The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  While I felt that I should run and catch them up again, the pull of the grotto was even stronger. To pass this holy place by would be to fail in my duty as a pilgrim monk. The feeling of Power was strong in this place.

  “We’ll see you later if you wish it,” the Merchant called back over his shoulder but I feared for him. His companions would not be persuaded, and I had tried, so all I could do was pray for them.

  Bedwyr asked what had happened. I explained something of our differences as best I could. It was obvious to him that the pool was a holy place so he didn’t really understand. He opened his mouth to ask more but I silenced him with a gently raised hand, and asked him to sit quietly on the bank while I prayed.

  The pool was peaceful and it looked inviting, but a touch of my toe told me that it was icy. It was still very cold further up into the hills and the sun was only just strong enough to melt enough ice and snow to feed the headwaters and fill the shallows. The full floods wouldn’t be for a couple of weeks yet.

  St Columba taught that a monk should take every opportunity for penance and mortification of the flesh. I wouldn’t be the first to take that teaching as an invitation to stand in a freezing cold pool for half an hour and overcome the discomfort by concentrating on higher things. Nonetheless it wasn’t without some trepidation that I stripped off and stepped into the water. At its deepest point it came up to my chest.

  The cold seeped into my bones and the motion of the stream, although slowed by the lip before the small falls, was an added distraction. A less disciplined person wouldn’t have even entered the water, far less remained in it for up to an hour, but my training enabled me to utilise and then transcend the bodily discomfort. I was aware of it but didn’t allow it to distract me, any more than the strain on my arms as I held them out could distract me. I attained a trance-like state wherein I could contemplate all the great mysteries of the earth and heaven.

  My meditation complete, I stepped out of the water and rubbed myself briskly to dry off. The sun gave a little help, even from its thin weakness. I was pulling my robe back on when I heard a light splash and saw in the stream what looked like a child’s doll, half submerged. It could not be a doll, though, because it was trailing blood. A rock caught it close by where I stood, and the blood flowed and flowed out until the whole pool was full of it, and still it came. I splashed out into the shallows, heedless of getting my robe wet, and reached out for the body which I could see now was a baby. I could just reach the pudgy little arm and I went to grasp it and my hand came away with nothing, as I’d known it would. The pool was clear and empty of anything except water and fish. I was standing at the edge, bending over with my arm outstretched. I collected myself and finished getting dressed, gathered my things together and set off down the trail at as quickly as I could, Bedwyr’s hand in mine. I didn’t expect to catch the Merchant and his family before they stopped for the day but the better the progress we made, the more likely it would be that we would spend the night in the same place and resume our strained companionship in the morning.

  “What did you See?” Bedwyr asked. I hadn’t spoken more than a couple of words to him since coming out of the pool. I was surprised that the boy knew immediately what was going on. “Oh, I’ve seen someone with the Sight before. She was from Erin, too, or maybe their new kingdom in the north. She spoke funny anyway, like you. When she had a Vision, she would walk strangely and then just stop, just like you did back there. She was nearly ridden down by a soldier’s horse once. She didn’t see it at all.” and he giggled.

  “I saw something very unpleasant,” I replied.

  “Does that mean the man is right? That the pool is evil?” the boy’s face was open and merely than interested.

  “No. But I haven’t worked out what it is yet.”

  “Why not? I thought you were clever, one of the cleverest people in the world. All the Magisters are, aren’t they?” I smiled a little, but not without a touch of exasperation.

  “Sometimes God likes to see us work things out for ourselves,” I said, forestalling the next question. “Like I would like to see you taught to read for yourself by the brothers rather than being read to. It would make me happy, as it makes God happy to see us learn things without having to be told all the time.”

  “The merchant thinks we should be told everything by the Pope in Rome, I heard him say so.”

  “I don’t agree, and neither do the Magisters at Melrose. Now can I ask you to be quiet for a while, or I’ll never be able to discover what God wants me to see.” This chastened the child and we proceeded in silence, walking as quickly as the shorter legs could allow.

  I considered the Vision of the dead baby in the pool. The blood indicated a serious injury, possibly even sacrifice, but what I could not decide was whether this was a Sight of older rites associated with the pool or some kind of premonition, or something else. The old Power could linger long after its devotees had disappeared but there had been no feeling of Evil in the place when I came upon it so I could rule out a hangover from the old days.

  I followed the trail with scant attention as I bent my mind to the problem, despite the fact that it was probably pointless. Visions that were not immediately explicable, like the one last night of the fawn, usually had to be left until their meaning was made clear by events.

  Nonetheless I continued to search for a meaning. It was one way of passing the time but I had the feeling that there was a significance that I could understand now, if only I could make a connection, a connection that I began to feel was in my head, if only I could locate it. Whenever I began to feel some kind of coincident line of thought, I found himself up against a dead end.

