The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  “These kings and princes met at a Round Table, the story goes, round so that no-one was at the head and none was at the foot. No precedence or pride, you see. And in the time of peace that this King Arthur won - in alliance with the other British, of course - he persuaded them that they should go about doing good deeds, rescuing maidens from dragons, overthrowing tyrannical Lords and the like. Wasn’t that noble, my love?”

  “I know the tales,” Gruach replied, with barely-concealed impatience. “Most of them are old, older than this Arthur. They’re fairy stories for children. I also know that his Kingdom collapsed in Civil War, a squalid fight between the king and his nephew I believe. That doesn’t strike me as very honourable at all.”

  “Aye, that’s true, or so I hear. But it was the aim of his rule that was important. The generosity, protection of the weak, all of that. That’s what was important.”

  “But he’s dead, my lord, and we are still beset by English, and Saxons - and others besides, begging your pardon, Anselm.” I waved away any offence. “And these great ideals seem to have died with him. He wasn’t prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice and give up his kingdom when he was old, and a younger, fitter and - dare I say - more popular man arose.”

  “So if he’d given up his kingdom, you would have regarded him as noble and honourable?”

  “If he’d been prepared to do so perhaps his much-proclaimed ideals would have outlasted his youth and vigour and power, so yes.”

  “And that’s how you would judge true honour?”

  “It would be an indication of true honour, yes.” I was feeling uneasy at the direction the conversation was taking. The King was itching to put one over on his wife, for whatever reason. She was aware of it, too, and was annoyed.

  “You show me one man - not a god, or a legend out of the mists of time, but a man, an ordinary man, who was prepared to give up all he had for honour, then I will believe it is alive somewhere, though maybe not here, my Lord.” Owain was too euphoric to notice the barb. His leg was jiggling in excitement as he neared his goal. I wanted to leave, and asked permission to do so.

  “Stay there, Anselm. I want you to stay. We’ll talk of other things in a moment, but I want to tell this tale.” He was still young, and arrogant with it, for all his intelligence, I thought, and I hoped the Queen would forgive him. “Let me tell you a story. A true story.

  “There was a man in a country across the sea from here. He was a prince and, in the custom of his people, he had been brought up from an early age to be a co-ruler of his kingdom with his brother - or rather, foster brother - but rather like Gawain and me. In fact, I got the idea from this tale. The two boys were raised together from the time they were babies at the breast. They were born at the same hour, and were known as Dark Twins - not actual twins, but babies born at the same time. They played together, cried together, laughed and fought together, as little boys do. One was to be the warrior, leader in war, the other was to be the law-giver and principal ruler in peacetime. Quite a good idea, as it meant that the kingdom would never be without a king, even if the warrior was killed in battle or the law-giver died somehow.” He went on to relate my own boyhood and studentship at Innisgarbh and Donegal. I tried to stop him several times, or to leave, but Owain would have none of it. He ploughed on to the end, finishing with a detailed description of my killing of Coivin. He could only have learned it from Ieuan.

  “And this was noble? It seems like just another killing to me.” Gruach said.

  “But it wasn’t for himself, you see,” Owain replied. “It was for the girl, and his defence of her cost him everything.”

  “How was that?”

  “The rest of the dead man’s family were sworn to avenge his death. Not just his immediate family - his father and brothers - but all of them, all of their family including second and third cousins. They would all have to hunt Ciaran down and kill him - even his own family, who he hardly knew anyway. He was a prince, destined to rule, but his killing of Coivin meant that he was an outcast, a renegade, and with every hand in the kingdom turned against him.” He knew every detail of my life, up to the last that Ieuan saw of me, when he helped me escape from Erin.

  “What became of him?”

  “He escaped to Alba and disappeared into the woods.” He would have added more, but Gruach turned to me. So Ieuan had not filled him in on my subsequent adventures. A small mercy.

  “It seems that this man may have been truly noble, if he gave up everything for the sake of a girl of no account. Do you think it’s a true tale, Magister Anselm?” I hesitated before answering. I tried my best to be calm. I had put my old life behind me and I didn’t like to be reminded of it.

  “Tell her, Anselm,” the King said softly. “Tell her it’s true.” I cleared my throat.

  “It’s a tale that was once known throughout Erin, my lady, but I don’t know if they still tell it. Like all such stories, it becomes embellished with time but the facts of the matter are much as King Owain related: it concerns two Princes of Donegal, as he said, and the one did kill the other in a fight over a young girl. She was not of no account, however: she was the daughter of one of the chieftains of the kingdom, and there would have been problems if the rape had occurred. I can tell you,” I continued, “that the killer didn’t think of it as a noble deed. It remained a murder in his own mind, no matter what others may have said.”

  “And did he ever reappear from his hiding-place in the woods of Alba?”

  “Prince Ciaran never returned to Erin, my lady.” True, but far from the whole truth.

  “It still sounds like a story concocted to impress young men, Owain. You’ve told me that you admire this man for his sacrifice and that you would like to think you would do the same. You’re usually kind and thoughtful although you’re in a fey mood today. But I believe you think too much of the greater picture to do as this man is said to have done. You would get guards to restrain the rapist, but by then it would be too late. But even so, Anselm says she was not of no account. Perhaps his was a politic crime, to save the kingdom from strife.”

