The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  “Do we need you? Can’t we proceed without you?”

  “I’m the only translator who speaks all four languages here.” I swayed slightly as my exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me. Oswy regarded me carefully, appraisingly, then he nodded.

  “Very well Magister, you shall have your rest. I see you’ve earned it. Till half an hour after luncheon then. Go and sleep.” I bowed my thanks and made straight for the our sleeping quarters.

  I was ready to throw myself onto my pallet when I became aware of someone else in the building, sitting quietly in the darkness and, I thought, trying to conceal himself. I knew who it was.

  “Come on and show yourself,” I called, a little impatiently. I was very tired. A darker shape moved in the darkness and stepped into the dim light. “Mungo. Good morning. I’m ready to go to sleep. I apologise if I was short with you, I’m very tired.” Mungo nodded and made to leave - but I stopped him with a light touch. I looked into the younger man’s face and I knew. “Maybe there’s something you want to tell me.” The zealot shook his head vigorously.

  “No, nothing,” he said and made to leave. I tightened my grip.

  “Mungo, I am Anselm. You have met me before, and you may have heard of my reputation. Don’t make me drag it out of you. It will be much, much easier to confess, I can assure you.” I could feel him trembling through his robe.

  “I have nothing to confess.” He tried to press on again but the doorway darkened as a third person entered the room. The newcomer looked from me to him.

  “What’s going on here?” Colman asked quietly.

  “Brother Mungo is having difficulty in accepting responsibility and facing up to his sin,” I replied, “and he seems to think that he can retreat into silence.” Colman turned inquiringly to the young zealot, whose jaw muscles were bulging with tension.

  “I have not sinned.”

  “Well,” I said, “if you’re so proud of what you’ve done, why not share your achievement with us? Look at me, Mungo.” He would not.

  “I have not sinned.”

  “If that is so, then tell us where Scripture justifies your action,” I pressed him.

  “ ‘Woe to the shepherd that deserts his sheep!’” His eyes burned with his zeal, though he would not meet mine.

  “It goes on: ‘His right eye shall be put out, and his arm shall wither.’ Have you taken to yourself the Mantle of Judgement in your arrogance?” Mungo tried to wrench his arm away but I had tight hold of it. “I can force a confession out of you and it would terrify you: do you remember the Roman novice, how frightened he was of me? All I did was look at him.”

  “You have the evil eye.”

  “No I do not. And I have done no wicked deed here.”

  “I have done no wrong.” Colman was looking from Mungo to me in some confusion, but beginning to be afraid of what might emerge.

  “Someone had better tell me what is going on. Mungo?” No response except an even greater tightening of his jaw. “Anselm?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake. I’m tired and I can no longer be bothered to try to encourage you do the right thing, Mungo. Abbot Colman, this is the one who tried to kill Cedd, by poisoning his drink. He came as a friend and betrayed his brother: the treachery of Judas and of Cain. One of the oldest sins.” This accusation seemed to fill Mungo with rage. He heaved his arm from my grip and this time his strength was enough, but he didn’t run away.

  “He is no brother of mine! He would have betrayed us to the Whore of Babylon! Coming dressed in purple and gold and riding on a scarlet beast! You saw the Anti-Christ arrive and you talk to him courteously, when he should be put to death!” Spittle formed on his lips and trickled down his chin. He stood, balanced, poised and ready for a fight. “The fine Abbott of Lastingham, unworthy to tie the laces of a beggar’s shoes, took the part of the Beast and would betray us! Now I see that you will do the same! And you -” he indicated me “- you talk to them as friends, and consort with pagans! You have betrayed us all! Judas? I see Judas before me now!” and he leaped at me, arms extended and hands like claws, making straight for the throat, his lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl.

  There was no time for dancing or seeking an opportunity to subdue with minimal damage. I met the leap head on, ducked under the arms and butted upwards with my head, catching the younger man on the jaw. It hurt like fury, as it was the crown rather than my forehead that made the connection. Bone crunched on bone and Mungo lost a tooth immediately. I threw him backwards and, without waiting to see if he was subdued or not, went straight for his neck and pinched the arteries. I held my grip against the couple of moments’ struggle my adversary put up and then eased his passage to the floor as he lost consciousness. I pulled off his cord girdle and tied his hands and feet with it, swiftly and efficiently. Colman had his hand over his mouth in shock and tears were beginning to well in his eyes. Before he could speak, another voice came from the doorway.

