The Innkeeper met me at the door; he was just coming out to attend to some host’s chores.
“Magister, good morning to you,” he said. “You’re up even earlier than I expected. You Christian priests rise earlier than the Druids in these parts. Then again, they stay up later than you. I fear that there is little ready for breakfast yet and even the fire is barely warm. But if you can find your own way into the bar I’m sure we’ll have it comfortable for you shortly. I’m just on my way to get some more wood. It’ll be some time before we serve breakfast, your companions are still a-bed but we can find something to keep you going till then.”
I thanked my host and said that, if the servant had gone to milk the cows, I’d love to have some fresh milk and a piece of fruit to go with it. The Innkeeper laughed and said that I would have my wish.
My companions came down some time after I’d broken my fast, while I was deep in conversation with the Innkeeper. It transpired that his wife was a Christian and all the children had been baptised. He asked me to perform a short service before I left, which he said he would be pleased to attend. It would also serve the purpose of a blessing on our trip.
A short while later I presided over a small and simple service in the open air. Some of my companions came, the total attending his benediction including the Innkeeper’s extended family and servants being no more than three dozen. I noted that the number included the group who were travelling to Melrose, and the woman who had spent the boat-trip moaning.
Those who attended mainly stood, as was the Irish custom, around a table obtained from the Inn. The merchant and his family knelt or stood at various times, which distracted me a little - especially as they seemed a bit confused themselves - but I let it go. The Innkeeper had also provided a small loaf of bread and some beer, in place of wine. The offering was humble but the spirit in which it was taken was enough to grace the grandest Frankish cathedral, I thought. The father of the Melrose party hesitated before dipping his portion of bread into the beer, and the rest of his family looked to him for approval before following suit. Only the toddler showed unrestrained enthusiasm.
The wind was picking at my hair and my habit as I preached on a passage from the Gospel of St. John, in which Christ healed a man who was impotent.
There were those who couldn’t understand how the passage applied to them, as they weren’t impotent - their children demonstrated that - but the message seemed to be accepted by the rest. I wondered if I should read the Parable of the Sower to try and get through to the obstinate ones, but decided against it.
After the service and breakfast, the whole party set off up the valley: We were essentially three groups, one that was going to Luguvallium, in which was included the moaning woman, and one was headed for Dumfries in the valley of the Nith. The third was heading for Melrose. I would be with this group until then, after which I would go on alone.
We set off about two hours after full light, all together for a few miles, until our paths diverged. As I expected, a combination of recent rain and melting snow had made the road muddy. The going was slow and not eased by the constant complaints of the moaning woman from the boat. She’d been at the service in the morning and wanted me constantly by her side. When I was with her she kept up an unceasing stream of praise for me and my calling, and told me how she bore her pains bravely (if not silently, I thought), and offered all her trials up as a sacrifice that she may partake in some way in the Sacrifice of Christ.
“And I have a lot to put up with,” she told me, “what with my son-in-law - as idle a beggar as ever there was, Magister, I have to confess I don’t know why my daughter married him, lovely girl she was, could have had any man in the kingdom (saving yourself and your brothers, of course), but she settles on him and nothing I could say would change her mind. And now here he is dragging me here and there all over the countryside and into foreign lands where they speak strange languages - the Devil’s tongue, I say - and my daughter should never have married him, as I said and it is no way of life for a woman of my years - why, I am nearly forty and many of my friends have gone to their graves, God have mercy on them….”
“Lord, save me from pious women,” I muttered as I escaped from her for the third time. The merchant bound for Melrose overheard and smiled conspiratorially. He came over to join me.
“That was the first time I have attended one of your Church’s services, Father. It was an experience for me.”
“’Father’ is normally addressed to Druids in these parts, my friend. We’re known as ‘Magister’ or ‘Saint’.” The man looked mildly shocked.
