The monk turned his round face towards Murdo. “However did you come to hear of that?”
“You told me,” Murdo replied. “You said you were the keeper of the clear light, remember?”
“Sanctus Clarus—the Holy Light,” the monk corrected. “We are the Keepers of the Holy Light, and Guardians of the True Path.”
“Yes, that was it,” Murdo agreed. “But what does it mean?”
“Ah, well now,” answered Emlyn, “it is not a thing we tell just anyone.” He paused, and Murdo feared he would say no more, then added, “Still, I see no harm in telling you a little.” He settled back, folding his hands across his paunch. “Where to begin, that is the problem.”
He thought for a moment, and then said, “Before the sainted Padraic established his hut among the wild tribes of Eìre, before blessed Colm Cille took the rock of Hý for his abbey, the learned brotherhood of Britain and Gaul have held to the Holy Light: the inspired teaching of Jesu the Christ. This teaching was kept by the apostles themselves, and passed down and down through the years from one generation of priestly believers to the next.”
“The teaching of the church?” wondered Murdo, his heart sinking. He had hoped for a better explanation than this.
“No,” Emlyn allowed. “At least, not as any would know it in this benighted day and age.”
“Then, what—”
“Just listen, boy. Listen, now, and learn.”
Composing himself once more, the monk began. “Padraic was not the first to learn of the True Path, no—nor was he the last. Far from it. But he was a tireless servant of the Holy Light, and he—”
“Is the Holy Light the same as the True Path, then?” wondered Murdo.
“No, the Holy Light is the knowledge—the knowledge derived from the teaching. The True Path is the practice, see—the use of that knowledge day by day. The first—”
“Why did you say it was a secret?”
“What, and we are to have endless interruptions now?” Emlyn huffed. “I did not say it was a secret. I said it was a thing we do not tell those who are not ready to hear it.”
“I was just—”
“If you will but hold your tongue between one breath and the next, we will reach an explanation.” He pursed his lips and closed his eyes. Murdo waited, itchy with expectation. After a moment, the monk said, “This is the way of it: Padraic was not the first, and he was not alone. There were others before and after, as I say—men like the Champion Colm Cille, and the venerable Adamnan—men of courage and long obedience who kept the flame burning bright through many long and bitter years.
“But the Darkness is greedy. It is insatiable. Ever and always, it seeks to devour more and more, and the more it devours, the greater it grows, and the greater it grows, the more powerful it becomes, and the hungrier. There is but one thing strong enough to stand against this all-consuming darkness: the Holy Light. Indeed, it is the most mighty thing on earth, and therefore we guard it with our lives.”
Murdo could not let this assertion go unchallenged. “If it is as powerful as you say, why does it have to be guarded at all?”
Emlyn clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Tch! To even ask such a question shows how little you understand of the higher things. Still, I am not surprised. How could you know? For you have spent the whole of your young life in error and confusion. You, like all the rest, have been led astray, like those poor sheep wandering lost in the night.”
“Those were stolen,” Murdo pointed out.
“Yes,” agreed Emlyn absently, “I suppose they were. But they were lost just the same. Tell me, are the sheep to blame if their shepherds are lazy, ignorant, and deceitful? If the sheep could keep from wandering, there would be no need for shepherds.”
“And if sheep could fly,” suggested Murdo, “we would call them birds.”
“Scoff if you must,” Emlyn replied, “I expect no less. We of the Célé Dé have grown accustomed to mockery. Derision is the refuge of threatened ignorance, after all.”
Murdo, chastened by this rebuke, apologized for his outburst. “All this talk of sheep and shepherds—it seemed funny to me. Please, tell me about the True Path. Why do you call it that?”
“Because it is a path,” the fat cleric insisted, “a path of truth and understanding, leading back and back to the beginning—to the very first day when Our Lord called the Twelve to be his faithful servants. From that day, the teaching of Our Lord has been passed from one servant to the next in a single, narrow, unbroken line of succession.
