Lion of Ireland (8 page)

Brian’s gaze was drawn from the writing tablet in his lap to a little bush where a fly struggled in the web of its archenemy, the spider. It was a foredoomed action, but at least it was action.

“Prince Brian, if you please!” An annoyed voice broke through his own mental cobwebs. “I ask you again, what is the noblest passion of Christendom?”

Brian was aware of the others sitting on their benches, waiting with ill-concealed glee for him to fail.

Fortunately, it was a question he knew by heart, having had it drummed into him by Marcan at every opportunity.

“To spread the faith among heathen and bring the light of God’s Word to all mankind,” he recited dutifully. Around him, anticipation subsided.

“That is correct.” Brother Lecan agreed, only slightly lifted. “Nonetheless I am disappointed in you, Brian.” From somewhere at the back of the class came a faint snicker. Bored boys shifted on their benches, hoping to be entertained.

“You have been with us since you were a small child,” the monk continued, “and until recently your scholarship has always been outstanding. Indeed, there has been some discussion of sending you to Rome eventually to continue your studies. But lately you have begun neglecting your lessons shamefully, young man. Your work in the sciences and the Brehon law is definitely below your usual standard, and I am told that you failed an examination in astronomy yesterday.”

Fed this choice tidbit, the class purred with satisfaction. A dozen pairs of eyes glowed with the gleeful malice of the nonchastised in the presence of one who is being publicly humiliated.

Brian’s cheeks flamed beneath their golden lacework of freckles. “How can I concentrate on studying when my brothers are dying in battle, one by one, and my own father has been slain at the hands of the Owenachts?”

Brother Lecan signed the Cross upon his chest. “Ah, yes, that was a tragic thing, a tragic thing. But we know that it was his expressed desire that you continue your education and be a credit to his name and your tribe.”

“I would be of more use to my tribe if I were with my brother Mahon, fighting to drive the Northmen from Munster.”

Brother Lecan’s eyes widened. “Am I hearing aright? Are you publicly expressing resistance to your king’s will?”

“My father the king is dead, and Mahon is chief of the Dal Cais now—and he needs me. I am grown tall and strong; I should be sent to him.”

“You are not authorized to make such a decision. You will stay at Clonmacnoise until we receive instructions to the contrary from those who are responsible for you . . .”

“I can be responsible for myself!” Brian interrupted hotly.

Brother Lecan flushed a dull red. “You are arrogant and impertinent! I fear you are falling under the devil’s influence, Brian mac Cennedi. Go at once to Saint Kieran’s Chapel and pray for strength to cast these sins from your immortal soul.”

*

But another year would pass before the summons finally came. Green summer turned to misty autumn, and then to a winter that was too long and too gray, shriveling the spirit. Snow lay in folds across the hills; ice shimmered at the edges of the river.

When the messenger came soon after Easter to call Brian and Marcan to their brother Mahon’s service, it hardly seemed real. Only the two horses Mahon had sent for them offered tangible proof that the waiting was over at last.

They were wonders, those horses. One was a slender black mare with the thin legs and deep chest of a blood horse, and an elaborately gilded bridle suitable for the mount of a prince. She was intended, of course, for the elder brother—Marcan.

For Brian, whom Mahon obviously thought of as still as child, there was a pony of suitable size and sturdiness. Its bridle was as gilded, its coat as glossy, but if Brian were seated on its back his feet would touch the ground.

The moment he saw those two horses Brian felt a burning determination that Marcan should have his dearest wish and join the religious life permanently.

“Of course, it’s what I want most to do,” Marcan agreed. “But Mahon wouldn’t have sent for us unless he really needs us, and he is the chief Dal Cais now; we must obey him.”

“It would be a waste!” Brian argued. “You know that you have a strong calling to God; it would be sacrilegious to turn your back on it. God’s will must take precedence, even over a king’s. You stay here and prepare yourself to take your vows, and I will explain to Mahon; he will understand and be proud of you.”

Marcan spent all day in the chapel on his knees, then returned to tell Brian that he felt sure it was God’s will that he stay. For once, Brian thought, God had answered his prayer, would serve as a pack horse.

