“Eat up,” she said, “there be plenty for us and some leftover for the McNamaras . . . who’ve taken ill.”
“Are you certain you should be going to the McNamaras, Sharon?” asked Dylan. “Word has it they be stricken with the fever.”
“If I don’t go, who will help them? I wouldn’t be able to hold my head up in the village if I didn’t use my healing talents.”
“I’ll go with you, Mother. You trained me,” offered Ian.
“No, I can’t take a chance with you. You stay here with Dylan.”
Dylan pointed to Sharon’s chair and said, “Sharon, sit, eat, there’s no rush to go to McNamaras . . . At least wait until the rain stops.”
Ian watched Sharon frown at Dylan. Dutifully, she dipped a bowl of stew for herself, returned to the table and began to eat. Sharon had clear skin and well-muscled arms and legs from spending almost every waking hour, except on the Sabbath, working the farm. She kept a garden, tended the chickens and pigs, prepared the food, cleaned the house, and did the laundry. During planting and harvest, she assisted Dylan and Ian like a hired hand, not sparing herself from hard labor. Ian loved his strong willed mother.
Ian studied his stepfather while he ate. He thought about the stories his mother had told him about Dylan and his father. Dylan, as Sharon often said when Ian asked, looked so much like Sean, Ian’s father, they could almost have been twins even though they differed in age by two years. Their main physical difference was Dylan’s intense piercing brown eyes, whereas Sean’s eyes had suggested other-worldly dreams.
Dylan was the hard reality-based warrior, while Sharon confessed Ian’s father was a romantic adventurer. Sharon had fallen for the romantic, much to Dylan’s dismay. Disappointed, Dylan had gone off to fight for two years, and on returning home found his brother wanting to be a warrior, too. Dylan had reluctantly agreed to take him along when he left again, but regretted his capitulation when Sean died in battle after only a few days of combat.
Dylan ate with a seriousness associated with a farmer scooping up his hard-earned supper with gusto, his spoon nearly lost in his large hairy gnarled hands. In the candlelight, the raised white battle scar, which ran along his rugged face from his nose to his ear, showed clearly where his beard didn’t grow. The battle scar traced an arrow’s path where it had scudded along his face and off to points unknown.
Dylan had always been kind to Ian, a fair disciplinarian, tender with Ian’s mother, an excellent provider, and had been an all-around exemplar stepfather. Ian held him in high regard.
Ian considered his best approach to ask for permission to go on a pilgrimage. He held off until his Uncle Dylan had eaten one full bowl of stew and was almost finished with the second when he asked, “Father, do you think I’m ready to go on a pilgrimage?”
Dylan looked up, registering surprise at Ian calling him Father, a term seldom used. Ian usually called Dylan ‘Uncle.’
Ian noted his mother shot Dylan a ‘please don’t go there’ glance.
Dylan hesitated for a moment, turned to Ian, and said, “Ian, I know this isn’t much of a life for a young adventure-seeking lad like yourself, but you’re still too young to go off by yourself, and I have to stay here to look after your mother.”
Ian struggled to contain his disappointment. “I’m not too young. Both you and father were off to battle when you were only a year older than I am now.”
“Granted, but fighting was thrust on us, and Rome, Constantinople, and Jerusalem are thousands of miles from here. They’ll be there three or four more years from now . . . and probably hundreds of years from now.”
“With respect, Uncle, I only asked if you thought I was ready, not if I could go tomorrow.”
Dylan laid down his spoon and looked Ian in the eye. “Ian, you’re the most naturally talented warrior I’ve ever trained, including your father. . .”
Ian beamed with pride at the comparison to his father and heard little that Dylan said afterwards.
“. . . You’re taller and stronger than most grown men, and seem to grow daily. You do as much hard labor as any man I’ve ever seen. Strength will be on your side when you travel, but you need skills and knowledge to survive in this world. You’re only fourteen. You need --”
Ian blurted out, “I’ll be fifteen next May when spring planting is complete. Can I can go then?”
Dylan leaned back in Sharon’s hand-woven wicker chair, gave Ian a long look, and said, “I’ll give you milestones to meet, rather than a date or an age.”
