Lion of Ireland

by Morgan Llywelyn

  It seemed to happen so slowly. The silky hide moved under him, muscles bunched and tensed and thrust, and he felt that all his strength was as nothing against the agility of the horse. There was a moment of flight, like that of a clumsy, wingless bird, and then he saw the ground rushing up to meet him. Hard.

  The breath went out of his lungs in a painful whoosh. For a moment he thought he was killed. Lights danced before his eyes; an enormous weight pressed on his chest; it was impossible to breathe. The feeling passed gradually, leaving him giddy. He propped himself on his arms and saw the mare grazing a little distance away, unconcerned, her rein trailing on the ground. If she stepped on it she would snap it when she raised her head.

  He tried to crawl toward her and get hold of the bridle. The mare kept on grazing, perfectly aware of him, only rolling her eye in his direction to check on his progress. When he was almost within grabbing distance she drifted casually away, dragging the rein.

  The boy followed her, fearful that she would go back to the stable without him and reveal his disgrace to everyone. But the mare was not interested in returning just yet; the game she was playing intrigued her. Time and again she let him approach, only to remove herself at the last minute, her big eyes sparkling with fun.

  Brian was winded, bruised, and frustrated. He was well aware of the helplessness of his situation, and angry at himself for being in it, but the angrier he got the harder it became to get close to the horse. It was as if she could read his mind. Once, in sheer outrage he bent down and picked up a stone to hurl at her, only to see her gallop blithely just beyond his throwing distance.

  His strength was of no use; the only weapon he had left was guile. He forced himself to swallow his temper and study his antagonist with a dispassionate eye. She was plainly enjoying the sport, watching to see what his next move would be. He thought for a time and then sat down on the ground with his back to her, whistling under his breath and playing idly with a tuft of clover.

  For a while, nothing happened. Then he heard the approach of cautious footfalls. With an effort he resisted the temptation to turn and look. He felt the mare come closer; closer. A last her warm breath bathed the back of his neck, and then she gave him a curious nudge with her velvet nose.

  The pride that rose in him was out of proportion to his deed, but very satisfying. Moving his hand slowly, he reached up and took hold of the bridle. The mare tensed but did not jerk away. Trying to ignore his aching body he led her to a large rock and gingerly climbed back on, settling himself on her back with a grimace. He fully expected to be tossed again.

  But by the mare’s rules the game was over, at least for the day, and Brian had won. She carried him back to the stables as meekly as a ewe lamb, only arching her neck a little to remind him that there would be another time.

  On the morning of his departure the abbot himself came to wish him Godspeed. “We are sorry to see you go, Prince Brian, but we are most thankful you are leaving your brother with us. He has a true vocation, you know. Just as you have the ability to be a great scholar.” This last regretfully, seductively.

  Brian smiled, trying to look sorry that he was being called away. “I thank you, sir, and I assure you that, if matters were different, nothing would give me greater pleasure.” That, at least, was true. The wonder of the written word had not escaped him, and the vast amount of knowledge yet to be acquired was a treasure he promised himself for someday. When peace had come to the land, and he could concentrate on gentle things. Someday. In the very distant future, when there were no more adventures waiting.

  He took the road to the south with a light heart and a careful hand on the rein. The mare flirted with the bit, coquetting, her nervous ears flicking back and forth. The bay pony followed on his leadline, insulted, carrying food, a small pot and bowls, blankets and prayerbook, and a change of tunics.

  Brian reined in the mare after they had gone some distance down the road, and turned to look back once more before the great monastery faded from sight. Seen from that perspective it was more awesome than he expected, a city in truth, its slender round watchtower soaring above its skyline in perpetual vigilance against the marauding Northmen. If God was anywhere, he was at Clonmacnoise.

  Brian clucked to the mare and turned her southward once more, leaving his childhood behind him.

