Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  When they reached the entrance, Osgar had received his first surprise. Isolated the monastery might be, but small it was not. Its huge, impressive gateway proclaimed its power. “Don’t forget,” his companions reminded him, “the bishop has a house up here as well as the abbot.” The bishop, Osgar knew, oversaw most of the churches in the Liffey valley.

  And yet, as soon as they had passed through the impressive gateway into the great, walled enclosure, Osgar felt as though he had entered another world. Resting on the grassy meadow between the two streams as they joined each other below the smaller lake, the monastery’s grounds seemed like an enchanted island. After they had made themselves known to the prior, one of the novices was summoned to show him round.

  There were a number of churches and chapels, a sign of Glendalough’s long standing and importance; nearly all were solidly built of well-dressed stone. As well as the big main church with its handsome doorway, there was a church dedicated to Saint Kevin and a chapel for another Celtic saint. They inspected the dormitory where many of the monks lived; though, in the usual Celtic manner, some of the senior monks had small, free-standing timber and wattle cells of their own on the grounds.

  The most impressive building in the lower monastery was the huge tower. The two young men had gazed up at it solemnly. The tower was circular and very tall. Sixteen feet in diameter at its base, tapering gradually towards its conical top a hundred feet above, the sheer sides of the great stone tube seemed to dwarf everything else.

  “We call it the bell tower,” the novice explained. Osgar thought wryly of the modest hand bell that summoned the monks to prayers at his family’s monastery. “But it’s a watchtower, too. There are four windows at the top, under the cone. You can see the approaches in every direction from up there.”

  The round towers of Ireland were becoming a notable feature of the landscape in the last few generations, and that of Glendalough was one of the finest. These towers with their corbel-constructed cones had been invented by the Irish monks. They were mostly about a hundred feet high, the circumference of their base being almost exactly half their height. As long as the foundations were good, these proportions made for a very stable structure. The walls were sturdy—at Glendalough they were three and a half feet thick.

  “If there’s an attack, we put the valuables inside,” his guide explained. “And most of us can get in, too. It has six floors.” He pointed to the doorway. It was twelve feet off the ground, reached by a narrow wooden ladder. “Once the door’s barred, it’s almost impossible to break in.”

  “Is Glendalough attacked much?” Osgar asked.

  “By Vikings? Only once in the last hundred years, I believe. There have been other troubles. The lands around here have been disputed by several of the lesser kings. A few years ago they came and made a terrible mess of the mills down the valley. But you won’t see any sign of it today. We’re mostly pretty quiet up here.” He smiled. “We don’t seek a martyr’s death.” He turned. “Come and see the scriptorium.”

  This was a long, low building in which half a dozen monks were at work copying texts. Some, Osgar noticed, were written in Latin, others in Irish. His uncle, of course, had several books, but though Osgar and one of the old monks could write a fair hand, they did not make any new books. He observed the expert calligraphy with admiration. But it was a single monk, sitting at a table in a corner, who now caught his attention. In front of him was an illustration he was working on. The outline of the design was already complete and he was beginning to fill in one corner with coloured inks. The broad abstract border fascinated Osgar. Its lines seemed geometric, but his practised eye saw clever visual hints everywhere of natural forms, from the gentle geometry of a scallop shell to the powerful stress lines of a knot of gnarled oak. How complex the thing was, yet how pure. He gazed at it, rapt, and thought how wonderful it must be to spend one’s life in such a way. He had been there for some time when the monk looked up, gave them a frown for disturbing him, and they tiptoed away.

  “Come,” said the novice when they got outside. “You haven’t seen the best yet.”

  He led Osgar across a little bridge over the stream and turned right, onto a track that led up the valley.

  “We call this the Green Road,” he explained. As they proceeded past the lower lake, the valley narrowed. On their left, the steep wooded slope was almost a cliff and Osgar could hear the sound of a waterfall. On his right, he noticed a grassy earth circle, like a little rath. And then, just as they passed through some trees, suddenly: “Enter paradise,” his companion said softly.

