The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  “Maybe it’s tied in with whatever task you had for me?” My voice softened the short silence. Cunnian thought for a moment and nodded.

  “Possible. In fact, quite likely. I had intended to send you alone but now it may be better to send a companion with you. But who?”

  “There was no-one with me in the Vision. I was alone,” I reminded him.

  “What about the others?”

  “Statues.”

  “Ah, yes. Alone you must be, then. Unless it is symbolic solitude? Something you may have to work out alone? That doesn’t preclude you having company?” I had a memory of pain at my temples and rubbed them with one hand. I held up the other and shook my head. Cunnian turned again to the window and continued. “My task for you is important: very important. I would rather that you weren’t distracted, not even for the best of motives.” I waited patiently in the silence that followed. It was best to let him think uninterrupted.

  “As you know,” he continued quietly, still looking out of the window, “we don’t get on well with our cousins, the Roman Christians. Too much emphasis on order and authority, on secular power and material glory. Too much silk, and altogether too much gold for my taste. And they ride everywhere, above and aloof from the common people.” He turned from the window and sat at his desk again, leaning forward on his elbows with his hands interlocked. “Imperial habits die hard, it seems.” He swept his hand over the dome of his shaved forehead and the long hair that flowed onto his shoulders like a white mane. “Just this tonsure enrages them, it seems. They accuse us of following Simon Magus, the Manichees and who knows what else.” I nodded. He indicated a parchment on his desk. “Whatever our differences, these matters may all be resolved, soon. I want you to go to our brother community at Lindisfarne and then on to the abbey at Whitby. King Oswy of Northumbria has called for a great synod to be held there, with bishops, priests, monks and clergy from all over Britain attending. You are needed.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “As a translator. There will be British, Irish, English, Saxons from the south, at least one Frank and possibly delegates from Rome, too.”

  “Quite a Tower of Babel. But why me? I’m not the only one with the gift of tongues. Melrose has British and English and some Latin speakers, too. Lindisfarne has English, Irish and British and Colman speaks Latin, maybe better than I do.”

  “There aren’t enough and they’re mostly inexperienced. They barely understand themselves, never mind the ways of kings and the rivalries of our two churches,” he said. “You have wandered the earth and can speak easily with high and low-born, family and foreigner, and you have the ability to see the intent behind the word. No-one else is better at sniffing out lies, almost before they’ve been spoken. To do with your Sight, I’m sure.” I nodded agreement and Cunnian continued. “I also need you to go to the court at Dumbarton and ask for our right to roam in Strathclyde to be renewed.”

  “Why? What’s happened? Has one of our people gone rogue?” This wasn’t unknown. Some just could not handle the discipline of the monastic life. They came with the best of intentions but their frustrations exploded, leading them away, to the life of an outlaw or worse. It caused no end of embarrassment to the Christian community throughout the British kingdoms and beyond. I cannot say that I had never been tempted, although I was largely content to have put my old life behind me and now live as Anselm, a simple monk with no responsibilities of family or high office.

  “No, no problem like that. King Gwriad got himself killed on some stupid raid or other when he got bored after a few weeks’ peace. He couldn’t keep himself from trouble of some kind for five minutes.” Cunnian sighed. “Still, he was no worse than most of them. In some ways, he was a good man, for a bloodthirsty pagan. He allowed us to convert as many of the people as we could. Our friends the Scots in Dalriada finally got him when he tried to steal some cattle. A sad waste of a life and unbaptised at the end,” he shook his head sadly. Cunnian and most of our brothers would baptise anyone who asked in the hope of saving their souls. Judgement we left to God alone.

  “When did this happen? And who rules in Strathclyde now?” I’d known of Gwriad and I would pray for his sinful soul. At least he would do no more headhunting.

