The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  “If Oswy had found himself a Pictish wife such as mine this problem might never have arisen, Anselm.”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “Didn’t you know? His queen, Eanfleda, is said to be always surrounded by priests. Rumour has it that she’s so concerned for Oswy’s spiritual well-being that she won’t allow him into her bed until he converts. There’s the source of your trouble, Anselm. It’s not a problem I’ve ever encountered but it makes me even less enthusiastic about Christianity, if that’s what it does to women,” he smiled grimly. “When you go to Whitby keep an eye open for a pretty English princess for Gawain. Maybe we can seal a peace treaty with Oswy as well!” I picked up that Gawain was unsettled, if only for a fleeting moment. “I’ll talk to you again in the morning.” And with that he took his wife’s hand and led her to their bedchamber, across the room from her companions. “Gawain, arrange a chamber for our guest please.” I started to protest that my needs were easily satisfied, but Owain cut me short. “Don’t take any pious claptrap about being happy to sleep in a dungheap as it’s Lent and the dungheap is sinfully warm anyway. I’ll have him whipped if he doesn’t accept my hospitality. Tell him I mean it.”

  Neither Ieuan nor Gawain could confirm Owain’s story about Eanfleda as truth but both had heard the rumour, and it was persistent. I would bear it in mind but act without preconceptions.

  The celebration was still in full – or even fuller – swing and some of the revellers had collapsed where they sat. Those still upright were dancing or singing in discordant and conflicting groups around the hall. The fire was burning low but it would burn lower before the party was over and I hoped that the servants wouldn’t get too drunk to attend to the torches. Darkness and drunkenness could lead to something more than hangovers in the morning.

  I ventured to press Gawain on a Strathclyde presence at the debate, repeating my belief that they, as the most powerful British Kingdom, could make a difference to the outcome.

  “We’re not involved in the Christian churches’ arguments,” he replied. “We’re both concerned about the ambitions of the Romans but there is more than one way of keeping them at bay, especially as they come unarmed.”

  “But you’re the King’s most trusted adviser, and surely –”

  “Magister, my brother looks to me for counsel, not manipulation. He trusts my advice because he can trust me. We will discuss the matter further between ourselves and let you know our decision.”

  I bowed my consent, finished my goblet of water and asked permission to retire. Gawain nodded his permission and ordered a servant to show me to my quarters. My protestations were waved aside.

  “He does mean it, you know. He may have said it lightly but he’ll have you whipped if you defy him. Oswy’s not the only King with a temper.” He wished me a cordial good night and stood as I left. “But don’t be too concerned, he seems to have taken a liking to you.” As I was at the point of leaving, he called me back.

  “There’s something I wanted to ask you,” he said, and rubbed his forehead, as if he had a headache. I asked if he was all right. “Nothing to worry about. You!” he called to a servant. “Get me some wine. The good stuff. Hurry.” He turned and looked at me, as if waiting for a question.

  “You wanted to ask me something, my lord,” I prompted. He rubbed his head again and looked puzzled. The servant came up with a wooden goblet of wine. Gawain took a healthy draught from it.

  “Yes. Yes I did. What was it?” he looked at me, hopefully. “What were we talking about? Oh yes – Oswy. Him and the Romans.” He paused for a moment and scanned the hall, looking for inspiration. At length, he shook his head. “I can’t for the life of me recall what it was. I’m sure I’ll remember, soon enough, if it was important.” He smiled, and bade me goodnight. Ieuan went with me as far as the door.

  “Be careful, Ciaran,” I looked sharply at my old friend. “I’m sorry, Anselm. I will try to remember. Don’t push too hard. They don’t yet feel they have a real stake in the outcome of the Synod but I’m persuaded by what you said, added to what I already know. You Irish Christians and we Druids have a lot in common. The tide is flowing towards the Christians but I would salvage as much as I can of our ways. I would not see them pass away, especially not into the hands of foreign bishops,” he continued in Gaelic. “What they say about Eanfleda has truth: she is always accompanied by a Roman priest named Romanus. An insipid whisperer by all accounts, but he has great influence over her. Oswy wants an heir by her and she’s not provided him with one yet, although by-blows by the dozen are being brought up within his walls. Remember also that he comes of a devout family – his brother endowed the community at Lindisfarne. He won’t put her away.

