It is not that, my king. He has burned a fire to his god on the day of fires, when you had expressly ordered him not to do so, the fire of that day being reserved for your own worship of the true spirits.
He has done this thing?
He has.
Leave me, Loegaire says to the servant and the woman, both of them scurrying away. This is a serious thing that has been brought to you if it is true, Coirpre.
It’s true, my king. There have been several witnesses who have informed me, men whom I trust and who honor our ways. And there is more.
More? What more could there be?
More from the same incident. He has destroyed another sacred site, desecrated it with worship of his false god.
Where?
Where the One of the Tumulus stands, or rather, stood. At the Plains of Prostration. He has destroyed it on the same night as the fire, destroyed it in front of witnesses and challenged all who would oppose him. He is becoming too dangerous, O greatest of chieftains. I had warned against your leniency toward his blasphemies.
Watch your tongue, Coirpre.
Loegaire rises from his throne and paces the room. Coirpre takes a step in the direction of the wall.
I have misjudged the man, Loegaire says. I thought he would be able to keep the peace.
You can’t blame yourself, my king.
He will have to be dealt with, that much is clear. We will have to bring him to me to answer for what he has done.
As you say, sire, Coirpre says, smiling. Of course, there is the matter of the people.
What about the people?
The people are impressed by the man’s subterfuge. My people tell me that those in the countryside are flocking to him more than ever before. You could cause them considerable concern if you were to seize the man.
What would they do? I am their king.
There are those who still resist your rule.
They will find out soon enough who their true king is.
And if his arrest causes a riot? Or an uprising?
It won’t. They wouldn’t dare. We could handle any sort of insurrection.
As you say. You are more regal than I, my lord, to have such faith in your subjects.
And what would you have me do? Loegaire asks.
There is another way, I think.
Which is?
What if Padraig were dealt with for his insolence, but at the same time none of the blame for his punishment would fall on you?
What good is punishing him for his infractions if no one knows I have punished him? Others will just fall into place behind him and continue to defy me in his name.
They may. I think perhaps you overestimate this man’s influence on the people, though.
You’re the one cautioning me against moving against him because the people are so enamored with him.
My mistake, my king. What I mean is that he has the people’s attention. He will continue to solidify his position against you and our ways. If you directly confront him a great many of his people will oppose you. Of course you will naturally prevail against the sort who flock to such a man, no matter how numerous, but every one of them that’s slain is a subject you no longer have to be counted among your kingdom. However, though they may fight for him if you confront him, perhaps they are more loyal to the man at this point than to what he spreads among them. If you were able to take out the man before they become followers not of him but of his philosophy, you will not have to worry about any taking his place. At least not with any great success.
How would you suggest doing this?
We would need to find someone not associated with you at all.
I don’t like it. It has the stink of cowardice on it. I have never dealt with an enemy any way other than in combat, and criminals I do not need to deal with through trickery, sneaking in the shadows like a thief.
You have also not had an enemy so bent on destroying your way of life. This is not some rival warlord claiming to be a king like you, this man threatens our culture. Every day he tells more people his vile lies and destroys more sacred sites. He must be dealt with.
What is it? Don’t make that face and then remain silent.
There’s something else.
Something else?
There is, my lord.
You will drown me in bad news today, Coirpre.
It has been said that this upstart Padraig prophesied against you.
What? What prophesy?
It has reached my ears that he has predicted your death.
My death? That man, predict my death?
It is said, King Loegaire. As I have said this man is dangerous. He won’t stop until our ways are dead, and it seems he sets his blasphemies even against your royal person.
What exactly was said?
It is said he has foretold you will meet your death between Eriu and Alba, the two islands of our people.
The fool may make any prediction he likes, then. I will not be king over the sea. He will never catch me upon the water to meet my end in such a way. So much for his prophesy.
As you say.
Don’t look so disappointed that your king will not meet his end.
That isn’t the source of my displeasure.
I know it isn’t, Coirpre. All of this news is troubling. I will have to deal with Padraig, as you say. I thought that I could ignore him and his lunacy, or turn it to my advantage, but it appears that the man has become too dangerous for me to let him revel in his madness. Too many of our people are willing to answer his call for whatever reason.
I agree.
I’m glad you agree, the king snaps. You have thought of a way to deal with him without us becoming involved?
I have, sire. Which is beneficial given your campaigning. We can take care of the usurper Padraig while at the same time depriving you of none of your resources so you may continue with your conquests against Leinster.
What is it?
Coirpre kneels in front of the king and draws a crude map in the dirt of the floor, marking the coast and the position of Loegaire’s army.
