The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  “This deviation is demonstrated by a number of things. Notably, the difference in the date of Easter, which the whole Church has calculated and found to be Truth but is observed wrongly here. The persistence of the Heresy of Pelagius, which maintains that Grace, which is the Gift of God alone through His Holy Church can be attained through personal free will is a serious error which the Church rejected at a great meeting two hundred years ago and declared to be anathema. I would also point out that your monks and priests wear the tonsure of Simon Magus who tried to bribe the Apostles - “ Cedd glanced nervously at Oswy and Colman. This could cause uproar. Oswy stood up.

  “Guards! Keep order in here, and in the crowd outside this place! Anyone who causes violence is to be arrested or cut down! That is my command!” he called, and sat down again. “Please continue,” he said to Cedd.

  “ - [… wear the tonsure of Simon Magus, who tried to bribe the Apostles] – “ Cedd said.

  “ - into giving him the power of healing and raising from the dead,” Agilbert resumed. This tonsure is the mark of a blasphemer and was inherited from the Druids. It has no place in God’s Church. We extend our hands to our brothers and sisters in Christ who - though they have erred in their practice - have done so with good intent. In the Lord there is forgiveness and mercy in abundance and if you will now turn and join with His Church on Earth then all will be well. For does not the Bible say that there shall be more rejoicing in Heaven over one sinner who repents than over one hundred just men. Think of the rejoicing there will be in Heaven when so many return to the fold. It is only the One, True Catholic Church that has the Grace and authority of God Himself. Come to her and be one with God. Turn away from your error and unite with Christ.”

  With that, he sat down.

  There was uproar in the chapel and outside. Agilbert’s address had been technical and poorly phrased and his lack of English and the disjointing effect of the translation hadn’t helped. But its central arrogance, its uncompromising attack on heartfelt convictions - as well as its patronising tone - had got through to the adherents of the Irish Church and they were furious. Colman and Cedd both turned to the people. Cedd spoke first, in English, shouting over the angry roar.

  “Calm yourselves! Calm yourselves! This is God’s House! We will have no confrontation! No violence! Our God is the God of Love! We can show these people what true Faith and Love are! But not with anger and hate in our hearts! Calm down!”

  Colman supported him, in Gaelic and British.

  “Monks and priests! Remember your vows! Calm down now, and cease this behaviour!” The tumult started to decline.

  “What about their idolatry that we witnessed in this Church yesterday?” someone shouted. The anger threatened to explode again.

  “We will deal with all these things! You do us and yourselves and our Church a disservice and damage with your anger!” Colman shouted. “Calm yourselves, now! Or face eviction from this House and ejection from the monastery!” This, at last, had the desired effect. The row subsided and a sullen silence fell on the Irish party.

  Wilfrid’s face was set still as stone. He knew that his Bishop had done their cause no favours. He stole a look at Oswy, who was regarding Agilbert with thoughtful and barely-concealed contempt. My eyes met Wilfrid’s for a moment, while I was looking at Oswy and trying to see what he was thinking. He glared at me. I didn’t react. I was trying to see what Oswy’s response was. Without seeing his face I couldn’t gain a full picture, but I could feel waves of contempt overlying the tension and anger underneath. Looking further, I examined Agilbert’s face. The man was genuinely surprised at the mayhem he had unleashed. He’d intended to offer an olive branch, a way into the Church without any onerous burden. It was dawning on him that he could have been more diplomatic and maybe less aggressive. But how could he be less than he was, fervent in the pursuit of his belief?

  Order was at last restored. After the opening remarks the debate moved into a series of skirmishes, which stretched to lunchtime (when Oswy called a two-hour break) and resumed in the afternoon. The question of the number of Angels that could dance on the head of a pin was raised. Colman dismissed it with a joke.

  “I think the number is less germane than the question of the angels dancing: if they do so at all, then they cannot be adherents of the Roman Church. Do you not teach that such things are forbidden in the presence of God?” There was laughter and Agilbert changed the subject.

