by Wayne Grant
“Lord?”
“You’ve told me how I shouldn’t go about this. Now tell me how I should.”
The boy looked abashed, but did not hesitate to speak up.
“I meant no offense, my lord, but you can’t do it,” he said flatly. “Ye’ve said ye can’t ask the Abbot or the monks directly about yer friends and don’t think de Courcy’s soldiers won’t notice ye ridin’ in on this fine English horse. Ye’ll get us both caught fer sure, my lord.”
“Then how?” Roland demanded.
“I’ll do it m’self, lord,” the boy said earnestly. “No one notices a boy like me. I can stroll around the abbey grounds and spy out the place. I recall yer friends well enough to know ‘em on sight and if I don’t see ‘em, I won’t ask the monks. I’ll ask the locals. They won’t care what my business is, if there’s a coin or two in it for them.”
Roland stared at the boy for a moment then shook his head. He pulled out his coin purse and fished out two small silver pieces and handed them to Finn. The boy slipped them into his purse, where they made a clinking sound as they joined a growing hoard in the little leather pouch.
“You’ll have more silver than I before we’re done, Master Finn.”
The boy just smiled as he tucked the purse into his belt.
***
Declan cleared a path through the crowd gathered outside the church of Saint Patrick and made his way to the arched entrance of the nave. Two monks flanked the opening, one of middle years and plump, the other hardly beyond boyhood and gangly. They were gently but firmly turning away worshipers clamouring to enter the church. Locals were advised that the nave was being used to prepare the holy relics for the processional that would begin in half an hour. In the meantime, they were to wait outside.
As Declan approached, the two men eyed him. His dress separated him from the local peasantry, but the two were unmoved by appearances and disinclined to make an exception for him. But before they could issue a rebuff, Brother Cyril, with Margaret Maelchallain in tow, stepped to the front and greeted his fellow monks heartily.
“Brothers, this is truly a day the Lord has made,” he proclaimed, speaking to them in English, “and we have ridden far to share in your celebration of His ascension into the heavens.”
The two monks smiled sympathetically, but shook their heads sadly.
“You are most welcome here, Brother,” the older of the two said sadly, “but the nave is in use just now.”
Cyril frowned and drew forth a roll of parchment from his robes.
“I had not thought this necessary,” he said with a sniff, “but Lord de Courcy was good enough to provide me with a letter of introduction to the Abbot—when last we spoke.”
He handed the parchment to the monk who had addressed him. The man unrolled it and squinted at the words. Declan saw the monk’s demeanour change as he reached the bottom of the document where de Courcy’s own seal was affixed.
“You are Brother Cyril?” he asked meekly.
“I am. I come at the behest of the Bishop of Chester to pay respects at the tomb of Patrick and commune with my brother monks here at Down.”
“Oh, good Brother Cyril!” he exclaimed, plastering a hasty smile on his face, “forgive our lack of hospitality. It’s the feast day, you see and the locals…they are like unruly children and require a firm hand. But come, no need to wait in this crowd. It is quieter inside.” He gave a short bow and motioned for them follow him into the nave.
Cyril beamed back at the man.
“Thank you, Brother…?”
“I am Anselm, Brother Cyril, at your service, and this,” he said pointing to his companion, “is Brother Martin. He’ll keep watch on the door and I’ll take you to the Abbot. He is always most anxious to welcome visitors sent our way by the Prince. Did you know that it was Lord de Courcy who provided the funds to build our abbey here. He is a most devout man and a great benefactor. Together we are leading these Irish out of sin and into the light!”
Cyril smiled benignly.
“The Prince informed us of the good work you do here, Brother Anselm.”
Anselm sighed loudly.
“We try, Brother, honestly we do! But the Irish here cling to many of the old ways, no matter how blasphemous. You know that as a novitiate, I spent a year at Norton Priory in Runcorn. Now there was a holy place!”
A sly smile flickered across Cyril’s face.
“So you were once an Augustinian like myself, Brother Anselm?”
