The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  It had been our intention to join Oswy’s train at his capital of Bamburgh but we learned that the King was in the south of the kingdom on an expedition to Mercia to collect tribute, from where he would be going direct to Whitby. We saved ourselves the small diversion and kept to the inland road. Although the king’s writ ran strong throughout Northumbria this did not mean it was entirely safe to travel undefended: there were lawless English, displaced British and isolated Mercians to consider and so, although most outlaws knew that Irish Church priests carried no coin and little food, we were all armed with swords just in case. A company of sixteen may still attract attention from desperate men.

  We kept up a steady pace and made the Roman Wall before sunset, electing to stay in the protection of a supply and staging fort at Wallsend. Ferrying sixteen men and horses across the Tyne the next morning took well over an hour and so we had to stop the night at an Inn a few miles short of the crossing of the Tees.

  We weren’t the only guests that evening; a company of soldiers was overnighting in the Inn itself. We were happy enough to make our beds in the stables. We gathered to pray and our voices rose sufficiently to disturb the peace of our fellow guests - one of them at least. A large and dirty fellow who had drunk enough to excite his already belligerent nature came out to demand silence. Some others followed to watch whatever fun might develop.

  “That wailing and moaning sounds like a choir of randy tomcats. How is an honest man to get his rest?” he demanded. Colman apologised and promised that we would be quieter. He turned to instruct us so but the man was bent on trouble. He grabbed the Abbott’s arm. “But it’s too late for that. You have already woken me from my hard-earned sleep,” Unlikely, I thought. I could see the fellow was spoiling for a fight and took position close to the Abbott. Cuthbert was in close attendance as well. “Aye, hard earned so that you can ride the king’s highway in peace. What sort of men are you? Men? You are no men! You dress like women, you ride up and down as if you own the place, you pay no tribute or courtesy and treat us honest folk like your slaves!”

  Colman apologised again but the man would not be calmed. A snicker ran through the audience at the gate and Mungo made to intervene on the Abbott’s behalf. Cedd stilled him with a hand on his swordarm and a nod towards me. I was preparing to intervene although my weapon was in the stable. I wouldn’t need it.

  “And none of you will stand up for yourselves! Well, it’s about time you honoured the men who risk their lives so you can ride around in peace and safety. What have you got in your bag?” So saying he pulled Colman’s small satchel so violently its cord snapped. Finding only the remains of a small loaf, a piece of cheese, a prayer book and a small wooden Celtic Cross he was further enraged. He threw it on the ground and stamped on it. “Nothing! Nothing but totems of your dead god! Your weakling god who went to his death without taking any with him! What sort of a god is that? How does he compare with Wodin, the great god who gives his followers strength in battle and has contempt for the weak! How does your weakling compare with him, eh?” and he thrust his filthy face into Colman’s. The Abbott was unconcerned at the loss of his food - he would have given it to a beggar ahead of eating it himself anyway - but he was outraged at the insult to his Lord.

  “How dare you! How dare you trample on the One who died for your sins!” he would have given his provoker the satisfaction of taking a swing at him had I not stepped between them. I addressed the ruffian.

  “Sir, we wish you no harm and have done you no harm. We would continue our devotions quietly and peacefully if you will accept our apologies for disturbing you.” There was a guffaw in the audience and the only response I got was a swinging fist that started low, had the brute’s full power behind it and would have broken a jawbone had it connected. I was ready for it and swayed back to let the blow pass. The ruffian nearly overbalanced, which helped his temper not at all.

  “So, we have a dancer. Let’s see how well you dance with a girdle of steel!” He pulled a dagger from his belt and lunged at me. I stepped out of the way and turned quickly, feet apart, arms outstretched and well-balanced. He had no idea of what he was facing; my Gift of the Sight gave me a distinct advantage. I could See into his mind; I knew what he was planning and every step he was going to make, the moment he thought of it.

  The aggressor charged, looking to enfold me and put the knife between my ribs. I stepped aside again and let the rush go past. I was manoeuvring my opponent into an open space where I could utilise the old training and the newer techniques I’d picked up on my travels.