  By late afternoon Oswy had had enough for one day. The Romans sought to prevail upon him to continue the discussion but he was bored and fractious like a child. We were happy enough: we had calmed our supporters so that the morning’s scenes were not repeated, and had won the discussions hands down. Oswy’s memories of the day would reinforce his support of us, we believed.

  Godwin had been in the audience and he was as contemptuous of the insensitive Agilbert as was his master. He was of the opinion that his King should declare for the Irish straightaway and be done with it, but Oswy refused: he had to give them every chance to explain their position or, he knew, he would not get Eanfleda into his bed. She would say he had cheated in order to get his own way.

  *

  Our party was, on the whole, very happy with the day’s proceedings: the exceptions were Cuthbert, who was as weighed down as ever with his own private thoughts, and the zealots, who were delighted. Mungo and one of his cronies put on an imitation of Agilbert and Cedd that even raised a smile from Colman and Cedd themselves.

  “We will show - [will show,” his companion murmured] - these blasphemers - [blasphemers] - and idolaters [idolaters] - the true meaning of - [meaning of] - humility - [humility] - when we put their painted bishop - [painted bishop] - to work in the pens - [in the pens] - cleaning out the ordure. - [out the ordure.] - For verily it is said - [it is said] - that you shall reap [you shall reap] - as you have sown - [as you have so-o-o-own!].” They concluded together on a falling descant, to gales of laughter. Cedd stood and held up his hands for silence, but he was smiling.

  “Our Church has had a good day, brothers, but let us not be prideful, for such will attract the wrath of God. Let us face the next few days with confidence and faith, but also with humility. This is only one day, only the first day, and there is a long road to travel yet. The Romans will learn from today’s errors and will return better prepared. We must be prepared for harder work tomorrow but I am sure the Truth will triumph.”

  “Amen!” came the enthusiastic response from all but Cuthbert. It was impossible to dampen our spirits, the tension that had been building up for days had been released - but we were a little more restrained thereafter.

  *

  In the Roman quarters, the mood was sombre. Small quarrels were breaking out all over the place, like bushfires. The priors and the Bishop were busy quelling the flames before they exploded into a blaze of mutual recrimination. The serving-boys were not directly involved in the arguments: they sat silently wherever they were sent, or remained wherever they found themselves, utterly desolate. They had been defeated, they knew it, and by a rabble of rustics. They were downcast and depressed. They appeared to have no conception of the time the Synod still had left to run. For them, it was all over.

  Some of their elders shared this view and they were as furious as the boys were depressed. They had lost, and to a bunch of wild-haired heretics who should have been seen off before noon. They would not blame Bishop Agilbert openly but their sniping was a symptom of the fact that they believed that his strategy had failed, disastrously.

  Wilfrid also believed that his superior’s strategy had flopped, but he was not surprised. He felt that it was doomed from the start. Even had he been lucid, considerate and diplomatic, his lack of English and consequent need for translation would have undermined his case. When his stern discipline and authority had quietened his quarrelling brothers he marched over to the Bishop’s rooms and entered, barely pausing long enough to knock.

  “Your Grace,” he knelt and kissed Agi
lbert’s ring of authority. Then he stood and started without waiting for invitation. “Today has gone ill for us. It is my belief that you should now consider allowing me to speak on our behalf. I at least have the language, as well as some experience of these people, and I believe that our case can be served better if it is made from my mouth.” He stopped and stood before the Bishop, waiting for a reaction. Agilbert had been thinking over the events of the day and had not paused to change from his ceremonial vestments. A tray of food lay untouched on a small table to the side of his chair. He took a breath and replied at last.

  “Prior Wilfrid,” he said formally, “you are much favoured within the Holy Church. You have influential friends, well placed to advance your career. At thirty you are the youngest Prior in Christendom, and I expect to see you a Bishop before many years have passed. You have the resources and influence yourself to raise much materially for the glory of Our Lord and such success is heard of and noted in the right places. You have done well and will continue to do so.” He took another deep breath. “Your time is not yet come. Patience. You will achieve your aim, so long as that is not to be Pope itself. That you will not attain. For the moment, you have taken a Vow of Obedience and will do as I say. And I say that you will resume your seat tomorrow and will keep silent. That is all.”

