Oswy considered this before speaking again.
“Has the Druid committed any offence within my realm? Other than deception?”
“I don’t believe so.”
He was silent again, thinking for a moment.
“In that case, I have no argument against him. You will conclude your duty at the Synod.” I took breath to protest. “I will have no argument on this, Magister. It won’t take long and then I’ll give you a couple of men to help in your search for him, and to give you safe escort beyond the borders of my kingdom. This is my decision.” He turned on his heel and left.
“Don’t even think about it, Anselm,” Colman whispered. “If you defy Oswy it will go even worse for us.”
“Do you order me to stay?”
“I ask you to stay. For all our sakes - and yours in the end, I think.”
“You don’t know what Ieuan has done.”
“You’ve told me. The old blood sacrifices.”
“Children, Colman, children!”
“You know, and you will find him. You’ll stop him for good. He can do no more.”
“I don’t know what he will and will not do.”
“Your knowledge of him has broken him. He’ll never achieve a position of trust again - so long as you catch him before he gets back to Dumbarton. You must and you will. He will have to go slower than you to hide his tracks.” I was nearly convinced. “I think it was God’s Will that he was brought away from Dumbarton, where he was trusted and could weave a web of deception to confuse his king. I don’t think God will let him get away from you now.”
“Very well. I don’t think Oswy’s judgement will take long to deliver, do you?” Colman shook his head and we went to prepare.
27
Judgement Delivered
As I walked to the chapel for what I expected to be the last session of the Synod of Whitby, I saw a dog - probably from the tented village - sniffing around the kitchen, looking for scraps, or the scent of where they’d been taken. I smiled and fixed the image in my mind, a snuffling scuffling hound, hunting for a scent, eager for the chase. By the time I reached the chapel my expression was serious once more but the hound was locked in place in my mind, a little deceit against any search Ieuan may make.
*
Ieuan’s horse galloped eagerly but he could sense its confusion. He had taken the first one he had found ready - it wasn’t the one he had brought. A fair exchange. More than that, the King of Northumbria, or whoever owned this nag, had got the better of the exchange. It was sturdy but not fast. Not fast enough. Nothing would be fast enough.
He could still See but it was starting to weaken. The Power he had extended on that damned monk! Who cares wherever he lived or died?
Ciaran cared. Damn him. He had to do what he could to save that wretched bag of flesh but it had only been to impress Ciaran. He hoped to catch him unawares and finish him, once and for all. How had he escaped at the Winwaed? He had been as good as dead! How had he hidden these last ten years? What had hidden him? And now he was frustrating him again, preventing him putting into action the plan to cleanse the islands of its foreigners, their ideas and the people. He had the Power! Cromm Cruaich, the God who Walked, gave him the Power, in exchange for… Ieuan didn’t want to think about it, not right now, not in daylight.
He had to use his Healing Gift or the Sight went as well, and he needed the Sight. Needed to know what was going on, who was going to attack him. Where his enemies were. But it was weakening.
He had thought of the price his master demanded, however briefly, and now it was stirring. The hunger was beginning. Small, but was there. Just a tiny, tiny feeling in the smallest corner of the smallest portion of the most remote part of his mind. No, his body. It was physical, not mental. He needed, he felt the need for the Power.
There were so many there, in the tents and huts around the Christian monastery. One would never have been missed. Never. Never never never. There were so many. Like ants. They bred like ants, these people, these invaders, these scum. And in the village. He could have taken one easily, they played in the streets, in the fields, in the yards, in the cesspits. They were just lying around, useless, feeding, wanting more land - our Land! - to feed their brats, their useless brats. One of them, just one would have been all.
How would a Saxon taste? It didn’t matter – Cromm made no distinction, he knew that. Would he receive more Power? What would it be like?
Warm blood. A still pulsing heart.
The hunger rose. The hunger grew. He could go back to the village and take one.
No, don’t be so stupid! You must run, get away from here! He will be pursuing you, hunting you, chasing you. He tried to sense where Ciaran was. All he got was an image of a hound, sniffing around, scenting the ground. He would have his trail soon.
