The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  “What’s the matter, Colman?” I asked. “Why do you look so worried? What’s happened?”

  14

  Lindisfarne

  “Anselm? Anselm! Anselm! You have come back to us! Oh, thank God, praise the name of Jesus, I thought we’d lost you!” He turned to the door of the small, whitewashed room, threw it open and shouted out “God be praised! Anselm has come back to us! He lives and he has spoken to me!” He closed the door again and returned to his chair by the bed. There were tears in his eyes but he was smiling. I was pleased to see him. He fussed about me like a broody hen.

  “I’m so pleased, God be praised, praise Jesus’ name for he has brought you back to us! We thought you’d died in the Strand and were ready to hold your funeral service but Cuthbert shouted and cursed us all and made us bring you to the infirmary here. He, only he, believed you were still alive. The fishermen are talking now of a miracle, that Cuthbert dragged you back from Death’s grasp but he won’t have any of it, he said you were alive all along, but barely, and we had to bring you round. He and I shared the vigil over you but he would take the greater part. Then he said you were walking in deep temptation and we had to pray for you. We prayed and sang for you, from dawn to dusk and to dawn again and kept on even though Cuthbert said you had won with God’s help and come back to us. Tell me, how are you feeling?”

  Colman had talked without stopping or even pausing to draw breath and I loved him for it. I smiled and then the smile was shattered by the searing pain of the headache. I gripped my head and curled up as I fell onto my side.

  “Oh my God he’s going again.” Colman rushed to the door again, threw it open and shouted “Pray harder brothers! Pray and sing the name of the Lord! Anselm is slipping away again!” He threw the door shut, hurled himself back to my bedside, grabbed my hand and started to pray fervently to God for delivery of his brother’s life from the clutches of death and darkness.

  “Medicine. Headache.” I managed to croak.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “Medicine. My headache. Get my medicine. In my bag. Brown bottle.” Colman stopped his prayers and looked around the small room, bewildered. “My bag. Brown bottle. Bring it to me.” Colman was still confused and was not helped by a commotion outside and the door bursting open. A dishevelled and ragged figure exploded into the room, filling it with energy if not his dirty and skinny person.

  “What’s going on? Has he relapsed?” the newcomer demanded.

  “He keeps asking for his bag and a bottle. I don’t know what he’s talking about.” The ragged head darted first one way, then the other, then dived under the bed and reappeared with my shabby pack.

  “The Sight?” he demanded.

  “Yes. Bad. Headache. Medicine. Bag.” I whispered. A dirty hand shot into the bag and was almost followed by a filthy head as he rummaged through it. In a moment the hand emerged clutching the brown bottle that held relief.

  “This?”

  “Yes.” The ragamuffin brought it over and helped me to three drafts. Then he let me gently back onto the bed. “Thank you,” I breathed as the liquid began to work its little miracle.

  “God be praised! He has come back to us again. I will go and tell the brothers to raise their voices in thanksgiving!”

  “Colman, you are a holy man and an example to us all. Your spirituality is second to none but sometimes you are an empty-headed buffoon,” the ragamuffin said. “This man asks for medicine and you leave him to suffer while you run around in panic like a boneheaded fishwife. And he is still not recovered so go and tell the brothers to offer thanks indeed, with all their hearts, but tell them to do it quietly!” Colman looked hurt and astonished but went off to do as he was told, promising that he would be back directly. The singing outside rose strongly and then tailed off uncertainly. The message had been delivered.

  “You’re hard on him, Cuthbert. He’s a good man and an excellent Abbott. You should be more respectful.” Cuthbert, Prior of Lindisfarne, snorted and sat down on the vacated chair, leaning on his bony knees as he bent towards me. His habit was little more than a sack with holes cut in for head and arms and his skinny limbs hung out of it like anaemic straw. He looked like a scarecrow. My nose caught a mixture of body odour, dirt and another, a familiar sweet smell. I saw that Cuthbert was being eaten away from the inside out. “You’ve been fasting again,” I said, “and too soon after the last. And you can’t have bathed in over a week.”