  “I am told that she favours a young priest called Wilfrid, who has her favour,” he continued. “The accounts I have say he’s clever, and very proud. He’s Abbott of Ripon Abbey. He has risen fast but perhaps not far enough for his ambition. Take care, Anselm, and warn Colman in Lindisfarne, he has more than his King to deal with.”

  I thanked him and followed the servant to a small bedchamber. There was no reason why Ieuan should be aware that I already knew Wilfrid and something made me keep that information to myself.

  I had learned a lot this evening. If forewarned was forearmed then I had been made a strong suit of armour.

  I was pleased to see that there was a proper wooden door to my chamber as it would allow me to conduct my devotions in privacy. On entering I found a fire blazing merrily in the grate and a brushwood torch dripping fat onto the floor by it. The room was sparsely furnished, with a bed, a desk and chair, a small cabinet and a curtained-off alcove for hanging clothes and performing ablutions. There was an earthenware jug, filled with water, sitting in a bowl. It wasn’t much for a prince but it was more than my cell on Iona ever contained. There was even a shelf that held a few books in Latin, including a copy of St John’s Gospel. Gwriad, Owain’s predecessor as King of Strathclyde, was known for his philosophical inclinations almost as much as for his savagery in war. The light was insufficient for me to read anything but the largest and most brightly-illustrated script and so I was unable to make much of the small library. There were maps of the Island of Britain and, in more detail, the Kingdom of Strathclyde. There was a copy of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, the Roman emperor and persecutor of the Christians, and two translations of Greek plays. They were all clear of dust, so there was someone around who found them useful.

  My inspection completed, I settled to commune with my Maker. I stood with my forearms loosely outstretched and with the palms upward, offered a prayer of thanks and dedication and then opened my mind to whatever God would send me.

  On this occasion, it seemed, He sent not very much. I considered Eanfleda, Queen of Northumbria, and realised how little I knew of her. Beyond the fact that she was Mercian (not Kentish, although she had been raised in Kent), everything was rumour and conjecture - alloyed, perhaps, with a little prejudice. The British couldn’t be expected to be neutral in matters concerning the English, and anything that undermined them and their status would be played upon, highlighted, exaggerated and gossiped around until it bore little or no resemblance to the original person or their characteristics. I should know - in my former life I had been the subject of more wild stories than most outside a royal court. But the information had come from Owain and Ieuan, and neither of them struck me as given to gossip. No, not quite so: I was judging Ieuan by what I knew of him from the past. He seemed to have gained in deviousness with age, as the episode with the princesses of Fife demonstrated (so he had only recently become High Druid! that was why I was unaware! And what had happened to Dyfrig, his predecessor?), but that was only the clearest indication that my old friend and protector may have changed over the years. Divination, I thought. It can be done if you don’t have the Sight but the price had always been too high – or believed to be. What price had Ieuan paid? He appeared to be an old man. I would have to ask him…

 
The thought of Eanfleda drifted into my mind again. What should I think of her? Hilda, her sister, was the Abbess of Whitby and a powerful woman in her own right. She ran the monasteries according to the Celtic rule and it was she who’d been trusted to host the Synod. Two sisters in positions of power in the same Kingdom could give rise to conflict. Sibling rivalry was a powerful thing, as I knew - and it wasn’t restricted to males, not by a long chalk…

  I offered thanks for the insights I had been granted and settled down to sleep.

  5

  Friend No More

  Less than five hours later I woke up and prepared for my morning offices.

  The sky outside my window was still pitch black; it was about three hours before dawn at this time of the year. In a few weeks’ time I would be making this office in the full light of day – on Iona, anyway. I’d not been disturbed by bad or intrusive dreams but I felt not quite alert. My head was still woolly. I hoped to be on my way reasonably early if the King would let me go. Perhaps I should breakfast on whatever I could find and leave. No, better not, that would be a profound discourtesy. But first I had to perform the morning office, even before lighting a lamp. The stars were bright enough for that.