“As it is written: ‘O, my people, hear my teaching; listen to the words of my mouth. I will open my mouth in parables; I will utter hidden things, teachings from the creation of the world—what we have heard from our fathers.’ And also: ‘When Jesu was alone, the Twelve asked him about the parables. The Lord told them, “The secret of the Kingdom of Heaven has been given to you. But to those on the outside everything is said in parables so that they may be ever seeing, but never perceiving, and ever hearing, but never understanding.”’ Thus, it has been since the beginning. The path stretches back and back, unbroken to this day.”
“But what is this teaching?” asked Murdo; he was intrigued, but growing impatient with the monk’s vague explanation. “It does not sound much different from what the bishop says back home.”
“That is where you are wrong. For, unlike so many of our dear brothers and sisters in the faith, we do not wander in error and confusion. Yet, the teaching can only be given to one who is willing to hear, and I do not think you are ready to receive it yet.” Murdo opened his mouth to protest, but Emlyn said, “Still, I will tell you something about it, and perhaps discernment will begin to grow. The darkness is greedy, as I have said, and it is insidious. Even in those first days it was seeking what it might devour, but the presence of Our Lord kept it at bay.
“When he ascended to Heaven to begin his eternal reign, the Great Darkness sought out the weak and unwary; those it would destroy, it first led astray. Thus, even as the faith itself began to blossom and grow, darkness sowed its own seeds of error and confusion as well. Many have been deceived, and many destroyed.
“Alas! The holy church, the great fortress of the faith, has been breached, and all its bulwarks desecrated. Those who shelter within its walls—whether sheep or shepherds,” Emlyn cast a sidelong glance at Murdo, “leaders or followers, from the highest patriarch to the most lowly scribe—all have been tainted by the darkness, and all are bereft of the Holy Light. The eyes of their hearts have withered and they glimpse the truth but dimly if they even see it at all.
“Listen to me, I make no selfish boast. Do you think I rejoice in the certain destruction of my fellow churchmen? Do you think I could derive any pleasure from the sight of the multitudes these blind guides lead astray? The loss of dear friends and the waste of souls is more bitter to me than anything I know.
“Yet, not even for their sake could I give up that which has been entrusted to me—even if that were possible. We are Keepers of the Holy Light, and we serve Him, and Him alone, who makes the light to shine. For so long as we live, we hold to the Holy Light, and we protect it against the darkness until the Day of the Redeemer.”
The monk fell silent, and after a moment Murdo asked, “Why is it that you three are the only ones who know about all this?”
“Few, we may be,” the monk allowed, “but not that few. No, we are not the only ones; although, with each passing year there are fewer, it is true. But your question is a good one: why us and not someone else?
“I think God has chosen the Célé Dé to be the keepers, because we are different from all our brothers in certain respects. The sainted Padraic used to say that God chose the Celts to guard the True Path because we live on the edge of the world—far away from the pitiless intrigues of the east.
“I have often thought about it, and I believe Old Padraic was right. The faith was first taught by Our Lord to the humble people of this world; poor folk—shepherds and farmers and pott
ers and fishermen—were blessed of God to be first to hear and believe. Only much later was the faith taken up by the kings and princes of this world—the high and mighty, the governors and rulers of nations.
“So, when God began to look around for someone to be his Keepers and Guardians, his eye fell naturally upon the Celt—a race as much like those who first heard the faith as makes no difference: simple people who live close to the land and close to one another. Our homes are huts of mud and twig built in green and sheltered valleys, not great golden cities filled with hosts of strangers. Our lords are our own clansmen, men of our own tribe, not governors appointed by an emperor in a glittering palace far away. Our church is the simple expression of a naturally noble people, a folk who know nothing of religious philosophies, or ecclesiastical hierarchies, but feel in their hearts the joy of a song well sung, and the beauty of a mist-covered mountain in the pearl-like dawn of a new day.”
