The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  The King was ready to go as well. Queen Eanfleda was by her litter but she was weeping. Romanus seemed to be pleading with Oswy, probably on her behalf, and his temper was aroused.

  “I’ve had enough of your creeping and wheedling, priest! The Queen returns to Bamburgh with me today!” Romanus started to speak again. Oswy raised his fist and sent him sprawling to the dirt with a backhanded blow. Then he called to Eanfleda, his guards helped her into the litter and they prepared to depart.

  I and my companions were at a full gallop before we reached the gate.

  Our first destination was the village of Streanashalch. We asked for and got news of a man and a horse, who had galloped straight through the village and taken the road to the west. They’d passed through more than two hours before. We set off up the hill in pursuit but I called a halt before we’d gone five miles. We were still in open country but the woods were closing in.

  “We’ll stop here. There’s something I must do.”

  “He has a head start on us, Magister. I’d rather we made all speed to overtake him,” Godwin argued.

  “I want to find out which way he went. Charging about the country with no certainty won’t serve our cause.” He agreed reluctantly and I slid off my horse. I sat against a rock and forced myself to be calm while the others stood guard.

  The velvet darkness enfolded me. I communicated my urgency and the sparks searched, hither and thither, covering the whole world in a moment. They could not find him but they showed me where he was not. He had hidden himself but he could not hide from me. I sensed a deeper darkness and turned towards it. It was heading for the setting sun and not far away. In the woods, looking for shelter as a hunted beast seeks its den. It was shielded but it could not hide. The river flowed nearby. The ford and the bridge were downstream, passed some minutes since.

  “I know where he’s gone,” I said as I remounted. I took a short draught of my medicine and turned my horse towards the south-west, following the course of the river.

  28

  The Hunt

  There was a village, down in the valley, by the river. He reined his horse in to a halt, sat, and looked down on the scene. A small village; little more than a hamlet. A few houses. A pen for animals. Chickens clucked and fussed their way about the place, scavenging in the dirt. The folk went about their business, without thought of anything save where the next meal was coming from.

  The chickens squawked with outrage and fluttered out of the way of a trio of young children who tore through the muddy street. The smallest, a boy, tripped and fell flat on his face. He howled in pain and the other two turned back. They hauled him to his feet and encouraged him to join them again but he was tearful and out of the mood for games. One of the others, a girl, held him and helped him back the way they had come. Back to his hearth and home, back to his mother, presumably. The third, a sturdy young boy, kicked irritably at a stone and shuffled aimlessly off.

  His stomach tightened and his mouth was dry. He licked his lips. The boy was leaving the village, walking out along the edge of a cultivated area and heading for the woods to the left as he watched. The hunger stirred and tightened the knot in his stomach. His head swam, briefly. He recovered his balance. The boy was approaching the woods. He had picked up speed and purpose and was running to wherever he had been intent on previously. He would soon be out of sight. He wanted to go after him and take him, ready for the night. He would soon be out of sight. He could see his Power glowing faintly, pulsating through his clothes as he ran off to the woods. He could almost hear the heartbeat. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

  - He wanted to leave, to go round the village and away. He wouldn’t take this one.

  He wanted it so much.

  - There would be others. He could find another.

  Maybe none so ready, so isolated, so alone.

  - He would have to take it, hide it, stifle any cries so he wouldn’t be heard. He wanted to go away, go round, leave it.

  When then.

  - Never! No more!

  This was cowardice. Where was his courage?

  - No, no, no. No more.

  What would happen to Strathclyde and his people? Someone has to have the courage to take the extreme action. Has your courage failed you?

  - No. No. No. It isn’t… It hasn’t.

  It’s only an English brat. Do what must be done. Only the great can make the sacrifice necessary to protect their people.

  He breathed in deeply and decided. He looked all around, at the village and where he had ridden from. It was too early in the day. He would be delayed: they would catch him.

  He needed more Power. He could hear the heart pumping. He could see it, pulsing, glowing red and full of life. Beating the age-old rhythm against the boy’s chest.

  His hands tightened into knots on the reins. He pulled fiercely on them and directed the horse to his will: Ieuan rode around the village to the east, away from the woods where the boy had gone.

  There will be others.

  The heartbeat faded and he kicked his horse to a dangerous gallop. His face was set and there was the hint of a tear in his eyes. Maybe from the wind that scraped and stretched the thin skin of his face, pulling the fabric into a mockery of a smile.

  *

  Godwin, our companion and I had been riding as hard as possible and without pause until he called a halt. I wanted to continue but, this time, it was the Englishman’s turn to insist on a halt. The horses needed rest.

  “If we ride them into the ground then we will never catch him, Magister.” I had to agree, but reluctantly. I had been so focused on our prey that I had abandoned consideration of our mounts. “And we need refreshment as well. We’ll stop here for half an hour and then continue.”

  We dismounted and took a light meal. The two soldiers washed it down with the beer that was all the drink they had thought to bring. The horses and I refreshed ourselves at the river.

