“How did you beat them?”
“I cut one adrift in the Otherworld – I ripped his psychic umbilicus. He couldn’t find his way back. The other one –“ I took another deep breath. I didn’t like to remember this. “He starved to death. I locked him in an unjointed, adamantine box. He didn’t have the skill to get out. When I won I forgot about him. I would have remembered in time but I underestimated the third one. Then I went mad and didn’t remember the one in the box until a year or so later.”
“What about the third?”
“He very nearly beat me. Something called the Blood Red Game. It was like a tidal wave of blood, charging at me in the Otherworld. It was intended to make me flee – it was quite terrifying.” He asked why I hadn’t run. The answer was: arrogance. I thought I was invincible.
“Rather than run, I dived through it, though it burned my flesh like acid. I came through the other side and was able to cut my assailant in his neck, through the artery. The attack ended, but he wasn’t dead. He got me a few minutes later – turned me against myself, threw me into madness, with a last burst of effort.” He asked if I recognised those attackers. I told him I had never seen them before in my life.
“But what about the third one? Had you ever seen him before?”
The answer was no – or rather, that I didn’t know if I recognised him or not. His face was hooded and obscured by shadow. He obviously didn’t want to be seen.
“So you have no idea who beat you?” I shook my head. “Doesn’t that worry you? It could be anyone.”
“But why would whoever it was be looking for me? I’m not looking for him. What threat do I present? A monk of the Community in Iona?” I smiled, a little ruefully. In my previous life, Prince Ciaran the Damned had been a name to frighten children and to make even the strongest warrior take more care and set an extra guard if there was the slightest whisper that I was in the vicinity. But that was a long time ago. These days, I often had to borrow a knife to cut my meat. “Anyway, he only just managed to get to me. He is probably dead, himself.”
“How long have you been at Iona?”
“Eight years. It’s nine years since Winwaed – nearly ten. It took me a year to come out of my madness and then I had to Iona. So eight years on the island.”
“Nearly ten years since Winwaed. That’s almost as long as -”
“Your exile?” I interrupted him. He nodded. “What a coincidence!” I smiled but his expression barely changed. “I hope you don’t hold it against me any more? Have the scales of justice not been balanced?”
“No, of course I don’t hold it against you,” he replied, but without a smile. “I made my decision. If I was presented with the same situation again – a fleeing fugitive, one who had been my friend – I think I would do the same again. I expect so. We make our choices and bear the consequences.” He leaned his head on his right hand, resting his elbow on the table, and lightly massaged his neck. A bit of tension, or maybe tiredness. It had been a late night and early morning and he was old and frail before his time. I felt something in the pit of my stomach but I couldn’t put my finger on why. I knew my feelings well enough to pay them attention but I could bring nothing to mind that I should be worried about. But there was something.
“Ieuan, how did you know about me and the Winwaed? I arrived only a couple of days before the battle – not long enough to establish my normal reign of terror!” I snorted. “And Penda’s army was utterly destroyed, so there was no-one to carry word anywhere. You weren’t there, were you?” He looked up at me, sharply. My head twinged, momentarily – a reminder of that dreadful time. “No, you can’t have been. I would have heard if you were with Penda’s army, so you definitely weren’t on that side. And you wouldn’t have been with Oswy; he is a Christian and very much against the Old Ways. How did you find out that I was there?” Ieuan looked away, as if trying to remember. He rested his jaw on his right hand and stroked himself a little. I felt my head getting a bit fuzzy again and took another small draft of my medicine against the pain.
“Such an event as you described – two deaths for certain, in battle, along with the shattering of your own psyche – such things trigger a disturbance in the Otherworld,” he said. “I expect everyone with any Gift felt something, even if it was just an ill feeling to wake the simple in the night. I searched for where the ripple started. With a bit of help, I found out where and something of what had happened.”
