“No,” I replied harshly. “Go back and tell them to eat without me.”
“Master Duncan,” he said gently, so mild and compassionate in his reproof I had not the heart to refuse him again, and so allowed myself to be led back to the hall. Upon entering, I glanced around quickly and Niniane was the first person I happened to see. She stepped swiftly toward me and folded me into her arms. “Dear, dear, Duncan,” she sighed. “I am so sorry…so very sorry.”
I allowed myself to be consoled for a moment, and then asked, “How is it you are here?”
“I was on my way to the abbey. I arrived in time to help prepare the—her body.”
Lost in my grief, I had not been aware of the comings or goings around me. “Is Eirik with you?”
She shook her head. “There was some trouble in Inbhir Ness. The son of a visiting nobleman accidentally killed a local chieftain’s son. The clan has sworn a blood oath and the unlucky boy has taken sanctuary at the monastery. Eirik thought it best to stay on until matters were resolved.”
Niniane regarded me sadly. “Rhona was a good friend to me, and I will try to be as good a friend to you. I will help in any way I can.”
I thanked her kindly, and escorted her to the table where the food was being served. They had saved a place for me at the board beside my mother, who was holding little Cait in her lap. You, dear heart, unaware of the somber proceedings, held out your hands to me, and wanted me to play with you. But I could not. I merely sat and gazed glumly at your happy little face, deaf to your childish pleadings.
All I could think was that I would gladly change places with my poor dead wife. It was my fault, after all. If I had not been so insistent on having a son, my beloved Rhona would still be alive. I would be sitting next to her; it would be her face, her bright eyes, I was gazing into now; it would be Rhona’s hand reaching to take mine.
There was singing that night, but I remember almost nothing of it. Emlyn sang a lament, as I recall, and some of the women of the settlement likewise sang, and Padraig played the harp. But my mind, like my heart, was with my beloved lying cold and alone on her bier in the church, and I drew no consolation from the kindly expressions of those around me.
A more wretched man there never was than myself, that night. When at last everyone departed for their beds, I left the hall, too; I thrashed around in my empty bed for a time, and at last, unable to rest, I rose and walked the clifftops above the dark, restless sea until morning.
Following the death service in the old wooden church, we buried Rhona in the new churchyard. She would have approved of her final resting place, I think, as there was a plum thicket growing nearby, and she was always fond of plums. I was the last to leave the yard. I knelt a long time by that mound of stones gathered from the beach, wondering how I could go on living when my light, my life, lay under that heap of earth and rock.
The next days brought no solace. I went about my various chores with dull efficiency, a man bereft of all hope and life, seeing no good thing, hearing no kindly word, taking joy in nothing around me. At night, I roamed the clifftops.
My wretched condition persisted until I could bear it no more. One night, with the moon shining full in the yard, I rose and went out. My feet found the familiar path leading down to the shore. Heartsick, weary with grief, I walked down onto the beach, and out into the sea.
God help me, I could endure the gnawing ache no longer. I felt the cold water surge around my knees, but I kept walking. If I had any thought at all it was that the pain would soon be over and I would be with my beloved forever.
I felt the water rising around me—to my thighs, and then my waist—yet still I walked on, and would have gone on walking. But, as the black water swirled around my chest, I heard a voice call out to me from the shore: “Duncan, wait!”
I recognized the voice; it was Padraig.
Not to be dissuaded, I paid no heed to the call, but struggled ahead in all determination. In a moment, I heard the splash of footsteps in the water as Padraig pursued me. Not wishing to be caught, or dissuaded from the course before me, I made no answer and pushed deeper into the water.
“Duncan!” he shouted. “Here, Duncan, I have something for you!”
Ignoring him, I continued on. The water was up to my throat, and the swell of the waves tugged at me, raising me off my feet. He shouted after me again, and then I heard another voice—a child’s voice, frightened, crying. Casting a backward glance over my shoulder, I saw him striding after me, holding Caitríona in his arms. So unexpected was the sight of her, I stopped and turned around.
“What do you mean by this?” I shouted. “Get her away from here.”
He waded nearer and, dearest Cait, your tiny face was twisted in fear and your hands were reaching out to me to help you, to save you—from the water, and the night, and the strangeness of what was happening.
“Come now,” Padraig called. “Would you leave without saying farewell to your daughter? Better still, why not take her with you?” Stretching his arms, he held the child out to me.
“Take her back to shore, you fool!” I shouted angrily.
He merely shook his head.
I glared at him. “Have you gone mad?”
“Here,” he said, holding her out to me again. Cait began to shriek as the cold water splashed around her legs. “Take her now and make an end of it. It will be a kindness.”
“You are mad,” I growled.
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “Still, it would be better, I think, to have died in the arms of your loving father than to lose both parents before you are old enough to remember either of them. As you mean to end your life, so be it. You might as well end her life, too.”
Enraged, I strode forward and snatched the dear babe from his arms. “Stupid priest! You know nothing about children.”
“True,” he agreed placidly. “But I know this water is freezing and night is far gone, and I miss my warm bed. Could we go back now, do you think?”
