The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3)

by Ruari McCallion

  A whisper hissed around the congregation: ‘sign!’ ‘sign!’ ‘sign!’ I could hear the word ripple from one mouth to another, from one ear to another.

  Oswy arrived, all stood and the whispering stopped. He had witnessed none of Wilfrid’s little transfiguration so he wouldn’t be influenced, and he was the one who counted. If he was tense (as usual) then Eanfleda, who followed him, was twisted and warped to an extent beyond words. The moment she had sought to avoid for years was almost upon her. Beside her was Romanus, her chaplain. His presence gave her moral support although he could not be seen to touch her in public. He was still an oily creep but underneath the ambitious and self-serving slime there was beginning to form something humane: he was feeling sympathy for his patroness, not just calculating opportunism. Given time, I thought, God can bring good out of even the most unpromising material.

  Oswy sat down in the throne. Eanfleda took a seat at the front of the congregation, Romanus beside her. The rest resumed their seats and Oswy stood again. I stood with him in order to translate.

  “Following the unfortunate indisposition of Abbott Cedd, we’ve had an unscheduled delay in the Synod. I am happy to tell you all that the Abbot lives and is expected to make a full recovery. Our prayers are with him. He will not take any further part in the Synod and Magister Anselm will undertake translation duties. Now the delay is over I trust that matters will be concluded swiftly,” He shot an almost involuntary glance at Eanfleda, “and we can resume our normal lives. We will continue where we left off, with Prior Wilfrid of Ripon. He was about to make some points. Prior Wilfrid.” He resumed his seat and Wilfrid stood and walked purposefully to the centre of the speakers’ area, then went slightly further so that he could address both Oswy and the congregation on his own side. He would speak in English and the Gaelic speakers he left to me, so I was obliged to move further off to one side, into the shadows. Very theatrical, I thought. Just as Wilfrid was composing himself to speak I realised how hot it was in the chapel. Without thinking, I removed my hooded cowl, lifting it straight over my head and shaking my hair out to settle it. I threw the cowl to my chair and smoothed my hair back down. Wilfrid regarded me with venom in his eyes.

  “Sorry,” I said, “I’m ready now.” I received a sarcastic half-bow and Wilfrid composed himself to begin. My action hadn’t been in any way premeditated but I suppressed a smile at the realisation that the Roman Prior had been put off his stride, however momentarily.

  “My lord King,” Wilfrid began, “I thank you for your favour in allowing me to speak. For many years I have been eager to put the Roman case to you in person, and now that moment has arrived.” The speech was flowery and ornate but rhythmic and impressive with it. Oswy, used to the words of flatterers and orators, usually pleading with him to recognise some imaginary noble lineage and spare miserable lives, was not particularly impressed. But he did lean forward - maybe this one would at last say something meaningful. “You have heard many arguments - from both sides - concerning obscure ideas and convoluted dogmas, most of which interest me only slightly more than you. I will be brief and to the point.

  “There is no doubting the piety and honesty of holy Columba, who first converted the Picts in Alba; holy Aidan, founder of Lindisfarne itself; Finan, recently dead, and all their followers. I do not suggest for one moment that they were anything other than true servants of God, and that they loved Him and served him to the utmost limit of their ability in their primitive simplicity.” There was a murmur at this choice of words. “I choose these words carefully, for primitive and simple was their faith, and no less honourable for that. The Irish Church has been separated from the mainstream of the world for hundreds of years, through the events of history. Wars and invasions have taken their toll yet, through it all, these holy fathers kept the candle of Faith burning in these windswept islands, far from the nurturing bosom of the See of Peter. For Rome itself was attacked and laid waste by hordes of Goths, Visigoths and Huns, to which troubles must be added internal strife. Had the Church in Rome been destroyed, God would have been able to rebuild His Church from its base in Erin and save it from the errors into which it has fallen.

