Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [136]
The thin man lay on the ground. Blood was frothing from his mouth. Morann was turning. And now the craftsman was cursing.
“What were you thinking of? You could have had us both killed. Dear God, you are useless to man or beast. Are you the greatest coward that was ever born?”
“I’m sorry.” What could he say? How could he explain that he had not been afraid? What difference did it make anyway? Osgar hardly knew himself.
“I shouldn’t have brought you,” the craftsman was crying. “I shouldn’t have done it, against my judgement. You’re no use to me, Monk, and you’re a danger to yourself.”
“If it happens again …” Osgar heard himself saying weakly.
“Again? There’ll be no again.” Morann paused, and then declared with finality. “You’re going back.”
“But I can’t. My family …”
“If any place in Dyflin is safe, it’s your uncle’s monastery,” Morann told him.
“And Caoilinn … She’ll be in the city, probably.”
“Dear Heaven,” Morann burst out, “what in the world can a useless coward like yourself do for Caoilinn? You couldn’t save her from a mouse.” He took a deep breath, and then, a little more kindly, went on reasonably. “You are wonderful with the sick and dying, Osgar. I have watched you. Let me take you back to the place where you are needed. Do what God made you for, and leave the saving of people to me.”
“I really think—” Osgar began, but the craftsman firmly stopped him.
“I’m not taking you any farther in my cart.” And before Osgar could say anything more, Morann jumped in, turned the cart round, and headed back the way they had come before.
They saw no one along the way. The cattle raiders had disappeared. The people at the farmstead had already dragged the corpse of the farmer back inside. They could see the little religious house where they had spent the night in the distance when Osgar asked the craftsman to stop.
“I suppose you are right,” he said regretfully. “The place ahead is where I should go. They seem to want me. So put me down and I can walk from here. The sooner you get to Dyflin, the better.” He paused. “Would you promise me one thing? Would you call in at Rathmines. It’s on your way. Call in and make sure that Caoilinn isn’t there, in need of any help. Would you do that for me?”
“That,” Morann agreed, “I can do.”
Osgar had just got down, when a sudden thought occurred to him.
“Give me the blanket,” he said.
With a shrug, Morann threw it down.
“Good.” And removing his monk’s habit, Osgar wrapped the blanket around himself. Then he tossed the habit up to Morann. “Put it on,” he called. “It might help you get into Dyflin.”
The flames and smoke arising before Dyflin had been growing greater by the hour; but they were not the result of destruction: they came from the huge bonfires that the Munster men had built in their camp on the open ground between the town ramparts and the open spaces by the Thingmount.
Caoilinn was looking anxiously towards them and wondering what to do when she saw the two men appear. She wondered if they could help her.
She had gone to Rathmines the evening before. As soon as she had heard the news of Glen Mama, she had decided to ride out to the farmstead, leaving her children with her brother in Dyflin, to wait for her husband in case he should come that way. She had seen Brian’s men pass by, and a few of the defeated army, seeking their homes. Though the huge camp of the Munster men lay outside the walls, the gates of Dyflin were open. People were going in and out. But for a long time there had been no sign of Cormac.
She had expected to find some of her people at the farmstead, but fearing Brian’s men, presumably, they had all disappeared, and she had found herself quite alone. The farmstead stood at some distance from the main track, at the end of a lane of its own, so nobody had come by. She had gathered her courage, however, and stayed the night out there by herself, all the more anxious that, if her husband should