  “His nephew, Owain Dumnagual. And, as far as I can ascertain, Owain’s brother Gawain has a role as well. Do you know them?” I shook my head. The change of occupant of the throne had not brought any change in the kingdom’s religion; the two brothers followed Druidism, as far as we could ascertain. But they had some reading and writing – they had spent some time at the Christian monastery school at Whithorn, it was reported – so it was possible they could be open to change. He wanted to know if this was likely to be the case. He cautioned me to say as little as possible of my assignment to Whitby; our favoured status in Lindisfarne, which had been a gift from Oswald’s father, as well as here in Iona, under the patronage of Dalriada, was enough to raise suspicion as to whether we could be trusted.

  “King Oswy is their enemy and he’s ambitious for more land – not least, he wants the kingdom of Rheged back. We saved his life and gave him shelter when he was on the run; they haven’t forgotten and we’ve even heard whispers from some quarters saying that Strathclyde wouldn’t have half so much trouble if it hadn’t been for us. Say nothing if possible, and as little as you must.”

  “I’ll try and avoid it,” I said. “But something is bound to arise: if not Lindisfarne or Whitby, then our community here.”

  “I leave it to your skill and princely wisdom.”

  “I’m not a prince. Not any more. That life is far behind me.”

  “But you were raised to be a prince. You aren’t overawed by these puffed-up petty kings.”

  “No, I’m not frightened of them. Nor am I frightened to die for my faith. In some ways, I’d welcome it.” Cunnian looked at me, very directly.

  “Don’t throw yourself at death, Anselm. It wouldn’t be martyrdom, it would be suicide. You have much to do before God grants you your rest.” I nodded and shrugged.

  “So I must leave Iona again. I don’t like it but I suppose I can’t turn my back on the world forever.”

  “You must not get too attached to our beloved Iona or I’ll have to send you to Powys for the sake of your faith.” He smiled to soften the impact: I knew he didn’t mean to send me anywhere permanently, but he also had a point. I loved Iona and it was necessary to go sometimes to avoid too much comfort. It made me appreciate the tranquillity all the more. I rose to go, but he called me back. “One moment more. Your Vision. The bleeding child? The lake?”

  “It may be that there’s a resurgence of the old savageries somewhere. Blood sacrifices reappear from time to time. That old evil is very persistent; I’ve faced it several times, myself. I thought I had destroyed it, at least once. I know better now.” As to why – what would lead to resurgence of such practices; there were so many. Starvation, fear of the plague, fertility; the poor are always with us and their masters seem too often to be ignorance and fear. Too many of the converts we make lapse as soon as our food and so-called miracle cures leave with the departing teacher. It’s hard to get frightened people to bear with hardship.

  “We have to acknowledge that the old ways, the sacrifices, still have power in them,” I said. They can still deliver fervently-held desires – and that is our problem, and the people’s. The sacrifices have the power of the Enemy. And of course there’s the greatest enemy: Despair.” Hunger, destitution, deprivation, an army burning the house down and raping the women – any of these things may nurture despair and drive the people into the dark again.“ Most don’t realise what they’re getting themselves into. The odd rag on a tree, sacred to a local god, where’s the harm in that, they think. Or, if you want something really big, then a big sacrifice is needed - a chicken or a goat. They have no idea until they are in so deep they think there’s no way out.

  “It may be your lot to discover the source of this wickedness. It may also be y
our lot to destroy it once again. Anselm, be careful though. Do not throw your life away in anger, no matter how righteous, no matter how just the cause.”

  “If it comes to it, I must be prepared to sacrifice myself,” I replied calmly and the Abbott, after a moment, nodded reluctantly. “But I will seek help from earthly powers if I can.” The Abbott was satisfied and I bowed my head to receive his blessing, which he gave me. I asked him to ensure that Padhraig was cared for while I was away.