  “But Rome was not destroyed. Rome rose from the ashes of Empire and gathered to itself the finest minds in all the world. It is to Rome, not to Lindisfarne, or Iona, or Kells, or Whithorn that those who would serve God with their minds as well as their hearts are attracted. For I would ask the monks of the Irish Church this: although your Fathers were holy men, do you imagine that they, a few men in a forgotten corner of a remote island, are to be preferred before the Catholic, Universal Church of Christ throughout the world?” The murmur grew to a growl of anger. Oswy raised his hand and stood.

  “Let there be no dissent! I will hear this man speak, in respectful silence, as I will hear counter-arguments from Abbot Colman. Guards! Eject any who threaten the peace of this assembly, or its speakers!” The angry noise subsided.

  “I thank you, my lord.” Wilfrid continued. “I stand witness to this: I have been to Rome and have seen at first hand the grace and majesty of our Holy Mother Church there. Clerics and nuns without number, from all over the world, from Europe and Africa, from Asia and Persia, come and go every day. Pilgrims flock to the throne of Peter and right it is that it should be so, that the faithful look to the heart of our Church for guidance rather than to small, scattered and indisciplined wandering monks, whose greatest desire is to take themselves onto remote islands and cut themselves off from the world, leaving the ordinary people to stumble along in darkness. For the See of Peter engages with the world, and counts many kings and princes among its disciples.

  “I was brought to Christ by my brothers of the monastery at Lindisfarne. Some of those seated here now were my teachers,” he bowed to Colman and me, “and they pointed the way in my early life of Faith. But I went to Rome. I saw the Pope and I saw the greatness of the Church in its capital. And I remembered this,” he paused and opened his Bible. There was utter silence as the congregation both obeyed Oswy’s command and hung from Wilfrid’s words. The effect was rather dramatic.

  “He saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am? And Simon Peter answered and said, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God. And Jesus answered and said unto him, Blessed art thou, Simon Barjona: for flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven. And I say also unto thee, that thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.

  “These are the words of God, of Jesus Christ himself. St Peter was the first apostle to recognise Christ as the Son of God and He set His apostle, Peter, to be the first leader of His Church on Earth and to be the gatekeeper in Heaven ever after: and whatsoever he bound on Earth should be bound in Heaven, and whatsoever he loosed on Earth should be loosed in Heaven. The words of Our Lord Jesus Christ, taken from the Gospel of St Matthew, chapter sixteen. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.” Wilfrid crossed himself, and so did the whole congregation, Oswy included.

  “The Church of Rome was established by St Peter, the first Bishop of Rome and Vicar of Christ. The proof of Our Lord’s confidence in St Peter, and His Plan, is shown in the growth and strength of His Church. As the Irish Church fades Rome grows and extends, bringing more and more souls to God’s harvest. The Irish Church, by contrast, turns its back on the World, preferring self-absorbed hermitry and study to evangelism and conversion. Christ instructed His followers to be fishers of men, and with His help the catch would be great. Compare the Roman Church with the Irish Church: there is no comparison. The Roman Church spreads its wings across the whole world, the Irish Church is restricted to these islands and some small communities in the lands of the Franks. Nothing can stand in the way of Rome, God’s Church, for as Chr
ist said, ‘The Gates of Hell shall not prevail against it’. St Peter holds the keys of Heaven. It is a braver man than I who will, after this life, present himself to Peter at the Gates and say that he had defied the Church that he had established in God’s name.”

  With that, he sat down. In silence. It was a stunned silence: the effect of his speech was immense. Everyone in the chapel was impressed, Oswy as much as any. The King now looked to Colman for his rebuttal of Wilfrid’s attack, but he was shaken. Close observation would find a slight tremble in the King’s hands, one of which he moved up to rub his beard.

  “Abbot Colman?”

  “One moment, sir,” Colman replied, and he turned to whisper to Cuthbert. “Now, Cuthbert, now is the moment that you must stand and defend our Church against the calumnies that have been spoken against it. Now, Cuthbert, speak for us!” Cuthbert remained seated, staring straight ahead. “Now, Cuthbert!”

