Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [165]
“This,” Morann said with a smile, “is where the Tuatha De Danaan live.” He pointed to the damaged roof of the biggest mound. “Your people tried to get in there once. Did you know that?”
The Norseman shook his head. “This place is grim,” he said.
They walked around the tombs, staring at the carved stones and the fallen quartz. Then Harold said he wanted to walk along the ridge a little way, but Morann chose to remain, in front of the entrance of the largest of the tombs, where the stone with the three great spirals stood. From somewhere came the cry of a bird, but he heard no other sound. The light was imperceptibly fading.
Grim. Was the place grim? Perhaps. He was not sure. He stared over the river. He remembered his father. And he had been waiting like that for some time, he supposed, when it seemed to him that he sensed something moving up the slope from the river towards him.
The strangest thing was that he felt neither fear nor surprise. He knew, as did all men upon the island, of the many forms the spirits may take. There were the ancient gods who might appear as birds or fish, or deer or lovely women; there were fairy folk and dwarfs; before the death of a great man, you might hear a terrible wailing—this was the keening of the spirit they call a banshee. But what he sensed, though he suspected at once that it might be a spirit, was none of those things. It had no form at all; it was not even a floating mist. Yet he was nevertheless aware of it moving up the slope towards him, as though it came with a definite intention.
The invisible shadow passed close beside him and Morann felt a curious sensation of coldness before it drew away towards the mound and, passing by the stone carved with spirals, entered it.
When the spirit had gone, Morann remained perfectly still, staring over the Boyne; and though he could not say how, he knew with certainty what was to come to pass. He was not afraid, but he knew. And when some time later Harold returned, he told him, “You must not come with me. Go to your farm in Fingal.”
“But what about Brian Boru?”
“It is me he wants. I will make an excuse for you.”
“You told me it was dangerous to remain at the farm.”
“I know. But I have a presentiment.”
The next morning, the two men rode southwards together, but as they came to the northern edge of the Plain of Bird Flocks, Morann pulled up his horse.
“This is where we part, but before we do, Harold, I want you to make me a promise. Stay on your farmstead. You cannot go back to the O’Neill king after Brian summoned you; in any case, your sons will be safe enough with him, I think. But you must promise not to follow me into this battle. Will you do that?”
“I do not like to leave you,” said Harold. “But you have done so much for me that I don’t like to refuse you either. Are you sure this is what you want?”
“It is the one thing I ask,” said Morann.
So then Harold departed to his farmstead while Morann turned westwards to seek King Brian to whom he had just denied the company of a big-hearted man.
“The monk is to bring the book himself. King Brian was very definite,” said the messenger. “Is it ready?”
“It is,” said the abbot. “Ten days ago. This is an honour for you, Brother Osgar. I expect the king wishes to thank you in person.”
“We’re going down to Dyflin, where the fighting will be?” asked Brother Osgar.
“We are,” said the messenger.
Osgar understood the abbot’s need to oblige King Brian. Though the Leinster king was preparing for a conflict he thought he could win, not everyone was so certain of the outcome. Below the Wicklow Mountains, down the coastal plain, the chiefs in the south of Leinster had failed to join their king and the Leinster men. The unprotected abbey at Glendalough, though it was one of the noblest in the Leinster kingdom, could hardly be expected to insult King Brian by refusing what was, in any case, owed.
It was the Friday before Easter week, in the middle of April, when the messenger arrived.