  I arose unsteadily and, looking out of the window, assumed my normal stance. I gazed out to the bejewelled sky but had got no further than “Lord, may all my thoughts, my words and my actions…” when one of the stars began to radiate jagged rainbows of light. It seemed to spread itself quite quickly into a ragged arch across much of my vision. It was difficult to focus on it and examine it closely because it seemed to be just off-centre of my eyeline wherever I looked. I was getting a headache trying to follow it.

  The arc extended from the right-hand end and curled round until it formed an elongated and mis-shaped oval, still rainbow-coloured at the edge but the centre was filling with greenish light. I leaned forward to try and get a closer look. The edge of the circle expanded rapidly and

  There was a Man there. I could see him through the branches. I could smell him, too. Men smelled so much it was almost more than I could bear to be this close. This one was alone, though, sitting outside the cave as he had on each of the two days I had been watching him. He seemed to be paying no attention, to be unaware of me, but I had to be careful with Men, very careful. They were cunning and sly and cruel. The old wounds on my back seemed to throb again. They reminded me of the sting of stones and the smart of fires. They feared me, I knew, and I feared them - but the smells kept drawing me back. Not the smells of the Men themselves - they were disgusting - but the food, the glorious smells of their food. I got so hungry: the animals seemed to know I was there, now, and had learned to hide from me when I was hungry.

  Could they smell me too? Did I smell as much as Men?

  I hated the Men. They hurt me and chased me away with fire when all I wanted was to get close to the fire and get warm, because I got so cold. I hated the Men. They were cruel. But the food, the food, the food. The smell of the food. It brought me back, kept bringing me back.

  A squirrel came close to the Man, small and russet with a big tail. Too small for a proper meal but enough to take the edge off my hunger if I was starving, but they tasted of rats. It stood on its hind legs and sniffed hopefully at the Man’s plate. He said something and offered a nut. The squirrel was almost torn in two: it wanted the nut so much but it was frightened to come too close. The Man tossed it gently so that the squirrel could get it without coming too close, maybe - just out of arm’s reach but close enough for a sudden spring.

  Don’t do it, I thought, don’t do it. Men are cunning and cruel and kill you just for fun. But the squirrel ran the couple of steps to where the nut lay and picked it up and started to eat it where he stood. Now the Man will spring out and catch the little squirrel and catch him and kill him, he’ll have him. But he didn’t.

  Then the wind changed and it came off my own back. The squirrel looked my way and ran off up the nearest tree and off over the branches. The Man looked my way and purred and held out his plate with the food on it but I couldn’t smell it any more and I just snarled a growl of irritation, turned away and crept off through the bushes.

  The next day there was a bowl of food about two paces from the Man and about four from the edge of the forest. It was cooked meat of some kind, mixed with herbs. It smelled good. It smelled wonderful, like a feast after a long hunt. But it was too close. I crept away through the trees.

  The next day the bowl was further from the Man, but still too close. Over the next two days I had no luck in the forest and went back to the bushes just by the cave, ravenous with hunger. It was early morning and there was no food out.

  I tried my luck in the forest again: nothing. I went back to the cave and there was a bowl of freshly-cooked meat, just an arm’s length from the bushes and well away from the Man. I could see the steam rising from it and could smell the delicious smell. I stretched out a hand, quietly, quietly and snatched the food out of the bowl. It was hot and it burned my hand and I let out a small yelp I couldn’t stop myself and I ran back into the forest but I didn’t let go of the food, no matter that it burned me. It was a whole rabbit, young and tender and cooked with herbs and it was delicious.

  The next day the bowl was not so close but the Man was standing up, head back and arms outstretched. The food wasn’t as hot and I had to step out of cover for only an instant to get it and run back into the forest again.

  A few days later I had got used to it; the food just a little further away from the bushes and if I went at the right time the Man would be standing, head back, and he would pay no attention, not even if I rattled the bushes and snarled, so I sat by the bowl and ate the meat and the roots with it at my leisure.