  No, that wasn’t really true, I thought, after a while. It wasn’t a dead end, it was a closed door, which was different. I considered the door: I could see it in my mind’s eye. It was large and solid, heavily bolted and barred but from my own side. I could unlock it if I had the key.

  I felt a shiver as I searched in my mind for the key. I had it already, I knew I had, but the shiver was of fear: behind the door lay madness, and I recoiled from it. I’d been there, inside the labyrinth beyond the door. I didn’t want to go there again.

  I went on, head bowed, trying to sort out the problem without opening the dreadful door. There must be a solution this side of madness and I would find it, I would go round and through the thickest tangles, as the badger had shown me the way away from the Glade.

  I wandered into a clearing, still wrapped up in my problem. Bedwyr tugged my arm urgently and we were confronted with something that was not a Vision, though I wished profoundly that it was. It was a scene of horror but there was a kind of sense to it.

  There seemed to be bodies everywhere, filling the clearing from one side to another, but there could be no more than seven, including the children. I looked around for them first and found them. All three were dead, even the baby, from single sword wounds to the back. They wouldn’t have suffered much - beyond the terror of knowing they were going to die of course, which would have been suffering enough for anyone. Their mother was nearby, reaching out for her babes. Her throat had been cut. Her brothers must have put up a fight, as they’d all sustained more than one wound. They had bled from their arms and sides but a massive blow that had opened his head had finished off one. The other’s final wound was not determinable: he had so many.

  Of the family’s goods there was no sign, which wasn’t surprising, but the Weaver himself was not with the rest and I went looking for him. He wasn’t far and he was still alive, although very badly wounded and not long for the world. He could speak and was able to call me over. He was in a lot of pain and his tunic was soaked with blood. I knelt beside him and took his hand.

  “What happened? Robbers?” The Weaver nodded.

  “I think so. They overwhelmed us. A dozen at least. We tried to resist them but there were too many.” He looked around. “They wanted our stock. We tried to resist them.” I nodded. It was unlikely that the fa
mily would’ve been spared even if they had given up the stock, but this proud man had not even considered that course. Not even for the sake of his family. Greed and Pride were heavy burdens. “They killed us all. Even the children. There were too many.” He tried to sit up but the pain was too great. “They’ve killed us all.” He grabbed my hand. “Shrieve me, priest. Hear my confession. Give me absolution. Bless me Father, for I have sinned…” He tried to sit up again but I held him back and spoke gently.

  “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.

  12

  The Warrior’s Question

  Now I had work to do. It wasn’t much past midday and there were seven bodies to deal with. I dragged the Merchant across to his family and brought all of them together. Bedwyr went in search of suitable wood: we were in a forest, of course, but much of the material lying around was damp. We both had to search a long time and made many trips into the wood and back to the clearing again before there was sufficient for the task. It took more than two hours before the pile was big enough, and long before we had enough I knew we were being watched. I didn’t allow it to distract me from my task, nor did I demand help. If the watcher (I felt it was only one) was going to help, he would show himself. Otherwise I just had to get on with the job myself. I didn’t fear for my own safety. I had nothing of value to steal and if anyone was going to kill me for killing’s sake there was probably little I could do about it. I’d walked through dangerous places before and had, up till now, come out unscathed. My monk’s habit gave me better protection than the strongest armour so I went on with my duty to the dead.

  At last there was enough wood for a pyre big enough for seven. I laid a thick layer of brushwood, then a rough platform on top about three feet above the ground, which I tied together with bracken. It didn’t have to last long, so the highest quality workmanship wasn’t necessary. Onto the platform I piled a layer of branches, then I had the task of dragging the bodies over and heaving them onto the top of the heap, starting with the adults.

  Dead bodies are heavy. They’re floppy and uncooperative. I was tired before I even started to load them onto the pyre. I managed to heave the parents and their brothers on top and arranged them neatly with a great deal of effort. I was tempted to call the watcher out to give some help but resisted it and went on with the job myself.

  The children were young and thin - not malnourished, just slim - and they were easier to carry. Bedwyr managed to bring the toddler over on his own and he passed the little one on to me. She was as easy to carry as a cloud, she was barely as heavy as a bag of flowers. I placed her on her mother’s breast and folded her arms around her. The oldest, a boy, I put in his father’s arms. Finally I put the little girl between her parents and jumped down. The heavy work was over, and now the fire had to be lit.

