So, I sat on the floor at Abbot Fraoch’s feet, sipping the sweet mead and listening to Brocmal describe the book that I knew so well—but now seemed not to know at all—and thought about the journey, wondering what the other peregrini would be like. If they were anything like Brocmal and Libir, I concluded, it would be a very arduous campaign.
After a while, Brocmal finished and the bishop turned to the abbot. “You have chosen well, Fraoch,” he said, smiling like a man who knows a valuable secret. “These men will serve us admirably in our endeavour.”
His use of the strange word pricked my attention. Did he mean the journey…or, did he have another undertaking in mind? The sly expression suggested he meant something other than taking the book to the emperor.
But the abbot merely returned his smile. “Of that, Cadoc, I have not the slightest doubt.” He raised the cup. “I drink to the success of our mission, brothers. May God bless you richly, and protect you always.”
“Amen!” replied Cadoc, and we all raised our cups with the abbot.
The bell sounded compline then and we were dismissed to our prayers. “We will speak again,” the bishop assured us. We bade the two good night and left the abbot’s lodge, making our way to the chapel. Brocmal and Libir, in good spirits, sang as they walked up the hill. I followed behind with eyes downcast, feeling vexed with the two of them, and annoyed with myself for feeling so.
I entered the chapel and found a place along the north wall as far from Brocmal and Libir as possible. Dugal came and settled beside me, nudging me with an elbow to let me know he was there. I raised my head, but did not speak, lost as I was in my own thoughts. Why am I always like this? I wondered. What is it to me if the two of them receive the honour of the bishop’s praise? They earned it, after all. It was not as if they had stolen the book, or claimed more for themselves than they deserved. What is wrong with me?
Prayers finished and I went to my cell and a disgruntled sleep. The next morning, after maiden prayers, we broke fast with our visitors and, since normal duties were suspended for the Eastertide celebration, everyone gathered in the yard to sing. The day had begun cool and bright, with a sky full of white clouds. As we sang, the clouds knit themselves together and closed in; a spit of rain began to fall, which eventually persuaded us back into the hall, where we settled in clumps to talk with our visiting brothers over the board.
Unlike most of Cenannus’ brotherhood, I knew no one from Hy or Lindisfarne. Nevertheless, as Dugal and I moved among the tables, one of the strangers called out to me. “Aidan mac Cainnech!”
I turned to see a short, square-faced man with wiry brown hair and dark brown eyes, sitting with two other strangers. All three were watching me with evident interest.
“Go to them,” urged Dugal. “They want to talk to you.” He left me and went on to another table.
“I give you good greeting,” I said as I approached.
“Sit you down with us,” said the visitor. “We would speak with you, nothing preventing.”
“I am at your service, brothers,” I said taking my place at the board. “I would gladly give you my name, but it seems you have it from someone else.”
“Do not think us over bold,” said one of the others. “We are Cymry and curiosity is a very plague with us.” The two with him laughed—clearly it was a cheerful plague. I liked them at once.
“I am Brynach,” said the stranger who had called to me. “These are my brothers. No! My anamcari,” he raised a hand to the two with him. “This long lanky reed is Gwilym.” He indicated a tall spare man with thinning fair hair. “And this is Morien,” he said, presenting a young man with thick black curly hair and blue eyes. “Although,” he warned, “if you call him that he will never answer, for he is known to one and all as Ddewi.”
“Brothers,” I said, envying their easy way with one another, “I am glad to meet you. I pray your Easter with us is meat and drink to your soul.” I paused, feeling the awkwardness of the question before I spoke it, but I could not help myself. “Please do not think ill of me, but I have never visited Hy or Lindisfarne, and I would know which of those two fine places is home to you.”
“Neither,” replied Gwilym happily. “Our home is Ty Gwyn, but lately we have spent some years at Menevia and Bangor-ys-Coed.”
“Indeed,” I replied. “I did not know the book was also being readied there.”
“It was not,” answered Brynach. “We learned of the book too late to be of material service in that part of the enterprise.”
