At the top a very large wooden hall with a high thatched roof dominated the area. There were also a number of smaller wooden buildings and some lean-to sheds. Many people were in evidence filing into one of the two main entrances of the hall. “Word of your arrival has spread brothers” advised the same elder who met them last night. “It is regarded as a special occasion to receive visitors from Iona.”
“Let us see the footprint first.” requested Brother Bryan of their guide. They were led over to the edge of a flat rock outcrop. There was clearly carved a man’s footprint. “This is an important part of the ceremony when a new king is anointed. He has to stand with one bare foot in that imprint.”
Fergus walked over and slipping off his sandal placed his foot in the carving. “I can’t be king,” he said amid the others laughter, “My foot is too small.”
“Come” said their guide, beckoning, “we should go and meet the real King.”
Fergus noted the cold wind they had experienced yesterday blew even harder up here on the top of the hill. They were on the windward side of the great hall. It was deserted. Everyone not in the great hall was sheltering from the elements on the far side.
At the insistence of their guide they were led to one of the two main entrances. The inside of the dimly lit hall was packed with people; warriors, local farmers, plus village men and women. A glowing fire in a stone hearth was burning in the middle of the hall. A large number of flickering wooden torches lined the oak walls, which were as high as a man, helping to illuminate the great hall. Each torch was surrounded by a baked clay frame to protect the thatch roof above. There were no windows, just a large hole in the middle of the roof to let out some of the smoke.
At the far end was a raised dais on which stood a number of men. One of them was seated. “The King,” advised the guide pointing to the large, bearded, long haired man lounging on a high backed chair in the middle of the group.
The monks made an impressive sight, dressed in their un-dyed, off-white woolen habits with hoods. Culann was half a head taller than most people around him. The audience parted to let them through and an increased murmuring followed them through the hall. An advisor bent down next to the King and pointed in their direction. Suddenly the King stood up and in a booming voice announced “Welcome to our guests from Iona. Please come forward so I may greet you.”
A path was cleared as the Iona contingent made their way to the far end of the hall in front of the King and his retainers.
“Now,” proclaimed the King, still standing on his raised dais “I seem to recognize Brother Bryan of Iona. Welcome back Brother. Could you please introduce your friends.” A command, not a question.
Bryan stepped forward and with an outstretched arm indicated his companions;
“Thank you Sire. It is my pleasure to introduce you to Abbot Colmán of Lindisfarne;” Colmán nodded slightly. Culann thought ‘good, that sounds better than ex-Abbot of Lindisfarne.’ But Culann had been watching Colmán closely as he was worried how he should he acknowledge his own introduction – should he kneel, bow, salute, or what? Colmán simply nodded his head.
“And next to him is one of our esteemed brethren, Brother Culann of Iona;” Culann nodded his head.
“Last, but not least, is one of our students from Lindisfarne, Fergus, who together with Brother Culann has performed a vitally important task to the benefit of Iona.” Fergus bent his head ever so slightly, but nullified the gesture by scratching his ear at the same time.
“Well we are more than pleased that you have made the journey to our kingdom brothers, particularly in such difficult weather. How can we be of service?” asked the King with arms outstretched.
Colmán stepped forward and took over. “Thank you Sire for your most generous welcome. We have come because we understand you have recently returned from the northern islands with a number of Picti prisoners. If this is correct, we humbly request to see them.”
The King, now seated beamed with pleasure. “Why of course Abbot Colmán, your information is entirely correct. We did indeed conduct a very successful raid on those ignorant barbarians and were fortunate to capture a number of slaves. About twenty two if I’m not mistaken.” He then clapped his hands and addressed one of his retainers “Go bring the slaves. Yes all of them. Bring them in here. Now.”
Then turning to the Iona group still standing in front of him, smiled and asked “This may take a little time brothers. They are being kept down in the marshes. Is there anything else you wish to see?”
Culann said to Fergus out of the corner of his mouth, in Latin, so his hosts could not understand “Just as well your little friend Lasair (the Picti heroine whose name means ‘flame’) is not here,” nodding to the dry thatch roof above them. Fergus frowned for a moment then broke into a grin.
