The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  I cut him short.

  “Get up. You blaspheme against God, and I know you have no earnest of reform.” He rose to his feet again.

  “Alas, no. Would it were otherwise. Not that you could shrieve me, anyway. You could do nothing for yon smoking fellow, whose repentance was in no doubt as he went on his way to his Maker. You must feel a fool, Magister. You, a man of God, unable to satisfy his need in the extreme of his agony?” I was silent, but the bandit was irritating me. “What use are you then, to man or beast? All the man wanted was absolution, and even the Romans give that - and look what they get. Converts falling out of the trees. And you’re real holy men, or so you say. Just think, you could have made a deathbed convert with a few comforting words - just some words, Magister - but you wouldn’t. And you call yourself a man of God. Where’s your famous Christian charity, that you wouldn’t help a suffering fellow. Where was it?”

  I was pricked to reply, at last.

  “Aye, we claim to be holy men - we try to be, at least, in what we do and the example we set. We won’t deceive a poor dying soul who’s just seen his family murdered. He’ll be standing before the throne of God and protesting his faith for himself and know that he’d no need of my forgiveness. I’ll pray for him, and his family, that God forgives him his sins. But,” I went on, forestalling the bandit’s attempt to interrupt, “he had it in his own power to live a worthy life. And so do you. You are responsible for everything you do, and will have to answer for it before the Throne of God. Be sure you have some good arguments, or good deeds. The latter would be preferable, I think.”

  “You think so?” he looked at me with interest.

  “I do. Change your ways now.” But the interest was nothing more than mockery.

  “Ah, but I’ve been listening too long to the Romans. They tell me that the Elect have been recorded in the Book of Life since before time began. My destiny is in your God’s hands alone, and nothing I can do will make any difference. If he wishes me to be good, he will make me so and if I’m in, I’m in - and if not, then nothing I do will make any difference at all. I could be blessed by the Pope himself and it would mean nothing, or so they say, so I’ll just go about my business and leave the rest to your God.”

  “You can make a difference, you know.”

  “Och, I’ve had enough of philosophy for today,” He hitched up his weapons and picked up his bag, “so I’ll bid you good day - oh,” he had made to walk away but now he turned again to face me, still with his sardonic smile, “and a safe journey to you. A word to the wise: travel alone. You bring bad luck to your companions. Either stick with them - if you wish to share their fate like a good Christian - or let them be.” He headed off once more but couldn’t resist a last word. What now? I thought. “You were in Strathclyde, yes? At Dumbarton?” I nodded. “Baptise many, did you?” And with that, he left for good, walking off up the path back towards the Clyde. I started to go after him and ask what he meant but I realised it would be pointless. The bandit wouldn’t tell me even if he actually knew anything. I was more likely to get another jibe than any real information.

  It was his parting shot. I hadn’t been asked while at Dumbarton, and of course I hadn’t seen many children while I was there - other than the sick child Ieuan had healed, and the bandit’s last dart had awakened again the puzzlement I’d felt on that last morning. It was growing beyond puzzlement now, it was assuming the character of a dark and shapeless mass in my mind, like a thundercloud building up on the horizon. It was a troubling image and one that resonated in a tentative harmony with the fear behind the locked door in my mind. But he was probably just jibing at Strathclyde’s paganism and our apparent powerlessness against it.

  I was torn for a moment between going back to Dumbarton and getting to the bottom of the mystery, and pushing on to Lindisfarne and Whitby. I wanted to do both, but that wasn’t possible: I couldn’t be in two places at once. My orders and my mission were ahead but the dark puzzle was behind, back the way I’d come. I couldn’t decide which was the more important. I looked at the sky and the horizon in both directions: to the East, the land sloped downwards towards Melrose and the coast beyond; to the West the hills rose up and up to the pass back to the Clyde valley.

