Lion of Ireland (6 page)

He began to follow the path back to the compound, slowly at first, ready to retreat if he spotted Mahon coming for him. But as he walked he lifted his eyes to the ugly red stain of unnatural light in the sky and he began to trot, then to run.

When he reached the place from which home should have been visible, a cold snake awoke and writhed violently in his stomach. Nothing was as he remembered it, or even as he had expected. No great battle was raging, good against evil, the Light against the Darkness. The familiar buildings were all tumbled down, burning; the peaceful place that should have welcomed him was terrifying in its strangeness.

Like a frightened animal, he wanted to seek refuge in his own den, his own safe place. But there was none, only that which lay before him in ruins. Mahon must be there somewhere, and Father. Mother.

No one paid any attention to him as he picked his way through the wreckage. The survivors were too involved with

their own agony: the open-eyed dead were looking at eternity not at a dazed child.

His house was a smoldering ruin, the roof gone, the flames still licking at the remaining timbers. He looked in wonder at the ruined door and the firelit interior. There were huddled shapes on the floor, unrecognizable. “Mother? Mahon?” hi asked softly.

There were groans and curses in the smoky gloom, and he thought one of them was in Mahon’s voice.

He turned away from the house and began searching. He wrapped his arms tightly around his upper body, holding himself inside as safely as he could, trying to make some sort of barrier against the horror all around him. Part of him knew what had happened but he could not allow it to be real, he could not allow it to touch him or he would scream and cry and become a baby again. “Mahon?”

His foot touched something heavy and yielding, and he crouched down to look at it. It was the body of a man, and twisted around it was a ripped and bloody bratt lined with silk. The flickering light was kind to Fiacaid’s old face, smoothing away the wrinkles and the pain, but nothing could disguise the back of his bashed-in skull.

Brian squatted, staring. Fiacaid lay with one cheek against the earth, and his brain spilling from his shattered head, the stories, all the wisdom of a lifetime, wasted and soaking into the soil. The child reached out a hand as if he could somehow put it all back together again, make it right, but he drew back his fingers before they touched the seanchai.

It was impossible that they were all gone! Lost to him forever. The Tuatha de Danann, the Firbolgs.

Nuada the Perfect. Gone. Spilled into the mud before he knew the ending, He began to rock back and forth, Curled in on himself, making a gentle sound of grief that did not carry above the crackle of the flames and the groans of the wounded.

Mahon found him there, at last.

The monastery of Killaloe sat in silence at the foot of that great lake known as Lough Derg, near the outgo of the Shannon. Situated on a lush green meadow, embraced by dark pines, it dreamed in contemplative serenity undisturbed by the bustling river traffic. At birth of day the bell sounded the call to matins; at twilight the swallows glided overhead, crying softly to one another as they sought their nesting places.

The red stain of Boruma’s dying had been a signal that reached even to Killaloe. The monks had gathered fearfully to stare at the night sky and pray for the victims before their abbot dispersed them to carry the monastery’s few treasures into safe hiding. The gold crucifix and chalices, the silver basin and small collection of precious Gospels must be protected even before the lives of the brothers, for they were God’s property. But God was merciful, and for once the Northmen did not fall ravening upon the unprotected community of holy men.

The darkness, the ancient enemy, crouched over them, hiding foul deeds, but with the first flush of light in the eastern sky two of the brothers were sent out, armored by prayers, to offer what assistance they could to the surviving Dalcassians—if there were any to be found.

The ground was still spongy underfoot from the night’s storm, and although the sky was clear overhead, a bank of clouds to the south was heavy with the threat of more rain by evening. The air smelled fresher than new vestments. Tiny flowers starred the green turf, so that Brother Gael, who was in the lead, was forced to pick a very circuitous route in order to avoid trampling their delicate upturned faces.

Brother Gael was tall and thin; Brother Columb was short and stout. His stubby legs had not been designed by his Ga to keep up with the rangy meanderings of Brother Gael, am he soon found himself growing winded.

“Brother Gael, if you please! Let us slow down just a little shall we? And tell me, my friend—why ever are you walking in serpentines?”

