The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  “You’re just in time, Magister,” a guard said. “We’re ready to lock up for the night. Another couple of minutes and you’d have to find a warm rock to shelter under.”

  “Oh, he’s used to it. He’s from Iona and they make them tough, out there,” another voice responded.

  “Would you rather stay out for the evening, come see us tomorrow?” the first asked.

  “Let me in and stop your chatter. I’m soaked,” I replied. “And none of your nonsense about suffering being good for the soul.” The pair of them laughed.

  “Go on in, Magister. The king’s expecting you. Follow the torches: he’s got a good crowd in tonight.” I nodded my thanks and made my way through. They shut and barred the gates behind me.

  My crossing over the outer ground was noticed but no-one approached me, either to interrupt my progress or to guide me to my destination. Whatever staff were around were busy putting the rough-coated brown sheep and squat, long haired and skinny cattle into their stalls for the night. I reached the Keep, spoke my name and business, and was allowed in. A guard showed me down a short corridor through the castle proper and into the hall. The castle’s function was defensive: no rooms in the Keep were big enough to accommodate the guests, warriors and functionaries who gathered about a powerful Court and so the hall had been added later.

  I entered to find a feast in full swing as I entered. The guard announced the arrival of a monk from the Community at Iona and then waved me forward to stand in full view of the party, which slid into silence. I removed my cloak, handed it to a servant and threw back my soaking hair from my face. Water ran down my head and dripped off my habit.

  “So what brings you here, Magister?” the young man sitting at the high table demanded. He was handsome and well-made, with a face pretty much free from the scars that would not have been out of place on a warrior. The unwary might even go so far as to think he had remained relatively unmarked by avoiding battle; they would be in error. The tales that had reached my ears said that, to the contrary, Owain, king of Strathclyde, was a very good fighter indeed. He tended to win his battles, quickly and easily, with the minimum of losses to his side. This made him popular with his forces. Warriors may love a fight but they prefer to come home to celebrate it in person, afterwards, rather than being remembered in song as an heroic, but dead, soul.

  The young man who considered me now saw someone of sturdy middle age, dressed in a simple robe of rough-spun fabric and with a head of vigorous dark hair, silvered with grey and shaven from the forehead back to a line running over the crown from ear to ear. This tonsure and garb marked me as a cleric of the Irish Christian Church founded by St Columba.

  “King Owain, I’ve come to ask permission to cross your lands,” I said. “I’m on my way from the Holy Island of Iona to Lindisfarne, to visit our brother community there.”

  “And why do you now seek permission, priest? Your fellows have wandered as they pleased over Strathclyde since I was a boy, without ever asking leave of anyone.”

  “Your uncle was kind enough to grant us the freedom to roam unhindered during his lifetime. As he is now dead and you’ve succeeded him to the throne, Abbot Cunnian the Fair felt it would be courteous to ask you to renew that permission.”

  “Ah. Courtesy. I hear that you Scots hold courtesy amongst the highest of all the virtues.”

  “I left my people when I joined the community at Iona, sir.”

  “Or perhaps some time before? Aren’t you the one known as Anselm?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, Father Anselm, saint Anselm, or Magister, whatever you style yourself, did you leave behind you all the honours and customs of your people when you joined the community of saints on that bleak rock?”

  “I left behind much, but tried to keep with me those courtesies which help us all to make our way peacefully in this troubled World.”

  “So you come to ask my permission to cross my kingdom.” He paused and took a sip from a grey pewter goblet. The audience of courtiers, druids, warriors and their women were watching the scene in as much silence as the smoke-filled atmosphere would allow. “To whom do you owe your duty, Saint Anselm?” he pronounced the prefix deliberately. I could feel tension in the hall. This was a pagan kingdom: Druidism was the court religion, my kind was tolerated at best, and sudden death was by no means unknown.

  “I owe my duty to God alone, sir. My obedience I owe to my Abbot.” I replied.