  I was in a dilemma and sat down to contemplate and think, and to ask God for guidance. No direct answer came but the feeling that I should continue to Lindisfarne grew. Whatever may be going on - or not - in Dumbarton was a vague feeling, whereas the Synod at Whitby was of real and immediate importance. I knew that I ignored my Feelings at my peril but I also believed that all would be revealed at the right time. For now, Lindisfarne, and then Whitby. After the Synod I would go back through Dumbarton and stay there until I was able to solve the problem.

  “Are we going? I don’t like this place.” I’d forgotten all about Bedwyr. His voice brought me back and I wasted no more time. I picked up my bags - still bulging with the herbs gathered on the hill above Owain’s castle - and set off at a brisk pace, following the Eastward course of the Tweed. “Why didn’t that man say anything to me? He was an outlaw, wasn’t he? Is he a really bad man? Has he killed many people”

  “Enough!” I laughed. “One question at a time, boy. And wait for the answer before you ask the next. Listen a little more and you may learn much. But why didn’t he say anything to you? Or about you?” I stopped and looked down at the boy. “I think you’re very lucky, Bedwyr, and you’ve been selected for something very special. The bandit didn’t notice you, I think, because God must have clouded his eyes. I think he may be a very bad man indeed.” With that I swung the boy up onto my shoulders and was able to make faster progress over the next few miles.

  We reached Melrose on the evening of the following day, and were made welcome by the monks at the Abbey. Their buildings weren’t grand but simple pebble-and-mortar-filled timber frames thatched over in the local style. Outside the monastery proper there were two distinct settlements: a small town, which predated the religious community, with a thriving market and regular fairs, and a smaller group of houses belonging to lay Christians. This latter settlement was made up of people who were attracted to the religious life but were not, at this stage, prepared to commit themselves totally. They continued as farmers, weavers, herdsmen or whatever, and they supplied work to the monastery in exchange for a share in the land’s produce. They attracted hangers-on, of course, people who heard the word ‘charity’ and thought they were in for a good time freeloading on the labours of others. They soon learned that they were expected to work for their bread and most moved on. A number, people who had fallen on hard times, were happy to stay and contribute. Some joined the monastery full time, others swelled the religious group as they established and raised families. The religious houses of Melrose now made up a substantial part of the town.

  The monastery knew of the summons to Whitby and they had supplied a couple of clerks for the weeks of preparations. They happily gave me, their brother monk, shelter for the night and they replenished my store of food before sending me on my way with their blessing and good wishes. Before I left I had a meeting with Eata the Prior and formally handed Bedwyr over to his care. I told him where he’d come from and we agreed that the boy would receive instruction in reading and writing, as well as the Scriptures. He was led away and I realised that he’d been unusually quiet for some time. I was reminded of it as I heard a series of questions being fired at the monk who had been appointed his guardian. We smiled with a little apprehension at the future demands he would place. Eata put my mind at rest.

  “I’m sure he’ll do well. We need inquisitive minds in the monastery and if he gets too much for us we’ll send him over to Cuthbert at Lindisfarne. He might keep our holy friend’s mind off those matters that bear him down and remind him of Christ’s love of children.” I raised the issue of the seed corn I had promised for the boy’s family and the Prior agreed to send a bushel with the next person travelling that way. I also mentioned that the village was without its her
mit and again was assured it would be dealt with.

  I discussed my feelings about Strathclyde, as much as I could. I was eager for whatever counsel there may be. Eata was about the same age as I and his position indicated the respect in which he was held.

  Eata was aware that Strathclyde still clung to Druidism. He knew something of the mysterious power of the Druids and respected them as learned men but feared where their studies and interests could take them. There was still the suspicion that its barbarous past could arise again, especially in a world where the Devil seemed to have no shortage of either disciples or influence. I stressed that I had no proof of anything evil, just the formless fear and a couple of strange visions. I also mentioned the lack of young ones. Eata paused as we walked up the slope outside the monastery.