Murdo felt a thrill ripple through him as the cleric spoke these words—the sensation produced by the sudden recognition of a truth long suspected but never uttered aloud.
“Thus,” the priest continued, “the Good Lord saw to it that the blessed spark was passed to the Celt, and we have kept it burning ever since. For all, we are a crafty and a cunning race, and tenacious in the deep matters of the heart and soul. Though our mother church has not escaped the ravages of the Great Darkness, her youngest offspring—tucked out of sight on the edge of the world, and beset on every side by barbarian strife and troubles such as would make the very stones weep—the youngest of our Great Mother’s unruly brood has grown strong in the service of the light. The rest of the church that bears Our Lord’s name may fall into disrepute and ruin, brought low by schemes and plots and scandals of every kind in the futile struggle for power and position, but we, the true Célé Dé, remain steadfast, holding still to the True Path.”
Emlyn paused, and after a moment sighed. “Ah, fy enaid,” he said, his voice sinking into the night. “I fear I have said too much.”
“Not at all,” Murdo assured him. “I begin to understand—I think. But what if you are wrong? What if there is no Holy Light, no True Path?”
“I, too, have wondered this,” the cleric replied thoughtfully. “I have pondered long and hard over it. And I think it comes down to this: if we are wrong in our belief, what is the worst? Well, at worst a handful of misguided monks have deluded themselves into thinking they had a special duty, nothing more.”
This reply did more to endear the rotund priest to Murdo than anything he had said, or could have said. He had never heard a cleric admit even the least shadow of doubt or uncertainty. Here was a monk who not only acknowledged it, but reckoned the likelihood in his thinking.
“But if we are right, what then?” continued Emlyn. “Then the future of the faith and the souls of mankind are in our hands—given to us for safekeeping. So you see, whether we are right or wrong, we dare not lay aside our charge.”
“I see,” Murdo replied. “But if no one will show us the True Path, how will anyone ever become ready to receive the teaching? And why must it remain secret?”
“We are neither high nor mighty in the eyes of the world, and that is both our blessing and our curse,” the monk declared. “Our weapons are the weapons of the weak: wit, stealth, and secrecy. These we possess in prodigious supply, and have become proficient in their many uses. Make no mistake, our enemies are mighty and they are many—the Pope in Rome chief among them. For almost six hundred years, Rome has sought the death of the Célé Dé, yet we remain—a remnant only, it is true, but enough to ensure the continuation of our line. Secrecy is our protection, and we cling to it.”
Murdo thought about this for a moment, then asked, “If this secrecy is so important, why do you tell me?”
“I have told you only as much as I would tell anyone who asked and was willing to listen. It is the teaching itself that is secret, not the means or purpose.”
Murdo regarded the monk sadly. Whatever else they might be, the Célé Dé were madmen, obviously—roaming the wilderness reaches of the world with their shabby little secret, bending the ear of anyone idiot enough to give them a listening. He liked Emlyn, and felt sorry for him. Still, all this talk of paths and lights and secret teachings made him tetchy and impatient; and he regretted having become entangled in such a futile conversation. Also, he felt foolish for allowing the monk to beguile him into the hope, however fleetingly glimpsed, that there might be something in what he said, something important, something real, something worth giving his life to learn and protect.
Even as he framed the thought, he remembered his own shabby little secret—that he was no crusader at all. He had not taken the cross, and had no intention of fighting for the liberation of the Holy Land. He thought of this, and softened his harsh opinion somewhat. After all, if he regarded his own secret as too precious and dangerous to be told, he could at least appreciate how the monks must feel.
TWENTY - TWO
“Five weeks—six, perhaps—no more,” declared Count Raymond of Toulouse confidently. “The distances between cities are not great, and the way is well marked. We will be in Jerusalem long before summer.”
“But the guides say the roads are uncertain at best,” Hugh pointed out. “Also, the enemy may have destroyed the old provisioning places along the way. It may take longer than we anticipate.”
