Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [134]
When morning came, the monks would obviously have been glad if he remained. A number of the men resting there were unfit to go on and others were still arriving.
“There will be raiding parties about this morning,” Morann pointed out to Osgar. “Are you sure you would not do better to stay here?”
“No,” said Osgar, “I’ll come with you.”
The morning was crystalline. The sky was blue. There was a dusting of snow, shining in the sunlight on the tops of the Wicklow Mountains.
Despite the sad scenes of the night and the possible danger ahead, Osgar felt a sense of excitement mixed with a glow of warm joy. He was going to see Caoilinn. The first part of their journey was quiet, and he allowed his mind to wander a little. He imagined her in danger; he imagined himself arriving, her look of surprise and joy. He imagined himself saving her, fighting off assailants, bringing her to safety. He shook his head. Unlikely visions, boyish dreams. But he dreamed them all the same, several times, as the little cart bumped along below the gleaming mountains.
Then he felt Morann nudge him.
There was a small rise ahead. Just below it was a farmstead. And by the farmstead there were horsemen.
“Trouble.” Morann was looking grim.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t, but I suspect.” He narrowed his eyes. “It’s a raiding party.” He glanced at Osgar. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
As they went forward, they could see what was happening. The raiding party consisted of three horsemen. They had come to collect cattle, and finding only a few at the farmstead had evidently decided to take them all. Osgar could see a woman standing at the entrance to the farmstead. There was a child behind her. A man, her husband presumably, was trying to argue with the raiders, who were taking no notice of him.
“Osgar,” Morann’s voice was low, “reach down behind you. There’s a blanket there with a sword underneath it. Put the blanket over your knees and keep the sword between your legs.”
Osgar felt for the sword and did as Morann had asked.
“Let me know when you want it,” he said quietly, as they drew closer.
The man at the farmstead was shouting now, as the cattle were being driven out of their pen. Osgar saw the man run forward and catch one of the riders by the leg, remonstrating with him. He was tugging at the leg, wildly.
The movement was so swift that Osgar never saw the horseman’s hand move at all. He saw the blade though, a single, sudden flash in the morning sun. Then he saw the farmer falling, saw him crumple on the ground.
The horseman did not even cast an eye upon him, but rode on, driving the cattle, as the woman with a scream ran forward with the child.
He was dying when they reached him. The raiders were already moving away. Osgar got down. The poor fellow on the ground was still conscious, aware that Osgar was giving him the last rites. Moments later, with the woman and the child weeping on the ground beside him, he died.
Osgar slowly rose and stared down. He did not speak. Morann was saying something to him, but he did not hear. All he was conscious of was the dead man’s face. A man he did not know. A man who had died for nothing, in a foolish moment, in a foolish way.
And then it came back to him. The same ashen face. The same staring eyes. The blood. The horror. It was always the same. The endless human cruelty, and the violence without a cause. The uselessness of it all.
The memories that had troubled him once, after the killing of the robber in his youth, had long ago subsided. They had returned once in a while, but as recollections, as things that belonged in the past. And up in the safety and quiet of Glendalough, there was little enough reason why it should be otherwise. But now, as he stared suddenly at the terrible, bloodied flesh and human waste before him, his old horror came upon him with all the fresh, raw urgency that he had experienced long ago.
And I, too, have killed a man, he thought. I have done this, too. Whether in self-defence