  It was raining in the morning and I was wet and cold. He had a fire, a warm fire, and was cooking something in a pan. I whimpered and the Man looked up towards the bush I was behind. He smiled and purred and I could make out some of what he was saying. He was calling me ‘Lockeran’. He stood and pointed at the cave and the fire and he brought the pan up to his face and smelled it and smiled at me. He wanted me to come to the fire. I hesitated and turned to go. The wind changed for a moment and the smell caught me and I turned again, back to the Man. I sneezed. Then I smelt the food again. The Man was purring again and I could understand him, I knew what he was saying.

  “You’re going to catch your death of cold, out in this weather. Come in,” he said, “come in and get dry and warm.”

  I wanted to get warm, I didn’t want to be cold and I was so, so hungry.

  I could resist no more and I walked over to the monk, naked and dirty and stinking, with my rank and matted hair hanging half way down my back and my beard on my chest and I knew I was mad but I wasn’t as mad as I had been and I didn’t want to be an animal anymore.

  The man who had brought me out of the woods and out of the hell of madness was Padhraig, the monk from Iona. He helped me back into the world, but not back to myself: not the self I had been. He cleaned me up and cut my hair. He gave me his spare robe to wear, the only other one he had, and repaired it when I tore it on the bushes.

  Under his guidance, I became Anselm. Monk of the community of Iona.

  “Remember this day. And now,” Padhraig said, with the smile that I knew so well, “you’d better answer that knock at the door. Be careful of what the world wants from you.”

  I looked around in puzzlement at the rocks and bushes surrounding the pool and wondered what he meant, but then I saw it and laughed that I hadn’t noticed it before. There it was, a black wooden door set into the rock face across the shingle shore. Someone was knocking softly from the other side. I walked over and opened it and

  there was Ieuan.

  I felt an enormous ache in my head and staggered over to the bed, followed by the Druid, who helped me to sit down. I felt a wave of sadness at the loss of my friend Padhraig, leavened with joy and there was the scent of apples. I held my head against the searing pain in it and lay dow
n on my bed.

  “Do you still carry the medicine?” Ieuan asked. I tried to nod, but the pain was too great. It would be easier to talk.

  “Over there. Floor. In my bag,” I managed to whisper. Ieuan got the brown bottle out of the pack and poured a strong draught straight into my mouth.

  “What did you See?”

  “Padhraig.” He asked who Padhraig was. I took a moment before answering. The draft was working quickly, thank God, and after a moment I was able to sit up. He asked again who Padhraig was.

  “My friend. More than that, my Soul-friend. My guide and counsellor. He brought me out of the woods, out of my madness and back to sanity. He baptised me into Christianity and introduced me to the Community at Iona. He’s dead. Just. I smelled the apples. He’s gone to Emain Avallach[7].”

  As the headache subsided I offered a prayer for the repose of my friend’s soul. Ieuan responded with a quick ‘Amen’. I expect he silently offered a prayer to Danu, his own goddess, just to be on the safe side.

  6

  Ieuan

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Early. A couple of hours before dawn,” Ieuan replied. I sighed and shook my head. Very little time had passed during this Vision; on other occasions, an apparently short one could take hours. There was no logic to it at all. “I knew you rose early for your morning devotions. Have you finished? Shall I leave you?”

  “I’ve finished for the moment. God has been speaking to me with a loud trumpet blast, and I think He’ll allow me time to recover.” Food would help, so we went to seek out a light breakfast. It was still cold but the kitchen was warm. The great cooking-fire was kept in all night; it and the other in the hall were the main sources of heat in the fortress. When the when late winter sun gave only watery light and little warmth, both were essential. The castle walls were three or four feet thick and stone takes a while to heat up. Once warmed, they hold heat for a long time but four months of the northern winter gave more than enough for them to cool off. It was still cold but without the two fires it would have been damp and unhealthy, even worse than a cave. Belligerent neighbours required a fit troop of warriors. The fires would be kept burning round the clock till nearly midsummer.