The Songs of Slaves (5 page)

             
Connor had expected to feel the familiar pang in his chest in knowing that Grania was once and for all marrying his friend and not him. In truth, when he saw her in her white dress, with flowers woven throughout her hair and the hems of her garments, and with the radiant light of a young woman totally happy and in love; he had never been more affected by her. But at the same time, when he saw the lovers have their hands fasted together and saw their eyes lock – their souls lock – all he wanted was their happiness. Grania was for Mannus. That was the way it was supposed to be. Whatever envy may have been in him left him for good; but as the moon-cast night slipped by and the revelers danced around the bonfire, Connor felt an emptiness take its place. It was nothing close to bitterness, only the strong sense that he did not know what he was doing or where he really belonged.  

             
Again Connor adjusted his burden, and let his mind wander to what Titus had said the night before. Connor was happy that the old priest had returned from
his missions inland. It had been a year or more since he had left, and Connor could not help but notice how the time had changed him. Despite himself, the proud Roman had accepted the vertical tonsure line that marked a holy man in Eire.
“Less explaining this way,” he had responded gruffly. But beyond that, the years were definitely catching up with Titus Vestius
Laterensis
. His frame was leaner than it had ever been, and was starting to bend and to bow; his long hair was completely gray; and he had a hoarse
cough that would seize hold of him
. He had stood at the edge of the crowd, a look of mild disapproval on his stern face. Undaunted by his teacher’s ubiquitous austerity, Connor had greeted him with an embrace. The old priest showed him the books that he was ca
rrying – two leather-bound volumes
of finely pounded sheep skin pages.

             
“This is the Gospel of Mark,” Titus had said. “And this is the Gospel of John. They are made here, in Eire, by my disciples in Lothnehara.”

             
“I have never seen such a thing,” said Connor tracing the Greek script. Indeed he had not. Not only was the script uniform and vibrant on the delicate pages, but the new monks had ornamented the pages
with colored pictures, swirling symbols, and intricate designs.

             
“It’s a beginning,” Titus said. “There are men of your people that have a gift for printing. Who knew, since your countrymen hardly write at all except for fencepost-like tallies and cue words? But I should have seen it long ago, in your art! It was all around me, and yet I did not understand it.”

             
The crack of a branch well off to his right brought Connor back to the present. He stopped and turned, trying to see what had made the noise. It was only then that he realized that he had heard no other s
ound for some time. The forest sh
ould have been full of the singing of birds of the scurrying of squirrels, as its inhabitants searched for food in the morning light. But the only sound was coming from his right, and as he listened he knew that it was the sound of two or three men walking in attempted stealth. Perhaps it was a pair of hunters, taking advantage of the lull in work that the wedding feast had provided. For a moment Connor thought of going towards them, to see if it might be friends of his. But as the sun cut through the shadows, Connor saw a momentary flash – the reflection of light on iron.

             
Connor let the litter down and crouched close to the earth. The flash might have been a javelin head, or the hilt of a knife. None of that would have been out of the ordinary. And yet, a strong sense of misgiving squeezed his heart. He dipped his body lower into the brush, slowed his breathing, and watched.

             
Three shadows emerged, crouching low and moving carefully. Connor’s eyes were drawn instantly to the naked blades of their long swords. He drew in a breath, trying to stifle his alarm. His pulse began to beat wildly; pounding with such force that he feared th
e men would hear it. For a
second, Connor took the men as cattle raiders – men from a nearby clan who would try to carry away whatever livestock or moveable wealth they could lay
their hands on. But even as the
thought registered, he knew that this was not true. As his eyes moved away from the long swords to the large frame of the men; their straw-colored hair and thick beards
–
and above all, their heavy coats of chain mail that hung down to the corded muscles of their thighs
–
he knew it was much worse than that.

             
These were not thieves from a neighboring clan, looking to grab some unguarded goods. These men were foreigners, outsiders from the sea. They had not
come just for some cattle. They had come for everything. And they were not alone.

             
Screams broke through the valley, some of terror, others of rage, carried on the wind. The raiders began to run towards the settlement, brandishing their swords in the air and slinging their round shields into position. Their stealth was gone. They crashed through the forest, hungry to join the attack.

             
Connor leapt up, freeing himself from the ropes that bound him to the litter. He grabbed his javelins and raced towards home.

             
His weariness was forgotten. He rushed through the thickets, heedless of the branches that snagged at him. His village had never been attacked from the sea before in living memory, but Connor had heard the tales of those who had. They came rushing to the fore of his mind, screaming to him to run faster. Whatever happened, he had to reach his family before the ironclad men.

             
But the roars and shrieks carried to his ears told him plainly that he was too late. The attack was joined. His only hope was to get whomever he could to safety. The homes and the animals would be at the savages’
mercy. This thought renewed his strength as he burst up the hillside and broke through into open ground.

Leaving the dark forest behind, he ran towards the huts of the monastery, visible just ahead. They appeared quiet, as if those inside just slept. But as Connor looked down to the beach he could see three dark ships – the biggest by far that he had ever beheld, their wide, square sails still in the sorrowful air. He could see flames emerging from the thatched roves of the village below, springing up one by one to join in a macabre dance. Black smoke rose up to meet the rain clouds as the sounds of ruin joined the chorus of voices from the settlement. At once, the lay of the attack was clear to him. The ships had ridden the storm winds here. They had entered the shallows together, after landing some men – like those he had seen in the wood – just out of sight from the village. Those men had taken to the forest and encircled the settlement, moving in even as the remainder of the men attacked the ring fort. Perhaps the boy who was to guard the gate had slept as the men climbed in; and now Connor could see that the gate was flung open as the men from the sea descended like wolves on the fold. The blaze of fire was bright, as his people – his friends – found their escape cut off by
the very palisade and earthworks that were meant to protect them. Yet he could see many managed to flee the village and the farmhouses outside, unaware that more enemies moved in from the forest to intercept them. A great wail grew in Connor’s chest, but he turned it into a roar that pushed him finally to the crest of the hill, within the fences of the monastery.

