What?
The shepherds say that Loegaire died. Padraig and his bunch have already dealt with Loegaire, down in Leinster. He is dead and his warriors are scattered.
Ceretic looks at Dubhghall, an angry glance, then back to the scout.
Does Padraig know where we are?
They didn’t seem to know, but I can’t imagine that he doesn’t if he is in the area. People talk, and we’ve been here long enough for everyone to know.
Do they know where Padraig is camped?
They have an idea, from what the foragers had said. They should be able to point us in the right direction, but I wanted to come speak with you and deliver the news.
This could go better for us than we thought, Ceretic says. There’s little sense in fighting old women when we can cut off the head and do what we want with the rest of the land.
What of the siege? Dubhghall asks. The defenders aren’t worthy, it is true, but it would be unfair to the dead to abandon this place with our next assault so soon.
Ceretic considers this.
You were in the fighting at the gate, were you not?
I was.
They have buried the door, outside of where they had the fire ready?
They have.
Then it won’t make any difference. If Padraig is only a ways from here, we will be able to deal with him and return back before they can dig themselves out. And even if they do dig themselves out, how does that concern us? We will know of it and they will starve all over again. We shouldn’t insist on being surprised here in battle so we can take an easy prize.
As you say, Dubhghall says.
Tell the men to break camp. We must march as soon as possible.
The shepherds’ information leads Ceretic’s raiders to a long, winding defile in the hills. The entrance, which faces them, towers over the assembled force. Sixty feet tall, craggy and almost vertical, one look tells them they cannot move an army across the top. Maybe a man or two of them could even hope to reach the top, with enough time. Not all. The cliffs extend on in both directions. Leaving the defile. They stand on the slope leading into the defile, searching for any signs of a trap.
They are on the other side? Dubhghall asks.
According to the scouts, Ceretic says.
And how long is it?
Two miles, maybe.
Two miles.
They’re camped along a ridge on the other side. They’ll try to use this to bypass our scouts.
It doesn’t seem right.
What doesn’t seem right about it? Ceretic asks. They’re not even an hour from us. We could form up on the other side before they even know we are here.
We just happen to come across shepherds. The shepherds just happen to tell us how to find our enemy’s position. And then they escape before we can talk to them more.
You worry too much. What will they do? Even if they are waiting for us on the other side, we are stronger than them. They would never face us in open battle. But if they think funneling us will work, it won’t. They will have to get close to attack us. The closer they are the less either of our numbers matter. Then it will just come down to skill and strength. Who do you think will win that battle?
Dubhghall spits.
I still don’t like it.
You don’t have to. Tell them to march.
They walk through the defile, but their mirth on the way to the place evaporates. On the way, they are eager for fresh killing, glad to be done with the siege, the uneventfulness of the thing defeating them more surely than any foe. But the eeriness of the empty defile, the stone walls pressed so close they can only walk four abreast, robs them of their bloodlust.
The sun is in the sky, but the walls around them are so high that they march in the shade, the long shadows and the wind whipping through the narrow channel of rock doing nothing to lessen their tension. Ceretic takes a place in the middle of his men, close enough to see the front. Dubhghall is silent during the walk. The men, together, are slower than a man would be on his own, and over the rocky, untamed floor of the defile they bang their shins and bruise their feet. It takes longer than an hour to walk the length of it.
When they do reach the end, the front rows suddenly stop moving, the first few of the rows behind them bumping into them after being lulled into the monotony of the march. Ceretic looks ahead and shouts at the men in front of him to make way.
Before them is a wall of stacked stone. It is well-constructed, fifteen feet tall, the stones smooth and stacked vertically across the breadth of the defile. There is no space between it and the natural walls.
What do you think now? Dubhghall asks.
Ceretic stares at the walls, manufactured and natural, looks at his feet, and walks back into the ranks. Dubhghall isn’t able to utter a sound of surprise before Ceretic twists his head, his neck snapping and his body dropping with the same look of half-understanding on his face as when he died.
We have been fooled, Ceretic says to his men. I have little doubt by now they have managed to take up positions around their beloved walls, or even inside, the cowards. Fresh food. Water. It makes no difference. We will return, and if they are bold enough to die like men outside of the walls we will oblige them. If they are more like their women, we will starve them, we will take them like their women, and we will burn them all. We will tear down the walls and let all know the folly of standing against us. Now walk back.
It takes even longer for them to reach the entrance to the defile. Ceretic marches at the front, the whole time muttering to himself. His men on either side put as much space as they dare between him and them.
At the entrance of the defile stands a crowd. They wait there in their cloaks and their tunics. They stand in their wool and silk and linen, caps and hoods and helmets upon their heads. They stand with spears, tipped with metal shaped like leaves and like needles, with short swords in the Roman style or large knives masquerading as swords in their own style. Scattered throughout are axes, adzes, pitchforks, broken shafts hacked into points, and knotted cudgels of blackthorn or oak.
Padraig and Dichu stand at the front of the crowd, Dichu with a sword and Padraig with only his hands folded before him.
So you do mean to fight us? Ceretic asks. You’ve done nothing but waste our time. We will push out of here and the next wall will be built with your bodies.
Will it? Dichu asks.
His eyes meet Ceretic’s and hold his gaze for a moment before he motions with them toward the top of the defile. Suddenly, another group of men appear at the top of the rocks. They toss a stone or two down into the midst of the raiders.