Brother Gael halted abruptly and turned to peer unsmiling at his companion. “We are on a mission of mercy, Brother lest you have forgotten. It was only through God’s grace that our monastery did not rise to the heavens in flames last night as did Boruma, for surely that was the work of the Northmen But even in my haste to offer succor to our brethren I have been careful to avoid all the new flowers the rain brought out Surely you noticed them. It would be a cruel thing to smash them on their first day in God’s sunlight.”

Abashed, Brother Columb looked down. The flower faces looked up at him, trustingly. He felt like a gross ingrate and a potential murderer. Sweat was puddling in his armpits and his coarse brown robe made him itch. He turned his face toward the river, hoping for a cool breeze as he tugged at his robe, and so it was he who first saw the straggling line of refugees approaching on the river road.

They came at a pitifully slow pace, leaning on one another, emerging painfully from the shelter of the trees into the light of the rising sun. Even at a distance it was obvious that few among them were uninjured.

Brother Columb stared slack-jawed. Then his heart leaped with pity and he grabbed Gael by the arm.

“Look, oh look, Gael!” he cried, beginning to run over the grassy earth as as his legs would carry him, puffing prodigiously. After one quick glance Brother Gael set off behind him, passed his comrade within a stride, and flew on, murmuring incoherent sounds of distress.

The refugees from Boruma did not seem to notice the two brownclad figures hurrying toward them. They walked in a daze in the general direction of Killaloe, oblivious of everything around them, locked alone in their pain.

At the head of the pathetic column was a tall young man, stained with blood and smoke, carrying the body of an older man in his arms. Behind him two stripling boys supported a third between them, a lad whose legs still stumbled forward although his head bobbled unconscious on his breast. An oxcart, drawn by two bleeding and half-naked men, was filled with wounded.

Behind the cart trudged two little boys, hand in hand, both stained and sooted but seemingly uninjured.

The larger child clutched a crucifix in his free hand and mumbled prayers as he walked, his eyes screwed tightly shut. The smaller boy guided him, watching the road with a blank stare from which it seemed all youth had fled.

No young women were among the group, and few men of an age for battle. Less than three dozen survivors had been able to leave the ravaged community and seek aid. They had already outwalked their strength; the most seriously wounded were falling behind, and there was no one to carry them. Yet they struggled on, fleeing nightmare, haunted by the smell of roasted flesh.

Gael reached the leader and jerked to a halt, signing the Cross. With an effort, Mahon focused his eyes on the monk.

“This is Cennedi, king of the Dal Cais and prince of Thomond,” he said formally, indicating his burden.

His voice was roughened by smoke. “I bring him to you for aid. Our physician is dead. Many . . . most of our people are dead. The attack was so sudden, they could not even get down into the souterrains to hide beneath the earth. All the land of our tuath was raided. Northmen.”

He paused, coughing for breath, and Gael tried to take Cennedi from him but Mahon refused. “Help the others,” he insisted. “This man is mine to carry.”

By the time a panting and red-faced Columb reached the group, Gael had determined that there was little to be done for any of them until they reached Killaloe. The two monks supported the stragglers, and they continued their painful journey.

Guided by Brian, Marcan walked with closed eyes, mumbling

over and over, “I prayed, and God spared us. I prayed, and God spared us.” He repeated it ceaselessly, a litany whose very meaning was lost to his shocked mind. Brian took a firmer grip on his hand and led him toward the monastery.

When the refugees neared the gates, Brother Gael hurried ahead to give the news to the abbot. As the monastery was primarily devoted to prayer and contemplation rather than education and religious ministration to pilgrims, it had only one small guest house. The abbot was hard pressed to accommodate the sudden influx of people, though fortunately the good brothers included in their number several who were skilled in the healing arts and could tend the wounded.

Brother Gael gladly offered his own tiny, beehive-shaped cell for the Dal Cais chieftain. There was no bed or pallet, as the monks slept on bare earth, but the abbot brought a mattress of straw and feathers that had been made in hopes of luring a bishop to Killaloe. On this Mahon at last laid down his burden.

The tired young man dropped to his knees beside Cennedi and studied the ashen face. “Will he live?”

