The Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  The trouble was, he didn’t want to go. Not just yet. For when he had completed his task, he had been looking forward to spending a week alone with the treasures of the Kells library, especially, of course, the great Gospel book. A week of blissful private study, undisturbed. He had worked hard; it was a treat he had well deserved. And now the thought of warding off her enquiries and keeping her waiting for days longer filled him with a thoroughly tiresome sense of guilt. Yesterday, with the latest turn of events disrupting the countryside, he had suggested that she might want to wait for a while before setting out. But unfortunately she had given him a shrewd look and then answered gently, “I’m sure that God will protect us.” He’d been trying to avoid her ever since.

  Hearing his muttered curse, Morann asked him the reason; and as they walked towards the gateway, Osgar briefly told him.

  So it was with delight, after introducing the craftsman to the kindly nun, that he heard Morann remark: “I hear you are both travelling down to Kildare, Sister Martha. I should tell you that the countryside may be a little unsafe at the moment, but if you could wait, I shall be going down that way myself in five days, and we could all travel together.” He smiled at her. “There is safety in numbers.” It was hardly an offer that anyone would reasonably refuse; and after the nun had accepted, and the two men had walked on, the craftsman turned to him. “Will that give you enough time?”

  Three clear days in the library. Morann’s company across what might, indeed, be dangerous terrain. “I can’t believe my luck,” Osgar replied with a smile.

  Morann’s own plans, he learned, were to settle his family at Kells and then return to Dyflin where he wanted to check on the safety of Harold’s family. “But I have a piece of business I’d been meaning to do in Kildare,” he explained, “and so I may as well go down that way first.” Osgar remembered the big farm in Fingal where he had encountered Harold’s father after being attacked by the robbers years before, and he was impressed by the craftsman’s loyalty to his friend.

  “Are you not afraid of the danger at Dyflin?” he asked.

  “I’ll be careful,” Morann replied.

  “If you get to Dyflin,” Osgar remarked, “you might see my uncle and cousins at the monastery. I hope they are safe. You could give them my greetings.”

  “I will, certainly,” Morann answered. “By the way,” he added, “I saw another cousin of yours, I believe. She was coming into Dyflin just before I left, to be safer while her husband was away at the fighting.”

  “Indeed? And who was that?”

  “She’s married to a rich man out at Rathmines. Wasn’t her name Caoilinn?”

  “Ah.” Osgar stopped and looked at the ground. “It was,” he said quietly. “Caoilinn.”

  It was the last day before leaving. For the first hour of the day, Osgar liked to practise his illustration. If calligraphy was painstaking, illustration was even more intricate. Of course, there was the design first. That could be simple or complex. Only those skilled in geometry should even attempt the making of a Celtic pattern. But once the design was made in rough, then carefully fair copied and transferred onto the vellum as a drawing, the intricate business of choosing the colours and of slowly painting them in with needle-thin brushes required extraordinary patience and skill.

  The pigments themselves were rare and valuable. He dipped his brush in a red, to colour part of the scalloped design of an eagle’s feathers. Some reds were made from lead, but this came from the pregnant body—it had to be pregnant—of a certain Mediterranean insect. He checked a proportion on the design with a pair of dividers. Purple next, from a Mediterranean plant. The greens were mostly from copper. You had to be careful. If the page got wet afterwards, the copper could eat through the vellum. The whites were usually made with chalk. Cleverer were the golds. The pigment for gold was actually a yellow—arsenic sulphide—but when applied it would develop a metallic shine so that it looked like gold leaf. Most precious and rare of all was the blue lapis lazuli. That came from the farthest Orient, from a place, it was said, where the mountains, higher even than the Alps, rose into the blue sky until they touched it. A country without a name. Or so he had heard.

  The greatest art of all, in Osgar’s opinion, was the delicate layering of colours one on top of the other so that one achieved not only subtle gradations of tone but even a relief, like a landscape as it would be seen from above, as by the eye of God Himself.

