We talked of the journey then as we proceeded down into the valley and crossed the Blackwater at the ford, following the footway east into the hills. This path was an old, old highway, marked out with standing stones along its length, and shrinestones wherever two paths crossed. The hill path overlooked the low valley, eventually coming in sight of the wide river Boann, passing the Hill of Slaine, where kingmaking has taken place since the Tuatha DeDanaan came to Éire.
There were other hills, too; and every hill along this ancient trackway was sacred, each with its stone or barrow. The gods worshiped there in times past were best forgotten. The Célé Dé left the hills and their fading gods to themselves.
Our little procession stretched out along the way, the brothers walking in groups of two or three, led by the bishop and abbot. I strolled happily beside Dugal, who walked at the head of the ox. The mysterious Britons—Brynach, Gwilym, and Ddewi—had taken places just behind the bishop and abbot. We marched without pause until midday, and paused at a stream to drink. Dugal brought the ox to water downstream of the others, and I thought to tell Dugal of my dream of death. Indeed, I had almost worked myself up to the telling, when the abbot signalled for us to continue, and we moved on.
Though dull, the day was dry; all, save me, were eager to be away. I looked out on the green hills and misted valleys, and lamented my going. Alas, it was not Éire alone I was leaving, but life as well. Thus, my joy at being with Dugal soured within me, poisoned by the terrible knowledge of my dream. I ached to share with him my burden, but could not bring myself to it. Thus I walked, heavy-hearted, alone in my misery, each step carrying me closer to my doom.
After a meal and rest, we came in sight of the Hill of Slaine standing tall and proud above the Vale of Boann, a wide, low, smooth-sloped glen. The cloud thinned, allowing the sun to show itself now and again. Sometimes the other monks sang, but my heart was not in it. Dugal must have noticed my gloomy mood, for he said, “And here is Aidan, walking all lonesome and friendless. Why are you behaving so?”
“Oh,” I said, forcing a sad smile, “now that it has come upon me, I am sorry to leave this place.”
He accepted this with a knowing nod, and said no more about it. We walked until dusk and made camp on the trail. As the last of daylight failed, the dark-gleaming edge of the sea could be seen away to the east. After a meal of stewed beef and barley bread, the bishop led us in prayers, whereupon we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and slept by the fire. Strange, it seemed to me, to end a day without hearing the sound of the abbey bell in my ears.
Rising before dawn, we continued on our way along the Vale of Boann to Inbhir Pátraic, with its settlement set back a little behind sandy hills on the coast. Here, it was said, that the sainted Pátraic had returned to Éire, bringing the Good News with him. Though many doubt the truth of this—since many another place makes the identical claim—it does no harm to believe it so. The fiery saint had to come ashore somewhere after all, and the river estuary was wide and deep where the Boann met the sea—a good harbour for ships. Better, anyway, than Atha Cliath now that the Danemen were there.
We came to a standing stone which marked an ancient crossroads; here we paused to break fast and pray. After prayers, the trail descended out of the hills to the flatland of the coast. The wind had changed during the night and I could smell sea salt on the air—something I had experienced only two or three times before.
Thus, we drew near to Inbhir Pátraic: twenty-eight monks, each with his own hopes and fears. Though none, I think, as trenchant as my own.
7
The ship rode at anchor in the river, waiting to bear us away—the same ship that had brought the bishop and his companions from Britain. It was a low, sleek vessel with a tall, slender mast. Knowing nothing of seafaring or boats, I thought it a fine thing—if somewhat small for thirteen monks.
Upon arriving at the settlement, the head man met and greeted us in the name of his lord. “We have kept watch as you bade us,” he told Bishop Cadoc. “I will send men to bring the ship now.”
“My thanks and blessings on you, Ladra,” answered the bishop. “We will ready our supplies and await you on the wharf.”