Again, my senses pricked to the suggestion of an alternate purpose for the journey—a purpose which many seemed to know. “You seem well apprised of these matters,” I suggested. “Am I right in thinking that you are among those chosen for the travelling party?”
“We are, yes,” Brynach affirmed.
“But you are not scribes,” I blurted in surprise. “Forgive me, that did not sound as I meant it. I mean no disrespect.”
“Be at ease, brother,” tutted Gwilym. “Truth is a constant delight to those that love her; such beauty holds no power to offend.”
“The truth is,” Brynach confided, “we are not scribes. And yet, the Great King, in his infinite wisdom, has seen fit to include us in your exalted company. I hope you will accept us also.” He made a little bow of his head, and put an amiable hand on the tall man’s shoulder. “Gwilym, here, is an artisan for whom gold and precious stones were especially created.” The monk inclined his head in easy acknowledgement of the compliment.
Brynach turned to the black-haired youth. “Ah, and this stripling you see before you is a leighean of rare and extraordinary gifts.”
“My family have been physicians for seven generations,” Ddewi explained, speaking for the first time. “And I am the seventh son of my father, who was also a seventh son.” His voice and manner were quiet, hinting at unseen depths.
“Alas,” said Brynach, “I myself claim no such talents or abilities enjoyed by my brothers here. My sole occupation has ever been study, and now I find I am no longer fit for anything else.”
Although his modesty was genuine, I doubted that he would have been chosen if he were as humble as he professed. Before I could enquire of him further, however, he said, “Now then, Aidan, they tell me you are the finest scribe Kells can boast—”
“And not only scribe, but scholar too,” put in Gwilym.
“Kells does indeed maintain many fine scribes,” I allowed, “and it is true that I am one of them—albeit, the youngest and least experienced of all. My own contribution to the book is but small when compared to that of Brocmal and Libir and some others.”
“But your pen has touched the blessed book,” Gwilym said. “Your hands have laboured over it. I wish I could say as much.”
Brynach nodded as if this were his life’s highest ambition. All three glanced at one another; a sign must have passed between them, for the monk leaned near, as if to confide a secret. “May I tell you something?” he asked.
“Of course, Brother Brynach,” I said.
“Those I choose to be my friends call me Bryn,” he said, and motioned me nearer.
I put my head close to his, but before he could speak further, Brother Diarmot appeared. “I trust our brother has extended to you the abbey’s welcome,” he said stiffly. “I would not like to think he has been remiss in his duty to you, our long-awaited visitors.”
Brynach pulled himself upright once more and the smile reappeared instantly. “Have no fear for our sake,” he replied smoothly. “We have been made more than welcome.”
“Indeed,” put in Gwilym, “it is as if we had never left home.”
“I am Brother Diarmot, and I am at your service. If you are hungry, it would be my pleasure to bring you something to eat.”
“Thank you, brother,” replied Brynach. “But no.”
“Something to drink perhaps?” pressed Diarmot. He looked at me and smiled thinly. “I would have thought Aidan had offered, but I am happy to serve.”
“Of course,” said Diarmot. “Aidan and I will bring the cups. It is the least we can do for our guests.”
“Please, allow me to help you,” said Gwilym rising quickly.
“No, no,” replied Diarmot adamantly. “You are our guests. I could not possibly allow you to fetch your own drink. Aidan will help me.”
The stubborn Diarmot loomed over me like a threat, so I rose and followed him to the kitchen to fill a jar while he found the cups. When we returned to the board, other monks had joined the three Britons, and I did not have another chance to speak to them alone. All the rest of the day I watched and waited for an opportunity, but events did not yield the desired result.
I retired to my cell that night aching with curiosity, frustrated, and resentful of Diarmot for his ill-chanced intrusion. Before sleeping, I prayed Christ’s forgiveness for disliking Diarmot, and lay for a long time wondering what Brynach had been about to tell me.