  For a moment, Osgar caught his breath. The upper lake was large, about a mile long. As its quiet waters stretched before him between the high, rocky slopes that rose through the trees, it seemed as though they might have emerged from an entrance into the mountain itself.

  “There’s Kevin’s cell.” The novice indicated a small stone structure some way off by the lakeside. “And up there,” he pointed to where Osgar could just see the entrance to a small cave under a rocky ledge overlooking the water, “is Kevin’s Bed.” It looked a hard place to reach; the rocky slope beneath it was almost a cliff. He noticed there were banks of sorrel growing down below, and nearby those, a swathe of stinging nettles. Following his gaze, his companion smiled. “Some people say that’s where the saint threw himself in the nettles.”

  Everyone knew the story of Saint Kevin’s youth. Tempted by a girl who wanted to seduce him, the young hermit had driven her away and, stripping himself naked, had rolled in a bed of stinging nettles to cure his lust.

  “He used to stand in the shallows of the lake to pray,” the young monk went on. “Sometimes he’d stand there all day.” It wasn’t hard, Osgar thought, to imagine such a thing. In the perfect peace of the lake he, too, he felt sure, might do the same.

  For some time, the two young men stood together, drinking in the scene, and it seemed to Osgar that he had never known such a sense of perfect peace in all his life. Indeed, he hardly noticed the sounding of the bell from down the valley until his companion gently touched his arm and told him it was time to eat.

  His interview with the abbot had taken place the next day. He was a tall, handsome man, with curly grey hair and a kind but stately manner, who came from an important family. He knew Osgar’s uncle, and welcomed the young man warmly and asked after the affairs of the family monastery.

  “What has brought you to us at Glendalough?” he enquired.

  As best he could, Osgar explained to the abbot his situation, his hesitation about his marriage, his sense of disquiet and uncertainty; and he was relieved to see that the older man listened in a manner that suggested he did not think his concerns were foolish. When he had finished, the abbot nodded.

  “Do you feel called to the religious life?”

  Did he? He thought of his life at the family’s little monastery beside Dyflin, and of his possible future there. Was that what the abbot meant by the religious life? Probably not.

  “I think so, Father Abbot.”

  “You think that if you marry, it will …” the abbot considered a moment, “take you away from the conversation you wish to have with God?”

  Osgar looked at him in wonder. He had not formulated the thought in that way, yet it was just how he felt.

  “I feel … a need …” he trailed off.

  “You do not think your uncle is drawing closer to God?”

  What should he say? He thought of his uncle’s easygoing family life, his long fishing expeditions, his frequent sleep during the divine service.

  “Not much,” he answered awkwardly.

  If the abbot suppressed a smile, Osgar did not see it.

  “This girl,” the older man asked, “this Caoilinn, whom you feel you have a duty to marry. Have you ever …” He glanced at Osgar and saw that he was not understood. “Have you ever had carnal knowledge of her, my boy?”

  “No, Father. Never.”

  “I see. Ever kissed her?”

&nbs
p; “Only once, Father.”

  “You have urges, perhaps?” the abbot probed and then, apparently losing patience with this line of questioning: “Well, no doubt you do.” He paused, eyeing the young man thoughtfully. “You think you might like it here?”

  In this earthly paradise? This mountain retreat halfway to Heaven?

  “Yes,” he answered slowly. “I think I should.”

  “You mightn’t be bored, perhaps, up here in the mountains?”

  “Bored?” Osgar stared at him in astonishment. He thought of the churches, of the scriptorium, of the wondrous silence of the big lake. Bored? Not, he thought, in a hundred lifetimes. “No, Father Abbot.”