  “I will be washed clean in the blood of the Lamb,” he responded, “and I’m fasting for you. You were in danger of losing your soul, Anselm.”

  “I know, I know,” I replied slowly. My head still hurt but it was improving. “I was in the darkest place I have been for a very long time. I was sorely tempted and would’ve failed the test. I know my soul would have been lost without the support of you and the brothers here. Thank you. I’ve not emerged without taint but I’m restored to you now. So you can have a bath and take some food.” Cuthbert looked away. I sat up, intending to take his hand to persuade him but instead I grabbed his arm for support as a wave of dizziness threatened to leave me sprawled over on the floor. He grabbed my other arm to steady me and regarded me with concern.

  “Are you all right? You haven’t eaten and you’re weak. You must not make sudden movements or try to get out of bed. Wait until you’re stronger.” My head was clearing but I felt very weak. His grip was lighter than a child’s.

  “You’re a fine one to talk: you couldn’t carry yourself to the mainland, never mind Whitby.” Cuthbert drew back away. “Cuthbert, we need you. We all need you, fit and well. are difficult and dangerous times and we need your intelligence rather than your self-indulgence. I will eat when you do and I won’t eat before you.” Cuthbert leaped back, his eyes blazing with righteous, zealous fury.

  “How dare you! How dare you speak to me in such terms! I fasted to save you! You should be grateful to me that I did. How dare you talk to me…to me…of self-indulgence…!” His hand hammered into his sparrow’s chest as he spat with rage and declined into wordlessness. I watched. He was my friend and I admired his devotion. I was happy to concede his superiority in matters of faith but I wasn’t blind to his faults.

  “I have said I’m grateful to you: I am. More than I can say. You may have been aware that I was in danger but you do not have the Sight and could not know what I faced, what I truly faced. But I’m back with you now and there is no need to continue your fast.”

  “What about thanksgiving?”

  “I will thank Our Lord, for it was at his intervention - requested and prayed for by you - that I was saved. We can all offer a prayer of thanksgiving. Fasting is one thing, Cuthbert: you are starving yourself to death.” Cuthbert was still standing and for a moment his eyes held a secret superiority and then he looked away. “I know what you’re thinking. You believe you can detect about yourself that which our fathers in Egypt called the Odour of Sanctity. What you can detect - and what they smelled - is nothing to do with sanctity, it’s your body breaking down and feeding on itself. Although I’m not a Healer I can See it. It is not so much sanctity as a selfish madness. That’s why I said you were self-indulgent, because that’s what your behaviour is: proud, self-righteousness, self regarding and” I concluded “self-indulgent. You need food in your stomach and a clear head: then maybe you can see yourself better and think more of humility and less of exaltation.” When I finished, I was appalled at myself but also a little satisfied, if I’m honest. I should have been grateful but instead I’d woken up angry and fearful, and I’d lashed out at my friend. I don’t know what drove me to it but I couldn’t stop until I had said everything.

  Cuthbert took it in silence, pacing up and down the restricted cell: three steps up and three steps back. Three steps up and three steps back. He was very like a caged wolf, trapped, confused and angry.

  Abruptly he stopped, collapsed in the chair and put his head in his hands. I reached over to touch his shoulder and, although he flinched,
he allowed my hand to stay.

  “God, oh God,” he sobbed at last. His voice was thick. “You’re right, Anselm, you are right. God made you see and speak rightly. I am proud and vain! In my pride and arrogance I thought I was gaining sanctity, at last. At last!” he whispered. “And you tell me it is my body decaying while I yet walk around in it,” he sobbed again. “I abhor it, it is my enemy but it is God’s temple, too. I try everything. I make myself look disgusting to all, especially women: no-one should want me but they swarm around me all the more when I am on Mission: they’ve heard of miracles performed in my name - in my name! - how could I have allowed it! - and want to touch the hem of my cloak. If I wanted, I could make two converts at once: bed a woman and father a child on her. Two at one go! There could be dozens of little bastard Cuthberts running around all over Northumbria, and Lothian, and Rheged…” he stopped to catch his breath again. “Praising God in my name. And their mothers would regard it as a privilege, all these rich women who want to give me money and churches, they would regard it as a privilege to have my bastard children, like concubines with their Royal bastards! They debase themselves! They throw themselves at me! They would welcome me with open arms and willing flesh.” He looked at me and his eyes were red and raw and pleading. “And I want to! Oh, may God forgive me, I want to!”