In addition to the horses, Mahon had sent a map, giving directions to his current encampment at Kilmallock. From

this base, at the southern point of a rough triangle that included Limerick and Cashel, he was simultaneously waging war against the Norsemen and trying to build up Dal Cais strength in the south country.

There were preparations to be made and studies to be concluded, so that it would be early summer before Brian could actually be on his way. He was glad of the extra time thus afforded him to acquaint himself with his new horse and the art of riding—a subject not included among the formal courses of study at Clonmacnoise.

Each afternoon, Brian took bread dipped in salt to the stables as a treat for the mare. He bridled her himself and led her outside the walls, unwilling to have anyone witness his self-taught horsemanship.

Mounting was easy enough for a long-legged, athletic youth, and the mare had been trained to stand quietly while a rider vaulted aboard. But as soon as Brian’s legs clamped around her silky sides, the calm animal underwent a startling change of personality.

She danced, she shied, she arched her neck and curvetted in great leaps that caused Brian to clutch her mane with both hands. She was light as smoke on her feet, as full of starts and bounds as a hare. Brian had always assumed that riding was easy, a thing every man did and took for granted; a few hours’

practice and he would be a centaur.

But the mare held a vastly differing opinion. She fancied herself a creature of the wind, light and untrammeled, and his tense grip irritated her. The first day she was relatively careful with him, feeling him out; but on the second day she rightly decided he lacked sufficient authority to control her and flipped him off with a snap of her spine.

It seemed to happen so slowly. The silky hide moved under him, muscles bunched and tensed and thrust, and he felt that all his strength was as nothing against the agility of the horse. There was a moment of flight, like that of a clumsy, wingless bird, and then he saw the ground rushing up to meet him. Hard. The breath went out of his lungs in a painful whoosh. For a moment he thought he was killed. Lights danced before his eyes; an enormous weight pressed on his chest; it was impossible to breathe. The feeling passed gradually, leaving him giddy. He propped himself on his arms and saw the mare grazing a little distance away, unconcerned, her rein trailing on the ground. If she stepped on it she would snap it when she raised her head.

He tried to crawl toward her and get hold of the bridle. The mare kept on grazing, perfectly aware of him, only rolling her eye in his direction to check on his progress. When he was almost within grabbing distance she drifted casually away, dragging the rein.

The boy followed her, fearful that she would ‘go back to the stable without him and reveal his disgrace to everyone. But the mare was not interested in returning just yet; the game she was playing intrigued her.

Time and again she let him approach, only to remove herself at the last minute, her big eyes sparkling with fun.

Brian was winded, bruised, and frustrated. He was well aware of the helplessness of his situation, and angry at himself for being in it, but the angrier he got the harder it became to get close to the horse. It was as if she could read his mind. Once, in sheer outrage he bent down and picked up a stone to hurl at her, only to see her gallop blithely just beyond his throwing distance.

His strength was of no use; the only weapon he had left was guile. He forced himself to swallow his temper and study his antagonist with a dispassionate eye. She was plainly enjoying the sport, watching to see what his next move would be. He thought for a time and then sat down on the ground with his back to her, whistling under his breath and playing idly with a tuft of clover.

For a while, nothing happened. Then he heard the approach of cautious footfalls. With an effort he resisted the temptation to turn and look. He felt the mare come closer, closer. A last her warm breath bathed the back of his neck, and then she gave him a curious nudge with her velvet nose.

The pride that rose in him was out of proportion to his deed, but very satisfying. Moving his hand slowly, he reached

up and took hold of the bridle. The mare tensed but did not jerk away. Trying to ignore his aching body he led her to a large rock and gingerly climbed back on, settling himself on her back with a grimace. He fully expected to be tossed again.

But by the mare’s rules the game was over, at least for the day, and Brian had won. She carried him back to the stables as meekly as a ewe lamb, only arching her neck a little to remind him that there would be another time.

On the morning of his departure the abbot himself came to wish him Godspeed. “We are sorry to see you go, Prince Brian, but we are most thankful you are leaving your brother with us. He has a true vocation, you know. Just as you have the ability to be a great scholar.” This last regretfully, seductively.

