“I’m sorry, We don’t do that. Forgiveness is in God’s hands alone. You must face him with all your life as an offering: the good he will accept and the bad he will cast aside.” The Merchant’s face contorted with pain and anger.
“You can shrieve me. You must. You must. Whatever you bind on Earth shall be bound in Heaven. Whatever you loose on Earth shall be loosed in Heaven. You must shrieve me. I have sinned. You must free me from my sins before I go to meet my Maker. You must. The Bible says you can.” I told him again that I could not.
“Then what use are you to anyone? You can’t do anything, you can’t help a man in his extremity. You’re useless as a priest and no man either. You are not a man of God, you’re the devil’s creature in disguise. Come to fool the simple and gullible. You’re worse than the pagans and I curse you for it. If you let me go to Hell unshriven, then I will see you there too.” With that, his face twisted again and he died.
I prised the dead man’s fingers from my own and stood up. He had gripped as tight as death itself in his final agony. I sighed and asked God to have mercy on his soul. At his end he was genuinely sorry for his sins, and frightened of what may lie in store for him.
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 scattered 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 ra
n 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.
I turned away and saw a beautiful young man walking towards me. He was saying something, but I could not make out what it was. I knew, however, that the young man was offering me all I desired, and it was in his power to give it. I sang the first two lines of the Resurrection song and turned away.
The castle had disappeared. A fire raged before me and I knew that my true desire was beyond it. I felt a yearning to get through and to meet the Truth on the other side. I took a step forward.
“Not yet,” I heard someone say. It was a sweet voice, an old friend’s voice, and I loved it as much as I loved myself. “Not yet, there is more to do.”
The fire faded and my nose was up against the stable wall. I felt my way around the straw-strewn floor until I found my bag and took a reasonable draught of medicine against the headache, then laid myself down to sleep.
I slept soundly; so soundly I was late getting up and found my companions ready for departure. There was time for only the briefest of breakfasts before we were ready to be on our way again - but I wasn’t to depart immediately. An exasperated-looking local came up with a young boy in tow - probably no more than six, by my estimate. The (presumed) father shuffled his feet and looked alternately embarrassed and imploring towards me.
“How can I help you?” I prompted. The father looked relieved.
“It’s the boy, Magister. He’s so full of questions about this Christian religion of yours. I can’t answer them, I don’t know enough. Please talk to him for us. He’s driving us mad!”
I considered the child. There was a gleam of a sharp mind in the eyes that regarded me steadily for a moment before a word from his father cast them down in respect. I asked my companions to spare me a few moments and then sat down, calling the boy over to me. I was a stocky man and my shaved head and flowing hair could be intimidating for a child.
“What would you like to ask me?”
He was full of questions, about the Old gods, whether they had been killed when our new one came, whether the Old ones did any harm – I was subject to quite a searching examination. He asserted that he thought he liked the Old ones better, the little spirits of the spring, and whether the offerings they had made had any value. But he did say that there were some that he didn’t like.
“Which ones are you thinking of?” The boy looked down and shuffled his feet, suddenly reluctant to continue. “Go on,” I prodded gently, “you can tell me. I won’t be angry with you.” The boy looked up, unsure, and I nodded encouragement.
“There’s the one that eats children.” There was another sharp intake of breath, through more than one mouth this time.
“What is this one called?”
“Cromm.” there were several who made the sign against evil. “Cromm Cruaich. He eats children, doesn’t he?” I took a moment before answering and suddenly remembered the talisman in my pocket. I’d meant to discuss it with Ieuan.
I explained that not all spirits were God’s servants and that some had rebelled against him, that they were proud and arrogant and didn’t want to serve anyone. And that they hated humanity and he must always be on his guard against them.
“Did God create everything?” I nodded. “Then did he create the Devil and his demons too? Why did he do that?” Some in the small audience smiled at the lad’s audacity. Others disapproved of his forwardness and what they considered something close to blasphemy. I took his shoulder and dropped down to his level again, regarding him seriously. He returned my gaze with a very steady one of his own.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Bedwyr, Magister.”
“Bedwyr, I want you to listen to me. Would you like to go somewhere no-one minds you asking questions and thinking about these things?” The boy’s eyes snapped sharply into focus and there was interest: real interest but not commitment. He was thinking about it and he glanced behind to his father. I followed his look and spoke again. “I think he could do well under the tutelage of my brothers at Melrose, or maybe even Lindisfarne, and he may grow to be an asset. Would you be willing to let him go?”