  “There’s nothing that says you have to be celibate, Cuthbert. You can marry and still be a priest.”

  “And have her and any children stuck in grinding poverty with me? I chose it, I cannot force it on anyone else, not a mother and child! Not a wife!”

  He stood and walked around the cell once, twice, three times while I sat at the edge of the storm I’d sown. He was so weakened and had fought so long for my soul. Without the weakness he wouldn’t have cracked - until maybe much later when his parlous state would have been even worse. Maybe it was for the best that he should break and speak now even though I wasn’t his appointed counsellor.

  “Why does God reject me? Why? I try to be His faithful servant and am tormented constantly for it. I long for the day when I will be allowed to go into my hermitry for good, away from the temptations of the World.”

  “Temptation will follow you, Cuthbert,” I said gently.

  “I will fight it willingly. I look forward to it and will rejoice in the battle.”

  “Don’t invite the enemy in! He will creep into your mind when you’re alone and find you out in your arrogance. You cannot hide from him as you would hide from pious women. Have a care that you wish such a thing and remember this,” I continued, “the demons that will seek you out in solitude, stripped of the veneer they adopt when we are among companions. They are the most dangerous of all, for they reflect your own deepest and most hidden desires.”

  Cuthbert sat down again. “Tell me what to do!” he moaned.

  “The finest steel is tempered in the hottest part of the fire, Cuthbert. God has work for you and you can achieve great things in His name.”

  “I am not worthy,” he said dully. His mood had changed from the secret pride of just a few moments ago to self-pity: he was very far gone.

  “We are none of us worthy,” I replied. There was only One who was worthy and they took Him and hung Him on a tree, and He went meek as a lamb - for all of us Cuthbert, all of us!” I took the tormented monk’s face in my hands and held it, with love and with humour, even with gratitude that I could somehow repair the hurt I’d caused. “Even you, you dirty, ragged, smelly excuse for a man, even you!” Cuthbert tried to smile but his face dissolved into tears. He put his head in his hand again.

  “Tell me what to do,” he murmured.

  “Bathe, trim your hair and nails, put on a decent habit and I’ll meet you in the chapel in an hour. We’ll offer a prayer in thanksgiving before we eat together.” Cuthbert stood up to leave. I spoke again before he left. “And Cuthbert,” he turned again, with resignation on his face, “thank you. Your intervention moved Our Lord to save me just before I would have fallen. Thank you.” Cuthbert left, with barely an acknowledgement of my thanks.

  Just under an hour later I crossed the yard from the Infirmary to the chapel. I’d asked Colman to arrange food for the pair of us and the Abbott had done so, thanking me and congratulating me for getting Cuthbert to eat. They had all been worried about him, but I felt that the thanks were unmerited.

  Cuthbert was there before me, standing with his hands palm upwards and his head thrown back, lost in silent prayer. He had bathed and changed his habit but he contrived to look more like a scarecrow than ever. I joined him and offered my own heartfelt thanks for my deliverance from the valley of the shadow of Death - Death of my Soul. I prayed for forgiveness of the stealthy pride that had crept into my heart as I’d lectured my brother monk, so much more pious than myself, and hoped that I had truly done my Maker’s will. I prayed also that the taint I carried from my temptation would wither, dilute, dissolve and die in the strong company of my brother monks on Lindisfarne and the gathering later at Whitby. I offered profound thanks for my rescue from the waves and a small mental nudge reminded me to seek out the fishermen who had saved me and thank them personally.

  After half an hour I tugged at Cuthbert’s sleeve and led him to the refectory where we ate a simple but hearty meal of bread, cheese, milk and honey, more than was normal during Lent but appropriate given our trials.