Ian nodded expectantly.
“Help me thatch and repair the cottage, repair the fence around our property, plow the rest of our farmland and plant the spring crop . . . pass a few battle exercises of my design.” Dylan’s expression became serious. “And spend some quality time with your mother, who will miss you very much, by the way, while you’re gone.”
“I agree to all your conditions. Let’s start tomorrow.”
“If your mother approves,” Dylan said, and looked to Sharon.
Sharon kept silent, but Ian noticed she gave Dylan a flustered stare.
Not wanting to create any more awkwardness, Ian asked, “May I be excused?”
Dylan said, “Yes, we’re done.”
Ian got up from the table and carried his, Dylan’s, and his mother’s utensils to the wooden wash tub, and placed an empty pot under the steady drip from the ceiling. Dylan took the full pot out the door and dumped the water in the yard. Sharon poured the last of the stew into a pot for the McNamaras, and placed the rest of the utensils in the tub.
“I’ll return shortly,” she informed her husband and son.
“Mother, you can’t go out in this rain,” Ian protested.
Although the thunderstorm had subsided, a steady patter of raindrops on the roof continued.
“Sharon, Ian’s right, don’t go out tonight.”
“A little rain has never stopped me from being charitable,” replied Sharon. “I’ll be right back. Don’t worry your heads none.” She pulled her scarf tight around her head and went out into the wind and rain.
Sharon didn’t mind the drizzle, at least it was nearly a full moon. The path to the McNamaras had holes full of water so she had to tread carefully.
She knew Dylan loved Ian as both nephew and stepson and would insure that Ian didn’t go off into the world until he was well prepared. She had always subscribed to the idea that men’s dealings were men’s dealings, even if she didn’t approve, but she usually spoke up. She had not been prepared for Ian’s proposal.
When Dylan returned from a clan versus clan territory skirmish without Sean, her heart had been broken. Dylan proved faithful in his allegiance to Sean, and spent years helping Sharon without pressing for her attention, until one day she reciprocated the love he offered.
Dylan was such a loving substitute father for Ian that Ian welcomed his addition to their family. Dylan gave up the warrior life for the life of a humble farmer, husband and stepfather with never a complaint. Sharon knew it was only Ian’s insistent desire to become a warrior that kept Dylan maintaining his own warrior skills.
She knocked on the McNamaras’ door. Jeremy, their ten-year-old son opened the door and then collapsed onto the floor. Sharon set down her pot of stew and examined Jeremy. He was burning up with fever. She looked across the room and saw Jeremy’s mother and father lying on their bed not moving. The stench of sickness and death permeated the cottage.
“Halloo,” she called out to no reply.
Oh, God, she thought. I’m too late.
Two
Ian sat beside his mother’s cot, sorrow creasing his young face. He looked up when Dylan entered the cottage.
“The McNamaras are safely beneath the sod,” Dylan said, providing information while stifling his emotions. Receiving no response from Ian, he continued, “How is your mother doing?”
“She continues to get worse,” Ian answered. Tears welled up in his eyes and flowed down his almost ready to shave cheeks. “Is s
he going to die, too?”
“I’ve asked Friar McCarthy, to drop by . . .” Dylan squatted by Ian, held his wife’s sweaty fevered hand, then continued, “. . . and the village healer, Shamus Barnabas to do what he can to help.”
“She’s g-going to die,” Ian blubbered.
“She’s in God’s hands now.”
“Why should her act of kindness to provide food and aid to a sick family have to take her from us?”
“I don’t know, Ian. I’m only an old warrior turned farmer, and don’t understand such things.”
That afternoon Ian heard a knock on the open cottage door and, answering, discovered Shamus standing on the threshold, dressed in a dank smelling brown robe and carrying a healer’s satchel. Shamus’ long dirty hair, crooked yellow teeth, and rough appearance disturbed Ian. How can someone so foul smelling and looking heal anyone? Physician heal thyself, came to Ian’s mind.
Shamus took one look at Ian’s mother and said, “There be only one cure for this disease. We must remove the impurities and poisons from her body with leeches and bleeding.”