“I apologise, sir. Where I am from, Saints are holy men - and women - who have died in Christ and been canonised by our Holy Mother Church, by the Pope himself in Rome, with all his Cardinals by him. So if you don’t mind, Magister is what it will be.”
“In these parts, ‘saint’ means holy man, or member of a Christian community. I take it you’re a follower of the Roman Church?”
“Indeed I am, Magister, ten years since. We are pleased to be of God’s Kingdom on Earth, and to partake of His Grace, which only it can bestow.”
I could argue about this with him or leave it for a better time. We would be fellow-travellers for some days and I didn’t want the journey to be awkward. I mentioned that the Irish Church did not entirely agree with the Romans but said that I was on my way to a great Synod, which had been called in order to sort it all out.
“I’m on my way to meet a great Roman Bishop and at least two Abbots in order that we discuss how we should all work together. I’m sure any areas of disagreement will be resolved. But I take it,” I continued before the theological dispute could be taken any further, “that you aren’t from Strathclyde?”
“Oh, I am, Fa - Magister, but not from these parts. Strathclyde is a great Kingdom, the greatest in Britain, and I’m from a long way south of here.” He was from further than that, if I was any kind of judge. By his height and blonde hair, the man was a Saxon.
“Oh? Whereabouts exactly?”
He described a small village, half a day’s march from the old Roman city of Deva, and a place that brought back some memories that were maybe not entirely suitable for a Christian monk. Of Morwenna and a Beltane night, nearly thirty years before. I made myself pay attention to what the merchant was saying.
“It was taken back under Strathclyde’s protection by good King Owain. Prince Owain he was then. I pray for his conversion. He’s never done us newcomers any harm and he’s saved us from the savagery of Gwynedd, so I am his man. We moved there five years ago.”
“Oh, I know your village, and a bustling place it is too. I’ve taken ship there in the past, and sailed across to Innis Vannin,” I said. “But you’re a long way from home?”
“Aye. I had heard that the Kingdom of Fife had a shortage, both of weavers and fine cloth and so I decided to try my luck with them. The competition is a bit fierce in the south, what with all them weavers and sheep in Gwynedd, just across the river from Deva. So I brought my family up with me and I’ll be blowed if we don’t find that Strathclyde has fallen out of sorts with Fife, and King Owain has been rude about their women, and there’s rumours that we’ll be going to war with them and maybe the Lothians too, so we changed our plans and are heading back home. But we must make something of the trip and while we sold some bolts in Dumbarton, we hear we might do well in Northumbria, at the Melrose fair in a few days. Our Southern sheep produce a finer wool than these up here, hardy as I’m sure they are, and I don’t think they’ll have seen the like of our cloth. Let me show you, and you tell me what you think.”
With that he pulled a small book out of his hip-bag which contained swatches of fine woollen cloth in a variety of colours. It was very good quality, I had to agree, and I said so.
“Thank you, Magister. I’m proud of my craft but the quality I produce is too fine for ordinary country folk. Costs too much. I can’t compromise on it, just can’t do it, I have pride in my work, spent a
long time learning my trade, so we have to go where the money is - and that means the Kings’ courts, or the big fairs, wherever they are and whatever language they speak. And,” he continued. “this is by way of a pilgrimage too, as I’ve been told that the Abbey at Melrose is rather grand and a very holy place. Do you know it?”
He turned his inquiring face to me and there were maggots crawling out of his eyes. I stopped dead, as if struck by a stone. I had to lean on a boulder for support.
“What’s the matter?” I forced my eyes open and made myself look at the merchant. His face was perfectly normal and wore an expression of concern. I put my fingers to my temples. The pain was sharp but not overwhelming.
“A sudden headache,” I said. “I suffer from them. They take me unawares, sometimes.” I felt nauseous.
“Is there anything I can do? Would you like to rest awhile? Hold up, there! This man is unwell!” He called.