  “I though you were coming to sleep, not engage in a wrestling match.” It was King Oswy. My heart sank and the pain in my head was forgotten. How could I explain this? “I have a man with a broken collarbone who says he fell off his horse while drunk. He had to stay at an Inn for a few days until he was well enough to take the day’s ride here. I’ve fined him a week’s pay for carelessness. Is that a fair judgement, Magister Anselm?”

  There was a moment’s silence as I got my breath back.

  “I think your judgement will encourage him to be more cautious in future, my lord.” Oswy nodded slowly as he looked around the low wooden shed.

  “A lowly place for the expression of high passions.” How much had he heard, or seen? “You were right in your observation that strong emotions have been released by this Synod, Magister. Is Abbott Cedd going to recover?”

  “My friend thinks so.”

  “Your friend, not your brother.” I bit my lip and Oswy rubbed his beard thoughtfully. He misses nothing. The King took three steps towards the three of us, then three back to the doorway, where he turned and spoke again, quietly. “It may be that no harm will come of these events. If that is the case, then my involvement is not necessary. I promised all clerics attending the Synod safe passage to and from Whitby, wheresoever they came from. I was thinking of Christians, but I have given my word and I will keep it.” Mungo moaned: he was coming round. “That one’s welcome has been exhausted. I leave him in your care. I don’t expect to see him again, except maybe on a horse as he leaves. The sooner this meeting is over, the better. I will see you as we arranged, Magister. Abbot.” He nodded to Colman, who bowed in return, then he left.

  Colman leaned heavily against a wall and sighed.

  “He knows everything, everything,” Colman exclaimed. “Oh, my God, what a pass we have come to. Murder -”

  “Attempted murder,” I corrected him gently.

  “Only by your intervention, Anselm. And a pagan, here, at the greatest-ever gathering of Christianity north of the Alps! Murder was intended! And we have a Druid masquerading as one of us, and now the King knows! Oh God, what a mess!”

  “He’ll keep it to himself.”

  “I know that, I’m not stupid,” Colman replied irritably, and was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, brother, please forgive me. You are right, of course, the King will keep this…this dreadful, dreadful…thing to himself. But I’m almost in despair! To think, I allowed - or even encouraged this man in his bigotry! I’d mistaken it for fervour and thought I could direct it. God forgive me for my complacency and my arrogance!” He looked up at the ceiling and, through it, to Heaven.

  “Do not give in to despair. Despair is the Enemy’s outrider. Despair drove Mungo to this.”

  “Despair at what?”

  “Despair at Cedd: he thought there was no other way to overcome his arguments than to kill him. He’s so young that he could see no other way.” Colman nodded vigorously.

  “You’re right, you are right Anselm. Thank God you’re here. With Cedd poisoned and Cuthbert s
o strange, and Chad beside himself with concern for his brother, I am glad of your experience and wisdom.” The pain, which had been shoved into the background, reminded me that it hadn’t gone away and I rubbed my head automatically. This distressed Colman immediately and he reverted to mother hen mode. “Oh, Anselm, I’m so thoughtless! You hurt yourself, and you must be so tired! You came here to rest! Forgive me, please! I shall make amends, straightaway. Here, lie down.”

  I sat and looked up at Colman’s face, was full of concern.

  “What about our prisoner?” We considered Mungo, who was regarding us with anger and pain in his eyes. Blood was mixing with the spittle on his chin. He wasn’t much subdued.

  “Those who lie down with whores shall be infected with their filth! You shall be judged as whoremongers and slaves of Satan! Your sins will drag you down to the pit and the righteous will laugh at your misery! The deceits and lies of the enemies of God will triumph for only a short time! He will give them dominion over the Earth but he shall set bounds on their power and they will be utterly overthrown!”

  “Oh, shut up!” Colman ordered. “You’ve done enough damage for a hundred Synods and a period of quiet would be most appropriate.”

