I Am of Irelaunde A Novel of Patrick and Osian

Chapter 1 What do you know of my father, Padraig? What do you know of Fionn Mac Cumhail? "He was the leader of the Fenian warriors of ancient Eire. And he could not have been your father. Use your reason old man! Fionn Mac Cumhail has been dead for two hundred years." "He was the leader of the Fianna, yes, but not at the start.His beginnings were none so glorious. He was born in the dead of winter, Padraig, born in the snow, with his mother hard on the run from the clans of Goll Mac Morna. Shall I tell you the tale?" I closed my eyes, pressed my fingertips against the closed lids. Red and purple lights exploded behind the lids. I felt a huge sigh well up from me. Osian laughed. "You sigh like a Fenian, Padraig." "May that be the only thing I do like a Fenian. Tell your tale. It seems I am compelled to listen. But do not make it overlong." "Over long." Osian paused and looked again in wonder at his gnarled, ancient hands. He smiled crookedly and I felt my heart wrench in pity. I shook my head to chase such weakness away. One should never pity these barbarians; they take advantage of such weakness. Osian began. "My grandmother's name was Muirne, Padraig. She was young and beautiful with hair like the copper leaves of autumn. She was the daughter of a druidess, the wife of the great chief Cumhail Mac Trenmor. But none of that helped her in the winter of the clan wars.... * * * From her place on the pine boughs Muirne watched silently as the last stragglers of her people made their way into the forests. They moved in all directions, even hack toward the oncoming army, creating many trails to confuse the warriors of Mac Morna, to lead them away from the boy child she had just birthed. Against her breasts, deep beneath the warm folds of her cloak the boy child was suckling. The woman lifted the folds and peered down at him, at the tiny hand curled leaflike against her breast and at the sweet puckered lips. Around her the snow was still scattered with blood. So much blood. Muirne opened her palms to see if any flakes were filtering between the dense boughs, if the birthsigns would be covered by the time the armies of Goll Mac Morna arrived. The captain of her husband's guard saw the gesture. He came with pine boughs, began to sweep over the blood to cover the traces. She gestured to him to stop. He knelt beside her, took her hand gently in his. His face mirrored the sorrow on her own. "Let me stay," he whispered urgently. "It is what Cumhail would have wished. Or permit me to carry you." "Nay," she hissed at him, her eyes still fixed on the suckling babe. "Cumhail would wish for his son to live, for his brother to live. You forget, Crimnall Mac Trenmor, that they will look for you as well" She patted his hand absently. "My husband would wish for clan na Bascna to rise again." "Mac Morna will kill you, Muirne!" "As long as Mac Morna wonders if my child lives, as long as he thinks that someone will come to me with news of my child, he will not harm me. He will let me go free, in the hope that I will lead him to the child. Now tell me of my other son, of Tulcha. Has he escaped to Alba?" "He has, Muirne." The woman nodded, rested her head wearily back against the trunk of the tree. "Ask Bodhmall to come to me." The old druidess came across the snow unbidden. Her gray hair twisted and lifted in the wind. She knelt beside Muirne, fixed her with her water-green stare. "Give him to me now, lady. Goll Mac Morna comes." She held out her armsOsborne-McKnight, Juilene is the author of 'I Am of Irelaunde A Novel of Patrick and Osian' with ISBN 9780312875671 and ISBN 0312875673.