“No, it isn’t necessary. I have something.” I reached into my bag for my bottle and took a small draught. As usual, the effect was rapid. I breathed heavily for a moment, then smiled. The rest of the company, which had become strung out, was catching up with them - the Moaning Woman was getting closer but was still more concerned with her own troubles. “I’m fine now. Let’s move on. We still have a long way to go.”
The merchant asked if I was sure I was all right. I thanked him and said I was quite recovered. We all have to die sometime, I thought, and there was no indication of when this man was to meet his Maker. It might not be for many years yet - but I knew (and remembered Cunnian’s complaint about the short notice my Visions gave) that my companion wasn’t long for this world. I found it uncomfortable to be with him or his family and so I walked alone for a while. It wasn’t long before the message reached me that the Moaning Woman needed my company and comfort. I resigned myself to her prattle for another hour.
The going had been so sticky and hard that we had made barely eighteen miles before dusk started to close in. We’d climbed up from the river’s flood plain a little but were barely into the foothills of the Uplands. Our day’s journey had brought us to a small Inn, which had insufficient room within its walls for all of us so I at last had my wish and was able to sleep in the barn with the animals. After supper I performed my evening Office and sang another hymn. The animals seemed to enjoy it - at any rate, they listened quietly enough. Afterwards I went straight to sleep and was untroubled by any Visions. I did dream, however, a dream of Ieuan lost in a hostile forest, stumbling out into a clearing but still surrounded by the threatening trees. I could see a small path out but Ieuan couldn’t find it, and didn’t seem to be able to hear me calling the way.
Whether Sight or my own confusion had brought this to me I wasn’t sure. I remembered it only vaguely in the morning.
11
The Weaver’s Answer
The early afternoon of the following day would bring the parting of the ways for the company. The majority would continue up the valley of the Clyde while the merchant, his family and I would take the eastern path over the hills to the Tweed river, which we would then follow down to Melrose. We were warned to be on our guard because, although the three kingdoms of Strathclyde, Lothian and Northumbria were (for the moment) officially at peace, the frontiers were not clearly drawn and it was possible that a skirmish was taking place even now.
I held another short service before we set off, which the merchant and his family did not attend. I was sorry but didn’t push the point.
As we would be together for only a few hours more I once again went to assist the Wailing Woman’s family with their grumbling grand-dam, and was rewarded with an embarrassed smile of thanks from her ‘thoughtless’ son-in-law. I’d concluded that the man must be a veritable Job: he never complained, nor seemed to take issue with even her most unreasonable demands or scolding. I knew others who would have pitched her into the sea when they were on the boat, and faced the consequences with relief.
She was unused to exercise and was constantly pulling up, huffing and puffing, and calling on the others to wait for her. The only ones who did so were her own family. She then had to move even faster - which she did, with great alacrity - in order to catch up with her fellow travellers. It occurred to me (and I suggested it to her) that, if she could keep up a steady pace, she wouldn’t have to rush to catch up so much.
“I don’t know about a steady pace, Magister, I think it’s those ahead that ought to be thinking about a steady pace. No sooner do I catch up with them than they’re pulling away from me again. I shouldn’t be here, of course, but for my feckless son-in-law, dragging me around the place. A woman of my age. Why doesn’t he have more respect for his elders? ‘Honour your father and your mother’, the Good Book says, doesn’t it Magister? So I’m told anyway, I can’t read of course - work of the Devil if you ask me, this reading. What do ordinary folk need reading for when they have their priests and their Magisters to tell them the Word of God? I don’t anyway, I’m happy to do what you say, Magister, and your brothers. And they tell me to offer my sufferings up to the Lord and to share in His sacrifice, and I’m happy to do so, you can be sure, and I rejoice in my afflictions if they bring me nearer to my God, but you know that I don’t think it’s right for others to be deciding what sufferings you should be putting up with, that’s up to God, and people my age shouldn’t be dragged around like this.” At that moment, having caught up with the rest, she had to pause for breath. With only a few slight twinges of guilt, I managed to make myself busy with the others until we came to the parting of the ways.