  Following the main roads and Mahon’s map, Brian rode until sundown. He was dressed in his plainest saffron tunic, his most worn clothing, and the gilded bridles had been replaced by simple rope headstalls. No traveler was safe from the bands of half-breed Norse-Irish outlaws who roamed the countryside, robbing the unwary, but an insignificant lad in old clothes might hope to escape their notice if luck was with him. His only concern was for his horses, whose quality could not be disguised, but he felt a certain confidence that the black mare could outrun any trouble they might encounter.

  As he rode, Brian enjoyed the sensation of awareness on many levels. He watched the woods, alert for robbers; he noticed the nervous flick of the mare’s ears, equally alert to her possibilities for mischief. He felt his hard young body constantly improving in balance and confidence, learning to move with the horse and anticipate her actions. A part of his mind was poring over the lessons of his years in the school, seeking things that might be useful to Mahon. Another part of him was drinking in the beauty of the day and the new sensation of freedom. He had never felt more alive.

  At nightfall he turned off the road and found a secluded glen where he made camp. He tethered and groomed his horses and prepared his evening meal, taking delight in his own competence. He even set a little snare in hopes of acquiring a hare for breakfast, then rolled himself in his cloak and immediately fell asleep.

  The next morning he awakened stiff and sore, aware of every bone in his pelvic structure, and with no hare for breakfast. The snare had unraveled itself during the night. The black mare stepped on his foot as he was trying to mount her.

  He had only been on the road for an hour when he spotted a group of men in the distance, mounted on runty horses and riding toward him in a purposeful way. They were cutting across a broad field, planning to intercept him at the next junction of the road, and one glance was sufficient to assure Brian they had more in mind than a friendly chat. He slammed his heels against the mare’s sides and gave a mighty tug to his pony’s leadrope.

  The mare’s response was a great leap forward which tore the lead-rope from his hand and nearly cost him his seat. He recovered his balance by throwing himself forward against her outstretched neck, urging her on with a mixture of prayers and curses. Behind him he could hear the bay pony, laboring mightily to keep up with its companion, and the shouts of the outlaws as they tried to run him down.

  But Mahon had chosen wisely—even the pony was a fleeter animal than the underfed culls the outlaws rode. Brian flew down the road with the wind whipping his horse’s mane against his face, stinging the skin and lashing his closed eyelids. The mare ran joyously, glad to be able to stretch herself at last and release her nervous energy in speed.

  When he realized he wasn’t going to fall off after all, Brian essayed a quick glance over his shoulder and was pleased to see the pony not too far behind, while his pursuers were losing ground at every stride. “Good girl, good girl. Oh, you beauty, you!” he crooned to the mare, freshly enraptured with her.

  “Come back, you clay-eating bastard!” yelled one of the robbers. But his voice was more powerful than his horse; his words reached Brian, faintly, but that was more than he could do himself. Finally he signaled to his companions to rein in, and they sat in a forlorn little group on the road, yelling impotent threats at the vanishing figure on the black mare.

  Brian let the mare run herself out. At last she dropped back to a jolting trot, and then to a walk, her heart hammering against his calves as strongly as his own was still pounding in his breast. The little bay pony eventually caught up to them, covered with lather and whinnying pitifully in its fear of being left behind.

&nb
sp; The young man was surprised to find his body had forgotten its earlier soreness. At a safe distance from the outlaws he began to think that perhaps he could have turned and fought them, if only his mare hadn’t chosen that moment to run away. His knife was sharp and a stout black-thorn club was securely lashed atop his luggage. He sat straight once more, the sun beating down on his head, and, smiling to himself, he imagined the heroic battle he might have waged.

  Midafternoon found him crossing a broad valley where the warmth of summer lay in a golden haze upon the land. The rich, heavy scent of loamy earth filled his nostrils and coated the back of his throat. Green was everywhere, in every conceivable shade, not only in the trees and grass but in the air itself; a verdant light filled with magic. Everything the eye met was softened, the edges blurred, the distances melting into one another until all perspective was lost.