  “And your honour, Anselm?” I noted the absence of any courtesy title. “What about your honour?” I took a breath.

  “Why, my honour I owe to you, my Lord, and that is what I am here to pay.” This was a dangerous answer, verging on the impudent, and risked offence to a newly-crowned young king - but I was prepared to take the risk. Owain regarded me thoughtfully for a moment, then his features softened into a smile that took five years off his face.

  “An audacious answer, Magister, and a brave one. I shall not have your head today - unlike this fellow.” He reached beneath his chair and pulled a severed human head up and thumped it on the table. The bloodstained object had plaited hair, a heavy moustache and beard. A roar of approval went up from the hall and the top table laughed. We tried to discourage headhunting but the pagans placed great store in its powers, especially those vested in the head of an enemy. Where had the belief come from? An older and darker time, probably. How did I know all this? I had been one of them, of course; I was a trained Druid in my own right. I knew as much about it as most time-served priests of that order.

  “Come and sit beside me at my table and pay for your cheek by filling in the gaps of my knowledge of you. You know, of course, that we have something in common?”

  “What is that, sir?”

  “I hear you are a kin-slayer.” I stiffened. “I’ve slain your kin as well. More recently than you, I think.” A quiet guffaw slipped around the spectators. “Actually, I – we – thought you were dead. Long since.” He paused and rubbed his temple, as if he was suffering from a sudden pain. After a moment he brightened and smiled broadly again. “Come and sit by me: we can talk of what it is that makes the Scots so ripe for slaughter and maybe other things too, if I get bored. Make room for the Magister, there,” he said to the company at table. “Have you no respect for our courteous guest?”

  I bowed in thanks but asked to be excused, as I was soaked from the journey. I also asked if there might be a dry robe about the place, that I might use until my own had dried. Owain immediately agreed and ordered a slave to get me something, and to show me to a washing-chamber. He ordered me to return quickly, saying that we had much to discuss.

  I was back shortly, my skin glowing from the vigorous drying I had given it with a rough towel. A few minutes ago I had felt that I would never get the wind-blown Strathclyde damp out of my bones; now, I was already beginning to feel quite warm, in my borrowed dry robe.

  At their King’s command the people to the left of him shuffled away along their bench and made room for me. I took the place between the young man and a woman of even fewer years. I glanced at her as I sat and took in an open face that regarded me sidelong, and with what may have been amusement. I still had a risky course to steer and a clever and unusually knowledgeable young king to negotiate. And there were some mysteries about him, as well. I had no idea how he knew anything of my history, for example.

  His own story had some blanks that needed to be filled in, too. The British Kingdom of Strathclyde stretched from north of Loch Lomond, through Dumbarton where the kings had their court, through Rheged and on, beyond the River Lune. Further south, the western part of what had once been the Kingdom of Elmet was subject to it and even the principality of Gwynedd now paid tribute; its former alliance with Mercia was in ruins after the Battle of Winwaed, nearly ten years ago. In the 664th year of Our Lord, Strathclyde extended to what was a huge area, hilly and difficult to patrol - impossible in bad weather. Under the inefficient or irresolute rule of previous incumbents the kingdom had been a
ttacked and for a while split into pieces: from east and south by land-hungry English and Saxons, along with British refugees moving ahead of them; and from the north-west by the ambitious Scottish kingdom of Dalriada, with its capital at Dunadd. It had its internal problems as well, with independent-minded warlords and petty-princelings.

  From their mid-teens, with the death of their cousin the King’s son and primary heir, Owain and his brother Gawain had fought in the ranks and then led the armies and patrols in a decade-long campaign to repel the invaders, recapture their land, settle borders and subdue internal threats.

  They had achieved spectacular success: their Kingdom was bigger than ever. Strathclyde was easily the most powerful of the remaining British realms and the only force in any way able to match the power of Oswy’s great Northumbria.