  But when he entered the scriptorium that morning, Osgar did not trouble to practise his own poor art. He went straight to the great book on the lectern. It was, after all, his last opportunity to do so.

  The wonder of it. As he stood before the masterpiece, it was hard for Osgar to believe that he might not see it again. For two months now he had explored its creamy vellum pages and discovered its wonders so that, like a pilgrim to a holy city who has come to know all its byways and secret places, he felt almost as if the great treasure belonged to him personally

  And indeed, wasn’t the book laid out like a celestial city? Four Gospels: four points of the compass, four arms of the holy cross. Hadn’t Ireland four provinces? Even the mighty Roman Empire, in the later days when it was Christian, had been divided into four parts. At the start of each of the Gospels came three magnificent full-page illuminations: first the winged symbol of the evangelist—Matthew the man, Mark the lion, Luke the calf, and John the eagle; second came a portrait page; third, the first words of the Gospel were worked up into a huge design. A trinity of pages to start each of the four Gospels. Three and four: the seven days of the week. Three times four: the twelve apostles.

  There were other full-page illuminations at appropriate places, like the eight-circle double-cross design, the Virgin and Child, and the great Chi-Rho symbol that began Matthew’s account of the birth of Jesus.

  The splendour of the pages was in their colour: deep, sumptuous reds and mauves, the purples, emerald greens, and sapphire blues; the pale tinctures of the saints’ faces, like old ivory; and everywhere the gleaming yellow that made them look like gold enamelled screens.

  But their magnificence was in their construction. Trefoil spirals enclosed in discs, borders of interlacing ribbons and knots, and motifs from the island’s most ancient past were joined to Christian symbols—the eagle of John; the peacock, symbol of Christ’s incorruptibility; fish, snakes, lions, angels and their trumpets—all stylised into geometric patterns. There were human figures, too, grouped in spandrels in the corners, or round the bases of golden letters, men with arms and legs lengthened and interlaced so that human body and abstract design became one and the same in this Celtic cosmos. And these patterns were endless: repeating interlacings of such Oriental complexity that the eye could never unravel them; discs of spirals set in clusters like jewels, circle and stipple, snakelike forms and filigree—the rich riot of Celtic decoration seemed likely to run completely out of control were it not for the massive, monumental geometry of the composition.

  Ah, that was the thing. That, Osgar thought, was the wonder of it. For whether it was the great cruciform image of the four evangelists, or the mighty sinuous curve of the Chi-Rho, the message of the illuminated pages was unmistakable. Just as, in its later days, the stolid empire of pagan Rome had tried with its numbered legions and massive walls to stem the tides of barbarians, so now the Roman Church, with the still greater power and authority of the true religion, was imposing its monumental order on the anarchy of the heathen, and building not just an imperial but a celestial city—timeless, eternal, comprehensive, and bathed in spiritual light. He would gaze at the pages by day and, sometimes, dream of them at night. Once he had even dreamed that he had come into the monastery church and found the book open. Two of its pages, having detached themselves, had grown huge: one a gold mosaic on the wall; the other, like a great Byzantine screen of gold and icons across the choir, barring his way towards the altar. And as he had approached it the golden screen had glowed, as though burnished by a dark and holy fire; and he had so
ftly touched it and it had sounded, harshly, like an antique gong.

  But now he had to leave with Morann and Sister Martha. He would accompany the nun to Kildare, then make his way into the mountains and back to Glendalough. And Morann would go to Dyflin and perhaps see Caoilinn. Well, he shouldn’t complain. This was the life he had chosen.

  “The hand of Saint Colum Cille.”

  Osgar started at the voice behind his shoulder. It was the old monk who was in charge of the scriptorium. He hadn’t heard him come up.