A period of awkward silence followed the King’s question, so Culann stepped forward. “With respect Sire, I couldn’t help notice the small sword hanging on your chair. I’ve not seen one quite like it.”
King Domangart beaming with pleasure again, reached over, unhooked sword and scabbard and handed it down to Culann. “You have an eye for quality I see Brother. It is indeed a fine piece of equipment. It is a Roman Gladius (Gladius, Latin for sword - a short ‘stabbing’ sword, as against the much longer ‘slashing’ sword favoured by the Celts. It is thought to have originated in what is now Spain). We don’t see them anymore since the Roman army withdrew from Britannia, what, two hundred years ago. This one was found in a crypt beside Hadrian’s Wall. What do you think of it?”
Culann carefully slid the sword from its protective scabbard and felt its balance. The blade had parallel cutting edges and a triangular tip; then after running his finger lightly along both cutting edges exclaimed “It’s a beautiful weapon Sire. My father was a Smith and made many fine swords, but I’ve never seen one as fine as this.”
“Then it is yours.” declared the King magnanimously.
“Oh no I couldn’t accept.” stammered Culann.
“Why, because you’re a monk?”
“No, not at all. In fact I have a sword already.” said Culann as with a whistling sound and blurring movement too quick for most to see, he drew his sword in his right hand while holding the Gladius in his left. “We monk are not allowed to acquire worldly goods.” Both Colmán and Bryan nodded sagely while involuntarily stepping back from the flashing blade.
“Well then” said the King stroking his beard, “why not swap your sword for mine?”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. Your sword is much better than mine.”
“Who says? Everyone knows we Celts much prefer a long slashing sword. Anyway your sword makes a much more exciting sound than mine. Please, as a special favour, swap swords with me.” Everyone burst out laughing and applauded the King for his clever use of words, ensuring the monk was now obliged to take the much better short sword.
“You are too kind Sire,” said Culann as he placed his long sword at the Kings feet, then secured the Gladius and scabbard around his own waist.
Just then more murmuring broke out as the Picti slaves were herded into the hall. “There are woman too.” Exclaimed Fergus as the foremost figures, some clad in tattered clothes, hands tied in front with leather thongs, were pushed toward the front of the hall. They were lined up at an angle to the King’s dais. Culann noticed many were red haired, like Fergus.
Colmán approached the King and placing his hands together as in prayer, began “Wise King Domangart, you asked earlier why we came. We came because we are very concerned that by enslaving Christian Picti, you may be committing a mortal sin. We at Iona are concerned that if you commit a mortal sin you may be denied a place in the heavenly here-after.”
“Who says so?” said the King now sitting straight up.
“Why our revered Saint Patrick no less. You know of Saint Patrick?”
“Of course I know of Saint Patrick,” annoyed now.
“Well you may not know Saint Patrick wrote a very strong le
tter to the warriors of Coroticos, who in those days ruled the land of Kintyre, just south of where we stand now. He accused them of enslaving Irish Christians whom he had himself baptised. Patrick accused the Coroticos of apostasy. In the Church that means one who forsakes Christianity. Iona doesn’t want you to be accused of apostasy”
The King conferred hurriedly with some of his advisors. Loud voices were heard. All present in the hall waited to see how this now dramatic scene would be played out.
Finally the King waived away his advisors and said “We don’t believe these people are Christians, so your arguments are not valid.”
Colmán turned and walked up to Fergus. Knowing women were more likely to embrace Christianity before most males said “Fergus can you ask that Picti,” pointing to a young girl with long dishevelled blonde hair in a torn dress, “if she is a Christian.”
Fergus took a deep breath, walked up to the girl who looked at him initially with loathing, and asked in the Picti tongue “Are you a Christian?” The woman stared at him blankly. A dark murmuring spread around the hall. Fergus frowned and said more urgently “I am Picti. I am here to help you. What is your name?” After a moment’s hesitation the woman replied, “Sinead.”
