Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [135]
He realised that Morann was pulling at his arm.
“We must move on,” the craftsman was saying. “There is nothing we can do here.”
Osgar was almost in a daze as he found himself sitting in the cart again, with the sword between his knees. Morann was driving along the track. The raiders were a little way off on their left, but seemed to be watching them. For after a few moments, deserting the cattle, the three horsemen came towards them. He heard Morann telling him to stay calm. He felt his hand involuntarily tightening on the sword, still concealed under the blanket between his legs. The horsemen reached them.
Of the three of them, two wore heavy leather jerkins and carried swords. These were obviously soldiers. The third, a thin, broken-toothed fellow with a cloak wrapped round him, didn’t look as if he belonged with them. The soldier who had struck down the farmer spoke.
“We shall be needing that cart.” It was an order. But as Osgar was reluctantly starting to move, Morann placed his hand on his arm and prevented him.
“That’s impossible,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“The cart’s not mine. It belongs to the monastery.” He indicated Osgar. “The monastery in Dyflin to which I’m taking this good monk.” He gazed at the soldier calmly. “I don’t think King Brian would be wanting you to take the monastery’s cart.”
The soldier considered. His eyes appraised Osgar carefully and seemed to conclude that he was indeed a monk. He nodded slowly.
“Have you any valuables?”
“No.” Morann’s face was confident. Apart from some silver concealed in his clothes, he hadn’t.
“They lie!” It was the broken-toothed man who had cried out. His eyes seemed a little wild. “Let me search them.”
“You’ll do as you’re told and help drive the cattle,” the soldier ordered him curtly. He nodded to Morann. “Drive on.”
They continued along the track. The horsemen and their cattle receded. Morann smiled grimly. “Just as well I had you along,” he grunted. They went over a small rise and were just pausing at the top when, in the distance, they saw a grim sight. Smoke was rising into the sky. Smoke that must be coming from a large fire, perhaps many fires. Judging by the direction, it could only be coming from Dyflin. Osgar saw Morann shake his head and glance a little doubtfully at him. But he continued driving forward.
The sound of a galloping horse behind them came just moments later. Osgar turned. To his surprise he saw it was the thin fellow with the ragged teeth. He seemed to be making straight towards them. Evidently he had broken away from the soldiers. To his horror, as the fellow drew close, Osgar realised that he was brandishing a sword. The fellow’s eyes seemed even wilder than ever. “Pull out the sword,” he heard Morann’s voice say, quietly but firmly, beside him. But though he understood Morann perfectly well Osgar remained motionless. He seemed to be frozen. Morann nudged him impatiently. “He’s going to swing at you. Pull out the sword.”
And still he did nothing. The fellow was only paces away now. Morann was right. He was preparing to strike. “For God’s sake defend yourself,” Morann cried out. Osgar could feel the sword in his hand. Yet his hand did not move.
He wasn’t afraid. That was the strangeness of it. His paralysis was not one of fear. He scarcely cared, at that moment, if the fellow struck at him. For if he struck this fellow himself, he would probably kill him. And all he knew, just then, was that he was determined not to kill another man. He wanted no part of it. None.
He hardly felt it as Morann seized the sword out of his hands. He was only conscious, for a moment, of Morann’s strong left arm banging against his chest as, throwing his body across Osgar’s, the craftsman thrust at their assailant. He heard the clang of steel on steel, felt Morann’s body twist violently, and then heard a terrible cry as the