  “So they say,” he replied. Many people ascribed the Kells Gospels to Saint Colum Cille. The royal saint, direct descendant of Niall of the Nine Hostages himself—his name meant the Dove of the Church—who had founded the famous island monastery of Iona off the coast of northern Britain, was a noted calligrapher, certainly. But Colum Cille had lived only a century after Saint Patrick, and it seemed to Osgar, who had examined a number of books in the monastery library, that the great book was of a later date. Two centuries ago, Kells had been founded as a refuge for some of the monks of the Iona community after the island monastery had been attacked by Vikings. A few of the illustrations were incomplete; so perhaps the great book had been prepared in Iona and the Vikings had interrupted its completion.

  “I have been watching you, you know.”

  “You have?” In the two months since he’d been there, the keeper of the scriptorium had hardly said a word to him beyond what was necessary, and when once or twice he had seen the old man looking at him severely, he had the feeling that the Kells man probably disapproved of him. He wondered what he’d done wrong. But to his surprise, when he turned his head, he saw that the old monk’s mouth was drawn into a smile.

  “You’re a scholar. I can see it. The moment I saw you I said to myself, ‘Now there’s a true scholar of our island race.’ ”

  Osgar was as pleased as he was surprised. Ever since his uncle’s lectures to him on the subject when he was a child, he had felt a justifiable pride in the achievements of his countrymen. For with barbarians occupying much of the world, it had been the missionary monks from the western isle who had gone out into the old Celtic areas of the ruined Roman Empire to reassert Christian civilization. From Colum Cille’s Iona they had established other notable centres, like the great western monastery of Lindisfarne, and converted most of the northern part of England. Others had gone to Gaul, Germany, and Burgundy, and even over the Alps into northern Italy. In due course, the founders of monasteries had been followed by Celtic pilgrims, in remarkable numbers, making their way southwards down the pilgrim routes that led towards Rome. Not only had the Celtic Church carried back the torch of truth; it had become one of the greatest guardians of classical culture. Latin Bibles and their commentaries, the works of the greatest Latin authors—Virgil, Horace, Ovid—even some of the philosophers: all these were copied and treasured. English princes sent their young men to study on the western island, where some of the monasteries were almost like academies; the island’s scholars were known in courts all over Europe. “These island Celts,” it was said, “are the finest grammarians.”

  Personally, Osgar thought this proficiency owed much to the great tradition of the island’s complex but poetic Celtic tongue. Indeed, he privately doubted whether the speakers of Anglo-Saxon could ever really appreciate classical literature. And he remembered how another of the monks at Glendalough had once remarked, “Anglo-Saxon: that’s how a thatched house would talk if it could.” And he was glad that the monastic chroniclers had also taken care to record the old Celtic tradition in writing. From the ancient brehon law codes of the tribes and the druids to the old oral tales sung by the bards, the island’s monks had set them down with their chronicles of past events. The stories of Cuchulainn, Finn mac Cumaill, and the other Celtic heroes and gods were now to be found in monastic libraries, alongside the classical texts and scriptures. Not only that. A new literary tradition had arisen as the Irish monks, steeped in the sonorous tradition of their Latin hymns, had taken the rich alliteration of the ancient Celtic verse and transformed it into a written Irish poetry more echoing, more haunting than even the pagan original had been. Admittedly, the stories had often been changed a bit. There were things in some of those old tales, Osgar thought, that no Christian would want to commit to writing. You couldn’t leave them as they were. But the grand old poetry was still there, the Celtic soul of the thing.

  One thing he regretted: the old druidical tonsure of the island monks had been given up. Two centuries after Saint Patrick, the Pope had insisted that all the monks in Christendom should shave just the tops of their heads, in the Roman manner, and after some protest the Celtic Church had gone along with it. “But we’re still druids underneath,” he liked to say, only half in jest.

  “And tomorrow you’re leaving?” the old monk asked him.

  “I am.”

  “When there’s so much trouble in the world.” The old man sighed. “There’ll be Brian Boru’s men wandering all over Leinster and God knows what they’ll be up to. You should stay here awhile. Wait until it’s safe.” Osgar explained to him about Sister Martha, but the old man shook his head. “It’s a terrible thing for a scholar such as yourself to be out in the world, on account of a nun from Kildare.” Then he turned and moved away. A few moments later, he came back.