  “I know what to do,” he replied dully, “he told me what to do,” and remained seated.

  “Abbot Colman?” Oswy said again, “Does the Irish Church have answer against these charges?” Colman looked reluctantly again at Cuthbert, who sat without expression, staring straight ahead. Then the Abbot rose to his feet.

  “My lord King,” he began slowly, “Prior Wilfrid has made many points, some of which can be rejected out of hand. Our Patron is St Michael, who stood against the Evil One and was not overawed. He it is, the warrior Angel, who guides the souls of the dead to the presence of God.”

  “Yes, yes,” Oswy interrupted, “we know this, you mentioned it days ago. But before my soul gets to St Michael, I have to present myself to St Peter, do I not? Did Prior Wilfrid quote the Gospel accurately?”

  “Yes, sir, he did.”

  “Address that point specifically.”

  “I would not seek to speak against the Gospels that the whole Christian world accepts, but -”

  “St Peter holds the Keys to the Kingdom of Heaven?”

  “Yes, but -”

  “And he determines which souls will be admitted to Heaven?”

  “My lord, it is God alone who judges!”

  “But St Peter is the gatekeeper?”

  “Christ gave him the Keys of the Kingdom, we are agreed, but -” Oswy raised his hand to cut him short. He rose to his feet, shaken inside, I could see. The man’s Faith had been rocked to its core, for goodness’ sake. Byzantium had been the chief seat of the Roman church for more than a century: the bishops and cardinals had moved to protect it from barbarian devastation, and now it was Rome that was deviating from agreed custom and practice. Why didn’t Colman say so? Had Cuthbert’s silence shaken him so much? Had he forgotten that the man was ill?

  Oswy spoke.

  “Prior Wilfrid has raised points which must be considered carefully. This Synod is suspended, and will wait upon my decision.” He marched swiftly out of the chapel, followed in a flutter of rustling fabric by his wife, her chaplain, her ladies and his son. He left behind a seething hubbub like a beehive after a bear’s attack.

  Accusations and justifications started to fly among the Irish in the congregation. The Romans hardly dared to believe what they had seen and filed out of the chapel, slightly confused but with an elation starting to rise. There was confusion everywhere, except for one place: I looked at Wilfrid and saw a pool of self-assured calm in the middle of the currents that raged and whirled around him. There was a small smile on his face. He looked straight ahead, at nothing at all, and considering everything. Just along from him sat Bishop Agilbert, regarding his junior with a maelstrom of loathing and admiration visible on his ageing face.

  The Irish delegation collected itself and left, Chad leading a compliant Cuthbert from the scene, still answering any query with either ‘I know what to do’ or ‘he told me what to do’. Now I knew something, if not the detail, of what had passed between the two Priors: poor, vulnerable Cuthbert, his spirit broken by contradiction, turmoil and - I had to admit - my exposure of his folly of excessive fasting at Lindisfarne, which had broken his confidence. The burden of thinking for others had been too much. Wilfrid had offered him the discipline of being told what to do, what to say and what to believe, when to stand, when to sit, when to kneel, when to bow your head, and - so devastating on this day - when to stay silent. The Romans showed him how to slip off the burden of thinking for himself and the broken man had taken the offer.

  We are to blame, we didn’t see, I thought. We knew he was sick and we didn’t tend him. We were distracted and we left him without the support he needed. Wilfrid gave him the support we should have provided. Wilfrid listened to him and acted. We just pulled him along, and were quietly relieved if he wasn’t at our shoulder the whole time. It is our failing, and we have justly been punished. We should have left him at Lindisfarne, where he could have been cared for, but we still wanted to squeeze more out of him, to drag more from him, when he had already given everything he had and more, to the point of collapse and beyond. We sucked him dry and now we’re punished for it.