  He stopped by a stream to water the horses and wash his face with the cool, sparkling liquid that laughed to itself as it tumbled over its stony bed. The last fly-orchids were still blooming in the marshy patches, and the meadow was carpeted with gold and crimson vetch and the blue flowers of the milkwort. Bees hummed. The horses finished their drink and began cropping the thick grass that grew temptingly close to the water’s edge. Warm air moved languidly, caressing the sweated skin.

  Pagan summer, voluptuous, overflowing with seductions. The abundance of the land seemed to offer a promise of inexhaustible riches. Without conscious guidance, Brian’s feet began to move in little patterns on the grass, and soon he was dancing with abandon across the meadow, celebrating his youth and his freedom with an exuberant whirl of his own invention.

  When the earth began to spin faster than he, he staggered to a stop, laughing, his legs braced wide apart. Then the laughter froze in his throat.

  Directly in front of him at the edge of the woods stood a slender young girl, her hair the exact color of oak leaves in autumn, her wide brown eyes watching him curiously.

  “Are you mad?” she asked in a soft, breathy voice.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The honeyed call of summer reached even to the Druid’s hut, deep in its damp and mossy glade. All day Fiona had been aware of the warmth beyond the woods, the dazzle of sunlight sifting through the interlaced branches of the trees. She went about her tasks with a faraway mind, sweeping her grandfather’s hearth and preparing his food without paying any attention to what her hands were doing.

  When Camin lay down for his customary afternoon nap, she unwrapped the apron from her waist and hung it on its peg. Enough of aprons! Enough of pots, and brooms, and being under a roof. Camin was very dear, but he was so old, and his sour breath rattled his beard as he slept. Fiona felt that if she stayed in his company one more minute her own hair would start to gray and her shoulders stoop with the weight of the years.

  Out, out into the fresh air and the singing of birds! She knew each songster by its real name, its Druidic name, and she called greetings to her friends as she passed by. She walked beneath the oaks and felt them stretching upward, yearning for the sun. She reached out a slender arm to let her fingers trail across the trunks of the familiar giants, feeling the strength in this one, the tenderness in that one.

  “Each tree has its own name and its own personality,” Camin had taught her when she still had her baby teeth. “You have only to touch them and open you mind. Make your mind empty of all things that are about you, blank as a blue sky, and wait for the tree to give you its thoughts.” He took her tiny hand and pressed it against the trunk of a sap-sapling alder. “Just wait,” he said, “and be empty. The tree will fill you with itself.”

  She stood patiently, almost holding her breath, trying to cut off any random thought of her own. And at last it came, an awareness that was not hers. Her eyes lighted with wonder as she turned to her grandfather, astonished with the miracle that coursed through her fingertips. “I feel it!” she cried. “It’s without words, but it’s like … like knowing …” The girl’s forehead scrunched into a childish imitation of a frown. “The tree is frightened, Grandfather!”

  Camin smiled, pleased with her success. “So it is, my child. See how the ivy is growing around it, starting the climb upward? Ivy is very powerful; in time it will choke the life from the alder.”

  Fiona was horrified. “The tree has to stand here and just wait for that to happen, feeling so helpless and afraid? That’s awful!”

  “It isn’t helpless,” Camin comforted her, “because we will befriend it.” He crouched down and untwined the ivy with gentle fingers, freeing each small sucker with great care so as not to damage the plant. Then he led the vine over the ground to a large gray boulder that rose cleanly from the soil, and on this he curled the ivy, winding it about the rock until it was secure enough to stay in place by itself. He staked it along the ground with several small twigs, to prevent its return to the alder.

  “Now, my child, we will leave your new friend. But we will come back tomorrow and you can listen to the tree again.”

  True to his word, on the following day Camin took his granddaughter back to the alder, and placed her hand once more on its trunk. She stood for a moment, her head cocked to one side, her small face very serious. Then she broke into a wide grin.

  “It’s happy! The tree feels so happy now!” She seized Camin’s hand and bounced up and down in her excitement.