He would not go back. He could not go back. That would be stupid. There would be other villages, other ants.
Must you take another? Must there be more?
It was still there. He hoped it was gone, gone for good after the last time. Or the time before. But it was still there. Still there to torture him and give him pain.
It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair that Ciaran - Anselm, whoever he was - had found out. Where was his shield? Where was the spell that hid him and his actions? Where was his protection when he was in greatest need? Why had it failed, just when he needed it most? It was not right, not fair, it wasn’t fair! Nothing was fair! It wasn’t right that the invaders were here, that the scum had taken their Land!
He would take it back. He would get the Power and build Strathclyde. Owain and Gawain would raise their armies and drive the English back into the sea. We need the Power. The Power was what it took. And the Power was what he controlled.
There would be other villages. There would be one soon. He would get one soon.
*
The Chapel was filled with a restless silence. The air of a prisoner awaiting execution hung over the Lindisfarne party – but there was something else, as well; a hint of desperate hope that things might still turn. From the Romans there was something like disbelief: until just the day before they’d believed they were going to lose but Wilfrid - wonderful Prior Wilfrid! Bishop Wilfrid, surely, before long! He would succeed Agilbert; no he would have his own See in Northumbria! Bishop Wilfrid! Saint Wilfrid? whisper it! - had turned it all around. Last minute prayers were being offered from all sides. Queen Eanfleda and her chaplain knelt silently: what outcome she was praying for was impossible to tell; the poor woman could see no good coming, either way. I took my place and waited with my comrades for Oswy’s judgement.
The crowd leaped to its feet as he swept in, with all the swagger expected of a warrior-king. Even the sexual tension had receded, I noted. There would be only one outcome.
He marched straight to his throne, escorted by Godwin, the crippled bear. He didn’t sit himself, but indicated that the congregation should do so. I remained standing so as to translate.
“My brothers and sisters in Christ,” he began, “from wherever you have come. This Synod was summoned in order to decide on the question that has vexed this kingdom and court of Northumbria and, I know, other faithful lands and peoples in the island of Britain and beyond. The question being, whose Rule and Practice most closely follows the desires and orders of Our Lord Jesus Christ.
“Before I deliver my judgement, I thank you all for attending the debate, especially those of you who have travelled from far distant parts, from Iona, from the Frankish kingdom across the Narrow Sea, from Erin, and from other places besides. You are welcome. Thanks also to Abbess Hilda, mistress of this monastery, whose organisation and accommodation have made this meeting possible.” He didn’t wait for applause but pressed on.
“I have been brought up in the Rule of Iona and it was the Irish Church which sheltered me and my brothers when our enemies were about us. I owe the priests and monks of St Columba’s Church my very life.
“My Queen has been faithful to
the Roman Rule. This has led us to celebrate feasts on different days and times of the year, most particularly Easter, the feast of the Resurrection and our Salvation. I will celebrate Easter in three weeks, my Queen will celebrate it in nine days. It is time now for the confusion to end.” He stood erect and confident, his shoulder-length hair neatly braided, his beard trimmed and his gold-edged red woollen robe clean and regal. He was wearing a gold circlet on his head; nothing extravagant. He didn’t need show. He made an impressive figure without any need for embellishment.
“St Michael I have long regarded as my patron. I am a warrior, he is the Sword of God who, as Abbott Colman said, stood against the Evil One and was neither overwhelmed nor overawed. He it was who drove Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden after their disobedience had led them to their Fall from Grace, and we sinners to our estate. I hope he will guide my soul to the presence of God when the time comes and that he, the warrior Angel, will present me as a warrior to my Creator, the God of Victories.” The Romans were uneasy at this and we even allowed ourselves a little hope.
“However, before I get to meet St Michael, I have to present myself and my deeds to St Peter at the gates of Heaven. As Prior Wilfrid has demonstrated and none have contradicted, he was appointed by Our Lord Jesus Christ to be the founding father of His Church on Earth. He established the See of Rome, and the Bishop of Rome, known as the Pope, is St Peter’s heir and successor in all things.