Cradling my squalling child in my arms, I started toward the shore. We walked back to the dún in silence; Cait had ceased crying by the time we reached the house. Padraig bade me farewell and I went in, wrapped my darling girl in one of her mother’s warm mantles and put her in her bed. I sat with her until she was asleep. I slept as well and woke the next morning when I heard voices outside. Thinking Padraig must have told someone what had taken place in the night, I grew embarrassed, and went outside to face the stares of disapproval and reproach. But it was just some women from the settlement coming to bring me and little Caitríona some food. They gave me the baskets and departed, saying how they would be glad to help look after the bairn whenever I needed them.
The women went their way then, but all day long I kept thinking someone would mention the previous night’s incident. No one did.
After vespers that evening, I saw Padraig leaving the chapel and went to thank him for not breathing a word to anyone about my shameful behavior of the night before. He looked at me curiously. “Behavior? What shameful behavior could that be?” he said.
“You know,” I muttered, irritated that he would make me speak it out so bluntly. “I went walking down by the sea.”
“How very strange,” he said mildly, his face betraying no hint of guile. “I too went walking in my sleep last night. Now, try as I might, I can remember very little about it.” Leaning close, he said, “Between ourselves, I would consider it a kindness if you would not tell the abbot. We are not supposed to leave the monastery after prayers.”
“Well,” I told him, “you can trust me to keep your secret. Only see that it does not happen again.”
“Oh, I have repented of it a hundred times already.” He gave me a look of shrewd appraisal. “I do not think I will have occasion to sleepwalk again.”
That concluded the matter and nothing else was ever said, either by Padraig or anyone else. Let me tell you, I, also, have repented of that night a hundred times since then. Nevertheless, God is good; out of that disgrac
eful incident he brought a friendship which is beyond all price. For, from that night Padraig became my dearest companion and spiritual advisor—my anam cara as he calls it, my soul friend.
Another result of that night’s folly was that I began to consider what I might do to make amends for my cowardly lapse—a self-imposed penance. While some might consider it overly pious, or even rank sanctimony, let them think what they will: I know how close I came to throwing away God’s inestimable gift that night. Had I drowned myself, Cait, I would have condemned myself to an eternity of misery. That, I know. Instead, the Gifting Giver has blessed me beyond measure. Though I sit in splendored captivity awaiting the death decree, I am yet the most grateful of men for having known the love of true friends, and the graceful, happy child that is my daughter, and for having been allowed to dare and do much for the advancement of my savior’s Invisible Kingdom.
Ah, well, make of it what you will. Whatever the workings of the mysterious inner heart, I began to contemplate some mighty work of atonement that I might do. As I pondered on what form this great deed might take, I found release from the shock and sorrow of my Rhona’s sad death. My zeal and appetite for life returned and, along with it, a fresh desire for the things of the spirit.
Padraig noticed my newfound devotion. One night after vespers while we talked together over a bowl of ale, he said, “Beware, Duncan, you will be wanting to become a priest next.”
“What would be wrong with that?” I replied, defiance hardening my voice. “Do you think it above me? My brother is a priest, remember. I know well enough what would be required. I could—”
“I surrender!” He held up his hands. “I spoke in jest. You would make a fine priest, of that I have no doubt.”
Despite his words, I heard the reservation in his tone. “And yet?”
He put out his lip, and regarded me thoughtfully, but made no reply.
“Come now, what is in your mind?”
“Far be it from me to discourage anyone from seeking the priesthood…”
“And yet you would discourage me—hey? Well, that is a fine thing.”
“You misunderstand,” he said quickly. “There are many priests among the Célé Dé, but few noblemen. Our Lord has blessed you richly, Duncan. If you would do something to honor him, let it be in the manner whereby he has created you.”
“As a nobleman, you mean.”
He spread his hands. “Look at all your father has accomplished for the good of the Célé Dé. Do you imagine it would be half so much if he had been a monk?”
A trifling thing, a few simple words lightly spoken; but it started me thinking in a new way. I thought about what my father had done as a young man—much younger than myself, he was, when he followed the Great Pilgrimage. These thoughts grew to fill my every waking moment, and soon I could think of nothing else. Could it be, I wondered, that I, too, was being called to join the pilgrim way?
Some few nights later, I happened to mention my musings to my father. We were at table for our evening meal; as always in Murdo’s hall, there were a number of vassals and friends gathered around the board. Some of the stonemasons working on the new church had been invited to sup with us that night, so the ale and conversation flowed liberally.
Talk turned to Torf-Einar’s return, and how he had fared in the Holy Land. Someone said he had heard that Torf left an enormous fortune in the East, and others began speculating on how much this unknown wealth could be, and whether it was in gold or silver. Their ignorance and frivolity vexed me, and I said, “Perhaps I will go to the Holy Land myself and claim this fortune and become King of Edessa.”
My mother, directing the serving-boys, and listening to the table talk with but half an ear, turned to me as if I had said I meant to burn down the hall with everyone in it. The smile on my father’s face vanished in an instant; his head turned slowly toward me. If I had uttered the most obscene blasphemy imaginable, I do not think his expression could have been more aghast. He swallowed the bit of bread he was chewing, forcing down his growing anger. “That was ill-spoken,” he said, his voice strained and low. “Idle fancies are the work of the devil.”