  Cuthbert was subdued. He had been running on raw energy for the five days that I had been in my coma and now all that was gone. He was barely recognisable, with his hair clean and falling neatly to his shoulders, his face washed and his robe more in keeping with the threadbare but serviceable habits of his brothers. We went together everywhere around the island and I watched over him as carefully as he had watched over me. Prior he was but, however briefly, he was for the time being dependent upon me. I was happy to be of service to him.

  We made a contrasting pair: me regenerated but still tender, greeting everyone we met cheerfully, and my companion silent and brooding, seemingly waiting for orders. We met a young Initiate by the name of Mungo, who greeted me seriously but regarded Cuthbert eagerly, with awe and something approaching idolisation. He had the fire of zealotry in his eyes and his Prior was obviously his inspiration. He was confused and unhappy when his hero barely acknowledged him. Cuthbert’s rhetoric and evangelising were proverbial but he offered only the briefest of reactions when we visited the grave and shrine of Aidan. I tried to engage him in conversation about the Founder of Lindisfarne’s life and legacy. Normally he was very responsive but for the moment he was completely drained. I reminded him of Aidan, the founder of the monastery at Lindisfarne, whose ministry was of and among the people, who loved him. He attracted many converts and new souls - one of which was a young Cuthbert - and his Rule, following that of Columba, was demanding but never onerous. Not for him marathon fasts that drove to the point of death. He fasted of course, we all did - but he was disciplined and would not allow excessive deprivation.

  I hoped he was taking it all in but he gave no sign.

  When the time came to retire, Cuthbert insisted on joining me in my infirmary cell. Colman decided that it may well help both of us to recover and so we arranged ourselves for sleep, me in the bed and Cuthbert wrapped in a blanket on the floor. In the morning we would set off for Whitby: there was no time left to tarry, no matter how uplifting the place or the company.

  15

  The Road to Whitby

  The Community of Lindisfarne gathered in the chapel before dawn to offer prayers of thanksgiving and to ask for protection for those who would be leaving for Whitby that morning. After breakfast in the refectory - which was barely large enough to contain us all - the travelling party gathered by the chapel door. Horses had been obtained for us, a fact that was giving rise to animated debate. We would all would rather walk among the people but we had been delayed because of my condition and time was now pressing. A good twenty minutes was spent arguing until only Colman himself remained unmounted. The confusion
was added to by the horses becoming restless, milling about and neighing their alarm at the raised voices. Colman was stoutly defending his right and declaring that he would not place himself above the people.

  In exasperation Abbott Cedd of Lastingham, the appointed translator, told him that the Synod would be over by the time he got there. He responded brusquely that, since he was leading the Irish delegation, Oswy would insist that it did not start without him. More arguments followed. It was suggested that, while Oswy may not start the Synod without him, the cost of such a humiliation might be a loss of favour with Northumbria’s ruling family. The Abbott was starting to weaken but now didn’t wish to lose face.

  The Irish Church was nothing if not democratic but I felt that the time for debate was over. I quietly asked the silent Cuthbert to intervene, which he did promptly.

  “Will you be setting off at the same time as us, Colman?” the reply was defiantly affirmative. “And you will not allow any obstacle or inconvenience to delay you?” confirmation again. “We are setting off straight away and we shall not wait for you, you follow as quick as you can,” the Abbott shrugged. Cuthbert trotted off a few paces, seemingly defeated. Then he turned again for one more word to his superior. “And you’d better hope that the fishermen are on duty again, for while Oswy may wait for you God’s tide will not and His punishment will be very appropriate when he drowns the fire of your bull-headedness once and for all.”

  A brief glance showed that the tide had turned while they had argued. Colman relented, mounted and then actually led the company at a trot and even a gallop away from the island, onto the strand and straight across the sands to the mainland. There was a long way to go and little enough time to get there.

  In addition to the Abbott himself, his Abbott Cedd the translator, Cuthbert and me, there were another dozen including Mungo (the young Initiate), three of his contemporaries, half a dozen scribes and two more monks, who had been seized in the middle of the night with the certainty that God wanted them to play a vital role in the proceedings. Colman confided that he was surprised there were so few last minute accompanists: he had prepared Abbess Hilda at the monastery of Whitby for five times the number.