  The brothers had gained respect for their ability both as fighters and as intelligent leaders. They had spent time as boys at the Christian monastic college at Whithorn, although they were not Christians themselves – or if they were, it was a well-kept secret. The kingdom remained Druidic.

  They could read and write and I learned that they had developed an intelligence network based on clerks and druids throughout the Kingdom. By this means they could receive information of both mundane and sensitive matters quickly, accurately and secretly; in a dark age of ignorance, an illiterate messenger could be tortured to death by an enemy and still be unable to betray any of the secrets that he carried in coded script. With knowledge gained through this network they could take action before a local Thane became too ambitious for his good. They were known to appear at the earliest stages of plotting and gathering in some remote area of their kingdom - usually with a large and well-armed train in their wake. Staying and demanding food and hospitality from their unfortunate host tended to be enough to drain any war-chest and rebel enthusiasm, alike. Their timing was so uncannily good that they were gaining the reputation of being magicians themselves - although the less credulous would sensibly ascribe powers of divination to its more likely source: their Druid. His reputation waxed as well, on the back of their astute intelligence.

  With the respect and support of the army, the transfer of power on the death of the old King had been achieved with the minimum of bloodshed. The more senior position had been assumed by Owain, the older. In all but the location of the crown, however, it was a dual kingship as Gawain was the equal in intelligence and ability of his brother and was his most trusted adviser. This much I had learned during my walk through the Kingdom.

  The court had turned to its own groups in conversation over the meal and, although eyes frequently looked in our direction, we were effectively alone until company was summoned. Tables were arranged down each side and at both ends. The floor was boarded; a luxury by current standards, even in areas – like Dumbarton – where rain was frequent and persistent. The walls themselves were conventional, no more than a series of upright beams atop a stone foundation line with the spaces between filled with a mixture of mud and plaited brushwood, sealed with paint and animal gum. The ceiling was of plain thatch with a small hole above the centre to act as in inefficient chimney. It was better at letting rain in than guiding smoke out, as the frequent hisses from the fire beneath it and the smoke filling the hall testified. Lighting came from fat or tar-soaked rush torches, which were unreliable, although what light they gave was warm. A slave was attending to one that had sputtered out as I watched: tending them was a full-time job. In Roman times, an insignificant provincial squire would have lived in a better villa than this place. A Governor of a province the size of Strathclyde would have regarded Owain’s Hall as a disgusting hovel. The Hall may have looked squalid to eyes familiar with the remnants of Rome to the south but it was impressive for its time and location, and an effective reflection of the power of its master. As for the glory that was Rome; the stones that had made the marvellous forums, meeting houses, dwelling places and public buildings were being taken to make walls to hold sheep and pigs.

  “You’re lucky to find me here, Magister,” Owain said. “We’ve only just returned. Ten days ago we were on the lowlands of Rheged[2], south of the Ituna[3] repelling a raiding party of pirates who fancied our crops but had no desire to pay for them. Led by our friend here,” he indicated the severed head before us. “I’d thought they were from Erin and I sent a mission to find out where they were hiding out but there was no trace of any base. The people on the Antrim coast had heard of them, though. They had suffered at their hands as well. Have you seen anything like him before?”

  “I think they come from the Northlands – Norway – across the sea to the east,” I said. “But who knows? Pirates are made from many different materials and drawn from many lands. Have you heard of many such raids? Was it a lone ship or are there more of them about?”

  “I’d heard of raids, but I’m always hearing of raids,” Owain waved dismissively. “They’re usually in bands small enough to attract no attention before they make landfall and in and out before an armed force can catch them. Our defence forces don’t usually hear about them till after they’ve gone. There were three ships involved in this raid and it was sheer luck that I came upon them. We were on our way back from settling an argument near Deva when we heard that some pirates were on an extended raid. We engaged them near Caer Liguald - Luguvallium[4] - and chased them into the wilds of Rheged. None escaped.” he finished simply.

