Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [126]
It was Morann, the goldsmith from Dyflin. It had been years since he’d seen him, and he’d only known the man slightly, but his face wasn’t one you’d forget. The craftsman was surprised but seemed glad to see him and explained his own reasons for seeking sanctuary there.
“I supplied the abbot with some fine candlesticks last year,” he added with a grin, “so they’re glad to give me shelter.”
“And you really think Brian Boru will destroy Dyflin?” Osgar asked.
“He’s too clever for that,” Morann answered. “But he’ll teach them a terrible lesson.”
“You think the religious houses are safe, don’t you?” Osgar asked, thinking of the little family monastery.
“He has always respected them in the past,” said Morann.
They had paused now, in front of the great market cross. Kells had several of these elaborately carved stone crosses which, like the round towers, had become a feature of the island’s monasteries. The arms of the cross were set in a ring of stone—an arrangement which, though known as a Celtic cross, went back to before the time of Saint Patrick, to the Roman wreaths of triumph, and echoed the symbol of the sun god earlier still. But the truly remarkable feature of the island’s crosses was their carving. Some were incised with the interlaced patterns and swirling spirals of the ancient days. But the crosses at Kells were typical of the finest work: arranged in panels, every surface, even the plinths on which they stood, seemed to be covered with sturdy reliefs: Adam and Eve, Noah and his Ark, scenes from the life of Christ, angels and devils; the base of the market cross showed a striking scene of warriors going into battle. Like the statues and carvings inside the churches, the figures on these great ornamental crosses were brightly painted. The spears of the warriors were even tipped with silver. Morann looked at it with approval. Though on a much bigger scale, the arrangement of its parts was not unlike the jeweller’s art.
They were about to return when they saw her, standing in the gateway. Sister Martha. Osgar cursed under his breath.
He liked her. With her broad face and kindly grey eyes, the middle-aged nun was a good soul. Sister Martha, the nun from Kildare. The Abbess of Kildare had given her permission to visit Kells to attend to an aunt who was thought to be dying there. But the old lady in question had recently made an unexpected recovery, and Sister Martha was now anxious to return. If only, in a moment of weakness some time ago, he hadn’t promised that he would accompany her back.
There was certainly every reason why he should do so. He had almost finished his own work at Kells; he could, without going much out of his way, travel back to Glendalough by way of Kildare; and it was unquestionably his duty to accompany the single nun across the countryside in troubled times like these. He had originally expected to be ready to leave by now, but his work had taken a little longer than he had thought. When he had explained this, she had accepted it cheerfully enough, but he knew very well that she was anxious to be gone, and she had been gently asking him for some days when he thought he might be ready to depart. He suspected that she knew he would complete his copying the following day, so she must reasonably be expecting to go the day after that.
The trouble was, he didn’t want to go. Not just yet. For when he had completed his task, he had been looking forward to spending a week alone with the treasures of the Kells library, especially, of course, the great Gospel book. A week of blissful private study, undisturbed. He had worked hard; it was a treat he had well deserved. And now the thought of warding off her enquiries and keeping her waiting for days longer filled him with a thoroughly tiresome sense of guilt. Yesterday, with the latest turn of events disrupting the countryside, he had suggested that she might want to wait for a while before setting out. But unfortunately she had given him a shrewd look and then answered gently, “I’m sure that God will