Anselm looked a little sheepish.
“Aye, I was, Brother, but I found I was ill-suited for a life tending the sick and the poor. I do admire those like yourself who go out among the people, but I shudder to think what that would be like among these stiff-necked Irish! For me the more contemplative life of a Benedictine has great appeal.” This he said as he turned his attention to Margaret and contemplated her. Cyril saw the shift in the monk’s interest and made the introduction.
“Brother Anselm, may I present, Sister Margaret. She is Irish herself, but for several years now has resided with the sisters at Chester Priory. It was there she began her study of the life of your great Saint Patrick and looks forward to learning more.”
Anselm stared at Margaret with more than an ecclesiastical interest, unconcerned that he had just insulted her countrymen and the Irish church. He reached out pudgy hands and clasped hers.
“Sister, I am perhaps the most knowledgeable in the teachings of Patrick amongst our brethren here and would be most pleased to instruct you.”
Margaret blushed prettily at the man.
“You are most kind, Brother Anselm. I have many questions and much to learn from one as wise as you.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, absently licking his lips, “but come, I must conduct you to the Abbot!”
He reluctantly released Margaret’s hands and turned back to Cyril.
“Please follow me,” he said.
As he started into the dim interior he hesitated.
“He is with you?” he asked, nodding toward Declan.
“Aye, brother, my bodyguard, Sir Declan. The Bishop insisted.”
Anselm nodded.
“A wise precaution in this country. I rarely venture off the abbey grounds myself. In truth, I do not look forward to these holy days. Who knows what sort of brigands might conceal themselves among the crowds. We have de Courcy’s garrison nearby, but they are far more interested in protecting their little fort atop the mound than we poor monks here at the abbey!”
Cyril patted the fat monk’s arm and winked over his shoulder at Declan.
“Well, you can rest easy today, brother,” he reassured the man. “No villain will come near you with Sir Declan at hand. He was knighted by King Richard himself!”
Anselm glanced once more at Declan and, for the first time, really looked at him. The monk had seen much over the years, including his share of fighting men.
“He looks very capable, Brother Cyril,” he said, “but time is short and the Abbot must be informed that we have guests!” He stepped into the nave and motioned for them to follow.
The inside of the church was illuminated by a few large candles near the altar and by faint sunlight that found its way in through small windows set high up along both walls of the nave. To the right of the altar was a heavy oak door with elaborately forged iron hinges and polished carvings on its outer face. The door was half open with two men-at-arms keeping watch over a cluster of black-robed monks bustling in and out of the hidden chamber.
“That is the sacristy,” Brother Anselm said in a low voice as they drew near. He laid a hand on Margaret’s shoulder and whispered to her. “Here we keep our holy relics. There is a lock of Saint Ita’s hair in a silver locket, a knuckle bone from Saint Brendan and our most prized possession…,”
“The bell of Saint Patrick,” Margaret said finishing the sentence. “I’d heard it was here,” she added breathlessly.
“And you shall see it!” the monk assured her as they near
ed the front of the nave.
Overseeing the buzz of activity at the front of the nave was a remarkable looking man. William Layton, the Abbot of Down, was dressed all in black and towered over the monks scurrying around the sacristy. Declan guessed the man was a half head taller than himself, with steel grey hair and dark eyes set deep beneath brows that sprouted tangles of hair like briar patches. The Abbot was barking orders in a clipped voice as they approached.
“Drape this white silk over the arms of the crucifix,” he said handing a bolt of shimmering cloth to one of the brethren. He stood back and watched the man hang the cloth on the ornate rood. A frown creased his face as he saw the result.
“No, no, no! Drape it evenly,” he said, his voice rising in exasperation as he shooed away the monk and fiddled with the silken cloth, “like so!” He stood back and admired his handywork. As he did so, Brother Anselm caught his attention.
“Father Abbot, we have distinguished guests,” he announced and handed the parchment to the man. He took the roll with a trace of annoyance, but brightened upon seeing the seal at the bottom.