So you see, Dichu says. There is no leaving here. You can try to push out, but those of you who survive the rocks will be dealt with here and now. Husbands, fathers, sons of this land stand before you, and they are eager for you to try to fight your way through us.
I see no other choice, Ceretic says.
I’ll give you another choice, Padraig says. You and your men lay down your weapons, here and now, and leave this place. Never return. You must swear it, according to your way, and we will let all know that you have so sworn. Then it will be taboo for you to return here, as it was taboo for Loegaire to break his word in re-entering Leinster. Do you know his fate?
I do.
Then you must swear, or you will be destroyed. You will take no more slaves from this land. You will burn no more, kill no more. Your men will forget the sea and will stay in your own land.
Ceretic swears and is the first among his men to lay down his weapon there at the entrance to the defile. They follow suit and the whole group of them file through Padraig’s men, who restrain themselves. By the time the last of them has left, a long, tired, winding serpent of defeated men crawls its way toward the sea to the angry cheers of the free men.
Dairine tries to lift the stone, but her arm
s fail her again. It moves an inch or two before she is forced to drop it and sucks at her bruised fingers. She looks to the granaries, full of their spoiled food, and grabs her stomach. The blackened rocks sit where they have sat since they were placed. At the first sign of the invaders leaving, Dairine and the others scrambled to the entrance to free themselves of the siege, but they are too weak to move the stones, and too many of them are dead.
It is there, slumped against the wall, that she hears the call of one of the women left on the wall when the others became too weak to climb up or down. It is there that she hears the name she has longed to here. It is there that she knows Padraig has returned.
Twenty-One
Padraig wakes. The sun is only hinted at in the sky. He rubs his legs and his hands. He prays. He rubs his legs again, the stiffness being more stubborn than usual. The sun finally rises through the paleness of the dawn sky. He walks outside and enjoys the light on his face, wet eyes taking in the sunrise. He hears voices and Oisin steps out of his own home.
God be with you, father, Oisin says.
And with you.
Will you be joining us to eat today? Oisin asks, stretching and scratching his beard.
I haven’t decided yet.
Going to visit the abbey?
I might.
Padraig looks at the old church, nothing barnlike about it after years of worship.
I must say the liturgy before I go anywhere.
Of course.
But I might do that during any stay here. It looks to be a nice day. And my legs, he says, gesturing.
I understand. Let me know after liturgy if you can, we want to have enough food if you’ll be joining us.
I will.
Oisin nods and exhales heavily. He looks around the grass at the front of his door and finds the axe laying there. He wipes the dew from the shaft and swings it over his shoulder, waving to Padraig as he goes.
Sometime later Eabha and Naomh come running out of the door, their mother’s voice chasing them outside.
Good morning father, they say in unison.
What are you girls doing? Padraig says, smiling.
Nothing, Eabha says.
Their mother appears in the doorway.
What have these two done, Sile? Padraig asks.
Everything they can to drive me crazy, she says.
The girls do their best to look innocent. Eabha pretends to be fascinated by something in the grass while Naomh looks back and forth between Sile and Padraig.
I have an idea, Padraig says, winking at Sile.
What is it? the girls ask.
Maybe we should go to the shore for a while and enjoy the morning.
Can we mother? Eabha asks.
Please, Naomh says.
Well, she says, making a show of deliberating, only if you’ll help with the chores when you get back. And do as father says, I don’t want to hear about you two misbehaving.
We won’t be bad, they say.
He goes back into his small home, knowing he will be out among the people, and grabs his simple crozier before rejoining the children. Padraig leads them down the new road, only a few years old now, which takes them to the coast. People at work wave to the three of them as they walk, the girls pulling slightly ahead, unable to match Padraig’s slow pace for long.
They pass the cemetery. Stone crosses rise out of the grass and surround the small chapel. In their midst is a larger stone, a monument to Dichu built by his sons. Padraig slows as they walk past the graves but the girls come back and pull at his hands and he obliges them.
Where once there had been nothing but open land, homes and farms lay all around the road to the sea, the community having formed around the church where Padraig spends the majority of his time, travel being difficult.
They reach the sea, and he picks a grassy hill just a ways off from the nearest homes and where he can watch the surf. The girls no longer need him to hurry and set about amusing themselves, first the one chasing the other then the reverse, their laughter carrying out to the water.
There is a large stone on the hill, one side beginning to show signs of wear from his use and perhaps the use of others. He sits and watches the birds and the seafoam breaking over the sand. Tufts of scrawny grass shake in the breeze along the waterfront.
The waves beat against the shore. He looks across the ocean, to the east, toward his home. Padraig hasn’t seen it since his father died two decades ago. The sun warms his back and he hears Oisin’s children playing behind him. He smiles. The day is warm and he thinks he will nap, wants to nap but is enjoying the waves and the glittering water and he forces his eyelids open, fighting through the drowsiness. The rock is comfortable and its support alleviates the aches he has every morning.
He focuses on the splash of a fish beyond the shore, then his gaze grows wide and takes in the horizon. As the light leaves his eyes, the crozier falls unneeded from his hand into the grass. Two swans fly ever higher in the distance.
The Fire in the Oaks: A Novel of St Patrick's Confession Page 23
