I gazed mournfully around at the ruined villa and neglected fields and shuddered inwardly as the utter hopelessness of my circumstances came clear. What Julian said was true: There was nothing for me here. Moreover, if I were so stubborn as to remain, I would find in Britain not a home but a grave. I was, I concluded bitterly, better off in Ireland.
The thought produced an unexpected lift of the heart. Perhaps if I had not been standing knee deep in the rubble of my former life, the thought would never have occurred to me. Then again, perhaps desperation would have eventually driven me to the same conclusion. In any event the idea carried the force of undeniable recognition. I was better off in Ireland.
At least, that is, if I could remain in the druid house. On this point my fledgling euphoria plunged sharply. Buinne was there, and so long as he was master of the house, my life would be at hazard. And if Buinne didn’t kill me, Lord Miliucc surely would the moment I entered the ráth. In any event Ollamh Calbha, I knew, would not suffer my return—why should he? I had broken faith with the Learned Brotherhood; I had run away like the disloyal and deceitful slave that I was. Worse yet, worst of all, I had betrayed Sionan, the kindest, gentlest woman I’d ever known, whose only fault lay in the fact that she loved me.
Oh, the bitter irony was not lost on me: Fool that I was, I had spent years and suffered savage beatings in the hope of returning to Britain and reclaiming my future—only to discover that any hope of a future lay in Ireland, where I could not hope to return.
I found Julian standing amid the destruction. “I thought we might eat something before going back,” he said, holding out a small bag. Inside were bread and cheese and a few apples. I accepted my portion of food, and there, in the desolation of my father’s house, I sat down and ate a meal in the once-grand hall, where some of the most festive dinners in our little corner of Britain had been served. I ate slowly and deliberately, as if observing a cheerless sacrament, remembering my mother and father and the happy times we had shared in that place.
Truly, there was nothing for me here, I decided bleakly. It was time to move on. But where?
Once more the vapors of gloom closed around me. I finished eating and returned to my horse, mounted to the saddle, and gazed one last time upon the devastation of my childhood home. I then turned my back on it forever.
We were halfway back to Lycanum when the solution to my difficulty struck me, and then it was so obvious and self-evident I could not imagine why I had not thought of it at once: Cormac. He was in Britain after all; find him and any worries I might have about Buinne, or anything else, would wonderfully disappear. With Cormac by my side, I could then return to Ireland without fear. I could resume my life in the druid house. I could return to Sionan; indeed, I could marry her.
How strange life is sometimes, I reflected. The lie I told to assist my escape was now my only hope of return. To gain Sionan’s trust and ease her fears, I had told her I went to Britain only to find Cormac and bring him back. Well, now that I had no better choice, that is exactly what I would do. What is more, I could redeem my promise to Sionan. In fact, I could redeem myself before she even knew I had deceived her.
The more I thought about this, the more the idea appealed to me—especially since the alternative was poverty, privation, and the tacit slavery of a bondsman or hired laborer. There was nothing to hold me in Morgannwg anymore and no help for me in Lycanum if I stayed. By the time I reached the town, the idea had hardened to resolve: I would find Cormac, secure his aid, and return to Ireland, the druid house, and Sionan.
I wasted no time informing Julian of my plan. He listened with a doubtful expression on his smooth face. “Do you know where this Cormac person is to be found?”
“I know he is in the north,” I replied, “near a place called Cend Rigmonaid. He said it was on the eastern coast. It cannot be too difficult to find.”
“And you propose just to go charging off in search of this fellow in the belief that he will help you?”
“I know he will help me,” I replied. “All I need is a horse and a few provisions. I was hoping I could borrow them from you.”
Julian placed his palms together and peered at me over the top of his fingertips. “And if you do not find your friend, what then? What will you do? Where will you go?”
I had not thought that far and was forced to confess ignorance. “Well, I will be no worse off than I am now.”