“Brother Cyril! You’ve come on an auspicious day for our abbey. You and your party are most welcome here.”
Cyril bowed to the man.
“I can see you are in the midst of preparations for the processional observing our Lord’s ascension, Father Abbot, and I fear we will be in the way.”
“Nonsense! All are welcome in the sight of the Lord and most particularly those who come from Chester. I studied there at the abbey as a young monk myself and have fond memories of my time at Saint Werburg’s.” He gazed off in the distance as though calling those memories to mind, then turned back to the newcomers.
“Chester is a much more civilized place than this rude abbey,” he said wistfully, “but with the support of our most gracious Prince, we will make it into something grand someday. As for now, I insist you join us as we make our processional! Tomorrow, when things are calmer, we can visit Patrick’s grave and speak of his ministry here.”
“You are most kind, Father Abbot,” Cyril said. “It will be our honour.”
Pleasantries exchanged, Abbot Layton turned his attention to retrieving the relics from the sacristy and arranging the order of march for his monks. Two of the sturdier looking brethren were assigned to carry the crucifix that would lead the processional while two of the frailer brothers were given the task of parading with the knuckle bone of Saint Brendan and the locket of hair from Saint Ita. Finally, the Abbot motioned Brother Anselm into the sacristy. The burly monk emerged a moment later holding up the Abbey’s prized new possession—the shrine and the bell of Saint Patrick.
Declan drew in a breath. Margaret had told him that the saint’s bell was iron and of the simplest construction, but the shrine that had been crafted to contain it was a true work of art. She had not exaggerated. The bell shrine was exquisite in its intricacy and beauty. The body of the shrine was composed of four bronze plates trimmed in silver and covered in gold filigree shaped into complex swirls and symbols. Eight precious stones were set into the front face. Even in the dim light of the nave, the thing seemed to glow.
Abbot Layton pointed to the monk holding the silver locket on a small embroidered pillow.
“You will follow your brother with Saint Ita’s hair, Brother Anselm” he directed. “Hold the shrine high for all to see and for all to understand that we are the true heirs of Patrick, come to bring them into the light!”
He turned back to Cyril.
“You and your companions may follow Brother Anselm.”
With that, he strode through the nave to the door of the church. Black-clad Benedictines now lined the first forty feet of the road that led down from the top of the hill to the entrance to the abbey grounds. They had moved back the crowd to make way for the processional and now, with a small a gesture from the Abbot, the brethren began to chant, softly at first but with their voices slowly rising.
At the doorway, a monk stepped to the front with a smoking censer and walked out between the ranks of his brothers. The Abbot waved forward the men bearing the Crucifix and fell in behind them as they exited the church. The bearers of the holy relics came next. As the nave emptied, the three newcomers looked at each other. Declan shrugged.
“I love a parade,” he said as he fell in behind Anselm.
***
A mile and a half from the church on the hill, The Grey scrambled up the muddy bank of the ford on the River Quoile. Roland looked off to the west where the land was low and the river had spread out into a broad tidal marsh full of reeds and flocks of water fowl. The road clung to a forested fringe of higher ground and swung southwest. He clucked to the horse and The Grey needed no prompting from the reins to know where to go.
In less than a mile, the woods dwindled to a few patches and the country opened up to the south with fields and pastureland replacing the trees. A few rough huts appeared among the fields, but there was no sign of the inhabitants. North of the road, the broad marshland continued as far as the eye could see, the view interrupted only by a cone-shaped hill that rose from the reeds and was topped with a wooden palisade. This would be John de Courcy’s garrison, keeping watch over the ford and the abbey. Further west, he saw the top of a slim tower above the horizon.
Down Abbey.
As The Grey passed de Courcy’s motte, Roland waved to three sentries who stood watch on the causeway that led across the marsh to the foot of the fortified hill. They did not return his wave. He counted another half dozen men-at-arms on the timber walls that circled the hilltop.