  “Stand still, girly, and fight like a man, hand to hand! I’ll kill you first and then find out if you are as much use as a girl under your frock.”

  He charged and I let him pass again. He ended up in a straw heap and came up spluttering, furious but prepared to fight with more thought. He advanced slowly, tossing the dagger from hand to hand and grinning. Although the fight was more than he had expected it would still be easy to kill this monk, he was sure. He came within striking distance, feinted to one side, tossed the knife quickly to the other and stabbed straight for where my heart would have been had I not moved as fast as thought.

  Again the assailant had to turn. He was breathing stronger but not heavily: he was very fit and, clearly, a veteran of several bar-room fights as well as full-pitched battles. He’d never been on the losing side and had no intention of being so now. The confrontation had started with roars of encouragement from the spectators but now there was near-silence, just the whispering of wagers being placed: mostly on the Englishman but some early money was going on me.

  The fighter circled, switching the dagger from hand to hand, grinning with anticipation and taking his time, now. Victory would be the sweeter for the contest I’d put up. I shuffled round to stay face to face with him, always balanced and always ready, my eyes never leaving the attacker’s face.

  Again the Englishman feinted, seeming to come with his right arm but switching to his left in a flash. I stood till the last possible moment, seeming to be confused by my enemy’s skill and a strangled shout of alarm came from the monks: my attacker was on me.

  Or thought he was. I skipped out of the way to my right, turning left and catching the arm with both of my own. I brought my knee up and my arms down: the knife skittered away on the stones of the yard and the Englishman collapsed to the ground, clutching his dislocated shoulder in agony.

  Money changed hands reluctantly among the spectators by the door and the winners went back into the Inn to spend their gains. The monks helped the Englishman over to the pile of straw and I then added to his pain by relocating the arm in its socket while Cedd and Mungo held him down. Then we made a sling to help ease the strain on his (unavoidably) broken collarbone and assisted the invalid back to his quarters and settled him for the night.

  As we left him, as comfortable as we could manage, Cedd was unable to resist the impulse to give him the benefit of his learning.

  “I think the One True Risen God compares very well with your empty wooden totem, don’t you?” The Englishman moaned and fell into a troubled sleep. I put my hand into my pocket quite absently and felt the amulet again. I remembered my Vision: Strathclyde, shrinking away to nothing, its lifeblood being drained from it. Lucius was dead but was one of his disciples in Strathclyde and spreading his dreadful poison?

  “Why didn’t you kill him for the insult he gave Our Lord?” Mungo asked.

  “I do not kill if I can possibly avoid it, and the Lord in His grace enabled me to avoid it,” I replied. “Never kill when maiming is enough; never maim when a beating is enough and never beat when a bruise is enough. We were unable to calm him with words alone, which would have been the best way, so this incident may be cast as a failure.” I considered Mungo, who was still breathing heavily with zealous anger. “But the Lord works His Plan in strange ways sometimes, Mungo. The beating I gave this man will make him more wary of picking a fight with a monk in future. His caution may turn into respect and
that respect may make him prepared to listen at last to the Word of God: we may save his soul from Wodin after all, which wouldn’t have been possible if I’d killed him.”

  “Could you have killed him? With your bare hands?”

  “Yes,” I replied shortly, and we rejoined the others to continue our devotions in a subdued atmosphere. There was no singing now and we started by offering prayers for the salvation of the heathen Englishman.

  All bar two of us slept soundly that night, tired after the exertions of the journey and the excitement of the confrontation. Mungo tossed and turned as he dreamed of a hundred different ways in which he would have punished the Englishman for his audacity and his insult. His blood-filled dreams meant that he woke tired, a little irritable and still angry at the heathen’s behaviour.

  I saw again the view I’d had of Strathclyde during my coma. I was looking down on its outline from far above the world, observing its great range from where it stretched like a flagpole towards the heart of the Alba in the north, through the fertile central heartlands and on south, south through what had been and would again be Rheged and further on, across the Bay of Sands. I could feel its pride at what it had done, in holding back the English tide from the east and south and then expanding its borders beyond any precedent. The original kingdom itself was a deep red and the areas under its influence or tributary to it were a lighter, pinker shade.