  “I will not be silenced! I will stand and bear witness to the truth!” he was struggling against his bonds and the entangling robe, trying to stand. “I will declare before the World and expose the whoremasters, the fornicators with the beasts of Babylon and their servants…!” I stood and walked over to him and took his chin in a grip of iron. I forced his face round and up so that he looked directly into my eyes. He missed the one chance he had, to close his eyes and resist. Had he done so, the task would have been more difficult. He hadn’t, so he fell still almost instantly, gazing vacantly into my eyes, a vessel ready to be filled.

  “You will be still, Mungo,” I told him, “you will stay here and be quiet. You will not say a word to anyone but me or Abbott Colman. Look at Abbott Colman.” I forced the youth’s head round, then back. “Me or Abbott Colman, no-one else. And you will say nothing to us unless we tell you to. Do you understand? You may answer.”

  “Yes”

  ‘That is good. That is good, Mungo.” The young zealot looked almost pleased, and a simple smile played around his mouth. “You will stay here, quietly. You will not attempt to go anywhere. If you need to perform your functions, you will ask Abbott Colman or me, no-one else. You will do as you are bidden. Do you understand? You may answer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. That is good, Mungo.” The smile again. I let him go and he sat back against the wooden wall, quiet for now.

  “Will he be all right?” Colman whispered.

  “Yes, he’ll be quiet now. And if I release him, he’ll be back to his normal self. Do you want that?” Colman hesitated, then nodded slowly.

  “He can’t come to terms with his sin unless he is in full possession of himself. Even now, I wouldn’t have him enslaved, not even for his own good.” I agreed.

  “However, I can make him more prepared to listen. I won’t interfere with his beliefs; he must modify them himself, yes. But I think it will help if he’s prepared to listen to others. He hasn’t done enough of that. He thinks he has insights worth more than anyone else’s. And now I’m going to bed.”

  “Just one more thing,” Colman asked meekly, “does he need a guard?”

  “It would be wise, I think - to keep the curious away as well as to keep an eye on him. Tell whoever you appoint to say that I am not to be disturbed until lunchtime, and that Mungo…” I paused, “…Mungo has had an attack of madness brought on by eating under-ripe berries and he’s been restrained for his own protection.”

  “Must we still tell lies?”

  “Would you rather go and tell Wilfrid that one of us tried to kill Cedd and then attacked me with murderous intent?” Colman shook his head.

  “Er, no. I don’t think that would help us. I’ll do as you suggest.” At that I fell onto my bed, rolled into my blanket, and dropped into a deep sleep.

  25

  A Lost Argument

  A shadow crossed the sun and I was very cold. I shivered with the cold. It crept through all my clothes and I was wearing so many, my robe, my hood, Roman vestments, a Bishop’s mitre over my hood, a crown on top of that and the King’s tunic and cloak. Why was I wearing so much? They were getting in the way, I couldn’t see straight.

  Why was I so cold? There was something familiar about the cold. It was physical. It could scent me out and seek a way in. I remembered grass that was alive and writhed about my feet, seeking a way in. I wore my robe and carried my cross to keep this cold out.

  “You can be attacked but you can resist. It will only get in if you invite it,” said Padhraig. “It can overcome you only if you allow it.”

  The Glade. I was in the Glade again and the child was holding the ball of wool. It had come unravelled and it was wrapped about the statues all around. I could see Cedd, and Colman (smiling, of course. He was so cheerful, so good, Colman was so good) and Wilfrid and Agilbert and Mungo, Mungo wrapped up in wool as a spider wraps up her prey, and Oswy and Eanfleda and everyone, even the dead merchant and his family and the bandit and little Bedwyr, they were all there. The child held the small ball of wool up to me and looked with his sightless eyes, those gaping, bleeding wounds he had where his eyes should be!

  “It’s nearly finished now,” the child said, “will you save us?”

  There were hundreds of children, all with wounds where their eyes should be.

