The horse was fit and strong and Beibhinn drove him on mercilessly, galloping along this track and that, crossing field and rough scrubland; as the sun rose above the hills and the birds began singing in the pale gold light of morning.

They were far away by now, right at the base of a ridge of green hills, rising against the pearl sky. Far beyond field and forest, a thin column of smoke still rose from where the monastery was.

Did any still live? Beibhinn wheeled her gasping horse to look back at the twisting grey ribbon. 

Her face set hard. A beast. That was all he was. What evil drove men to persecute those who did not fight?

Ar dheis Dé go mbeidh a n-anamacha dhílis.God would receive them home. But what about - Conn?

Tears began to prick  her eyes. Leaning forwards she shoved her filthy face into the animal's mane, breathing in the sweet aroma of sweating horse.

"Fine boy you are." she said aloud, to move her thoughts, "Too good for your master, poor thing."

But Conn...am I the only...?    Stop!

"On we go." she said briskly, and kicked the horse on, trotting towards a pebbly track that climbed the hill aong the edge of forest.

Somewhere up there The O Chinneide had his fort, and surely it would not be hard to find. The horse was walking now, the way rising too steeply for him. She watched the lowlands drop away below. The bog but a stretch of black-brown beneath low wisps of morning mist.

And then she heard the horses.

Jabbing her own to a halt, she listened. In the forest a rook croaked. Her horse dropped his head to champ the grass. But in the near distance, over the brow of the hill, horses were coming, hooves ratttling on the stones.

 The wrong direction for HIS men. O a Dhia, let them be friends, even indifferent...not foes!

As the dark figures of horsemen appeared against the sky, An Beitheach's horse flung up its head with a wild, sharp whinney.

She screwed up her eyes aginst the light, trying to see every detail, as a score of riders in rough cavalcade came slithering down the hill. Sitting tense, she held her fidgiting horse together beneath her and faced them as they came.

A moment more and she was engulfed in a clattering, stamping crowd. All warriors, old and young, armed for battle. But she saw the ornaments of their armour and knew, with a great rush of relief, that they were the allies she sought. Many voices rose and jostled in the air - surprise, curiosity, mirth at seeing a ragged and filthy girl mounted on a noble horse.

Beibhinn stiffened under the eyes, but held her chin high. One of the mounted warriors seized the bridle. "Get down, horse thief." he ordered.

She looked about her sharply, then back at the man. "To whom do you refer?" she asked.

And then a fine bay horse was before her, its dark mane and legs gleaming in the sun. A grizzled man with grey eyes and hair was mounted upon him, his beard braided, his leather armour embossed with swirling patterns. For a moment he looked hard at Beibhinn and she looked back with a strength she felt none of.  Then he said, with no waste of words: "Who are you?"

"I," replied Beibhinn, "am Beibhinn Uí Bhriain. Daughter of Maolmurragh Ó' Bhriain of Cnoic Ceallaigh."

His face did not change.

"I have escaped from An Beitheach, who still holds my brother and foster brother. Last night he attacked the monastery down there in the bog, as we had taken refuge there, and, " her words came faster and faster, dragged forth by the stillness of the one who looked at her, " I know not if any save I survive."

Still the warrior did not respond, his belief, or lack thereof, of her story impossible to judge.

"In the name of God I swear that what I say is true!" she burst out suddenly. "I have come for aid from your house. Help for those who are yet living, justice for those who are not!"

"Beibihnn Uí Bhriain," said the taoiseach slowly, his eyes were bright and shrewd. "I believe you. Already we have heard rumours of that man's dealings with your clann, and it is to the monastery itself that we were riding to before ever our ways crossed." he jerked his head in a gesture of irritation and rode on down the hill. Beibhinn pushed her own mount to keep pace with his. 

"An mainistir Naomh Pádraig was founded by my father," he said as they slid down the hill in a clatter of pebbles, " If An Beitheach's men have attacked it I do not need anyone's urging to exercise vengeance upon them."

Beibhinn nodded, "My father has often spoken of the courage of the O'Chinnéídes," she said humbly, and a tad untruthfully. The O'Chinnéied resented her words. She would not displease him if it could be helped.

