Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [153]
“Your own Ostmen are rising, too. Does that mean anything to you?”
“I think they are very stupid,” he said, frankly. He thought he heard a little intake of breath from her, but he wasn’t certain. “Brian Boru is a great war leader.” He said it with admiration. “The Leinster men will be crushed, and they deserve to be.”
“He is an impostor.” She spat the word out with a sudden venom that took him by surprise.
“He has earned respect,” he said soothingly. “Even the Church …”
“He bought Armagh with gold,” she snapped. “And a despicable thing it was, to be bought by such a man.” And before he was quite sure what to say next: “What were his people? Nothing. River raiders no better than the pagan savages of Limerick they fought with.” She seemed to forget that these insulting expressions about the pagan Norsemen in Limerick might have been applied to Harold’s antecedents, too. Perhaps, he thought, she didn’t care. “He is a pirate from Munster. Nothing more. He should be killed like a snake,” she cried with contempt.
He saw that he had touched upon a raw nerve, and that he must tread gently, though he could not help feeling a little annoyed.
“Whatever may be said of Brian,” he said quietly, “we have to consider what to do. We both have our estates to protect. When I think,” he added, hoping to please her, “of all that you have done, so splendidly, here at Rathmines …”
Had she heard him? Was she listening? It was hard to tell. Her face had become hard and pale. Her green eyes were flashing dangerously. He realised, too late, that a rage was upon her.
“I hate Brian,” she cried. “I’ll see him dead. I’ll see his body cut to pieces, I’ll see his head upon a spike for my sons and daughters to spit upon; I’ll have their children drink his blood!”
She was splendid in her way, he thought. And he should, he knew, have waited for her rage to subside. But there was, he sensed, a disregard for him in it which displeased the powerful Norseman.
“I shall protect my own farm in Fingal, anyway,” he said grimly.
“Do what you like,” she said contemptuously, turning her head away from him. “It has nothing to do with me.”
He said nothing, but waited for some word of concession. There was none. He rose to go. She remained as she was. He tried to see in her face whether she was angry and hurt, waiting perhaps for some word of comfort from him, or whether she was merely contemptuous.
“I am going,” he said at last.
“Go to Munster and your friend Brian,” she replied. Her bitter voice fell like death in the shadow. She looked at him now, her green eyes blazing. “I have no need for traitors and pagans to be limping into this house again.”
With that, he left.
The events of the weeks that followed fell out very much as Morann had supposed they would. The men of Leinster made a raid into the O’Neill king’s territory. Soon after this, the King of Tara came down to punish them and swept across Fingal to the Ben of Howth. Thanks to Morann, however, who came with the old king, Harold and his big farmstead were not touched. Within days, more parties, reinforced by men from Dyflin, struck back. The King of Tara sent messengers south to ask Brian for help. And by mid-August the frightening rumour was spreading through the countryside.
“Brian Boru is coming back.”
Osgar glanced quickly around. There was smoke drifting up the valley. He could hear the crackle of flames.
“Brother Osgar.” The abbot sounded impatient.
Behind him, the monks were going up the ladder into the round tower—a quite unnecessary precaution, the abbot had told them. But their faces looked white and scared. Perhaps he looked like that, too. He didn’t know. He suddenly wondered if the brothers would pull up the ladder as soon as he and the abbot were out of sight. How absurd. He almost smiled at his own foolishness. But the image remained—he and the abbot, running back through the gateway with the Munster men chasing behind, reaching the round tower, looking up, seeing the door closed and the ladder gone, and running round the sheer walls helplessly until