Dublin (42 page)

  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 I 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 be 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.

  I 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.

  He hardly felt it as Morann seized the sword out of his hands. He was only conscious, for a moment, of Morann's strong left arm banging against his chest as, throwing his body across Osgar's, the craftsman thrust at their assailant. He heard the clang of steel on steel, felt Morann's body twist violently, and then heard a terrible cry as the thin fellow tumbled from his horse. A moment later, Morann clambered over him, jumped down from the cart, and plunged his sword into the wounded man's breast.

  The thin man lay on the ground. Blood was frothing from his mouth. Morann was turning. And now the craftsman was cursing.

  "What were you thinking of? You could have had us both killed. Dear God, you are useless to man or beast. Are you the greatest coward that was ever born?"

  "I'm sorry." What could he say? How could he explain that he had not been afraid? What difference did it make anyway? Osgar hardly knew himself.

  "I shouldn't have brought you," the craftsman was crying.

  "I shouldn't have done it, against my judgement. You're no use to me, Monk, and you're a danger to yourself."

  "If it happens again…" Osgar heard himself saying weakly.

  "Again? There'll be no again." Morann paused, and then declared with finality. "You're going back."

  "But I can't. My family…"

  "If any place in Dyflin is safe, it's your uncle's monastery," Morann told him.

  "And Caoilinn… She'll be in the city, probably."

  "Dear Heaven," Morann burst out, "what in the world can a useless coward like yourself do for Caoilinn? You couldn't save her from a mouse."

  He took a deep breath, and then, a little more kindly, went on reasonably. "You are wonderful with the sick and dying, Osgar. I have watched you. Let me take you back to the place where you are needed. Do what God made you for, and leave the saving of people to me."

  "I really think-was Osgar began, but the craftsman firmly stopped him.

  "I'm not taking you any farther in my cart." And before Osgar could say anything more, Morann jumped in, turned the cart round, and headed back the way they had come before.

  They saw no one along the way. The cattle raiders had disappeared. The people at the farmstead had already dragged the corpse of the farmer back inside.

  They could see the little religious house where they had spent the night in the distance when Osgar asked the craftsman to stop.

  "I suppose you are right," he said regretfully.

  "The place ahead is where I should go. They seem to want me. So put me down and I can walk from here. The sooner you get to Dyflin, the better."

  He paused. "Would you promise me one thing? Would you call in at Rathmines. It's on your way. Call in and make sure that Caoilinn isn't there, in need of any help. Would you do that for me?"

  "That," Morann agreed, "I can do."

  Osgar had just got down, when a sudden thought occurred to him.

  "Give me the blanket," he said.

  With a shrug, Morann threw it down.

  "Good." And removing his monk's habit, Osgar wrapped the blanket around himself. Then he tossed the habit up to Morann. "Put it on," he called. "It might help you get into Dyflin."

  The flames and smoke arising before Dyflin had been growing greater by the hour; but they were not the result of destruction: they came from the huge bonfires that the Munster men had built in their camp on the open ground between the town ramparts and the open spaces by the Thingmount.

  Caoilinn was looking anxiously towards them and wondering what to do when she saw the two men appear.

  She wondered if they could help her.

  She had gone to Rathmines the evening before. As soon as she had heard the news of Glen Mama, she had decided to ride out to the farmstead, leaving her children with her brother in Dyflin, to wait for her husband in case he should come that way. She had seen Brians men pass by, and a few of the defeated army, seeking their homes. Though the huge camp of the Munster men lay outside the walls, the gates of Dyflin were open. People were going in and out. But for a long time there had been no sign of Cormac.

  She had expected to find some of her people at the farmstead, but fearing Brian's men, presumably, they had all disappeared, and she had found herself quite alone. The farmstead stood at some distance from the main track, at the end of a lane of its own, so nobody had come by. She had gathered her courage, however, and stayed the night out there by herself, all the more anxious that, if her husband should come that way, he would find someone at the place.

  And it was as well that she had.

  He had arrived half an hour ago, alone. If she had not recognised his horse, she would not have guessed, until he fell at her feet, that the ragged, bloodstained figure who was approaching was the man she loved. His wounds were terrible. It seemed to her that he probably would not survive. God knows what effort of will had kept him on his horse at all as the animal walked slowly back. She had managed to prop him up just inside the gateway, and bathe and bandage some of his wounds. He had groaned softly and let her know that he knew who she was and that he was home. But he could scarcely speak. And having done what little she could, she had been wondering how to get him to her brother's in Dyflin, or whether she should leave him here alone while she went for help, when she saw the two men approaching the farmstead up the little lane.

  They were soldiers. From Brian's army. They seemed friendly and came into the farmstead with her. One of them took a look at Cormac and then shook his head.

  "I don't think he's going to make it."

  "No," the other agreed. "He hasn't a chance."

  "Please," she cautioned them, "he may hear you."

  The two men looked at each other. They seemed to be considering the situation. One of them, who appeared to be the senior, had a large, round face, and had been the most smiling and polite of the two. It was he, finally, who spoke.

  "Shall we finish him off, then?" he genially enquired.

  "If you like," said the other.

  She felt her heart sink.

  "We could kill him after we've had her. He might like to watch." The round-faced man turned to her. "What do you think?"

  A terrible fear overcame her. She could scream, but would anyone hear her? Not a chance. If she'd had a weapon, she'd have tried to use it. They had swords and they'd kill her, but she'd rather go down fighting.

  She looked about.

  Of course. Her husband, Cormac, had a sword. He was staring at her from his position by the gate, as if he were trying to tell her something. That he had a weapon? That he'd sooner they both went down fighting? That he wasn't prepared to watch her raped? Yes, she thought. That was the only way. She lunged towards him.

  But they had her. They had her by the waist. She couldn't move. She heard a cry from the lane. She screamed.

  And a moment later, to her great astonishment, a monk appeared. He had a sword in his hand.

  It was Morann's idea to take Caoilinn and her husband to the little family monastery. "That's a place where he will be well looked after, and you would be safer under the protection of the monks than anywhere else I can think of." He wished he could hunt Caoilinn's second assailant down. The man with the round face he had wounded mortally, but he was sorry the other fellow had managed to run away. However, first things came first.

  Osgar's uncle had been delighted to take them in, and was full of praise for his nephew when Morann tactfully told them all that it had only been thanks to the monk that he had come there. The abbot had also been full of information. Though he was getting very old and frail now, the excitement of the events of recent days seemed to have made him quite lively.

  Yes indeed, he confirmed, Brian was staying within the ramparts of Dyflin. "He means to spend the whole Christmas season there." The battle of Glen Mama had been a catastrophe for Leinster. The death toll had been heavy; wounded men were still coming in all the time. The King of Dyflin had fled north into Ulster; but search parties had been sent out after him. Brian hadn't taken a bloody vengeance on the people of Dyflin, but he had taken a huge tribute.