I was reassured by this. It was perfectly logical. Of course my passing had triggered a reaction in the Otherworld. It may even have looked like death. I had been dead, for all practical purposes, for months, until Padhraig brought me back to my senses. And he hadn’t known who I was. Even as far as I was concerned, Prince Ciaran the Damned was dead. I hadn’t used that old name for nearly a decade and nor had anyone else. I had a new life and new tasks, which didn’t involve the sword or forays into battle in the Otherworld.
It was a perfectly innocent explanation. I was relieved; we moved on, after touching on my murder of Coivin, the reason for my exile.
“I doubt if they care any more. It was thirty years ago, Ciaran.”
“Anselm,” I said. “My name is Anselm.”
“Anselm, then. Are you still carrying the burden?”
“It’s still with me but it doesn’t crush me any more,” I said. “I am different, now. My new name is a sign of the difference in me.”
“Born again and washed clean in the Blood of the Lamb.”
“That’s what they say,” I smiled.
“No-one would recognise you, now. Who would see a prince of Donegal in Anselm, monk of Iona?” This time, I shrugged. I preferred not to find out.
“Is there anything you would kill for now? We know about Ciaran but what does Anselm of Iona believe in strongly enough to kill for?” he asked.
“I can’t think of anything,” I replied, and that set us off down another road of discussion. Self-sacrifice. Standing up for the defenceless, speaking up for the voiceless; at what point would a Christian monk kill another human being? To defend what? I couldn’t think of anything, and I told him so. Through all his hypothetical scenarios, which got ever more ridiculous, to the point of laughter.
“You haven’t been practicing your Craft these last eight years, have you?” he asked. I shook my head.
“Not really, no.”
“Would you be able to withstand another Blood Red Game, do you think?” I thought about it and my head nagged at me a little, just to remind me.
“I know what you mean but I think I would, yes,” I said. “I don’t have the arrogance of Prince Ciaran but I have something more valuable, I think: experience. I have been through it once already. I know what to expect. And, of course – I won. It wouldn’t be trying to do better than I did last time; I would go in knowing that I could do it. It was after I had won the Blood Red Game that I was nearly killed.”
He smiled and went back to his game. More and more outlandish, convoluted and unlikely examples, intended to tempt beyond breaking point a Christian monk’s commitment to peace. I would not be broken.
“There is enough death in this world, without me adding to it,” I said.
7
The Dead Past
The kitchen staff arrived just before dawn and made it clear that they wished to get on with their work. The cook, a woman with a strong red face above an extremely large body, finally shooed us away.
“I fear a hungry king more even than two angry druids, with respects to you both, fathers. The king can cut off my head if he is displeased and I ain’t one of them Christian saints who can put it back on with no harm done. The worst you can do is turn me into a frog. That wouldn’t cause me any great discomfort. I could live on a lily pad.”
“If it didn’t sink,” came the almost inaudible reply from one of the staff. Ieuan and I took our leave of the apoplectic cook, and left her to discipline her troops. We had no doubt she would be firm but we weren’t at all sure she would be fair. T
he servants and slaves were in for a bad morning.
The sky was beginning to lighten as we stepped out into the courtyard. We stopped to contemplate the dawn but our silent prayers were, doubtless, very different.
The stables and outhouses in the yard were stirring into early morning life; the fortress was getting to work. As we climbed the raised walkway to the wall we saw, below us, an apprentice and his older colleague rekindling the blacksmith’s fire. The younger complained that he always had to spend all day at the bellows and he was tired of it; his colleague sneered that such a menial task was all that he could be trusted with. The yard echoed with the sound of the milkmaids’ iron-bound leather buckets being slung into place under the cows. The herdmaster encouraged his sheep with their new lambs and cattle with their calves from their byres and out into the yard and from there outside the castle to the hill pasture. The kitchen door was thrown open and a senior servant bellowed to no-one in particular for a hand of pork for the king’s breakfast. It was a scene whose noise and clatter indicated that Strathclyde - this part of it, at least - was at peace for the moment.