With the fresh conquest of Nicaea behind them, the lords had gathered around the board in Count Raymond’s expansive tent to drink wine and study the map prepared for them in Rome at the pope’s behest. Full of their good fortune, the noblemen stood clutching their cups and gazing at the unrolled goatskin with its thin meandering lines and spidery inscriptions.
From ancient times, there had always been but three ways across the great upland plateau of Anatolia. Each route offered the traveler particular benefits as well as challenges. With the coming of the Seljuq, however, the difficulties had swallowed any benefits. It was no longer a matter of passage, but of endurance, and even the most informed and enlightened pilgrim would have found it impossible to say which route offered the best hope of success, for the land had passed out of imperial dominion more than a generation ago and no one knew the condition of the roads anymore. Nor could anyone say what the pilgrims might encounter on the way. And which of the old towns and settlements remained? Where would they find watering places? What was the enemy strength in the sprawling interior?
“The guides you trust so highly are spies,” Raymond hissed, his gaunt face hardening. “Spies in the employ of that craven coward of an emperor. He would see us fail so that he can claim the spoils for himself. Did you see how quickly he swooped upon surrendered Nicaea? He had it in his grip before the blood had dried in the streets.”
“There was no blood in the streets,” Stephen corrected mildly, “and in any event, we had already decided to give it to him so that we might press on in all haste. The season grows hotter by the day, and we must move quickly—the summer heat will kill us, if the enemy does not.”
“Bah!” cried Raymond. “Listen to your bleating! My lords,” he said sternly, “with our own eyes we have seen how easily the Saracens are defeated. If the Greeks were but half the soldiers we are, they would have driven them into the sea years ago.”
“The Saracens are a pestering irritation,” declared Baldwin into his cup, “nothing more.”
“Seljuqs,” Stephen reminded them. “They are not Saracens, but Seljuqs. There is a difference, I believe.”
“There is no difference,” growled Raymond.
“I agree,” put in Bohemond indifferently. “Stick them and they bleed; cut off their heads and they die.”
“They are infidel, and they will be exterminated like vermin.” Baldwin glanced around the board, gathering agreement for this sentiment. “We took Nicaea without breaking a sweat; the rest will fall to us likewise.”
“But if the guides say—” Hugh began again, desperate to have his concern taken seriou
sly.
“Hang the guides!” roared Raymond, slamming his hand down on the board. “I am sick to the teeth hearing about them. These scheming Greeks are part of the emperor’s deceitful designs. I warn you, Vermandois, trust them at your peril. The maps given us by the pope are more than adequate for the task at hand. We have only to keep to the old military road and we are assured swift passage to Jerusalem.”
Straightening to his full height, he placed his hands on his hips and glared around the table at his comrades. “On to Antioch, I say, and devil take the hindmost!”
The next day, the largest force assembled since the golden days of Rome’s glory trundled off on the broken road. Moving in long columns, staggered to keep out of one another’s dust, the crusaders looked their last upon the conquered city, and set their faces towards Jerusalem.
Nicaea had been their first real test, and they had come through it handsomely. The victory was no less sweet for the ease with which it had been accomplished. The outcome had been in doubt right up to the moment of surrender—owing chiefly to the fact that when the siege was begun, the crusaders’ fighting force had not yet reached its full strength.
The last pilgrims to join—Duke Robert and his noble kinsmen, and their respective contingents of English, Norman, Scottish, and Flemish knights—had not reached their comrades until the eve of the fall of Nicaea. Like the others before them, they had taken the oath of allegiance in Constantinople, then crossed the Bosphorus in the emperor’s ships and disembarked in Pelecanum where they made their way along the gulf to Nicomedia, the last city in Anatolia remaining to the empire. There they were joined by a regiment of Immortals which the emperor had ordered to accompany the pilgrims. Eager to join the pilgrimage, the western lords pressed on to Nicaea, led by the Byzantine regiment, who were in turn led by their commander, the strategus Taticius.
The Iron Lance Page 23