Inbhir Pátraic was little more than a handful of mud huts perched precariously on the Boann’s steep northern bank, near to the sea mouth. A small holding, the women kept swine on the water meads, and the men fished from two sturdy boats, occasionally sailing down the south coast to trade with folk along the way—sometimes venturing as far as Atha Cliath. Therefore, the place was deemed of sufficient importance that the king had paid for a handsome wooden wharf to be built and maintained. While the head man and several of his sons rowed their small round coracles out to the ship, six of us younger monks set about unloading the wagon.
We had just begun this chore when Lord Aengus arrived with his queen, and ten of his warriors. He dismounted at once and embraced the abbot and bishop, saying, “I am glad I reached you before you sailed, friends. My men told me of your journey and its purpose. I have come to bid you farewell, and beg your indulgence—for I, too, would have you carry a gift to the emperor.”
“Certainly!” cried Abbot Fraoch in a hoarse croak, delighted that King Aengus should honour the enterprise in this manner. “Your gift shall be a most welcome addition to our undertaking.”
With that the king bade his wife approach. Dismounting gracefully—for all Queen Eithne was a most beautiful woman, dark-haired and fair-skinned as befitting a Sister of Brigid—she signed to one of the warriors who brought out a small, flat wooden casket from behind his saddle. This, he placed in her slender hands. The queen, back straight and head erect, carried the casket to where the abbot and bishop stood.
“Worthy men,” she said, her voice sweet and low, “I am told the Emperor of the Romans is a man of great learning and wisdom. Yet, even such men have need of diversion from time to time.” With that she opened the casket to reveal a small gaming board of the kind used to play brandub. “The pieces,” she explained, reaching in and taking up a tiny figure, “are gold, for the king, and silver, for the hunters.”
The craftsmanship of both the casket and the gaming board were exquisite; the individual pieces were finely made and very costly.
“Lady,” replied Fraoch, “it will be my pleasure to deliver this gift into the emperor’s hands and dedicate the first game to your honour.”
The king looked on, beaming his good pleasure. “In consideration of your service,” Aengus said, “I would offer a token of my regard.” He summoned three more of his men, who approached bearing three large sheepskin bundles which they placed at their lord’s feet. When the first was opened, the king withdrew a cowl of fine, black wool. “There is one for each member of the travelling party,” he said.
The second bundle was opened to reveal a selection of wide leather belts, while the last bundle contained new leather shoes, of the kind we made at the abbey: one piece of good thick leather cut and folded in such a way as to produce a strong, covered sandal secured by a braided leather cord. Again, there were enough to choose from so that each monk would have a new pair of shoes with which to begin the journey.
“Your generosity, Lord Aengus,” Bishop Cadoc said, “is surpassed only by your thoughtfulness. We stand in your debt.”
“I will hear no word of debt from you,” Aengus replied, to which Queen Eithne quickly added, “Only say a prayer for us when you reach that holy city.”
“It shall be done,” Cadoc vowed.
The woollen hoods, belts, and shoes were passed hand to hand then, and each monk selected those items that suited him best. For myself, I was glad to have a stout belt and new shoes; the cowl would be no less welcome when the cold wind blew. I slipped the hood over my head and let it rest on my shoulders, then buckled the belt around my waist and put the shoes on my feet. The articles were finely made, and fit me well. Strangely, I felt better for wearing them. If I were going to die, at least it would be with good new shoes.
Nor wa
s the gift giving finished yet. Abbot Fraoch called to Dugal, who brought out a number of leather water pouches and staves—a new water pouch and staff for each monk. “All our hopes go with you,” the abb said. “Therefore, walk worthy of your charge in all boldness, equipped for every good work. Fear nothing, my friends. God goes before you.”
We then began carrying the supplies down to the wharf. The bank was steep, as I say, and stony—and the stones slick with moss, making the footpath hazardous. Dugal lifted the bundles from the wagon and gave them into our hands, and we trundled them down to the water.
As the pile of bundles and grain bags dwindled, I worried that I would not be able to say my farewell to Dugal. “Time grows short,” I told him, stepping near as he pulled the last grain bag from the wagon. “I wanted to say farewell.”
“But we are not parted yet,” he replied—somewhat curtly, I thought. Nor did he look at me. Instead, turning away quickly, he hefted the bag into the hands of a waiting monk, then called to the abbot that the wagon was empty.