The perimeter wall was not very tall, about fifteen feet, but the view showed why it didn’t need to be. The fortress stood on top of a rock that rose sharply from the narrow coastal plain on the estuary of the Clyde, the river that gave the kingdom its name. From here, Owain’s guards could see many miles upriver and downstream to the east, the south and north, and quite a way to the north as well. Invaders could be spotted hours before they got anywhere close. Even on foggy days (which were by no means either unknown or rare) the task of an attacker would be well-nigh impossible, because of the terrain. A seaborne assault would be faced with cliffs several dozen yards high,that wrapped round three sides. The route up the fourth filed its way up through a narrow cleft between the two halves of Dumbarton Rock, over steep and uneven ground patrolled by palisades and pits. The road to the fortress itself wound its way back and fore up this last approach. It was a killing field. Strathclyde was as secure as it could be from external forces.
The hill stood isolated from the range that rose inland, hemming in the Long Tarn[17] like a sentry on picket-duty - or a lone rearguard, perhaps.
I had Seen a blonde tidal wave wash over most of the south - only to break on the mountains. Maybe Strathclyde would survive the final assault, whenever it came. Maybe it had already: hadn’t the two brothers and their uncle driven the English back eastwards over the mountains in the south of their kingdom?
These were thoughts that could not be resolved at the moment and so should be left for another day. For now, there were other matters on my mind, principally concerning Ieuan and, at the risk of upsetting him again, I remembered something that felt impelled to raise.
“Ieuan,” I started, “there is something that has been bothering me since last night. I must ask you about it.”
“Well, do so. I would rather there was nothing between us that would affect our friendship. What is it?”
I sighed and looked over the river to the far shore before continuing. Nothing was coming to my rescue. I had to deal with it on my own. I turned to my friend and looked him squarely in the eye.
“Owain mentioned last night that you had Divined that no harm would come to him at Scone.” It was Ieuan’s turn to stiffen. He averted his head for a moment, then faced me squarely in his turn. I continued. “Divination comes with the Sight. I have heard of it being raised but only by way of immense effort and great risk, of real danger, when it wasn’t. But you don’t have the Sight, I know you don’t. It was always a source of anguish to you. What’s going on? How are you Divining?”
The druid smiled and said about the worst thing I could have heard. He was looking directly at me, deep into my eyes. His own had lost their dullness and seemed to glow.
“Come now, my prince of Donegal, - “ he was about to continue but I turned away. There was silence while I gazed across the water. My stomach was hollow and I felt sick. I didn’t trust myself to say a word. Ieuan said nothing: the only sound from him was a heavy sigh, then another. I spoke first, but after a long time.
“Ieuan, I know about the phrase of power that used to control me.”
There was a pause, which became a silence. It stretched for minutes and minutes before Ieuan finally spoke again.
“How?”
“By accident. On Iona, one evening when Padhraig and the Abbot and I were talking. They both knew about my history - we were talking about nothing in particular. It was just chatter. I said something; Padhraig repeated the phrase jokingly. He knew nothing of its power - nor did I of course - but I snapped into a trance. It took hours to get me out of it. It was very strong, and I was lucky that there was an older monk there who had been a High Druid. He was very skilled but it took even him most of the night to break the spell. But he did. And now,” I turned again to face my friend, to look him squarely in the eye again, “it has no power over me at all. Other than the power to make me feel desperately, desperately sad and concerned at hearing it now, from your lips, right now.
“Ieuan, what are you hiding? What is it that is so terrible that you would use a forgetting-spell on me - on me,” I punched my own chest with a clenched fist, and my words came thickly, “here, and now, after I’ve asked you about this new Power of yours. What is it, Ieuan?”
Again, he said nothing for some time. He was looking away, across the river, as if seeking assistance himself. At length he spoke, without facing me.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said softly. “You are a Christian, and you have the Sight,” a bitter laugh. “A Christian with the Sight. The gods play games with us Anselm, they play games with all of us. We are their puppets, their shadow play, their mummery to help pass Eternity. The Sight!” he sighed. “The Sight! A Gift from the old gods to their people. Their people. Not you followers of your dead God.”