He paused to consider this and then declared, “You are fortunate indeed, for I see the hand of God at work here. The bishop has decided to postpone the trip to Turonum until the spring.”
“I thought you were leaving tomorrow.”
“We are—” he said, saw the objection forming on my tongue, and quickly added, “and if you would be quiet long enough for me to finish, all will be revealed.”
“Go on.”
“The bishop will go to Turonum in the spring. Until then he plans to sojourn at Candida Casa. ‘What is that?’ I hear you asking. Permit me to tell you.”
“Yes, yes. Get on with it.”
“It is a priest house in the north.” He nodded knowingly at my reaction. “I thought that would interest you.”
“Where in the north?”
“The west coast somewhere, I believe.”
“And I could go with you?” I said. “I mean, you would let me travel with you?”
“My son,” he said, his natural condescension breaking forth, “you would have a horse and traveling companions, and a place to stay while you looked for this Cormac person.” He nodded again. “There, what do you say to that?”
“Well, Julian, this is wonderful. I accept. I only wish I—”
He held up a hand. “There is, of course, one condition.”
“And that would be?”
“Simply this: that if you do not find friend Cormac, you would look kindly on the prospect of accompanying us to Gaul when we leave in the spring.”
“Well, I cannot s—”
“Do not dismiss this. Think about it, Succat. The bishop is being very generous in making this offer. You would be a fool to reject it outright.”
“I mean no disrespect to the bishop,” I replied, “but why is he so anxious for me to accompany him to Gaul? Before the other night he had never even seen me.”
“To tell you the truth,” Julian replied, “Bishop Cornelius does not care if you go to Gaul, or Ireland or stay here and grow a beard of moss. But I care. You are my friend, and I want to help you if I can. In Gaul a young man can still make something of himself. There is opportunity to be found; you can start anew.”
The offer of a horse and a place to stay was not to be sneered at; I would travel swiftly and safely, and that was of utmost importance to me just then. So, with no better prospects of my own, I agreed—if only to further my plan to find Cormac.
We departed Lycanum the next day, eleven of us in all. Besides Julian, myself, and the bishop, there were three novice priests, four members of the local militia, and a cook. I will not call the militiamen soldiers; they were little more than brigands—men who only a few years before would have been outlaws, hunted by the very legionaries they now impersonated. Nevertheless they gave our company something of an imposing presence which might have deterred bandits not unlike themselves.
The novices drove oxcarts heaped high with supplies and provisions. The road north was good for the most part, wet or dry—and as autumn drew on, there was much wet and wind; we followed Silurum Street, which led through the rounded hills of Morgannwg to Deva and beyond to Mamucium and, eventually, Luguvallium. Once past the Wall we would head west along the peninsular coast to our destination.
Oh, but the going was damnably slow. Oxen are not the swiftest creatures afoot, and we stopped early each day so that the bishop might have a proper evening meal. If that were not enough, we also stopped at every little town, settlement, and holding along the way. Wherever a crowd, however reluctant, could be herded together, the churchmen performed a service—more for thei
r own diversion, I suspected, than for any good it might have done the poor souls dragged along to endure the bishop’s tirade in scholarly Latin.
Cornelius did not preach so much as berate and belittle. However amiable and friendly he might have been in the saddle, as soon as he mounted his pulpit—be it only a stump beside a pig wallow—he became an orator of dour and frightful mien. Compassion, encouragement, comfort, consolation—these virtues became distant strangers to him the moment he opened his mouth in formal address to a congregation. I could not help but compare him with good Datho, whose tireless kindliness shone through in every word.