The man didn’t answer immediately. I could see two conflicting emotions were at war in him: on the one hand, the boy would grow to be a useful and productive pair of hands to help eke out whatever mean existence the family had but, on the other hand, he would be a mouth to feed and a burden for some years yet. The father in his turn looked over to a woman standing in the small crowd, who had one child in a shabby and threadbare shawl tied over her shoulders, another dangling from her hand and a third playing in the dirt at her feet: she looked worn out and on the verge of old age, although she was probably less than twenty-five years old. The boy interrupted before she could answer.
“Would they let me learn to read and write?”
“Yes: they would teach you. Would you like to learn?” The boy nodded vigorously. I looked again to the woman, the child’s mother, who shrugged her shoulders indifferently. She had enough to contend with, I thought, without this child plaguing her with questions she couldn’t answer. The father replied for the two of them.
“If you think he will make a good monk - I wouldn’t want any shame on us if he was sent back in disgrace - and if he wants it, well,” he stood straight and squared his shoulders, “I won’t stand in his way.” and he stood back from the two of us as if relinquishing his charge. “But if you would be so kind, Magister, if he will be of worth to you then I have to ask you, with respect of course…,” the man became tongue-tied and I nodded encouragement. I knew what was coming. “Well sir, your honour, he would have been of some worth to us in a couple of years, poor as we are, he could have earned his keep and maybe a little more besides, helped out as it were…”
“What do you want, friend?”
“Sir, I hesitate to ask but it has been a very hard year for us, very hard. We didn’t have a good harvest last year and all the mouths to feed…” his voice trailed off again.
“I’ll ask the Abbott at Melrose. If he decides to take the boy, and only then, to send you a bushel of seed corn in time for planting.”
“Oh thank you sir, thank you. That would be most kind, you are very generous, thank you.” He would have carried on for some time in this vein if I hadn’t cut him short.
“I trust the boy will turn out to be worth it. I can see you are a hard-working man, but don’t be so foolish as to eat your seed again.” Bedwyr’s father nodded vigorously and retreated, still muttering thanks.
I was only mildly surprised to realise that the child was expected to leave with me that day. I prevailed upon my companions to delay a few more minutes while the boy’s meagre belongings were thrust into a ragged square of cloth, to which was added a small loaf of bread, some cheese and a leather water bottle. The cloth was tied into a bag and suspended from a short stick that he balanced on his shoulder. There were a few tears at the parting. Emotions that the small family had thought had withered being shown at last, until finally - and with promises to visit being exchanged on both sides - I was ready to leave with the rest.
Just over two hours later the stream we were following joined another and the two combined were well on their way to becoming the Tweed. We were heartened and wanted to push on as quickly as possible, but when we came across a pool narrowing to a short series of waterfalls, I could see from little offerings of rags on the hedges and small carved figures that it was an old holy Ylace was obviously pagan, which totally equated to devil-worship in his mind, and he wasn’t slow to let me have his opinion.
“For me and my family the place to worship is God’s house. That’s where the Lord is, i
n the blessed sacrament. Our priests tell us it is so, and that the World is a place where the Devil roams unhindered. You can see evidence of his worshippers all around the place.” He shuddered, although it wasn’t cold. “I won’t stop with you, and neither will my family. And you should move on and pass it by too, for the boy’s sake. You shouldn’t lead him into false practises. Better if this place was burned to ashes - as its Master’s followers will burn to ashes - before any righteous man paused here for longer than a moment.”
I couldn’t persuade him to stay, even by reminding him that Christ was baptised in the River Jordan, not in a cathedral.
“You have too much pagan in your worship. This icy stream is not the River Jordan and this bleak hillside is not the Holy Land. We will not stay. If you will, you can catch us up as best you can when you’ve finished your rites. We can’t stop you. We will tolerate you travelling with us, but don’t ask us to be an audience while you commit blasphemy!” The man was getting quite heated and when I looked at him I expected to see a flushed face with anger in the eyes, but instead I saw the worms again. I feared that the weaver’s death was very close. I implored him to remain, told him that I was concerned for him in the wilderness, in this disputed area. As a monk, I could help overcome any language barrier as I spoke English as well as British and Gaelic, and help to overcome misunderstandings that could turn dangerous. But he would not be moved.
His wife could see my concern and started to ask what I was worried about, but her husband cut her short. He ordered them all to take up their burdens again and herded his little flock off down the path. They went, carrying all their worldly wealth on their backs: heavy burdens indeed, I thought. They’d travelled hundreds of miles in their attempts to get the highest possible price for their produce and had probably spent more on travel and accommodation than they would gain in the end, even in the richest marketplace. It seemed more like obsession than genuine pride in workmanship.
The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3) Page 15