The abbot nodded, and whispered to all around him, “Let us go down to the wharf. The ship is waiting.”
Most of the brothers were already assembled on the wharf—only the bishop, abbot, and several of the elder monks stayed behind, speaking to the king and queen. I picked up a bundle and started down to the ship as the last of the provisions were being handed aboard.
As it happened, there was a particularly treacherous place where the path switched back on itself, passing between two rocks. The morning mist had made the place very slick indeed; as I had passed the spot twice before, I knew to step lightly and put my hand on the taller rock to steady myself. With a grain bag under one arm it was no easy feat, but, with care, I was once again able to avoid any mishap. Thinking, however, to call a warning to those coming behind, I paused and was just turning around when I heard a sharp, strangled cry. Someone had fallen on the path!
Fumbling for a handhold, I glanced back to see that Libir had slipped and gone down. Fortunately, Dugal was right behind him. “Brother!” Dugal shouted. “Here now! Take my hand!”
So saying, brawny Dugal reached out, took hold of Libir and hauled him upright—a tragedy narrowly averted. The elder monk, white-faced and trembling, regained his feet and pulled violently away from Dugal. “Take your hand away!” Libir cried, embarrassed, I think, by his own unsteadiness.
I turned and started down the path once more and had taken but one step when I heard a loud crack—as that of a branch struck against a stone. An instant later Libir screamed. When I looked again, he was crumpled against the bank with one leg jutting out at an unnatural angle.
“Libir! Libir!” Brocmal shouted, thrusting himself from behind Dugal.
“Stay back,” the big monk warned. “Do you want to fall, too?”
The elder scribe was moaning, head back, eyes closed. Dugal edged down beside him, and carefully gathered the monk into his arms. “Easy,” Dugal said. “Easy, brother. I will carry you.”
Dugal straightened his back and lifted the softly moaning monk. Then, half-sitting and half-climbing, Dugal edged his way back up the bank to the top. Those of us closest to the accident quickly gathered around to see what had happened.
Brocmal pushed Dugal aside and knelt over his friend. “I told you to be careful,” he said sharply. “I warned you.”
“Sure, it is not his fault. The path was very slippery,” Dugal observed.
Brocmal whirled on him. “You!” he shouted. “You did this!”
To his credit, the big monk let the remark pass. “I tried to help him,” he replied simply.
“You pushed him!”
“He pulled away.”
“Peace, brothers!” rasped the abbot, stepping in quickly. He knelt over the fallen Libir. “You have had a bad fall, brother,” Fraoch soothed. “Where are you hurt?”
Libir, grey-fleshed and sweating, muttered an incoherent word. His eyelids fluttered and he lost consciousness.
“It is his leg, I think,” Dugal pointed out.
Cellach, kneeling beside the abbot, lifted the monk’s tunic. Many of those standing near gasped and looked away. Libir’s right leg was hideously bent below the knee and gashed; a jagged stub of broken bone protruded from the wound.
“Ah,” sighed the abbot heavily. “Dear God in heaven.” He sat back on his heels and drew a hand over his face. “We cannot leave now,” he said. “We will have to take him back to the abbey.”
Lord Aengus, standing with the bishop, pressed forward and said, “Please, let him be taken to my stronghold. It is nearer, and he will receive the best of care. I will return him to the abbey as soon as he is able to travel.”
“I thank you,” Fraoch said doubtfully. “But it is not so simple.”
“Cannot another take his place?” wondered the king.
“Yes,” the abbot agreed. “Another must be chosen. But the choice is difficult. There are many factors to be weighed and considered.”
“No doubt it is as you say,” said Queen Eithne. “Still, it seems a great shame to tarry even a moment longer than necessary.”
“Come,” said Lord Aengus heartily, “you make it more difficult than it is. While I do not presume to instruct you in such matters, I would simply have you observe that the tide is flowing now. If another can be chosen at once, your journey can proceed.”