  “It’s no proof, as you say, but it is strange that there are so few. Soldiers are a lusty lot and any army on the move is always followed by a rag-taggle train, mostly made up of their doxies and their by-blows.” We walked on again. “There never seems to be any shortage of them, usually causing more trouble to ordinary folk than the soldiers ever do, it has to be said. Were it not for your Visions I’d say it was just coincidence or a temporary situation - Owain has been busy with his men for quite a few years. And were it not for your temptations I would put my faith in your Sight completely.” He stopped at the top of a hill above the Abbey and looked down on its neatly farmed fields and well-tended livestock before continuing. “But it is the Devil’s way to sow confusion among his enemies. You believe Owain to be fundamentally good?”

  “If ambitious.”

  “Not a handicap for a king these days. And his brother?”

  “He carries a burden, but it has no bearing. He is not my friend but only because I upset Ieuan, I believe. They’re very close.”

  “The Druid, yes. A bitter and frustrated man, I think. What do you think of him?”

  “He has been a good friend. He saved my life more than once, at great personal risk, and rescued me from beatings and unwanted attention many times when we were boys at Innisgarbh. I can’t believe he would have anything to do with anything truly evil, although he’s changed greatly in appearance and his path has been a lonely one. He’s much aged since I saw him last. And there’s this.” I took the small statue out of my pocket and showed it to Eata, who quickly made the Sign of the Cross. I described where I’d found it and told him where I’d last seen one, in Lucius’ company. “Lucius was hurtling down that road and he took many with him. It took a lot to defeat him in the end, at the Ballaogh. He was a wicked and dangerous man. But he’s been dead these twenty years. His coven is either sharing the fires of Hell with him or locked in madness.”

  “Did Ieuan know him?”

  “Of course, but they were enemies. He saved me from Lucius as well. He wasn’t frightened of confronting him. He would no more have sided with him than with the English invaders.”

  “Your friendship may blind you to fundamental changes in him.”

  I nodded slowly. “Perhaps, but I felt no evil in him.”

  “But you weren’t looking for any.”

  “I never do. I find it without having to look for it.” Eata nodded in his turn.

  “Don’t we all. This peaceful scene conceals much enmity and even wickedness, at times” he indicated the Abbey farms and the small settlement. “But on the surface all is calm and most will greet you pleasantly. The Druid is a friend, he remembers you fondly. I wonder why he sticks with the old ways, when so many of his companions have turned to the true path. But you may well be right,” he said, turning to walk back down the hill again, “he may have no malice in him. As I said, the Devil loves to sow confusion among his enemies. It wouldn’t be any surprise if he tried to drive a wedge between you and your friends: he would love to see it.

  “You have a difficult road to follow, Anselm. Be careful and hold fast to the Faith. Pray to St Michael, that he may spare you just a thousandth part of his courage and strength. I will pray for you too.”

  “And let me know if you hear anything that may help throw light on the mystery,” I replied. “Ask your brothers to look out for any signs. Ask after any new druids, maybe in the woods or in hermitage.” Eata agreed, then he turned to other topics.

  “And now, tell me about Nectan’s daughter,” he was referring to Gruach. “Is she well? Has she settled?”

  “I didn’t know you knew her.”

  “Not personally, but I know of her and these alliances between kings are always of interest. We’re not so very far away from two borders that have been the subject of…er…heated debate. We’re now ruled from Bamburgh, but only a few months ago these lands were part of Lothian - and may well be again one day.”

  We passed the time back to the Abbey in conversation about the pretty young Queen and her unusual spirit. I recounted her scolding of Owain, without detailing the reason, and Eata laughed at her audacity.

  “You seem quite taken with the lass,” he said lightly.

  “Indeed I am. She’s a breath of fresh air and good for Owain, I’m sure. I’m not so taken as to wander off my path in search of one like her, but it’s good to know that she’s in the World. It makes it a brighter place.”

  “Your honesty does you credit, brother. Had you tried to conceal your feelings I would have been concerned for you and maybe recommended a long pilgrimage to a remote and rocky place once your duties at Whitby have been discharged, but you’ve been open. The pilgrimage is not a bad idea anyway, of course, but in this instance to strengthen your Faith rather than to subdue inappropriate emotions,” and he smiled. “Maybe I should take the White Martyrdom myself, and if my route happens to take me to Dumbarton I’ll be able to judge for myself whether your Gift of divination is accurate. You’re not the only one with a touch of the Sight.”