  “The path of the spirit is not easy, you know.” The abbot’s look was somewhat stern. “It isn’t just a case of finding a life that’s congenial. There has to be a renunciation, sooner or later. Here at Glendalough,” he continued, “our rule is strict. We live, you might say, like a community of hermits. The way is hard. Straight is the gate. And,” he nodded slowly, “you will not escape temptations of the flesh. Nobody does. The devil,” he smiled ironically, “does not give up so easily. He places temptations in our path: sometimes they are obvious, sometimes insidious. Beware. You will have to overcome them.” He paused. “I cannot tell you what to do. Only God can do that. But I shall pray for you. And you should pray, too.”

  That day and the next, he joined the monks at all the daily offices sung in the big church, and spent the rest of the time in prayer.

  He tried to follow the abbot’s bidding. He prayed as he had never prayed before. He knew the proper technique. He tried to empty his mind of all other considerations, to listen only to God’s silent prompting. He asked to be shown his duty. What did God require?

  Would God speak to him? For nearly two days he wondered, but no word came.

  Yet how strangely God chose to reveal His will. Osgar was standing by the upper lake as the sun was dipping towards the mountains in the late afternoon of the second day. He hadn’t been praying just then, but was lost in the beauty of the place, when he had felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see the friendly face of one of the monks who had brought him there.

  “So have you discovered what you want?” the older man asked.

  Osgar shrugged.

  “What I want is to stay here, of course,” he said, as if this was not what really mattered.

  Then suddenly he realised. The thing was so simple, he had missed it. He wanted to be at Glendalough and nowhere else. He had never felt so at home in his life. This was where he was meant to be. And Caoilinn? Greatly though he loved her, he knew now, with a certainty, that he did not want to marry her. And here—he saw it with a wonderful sense of illumination—here was the wonder of the business: God in His kindness had not only sent him a sense of belonging, He had even taken away his desire for the girl he had loved. To help him on his way, that old desire had been replaced with a new desire, a passionate wish for Glendalough. He was sure. It was meant to be. He loved Caoilinn as much as he had ever done before; but that love must be the love of a brother. It had to be so. He knew he was going to have to cause her pain, but it would have been crueller by far to have married her when he could not have given her his whole heart. For some time he stood there, gazing out over the water, filled with a strange new sense of peace and understanding. That evening, he informed the abbot, who nodded quietly and made no comment.

  He left the following morning.

  He had chosen to go back by the most direct route, which led straight over the high ground. At noon, he passed the great central gap in the Wicklow Mountains where, not far from the track, lay the spring which was the tiny source of the River Liffey. The view was magnificent. Below, the stream rushed down the mountain to be joined by others, and he could see the growing river winding its way another thousand feet below into the broad Liffey Plain, that stretched for twenty miles into the distance.

  The day was fine. As he followed the path across the high plateau, he felt a great sense of peace. Indeed, the only concern he could think of was that he might be too happy. What was it the Abbot of Glendalough had said about the religious life? There must be renunciation. He wasn’t sure he felt a sense of renunciation at the moment. Was it possible that the devil, who laid such subtle snares, might be laying one now? Was he following the desires of his own heart and will? He did not think it was so; but he resolved to be watchful. And it was, on the whole, with a light heart that he made his way northwards.

  It was late afternoon when, descending the track on the mountains’ northern edge, he paused by a gap in the trees and saw the great slopes falling away for hundreds of feet to the huge, open panorama of the green Liffey estuary and its broad bay.

  He stopped and stared. The afternoon sun was slanting from the west down the Liffey’s waters. Past the river’s mouth he could see the sandbar in the bay and the curving headland beyond. He could see the broad marshes; he could see the far side of the long wooden bridge across the river. He could even make out—or was he deceiving himself?—the walls of the little family monastery. Forgetting everything else for a moment, he felt a rush of joy. And he had been staring affectionately at his childhood home for several minutes before the realisation hit him. Once he went to Glendalough, he would be cut off from all this. Cut off forever. Cut off from the broad bay, cut off from his family, cut off from Caoilinn. And at the thought of Caoilinn, memories of the little girl he had always known came to him with a haunting vividness: the games they had played; how he had married her at the tomb of old Fergus; how he had rescued her from the sea. And now he would not see her anymore, little Caoilinn, who was to have been his wife.