  “I’ll tend to him myself. He is my friend too, remember: he was my mentor even before he was yours, and I still depend on his wisdom.” I turned to go. ”And Anselm, remember the weight of the yarn and how it impeded you. Don’t become enmeshed in this quest. Don’t let it entrap you. Oh, and Anselm?” I turned once again. Cunnian’s face was heavy with care. “It may be your task to right the wrong - but it may be to expose it to the light of day and allow others to stop it. Even the pagan kings abhor human sacrifice. They will be our allies in this. They have been before and they will be again. We are not many, even when you count all Christians together. The Light is a guttering candle, at times. The Evil One rides free in many parts of our islands so take care. I will pray for you.” I nodded my thanks and left the Abbott to his prayers and contemplation. Before I set off I wanted to take my leave of Padhraig so I made my way quickly across the yard to the Infirmary. He was sleeping peacefully, with Roghan sitting by him. I would rather have stayed and watched myself but I had my mission - or missions. I said a quiet prayer over the sleeping figure, blessed him and left the small, plain room. I felt sure, but tried to reject the feeling, that this would be the last time we would meet in this world.

  My own cell was a short distance out of the rough courtyard. I lived close to the chapel now, although there had been a time, a few years ago, when I would rather have been further away, on one of the smaller islands, right away from the world, a complete hermit, as if solitude on its own would purge my guilt. It wasn’t the path for me. My faith still burned strongly - perhaps even stronger than it had in those early, zealous, desperate, tear-wracked and guilt-crushed days, after I had come out of the woods and been rescued from my madness as Lockeran. Now, I was more involved with the community, and with the world beyond it. I had also recognised a fear: fear of what I might find within myself when forced into my own heart, and fear that I wouldn’t be able to cope with the demons I would be faced with in solitude. I had a lot of blood on my hands. I could convince myself in daylight that each death had been necessary – from my cousin Coivin on to the nameless priest or ollamh I had left, forgotten, in the sealed psychic cell I created at Winwaed – but the night added darkness and dreams to solitude. I didn’t have it in me to become an Isolate. I was no longer Prince Ciaran, Damned or otherwise; I was now Brother Anselm, monk of the Irish Christian Church and my role was to go out into the world.

  The cell was small and sparsely furnished inside its beehive shape. A bed, a small chest for my herbs and medicines, devotional works and a cross on the wall were all it contained. It was barely tall enough to accommodate my height and it didn’t need to be. I usually prayed outside the door, standing upright with my palms outstretched and turned upwards to accept whatever God would send me, in sunshine or rain, in calm or in furious Atlantic storm.

  I opened the chest and considered the bottles and bags of medicines. The crash course in healing I had from my friend Ieuan so long ago had served me very well, down the years. My skills had gained me shelter and friendship and had saved my life on more occasions than I would like to count. There was a chain of people across Britain and beyond who had cause to be grateful for the risk my old friend and fellow-pupil Ieuan took when he passed on as much as he could of his knowledge. Whether a hot-headed young warrior brought low by a wound, a noblewoman suffering in childbirth, a chief’s young son with a raging fever, an ordinary villager in need - or even myself in the madness of my own despair; a lot of people had that young Druid to thank. Young! He was older than I was. It had been a long time since we had seen each other, and a lot fo years since I had thought of him. Did it mean anything, remembering him like that, out of the blue? Probably just a reminder to take my things.

  I gathered up my herbs and a larger bottle of my own medicine and stored them in the small bag I carried everywhere out in the world. I added some materials for repairing clothing, some soap fat for washing and considered the worn, hooded white robe of pilgrimage and decided against it. I was travelling on the Church’s business but I was not a pilgrim, not this time. That would come later, when the Abbott allowed.

  I had to take my leave of another, who had been with me for nine years, since before I became a monk. He had tracked me and drawn attention to me when I was lost in madness, in the woods of Rheged. It was he who had alerted Padhraig, who coaxed me out of the woods and drove my recovery.

