellow on the ground was still conscious, aware that Osgar was giving him the last rites. Moments later, with the woman and the child weeping on the ground beside him, he died.

  Osgar slowly rose and stared down. He did not speak. Morann was saying something to him, but he did not hear. All he was conscious of was the dead man’s face. A man he did not know. A man who had died for nothing, in a foolish moment, in a foolish way.

  And then it came back to him. The same ashen face. The same staring eyes. The blood. The horror. It was always the same. The endless human cruelty, and the violence without a cause. The uselessness of it all.

  The memories that had troubled him once, after the killing of the robber in his youth, had long ago subsided. They had returned once in a while, but as recollections, as things that belonged in the past. And up in the safety and quiet of Glendalough, there was little enough reason why it should be otherwise. But now, as he stared suddenly at the terrible, bloodied flesh and human waste before him, his old horror came upon him with all the fresh, raw urgency that he had experienced long ago.

  And I, too, have killed a man, he thought. I have done this, too. Whether in self-defence or not still seemed to make no difference. And just as he had then, all those years ago, he felt a huge need to turn away, to take no more part in these evil and tragic things. Never again, he had vowed to himself. Never again.

  He realised that Morann was pulling at his arm.

  “We must move on,” the craftsman was saying. “There is nothing we can do here.”

  Osgar was almost in a daze as he found himself sitting in the cart again, with the sword between his knees. Morann was driving along the track. The raiders were a little way off on their left, but seemed to be watching them. For after a few moments, deserting the cattle, the three horsemen came towards them. He heard Morann telling him to stay calm. He felt his hand involuntarily tightening on the sword, still concealed under the blanket between his legs. The horsemen reached them.

  Of the three of them, two wore heavy leather jerkins and carried swords. These were obviously soldiers. The third, a thin, broken-toothed fellow with a cloak wrapped round him, didn’t look as if he belonged with them. The soldier who had struck down the farmer spoke.

  “We shall be needing that cart.” It was an order. But as Osgar was reluctantly starting to move, Morann placed his hand on his arm and prevented him.

  “That’s impossible,” he said.

  “Why is that?”

  “The cart’s not mine. It belongs to the monastery.” He indicated Osgar. “The monastery in Dyflin to which I’m taking this good monk.” He gazed at the soldier calmly. “I don’t think King Brian would be wanting you to take the monastery’s cart.”

  The soldier considered. His eyes appraised Osgar carefully and seemed to conclude that he was indeed a monk. He nodded slowly.

 
; “Have you any valuables?”

  “No.” Morann’s face was confident. Apart from some silver concealed in his clothes, he hadn’t.

  “They lie!” It was the broken-toothed man who had cried out. His eyes seemed a little wild. “Let me search them.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told and help drive the cattle,” the soldier ordered him curtly. He nodded to Morann. “Drive on.”

  They continued along the track. The horsemen and their cattle receded. Morann smiled grimly. “Just as well I had you along,” he grunted. They went over a small rise and were just pausing at the top when, in the distance, they saw a grim sight. Smoke was rising into the sky. Smoke that must be coming from a large fire, perhaps many fires. Judging by the direction, it could only be coming from Dyflin. Osgar saw Morann shake his head and glance a little doubtfully at him. But he continued driving forward.

  The sound of a galloping horse behind them came just moments later. Osgar turned. To his surprise he saw it was the thin fellow with the ragged teeth. He seemed to be making straight towards them. Evidently he had broken away from the soldiers. To his horror, as the fellow drew close, Osgar realised that he was brandishing a sword. The fellow’s eyes seemed even wilder than ever. “Pull out the sword,” he heard Morann’s voice say, quietly but firmly, beside him. But though he understood Morann perfectly well Osgar remained motionless. He seemed to be frozen. Morann nudged him impatiently. “He’s going to swing at you. Pull out the sword.”

  And still he did nothing. The fellow was only paces away now. Morann was right. He was preparing to strike. “For God’s sake defend yourself,” Morann cried out. Osgar could feel the sword in his hand. Yet his hand did not move.

  He wasn’t afraid. That was the strangeness of it. His paralysis was not one of fear. He scarcely cared, at that moment, if the fellow struck at him. For if he struck this fellow himself, he would probably kill him. And all he knew, just then, was that he was determined not to kill another man. He wanted no part of it. None.