  Who could still be his wife.

  And now it came to him, with a flash of understanding. This was the test. God had not made it so easy after all. He would have to give up Caoilinn. Caoilinn whom he loved and who, God knew, if it were not for his calling, he would happily marry. Yes, he thought, this is it. This is my renunciation.

  And with a new sense of dedication, where desire was tempered with pain and joy with sadness, Osgar continued on his way down towards Dyflin.

  His interview with Caoilinn the next day was not all he might have hoped. He arrived at her father’s house in the town quite early.

  Her parents and all her family were there and so he asked her if she’d walk out with him. He noticed the look of anxiousness on her father’s face. So he and Caoilinn walked to the Thingmount. And there, at the tomb of old Fergus by the Liffey’s flowing waters, he told her everything.

  If she looked a little surprised, she listened carefully as he explained the situation. He explained everything: how much he loved her, the sense of uncertainty that had troubled him, and his calling to the monastic life. He explained, as gently as he could, his need to go to Glendalough, and his inability to marry her. When he had finished, she was silent for a few moments, gazing at the ground.

  “You must do what you think is right, Osgar,” she murmured at last. Then she looked up at him with her green eyes, a little strangely. “So, if it weren’t for going to Glendalough, you’d be marrying me?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “I see.” She paused. “What makes you think I’d have said yes?”

  For a moment he stared at her in surprise. But then he thought he understood. Of course, she was preserving her pride.

  “Perhaps you would not,” he replied.

  “Tell me, Osgar,” she seemed curious, “do you desire to save your soul?”

  “Yes,” he confessed. “I do.”

  “And would you say that I have a chance of getting to Heaven?”

  “I …” He hesitated. “I do not know.” He had never thought about it.

  “Because I don’t think I’ll become a nun.”

  “That is not necessary,” he assured her. And he started to explain to her how good Christians may reach the heavenly seat by following their proper calling. But he was not sure she was really paying atten
tion. “I shall always think of you,” he added. “I shall remember you in my prayers.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Shall I walk you home?” he suggested.

  Why had the interview seemed unsatisfactory, he wondered as they walked back together. What had he expected? Tears? Confessions of love? He didn’t quite know. It was as if her mind was drifting elsewhere, away from him, though into what region he could not tell. When they came to the gateway to her house, she paused.

  “I’m sorry,” she said a little sadly, “that you prefer Glendalough to me.” She smiled kindly. “I shall miss you Osgar. You’ll come and see us sometimes?”

  “I will.”

  She nodded, looked down for a moment, and then to his great surprise suddenly looked up with what, if the occasion had not been so solemn, might almost have seemed like her old mischievous humour.

  “Do you ever feel the lusts of the flesh, Osgar?”

  He was so surprised that for a moment he did not know what to say.

  “The devil tries us all, Caoilinn,” he replied a little awkwardly; and then, kissing her chastely, for the last time, upon the cheek, he departed.

  It was another week before Osgar departed for Glendalough. His uncle was not best pleased, but suggested that in due course, he might still return from the mountain monastery to take his place and maintain the family rule. Caoilinn’s father took the trouble to come out and, putting the best face on it, wished him happiness, even declaring that he would be there to see him off; and Osgar was touched by this magnanimous kindness. Caoilinn he did not see, but as they had said goodbye there was no need.

  The morning he left, he decided to follow the lower route instead of crossing the mountain gap, and so, with a satchel of provisions on his back, a letter from his uncle to the abbot promising a handsome payment to the monastery on his account, and the blessings of friends and neighbours, he set out southwards across the fields from Dyflin. His uncle had offered him a horse to take him there, which could be delivered back in due course, but Osgar had thought it more appropriate to walk.