Free Lion of Ireland by Morgan Llywelyn

gate of the monastery to watch them go. He himself had polished Mahon’s sword, running his fingers reverently over the sharpened edge of the blade. “Will you kill the man who killed Mother?” he asked.
    Mahon smiled down at him. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to find him, little brother.”
    “You will!” Brian said confidently. “If I was going with you, I could find him!”
    “You go to school and learn Latin and Greek; that will give you enough to do for a time,” Mahon said.
    “But you’ll send for me soon, won’t you? When I’m just a little bigger .. . and know Latin and Greek?”
    He tugged at Mahon’s tunic sleeve. “Please promise me you won’t forget!”
    Mahon ruffled the little boy’s hair with a fond hand, but his eyes were already straying to the road, and to the band of men assembled there, waiting for him. “I won’t forget,” he said.
    Brian stood in the bright summer sunlight and watched them go, tormented by envy. He had seen death in all its ugliness, but he was still too young to believe himself mortal. Personal danger was nothing compared to the pain of being left behind when Mahon went off, like Nuada the Perfect, to fight glorious wars.
    He watched them march across a rolling grassland between lifting hills, following the road that ran down to the river. As they reached the last curve that would take them out of sight, Brian stood on tiptoe and waved both arms frantically. “Father!” he cried. “Mahon!”
    But Mahon’s mind had already leaped to the campaign ahead. He could not afford the luxury of looking back at the peace and sanctuary of Killaloe, and so he did not see the small figure reaching out to him in desperate pleading and farewell.
    Brian waved until his arms were tired, but no one waved back.

chapter 5
    On a wooden bench in a grassy courtyard sat a boy who was no longer a child. His growing bones thrust outward against his skin as they lengthened into manhood. To himself, he seemed to be all hands and feet, knees and elbows; an angular and knobby creature totally lacking in grace.
    But there were brief, dazzling moments when a consciousness came to him, as awareness of the sun comes to a trout lying at the bottom of a dark pool. In tiny flashes he glimpsed the future waiting for him, just beyond his reach. Every added bulge of muscle was a promise that made him impatient with the confining walls of Clonmacnoise and the measured pace of his life.
    Brian’s gaze was drawn from the writing tablet in his lap to a little bush where a fly struggled in the web of its archenemy, the spider. It was a foredoomed action, but at least it was action.
    “Prince Brian, if you please!” An annoyed voice broke through his own mental cobwebs. “I ask you again, what is the noblest passion of Christendom?”
    Brian was aware of the others sitting on their benches, waiting with ill-concealed glee for him to fail.
    Fortunately, it was a question he knew by heart, having had it drummed into him by Marcan at every opportunity.
    “To spread the faith among heathen and bring the light of God’s Word to all mankind,” he recited dutifully. Around him, anticipation subsided.
    “That is correct.” Brother Lecan agreed, only slightly lifted. “Nonetheless I am disappointed in you, Brian.” From somewhere at the back of the class came a faint snicker. Bored boys shifted on their benches, hoping to be entertained.
    “You have been with us since you were a small child,” the monk continued, “and until recently your scholarship has always been outstanding. Indeed, there has been some discussion of sending you to Rome eventually to continue your studies. But lately you have begun neglecting your lessons shamefully, young man. Your work in the sciences and the Brehon law is definitely below your usual standard, and I am told that you failed an examination in astronomy yesterday.”
    Fed this choice tidbit, the class purred with satisfaction. A dozen pairs of eyes glowed with the