Lion of Ireland by Morgan Llywelyn

bustling river traffic. At birth of day the bell sounded the call to matins; at twilight the swallows glided overhead, crying softly to one another as they sought their nesting places.
    The red stain of Boruma’s dying had been a signal that reached even to Killaloe. The monks had gathered fearfully to stare at the night sky and pray for the victims before their abbot dispersed them to carry the monastery’s few treasures into safe hiding. The gold crucifix and chalices, the silver basin and small collection of precious Gospels must be protected even before the lives of the brothers, for they were God’s property. But God was merciful, and for once the Northmen did not fall ravening upon the unprotected community of holy men.
    The darkness, the ancient enemy, crouched over them, hiding foul deeds, but with the first flush of light in the eastern sky two of the brothers were sent out, armored by prayers, to offer what assistance they could to the surviving Dalcassians—if there were any to be found.
    The ground was still spongy underfoot from the night’s storm, and although the sky was clear overhead, a bank of clouds to the south was heavy with the threat of more rain by evening. The air smelled fresher than new vestments. Tiny flowers starred the green turf, so that Brother Gael, who was in the lead, was forced to pick a very circuitous route in order to avoid trampling their delicate upturned faces.
    Brother Gael was tall and thin; Brother Columb was short and stout. His stubby legs had not been designed by his Ga to keep up with the rangy meanderings of Brother Gael, am he soon found himself growing winded.
    “Brother Gael, if you please! Let us slow down just a little shall we? And tell me, my friend—why ever are you walking in serpentines?”
    Brother Gael halted abruptly and turned to peer unsmiling at his companion. “We are on a mission of mercy, Brother lest you have forgotten. It was only through God’s grace that our monastery did not rise to the heavens in flames last night as did Boruma, for surely that was the work of the Northmen But even in my haste to offer succor to our brethren I have been careful to avoid all the new flowers the rain brought out Surely you noticed them. It would be a cruel thing to smash them on their first day in God’s sunlight.”
    Abashed, Brother Columb looked down. The flower faces looked up at him, trustingly. He felt like a gross ingrate and a potential murderer. Sweat was puddling in his armpits and his coarse brown robe made him itch. He turned his face toward the river, hoping for a cool breeze as he tugged at his robe, and so it was he who first saw the straggling line of refugees approaching on the river road.
    They came at a pitifully slow pace, leaning on one another, emerging painfully from the shelter of the trees into the light of the rising sun. Even at a distance it was obvious that few among them were uninjured.
    Brother Columb stared slack-jawed. Then his heart leaped with pity and he grabbed Gael by the arm.
    “Look, oh look, Gael!” he cried, beginning to run over the grassy earth as as his legs would carry him, puffing prodigiously. After one quick glance Brother Gael set off behind him, passed his comrade within a stride, and flew on, murmuring incoherent sounds of distress.
    The refugees from Boruma did not seem to notice the two brownclad figures hurrying toward them. They walked in a daze in the general direction of Killaloe, oblivious of everything around them, locked alone in their pain.
    At the head of the pathetic column was a tall young man, stained with blood and smoke, carrying the body of an older man in his arms. Behind him two stripling boys supported a third between them, a lad whose legs still stumbled forward although his head bobbled unconscious on his breast. An oxcart, drawn by two bleeding and half-naked men, was filled with wounded.
    Behind the cart trudged two little boys, hand in hand, both stained and sooted but seemingly