5
Climbing the hillside in the predawn darkness, we ascend like Christ, rising from the valley of death. We huddle on the hilltop, as if shivering in the grave’s cold grip, awaiting resurrection’s true, unfailing light. We wait in silence, faces turned to the east, whence comes the Saving Word. Away beyond the rim of the world, daylight gathers its strength, growing and growing, until at last—the powers of darkness unable to restrain it any longer—it bursts forth in a glorious life-giving blaze. Rises up the sun victorious, Sol Invictus, renewed like Christ resurrected, as shall all men be in the Last Day. As the first golden rays ignite the heavens, we draw breath and raise our voices to the Golden Throne, “Alleluia! Hosanna! Glory to God in the Highest Heaven! Alleluia!”
Led by the Bishop of Hy with cambutta upraised, we made procession down the hill, singing the Gloria as we went. With so many guests and visitors, there was not room inside the church for everyone so, as the day was fair, the first part of the mass was conducted under the roof of Heaven. The various parts of the mass were observed: the Gradual, followed by the reading of the Gospel, and the Credo, Psalms and Offertory.
During the prayers, the visitors knelt in the yard, and then rose to form double ranks at the door for the procession of the Host and Chalice to the altar. Bishop Cadoc, aided by the abbot, continued the Service of the Sacraments at the altar. I was among those who stood outside the church, but we had no difficulty hearing. Cadoc’s fine voice carried into the yard and beyond the abbey walls.
“Quanda canitus:” the bishop called as he offered the Chalice to God, “accepit Jesu panem…”
We knelt in the glow of the Easter morning sun as our hearts warmed to the love of God. One by one, we entered the church and proceeded to the altar where we received the sacraments from the bishop’s hand, returning to our places for the benediction.
It was a fine and joyful service. When it finished, we sang until the bell rang terse, whereupon Abbot Fraoch invited all our visitors to share our feast.
“Jesu is alive!” he rasped, raising his voice above its normal whisper. “Rejoice and be glad, my friends, for all who trust in Christ have eternal life. And as we will one day gather in Heaven’s Great Hall, let us enjoy the blessings of God’s rich bounty this good Easter day—a foretaste of the Feast of the Lamb.”
With those words, the celebration began. To accommodate all our visitors, we hauled benches and boards from the refectory and placed them in the yard. Women from the settlements helped the cooks and kitcheners bestrew these with foods of all kinds: brown bread baked into special Eastertide loaves—round, with the shape of the cross cut in the top; cold boiled eggs—symbol of life’s potency and promise; salmon and pike—fresh, salted, and smoked—on wooden trenchers; mussels and oysters; ground meal and pine kernels cooked in milk with egg and honey; roast turnips in steaming heaps; huge cauldrons of lamb stew; pork and beef and mutton roasted with fennel and onions and garlic; goose in herbed sauce; hare stuffed with sweet chestnuts; cockerels stuffed with corn and sage; larks in elderberry; compotes of plums and raspberries and apples; and much else besides.
Aengus mac Fergus, lord of the realm, sent some of his men with Easter gifts: great haunches of venison and boar to grace our feast. They wasted not a moment setting the meat to roast on spits over fires in the yard. Divested of this duty, they quickly devoted themselves to the cellarer, and became his willing slaves, labouring mightily with the oaken vats of rich dark ale and sweet yellow mead. The vats were placed on tripods outside the entrance to the hall. Also, since it was Easter, crocks of wine were provided.
When all was ready, Secnab Ruadh called for silence and prayed God’s good blessing on our festal meal. Then, taking up our wooden bowls, we broke our long Easter fast—partaking of those dishes each found most appealing. The day was given to the satisfaction of eating and drinking and harmonious conversation with friends and kinsmen. And all who gathered within the abbey walls were brother and sister, parent and child, one to the other.