Here, sire, he says, pointing. I have contacted a kindred spirit, one who feels as disdainfully toward Padraig as you do. He will harry the Christians where they are strongest, along the eastern coast. This will interfere with their ability to organize, as well as create for them problems with supply and refugees. While they deal with that, we will bring our own forces across to deal with both Leinster and Padraig’s people in the same campaign. While we’re certain he would not be able to handle either invasion individually, he will be completely unable to turn back two simultaneous invasions.
Loegaire studies the lines in the dirt and smiles.
It could work, he says.
As you say, my king.
Have you mustered the men?
Why would I have done so?
Coirpre, you have contacted this other party without my permission and devised a plan for the conquest of the rest of my realm without consulting me. Is it so much to think that you would have gone through the trouble of carrying out the other necessary preparations?
Your men should be able to move within the week, Coirpre says.
How long do you estimate?
Three, maybe four days.
Four days, Loegaire says. With four days to spare, we should return to the festivities.
Coirpre nods and leaves the room of his king. Loegaire takes a moment and looks at the map on the ground; with one broad foot he brushes out all of Padraig’s territory, and also leaves the room, grinning.
The wind whips through the coast unimpeded by trees. It is the herald of the weather coming from the east. It is salty and cold and as unforgiving as what it brings. In truth the breeze would be welcome in the midst of summer but in the service of the changing seasons it
is an unwelcome friend returned to overstay.
Dots, dozens of them, appear on the horizon. The villagers toiling despite the weather look out at the curious shapes from the higher ground away from the beach after the first of their number spots the things. They move fast, the shapes, with their own motion and with the wind pushing them toward shore. The dots become wedges as they push through the waves ever arriving closer. Masts rise up from them and from the masts hang great pieces of canvas upon which is an antlered man.
The ships hit the beach with a shudder and unload their men under the lowhanging clouds. Grey water slaps against their wrapped feet as they leave their marks on the beach, a tide of furs and metal and salty smell.
Villagers at their day’s work watch from their vantage point as curiosity turns to panic and they try to flee in all directions, but there is nowhere to flee in the flatness of that place, in the plain of water and earth.
Watching their women and their children run, first to one side then to another, then openly from the water like animals driven out of their hiding places, forces the men to take up their tools--the hammer, the rake, the axe, the adze, the pole. Standing thus assembled against the shambling beasts pouring from the longboats they prepare to die.
They fight bravely, with a ferocity even their foes admit with surprise. They manage to wound one of the warriors, a farming implement biting through his furs and leathers into his skin so that he sends an unexpected roar through the midst of them, a roar of pain and rage that echoes against the water as he splits the head of the man bold enough to injure him. The others fare less well and before it is all over-- and it is over before the children and the women are anywhere resembling safety--half their number are dead with pools collecting underneath their many wounds. The others are no better except that they will live despite their many injuries. When only a few challengers remain, the invaders no longer even try to fight but simply use their numbers and their skill to club down those who remain defiant.
The women and the children soon realize there is nowhere for them to go and they may perish on the beach or in the wilderness, and they turn back to the village. The women are treated as they expected in front of the remaining men and children, and when the warriors are finished they set fire to the homes so the whole place flies to the clouds in a great pillar of rolling black.
With no ceremony, the survivors are loaded into the boats, except for one man who is battered but still capable of walking. A great mound of muscle wrapped still in his sea clothes with a sword across his back and unkempt hair tangling past his shoulders lifts the man, the survivor, to his face and through stinking black teeth speaks.
Do you know me? the warrior asks.
I don’t, the peasant says, his feet kicking at the air beneath him.
You will from this day. I am Ceretic, king of Alt Clut, Ceretic called Apostate by the weak who have forgotten the old ways. You will travel to where he is, where Padraig is, and tell him that I have called him by name. Tell him that his land and his people will burn.
Padraig embraces Dichu in the midst of the latter’s followers.
It’s been too long, Padraig says.
It has, Dichu says. Have you been well?
I have, Padraig says. There have been so many communities turned to the faith during my travels and it seems the word continues to spread throughout the land. And yourself?
Padraig gestures for his friend to follow him away from the others, and the two walk toward the hill where Padraig has positioned his tent.
Where do I start? Dichu says. It’s been close to two years since I saw you last, I think. Like you, we’ve spread the faith throughout the land. Unlike you we’ve had our share of fights for it, but as you see still we stand.
Has your road been that hard?
There has been trouble, but it is not as bad as it seems. By and large when we encounter those still pagan it takes little for them to convert. As you yourself know we offer the peace of eternal life where before they have had only hardship. This life is hard enough without the next being the same. There have really only been pockets of resistance. I’m still troubled, though.
What troubles you?