  “My lord Bishop,’ he said, and bowed, turned abruptly and made for the door but before he left he stopped and dared to speak again, “We can win this debate. If we lose, it will be your responsibility, yours alone.” He opened the door and left before Agilbert could reply.

  The Bishop was furious, and stood facing the closed door for some minutes, shaking with rage. The insolent whelp! How dare he challenge him, he who had faced down armed Frankish warriors, determined to spill his blood! And Saxons, and Goths: why, he had even come unscathed through the country of the savage Basques and lived to tell the tale, with a dozen converts in his train!

  He gradually got himself under control and resumed his seat, his chin on his fist.

  The worst part of it was, this insubordinate and arrogant Prior had a point: he had made a mess of the day’s proceedings. He had underestimated both the Irish Abbots themselves and King Oswy. From the pomp of his entrance to the tone of his opening speech, from his vestments to his attempt to divert the discussion into esoteric areas while he recollected himself, all had gone wrong, horribly wrong. Wilfrid was a skilled preacher and debater but he couldn’t stand the man’s smug arrogance, nor his influence with the Archbishop of Lyons, nor his way with ‘the ladies’, the queens and princesses around the island of Britain and beyond. Everything about him was guaranteed to irritate the Bishop. He was able, and skilled, and efficient, granted: he was one of the New Men of Rome, his star was rising and Agilbert’s was fading, he knew all of that. Wilfrid could even be described as devout, certainly he seemed determined on the triumph of God’s One True Church and they had that in common, if nothing else.

  But Agilbert could not stomach Wilfrid, and that was the truth of it.

  He tore himself back from his angry thoughts and tried to return to consideration of the best course of action. He took himself to his small travelling altar opposite his bed, and knelt to pray.

  He prayed for guidance, for the way forward. He was convinced that the Celts were heretics and lost sheep, and he wanted desperately to bring them back to the fold. In his arrogance, he saw, he wanted to be the shepherd who brought them back, smiling and happy, accepting the plaudits of the crowds who would clap and cheer when he succeeded. He would look with kindness on his new flock, and they would be his people, and do his bidding.

  God’s people. They would be God’s people. They would be God’s people. They were His sheep, and he would be His servant only, carrying out his duty with joy and devotion. How best to proceed?

  An image of Wilfrid holding a crowd enthralled, as he had seen him do only a week ago, came to his mind.

  One more day. He would give his strategy one more day. If he failed, if he lost again tomorrow, he would hand over to Wilfrid before all was lost.

  And who would decide if he had lost the day, who would be certain of making a disinterested judgement?

  He prayed for the wisdom to make the right decision and the image of Wilfrid came into his mind again.

  He would not be proud, or vain, or unable to make an honest judgement. He prayed he would not, he begged for Solomon’s gift. If he failed again tomorrow, or did not succeed enough, he would hand over to Wilfrid.

  He concluded with his night offices and prepared himself for bed. His opponents had been happily asleep for more than an hour by the time the mind of the venerable old man, who had travelled all over the continent of Europe, had faced innumerable perils and fought physical and psychological battles with implacable enemies, who had confronted danger and hardship at a time when being a Christian missionary was still, most likely, a route to early death, and all for the sake of his Church and his God, not his own ambition, finally gained rest.