Ian, appalled by such a foolish approach, asked, “Is that your best approach? Make an already weakened woman even weaker by bleeding her to death?”
“That be the way; ask any other healer. Now get out of my way, boy, while I prepare the leeches.” Shamus tried to brush past Ian.
Ian held the man back. “You will not touch my mother with your foul leeches. Leave now!”
Unused to such insolence, the healer dropped his satchel and slapped Ian across the face.
In instant retaliation, Ian punched the man in the gut. As Shamus bent over, the wind knocked out of him, Ian hit him in the jaw, flooring the healer at his feet. Standing over the man, Ian commanded, “Get out and don’t return. Your methods are not welcome here.”
Shamus struggled to his feet, his arms in front of his face to block another punch. He picked up his satchel, and backed out of the cottage. At the threshold, he shook his fist at Ian and shouted, “You’ll rue this day!”
Ian grabbed a cup from the table and threw it at Shamus, striking him in the chest.
Shamus turned and ran away.
Moments later, Dylan entered the cottage to find Ian at his mother’s side, giving her sips of cool water from her chipped cup. “What did you do to Shamus? He ran down the path like some banshee was after him.”
“He would’ve stolen what life mother has in her with his leeches and bleeding. I sent him away. I’ll search her Book of Healing to find the best treatment for her.”
Ian reached under his mother’s bed and pulled out a large bound book of parchment pages. Friar McCarthy had helped her document all of her healing knowledge and organize it in a usable way. Ian found the pages addressing fevers and read her recommended treatment. Plenty of water and chicken stew. Ian reflected on the entry. Chicken stew was the dinner she carried over to the McNamaras. He continued to read, bed rest, salt-water gargle, and elderberry tea. Place a steam tent of rosemary water over the patient’s head to aid in breathing.
Ian reflected on the entries, and said, “I’ve already tried every treatment Mother has documented in her book, and one or two I saw her try that’s not recorded, to no avail. Her fever continues to rise.”
Dylan sat on the floor beside Ian, laid his hand on Sharon’s feverish arm and hugged his son.
Dylan tossed a handful of dirt into the grave and watched it fall onto the blanket wrapped body. Ian followed suit, then turned away. The refilling of the grave fell to Dylan as Ian dropped to the sod-covered ground a few feet away and sobbed uncontrollably. Dylan wanted to comfort the boy, but his own grief was so strong he had little comfort to offer Ian, so he continued to fill the grave in silence. Dylan refilled the hole and tamped the mound with his handmade shovel. With tears of loss rolling down his cheeks, he pushed the rough homemade cross into the soil at the head of the grave and pounded the cross deeper with the shovel handle.
The next day, as Ian repaired the thatch roof, he heard Friar McCarthy’s voice call out, “Halloo, is there anyone about?”
Ian peeked over the edge of the roof and saw the friar’s donkey tied at the hitching post, and the friar standing below him at the doorway. Ian replied, “Friar McCarthy, I’m so glad to see you.” Ian treasured the Sunday afternoons spent listening to the Friar’s tales of David, Samson, Noah, Peter, Paul, and Jesus from the Bible. The Friar’s stories of the Holy Land had been Ian’s inspiration to go on a pilgrimage. Ian jumped from the roof to the ground and hugged his gray-haired friend. He brushed off the loose straw he had transferred onto the friar’s brown woolen robe, then brushed himself off.
The Friar placed his hand under Ian’s chin and lifted it. He looked at Ian, eye to eye. “I’m so sorry about your mother’s passing. She was a good woman, a fine neighbor, and kind to all those who needed her help. She’s with your father continuing her good works . . . You need to move on and do the good works God has in store for you.”
Ian’s face crinkled into a slight smile. He wiped a tear away with his shirt sleeve. Regaining his composure and remembering his manners, he said, “Please sit and relax. Can I offer a cup of mead to slate your thirst?” Ian motioned for the friar to sit on one of the four large stones Dylan had placed at the cottage entrance for visiting with company. Ian sat facing the friar.