Mahon asked of everyone and no one. Brother Hugh, Killaloe’s ablest physician, knelt by him and felt the man’s pulse in his throat. Then he rocked forward and laid his head on Cennedi’s breast, listening for the determined beat of the heart within.

“If he is not dead by now, I expect he will live, God willing,” Brother Hugh reassured the anxious watchers. “The sword thrust went right through him, but miraculously it is in a good spot—if such a thing can be said. It may have missed his vital organs altogether, and if we can keep the wound from putrefying he will recover.” He peeled away the bloodsoaked cloth and examined the wound and the wad of fabric Mahon had desperately wedged into it to stop the flow of blood. “Who did this, you?” he asked.

Mahon nodded. “The blood was just pouring out. I could think of nothing but plugging it up somehow.”

“Your instincts were right. We can cleanse the wound now, and bind it, and then I want to look at the others.”

The most gravely injured had been put into the monastery’s guest house, where they lay groaning or weeping softly. Brian and Marcan were left outside until someone had time for them, and that someone proved to be Brother Columb.

Marcan was sitting slumped on the ground, holding his cross and whispering something to himself. Brian stood beside him empty-faced, regarding his brother.

“Is he all right?” Brother Columb asked nervously.

“He wasn’t wounded. I don’t know why—they just left him alone.”

“I prayed, and God spared us,” Marcan rasped aloud.

“Praise be!” Columb ejaculated. “Was he the recipient of a miracle, then?”

Brian shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what miracles are. Marcan seems to think so, but he’s always thought he could talk with God, anyway.”

“It is a precious gift, granted to a few,” Columb told him soberly.

Marcan’s face brightened, and he put out a hand to touch the monk’s robe. “You understand! I prayed to God! The men came in with swords and axes, and they meant to kill us all, but I prayed to God and they hit everybody once or twice and then went away. I know that God spared us. Even when the Northmen set fire to the house, it only smoldered until Mahon got there, so that he had time to get us out before the roof caved in. I prayed to God!” he reiterated feverishly.

“Was all your family spared?” Columb asked Brian with a sense of awe.

The little boy took a deep breath, feeling the clean, smokeless air burn all the way to the bottom of his lungs. If he could just keep breathing slowly and deliberately, perhaps he wouldn’t cry. He kept his eyes fixed on the rope knotted about Brother Columb’s midsection as he answered, “Fiacaid is dead.”

“The great seanchai Ah, that is a loss. There was no poet or historian in Munster to equal him.”

Brian nodded acknowledgement, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “And two of my brothers, they were killed. And my ... and my . . .”

He did not cry, but he could not continue. With a mighty effort he tried to suck back the tears behind his eyelids. If? they ever started he thought he could not stop them until he * had cried out all his insides and died. As long as he did not cry, as long as he did not mourn, death was not complete.

“Your father will live, my child,” Columb told him, eager to impart some good news to counterbalance the contained grief in the little boy’s eyes. “But I haven’t heard anything about your mother—perhaps you would like me to inquire?” He started to go and ask someone about her, but suddenly his wrist was clamped in a grip of astonishing strength. He looked down alarmed and met a pair of ice-gray eyes glaring up at him. “No!” Brian said in a voice of command incredible in so young a child. “Don’t talk about her!”

As Brother Columb told Brother Cianus later, he almost expected the child to foam at the mouth and attack him like a wild dog. Shaken, he freed himself as best he could and hurried off to perform other, less disturbing, acts of charity Outside the oratory he met Mahon and drew him aside.

“The small boy who is with the other, the praying one—is he your brother?”

Mahon glanced across the courtyard at them. “Yes.” “Well, I fear his mind has been injured in some way; per haps he was hit on the head and the bump has not yet risen?” “He wasn’t wounded at all,”

Mahon told him. “Like me, he was not in Boruma at the time of the attack.”

Mystified, Brother Columb repeated the conversation he had just had with Brian. To his dismay he saw Mahon’s eyes fill with the tears Brian had denied himself.

“Our mother, the princess Bebinn, is dead,” Mahon said in a voice bruised with pain. “She was savaged and her neck was broken. I could not hide her from the child; he insisted on going to her, and I was too busy with the wounded to stop him.”