Clearly Bishop Cornelius enjoyed traveling in this manner; as a senior churchman he luxuriated in his holy office. When I came to know him better, I saw a man who styled himself an enlightened potentate, magnanimous yet thoroughly mindful of the impression he wished to make on those who saw him. In short, he was a vainglorious, pretentious priest who wore his love of pomp as he wore his fur-trimmed bishop’s robe. He never supped, he dined; never prayed but rather communed with the Almighty on high; never conversed but rather engaged in private discourse with his fellows; never laughed but rather yielded to jocularity. In fact, so far as I know, he never peed beside the road but rather paused briefly for micturation. He was a round-faced, nearsighted prig with bad breath, hanging dewlaps, and a sour stomach from too much rich food.
Yet for all his airs and affectations, he was intelligent and decisive. He knew his mind and was not a man to be dissuaded from a course, however difficult or unpleasant it might prove. And once he said a thing, he owned it regardless of the consequences. Thus he was a man whose word could be trusted.
“Julian told me of your slavery in Ireland,” he said as we rode along one cool, drizzly day. “And that you had been undertaking instruction in Druidism.”
“I was studying to become a filidh, yes,” I replied.
“Your grandfather was a priest, I believe.”
“Potitus, yes. Presbyter of Bannavem. Did you know him?”
Cornelius shook his head. “I grew up in the north—near where we are going, as it happens. I was appointed to establish a bishopric at Lycanum only four years ago.”
“And before that?”
“Londinium—but I was not a bishop then.” He paused, glancing back along our train for a moment, then turned to me and said, “We must do what we can to wean you away from this ill-considered Druidism.”
“With all respect, Bishop,” I replied as mildly as I could, “I do not regard it as a condition to be eradicated. It is not a disease, after all.”
“Oh, but that is where you are wrong. It is very much a condition which must be extirpated and exterminated wherever it rears its ugly head.”
His blinkered appraisal was provocative, but I did not care to be drawn into an argument with him, so I said, “Have you ever known any druids?”
“Thank God Almighty, no. I saw one once, as a boy. Nasty creature—all gnarled and twisted like one of the monstrous oak trees they worship.”
I accepted his opinion equably. “If I told you that the filidh did not worship trees, would that make any difference at all?”
The bishop thought for a moment. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “although I shudder to think what they worship instead.”
“The deity they hold in highest reverence is called by many names,” I explained. “One such is the High King of Heaven, but there are others—Maith Dé or, as we would say, the Good God. Also Tabharfaidh Bronntóir, which means Gifting Giver. But the name most often preferred is An Rúndiamhair, or simply An Rúnda, the Mysterious.”
“Typical pagan affinity for endowing their brutish gods with wondrous attributes, I should imagine,” mused the bishop. “Still, the more gods, the better, I suppose—if you are forever trying to appease the fearful elements.” He tut-tutted disapprovingly. “Poor benighted wretches.”
“So anyone might think,” I agreed. “Yet on closer inspection the god addressed by many names is one and the same.”
“All the same god?” wondered Cornelius.
“One and the same—and, what is more, he is the very same god you worship one Sabbath to the next.”
“Blasphemer!” exclaimed the bishop in mock alarm. “Tempt me with no more with your lies.”
“It is nothing less than the simple truth,” I replied evenly. “They hold their god to be the creator of heaven and earth and of all things seen and unseen. He rules the cosmos and everything in it with benevolence for his creatures. In fact, they even know about Jesu, his son, whom they also hold in highest honor. They call him Iosa or, Esu.”
“You mean to tell me that the entire Irish race expounds these religious tenets?”
“Not everyone, no. Not by any means. They have their pagans much as we have ours,” I conceded. “But many of the filidh, the druid-folk, believe and teach these things.”
“Ho!” he cried suddenly. “There it is! These druids of yours are beginning to sound suspiciously like the Culdee of ours.”
“You know the Ceile De?”
“Root and branch. The north is full of the vermin. The Culdee are a very bane and a curse. If I had my way, they would all have millstones hung around their roguish necks and be heaved bodily into the nearest sea.”
“Is this,” I inquired, “a conviction you have reached through long and careful investigation? Or could it be simply a prejudice formed in ignorance and bolstered by pride?”