  He had a small piece of parchment in his hand, which he laid on the table in front of Osgar.

  “Look at that,” he said.

  It was a design, traced in black ink. Osgar had never seen anything quite like it before. It was a trefoil of three loosely connected spirals, reminding him somewhat of the trefoils to be seen in some of the great illuminations. But unlike those, in which the spirals were arranged into a completed geometric design, the swirling lines seemed to wander away towards the edges, as if they had been caught in the midst of some endless, unfinished business.

  “I copied that,” the old monk said proudly.

  “From what?

  “A big stone. By the old tombs above the Boyne. I used to walk over there sometimes.” He looked at his handiwork with satisfaction. “That’s how it is carved. The copy is exact.”

  Osgar continued to gaze at it. The wandering design seemed ancient.

  “Would you know,” asked the old monk, “what it means?”

  “I wouldn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Nobody knows.” The old monk sighed, then brightened. “But it’s a curious thing, wouldn’t you say?”

  It was. And strangely enough, after he had left the library that evening, it was the curious design, even more than the magnificent Gospels, which seemed to remain, haunting his imagination, as if the wandering spirals contained an undeciphered message for those about to set out on journeys as to their fate.

  They left at first light. The snow had already vanished the day before; though it was cold, there was no frost and the ground was damp. They travelled in a small cart which Morann had provided. They met nobody else travelling. Each time they came upon a farmstead, they would ask for news of the forces from Munster, but nobody had seen or heard anything. It seemed that this part of the country, at least, was still quiet. Early in the afternoon, they reached the Boyne at a point where there was a ford. Once past the Boyne, they continued southwards, under a leaden sky.

  The day passed quietly. They kept a careful lookout for raiding parties, but saw none. As dusk was drawing in, they saw smoke coming from a farmstead by an old rath, and found a shepherd and his family. Glad of the warmth of a fire and shelter, they stayed the night. The shepherd told them that Brian Boru, together with a huge force, had all gone to Dyflin and were camped there now. “It’s said he means to stay through Christmas,” the shepherd reported.

  Had there been any other trouble? “Not around here,” he told them.

  The next morning, when they set off again, the weather was overcast. Ahead of them stretched a large, flat terrain. On their right-hand side, to the west, began a huge area of bog. To the east, two days’ journey
away, lay Dyflin. Ahead, to the south, the plain consisted of woodland interspersed with large open spaces. By late afternoon, if they travelled at a reasonable rate, they would come to the largest of these open spaces, the bare tableland of Carmun where, since time out of mind, the people of the island had gathered for the pagan festival of Lughnasa and the racing of horses. And it was only a short distance from the ancient racing grounds to their destination, the great monastery of Kildare.

  The afternoon was almost over and darkness nearly falling when they reached the edge of Carmun. A strange greyness pervaded the sky. The huge, flat, empty spaces seemed eerie and vaguely threatening. Even Morann was uneasy, and Osgar saw him looking anxiously about. It would be dark before they arrived at Kildare. He glanced at Sister Martha.

  The kindly nun had certainly been an excellent travelling companion. She did not talk unless someone indicated that they wished to, but when she did talk, she gave evidence of a fund of cheerful good sense. She must be very good, he thought, at tending the sick. Was she a little nervous now? He was quite ready to admit, at least to himself, that he was. But she gave no sign of it. A few moments later she smiled at him.

  “Would you like to recite something with me, Brother Osgar?” she suddenly asked.

  He quite understood. It might help them all not to be nervous.

  “What would you like?” he asked. “A Psalm, perhaps?”

  “ ‘Patrick’s Breastplate,’ I think,” she replied.

  “An excellent choice.” It was a lovely poem. Tradition said it was composed by Saint Patrick himself, and it could have been so. It was a hymn of praise but also of protection, and it had not been composed in Latin but in Irish—which was fitting, for this great Christian chant, so full of a sense of the wonder of God’s earthly creation, had a druidical character that recalled the poets back to Amairgen from the ancient Celtic tradition.