“This is the doorkeeper, whom I will not contradict, but will, as far as I know and am able in all things, obey his decrees in case, when I come to the Gates of Heaven, there should be none to open them, he being my adversary who is proved to have the keys.
“As of this moment, then, the Kingdom of Northumbria will follow the Rule and Practice of the Roman Church. I ask Bishop Agilbert to arrange for teaching of the Rule to commence as soon as possible throughout the kingdom, and expect and order that all communities in Northumbria should be perfect in these Practices by Midsummer’s Day, two months from now. That is my judgement, delivered here at Whitby on the third day of April, in the ninth year of my Reign over all of Northumbria and its vassals.”
He swept out again without further ceremony, leaving ecstatic Romans hugging each other and cheering, while the Columbans were stunned, sitting silent or sobbing quietly, still unable to come to terms with the end of their way of life, a life they had led for hundreds of years. Wilfrid smiled confidently, Agilbert looked less pleased than would have been expected. Colman, Chad and the others were miserable and utterly, utterly crushed. Exactly what was going through Eanfleda’s head was impossible even for me to determine, for all I could detect without intrusion was waves of misery.
Godwin came to the sacristy steps and quietly summoned Colman, Chad and me to follow him to Oswy’s private chamber. We went, urged on by my desperate need to be after Ieuan.
We found the King seated on the windowsill as I had seen him on our first meeting. He began immediately.
“Abbott Colman, Prior Chad, Magister Anselm. You’ve heard my judgement. Northumbria goes to Rome and all communities must follow their practice by Midsummer. That includes the Roman tonsure and all aspects of the Rule as laid down by Rome and determined by Bishop Agilbert. I will speak to him later.
“Colman,” he continued in a kinder tone, “I’ve always respected you and have great affection for you. You’ve always been kind to me, right back to the days when I was in a boy in hiding and your counsel has always been wise. I know you’ll answer me honestly: will you respect my ruling?”
“My Lord,” Colman’s voice was thick with emotion, “I have followed the Rule of St Columba all my Christian life. I look on the styles and teachings of Rome with dismay: they may be the way of the future, disciplined and staffed like a Legion in the old days, but I cannot, I cannot…” He couldn’t continue.
Oswy was known as a ferocious warlord, not above torturing his enemies and opponents and even his own troops, if discipline required it. He was a hard man but his expression, as he looked upon his old teacher and protector, was compassionate. Godwin too seemed sympathetic. Oswy sighed before continuing.
“I will miss you, Colman, I’ll miss your wisdom and your kindness but I can make no exceptions to this judgement, not even you. I’ve said that the Roman practices must be adopted within my kingdom by Midsummer. You have until then to arrange your affairs and leave.”
“There may be others…” Colman managed to say and Oswy nodded.
“I owe you my life,” he said quietly. “This is my dispensation to you. I’ll allow you to take with you from Lindisfarne all your close followers. Those who cannot or will not comply can leave. In fact, they must leave. I want no-one left who will defy this ruling. The Church must be one in this kingdom. They must leave with you, by Midsummer. I will do no more.” Colman nodded, miserably. “And you, Prior Chad? What of you and Abbott Cedd?”
“I will accept the ruling. I can’t leave our people. I think my brother will do the same.” Oswy nodded again.
“Good. I’d like to have someone around who I know I can trust. Now, Magister Anselm - or Father Anselm, after today.” He turned to me. “I would welcome you to my court as a counsellor, you have displayed some remarkable abilities.”
“My Gift disturbs the Romans, my Lord.”
“Yes, I can understand that. You’re a disturbing man Anselm but you need fear no-one while you’re under my protection. Will you stay and enjoy it?” Although Cunnian, my Abbott, was confident in my abilities to deal with kings and court intrigue it was easier to feel confident in isolated Iona than in front of this strong and violent man. I took a breath and before I replied.