  22

  A Reassessment

  A forest, a thicket, a tangle of briars and brambles. Around me was the murmur of voices, debating, disputing and sometimes raised in argument. I was enmeshed in the voices, they entangled me and scratched at my robe and my flesh. I should break free, I was trying to break free. The more I tried to escape the more I became entangled. The more I became entangled the more I struggled and the more I struggled the more the words lacerated my skin. I was a mass of cuts. Blood trickled down my skin. It collected at my feet in a pool. If I stopped struggling, the cuts would stop and I would contain the wounds. I must not let my lifeblood ebb away. No. I had to get out, no matter what the damage. There was something I had to do. As I struggled the pool of blood at my feet grew and then set off with a mind of its own. It knew where it was going. It flowed eagerly along the ground, picking up speed. I looked to see where it was heading and I saw, beyond the hedge of briars and words and brambles and speech, all tangled up into an impenetrable mass, a naked child was playing with a ball. The little one chased the skein of wool - for I could see that it was wool, not a ball - and caught it and stood up. He turned to offer it to me.

  Where his eyes should have been there were gashes. Fresh gashes, still glistening with warm blood. From his sternum to his groin there was a gaping wound. Blood flowed out of his injuries and flowed to the ground, where it mingled with the stream flowing from my cuts. It mingled and grew and flowed on into the lake, which was blood and was a sea and an ocean, tossing with red-flecked foam. A boat was coming across the sea, rocking and tossing but ever upright and making steadily for the shore.

  “One more to come. He is on his way. He responds to your call.”

  I woke up and reached immediately for my bag and the medicine within it, and took a short draught. My brothers were stirring, some were already up and about and talking together in quiet voices. I was disturbed. This latest Vision was telling me that I had a much, much more important task to fulfil and this involvement in the Synod was interfering with it.

  But still, what was that task? If I could see clearly what I was meant to do, I would do it. And who was the other one who had been summoned? I’d sent for no-one else.

  I would have to speak to Colman after the morning prayers in the chapel.

  After the service the Irish walked back to the refectory, as we had the day before. The procession of the Romans, which came up the hill as we went down, was less grand than yesterday. Although there were altar boys, and the Cross, and the clerics arranged in ascending order, Agilbert was dressed more simply and there was no incense. Colman, Cedd, Chad and even Cuthbert - poor, distracted Cuthbert - and I walked just off to the side of the Irish group, in line astern between the two parties, ready to intercept any zealous monk who seemed inclined to remind the Romans of their failure the day before. Our mere presence seemed to be enough and all that crossed the ground were amused, but still hostile glances.

  As we went in for breakfast, I pulled Colman to o
ne side. I related the Vision of the night before, and my fear that I was neglecting the true task I’d been set.

  “This is a heavy burden that’s been placed on you, my friend. Do you know where the trouble is?”

  “I am pretty sure it’s in Strathclyde. Other Visions, including one I had while I was in my coma, indicate that it’s there.”

  “Do you know where, exactly?”

  “No, I don’t. Other than the Glade, of course.”

  “And you have no physical proof, or evidence to bring to the King, other than a glade that will fall into disuse as soon as Owain mounts a guard on it?”

  “Only this.” I showed him the amulet of Cromm Cruaich and Colman crossed himself. I briefly reminded him of the background and my suspicion that a disciple of Lucius was somewhere, in hiding. The Abbott replied that he’d heard nothing of any such fugitive.

  “Are your Visions always a obscure as this? Do you ever get a clear message?”

  “Sometimes, the meaning is clear - either immediately or soon afterwards, something will trigger a recognition in me. But normally they’re quite difficult to interpret for a while,” I smiled, completely without humour. “It’s common for the meaning to become clear only when events have started to unfold.”

  “And you have no leads at this time? Nothing has triggered recognition?” Something niggled at the back of my mind: two things, in fact.

  “There is something I can’t put my finger on,” I looked around as if it would spring up in front of me. “And it is here, somehow. And the other thing is the door that was present in one of my earlier Visions. I’m sure that the answer lies behind it, but I’m too frightened to open it. Truth and madness lie behind it, I think.”

  Colman looked at me directly, with strength and with sympathy.

  “The fear may be a deceit of the Enemy, Anselm. I think you have to open the door and see what is behind it. You have to take your courage in your hands and hold fast to it. Open the door when next you have the opportunity to - I’ve known you long enough to know you can’t force these things. If the choice is your own sanity or the destruction of Strathclyde, where does your duty lie?”