  As I watched, the red began to lose its intensity, to fade and be diluted. I could see a raw wound from which blood flowed, first as an intermittent trickle and then growing in strength as it became a stream, a river and finally a flood, gushing and roaring with the huge quantity of blood pouring out from the gaping, bloody maw. I knew that the injury was self-inflicted and the flow of blood threatened to pollute the world: but when it touched Iona it recoiled. It recoiled also as it touched the island of Erin and it was able to seep only slowly and slightly into Northumbria. It poured straight into the heart of Elmet and Mercia, staining them with its poisonous dye.

  There were speckles of another, lighter colour: I noticed them and moved easily closer to the gaping source in the north, close to the capital at Dumbarton. As I neared the speckles grew larger, became white against the red of the foul flood and finally resolved themselves into the bodies of children being washed out of the land and into nothingness. They all had wounds where their eyes should be, as had the child in my Vision, and something else: they were all slashed from the base of their ribcage to the groin, and their innocent blood poured out to join the foul gore in which they were borne.

  I pulled away in disgust and horror: the children, tens, hundreds, thousands, growing in number as I watched, poured out and I saw Strathclyde’s outlines shiver and wrinkle: the whole kingdom started to collapse, folding in and retreating like a deflating bladder. In time it was reduced to nothing, less than a memory, a legend and a story of fear to frighten misbehaving children, until even that power was gone, into oblivion, loss and void.

  “Remember. Remember. Remember the children.”

  The remainder of the night I slept soundly and awoke before dawn, rested and refreshed. I remembered the dream clearly. It hadn’t been my normal Sight but I knew it for a true Vision: the parting voice confirmed it. Before I joined my brothers for our worship I offered a quiet prayer to God in my heart. I apologised for the impatience that had nearly drowned me and asked for guidance in discovering what went on at the heart of Strathclyde.

  “Would you see a sign? Will nothing less satisfy you?” asked Padhraig. I could make no answer. “Events are unfolding as they should. You must fulfil your purpose. Don’t expect everything to be done for you.”

  The Vision retreated as suddenly as it had intruded, leaving just a slight throbbing at my temples rather than a full-blown headache.

  “Breakfast time,” I said to Cuthbert and the greatest evangelist of the age followed as meek as lamb.

  After breakfast we set off on the last leg to Whitby. There was one more great river to cross, the Tees, and again it took over an hour before we were all ferried safely over. Thereafter we made good time through the rolling countryside. We took the coastal route along the undulating landscape, which ended so abruptly and dramatically in cliffs that plunged a hundred feet to the grumbling sea below. We made our way rapidly, cantering easily across the level ground between the rover-carved inlets.

  We made a fine sight, riding out through lightly-wooded country in a sunny Spring morning. The air was sharp, the road was clear and, for the moment, we hadn’t a care in the World. Colman, a cheerful soul anyway, smiled in delight at the beauty of the day. His good spirits spread throughout the company until even Cuthbert, with all his turmoil, was moved to smile. Colman dropped back to ride alongside me and my shadow.

  “Do you know a psalm, Cuthbert, a cheerful one that’s in keeping with the beauty of the day?” Cuthbert looked to me.

  “Tell me what to do,” he said.

  “Do you know any cheerful psalms?” I responded.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Lead us then, I pray you: but make it happy. No mention of the valley of the shadow on this beautiful morning.” Colman smiled. Again Cuthbert looked to me and again I encouraged him. He started, hesitantly, to sing in a resonant baritone the twenty-fourth psalm, which was about as cheerful as he got.

  After the first line, those who knew it joined in: the rest listened and learned. Next time it was sung the chorus would be swollen with the voices of these who had heard it just the once but would remember as if it had been dinned into their heads a hundred times.