  He had been lucky to come across them. Raiders such as these are interested in easy pickings. The fact that none will return to wherever they came from may persuade their countrymen that the lands of the south are well protected. I asked him what had taken him to Deva. He was reluctant to discuss it and changed the subject.

  “It would have been a hazardous trip for you to find us there, or in the wilds of Rheged where I chased these raiders,” he said.

  “I would’ve sought you there, or wherever your business took you.”

  “And would you have braved the North Channel in your little coracle?”

  “I think I might have walked across the Rhinns[5] and continued further south, my lord.” Owain laughed back.

  “A sensible course, Magister. But you would’ve been slower than us and may have found me gone.” In fact, important news eventually reaches even far-flung Iona, I told him. Strathclyde’s movements always attract attention.

  “Even to an island which looks to Dunadd?”

  “Even there, sir. Although there your victories might more often be styled ‘setbacks’.” Owain chuckled at that and I allowed myself a small smile. Even though I had left the world behind when I entered Columba’s monastery at Iona, I retained slightly more than an academic interest in the affairs of the Scottish and Irish people in the lands of Donegal and the twin kingdoms of Dalriada. The pirate raids were, for now, occasional and rare but a growing population would put pressure on young men to seek their fortunes away from the narrow strips of land between the mountains and the sea, away to the east. Those whose lands looked out to sea should take the time to fortify them.

  “You’re an enjoyable companion, Magister Anselm - don’t you think so, Gawain?” He was addressing a man to his right, about the same age and very similar in looks. This was the younger brother.

  “I wasn’t listening.” Gawain replied nonchalantly, and took a mouthful of his wine.

  “Of course he was, Magister, it’s his job - but he doesn’t enjoy wordplay as much as I do,” Owain rejoined. “May I present my brother, Gawain?”

  I stood up and bowed.

  “An honour to meet you, my Lord Gawain.” Gawain nodded, and indicated that I should resume my seat. I remained standing and stared at him for a moment too long.

  “Are you well, Magister?” I regathered myself.

  “My apologies, sir. I am a little tired after my journey.” I sat down. I’d Seen something in Gawain that he wished to keep hidden, a secret that I wondered whether even Owain knew. Gawain chose that moment to tell his brother that he was failing i
n his duties as a host; I had no food.

  “Of course! I apologise, Anselm. Here!” He turned to a trio of servants who were standing back from the table. “Bring refreshment for the Magister! What will you have?” I asked for plain bread and cheese, and would not be tempted to the roast ox that the company was feasting on.

  “Do it,” Owain said to the servants, and then turned back to me. “Unless you would rather have stale bread and mouldy cheese?” We both grinned and I indicated that fresh was preferable. “So it’s Lent for you. Early days?” I nodded. “Others have it otherwise.” I looked closer at Owain. His expression was still cheerful, but with a calculating gleam around his eyes.

  “You must be wondering how I know so much about a simple saint from Iona.” It was true, I was puzzled as to how I had attracted the attention of the busy King. “Let me enlighten you. I’ve been aware of your story for many years - since I was a boy - but only learned earlier today that it was you who was approaching. I was surprised at that – we thought you were dead, at Penda’s hand. Or Oswy’s. I’ll tell you how I know of you; I can see you’re wondering. My Lord Druid!” he called down the table. “Come and greet your old companion.”

  I looked past the King along the table to see who he was addressing. All that came in sight was a pale and mottled head, sparsely covered with white hair and sporting a tonsure similar to my own, rising from the forehead. I stood up to receive the newcomer, who was a stooped, elderly figure. The face was thin, the skin stretched across the skull like a membrane over a knotty log. The head was alabaster white but the eyes that regarded me without blinking were deep set, small and dark and without much shine. He wore the robes of a High Druid. I couldn’t say that the wizened figure was completely unfamiliar, but I didn’t recognise him.