Connor lifted a javelin in his right hand, but the hilltop seemed empty. There was no sound from the huts. The doors were all broken into shadow. He turned towards the animal pens, where many of the livestock lay dead or bleated in agony as their lifeblood flowed from hasty wounds. Connor stormed ahead, resisting the urge to call out. He moved towards his hut at the other side of the pen.

Connor stopped mid-stride. Dervel lay on the wet grass, his arms spread and his eyes towards heaven. His white robes were stained brightest red. Connor fell to his knees, unable to stifle the anguish that split out of his soul. Dervel’s pale face was passive, serene, and lifeless. Connor reached down to close the
green eyes, but the lids
open
ed
again as the dead priest looked up at him.

He fought back panic as he leapt to his feet. He left his guardian, storming ahead through the yawning door. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the light, though he knew what he would see. The one-roomed hut was wrecked. The simple furniture was broken, the clay pots shattered, and the clothing and goods strewn on the earthen floor. They had been looking for gold, for valuables, Connor realized. The fools thought that they would find them here, in a lonely church at the edge of the world.

As Connor moved forward through the gloom, something caught his foot mid-stride. He fell forward over a body on the ground. As he hit the floor his hand felt the coldness of metal – a mail shirt. Connor rolled to his back and tried to bring his javelin up defensively, but the bearded face that stared back at him was as pale as Dervel’s. The raider’s head was angled grotesquely, and one of his eyes was smashed and ruined in its socket. One of his comrades lay beside him, his own long sword impaled in his chest.

Just beyond them Titus lay. Connor tried to stand, but his strength abandoned him as his eyes took in the sight of his mentor’s corpse. The priest’s head was separated from his body – almost severed
–
his arms and trunk
cruelly hacked. His staff was broken beside him. Connor struggled up and moved towards him. Titus still wore the satchel, as if he were preparing to leave with the books. But now the books were gone, in the red hands of murderers.

Connor stood up straight. He made the sign of the cross over Titus, as the priest had taught him to do years before.

Rain hit his face as he emerged again into the open, but it would not be enough to put out the fires below. Connor ran across the clearing to Cumragh’s house, trying to steel his heart for what he may find within. He found it ransacked, but the room was empty of the dead. Connor dared to think – to believe – that Cumragh may have gotten his family out; that he and his fair daughters ha
d not been here when the murderers
had come.
But what of the men coming in from the forest?
Connor ran outside again, looking around wildly. There was no way to tell which way Cumragh had gone. There was no way to know if they would be safe, or if there were any more raiders in the area. Though all had transpired perhaps minutes before he arrived, the hilltop appeared as if it had been hours ago. Connor tried to steady his thinking. If Cumragh and his
family were hiding in the forest, there was a chance that they were safe. By now most of the enemy must be converging on the settlement below.

And with that the full weight of it hit him.

Mannus and Grania.

***

The branches whipped at him as he ran onward. Mannus’s house was just ahead, through the trees. Connor could already smell the smoke. The trees finally gave way and Connor froze. The wedding house was burning high, the roof already caved in. But it was not this sight that stole his breath from his lungs. It was Mannus, leaning hard against the trunk of the ash tree, pushing his pale fingers against his open belly as his red blood seeped out onto the ground.

Connor recovered his senses and ran to his friend. Mannus lifted weary eyes as Connor drew near.

“Mannus!”

“Connor,” the young man whispered. His voice seemed weak, as if he had little life left. But as Connor reached him, Mannus grabbed his shirt with a clutch of steel, pulling Connor towards him until their faces were nearly touching. Mannus’ eyes, so glassy and weary a moment before, were alight with panic and despair.

“Connor, they took her!” he hissed. “I tried to stop them. I tried. You must not let them take her away, Connor! They will destroy her. I could see what they will do!”

“Easy, Mannus,” Connor managed as new tears formed in his eyes. “You’re hurt. We need to get you further away from this fire.”

“Go, Connor!” Mannus growled. His face wore a mask of death and the veins of his head and neck bulged as he sucked the air into his damaged lungs. “What happens to me does not matter. Don’t let them take Grania! As you have loved us, Connor, do not let them take her!
As you have loved us!”

Connor rose to his feet as Mannus released his bloody grasp.

“Swear to me!” Mannus said.

“Wait here,” Connor said, trying to force strength into his voice. “I will return with her. Stay alive and wait.”

Mannus tried to smile. He let his head drop back against the tree as the pain contorted his face.

“Stay alive and wait,” Connor said once more, as he turned to run.

He left Mannus behind, shutting out the thought that he would not see his friend alive again. He had to thi
nk of his task.
There was no reason to think that he was not too late, and as he left Mannus behind he realized that he had not asked him how many there had been, or any of the other crucial questions he would need to know. But he did know one thing – where they were going. He headed straight for the beach, again cutting through the brush without regard to trails. If the raiders had Grania they would not be able to move very quickly. He may yet be able to catch them. What was to happen after that would be up to
God.
Connor prayed fervently as he ran, spitting out the words, begging and imploring for mercy, for justice. He had to catch at least these marauders, stop at least this one act.
Just this one.
But despair clutched at him as he charged on; every time he closed his eyes he could see Mannus, Titus, and Dervel. The chorus of the murder and cruelty all around him bombarded him, carried like fell arrows on the wind.