“Age has taken its toll on my old frame, I’m afraid,” the friar said in a low voice as he rubbed his knees. “Thank you for the offer of a nip, but no, I can only visit for a few minutes. I wanted to tell you I’ll be performing the memorial service on Saturday. Dylan wanted to have a proper wake, but because she died of the same sickness as the McNamaras, he decided it was best to bury her straight away.”
“I understand.”
Friar McCarthy continued, “We’ll have the memorial service in Innisfallen Abbey’s chapel. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Mother would have wanted a proper eulogy in a chapel . . . and we’ll be pleased with whatever last words you provide.”
“Yes, she helped and healed many families with her skills and kindness. They need to remember and thank her for all she’s done.”
Feeling a bout of tears coming on, Ian changed the subject. “Have you heard that I plan to leave on a pilgrimage after spring planting and after repairing the cottage, the barn, and the fence?”
“Yes, my son. Your uncle . . . and I wish you would wait at least another year . . . or two, before going on such a dangerous venture.”
“I appreciate both your concerns, but I feel my destiny calling me.”
“I would like to teach you some language skills that will help you survive as much as any of the other skills your uncle’s teaching you, except combat skills.”
Ian gave the friar a puzzled look. Language skills had not occurred to him before, even though he intended to cross many countries, each of which had their own language. He realized Friar McCarthy had a good point and gave the elderly monk his full attention.
“I’m going to teach you some Frankish, a little Hebrew, and a little Egyptian. Your Gaelic will not serve you well once you leave our Emerald Isle. The pilgrims’ language is Frankish. I also need to teach you some of the ways of the Arabs and the Jews before you leave, so you’ll understand their culture.”
Ian sat up straight and folded his arms in front of his chest. “Is this a stall to further delay my departure?”
Holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence, McCarthy replied, “I assure you, no, not on my cross. The training will be of great benefit to you.”
“How do you know so much about these things?”
“I haven’t always been a grey-haired old monk. I traveled to Egypt and Jerusalem on a pilgrimage when I was young, prior to becoming a friar. I’m personally excited about your adventure . . . only please don’t tell your uncle I said those words to you.”
“I’m so glad you’re on my side. My mother, God rest her soul . . .” Ian crossed himself. “. . . and my uncle have
been reluctant to let me go.”
Friar McCarthy made the sign of the cross in respect. “I know my son, and well they should be. It’s a journey full of excitement and danger. I brought some material to help you learn and a special treat for when you complete your lessons.”
“And what might that be?”
“A small barrel of our finest ale brewed by our local monks, a French primer, and some Hebrew and Arabic writings translated into Gaelic. You’re not to drink any of the ale until I return and test you on what you’ve learned. When you’ve made sufficient progress, you, your uncle, and I will toast your preparations.” Friar McCarthy stood up. “I’ll smooth the way for you with your uncle. So come now, help me unload the manuscripts and the barrel. I must be off on other business.”
“Thank you, Friar McCarthy.” Ian followed the monk to the donkey, and together they carried the gifts into the cottage.
As Friar McCarthy sat upon the donkey to leave, the friar taunted Ian with, “I’ll also test your swordsmanship before you go.”
“You, a monk, with a sword!”
“There are many things you don’t know about this monk, and yes, I can be a man of the cloth and a man of the sword, a righteous sword. My sword and I have fought many a battle. Don’t underestimate the power of the sword under the cross.”
“I’ll be flogged!” Ian exclaimed.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, or worse, my young friend.” Friar McCarthy slapped the donkey on its rump. It brayed with annoyance and carried the friar away at a trot.
Dylan placed his large calloused right hand on Ian’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Ian, I’m proud of the way you’ve been preparing yourself for your journey and helping me improve the farm so I can manage it by myself when you leave. The cottage is in better repair than I’ve ever seen it. I stood on one of the sitting stones and inspected the roof today. You’ve done an excellent thatching job.”
Embarrassed by the praise, Ian stopped eating his lamb, looked at his uncle, more his father than his father was, and smiled. “Thank you, Uncle.”
The Honorable Knight Page 2