“Thank you Sinead,” said Fergus. “Please do me a big favour. If your name is really Sinead, just nod your head!”
The girl nodded her head.
“See Sire,” said Colmán “she is a Christian.”
“Rubbish!” responded the King unconvinced. “Anyone can nod their head.”
“By your leave Sire” interrupted Culann “I believe I have a foolproof system of testing the woman’s faith.” As an aside to Fergus, once again in Latin “Tell the woman to bend down on this wooden bench with her hands held apart so I can cut her bonds. Just do as I say, and trust me.”
Fergus again approached Sinead and said in Picti “Please bend down on the bench so the monk can cut your bonds. Hold your hands far apart.” The girl hesitated a moment then knelt down with her torso over the bench; her hands held out in front. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Culann stepped in front of her, but without blocking the Kings view, and in a very loud voice, in Irish Gaelic, which everyone in room understood - except the Pictish prisoners, cried “I am going to cut your head off. If you truly believe in our Lord Jesus Christ, you will stay still and go immediately to greet our Heavenly Father. If you are not a true Christian you can run away.” A gasp went up from all present as Culann raised the newly acquired Gladius sword above his head, held it there for what seemed a long time. The girl lay still, eyes shut, hands held out in front. The sword suddenly slashed down at the girl’s body and with a loud thunk hit the bench – and cut the leather bonds cleanly. The woman leaped up and threw her arms around Fergus hugging him.
“I’m sorry Sire but I am unable to take another’s life,” said Culann, tongue in cheek. Fergus stared in disbelief at that statement.
“No, no, I am convinced,” cried the King. “This woman is no doubt a Christian, and a very devout one as well. You may take her.”
“Can we take the others as well my Liege?” asked Colmán.
“The others? No of course not. And your clever test will not work anymore as they all know now, you cannot deliberately kill anyone,” said the King, with a confident smirk.
Colmán became serious. “Saint Patrick, as you all know, was the first recorded person to speak out against slavery. It behoves us to speak out against slavery, particularly to Dal Riata Kings who need to be ordained and anointed of the Gaelic Church on Iona to rule.”
“Don’t threaten me my good Abbot. I am already ordained King. You cannot un-ordain me.”
“What further sign do you need my Liege to release your prisoners?” asked Colmán his voice raised ominously.
The King thought for moment, then smiling replied “You can have any prisoner in exchange for their weight in gold plate. I have heard Iona has much wealth. You can spare some.”
“I warn Your Highness not to make fun of our Celtic Church nor take Iona in vain.” hissed Colmán, his fists clenched.
“Then show me a sign from God that I should let my valuable prisoners go.” yelled the King as he smacked his hands on his chair in a fit of anger.
Fergus put his hand to his mouth and mumbling he was feeling sick, pushed through the throng to the nearest door.
A dangerous hum filled the hall. Sinead, the now free Pict girl, with Fergus gone, grabbed Culann’s arm in alarm. Dál Riata warriors moved ominously to the front, hands on sword hilts, afraid they may lose their precious plunder. The Picti prisoners huddled together whispering in hushed tones and glancing at the enemy surrounding them.
Brother Bryan waved his hand, palm down at Colmán as if to say ‘calm down’. Culann put his left arm around Sinead and held the short sword in his right.
* * * * *
Fergus paused at the door of the great hall and licked one finger, holding it up to test the wind, then grabbed one of the large flickering wooden torches lining the hall. Everyone’s attention was on the drama playing out in front of the King’s dais. Fergus calmly walked out of the hall carrying the torch. Looking left and right he turned into the wind and ran to the corner of the building. As before, the windward side of the great hall was deserted. If anything, the wind gusts had increased in strength.
Extending the torch he could easily reach the lower fronds of the thatched roof which extended well below the top of the thick oak walls. He held the torch up until the dried thatching caught fire. Running along the building he stopped every ten paces or so and lit a new area. Before he was half way along, the first fires had blazed up with flames and smoke fanned by the wind racing up the side of the roof. Just passed the half way point of the building he tossed his torch high up on the thatch and calmly walked back into hall through the far door.
