Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [133]
“A big battle,” he called out. “Down there.” He waved towards the south. “At Glen Mama, by the mountains. Brian smashed us. We were destroyed.”
“Where is Brian now?” asked Morann.
“You’ve missed him. He and his men would have passed this way long ago. He’d have been riding like the devil,” he cried grimly. “He’ll be in Dyflin already by now.”
Morann pursed his lips. Osgar felt a little stab of fear, but said nothing. The horseman moved away. After a short pause, Morann turned to Osgar.
“I have to go on. But you’ve no need to. You could walk back to Kildare now and be there before dark.”
Osgar considered for a moment. He thought of his uncle at the family monastery. He thought of Caoilinn.
“No,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”
As the afternoon went on they found themselves merging into a stream of men returning home. Many were wounded. Here and there were carts carrying those who could not walk or ride. There was not much talking. Those who did speak all told the same story. “We left more dead than living down there at Glen Mama,” they said. The short afternoon was drawing to a close when they came in sight of a small religious house beside a stream. “That’s where we’ll stop,” Morann announced. “If we leave early from here tomorrow, we’ll be in sight of Dyflin before the end of the morning.” Osgar could see that there was already a large collection of people resting there.
Morann was worried. He hadn’t really wanted to bring the monk with him. Not that he didn’t like him; but he was a complication, an additional responsibility, possibly a risk.
What lay ahead? A conquering army after battle is a dangerous animal. Looting, pillage, rape: it was always the same. Even a king as strong as Brian would not necessarily be able to control his men. Most commanders let their troops do what they wanted for a day or two and then reined them in afterwards. The religious houses with their walled compounds would probably be safe. Brian would see to that. But going into the area round Dyflin would be perilous. How would the quiet monk cope with these things? What use could he be? Was he just going to get in the way and need to be looked after? There was another consideration, too. Morann’s first objective would be to find Astrid and her children and, if necessary, help them escape. He certainly didn’t want the monk taking up valuable space in the cart. He wished that Osgar hadn’t come.
And yet you couldn’t help admiring him. The religious house where they had broken their journey was a small place, with less than a dozen inmates. The monks there were accustomed to giving shelter to travellers, but by nightfall, their resources were completely overwhelmed. There must have been fifty or sixty tired and wounded men, some of them close to death, camped in the little yard or outside the gates; the monks were giving them what food and bandaging they could. And Osgar was aiding them.
He was impressive. Moving about amongst the wounded and the dying, giving food and water to one, bandaging the wounds of another, sitting quietly talking to some poor fellow whom food and bandages could no longer help, he seemed to possess not only a quiet competence but an extraordinary, gentle grace. During the night—for he appeared to be able to do without sleep—he sat with two men who were dying, praying with them and, when it was time, giving them the last unction. And you could see from their faces that he brought them peace and comfort. It was not only what he did, Morann concluded, but something in his manner, a quietness that radiated from his elegant, spare body, of which he himself was probably not conscious. “You have a gift,” the craftsman