  The old Druid’s dark eyes sparkled. “It had a narrow escape; life is experienced most intensely after such moments.”

  “But why did we have to wait until today to feel the tree being happy? Wasn’t it relieved yesterday, when you pulled the ivy away?”

  Camin squatted on his heels, to put his eyes on a level with his granddaughter’s; he reached an arm in a sheltering arc and drew her close to him. “Time is not the same for all living creatures, Fiona. We Celts reckon its passage in nights, the Northmen measure it by days. But for the trees, the measurements of time are summer and winter, spring and fall. So they live much more slowly than we do, and every change within them is gradual. If a tree is cut down today, it may not realize what has happened and begin to die until the next sunrise. Everything has its own time.”

  She thought of that now as she passed beneath the big oaks that had witnessed all of her childhood, and the first bloom of her womanhood. Measured by the trees’ time, this was the height of the day. The hour of utmost living, when the roots pushed hungrily through the soil and the greedy leaves drank in the sunlight.

  There’s a world out there beyond these woods, she thought, and I may never see it. I may live and die right here, and never know what lies more than a few miles away. She shivered, though the day was warm.

  Beyond the woods the sunlit meadow beckoned. How delightful it would be to gather an armful of bright flowers and arrange them in a bowl to put on the table with the evening meal! Some living color in that perpetually dark hut would be just the thing to restore a little of the warmth of youth to Camin’s old flesh. She started out into the clearing, only to pause midstride in astonishment.

  A young man was dancing there, all alone, whirling dizzily in a shaft of sunlight. His hair flamed like polished copper, and his face bore the pallor of one who has spent much time under roofs. But there was a wild joy in him that spoke to something in the lonely girl. She could see no visible reason for his rapture, and yet it was an echo of something she felt within herself, a celebration of life engendered by this radiant day.

  He spun to a halt directly in front of her and opened his eyes—clear gray eyes, fringed with a silky crescent of gold lashes. His expression was compounded of exultation and shock. He could have been a dangerous lunatic on the verge of attacking her.

  “Are you mad?” she heard herself asking. Even as the words left her, she was aware how ridiculous they would be if he were really mad, but it was too late to unsay them.

  Fortunately, they had a steadying effect on Brian, whose only insanity was that of youth and freedom. He made a visible effort to gather his wits and giv
e her a reassuring answer.

  “I don’t think so,” he said at last, trying to sound sane in spite of the foolishness he felt. “I mean, no one has ever called me mad, so I suppose I’m all right.”

  That didn’t sound convincing, even to Brian. Flustered, he began again. “I mean, I’m fine, really! It’s just that the day is so beautiful, and a while ago I outran a whole pack of outlaws who meant to rob me, and … and …” He ran down, unable to think of things to say and wishing he could melt into the earth.

  Fiona grinned, white teeth flashing in her heart-shaped face. There was obviously no harm in this boy, whatever the reason for his abandoned dancing on the meadow. “It’s all right,” she assured him, “you don’t have to explain. I was merely surprised at seeing you here like this; I’ve never seen anyone quite like you before.”

  “Neither have I,” Brian agreed. “I mean, anyone like you!” He stopped in confusion, aware that he was beginning to stammer, his feet were too big, and he did not know what to do with his hands.

  They stared at each other; shy, embarrassed, both desperately eager to reach out to someone new. His years at Clonmacnoise had brought Brian into little contact with the opposite sex; he knew them mainly through troublesome dreams whose memory made him blush as his eyes strayed down the girl’s body. Her swelling breasts, the obvious curve of her hips, even the tangled length of her unbound hair captivated and terrified him. A living girl …

  The silence lengthened. “How far is it to Kilmallock from here?” Brian ventured at last, only to have his voice humiliated him by cracking in midword and dropping to an unexpected bass.

  But Fiona did not laugh. She could not be critical of Brian’s voice, when something had gone wrong with her own breathing and her heart was hammering in a most strange fashion. She worried that he might notice it, leaping like a netted trout beneath her plain wool bodice.