* * * * *
The King was quarrelling with some of his advisors. Warriors were milling around in discord. Brother Bryan was arguing with Colmán to be more diplomatic or all would be lost. Culann was trying to comfort the frightened Sinead who was still clutching his arm and wailing at the same time. The prisoners were calling out in their own tongue and squabbling. Villagers were shouting, some pointing at the monks, others at the Picts.
And then some saw the smoke!
The uproar increased near the front of the hall. Suddenly people were pointing at one side of the roof as it became engulfed by flames and thick smoke. They were probably yelling too, but couldn’t be heard over the increased hubbub.
At the King’s dais the commotion stopped as everyone suddenly noticed the flames eating the roof above them.
“You want a sign from God!” screamed Colmán. “There’s your sign you fool! Recant now or next you could be struck by lightning!”
King Domangart stood dumbfounded as the flames suddenly seemed to be consuming one side of the entire front half of the building. Worse though was the thick smoke. People began choking as they panicked and pushed toward the doors. Turning to Colmán, the King white-faced cried “Take the damned Picts, take them.” Then with his hands held high in prayer “Make Him stop. Make Him stop – please!”
Grim faced, Fergus suddenly appeared. “We need to move. Not through the doors, too many people. Over there.” pointing to the far side of the hall.
“There’s no door” yelled Culann.
“We’ll make one.” yelled back Fergus over the din. “Come on.” grabbing Brother Bryan and Colmán by their sleeves and then waving the Picts to follow he led them to the now almost deserted far wall. Drawing his sword he hacked at the oak wall, without success. It was too thick.
Culann pointed to the thatch roofing “Try the roof” he yelled to Fergus. “Here, I’ll lift you.” Grabbing Fergus round the waist he lifted him above the wall. Fergus thrashed at the thatch with his sword and suddenly they could see daylight.
“Take my short sword, its easier.” cried Culann. Handing up the gladius to Fer
gus, the young Pict quickly enlarged the hole in the roof. Culann lowered him down and yelled “Bring some of those wooden benches. You can climb up using them.” Monks and Picts pushed benches up next to the wall and began climbing up and out.
Culann raced over to the dais where the King and many of his entourage were still standing, frozen. They gazed at the roof then watched the hordes of humanity, all trying desperately to push their way through the only two doors at either end of the great hall. Pieces of burning roofing began falling to the floor, igniting the straw covering.
“Quickly Sire,” yelled Culann “over here. We can escape over the wall.” pointing to the small group by the far wall already climbing out through the hole in the roof above the wall and jumping to safety outside.
The King shook himself out of his stupor, stared briefly at Culann, then waved his entourage to follow the tall monk. Some of those desperate ones at the back of the mass trying to escape also noticed and peeled off to force their own holes above the far wall.
Culann hoisted the king, with the help of Fergus, up the wall and through the escape hole. After all, the King was a big man. As Domangart fell down the on the other side, he was caught by some of the Picts now outside, who were helping people escape.
Culann was now perched straddling the wooden wall where the hole punched in the roof led out of harm’s way. He checked to see everyone he knew was safe and sound outside the hall. Everyone in his group was out. Everyone except Fergus. He reached down to pull the young Pict up, but there was no one there, Fergus had disappeared. Smoke swirled up through the opening blinding him for a few precious seconds. Blinking furiously he couldn’t see anything inside the smoke filled hall. Great chucks of flaming timber were crashing down further igniting the straw covered floor. Someone outside pulled his leg and he toppled to the ground. He tried to climb up and inside again yelling “Fergus, I have to get Fergus.” Colmán and Bryan held him back. “No lad” cried Colmán “it’s too late. He’s gone, poor boy. You’ve done your best.” As he spoke a great gust of flame burst from their escape hole forcing everyone back from the soon to be gutted hall. People were still spilling out of the far door, but there would be no more escape via the wall.
The Culann Chronicles, Book 2, Picts' Plight Page 3