  “Let us praise the Lord with song,” cried Colman, “let us rejoice in the beauty and wonder of creation. I would hear something from His new harvest: Diarmuid, sing a song of praise that your own people have created. Raise your voice now and glorify the Lord.” Diarmuid was one of the younger monks, a Scot from Dalriada. The motion of his horse made his voice uneven but even so, he sang in a pure tenor so sweetly as to lift the hearts of his companions with a song from the islands of the west, sung in the lilting rhythm familiar to me from my childhood.

  So we passed a good few miles, the joy of singing lifting the spirits of nearly all. Only the face of Mungo remained dark and angry on the beautiful day. When we slowed to a trot, and then to a walk as we picked our way up another hill he brought his horse up alongside mine.

  “Where did you learn that skill?”

  “What skill, singing?” My mind was far away, walking over the hills of Donegal and Dalriada. Hills that were harsher than those of Northumbria but no less beautiful.

  “No,” Mungo continued, irritably. “The fighting skill that enabled you to best the Englishman.” I looked into his face: his eyes were burning.

  “Oh, I had another life before I was reborn. I learned many things while I wandered, lost and without hope, before I was rescued by a monk from Iona.”

  “You could have killed him. Why didn’t you?”

  “Who?’

  “The Englishman,” Mungo said, “the brute last night who attacked our Abbott and insulted Our Lord. I would have killed him for what he did.” I glanced at him again.

  “I told you why I didn’t. I have killed before, Mungo. I have killed often. I have killed Vandals and Moors in southern Spain, Christians in northern Spain and in the land of the Franks, nameless enemies in Italy and the lands of Byzantium and the far east, beyond the Middle Sea, and in Britain, too. I have killed so many and so often. I’ve had enough of killing.”

  “I would have killed him if I had had your skill. It is a Gift from God and should be used for His holy work. All God’s enemies should perish and be sent urgently to stand and be judged at His great Throne,” he said obstinately.

  “Maybe, then, it is just as well that the Lord has not given you the power to confront the soldier. I said last night that we may convert him to Christ. Isn’t it better to give him the chance to come to God than to send him unredeemed to the torments of Hell?”

  “
He trampled on the Scriptures.”

  “He is a pagan and he was drunk. He knew the offence but it was aimed at us, not at the Lord.”

  “We must defend the Word of the Lord against those who would defame it.”

  “We must indeed do so, and spread His word wherever we can: but we must do so with love and charity, and by example. One who is converted by the sword alone will lapse as soon as the sword is taken away.”

  “He is a blasphemer. He is an offence in the sight of the Lord.”

  “The Lord is more than capable of taking care of Himself: ‘Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord.’ I treated him gentler than he deserved because I wish, when my time comes, to be treated more gently than I deserve, too. I fought against God’s church, remember, but I was spared. Do you not think that God would have caused the Englishman to dash his brains out against a stone, or stumble on a pitchfork in that pile of straw if it had been His will?”

  “You fought against the decadence of Rome. I would have killed the Englishman, in God’s name.”

  “I chose not to and I would do the same again. I seek to save souls, not condemn them.” I spurred my horse forward to Colman with Cuthbert close behind. Mungo dropped back, his expression still dark.

  We passed through the village of Streanashalch, at the bottom of the hill from the monastery of Whitby, in late afternoon. Half a dozen small boats were pulled up on the shore and our passing barely merited a glance: the fishing people of the settlement were dour and serious folk, unimpressed by much. Another group of travel-stained monks on their way to Whitby impressed them not at all. They’d seen increasing numbers passing through in the last few weeks including the retinue of several Roman Priors, a number of Abbots and at least one Bishop. And, while they welcomed our trade, they knew that more would come from the Romans. The Irish clerics, sworn to poverty, were more likely to beg favours than pay good coin, they believed - this despite their excellent and profitable relations with Whitby monastery. They would believe the gossip of strangers sooner than the evidence of their own eyes and would regard their neighbours as the exceptions. So we rode on without pause and approached the monastery two or three hours before sunset, which was just as well: it was Friday and the Irish Sabbath ran from sundown of that evening to the same time the following day. The Evening and the Morning, as the Bible said.