  “I think Ciaran would have done the same had she been a serving-wench. What do you think, Anselm?” I was saved from having to answer by the Queen, who stood to go. I got to my feet as well.

  “No, enough. Would he do this, did he do that, might he have done this. Were he here, this legendary, noble man, he could maybe answer but he isn’t, so I’ll leave you to your speculation, gentlemen.”

  “You can have your answer, Gruach. He is here.” said Owain. I implored the King to go no further - but he was, as Gruach had said, in a fey mood.

  “Where? Is he one of our guests? One of the drunken rabble from last night?”

  “He’s before you now!” He was grinning in excited triumph. “This monk is - or was - Prince Ciaran of Donegal.”

  Gruach regarded me carefully. She had been told a story of a vigorous young man, skilled in swordsmanship, who had killed his bullying cousin and fled on horseback into exile. To her eyes I was no more than a harmless middle-aged monk.

  “Is this true?” I didn’t say anything straightaway. She became insistent. “Is it true, Magister Anselm?” I had to answer.

  “Gruach, I forsook that life and renounced it when I became a Christian. It’s an agonising memory. I thought that no-one but Father Ieuan and some of my brothers at Iona knew of my background, but he hasn’t been quiet, it seems. I don’t think that killing my foster-brother was a noble act no matter what the circumstances. It was murder. I bear the guilt still today. It is not something I am proud of, in any way. I beg you, I beg you to say nothing of this to anyone, any more, not anyone at all. It would distress me greatly if you did.” She regarded me without speaking. Her eyes were steady, she looked deep into mine and I felt as if she searched my heart. It was an uncomfortable examination. For a moment longer, she examined my face steadily, then she made a low curtsy to me.

  “You can trust me, my lord.” She corrected herself at my look. �
��Anselm. It is a revelation to me that nobility does still exist in this world. And good to know it, as there has been no evidence of it recently. Owain,” she turned to her husband, “with your silly little game you’ve upset a man you claim to admire. And he’s our guest. Is this how we are to treat our guests in future? None will come if we do. You should make amends, and do so as soon as possible. I hope that he will be better cared for in our house in future. Anselm,” she turned to me again, “it is an honour to meet you. I hope you will forgive us our poor hospitality. For now, I bid you good day but I hope we shall meet again soon. You are welcome in my house. Good day, my lord.” She bobbed the minimum possible curtsy to Owain and left the room.

  Her husband stood, open-mouthed at the scolding he had received. I was feeling sick to the stomach for the second time that day, and the sun was barely over the horizon. I asked Owain’s leave to sit down. He allowed it immediately and his mood changed, from silly triumphalism to contrite concern in seconds. He apologised profusely to me for the upset, and went on doing so for so long that I began to find it irritating, and asked him to sit down and leave me be. I was fine, or would be if given room to breathe and a moment to catch my thoughts. The silence was too much for him and he started babbling again.

  “Anselm, I’m so very sorry. Gruach was right, it was a game I was playing with her but I never thought to upset you and I see I’ve done it, I honestly thought you wouldn’t mind, Ieuan told me about you and held you up as an example to be admired and cherished by anyone who would be noble, the Prince who sacrificed all when he had nothing to gain. If it had been me I wouldn’t have boasted about it but I would’ve been proud, I honestly didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “But it wasn’t you, Owain,” I said, when the young man paused for breath at last. “I’ve put all that behind me, the power and riches and influence that could have been mine. The way I’ve chosen has no need of these things and I believe the final reward will be the greater for it. That tainted life is in the past, for ever - or I’d thought it was. But now my past leaps out to confront me.” I shook my head. “Maybe it’s a lesson: teaching me that I can’t shut out what I was and what I did.”

  We sat then, the contrite King and me. At length, when I’d collected myself sufficiently, I spoke again.

  “Owain, there remains the prospect of the Synod at Whitby. Your presence would be greatly appreciated by the delegation from the Irish Church.”

  “What makes you think I’d support you? I’m not a Christian.”

  “No, but you know a great deal about Christianity. More important, your presence would be a counter to the ambitions of the Romans. I really do believe that there’s more to this Synod than a religious debate.”

  Owain sat without responding for some time. At length he replied.

  “My answer has to be no, Anselm. It’s a difficult decision and one that I may come to regret, but the core of the matter is the religious question and I’d get restless at being excluded and bored while you lot got enmeshed in the finer points of hairstyles. I can’t afford to leave the kingdom for very long, the situation is still too unstable, with Dalriada to the west and Gwynedd and Mercia to the south. Who knows what Mercia will do next? It is reduced after its defeat at the Winwaed but it still simmers with resentment. It may not try its luck with Northumbria but may fancy its chances with Strathclyde.