Each party counselled the other to take care and watch out for bandits and any other renegades there may be about, and with final good wishes we of the Melrose party struck off on the narrower path, over the hills to the headwaters of the Tweed, and east to the Abbey at the head of the river’s lowlands.
We didn’t have much time before darkness would start to close in, maybe four hours at most, but without the drag-anchor of the Wailing Woman we made good time. The top of the pass that was our immediate target was marked by a gigantic stone. It was more than twelve feet tall and its distinctive shape marked it out as a beacon in all but the very deepest winter snows. It would be a foolhardy man who would venture out into this treeless wilderness when the snow was more than a little way up the marker, but there would be some who would brave the wildest weather on their King’s business - or their own.
The stone marked the highest point of our journey. From there on, the way would be mostly downhill, following the path of a tributary until we reached the main river of the Tweed. We all remarked on the fact when we saw the little stream, flowing the opposite way from the Clyde river behind us. It gave an impetus to our steady walk and we found themselves at the village of Biggar and its Inn a good half hour before sunset. I was made particularly welcome as the pious people of the settlement hadn’t seen a priest or even a novice for weeks. They’d had a hermit nearby but he’d disappeared: whether gone off on a pilgrimage or wandered off into the winter snows to die, no-one could tell. All they knew was that he was there up to Christmastide, and had then disappeared.
I was enrolled to lead a service even before I had supper and was engaged for a further two or three hours giving medicine to the curably sick and comfort to those beyond this world’s help before I could retreat to the stable and compose myself again. My healing powers - mean and inadequate thought they were, especially when compared with Ieuan’s Gift - seemed miraculous to the small, isolated community and some who were wavering were reconfirmed in their new Christian faith. I smiled with a little bitterness at the realisation that the mumbo-jumbo of the local witchdoctors had utterly failed these people. There were no signs of any shamen now: they would keep themselves out of sight until I’d gone. I would make a point of returning here, or ask a monk from Melrose to come out and hold back the influence of the stone-worshippers.
The early spring sky was empty of clouds and when darkness fell, the stars were scat
tered across it like dust. It would be a cold and frosty night. I could have stood and marvelled at the sight for hours but my evening Office called. I tore my gaze away and returned to the stable. There I fixed my eyes on the blank wall in front of me and cleared my mind of all mundane thoughts.
I was able to complete most of my Office before the fuzziness of another Vision. I heard an echo of the wild chant I’d experienced two nights previously. I was ready, and gave myself up to whatever message I was sent.
I was in the clearing as before. The grass was alive with an obscene vitality that clawed at my guts and throat. I could feel my gorge rise at the sensual caressing of the blades at my feet. There was a rough-hewn stone before me and I knew, without looking, that the top had been carved into a bowl. Something was in it and I did not want to see what it was. I was not ready. There was an abomination in it that I could not yet face. I knew it had the power to drive me mad again if I saw it without the necessary strength, and I was not strong enough, not yet. I turned and looked for a way out. There were trees around, and a figure on the boundary, beckoning me. It was familiar. I walked towards it, away from the altar, and saw a statue that I had not noticed previously. It was bent like an old man but its face was shrouded in a hood and I could not see who it was.
The figure at the woods beckoned again, with more urgency. I recognised it but could not quite determine who it was. It seemed older. I went towards it, away from the altar.
There was a white yearling fawn in the woods, with a circlet around its neck. There was the sound of hounds - they had got its scent. The fawn leaped out of the trees and ran into the clearing. I tried to stop it. Being torn to pieces was better than the least fate that awaited such an innocent creature at the altar. I tried to stop it but it ran straight through me, because I wasn’t there.
I was looking at a castle atop a hill, overlooking a wide river estuary. Someone was walking among the huts gathered outside, collecting offerings. Some were made willingly, others had to be taken by force.
The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3) Page 13