Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [154]
“I am coming, Reverend Father.” He hurried towards the gateway, noticing as he did so that all the monastery’s servants had miraculously vanished. He and the abbot were alone in the empty precinct.
He had heard that Brian Boru’s raiding parties were sweeping the countryside as the Munster king came north to punish the Leinster men, but he had never supposed that they would come here, to disturb the peace of Glendalough.
He caught up with the abbot at the gateway. The track was deserted, but from down the little valley he saw a flash of flame.
“Couldn’t we bar the gates?” he suggested.
“No,” said the abbot. “It would only annoy them.”
“I can’t believe that King Brian’s men are doing this,” he said. “They’re not pagans or Ostmen.” But a bleak look from the older man silenced him. They both knew from the chronicles of the various houses that more damage had been done to the island’s monasteries in princely disputes than had ever been inflicted by the Vikings. He could only hope that Brian’s reputation as a protector of the Church would hold good on this occasion.
“Look,” the abbot said calmly. A party of about twenty men was coming up the track towards the gateway. They were well armed. In the centre of the group walked a handsome, brown-bearded man. “That’s Murchad,” the abbot remarked, “one of Brian’s sons.” He stepped forward, and Osgar kept by his side.
“Welcome Murchad, son of Brian,” the abbot called out firmly.
“Did you know it’s the monastery’s property you’re burning down there?”
“I did,” said the prince.
“You’ll surely not be wishing to do harm to the sanctuary of Saint Kevin?” said the abbot.
“Only if it’s in Leinster,” came the grim reply, as the party came up to them.
“You know very well that we’ve nothing to do with this business,” said the abbot reasonably. “I have always held your father in the highest regard.”
“How many armed men have you?”
“None at all.”
“Who is this?” The eyes of the prince rested on Osgar with a level stare.
“This is Brother Osgar. Our finest scholar. A wonderful illuminator.”
The eyes looked at him sharply now, but then lowered with, it seemed to Osgar, a hint of respect.
“We’ll be needing supplies,” he said.
“The gates are open,” the abbot replied. “But remember this is a house of God.”
They all started to walk through the gateway together. Osgar glanced at the round tower. The ladder had disappeared. The door was shut. At a nod from the prince, his men began to move towards the storehouses.
“You will give my respects to your father,” the abbot remarked pleasantly, “unless he means to favour us with a visit himself.” He paused a moment for a response, which was not forthcoming. “It’s wonderful how he keeps his health,” he added.
“Strong as a bull,” the prince replied. “I see your monks have run away,” he noted. “Or more likely all in the tower with your gold.”
“They do not know your pious character as well as I,” the abbot answered blandly.
While his men collected a small cartload of cheeses and another two cartloads of grain, the prince went round the monastery with the abbot and Osgar. It was soon obvious that he was looking for valuables. He eyed the golden cross on the altar of the main church, but did not take it, nor any of the silver candlesticks he saw; and he was starting to mutter to himself irritably when at last, making a desultory inspection of the scriptorium, his eye fell on something. “Your work?” he suddenly enquired of Osgar, and Osgar nodded.
It was an illustrated Gospels, like the great book at Kells, though much smaller and less elaborate. Osgar had only started it recently and hoped to complete it, including all the decorated letters and several pages of illumination, before the next Easter. It would be a handsome addition to the minor treasures of the Glendalough monastery.
“I think my father would like to receive it,” the prince said, gazing at the work thoughtfully.
“It is really for monastic—” Osgar began.
“As a mark of your loyalty,” the prince continued with emphasis. “He’d