He huffed and puffed at my presumption. But, to his credit, Bishop Cornelius contemplated the question seriously. “I must confess to the latter,” he said at last. “Although nothing I have ever seen leads me to doubt the veracity of my conviction in the least.”
“Then we must do what we can to wean you away from this ill-considered intolerance, Bishop.”
“Ho, ho!” he laughed. “Not likely, I think.” Chuckling to himself, he slapped the reins across his mount’s shoulders and rode on.
We were to have several of these discussions over the course of the journey. But it was not until a few days after we reached our destination that I learned the reason for our visit and discovered that the pompous bishop had been less than forthright with me.
THIRTY-FOUR
IT WAS AN estate on the wet and windblown western coast of Britain that received us. I use the word “estate,” for Candida Casa—the White House, as it was known for the pale-colored stone of its walls—was of far greater extent than anything so simple as a house or church. It was more on the order of a grand villa with residences, storehouses, a church and oratory, a refectory, and various other workshops and outbuildings set amid its own plowed and tended fields. Surrounded by forest and yet near to the sea, it enjoyed a far milder winter than its northern position warranted.
It was, I happily concede, a fine place. For me, however, the difficulty was not with the estate itself but with the inhabitants—priests of a peculiarly proud and haughty stripe who seemed to think their doctrines should be taken as holy writ by all lesser mortals—that is, the mass of humanity which did not reside within the high, protecting walls of their order. The imperious monks of Candida Casa seemed to think it their duty to harangue any hapless creature unlucky enough to wander within spitting distance; the air grew brown and turgid with their endless sermonizing. I could not endure it, so went on my way as quickly as possible, taking as many provisions as I could weasel from the kitchen monks. I also took my filidh robe and my good sharp knife.
Julian came to see me off. “You will return in a few days, I presume?”
“That depends on what I find,” I replied.
“Go, then,” he said, embracing me, “and may God speed you.”
“Farewell, Julian.” I climbed into the saddle, took up the reins, and sat looking down at him.
“Farewell,” he said. “I will have the monks pray every day for your safe return.”
I thanked him for all he had done on my behalf. I might have thanked him for the horse, too, for once I found Cormac,
I had no intention of returning to Candida Casa, but instead head for Ireland and my waiting Sionan. My guilt for this omission lasted only until I was out of sight of the place.
My brown horse was a fine and spirited young animal, and we understood one another well. I made certain to find him adequate grazing and water each day, which was not difficult in the wild northern hills, and we made good speed in our search for druid strongholds. Directed by local knowledge gathered along the way, I arrived at Bras Rhaidd, a very monastery of a druid house—a rival, in its own way, to Candida Casa. I came dressed in my filidh robe, carrying a new hazel staff I had cut three days before, and, to my great relief and delight, I was greeted warmly by my bardic brothers: seven Britons and an Irishman from Dal Riada, who recognized me and received me as one of their own.
I wasted not a moment, inquiring after Cormac as soon as the first of many rituals of welcome had been observed. “My name is Corthirthiac,” I told them in Irish, “and I have come in search of a dear and close friend of mine—a filidh by the name of Cormac Miach. He is in the company of a wise and powerful ollamh named Meabh.”
“Then you have done well to direct your search here,” replied the chief bard, a short, dark-haired man named Sadwrn. “They were here. Indeed, they sojourned with us for several months.” He regarded me hopefully and added, “We were greatly blessed by their presence.”
Taking his hint, I said, “Is this a Ceile De house?”
“It is that,” he said with a smile. “If you call yourself friend to Cormac, then you are no less our friend.”
I thanked him and said, “You said they have been here. Where have they gone; can you tell me?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Sadwrn. “They were on their way to Tuaim Bán to see the chief bard, Cethrwm.”
“Yes,” I said eagerly, “the very bard he mentioned.”
“It must be three months at least since they left here.”
“I see. Is it far, this Tuaim Bán?”
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