  I felt a slight touch on my mind. It was tentative, or maybe attempting stealth, and it had a hint of fear in it. I pictured a hound rushing along a scent, excited and eager at the hunt. The touch seemed alarmed and withdrew hastily. I felt that we had gained some ground. Godwin came over.

  “Well, Magister. How goes our pursuit?” I looked up, a little surprised, and smiled. “Aye,” he continued, “I’m beginning to recognise the signs in you. Are we still on his trail?”

  “Oh, yes,” I nodded, “we’re still on the trail. And I think we’ve caught up some distance on him.”

  “Your thoughts are as good as proof to me, Magister,” the bear laughed, and I smiled again. I liked Godwin. It was impossible not to.

  “You still call me Magister, Godwin. Yet the effect of your master’s decree is that we be styled ‘brother’ or ‘father’, in the Roman manner. Why’s that?” He squatted awkwardly beside me, a skin of beer in his great right hand. The other was curled up in a claw.

  “You said yourself that you wouldn’t accept his ruling and would return to Iona, so Magister you remain, in your own eyes at least. Anyway,” he took a slug of beer, “I can’t really be bothered with it. Oh, I’ll observe the niceties when I’m near my King, but in my heart I’ll remain true to St Michael and the way of Aidan and Finan, who taught me.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of your King’s anger?”

  “Very little frightens me, Magister, but yes, I fear Oswy’s wrath. As I said, I’ll observe the niceties in his presence. He’ll forgive me the occasional slip,” he winked and smiled again. “But I don’t think I fear him as much as he fears St Peter.”

  “Yes. That was a surprise to me. That he should be so upset by it. Surely he knows the words of the Gospel? Hadn’t he appreciated what it meant? What the Romans take it to mean?”

  “I doubt if he’d heard those words any more often than I have. He could recite the Gospel of St John standing on his head - me too, if put to it.” He took another swig of beer “Luke was the Gospel of Parables and Miracles. But John, St John’s was the Gospel o
f Love, which tells us how to live.” He ruminated for a moment, then stood up and stretched. “A strange Gospel it is for a fighting man, eh Magister? But conversions are achieved where miraculous victories are gained. King Oswy believes he has a duty to extend his kingdom, and to glorify God in it. There will be plenty of time for peace and love once all the battles are won.” He stretched again. “I seem to recall a little from one of the other scriptures, though. Something about ‘woe to those who corrupt the children: it would be better for them that they had never been born. They should cast themselves into the sea, or pray that the mountains would rise and cover them up.’” He was serious again. “Shall we go? Where we see the mountains moving, there this wicked man will be, eh?”

  I nodded grimly, remounted my horse and made ready to lead north-westwards across the windy moors.

  “Ethelred,” Godwin called, “where are you? We want to move on now.” I realised that this was the first time I’d heard the other’s name. He was a very quiet man.

  “One moment,” the reply came from the bushes, “I’ll be with you in a moment.” Ethelred emerged a few seconds later, adjusting his clothing, and mounted his horse. “I’m ready now.”

  I led the way and moved quickly into a canter. I knew where the quarry was heading. The most direct route to Strathclyde was north-west to the Roman Wall then due west along it to the eastern marches of his own lands: he would be known there or, at least, he would carry King Owain’s seal and be granted protection. But the first part of the route would be through Northumbria and Oswy’s discipline meant that anyone going the well-guarded way along the Wall would be challenged. Rushing to the Synod was one thing; running away afterwards was another, entirely. The guards at the forts on the Wall would hold Ieuan as a matter of course until receiving instructions. He would head for a quiet part of the Wall and try to get across to the borderlands to the north: then, and only then, head west for friendly territory.

  The two villages we passed through during the afternoon had no report of him.

  *

  Another village. The sun was going down. Night soon. There wasn’t much time if he was to get a child. The parents were calling and collecting their offspring. They were coming in from around the village. The woods must have been full of them earlier in the day. He was too late, unless he could find a straggler. He would find one.

  The hunger was gnawing at him. It had been all day. He had passed two villages and the second was harder than the first and the first was hard enough. He was shaking and shivering as he got off his horse and crouched down and looked for the straggler. He looked with his eyes and felt with his mind.

  “Good afternoon, Magister,” a voice came from behind him and he almost leaped out of his skin. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you. Have you lost something? I’ll help you find it. What was it? Where did you lose it?” The words came from the toothless mouth of a grey-haired Englishman, who was returning from hunting in the woods. He had two rabbits slung over his shoulder and an air of content about him.

  Ieuan didn’t speak English so he hadn’t understood a word the man had said. He jumped on to his horse, kicked it into an immediate gallop and rode straight through the village, scattering chickens and people alike. He was still shaking, now with fear. He’d nearly been caught! A few more moments and he would have been caught! He would make camp in a few hours, well after dark and miles away from this place - or any place, if they’d left any space between their settlements. They were all over the land, like maggots over a corpse. They had no respect at all, these barbarians.

  Back in the village the old trapper was regaling his fellows with the tale of the strange monk, who’d taken off like a bird when he spoke to him.