  I snorted briefly. Once Eata had confessed to his Gift it was obvious that he had it, although less strong than my own.

  We’d reached the grounds of the Abbey and, across the yard, Bedwyr was being led towards the infirmary. He was still wearing his threadbare clothes but he was carrying a bundle that looked - even from a distance - much cleaner. The boy would be bathed and dressed in a simple habit and his old clothes would be given to a family even poorer than his own: there was no shortage of them.

  “He’s very small and young. You were right to bring him here, nonetheless, and I thank you. I will pray that he will be strong enough to resist the Evil One when he is assailed.”

  “Given half a chance, he’d talk him to death.” I grinned.

  “Ah yes. He must learn some self-control, I think.”

  “Not so much that the spark is snuffed out, I hope.” Eata paused for a moment.

  “You’re right. We must not drown his great Gift in a sea of discipline, or we may be held to account for it. I’ll make sure it’s not laid on too thick and his Gift is encouraged to grow. I think that lad may have a bright future in the Church, if he chooses to stay.”

  “I pray he will. He may turn out to be very helpful to us and those who follow.”

  Eata nodded agreement and then we took our leave of each other. I thanked him for his time and, through him, for the Community’s hospitality. I was encouraged to return soon, and safely, and then set off along the river valley towards the coast.

  The following night I gained shelter with a smallholder and his family and, in payment, had to satisfy their entreaties for baptism for their youngest child, born during the winter, and for a small family service.

  My hosts informed me that there were Roman missionaries wandering the countryside, proselytising and seeking converts but with little success so far. Some conversions had been made but equally some priests had disappeared. This was a dangerous area and one who is expected to carry a full purse - whether or not they did - was a likely target for brigands, deserters and even (it must be confessed) starving farm families. The main reason for the lack of success, however, was the usual: submission to their hierarchies a
nd discipline. For people brought up by the monks of Lindisfarne and Iona to have a direct relationship with God the very idea of an intermediary was distasteful, especially if – like the Pope – he was a foreigner none had seen.

  I rose early and left quickly. I made good time but when nightfall came I had to camp in the open almost within sight of the Holy Island. It was frustrating to have to stop, so close, but it had to be borne. I’d done well so far - greatly aided by Owain’s ferry service - and I would probably arrive before I was looked for in any case. A night to cool my heels would help strengthen my patience.

  After my morning offices and breakfast of bread, spring water and goat’s cheese I set off with a light heart. Although the expedition to Whitby was yet to come I felt that Lindisfarne, the Holy Island, was the end of my journey for now. I was looking forward to seeing the community here: the cheerful, simple and faithful Colman; Cuthbert the ascetic whose great intellect created greater torments to test and stretch his soul; Cedd, whose bright conversation and wide knowledge was as enjoyable as it was enlightening, and there would be others of course. New novices, visiting monks from Erin and the British kingdoms to the south and west, and others who I didn’t know. There was much to look forward to and I quickened my step again. Above all there was the Shrine of Aidan, founder of the Community, who I’d met only once and that a long time ago. It was Iona’s child but one that was set to overtake its parent in importance as it enjoyed the patronage of the most powerful of the English kings.

  When I reached the strand the sand was damp. I didn’t know whether the tide was coming in or going out and there was no-one around to ask. I looked across to Lindisfarne, sometimes island and sometimes mainland, rising a couple of miles ahead, grey-green from the yellow-white of the temporary connection. I wondered if it would be better to wait until I was sure which way the tide was flowing but when I looked around again I saw storm clouds massing to the west. I could stay and be soaked or hurry and maybe get my feet wet. I looked to the Island again, shimmering invitingly in the sunshine that still bathed it ahead of the storm to come, and decided to make for it as quickly as I could. The way was clearly marked by tall poles reaching from the sand, so I was in no danger from quicksands and without further hesitation I set off. It would take me less than half an hour to reach the island if I hurried.