Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [131]
The afternoon was almost over and darkness nearly falling when they reached the edge of Carmun. A strange greyness pervaded the sky. The huge, flat, empty spaces seemed eerie and vaguely threatening. Even Morann was uneasy, and Osgar saw him looking anxiously about. It would be dark before they arrived at Kildare. He glanced at Sister Martha.
The kindly nun had certainly been an excellent travelling companion. She did not talk unless someone indicated that they wished to, but when she did talk, she gave evidence of a fund of cheerful good sense. She must be very good, he thought, at tending the sick. Was she a little nervous now? He was quite ready to admit, at least to himself, that he was. But she gave no sign of it. A few moments later she smiled at him.
“Would you like to recite something with me, Brother Osgar?” she suddenly asked.
He quite understood. It might help them all not to be nervous.
“What would you like?” he asked. “A Psalm, perhaps?”
“ ‘Patrick’s Breastplate,’ I think,” she replied.
“An excellent choice.” It was a lovely poem. Tradition said it was composed by Saint Patrick himself, and it could have been so. It was a hymn of praise but also of protection, and it had not been composed in Latin but in Irish—which was fitting, for this great Christian chant, so full of a sense of the wonder of God’s earthly creation, had a druidical character that recalled the poets back to Amairgen from the ancient Celtic tradition.
Osgar took up the first verse, chanting it firmly:
I rise today,
My spirit mighty;
I call on the Three,
The Trinity;
I confess the One
Creator of Creation.
Then Sister Martha took up the second:
I arise today
By the birth of Christ …
Her voice had a cheerful strength. It was almost musical. She was a good companion, thought Osgar, as they went across the open space together. And as they came to the great druidical centre of the poem, they found themselves naturally taking turns, line by line, alternating the chant between them:
I arise today
By the power of heaven:
Light as the sun,
Bright as the moon,
Splendid as fire,
Quick as lightning,
Fast as wind,
Deep as the sea …
The evening air was growing cold; but as they chanted the stirring poem together in that echoing place with the harsh green turf all round, and feeling the cold air raw on his reddening cheeks, Osgar experienced a quickening of the spirits; there was a boldness and manliness in his voice, and Sister Martha smiled. And they did not finish their hymn until, in the gathering darkness, they saw the walls of Kildare looming ahead of them.
The following morning, having said goodbye to the nun, the two men prepared to go their separate ways. The weather had changed. It was cold, but the sky was clear and the day was crisp and bright. The journey from Kildare to Glendalough was not a difficult one, and as they had encountered no trouble upon the way, Osgar was happy enough to continue alone. First he would go to a small religious house that nestled below the western slopes of the Wicklow Mountains, not a dozen miles away. By good fortune, the monks there had recently lent a horse to one of the abbey’s servants, and it was agreed that Osgar should return it. After a night there, he proposed to take the mountain path that led up to Glendalough, a familiar path that would easily bring him there by the next afternoon.
Morann, meanwhile, intended to spend the morning conducting his business at Kildare, then leave on the road that went past Carmun. He, too, would break his journey, and arrive at Dyflin the following day.
As there was no need to hurry, Osgar spent a pleasant couple of hours looking around the monastery town of Kildare.
The place had always been a holy site. Osgar was aware that, before Christianity came to the island, there had been a shrine there, in an