After the pangs of hunger were well and truly banished, we played games. Urged on by the children of our guests, we engaged in contests of strength and skill: throwing the well-stone, lofting spears, hand wrestling, and the like. Some of the lord’s men, warriors all, devised a horse race in which the riders must sit backwards in the saddle. This proved such an enjoyable spectacle that the race was run several times to accommodate everyone who wished to take part. The last race was the best, for many of the older children insisted on being allowed to ride. So that the younger ones would not feel aggrieved, some of the monks joined in, each taking a child before him so that no harm could befall the little one. This made for even more confusion and the resulting laughter made the valley resound. Oh, it was a splendid diversion!
All through the festivities, I remained at Dugal’s side, painfully aware that the time for our parting was hard upon us; but, as I did not like unhappy thoughts to intrude on that glorious Eastertide celebration, I tried my best not to dwell on it. If Dugal held similar feelings, he gave no sign, enjoying himself to the full, going from ale vat to race to table and back again. Of the three mysterious visitors—Brynach, Gwilym, and Ddewi—I saw little. They seemed always to hover in the bishop’s shadow, often engaged in close conversation with one or another of our elder brethren. Though the festivity flowed easily around them, the three, and Brynach especially, held themselves aloof—looking on, smiling, but seldom entering into the merriment.
So the day passed, and the sun began to drift low, flaming the western sky with red-gold. Our good abb summoned all the people to follow him, and we made a great procession around the cross in the yard. Once, twice, three times around, whereupon he gathered everyone in a ring around the cross and said in his grating whisper of a voice: “Behold this cross! Sure, it is naked now, but it was not always so. I would have you remember, friends, that dire and dreadful day, when the Great King’s Son took the weight of the world upon his back as he hung upon Golgotha’s tree!
“Woe and shame, I say! O, Heart of my heart, your people seized you; they bound you; they struck you: green reed on firm flesh, hateful fist on ruddy cheek! Wicked thorns became a crown for the sacred head; a borrowed robe mocked the shoulders of him who bore the grievous stain of mankind’s sin.
“And then, no stopping the bloodlust, they took you, piercing hands and feet with cold, cruel nails. They raised you high above the ground to die in bitter agony, your people helpless, watching.
“Hideous deed, the World Creator was spat upon as death stole the light from his eyes.” Fraoch’s voice cracked as the tears rolled down his cheeks. “Thunder and wind did not constrain them, rain and hail they heeded not—neither the broken voice crying out: Abba, forgive them! They know not what they do!
“Up came the sharp-bladed spear, biting deep into your wounded heart. Water and blood poured down your gleaming sides—the wine of forgiveness spilled out for all—and
the Beautiful One of God breathed no more.
“Then it is down from the cross—they cannot wait to have you away! Dragged through the streets, you were, tied in a sack! Common wrappings for the corpse of the High King of Heaven, never fine linen or soft furs.
“The rock-cut tomb becomes your home, Beloved. The solitude of the turf house is your new domain, there in the bone grove. Caesar’s soldiers stand guard at the doorstone lest the murderers disturb your deathsleep.
“Do they fear you even yet? They have done you to death, Lord of All, and they stand guard, looking right and left, hands trembling. Darkness falls over the earth. How not? The Light of Life has been shut up in a grave, and the greedy night is full of demon smiles.
“Friends,” the abbot whispered, his voice small in contemplation of that awful night, “the enemies of light and life held great celebration then. Their revelry resounded loud in the Halls of Heaven. And the Father God gazed down in his sore grief. ‘See here, Michael!’ he called to his Champion. ‘They have killed my beloved son. That is bad enough, but they should not rejoice so. Can this be right, that evil should exult in the death of the Only Righteous?’
“And Michael, Servant of Light, replied, ‘Lord, you know it is not right. Say the word, my king, and I shall slay them all with my fiery sword.’
“Oh, but the Ever Merciful lays a finger to his lips. And it is: ‘Patience, patience, all in good time. I would not be God if disaster should find me unequal to the task. Only stand you back and watch what I shall do.’
“The High King of Heaven, his great heart breaking, gazed down into that bleak grove. A single tear from his loving eye fell into that dark tomb where lay the body of his blessed son, the Prince of Peace. That tear struck the Christ full on his battered face, and sweet life came flooding back.
Byzantium Page 4