Brian smiled, trying to look sorry that he was being called “away. “I thank you, sir, and I assure you that, if matters were different, nothing would give me greater pleasure.” That, at least, was true. The wonder of the written word had not escaped him, and the vast amount of knowledge yet to be acquired was a treasure he promised himself for someday. .When peace had come to the land, and he could concentrate on gentle things. Someday. In the very distant future, when there were no more adventures waiting.

He took the road to the south with a light heart and a careful hand on the rein. The mare flirted with the bit, coquetting, her nervous ears flicking back and forth. The bay pony Hollowed on his leadline, insulted, carrying food, a small pot and bowls, blankets and prayerbook, and a change of tunics. Brian reined in the mare after they had gone some distance down the road, and turned to look back once more before the great monastery faded from sight. Seen from that perspective *” it was more awesome than he expected, a city in truth, its slender round watchtower soaring above its skyline in perpetual vigilance against the marauding Northmen. If God was anywhere, he was at Clonmacnoise.

Brian clucked to the mare and turned her southward once more, leaving his childhood behind him.

*

Following the main roads and Mahon’s map, Brian rode until sundown. He was dressed in his plainest saffron tunic, his most worn clothing, and the gilded bridles had been replaced by simple rope headstalls.

No traveler was safe from the bands of half-breed Norse-Irish outlaws who roamed the

*

countryside, robbing the unwary, but an insignificant lad in old clothes might hope to escape their notice if luck was with him. His only concern was for his horses, whose quality could not be disguised, but he felt a certain confidence that the black mare could outrun any trouble they might encounter. As he rode, Brian enjoyed the sensation of awareness-on many levels. He watched the woods, alert for robbers; he noticed the nervous flick of the mare’s ears, equally alert to her possibilities for mischief. He felt his hard young body constantly improving in balance and confidence, learning to move with the horse and anticipate her actions. A part of his mind was poring over the lessons of his years in the school, seeking things that might be useful to Mahon. Another part of him was drinking in the beauty of the day and the new sensation of freedom. He had never felt more alive.

At nightfall he turned off the road and found a secluded glen where he made camp. He tethered and groomed his horses and prepared his evening meal, taking delight in his own competence. He even set a little snare in hopes of acquiring a hare for breakfast, then rolled himself in his cloak and immediately fell asleep.

The next morning he awakened stiff and sore, aware of every bone in his pelvic structure, and with no hare for breakfast. The snare had unraveled itself during the night. The black mare stepped on his foot as he was trying to mount her. He had only been on the road for an hour when he spotted a group of men in the distance, mounted on runty horses and riding toward him in a purposeful way. They were cutting across a broad field, planning to intercept him at the next junction of the road, and one glance was sufficient to assure Brian they had more in mind than a friendly chat. He slammed his heels against the mare’s sides and gave a mighty tug to his pony’s leadrope.

The mare’s response was a great leap forward which tore the leadrope from his hand and nearly cost him his seat. He recovered his balance by throwing himself forward against her outstretched neck, urging her on with a mixture of prayers and curses. Behind him he could hear the bay pony, laboring mightily to keep up with its companion, and the shouts of the outlaws as they tried to run him down.

But Mahon had chosen wisely—even the pony was a fleeter animal than the underfed culls the outlaws rode. Brian flew down the road with the wind whipping his horse’s mane against his face, stinging the skin and lashing his closed eyelids. The mare ran joyously, glad to be able to stretch herself at last and release her nervous energy in speed.

When he realized he wasn’t going to fall off after all, Brian essayed a quick glance over his shoulder and was pleased to see the pony not too far behind, while his pursuers were losing ground at every stride.

“Good girl, good girl. Oh, you beauty, you!” he crooned to the mare, freshly enraptured with her.

“Come back, you clay-eating bastard!” yelled one of the robbers. But his voice was more powerful than his horse; his words reached Brian, faintly, but that was more than he could do himself. Finally he signaled to his companions to rein in, and they sat in a forlorn little group on the road, yelling impotent threats at the vanishing figure on the black mare.