Glendalough.
Chapter Twelve
In this year, moreover, Norwegian forces came from the
port of Corcach to plunder…but God did not allow them to do that.
Annals of Ulster
The world was new-born, like the final day of creation, or so it felt to Louis de Roumois. The sun – the sun! – had come blazing over the hills to the east, spreading deep shadows where it could not reach, and where it could it brought colors that seemed extraordinary to eyes that had for so long seen nothing but gray and brown and dull green.
He woke that morning, even before the sun was up, with a dull sense of anticipation. It took him some moments to recall why he now felt so optimistic, why he enjoyed this sense of renewal in his life. And then he remembered. Father Finnian had requested he take up arms against the invading heathen. Louis felt the joy spread in his gut like he had taken a deep draught of warm cider. He was smiling as he stepped from his cell and fell in line with his fellow brethren, marching off to the dawn prayer of invitiatory with more enthusiasm than he had displayed in a year of monastic life.
The sun was up by the time those prayers were done and Louis felt joy building on joy. Finnian drew him aside before he could be whisked off to do kitchen work or work in the fields or the brewery or whatever mundane task would have been set for him that day. Instead they returned to the abbot’s house, though this time with the abbot present, and Finnian explained to the old cleric how Louis’ former skills would be needed for the immediate future.
The abbot listened with less interest than Louis would have thought a man might have shown with his monastery under threat of rape and pillage. He was also less free with his wine than Finnian had been. In fact, he made no offer of refreshment whatsoever. The whole discussion had the feel of a formality that Finnian was obliged to observe, but it was over soon and Louis and Finnian were on their way.
The bulk of the day was taken up with discussions of logistics; how many men Louis would have at his disposal, where they would encamp, how they would be fed, how much training they might receive before they were made to go blade for blade with the heathens. Louis relished every moment of it. He was desperately eager to shed his monk’s robe and don a tunic and mail and feel the weight of a sword on his hip. But he kept that to himself. There would be a time for that, and it would be soon.
One subject that was not raised was Colman mac Breandan and the role he would play in all this, though Louis felt certain it would be, and should. He waited for it, even practiced in his mind what he would say, but Finnian never mentioned the man. And that in turn made Louis suspicious.
How much does he know? Louis wondered. Quite a bit, he guessed. Father Finnian always seemed to have an almost preternatural understanding of circumstances.
Louis de Roumois returned to his cell at an early hour, just as he had every night since arriving at the monastery at Glendalough, but this time with a sense of purpose that he had not felt since the death of his father. He had no reason to think that this represented some permanent change. Once he had routed the heathens, things would most likely return to their same dreary routine. But perhaps not. Perhaps this would be the first step in a journey back to his former life, and that chance was enough to keep the ember of hope glowing.
He fell asleep quickly and slept deep, as he usually did. It was some time later, in the darkest hours of night, that he half-woke to hear what he believed was Failend’s voice calling to him as the door of his cell creaked open.
“Brother Louis? Brother Louis?” He thought that was odd because she never addressed him as “Brother,” except when she did it in that playful, ironic tone that he found so alluring. But there was nothing ironic in this, just his name, repeated twice, and the sharp sound of
Chapter Twelve
In this year, moreover, Norwegian forces came from the
port of Corcach to plunder…but God did not allow them to do that.
Annals of Ulster
The world was new-born, like the final day of creation, or so it felt to Louis de Roumois. The sun – the sun! – had come blazing over the hills to the east, spreading deep shadows where it could not reach, and where it could it brought colors that seemed extraordinary to eyes that had for so long seen nothing but gray and brown and dull green.
He woke that morning, even before the sun was up, with a dull sense of anticipation. It took him some moments to recall why he now felt so optimistic, why he enjoyed this sense of renewal in his life. And then he remembered. Father Finnian had requested he take up arms against the invading heathen. Louis felt the joy spread in his gut like he had taken a deep draught of warm cider. He was smiling as he stepped from his cell and fell in line with his fellow brethren, marching off to the dawn prayer of invitiatory with more enthusiasm than he had displayed in a year of monastic life.
The sun was up by the time those prayers were done and Louis felt joy building on joy. Finnian drew him aside before he could be whisked off to do kitchen work or work in the fields or the brewery or whatever mundane task would have been set for him that day. Instead they returned to the abbot’s house, though this time with the abbot present, and Finnian explained to the old cleric how Louis’ former skills would be needed for the immediate future.
The abbot listened with less interest than Louis would have thought a man might have shown with his monastery under threat of rape and pillage. He was also less free with his wine than Finnian had been. In fact, he made no offer of refreshment whatsoever. The whole discussion had the feel of a formality that Finnian was obliged to observe, but it was over soon and Louis and Finnian were on their way.
The bulk of the day was taken up with discussions of logistics; how many men Louis would have at his disposal, where they would encamp, how they would be fed, how much training they might receive before they were made to go blade for blade with the heathens. Louis relished every moment of it. He was desperately eager to shed his monk’s robe and don a tunic and mail and feel the weight of a sword on his hip. But he kept that to himself. There would be a time for that, and it would be soon.
One subject that was not raised was Colman mac Breandan and the role he would play in all this, though Louis felt certain it would be, and should. He waited for it, even practiced in his mind what he would say, but Finnian never mentioned the man. And that in turn made Louis suspicious.
How much does he know? Louis wondered. Quite a bit, he guessed. Father Finnian always seemed to have an almost preternatural understanding of circumstances.
Louis de Roumois returned to his cell at an early hour, just as he had every night since arriving at the monastery at Glendalough, but this time with a sense of purpose that he had not felt since the death of his father. He had no reason to think that this represented some permanent change. Once he had routed the heathens, things would most likely return to their same dreary routine. But perhaps not. Perhaps this would be the first step in a journey back to his former life, and that chance was enough to keep the ember of hope glowing.
He fell asleep quickly and slept deep, as he usually did. It was some time later, in the darkest hours of night, that he half-woke to hear what he believed was Failend’s voice calling to him as the door of his cell creaked open.
“Brother Louis? Brother Louis?” He thought that was odd because she never addressed him as “Brother,” except when she did it in that playful, ironic tone that he found so alluring. But there was nothing ironic in this, just his name, repeated twice, and the sharp sound of
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