  “Wolf!” I called my wolfhound. No longer the youngster who had attached himself to me when his original family had been horribly murdered. He was full-chested, greying round the muzzle and still lively, but the years were catching up even with him. I explained to him that I was going on a journey and I could not take him with me, that it was too far. He whined and snorted dismissively, as if to point out that he had come this far with me, what were a few more hundred miles? He reminded me of ‘stuff and nonsense’ older people who were still under the impression that they were in the full bloom of their youth. I had to smile. “No, my friend, this journey is a bit too long even for you and your great heart. Stay here and look after the brothers. Especially Padhraig; he needs you.” Wolf let out a sad whine at this. He knew, as well as everyone else, that Padhraig was not long for this world. He lay his jaw on my lap for a moment and then accepted that he wouldn’t be coming with me, that he had an important job to do here. We walked together to the infirmary, where I had a quiet word with Roghan and asked him to make sure that Wolf was fed and looked after. It wouldn’t be a problem – all the monks liked him. He would not starve! The dog himself walked quietly over to Padhraig’s bed and lay down alongside it. If Padhraig’s hand dropped out from under the covers it would find Wolf’s head waiting for it.

  Having taken my leave again – and finally, this time – I went over to the bakery and collected enough bread, fruit, cheese and goat’s milk for one day’s journey. Thereafter, I would be dependent upon the kindness of the people and - more often than not - upon the bounty of God’s Earth. We knew how kind the Earth could be and how unyielding, how beautiful and how harsh. Our Rule retained some elements of the mysticism and animism of our Druidic past.

  From the bakery I went to the small harbour on the sheltered eastern side of the island, to find both that I was expected and that I would have company. Brother Conor was waiting patiently and I thought for a moment that Cunnian had decided to over-rule me and send a companion.

  “I am going to Alba, to the land of the Picts. I was there last year and I think that King Nectan will convert this time. God be praised!” Conor said.

  “Amen. I wish you joy and the grace of God.” For myself, I offered a small prayer for good weather, especially when I crossed the moors south of Glencoe, on the route to Loch Lomond. It was wild country and a storm could appear out of nowhere. My Sight enabled me to get an idea of the weather in the days ahead but I had absolutely no control over it; Beinn Dubh[1] and Rannoch Moor seemed to be a law unto themselves, in any case.

  We pushed the small boat out into the swell of the grey water and set off for the short trip across the Sound to Mull. I took a long parting look at beautiful, bleak Iona, my home and my sanctuary, windswept and solitary against the western sea. I hated to leave.

  We reached Mull two hours before sunset. By the time it was dark we were safely sheltered in the small house of a family of lay followers of the Church, whose premises were well-stocked by the community of Iona in compensation for the frequent demands made upon them by visitors and missionaries. The following morning we rose early and caught a fishing boat on th
e island’s southern coast that would, in a day - or two, or three - make it to the mainland near Dunstaffnage. For the fishermen, time was measured in the movement of the shoals of fish – the “silver darlings” – rather than mundane days and nights. They followed where their harvest led.

  3

  Dumbarton

  Dumbarton in late February is one of the most miserable places on God’s green Earth. Rain was hurling itself in sheets at my face and the lazy north wind forced its way through every gap in the fabric of my cloak as I trudged up the Castle Rock. The track slithered up through a narrow cleft in the great rock and then zig-zagged up the bony crag to the castle itself. It could have been purposely designed by nature to be a killing field; barely three armed warriors could make their way side by side and there were natural positions for archers to rain down arrows, tiered up either side. It should be impregnable but it had occasionally fallen, to my knowledge; once to siege and twice to treachery.

  There was a moment’s respite from the rain when the route of the path mean that I turned my back to the wind but, in the end, all that did was ensure that I was soaked through to the skin on all sides. Only a fool or a driven man would be out on a night like this and I wasn’t really sure which category I came under by the time I reached the gates. It was close to full dark and Iona was nearly a week’s walk behind me. If I could have turned back time to earlier in the day I would have been very tempted to take the offer of a horse when it was made by one of the king’s patrols but it was brighter then, and the rain was softer. More fool me, maybe.

  Up ahead, the castle was little more than a darker, angular mass against the darkening sky but small rectangles of dull, flickering light held the promise of warmth and company. I was admitted through the side door at the gate of the perimeter wall. The returning patrol had brought news of my approach and I was expected.