Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [130]
One thing he regretted: the old druidical tonsure of the island monks had been given up. Two centuries after Saint Patrick, the Pope had insisted that all the monks in Christendom should shave just the tops of their heads, in the Roman manner, and after some protest the Celtic Church had gone along with it. “But we’re still druids underneath,” he liked to say, only half in jest.
“And tomorrow you’re leaving?” the old monk asked him.
“I am.”
“When there’s so much trouble in the world.” The old man sighed. “There’ll be Brian Boru’s men wandering all over Leinster and God knows what they’ll be up to. You should stay here awhile. Wait until it’s safe.” Osgar explained to him about Sister Martha, but the old man shook his head. “It’s a terrible thing for a scholar such as yourself to be out in the world, on account of a nun from Kildare.” Then he turned and moved away. A few moments later, he came back.
He had a small piece of parchment in his hand, which he laid on the table in front of Osgar.
“Look at that,” he said.
It was a design, traced in black ink. Osgar had never seen anything quite like it before. It was a trefoil of three loosely connected spirals, reminding him somewhat of the trefoils to be seen in some of the great illuminations. But unlike those, in which the spirals were arranged into a completed geometric design, the swirling lines seemed to wander away towards the edges, as if they had been caught in the midst of some endless, unfinished business.
“I copied that,” the old monk said proudly.
“From what?
“A big stone. By the old tombs above the Boyne. I used to walk over there sometimes.” He looked at his handiwork with satisfaction. “That’s how it is carved. The copy is exact.”
Osgar continued to gaze at it. The wandering design seemed ancient.
“Would you know,” asked the old monk, “what it means?”
“I wouldn’t. I’m sorry.”
“Nobody knows.” The old monk sighed, then brightened. “But it’s a curious thing, wouldn’t you say?”
It was. And strangely enough, after he had left the library that evening, it was the curious design, even more than the magnificent Gospels, which seemed to remain, haunting his imagination, as if the wandering spirals contained an undeciphered message for those about to set out on journeys as to their fate.
They left at first light. The snow had already vanished the day before; though it was cold, there was no frost and the ground was damp. They travelled in a small cart which Morann had provided. They met nobody else travelling. Each time they came upon a farmstead, they would ask for news of the forces from Munster, but nobody had seen or heard anything. It seemed that this part of the country, at least, was still quiet. Early in the afternoon, they reached the Boyne at a point where there was a ford. Once past the Boyne, they continued southwards, under a leaden sky.
The day passed quietly. They kept a careful lookout for raiding parties, but saw none. As dusk was drawing in, they saw smoke coming from a farmstead by an old rath, and found a shepherd and his family. Glad of the warmth of a fire and shelter, they stayed the night. The shepherd told them that Brian Boru, together with a huge force, had all gone to Dyflin and were camped there now. “It’s said he means to stay through Christmas,” the shepherd reported.
Had there been any other trouble? “Not around here,” he told them.
The next morning, when they set off again, the weather was overcast. Ahead of them stretched a large, flat terrain. On their right-hand side, to the west, began a huge area of bog. To the east, two days’ journey away, lay Dyflin. Ahead, to the south, the plain consisted of woodland interspersed with large open spaces. By late afternoon, if they travelled at a reasonable rate, they would come to the largest of these open spaces, the bare tableland of Carmun where, since time out of mind, the people of the island had gathered