I started to object that it was no idle fancy, that I had been considering just such an undertaking, but I glimpsed Lady Ragna desperately trying to warn me off. Their reaction rankled me, truly. Yet, the swiftness and force with which my innocent comment roused my lord’s wrath took me aback. I mumbled a vague apology, and begged his pardon.
The tension of the moment melted away, and talk resumed. But nothing more was said about the Holy Land. When the opportunity presented itself, I rose and left the hall. When I arrived at the church the next morning, my father took me aside. “Your mother thinks I was too quick to judge you last night. She thinks I condemned you out of hand for a comment worth less than the breath to speak it.”
I looked him in the eye. “What do you think, lord?”
He glanced away. “I think my good wife is wise and, over the years, I have learned that her opinions in such matters are to be trusted.” He shrugged, and his eyes swung back to me. “If you tell me she has rightly divined the heart of the thing, and promise me you will never speak of such things again, I will forgive you fully and freely, and say no more about it.”
“Forgive!” I said, my voice harsh with outrage. “Is it a sin now to speak of the Holy Land? As surely as I am your son, my lord, I will think and speak as I please.”
He glared at me. “Only a fool jests about things he does not understand. I never knew you for a fool, boy.”
Lest I say something I would later regret, I turned and started away. “There is another possibility,” I said, looking back over my shoulder.
“And what is that?” he growled after me.
“It was no jest!”
His unreasoning obstinance hardened my determination, I confess. I found myself dwelling on the things Torf-Einar had told me regarding the Holy Land, and imagining what it would be like to go there.
I did not work at the building that day; instead, I spent the day out in a boat beyond the headlands with three of the vassals, catching mackerel for the smokehouse. As the fishing was good, we did not return until it was almost dark, and then spent half the night gutting the fish so they would be ready for the drying racks in the morning. Indeed, I was busy tying the flayed and split mackerel to the birch poles when Abbot Emlyn approached me.
“So, my father has sent you to chastise me,” I said mockingly. “No doubt he has grown tired of shouldering the burden all by himself.”
The kindly cleric looked at me and sighed. “You are that much like another young man I once knew,” he said. “Stubborn as stone.”
“If you are looking for the cause of the trouble,” I told him, “you come looking in the wrong place. The fault lies not with me, but with my lord.”
“Come,” he said, motioning me to his side, “walk with me.”
I had it in me to refuse. “I’m busy,” I told him.
“Come with me, Duncan,” he insisted gently. “The fish can wait.”
Who can resist the kindly abbot anything? Thus, I found myself falling into step beside him. We walked across the yard and out from the caer; our footsteps found the track down to the sea, and so we followed it, passing the field where some of the vassals were chopping thistles. The breeze was out of the north, and I could smell the clean, wind-washed air faintly tinged with salt—a sign of cool, bright weather to come.
We came onto the pebbled shingle and walked for a time, the sound of our feet crunching in the stones made a hollow sound. Tiny white crabs swarmed the rotting seaweed at the high tide mark, darting out of sight as we passed. At last, the abbot drew a long breath, and said, “I am disturbed, Duncan.”
I thought I knew what he would say next. I waited for the rebuke and prepared to defend myself against his unjustified disapproval.
“Murdo is not himself.”
This so surprised me, I stopped walking and turned to him. “What?”
>
“Your father and I have been friends for many years, but I have never known him to be this contrary and short-tempered.”
“Nor I.”
“For the life of me, I cannot think what has happened to make him so disagreeable.”
“And changeable.”
“Yes,” the abbot agreed. “Lord Murdo is the steadiest and most resolute of men. It hurts me to see him more miserable by the day.” He looked at me, distress furrowing his forehead. “What can he be afraid of, do you think?”
“Why afraid?” I said, dismissing the question. “I have never known my father to be afraid of anything. I think he is just getting set in his ways and resents anyone else having a different opinion.”
Emlyn shook his head gently. “You know that is not true.”
“I suppose not,” I allowed. “But why do you say he is afraid?”
“Look deep enough, and you will find that fear is usually at the bottom of all our sins and failings.”
“He is afraid I will go to the Holy Land.”
I had not intended saying that. Indeed, the words were out before I had even considered them. Even so, I knew them to be true the moment I heard them.
Emlyn did not disagree. “Why should he be afraid of that, do you think?”
“Because,” I began slowly, “he thinks I will become like Torf-Einar and forsake my family and my birthright.”
“Perhaps it is something like that,” the cleric replied. We resumed walking. The breeze ruffled the waves as they lapped at the stones, making a sound like chuckling.
“Your father never speaks of the Great Pilgrimage,” Emlyn continued after a moment.
“No, he does not.”
“For your father, the Great Pilgrimage brought nothing but hardship and grief. Like many others, Murdo lost nearly everything he cherished in life. Ever since he returned he has worked at replacing all that he lost, and he has succeeded admirably well.”
“Torf-Einar’s return reminded him of this,” I mused.
“More than that,” the abbot assured me. “If Torf had not returned the past would have remained only a memory—painful though it may be.”
The Black Rood Page 5
