Free Lion of Ireland by Morgan Llywelyn Page A

gleeful malice of the nonchastised in the presence of one who is being publicly humiliated.
    Brian’s cheeks flamed beneath their golden lacework of freckles. “How can I concentrate on studying when my brothers are dying in battle, one by one, and my own father has been slain at the hands of the Owenachts?”
    Brother Lecan signed the Cross upon his chest. “Ah, yes, that was a tragic thing, a tragic thing. But we know that it was his expressed desire that you continue your education and be a credit to his name and your tribe.”
    “I would be of more use to my tribe if I were with my brother Mahon, fighting to drive the Northmen from Munster.”
    Brother Lecan’s eyes widened. “Am I hearing aright? Are you publicly expressing resistance to your king’s will?”
    “My father the king is dead, and Mahon is chief of the Dal Cais now—and he needs me. I am grown tall and strong; I should be sent to him.”
    “You are not authorized to make such a decision. You will stay at Clonmacnoise until we receive instructions to the contrary from those who are responsible for you . . .”
    “I can be responsible for myself!” Brian interrupted hotly.
    Brother Lecan flushed a dull red. “You are arrogant and impertinent! I fear you are falling under the devil’s influence, Brian mac Cennedi. Go at once to Saint Kieran’s Chapel and pray for strength to cast these sins from your immortal soul.”
    *
    But another year would pass before the summons finally came. Green summer turned to misty autumn, and then to a winter that was too long and too gray, shriveling the spirit. Snow lay in folds across the hills; ice shimmered at the edges of the river.
    When the messenger came soon after Easter to call Brian and Marcan to their brother Mahon’s service, it hardly seemed real. Only the two horses Mahon had sent for them offered tangible proof that the waiting was over at last.
    They were wonders, those horses. One was a slender black mare with the thin legs and deep chest of a blood horse, and an elaborately gilded bridle suitable for the mount of a prince. She was intended, of course, for the elder brother—Marcan.
    For Brian, whom Mahon obviously thought of as still as child, there was a pony of suitable size and sturdiness. Its bridle was as gilded, its coat as glossy, but if Brian were seated on its back his feet would touch the ground.
    The moment he saw those two horses Brian felt a burning determination that Marcan should have his dearest wish and join the religious life permanently.
    “Of course, it’s what I want most to do,” Marcan agreed. “But Mahon wouldn’t have sent for us unless he really needs us, and he is the chief Dal Cais now; we must obey him.”
    “It would be a waste!” Brian argued. “You know that you have a strong calling to God; it would be sacrilegious to turn your back on it. God’s will must take precedence, even over a king’s. You stay here and prepare yourself to take your vows, and I will explain to Mahon; he will understand and be proud of you.”
    Marcan spent all day in the chapel on his knees, then returned to tell Brian that he felt sure it was God’s will that he stay. For once, Brian thought, God had answered his prayer, would serve as a pack horse.
    In addition to the horses, Mahon had sent a map, giving directions to his current encampment at Kilmallock. From
    this base, at the southern point of a rough triangle that included Limerick and Cashel, he was simultaneously waging war against the Norsemen and trying to build up Dal Cais strength in the south country.
    There were preparations to be made and studies to be concluded, so that it would be early summer before Brian could actually be on his way. He was glad of the extra time thus afforded him to acquaint himself with his new horse and the art of riding—a subject not included among the formal courses of study at Clonmacnoise.
    Each afternoon, Brian took bread dipped in salt to the stables as a treat for the mare. He