“Thank you for the offer, sir, but I have no ties to your kingdom and I would rather continue with the practices I took so long to learn, than to start afresh. And I still have other duties: catching a murderer and delivering messages.” Oswy’s eyes hardened.
“Very well. I promised you safe conduct to and from my Kingdom. I won’t make you stay. Now you may go and, when you get to Dumbarton, tell Owain that I’ve received his message and am thinking about it. He will have my formal reply in due course.” I realised that I would have to tell the King of Strathclyde to prepare for war. “As for your pursuit, Godwin and one other will accompany you to the border if you don’t catch your friend before then.”
“They won’t be of much help, sir. The Druid has powers that will prevent them from getting within arm’s reach of him.”
“But they don’t affect you, then, these powers of his.”
“As I said, I was a Druid before I became a Christian,” Oswy looked at me very keenly indeed. “I am prepared and can deal with him.”
“Well then, monk. If you change your mind about my offer, let me know. But I will have my way in this, even more so: Godwin and one of my soldiers will accompany you to the border, and make sure you leave!” then he smiled, and there was a warmth there that I hadn’t seen before – at least, not directed towards me. “Is Abbot Cedd on the mend?” I nodded.
“He’ll take some time to recover without the help Ieuan could have given, but recover he will.”
“One thing occurs to me. If the Druid is, as we now know, our enemy, an unimaginable monster, why did he come and help?”
“I think it’s a long story, my lord,” I replied. “It goes back nearly forty years, to when we were at school together. But I think that old friendship has been corrupted and taken over by deception. I cannot call him a friend any more; that old tie is dead. I recall just a few words, here and there, which lead me to believe he was trying to pull on those bonds of friendship. I think he was trying to seduce m to join his cause – and possibly this whole kingdom.” Oswy and Godwin looked up, sharply. “He did not succeed.”
“Very well. You may be on your way now. You’ll find three horses saddled and ready to leave - your friend took one of ours, which is an offence and I would like to have it back. You’ll have no complaint with those you have from me, but
send yours back as soon as may be.” I bowed and the three of us left, along with Godwin. We left the lion of Northumbria prowling in his den but, as we departed, I caught sight of the youth I’d first encountered a few days earlier. His son.
The black wolf was snapping and snarling, biting at the bars of the cage, eager to be free and looking to sate its dreadful hunger.
I swayed and almost stumbled. Godwin caught me with his good arm.
“Magister?” I replied that I would be all right. The youth walked insolently over to the four of us and looked straight at me.
“I don’t like you,” he said, “you have an air about you, priest. Stop looking at me or it’ll be the worse for you.” Godwin stepped between us.
“This man has the King’s protection.” This was rewarded with a venomous glance from the youth, who nonetheless retreated. You will not stand in my way when I am King, you crippled oaf. The thought was loud, clear and filled with frustrated hate. “Prince Ecgfrid,” Godwin whispered to me as we left. “Thank your God you’ll have two kingdoms between you and him. He’s as wild as a beast, and not one to have as an enemy.”
“A wolf in boy’s clothing,” I agreed, and continued hesitantly, “and if I may return the favour, Godwin, I would suggest that you mind your back if he ever reaches the throne.” The huge man chuckled.
“Aye, he’s taken a dislike to me, I don’t need a Seer to tell me that. He’s never forgiven me for paddling his backside when he was a child!” he grinned.
“Nonetheless, take care. Take care, Godwin,” I replied. “I must get my things and we must be on our way. The Druid has more than two hours’ start on us.”
I made a brief goodbye to Colman, who I expected to see at Iona within the two months allowed. I went with Chad for a final look at Cedd, who was resting and conscious but still weak. I ordered him to refrain from fasting for six months at least and bade him and his brother a fond and final farewell. I ran to the monks’ sleeping quarters and collected my bag and personal belongings then went quickly to the stables, where Godwin and another guard were mounted and ready. A third horse stood alongside, saddled and prepared for me.
The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3) Page 34