  I gathered some dry grass and managed to find two dry but substantial sticks. At my request Bedwyr gathered some bracken for a torch. I found a flat stone and fashioned a bow from a green, flexible branch, tied with my girdle. I twisted the crude bowstring round the thinner of the two sticks and braced it against its partner with the stone. Then I set to working the bow back and fore, back and fore, making the thinner stick spin and spin against the thicker. The whole lot fell apart more than once, but after a few minutes a wisp of smoke issued from the hole that was appearing in the larger piece of wood. In a moment or two there was the hint of a spark. I paused briefly to put some dry pine needles into and around the small hole and continued spinning. A couple of minutes later there were more definite signs of sparks. I dropped the bow and cupped my hands around the tiny fire, blowing gently and feeding more dry grass and pine needles into the feeble little flames, helping them to grow stronger. When they were big enough I added bracken and brushwood until there was a strong little blaze. I got more brushwood and twisted it into the bracken torch, which I lit from the little fire and thrust into the pyre when it was well alight. The brushwood caught immediately and within moments the heat was intense.

  I stepped back and started a short funeral oration. I didn’t know all the family’s names and substituted ‘your children’ where appropriate.

  The part I disliked most was when the bodies themselves caught and burned. The smell of burning human flesh always reminded me of overdone pork. I stepped further back, the service over, and watched to make sure the cremation was complete. The flames roared and crackled and the smell became even more intense.

  “That’s a bonny fire you have there, Magister,” a voice said in Gaelic. “Do you mind if I warm myself at it? There’s still a nip in the air.”

  “I don’t feel it,” I replied, “but then I’ve been working hard, not sitting on damp rocks all afternoon.” A tall, dark haired man came up to stand alongside me. He was wearing simple but not rough clothing. His sleeveless dark leather jacket indicated that he was a warrior. On his back he carried a huge sword, a claymore almost as tall as himself, and a shield of leather studded with iron. Bedwyr, who had been standing calmly beside me throughout the short service, stepped back to hide behind my monk’s robe.

  “And a very good job you made of it, I must say. I’d almost think you’d done this before. You were doing so well I knew I would just get in the way.” He smiled and he looked quite pleasant, but there was a selfish gleam in the eye. “Friends of yours?”

  “We met on the way. Were you acquainted with them?”

  “Me? No, your saintliness. I arrived while you were talking to that last one. I think I passed the folk who did this a few miles back, they certainly seemed to be excited about a load of cloth they had. From their garb I would say they weren’t either weavers or honest merchants, so I have to assume that they came by their goods dishonestly. Your dead companion exaggerated, although fear makes fools of us all, I think. There were only six of them.”

  “Enough to commit some nasty murders. You saw there were children, young children at that, among the family?”

  “I saw you with them, aye. Perhaps it was better they were killed as well. After all, who but their parents would want to look after children in these hard times? Folk have too many mouths to feed these days and some of them do hard things to keep the numbers down as it is. No Magister,” he continued with a wry smile, “they are in a better place, out of this vale of tears, held tight to Jesus’ bosom.” He tenderly crossed his arms over his chest in a mockery of a gentle hug, and his face turned angelic and concerned for a moment before breaking again into a sardonic smile. I didn’t like him. I didn’t expect that I would have liked him even if we met in happier circumstances. My distaste must have shown, for the fellow wiped the smile off his face. “I’m sorry your sainthood, I shouldn’t be so disrespectful, but come on now,” he reached as if to put his arm around my shoulders, but I stepped away. “Ah. Do you not like my company?”

  “I’ve enjoyed better. I’d sooner not m
ix with unrepentant brigands, as I believe you are.”

  “Indeed I am, driven to it by poverty. I make my living in the gaps the armies leave, until something better turns up. Are you not afraid of me? Aren’t you frightened that I will send you on your way to your God as well as your companions? And who would pray over your pyre, eh?” I didn’t answer and he continued. “Fear not, Father, I see no point in robbing you. And if there’s no point in robbing you, then there’s no point in killing you either. I have enough sins to carry without adding the murder of a poor Irish cleric, for so I see you are. A plump Roman priest now,” he winked a leering grin at me, “that’s a different matter. They have coin jingling in their purse and fine silks and cloth-of-gold on their backs. They’ve barrels of food in their train and they often carry some very nice pieces of gold and silver. They’re worth a risk now, though they go around so well guarded these days. They have so much to protect, you see? Not like you poor monks who wander around with nothing but a few herbs.”

  “The Romans collect alms for the poor from their rich patrons, I believe.” I replied.

  “Aye, they’re always on the lookout for deserving cases. They don’t seem to find many that are deserving enough though, it seems. So they keep their wealth for the most deserving they come across - themselves. And so they get fatter and even more ripe for the plucking. They have difficulty finding deserving poor. I have none. I can find them very easily.”

  “Starting with yourself, I suppose.” I said, and he smiled.

  “Charity begins at home, Magister. But don’t think for a moment that I think only bad of the Romans. They commune with God every day I understand, and I think they realise it’s important to look their best. Otherwise why the silks and fine linen? But then, God created us naked, did he not, and maybe our finest raiment is our birthday suit. I hope so,” he laughed, “because that’s how I leave them, more often than not. I’m a sinner, I know it.” He fell to his knees and spread out his arms. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”