  “And what’s more,” he continued, barely pausing for breath. “Oswy has promised safe conduct only to clerics. I wouldn’t feel safe. We were at war only a few months ago and he’s likely to feel the bruises still. I wouldn’t put a good Christian king to such temptation.” I made to speak but Owain held up his hand to stop me. “The political ambitions of the Romans do concern me, though. I’m prepared to resist them and Gawain is, too. I suspect that Oswy doesn’t like the idea of their influence spreading either: they already have too much over his wife.”

  He paused again, and I kept quiet. For me, the religious and the political were intertwined. I would not see Britain and its people thrown into a new slavery. If I could gain the support of this powerful young man by emphasising the political threat, then I wasn’t so pure as to deny myself that advantage. I would offer penance for any dissembling later.

  For Owain, the religious aspect was of little import at all. He was considerate of his subjects’ welfare but it never occurred to him that they would, or could, or indeed should have control over their own lives. The power of kings was different, however.

  The young King - kingly again after the morning’s aberration - sat thoughtfully in his chair, stroking his beard. Finally, he resumed.

  “I am going to ask you to deliver a message to Oswy personally. I’ll have it written down in appropriate language,” by which he meant flowery and diplomatic, “and in it I’ll express my regrets at my absence but explain that the attentions of predators require my presence here. I will assure him of my peaceful intentions towards his Kingdom, and willingness to join with him in resistance to any common enemy that may appear. That should get the message across, but if it doesn’t, explain to him in simple language that I would not stand idly by and see his kingdom become a province of Rome, and would hope for the same from him. As the message is delicate, deliver it to him in as private a situation as the circumstances will allow.” I had to feel satisfied with that, and indeed I was content. Short of the Owain’s presence at Whitby, this was as much as he could hope for. An alliance between the two great kingdoms on the Island would give any potential troublemakers pause for thought. There could be a great and lasting peace come out of this, which would be good for everyone – kings, princes, monks and merchants, ordinary people, their crops and even their animals. He stood and I did the same.

  “Now, I must go and make peace with my wife. Please come to see me again in a few hours. Say, an hour after midday.” I replied mildly that I was hoping to be on my way as I had a long distance to travel.

  “I’ll ensure that you catch up on the delay.” I responded that I didn’t use horses, but preferred to walk among the people. “I didn’t have a horse in mind, Anselm,” the King replied with another enigmatic smile.

  He was still playing games and I fervently hoped that this one would be harmless; I would have to wait and see. Owain refused further explanation.

  8

  The Glade

  Until I was called to attend the King again I was free to wander where I wanted – and I wanted to find Ieuan. Wanting to find him but worried about what a meeting would entail. His attempt to use the forgetting-spell showed that I’d got close to the Druid’s secret. It was obviously a huge burden to him but it was probably terrible only in my friend’s mind. I knew very well that events or sins that were fairly minor could be magnified out of all proportion until they twisted the sufferer’s mind and made them think they were the worst person on Earth, beyond forgiveness. It could be that Ieuan thought so. But he knew my history so well and could see that it no longer crushed me, so what could be worse than what I’d done?

  Padhraig had helped me through my crises, through those dark nights of the soul when I felt so alone and crushed under the burden of guilt. I was not the only one to have such a soul-friend; we all had one. As Padhraig was to me, so was I to others in the Community. The Romans talked of forgiveness in the Confessional but that was heresy to us. It was more about control than salvation, as far as we could see it. And with their gold-embroidered vestments, lace and fine buildings, who could say otherwise?

  This was the path my thoughts took as I wandered to the top of the Keep and looked out over the hinterland of Dumbarton. It was a clear day, the sky was blue with hardly any cloud anywhere. The sun picked out the last of the snows on the peaks to the north and seemed to polish them so they shone like purest silver. Below the snowline the heather was brown and velvet. The whole landscape looked soft and gentle, with no indication of how the weather could change in a few minutes when a squall rushed in from the west. Lives had been lost by the unwary and unprep
ared, caught out in a sudden blizzard in the high passes or pastures, and I had no doubt they would be again. For now, though, the view was as beautiful as it was peaceful.

  Smoke rose from the Hall chimney, from the Keep and from the small conical cottages that had sprung up just outside the castle grounds - and there were a few within, I noticed. Perhaps the quarters of highly-placed warriors, or even homes for their bastards and their mothers. They were ordinary men, with ordinary needs, and the life of a warrior seemed to produce a higher than average sex-drive. The proximity of Death made Life the more precious, and the drive to produce children seemed to be strongest in those who were least likely to see them grow up. They could be widows’ quarters, those wee huts inside the castle grounds: Owain had gained a reputation for looking after the families of those who fell fighting for him. No wonder they were loyal to him.

  Out on the blue water I could see little boats, as small as insects, some with full sails rushing off on the King’s business or their own; others with slack sails or none, drifting with the current while they fished for the harvest hidden in the depths. The waters hereabouts were abundant, with mackerel, herring, salmon and saithe just waiting to be pulled out of the deep in all their silver glory. The last were regarded as a nuisance and thrown back but the rest had generated a marine cuisine all the way around the coast: poached in wine, grilled with herbs, smoked over oak, baked with milk or ale, there were as many ways of preparing fish as there were boats on the water - and just as well, for it could be a dull diet otherwise.