  “Never said a word to me. Looked as if he’d seen the Devil himself! Strange one, that. Never known any like it - those Magisters are always so friendly usually, always ready to lend a hand -”

  “In exchange for some vittles!” there was general laughter at this.

  “Aye, true. But they always pay their way, that’s what I say.” The discussion moved off to beggars, Roman bishops, outlaws and other such topics, lubricated by the first ale of the year. It was Friday, after all, and you don’t fast on Friday evening, do you? So it went on but when they were later asked about the solitary monk by three more strangers, another Magister and two soldiers, they would all remember how oddly he’d behaved and which way he’d gone.

  *

  “Godwin,” I began, “may I ask you something?”

  “Ask away Magister, we’ve plenty of time I think.” We’d slowed our horses to a trot but were still making good time.

  “You know King Oswy probably better than anyone, yes?”

  “Maybe. We’ve been together thirty years. We learned swordplay together. He’s saved my life many times, and I’ve returned the favour.” I nodded.

  “Why did he choose Rome? Above the people who sheltered him and his brothers? Was it really just St Peter?”

  Godwin didn’t answer immediately. As the silence extended I thought of putting the question again but he answered before I could do so.

  “More than one reason. It’s hard for me to talk about it, I think he would rather I didn’t, but -” he turned to our companion. “Ethelred. Ride up ahead a bit. Keep an eye out for likely ambush spots.” Ethelred grunted assent, pulled a couple of dozen yards ahead of them and Godwin continued. “The stuff about St Peter got to him. He was worried - I would go so far as to say frightened. He had always counted on St Michael, the warrior. If God would have a warrior at his right hand then he thought that a fighter like himself would be welcome. He hadn’t counted on a fisherman being the keeper of the Gates. He kept coming back to that when we spoke about it – or rather he spoke about it. I just listened. But there were other things too. The old order changes, yielding place to new.” He looked sideways at me and there was a grim smile there. “But why didn’t your people answer it? The thing about St Peter? What happened?”

  It was my turn to pause before answering.

  “We were relying on Cuthbert. He’s a great preacher, I think you know, and he would have answered Wilfrid in normal times, and answered him very well, but he’s ill. We asked too much of him, and he cracked,” I said.

  “There’s something else about the Romans that turned King Oswy’s head,” Godwin said. “They are like a well-drilled army. They are more than happy to bless the armies of the kingdoms they already have, but you – begging your pardon, Magister – you Irish are more likely to give him a three hour sermon than a three-second blessing.”

  “We’re not very enthusiastic about wars and conquests, no,” I agreed, “but we were on his side when it mattered most to him, when the Mercian army had him hemmed in against the Cheviot hills. He talks about that victory as a miracle and thanked Lindisfarne for it handsomely.” We walked the horses on, while Godwin thought some more.

  “Will you go over to Rome?”

  “Me? No, no. I can’t go over. The price for their order and discipline is that they want to control everything - body through the King’s word, and souls through their threats of damnation. I don’t like it. These Romans like power too much.”

  “Ah, yes. You may have the right of it there. But can you see the appeal to a king?” Ethelred dropped back to rejoin us before he could continue. We were in a large clearing but the trees and undergrowth were closing in, less than two hundred yards before us.

  “I think there’s someone ahead,” he said in a low and casual voice. “Bushes either side of the track. Right up to the edge. I saw movement.”

  “Magister?” Godwin enquired. I felt ahead with my mind and detected four, two either side, furtive and conspiratorial. I nodded.

  “Two on each side. It’s an ambush, all right. Let’s make ready.” So saying, I loosened my sword in its sheath and prepared to draw it. Godwin stopped me.

  “Can you not - you know - stop them?”

  “I need eye contact - or physical
contact for best results. I could only do it one at a time. And they are determined on a course of action. It would take time to break it down. I doubt if they’ll give us that time.”

  “Very well, but leave it to us. This is our speciality.”

  “I can fight as well, you know.”

  “I’m sure, and with your bare hands too, I hear,” Godwin smiled, “but we know what we’re doing. You would only get in the way. Stay back and pick off any that try to come round our flank. You ready?” he asked Ethelred, as he buckled his shield onto his crippled arm.

  “Aye, and willing too,” came the reply.

  “Well then, let’s get to it!” he finished with a roar and the two of them charged into the narrowing track.

  The failing light made it a little difficult to see exactly what happened, but it was clear that the ambushers were not expecting a charge. The expected easy pickings had turned into a desperate fight almost before they realised what had happened.

  Godwin and Ethelred took a bush each and flushed the outlaws into the open. They had the initial advantage, as they were on horseback and the robbers were on foot and surprised. One head flew on a gout of blood into the trees at the first pass. The two soldiers dismounted and engaged their enemies on foot. A second robber retreated under an onslaught of blows from Godwin. A third was engaging Ethelred. The fourth had got his senses back and was trying to edge around and come at one or the other soldier from behind. I slipped quietly off my horse and pulled my sword from its scabbard. I didn’t want to kill but I would not see my companions wounded.