****

Back they rode along the ways she had taken that dawn. Safe she felt now, in the company of such a force. Safe enough to feel also the sickening anxiety which she had had no time for earlier.

He would surely have fled now. Gone back to the mountain, too far away to touch her. But it was not him that she feared now, but what sights awaited them.

Let them have survived. Let Conn be living, and the abott, and all his monks, and...on ran the prayer, around and around, and she begged it with all her heart; yet she had little hope of its full realisation.

Strange it was, to see the prints of her own feet on the path, where she had met with - 

Her skin turned cold at the thought of what could have happened.

The green of the monastery rose before them, the thatched roofs gone to blackened wrecks. The chapel but teetering stones blowing filthy smoke into the blue. Amid the ruins the carved stone cross stood still. Her heart skipped. About it stood brown robed figures. Standing. Moving. Alive!

Heart rising higher she followed The O'Chinneide across the shifting ground, the horse floundering and splashing though she sat lightly forwards off its back.

All alive! All alive! Buíochas, oh buíochas le Dia! She could have sang as they came up the green bank and dismounted on the trampled turf. The O'Chinneide handed his reins to another rider, with a sweet smile Beibhinn forced her own horse on the lad too. Then unbidden she followed The Ó'Chinnéide and two other men to speak with the monks who now steamed down to meet them.

"Good fathers," said The O'Chinnédide as he stood before them, "I fear that I have come too late."

"Your coming is welcome." said Brother MaolÍosa as he stepped forwards, his roundy face smeared in soot. "And God is good, for we see that you have taken Beibhinn into your protection."

 Brother MaolÍosa was leading? Not the abbott? Where was he?

"Thank you," Beibhinn broke in, for  what you have done for me. But where is father Abbott?"

"God alone knows," replied Brothe MaolÍosa, not quite steadily, and now he was nearer Beibhinn saw that his sooty face had streaks on it, like the path of tears. "But we pray he is now  in the arms of Our Lady."

Beibhinn gasped, though it was what she had at heart expected to hear, her hand flying to her mouth. "I am sorry!" she cried, her voice cried, somewhere in the distance, "I am sorry. I- I -" she felt her face twisting, warm tears running onto her nose.

"Neither you nor your actions caused this Beibhinn, but the evil of others,"

She nodded mutely, blinking furiously in a vain attempt to stem the tears. But they would not be stopped, escaping at last after too long kept in check. The row of faces in front of her blurred and cleared, blurred and cleared, and then she realised who else she had not seen.

"Conn?" she whispered feeling a ghastly sickness crawl through her.

The men before her would have beeen less solemn at a wake. She turned her eyes on Brother Benen, feeling the strength seeping from her legs.

Brother Benen, one eye blue-purple and closed, looked at his feet; then at Brother MaolÍosa, then at her. "Conn," he said, "To draw them away from where you were to pass, we - he - had a fight with them. And you got away -" he rubbed his hand over his  eye, and up to where the blood was clotted in his hair, "But - Conn did not."

Beibhinn heard a strange strangled gulping sound nearby, sniffs too. Was it her?

"May I," said a voice in the distance after a long time, "May I see him?" she wanted to see him.

Brother Benen flinched, "You can't." he said, and then looked desperately at Brother Maolíosa.

"We have not found his body," said Brother MaolÍosa slowly. He hesitated, then said no more. 

There was no need for him to say that the bog was a place ideal to toss away a corpse. Beibhinn knew as much.

Author's note:

Chewing sand > the amount of enjoyment I derived from this chapter.

Reckon you were probably the same.

I'm sorry.

Some day I will edit.

Maybe.

(Oh, did you notice  that weird pseudo-archaic grammar? Eeesh. Younger me had no shame.)

23:30 Ahhhhhhh! I feel such a strong desire to go back and roast this chapter in the comments to relieve my feelings.

Ar dheis Dé go mbeidh a n-anamacha dhílis: May their faithful souls be at the right hand of God (the plural form of a common prayer for the dead)

A wake:  the day/night before the funeral, when you lay the deceased out on a table in the sitting room, shake hands with the family and have a bit of a party with all the neighbours.