  We gathered in our sleeping quarters, stepping over the dazed form of Mungo and huddling together in a stunned, miserable group. It was barely mid-afternoon. How long would we have to wait? Would Oswy give us another chance to argue our case? What would we say? Who would say it? Surely, Cuthbert…?

  But the emaciated figure, who had borne too much of our hopes and fears for too long, sat silent and distracted, a reed that had been broken to shards, and hope faded.

  I went over to the infirmary to see Cedd and Ieuan. Again I noticed the cold in the building, which seemed to be at its coldest where Cedd was. I found my two friends together much as I’d left them. The Abbot was asleep, a sheen of sweat on his face. The Druid looked older, strained and sweating in his turn as he extended his Gift for the benefit of one for whom he held no brief. This is as it should be, I thought, we should use our Gifts to help each other regardless of any personal relationship or animosity.

  Ieuan looked up and acknowledged me as I entered.

  “How is he?”

  “Still very ill. The battle has turned and the poison is being neutralised, but it’s hard, very hard. It had a chance to settle before I got here. There is some damage that will take me a couple of days to repair if he is to be restored to full health.”

  “Is it too much? Are you tired?”

  “I’m tired by the effort but no, it’s not too much. I just have to pace myself, that’s all.”

  “Shall I get you some food?”

  “Shortly, yes please. Tell me how your meeting is going.”

  “Not well. Not well at all. I think we’ve lost - in fact, I’m certain we have, unless Oswy has a sudden change of heart and allows us a final chance. I don’t think he will, though. Wilfrid of Ripon rocked him to the core and we were unprepared.” Ieuan nodded.

  “Why don’t you just throw them out, these invading Romans? Why not drive them back into the sea?”

  “Two reasons: that isn’t our way, and it would be pointless anyway. They are already well established in the south, and there are hordes more on the continent itself. It’s not an option.”

  “There must be a way of getting rid of them. I’m sure I could help you, show you a way of getting rid of them.” It seemed that the temperature dropped another notch.

  “No, Ieuan, I don’t think so. Maybe the Roman way is the right way for the people: we monks can work towards our God in the ways we have been taught, the people can be taught the new way. Old gives way to new, haven’t you noticed?” I put an affectionate hand on my friend’s shoulder. “And I still live in hope that you will convert before too long.” The shoulder was stiff and unbending, concentrating on Cedd, I thought, and I let my hand drop.

  “So you give up?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll continue to live my life the way I’ve become accustomed.”

  “But you will let them have their way?”

  “We may have no choice, not here in Northumbria, anyway. But there ar
e other kingdoms in Britain, and the great wide world beyond. We won’t give up anything, least of all hope.” Ieuan didn’t reply. It was I who broke the silence. “I’ll go and get you some food.”

  And I went, loaded a plate up with food, brought it back to Ieuan and then returned to my brothers. Again I noticed that the temperature fell inside the infirmary. I must ask Hilda about it but, right now, there were comforting words to be dispensed to my distressed comrades, calming words to the angry, and reassurance and hope for all. We went to bed in apprehension, and it was an hour and more before the last of us finally dropped off to sleep.

  26

  A Fall Like Lightning

  I woke earliest of all, rested and refreshed but still troubled in my heart. I went alone to the chapel and celebrated my morning office in quiet solitude. I still didn’t know what I would do after Oswy gave what I believed to be his inevitable judgement. It wouldn’t affect me as much as some of the others because Iona was in Dalriada, two kingdoms away from Northumbria. We could continue in the old ways as long as we wished but our pilgrimages may be curtailed somewhat if the east and south of Britain went with Rome. And we would lose Lindisfarne.

  I wandered down to the tented village outside the monastery. I was turning in on myself too much and it would help to be distracted from introspection by the needs of others.

  It was still quite dark, but not the full pitch black of night. In the east the sky was lightening, the false dawn before the true light of the rising sun. The village was coming to life. Fires were being raised from the night’s embers and breakfast smells were beginning to waft around the place. A couple of excited squeaks told me that the children were ready to play the day away again, and I smiled.