I have received word that Loegaire, who calls himself king of all, has crossed into the lands near here. If there is war, I don’t know if we will win.
The faith is secure. When he and I spoke, though it was the once, he said he wouldn’t interfere with our efforts. Though he may not appreciate the army you have assembled. It may be difficult to convince him that you have this many men but no aspirations for his supposed kingdom.
He said this to you, that he would not interfere?
He did.
Was this before or after you destroyed the crooked one on his own plain in the sight of who knows how many witnesses?
Before.
This isn’t something to take lightly, Padraig. He may have granted you the freedom to spread the word of God through our land but I doubt he will condone the destruction of the idols.
And what have you been doing with all those armed men?
The same as you, but I have no delusions about the repercussions. We will not be left alone, I tell you now.
This is the first news I have heard of Loegaire, Padraig says, shaking his head. He has done nothing about the destruction of idols to this point, and I had half-expected him to continue to do nothing.
Everyone has a limit, Padraig, Dichu says.
What would you do?
Dichu pauses in thought and looks down the hill toward his followers, who have already set themselves to making camp and fill the space with fires and tents and cooking food.
Those who would not see Loegaire as king for purely political reasons will slow his advance, Dichu says. Some will join his army in exchange for favors, but many will stand against him, even without chance of victory, if for no other reason than out of pride. A man who calls himself king will not soon let another man take his place, regardless of whether he can do anything to stop him.
We have time, then, Padraig says.
I wouldn’t say so, Dichu says. They will buy time enough for us to gather what forces we have if we are to defend ourselves, but we will ultimately have to meet him in battle, I fear.
Padraig sits on the ground on the incline of the hill, looking down at the people assembled there.
If we fight him, what hope do we have of winning?
He may be weakened by the others he fights on his way to us, as I said, but even then his men are more experienced and more numerous.
Perhaps the Lord would have us not claim the victory as our own, lest we think victory is in our reach without his help.
Perhaps, Dichu says.
Padraig is about to reply when one of Dichu’s warriors runs up the hill. At the top he stops to catch his breath and nods to both Dichu and Padraig.
What is it? Dichu asks.
News from the coast, the soldier says.
And?
Several of our villages have been destroyed.
As the warrior speaks, Padraig stands and moves next to Dichu, his face suddenly panicked.
Destroyed?
Razed to the ground, he says. We have reports from our scouts coming in from the countryside. They’ve encountered people, mostly women and children. A half-dozen places have been raided.
Raided? This isn’t just the work of bandits?
From what we hear, it isn’t.
Who is doing this? Padraig asks.
One name we keep hearing is Ceretic.
Ceretic, Padraig repeats. Of Alt Clut?
That Ceretic, the man says, nodding.
I don’t understand, Dichu says, dismissing the man with a wave. I thought Ceretic was from one of the converted clans. He’s not even from this island- he should be Germanus’ to control.
I had thought
so, too, Padraig says. We’ve enough trouble with those who cling to their ways without having some of our own turn apostate.
What will we do?
We can’t ignore the people heading this way. We will have to take them in and care for them as well as we can.
Feeding dozens- maybe hundreds- of refugees won’t help us, Dichu says. You heard what he said. Most of these people are women and children. You’ll slow our forces and add that much more strain on our resources.
Regardless, we can’t leave them, Padraig says, hardening his voice. We’ll have to turn and face these invaders. We must drive them back before they undo everything we have done here. If they destroy the communities we’ve built, the people will forget. They are too newly converted to be trusted.
We can’t fight Ceretic. We don’t know where he is, or where he will strike next.
We must find out. We must defend our people.
And if we did find out, then what? If he is raiding he will have more experienced men, just as Loegaire does. We haven’t heard what his numbers are. If we knew where he was, we could rush to fight him, but then we would be fighting against an enemy with a host of an undetermined size after a march that will leave our people tired and trying to support what sounds like entire towns of people along the way.
Which may still work.
Assume you are right, Padraig. Assume that we find where he is and our people aren’t too exhausted to fight him. Assume we have food to eat and he doesn’t outnumber us and we are able to win. We will take casualties. You know that we will. Even if our casualties are modest, and we have no reason to assume that they will be, but even if they are then we will be that much less able to drive out Loegaire once he arrives.
Padraig turns away from Dichu.
What would you have me do? he asks.
There is only one thing to do, Dichu says. We must meet Loegaire. He will be at the weakest we will ever see him, and he is more of a threat than this Ceretic. He could undo everything you, everything we, have worked for, you are right. But Loegaire will undo everything we have done here, if he is not stopped.
More will die while we ignore the raiders.
The Fire in the Oaks: A Novel of St Patrick's Confession Page 19