“He rose from the dead, Ieuan.” The bitter laugh again.
“Risen with healing in his wings: oh yes, I know. And forgiveness, too. Did he forgive those who killed Him? Do you think He could? Or would?”
“He came for us all, Ieuan, with hope and forgiveness for all who repent.”
“Repent!” he snorted. “Repentance! Forgiveness! A deathbed story to fool the gullible. Forgiveness for all! And all you have to say is ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean it’ and you get forgiveness! I wish it could be so, but I’ve seen things for which there can be no forgiveness, not from a multitude of dead gods and a myriad of Resurrections. Give me an honest sinner who will jump into your Christian Pit sooner than a deathbed repentance. No Anselm,” he sighed and continued, “the gods roll their dice and we pay the losers’ share, and Heaven rocks with their laughter. The Earth trembles, and they just laugh. They just laugh. They play games, that’s all.”
“This is the voice of despair, Ieuan. The Devil’s work. Tell me what you’ve done, open your heart to me: ease your mind, at least. There is forgiveness, no matter what you’ve done.”
“Did he forgive Judas, his betrayer? How would you know? How could He? Don’t your own teachings say that, despite his remorse, despite hanging himself as he tried to make amends, he is condemned to the deepest circle of Hell. Don’t they?”
“That was remorse, yes. In the madness of his remorse he took his own life and compounded the original offence.” I wanted to continue, but we were interrupted.
“I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Magister,” I turned to see one of the King’s servants, breathless and red-faced. I remembered from the night before. “King Owain asks that you come to see him as soon as you can. I’ve been looking for you for half an hour, so if you could come urgently it would be for the best.” I turned back to Ieuan and was going to speak, but he cut me short. He was silent for some moments. A shuddering sigh went through him and he raised his old man’s face to the sky, eyes closed. His veins showed clearly on his eyelids, they were crooked ridges running across them. The tendons in his neck stuck out like tent-r
opes slung with slack fabric and his mouth twitched, disturbing the harsh line he’d drawn with his lips.
“Go on Anselm. The king is not a patient man. And I’m not in the mood for talking any more. Go to Owain, now. I’ll see you later, maybe.” I began to protest, but the moment had passed. He turned his back on me. I went with the servant, muttering some un-monklike curses under my breath. As I reached the castle door I looked back and saw Ieuan still there on the walls, leaning heavily on his staff, gazing across the water and looking very old.
Fortunately, it was quite a walk from the wall to the king’s chambers. By the time we arrived I had had the time to compose myself sufficiently to face anything he might throw at me - or so I thought. The servant knocked on the door, it was opened, and I was ushered in. The audience room was much the same as the night before, except that Owain and Gruach were sitting either side of the fire and there was no sign of Gawain. Owain was smiling as he stood to greet me, but his wife seemed less cheerful than when we had last met.
“Magister Anselm! I’m pleased to see you. Come in. My servants told me they couldn’t find you and I feared you had crept off and left us.” I explained where I’d been, though not the subject of my conversation with Ieuan. He waved a hand. “Fine, fine. Be that as it may, I’m glad you’re still here. You had a lot to talk about with your old friend, I understand, and there is much we have to discuss before you go on your way.” I had hoped to be on the road before the sun was old but it seemed I would be frustrated. “Get the Magister a chair, put it by the fire, here, then you may leave us. All of you. Sit down, Anselm.” The servants did as they were told, and I sat down.
“Gruach and I were discussing honour, Anselm. She’s of the opinion that there are few honourable men about, and that their number dwindles to nothing when put to the test. I was telling her the tale of the Britons of Dumnonia, how their king, Arthur, became High King of all the British, organised the resistance to the Saxon hordes and instituted an order of knights to protect the people of the realm. Not just the lords and princes, but the people themselves.” Owain was animated, excited.
The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3) Page 7