  I woke in response to a gentle shaking. Colman told me it was nearly time for lunch. I nodded and reached automatically for my bag and took a draught of medicine as the headache started. Colman waited patiently while I sat for a few moments to let the medicine wear in, and then we went over to check on Mungo. He was sitting where I’d left him, slack jawed and vacant of expression. We took the young man over to the privies and, when we brought him back, I told him to sleep until evening, when we would return.

  “Any word from Ieuan?” I asked

  “I saw him this morning. He’s been by Cedd’s bedside for several hours. He says that the battle is turning but he needs more time. He looks very tired. And old - but you say he was a contemporary of yours? He looks older than you. Older than me, come to that.”

  “He’s older than I am, by a few years.” I shivered again. I felt cold, just briefly.

  “He must’ve had a hard life. This clean living is obviously good for you.”

  “Ah yes, a blameless life, three square meals a day and plenty of exercise,” I smiled.

  “That must be it. And the fasting, of course, to keep the body in good shape. Don’t ever let me hear of you complaining about fasting again.” The two of us chuckled and went in to eat.

  I took a plate of food over to Ieuan and found him much as Colman had reported: looking older and strained. He appreciated the food I brought.

  “It’s serious, but not insurmountable.”

  “Colman told me you’d said the battle had been turned.” I held my hands to my mouth and blew on my fingers. The infirmary was very cold indeed.

  “Turned, aye, but not won yet. He’ll need my help for a while.” Ieuan turned and frowned for a moment at Cedd. “You must get your people to tone down the fasting. This man has done himself damage by overdoing it. His body started to eat itself a while ago.”

  “I noticed that as well. I heard he’d done a marathon - forty days and forty nights, you know - when he was granted the land at Lastingham and before he established his Abbey. To prepare himself.”

  “Very commendable in intent. But stupid,” Ieuan replied between mouthfuls of apple, “he’ll kill himself if he tries that again within the next few months.”

  “He shouldn’t have any particular reason before Lent next year, but I’ll tell him. Now, I must get back to the Synod. I’m the translator in his absence. Oh, and Ieuan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Isn’t it a bit cold in here
?” The Druid shrugged.

  “I hadn’t noticed. Probably because of the energy I’m using up. Anyway, it won’t do our invalid any harm - the battle inside him is generating enough heat to run a furnace. Coolness will help keep his temperature down. But can you arrange for me to have a drink?”

  “Of course. I’ll do it now.” I gave orders to the monk at the door who went to attend to it. As he passed a colleague from Whitby he greeted him cheerfully.

  “Cerdic, good afternoon. When will you be along to relieve me? I could do with some air. It’s very warm for April, don’t you think?” Cerdic agreed and said he’d be along in an hour.

  Hot? I thought, they must be wearing bearskins under their robes. I was still freezing, although it got warmer as I left the infirmary. I would have to speak to Hilda: Cedd and Ieuan may be helped by the place being kept as cold as a meat-store but surely most invalids need to be kept warm.

  The chapel was almost full when I arrived but the numbers were fewer than previously. The long break had cooled the ardour of some although there was a silent air of anticipation among those who had taken the trouble to attend. There was a feeling around that the shadow-boxing was over and the real meat was about to be chewed. As usual, the monks of the Irish Church were gathering informally, in ones, twos and threes and, as usual, the Romans entered in procession only after all of our party had arrived. Agilbert was wearing subdued vestments but at last looked dignified. Handing over to Wilfrid had clearly lifted a burden from his shoulders. Wilfrid himself was upright and confident, verging on proud. No - more than that. There was pride in his bearing, and supreme assurance. The break had given him time to prepare himself even more thoroughly and he obviously felt that his hour had come. Those around him were separate, apart, and the tallest of them seemed to be a foot shorter than the young Prior of Ripon.

  As luck would have it, the sun chose that moment to emerge from behind the cloud that had obscured it. A shaft of light flowed through a small, high window and provided an aura of luminosity to bathe and surround the tall Saxon. Did he hesitate a moment? No - but maybe he slowed his already stately progress so as to stretch the moment out. He couldn’t have arranged it better if he’d directed the clouds himself because, as he moved on, another cloud passed before the sun and the remainder of the procession made its way in more subdued light, which left it looking shabby, dull and uninteresting.