Abbot Fraoch looked to the bishop, but the bishop said, “I leave the choice to you. For myself, I am happy to proceed if another can be found to take Libir’s place.” He indicated some of his own monks standing nearby. “There are good men with me who would serve us well. But, as Libir was one of your number, I will abide by your decision.”
Fraoch hesitated, glancing around the ring of faces, determining what best to do.
“I see no harm in it,” Cellach agreed. “If someone were prepared to take Libir’s place, we would not have to wait. Perhaps it is the Devil’s wish to thwart our purpose. I would not like to see that happen.”
Though he spoke reasonably, I could tell that the master scribe saw in this turn of events an opportunity to put himself forward.
“Very well,” replied the abbot slowly, regarding the unconscious Libir with an expression of sorrow and pity. “We will choose another—though it will be a bitter disappointment to this good monk.”
“I do not see what else we can do,” Cellach said.
“Abbot Fraoch,” said Dugal softly, “would you allow me to take his place?” Before the abbot could reply, Dugal continued, “I feel responsible for Libir’s injury—”
“You caused Libir’s injury!” Brocmal cried, pressing forward again. “Abbot Fraoch, hear me: Dugal pushed Libir on the path. I saw him do it.”
“Brother, please,” said Cellach, “this is neither the time nor place for such accusations.”
“But I saw it with the very eyes in my head!” Brocmal insisted. He threw a finger in my direction. “Ask Aidan—he saw it, too.”
Suddenly, I became the centre of this dispute. I looked from Brocmal, red face alight with anger, to Dugal, calmly, quietly, still kneeling over the stricken Libir, unruffled, apparently unconcerned by Brocmal’s indictment.
“Aidan,” the abbot whispered hoarsely, “I do not need to remind you that this is a serious matter. Did you see what happened?”
“Yes, abbot.”
“Tell me now. What did you see?”
I answered without hesitation. “I heard a cry and turned. Libir had fallen. Dugal raised him up and tried to help him, but Libir would not—he pulled away and started down the bank on his own strength. That was when he fell.”
“He fell twice?” asked Fraoch.
“Yes. Twice.”
“And you saw this?”
“I heard the cry first and saw Dugal trying to help him. I saw Libir pull away; I believe he was embarrassed to have fallen. I looked to my own feet then, and I had only just turned away when he fell again.”
“Not so!” shouted Brocmal. “Liar! You tw
o are in it together. I saw you scheming, the two of you.”
“Brother scribe,” cautioned Fraoch gently, “you are overwrought. It seems that you are mistaken in your assessment of what happened.”
Brocmal shut his mouth, but continued to glare furiously at us. The abbot turned to Dugal. “Brocmal is distraught, brother. Do not hold his anger against him. He will make amends when he is in a better mind. As for myself, I am satisfied that you tried to help Brother Libir in every way.”
“I only wish he had not been injured at all.”
“Sure, your quick thinking saved an old man a worse injury,” Lord Aengus put in. “You have done well.”
“Still, I wish it had not happened,” Dugal said. He stood up and turned to the abbot. “Good abb, though I am no scribe, I stand ready to take his place. If you will have me, so be it.”
“Brother,” Cellach told him, stepping near, “your offer is most noble, but you speak neither Latin nor Greek. And as you say, you are no scribe—”
Before he could finish, however, Lord Aengus said, “Forgive me, my friends. But it seems to me that you have scribes and scholars aplenty for this journey. It seems to me that a ready-handed man is wanted. Who better than a warrior to serve in this?” He placed a hand on Dugal’s shoulder, as if commending him. “Forgive my intrusion, friends, but these are dangerous times. I would be to blame if I did not offer my best advice in this matter.”
The bishop, nodding agreement, spoke up, “The king argues well. I think we must consider his suggestion in all seriousness.”
“It may be that God has allowed this to happen,” Queen Eithne suggested pointedly, “so that you would not leave your homeland without the protection of a stout warrior in your company. If I were choosing men for such a journey, I would travel with an easier mind if I knew that at least one of our number had served in the king’s warband.”
“I can think of no better warrior for such a chore,” the king added, “and I have good reason to know whereof I speak.”
Byzantium Page 6