Ahead, the hill of Down came into view with a large stone church at its crest. An earthen berm, about the height of a man ran along the base of the hill in both directions as the road curved off to the south again. To his front, he now saw a few people on foot hurrying up the road, some dragging small children along in their haste. A few of the more nimble had climbed over the berm and were cutting across the grassy hillside, taking a shortcut toward the church.
Roland looked over his shoulder and spoke to Finn.
“What do you suppose the rush is?”
Finn screwed up his face in thought, then brightened.
“Feast of Ascension, I believe, lord. They was planning a processional for it at Carrickfergus ‘for we left. It was set for today, I believe.”
Roland reined in The Grey and considered what to do next. The feast day would mean crowds at the abbey. Crowds could affect the plan—for good or ill.
“Are you still game to spy out the place, lad?”
Finn nodded vigorously.
“Aye, lord, it’ll be easy with all these folk about. I’ll fit right in!”
Roland smiled at the boy’s bravado, but worried for his safety.
“Take no chances, Finn,” he warned as he watched the people hurrying south along the road. The main entrance to the abbey grounds would no doubt lay in that direction, away from the river and the threat of flooding. “I’ll hide myself in the nearest patch of woods south of the abbey. If any of the monks or guards take an interest in you, you must get yourself out of there and find me. Do you understand?”
“Right, lord. I’m to run fer it if they’re on to me,” he said.
A little ahead of them, two boys broke away from their family and clambered over the berm, racing each other up the hill toward the church. Finn slid off the back of The Grey and patting the big gelding on the haunch, set off at a sprint to follow them. Roland watched the boy go, his skinny legs pumping as he chased the two local boys up the long slope. He watched until Finn disappeared over the crest and tried to shake off a nagging sense of dread.
Over the years, he’d grown used to sending men into peril, but those were men who’d freely chosen the life of a soldier. Nothing about young Finn Mac Clure’s life had been freely chosen. Orphaned and abandoned, the boy had simply done what he must to survive. Now the lad was going into harm’s way, more from necessity than choice. Sending Finn into the abbey might be the b
est way to find his friends, but if anything happened to this boy, Roland knew he would have much to answer for, if only to God and himself.
But like an arrow once loosed, there was no retrieving the boy now. He clucked to The Grey and rode south. Somewhere ahead he heard the faint sound of voices raised in song.
***
The processional moved slowly down the south slope of the hill from the church to the entrance of the abbey grounds. The Benedictine monks kept up their rhythmic song, punctuated by occasional pronouncements in Latin by Abbot Layton. As the Crucifix passed by, the faithful fell to their knees, bowed their heads and crossed themselves.
But moments later, their heads came up and a buzz ran through their ranks. They’d all seen the knuckle bone of Brendan and the hair of Ita on past holy days, but this was their first view of the holiest relic in Ireland, the bell of Saint Patrick. A woman broke from the crowd and went down on her knees before Brother Anselm, weeping and praying loudly to the dead Saint.
Anselm never broke stride as he stepped around the woman and continued down the hill. Margaret stopped and knelt beside the weeping woman, laying a comforting arm across her shoulders. The poor woman whispered something, then kissed Margaret’s hand before crawling back into the crowd.
“She was begging Patrick to give her a child. Hers died in the winter.”
When the head of the processional reached the break in the berm at the bottom of the hill, the lead monk turned and followed the barrier to the west. The crowd followed along, some racing ahead and some falling in behind. When they reached the northern extent of the abbey grounds, they turned up hill and headed for the tall stone tower that rose high above the church.
As he marched up the hill, Declan considered how to complete their visitation at the abbey. The Abbot had offered to grant them time the next day to consult with him and the monks, but he had no intention of staying any longer than needed. He felt certain that, by the time these services were done, Cyril would have enough information on the abbey and its residents to construct a convincing report. The skinny Augustinian had a sharp eye for detail and could transform a half day’s visit into a week-long sojourn for the Prince’s report.