The Culann Chronicles, Book 2, Picts' Plight

by Duncan MacDonald

  “How long have they been here?” asked Morann as he knelt next to the prostrate figures.

  “We don’t know. One of the lads came out to check when he heard our dogs barking and discovered them.”

  “I need some help to get them to our compound,” said Morann urgently as he carefully lifted the monk’s cloak which was covering his face. The Abbot drew in his breath sharply as one of the villagers held a burning torch closer to the figures.

  Four strong men from the village lifted the two unconscious figures by their arms and legs and everyone marched back to the monastery. “One of them was carrying an oar. Where is their boat?” asked one of the monks.

  “They didn’t come by boat,” advised the headman. “We followed their tracks back through one of our fields. They came over the mountain.” Morann shook his head in disbelief. Just then the younger figure regained consciousness and began mumbling, first in Pictish – which nobody understood, then in Greek, of which everyone was equally ignorant, then finally in Irish Gael, which everyone knew. “Put me down. I’m OK”

  They stopped and let the lad stand up. He took two steps and promptly collapsed again. The original bearers helped him to his feet and supported him with their arms under his shoulders as they moved to the monks’ living quarters.

  Both patients were laid on spare bunks. Morann ordered the kitchen to make up some hot soup and bring fresh clothes. “Do we know who they are?” queried one of the monks.

  “The monk is Brother Culann. I know him quite well,” replied Abbot Morann. “The lad is a Pict studying at Lindisfarne and Iona I believe. They have been missing for days. We thought they had perished. Thank God they are alive, although Brother Culann has a nasty gash over his eye. Perhaps he hit his head when he fell down. It’s a shame those Sisters from Lios mór left this morning. They would have been a great help now.”

  * * * * *

  Culann and Fergus slept the rest of the night but both woke at daybreak. Culann sat on his bunk holding his throbbing head most of the morning. Meanwhile Abbot Moran and some of his monks obtained details of their epic journey from Fergus, who first asked for their weapons; Culann’s Roman gladius and his long Celtic sword to be returned.

  Medical facilities were very basic at Ardslignish. Culann’s wound above his eye was washed in water and a white strip of cloth was wound around his head to stop the bleeding. Fergus was more subdued than usual and spent most of the day eating and answering questions about their eventful trip to the Northern Islands.

  Day two found Fergus bouncing around in his inimitable fashion while Culann was walking, his headache gone. Abbot Moran had made arrangements for both men to be transported back to the Lios mór infirmary as soon as they felt fit to travel.

  All that was curtailed dramatically by the arrival of a lone monk in a curach late afternoon on day three.

  * * * * *

  None prayers had just finished (mid-afternoon prayer, around 3 pm) when an exhausted monk made landfall in his small curach in the narrow bay below the monastery. He staggered up the beach, collapsed and began crawling toward the chapel. A number of monks rushed to his side and carried him to the wooden building which served as the monks’ living quarters.

  Culann and Fergus were sitting inside on their temporary bunks when a number of monks crowded in carrying a limp figure who was babbling incoherently. Questions flew at random, “Who is he?” “Where did he come from” “Has anyone seen him before.”

  One of the monks held up his hand and quietened the throng when he uttered “I know him. His name is Marcus,”

  “Is he from Iona?” asked Abbot Moran who had just entered the room.

  “No,” was the reply “he is from Eigg. He came here just four days ago with the sisters and monks from Lios mór. He guided them to the mainland and helped find the stranded brothers from Iona. We arranged for him to return to Eigg the same day.

  “Of course,” mused Abbot Moran “I remember now. My, he looks a mess. We must clean him up and find out what he is doing back here.”

  Although Marcus was in a sorry state on arrival, he, like many Celtic Monks, had lived a tough life and were hard men. He responded quickly when given some fresh milk and hot thick soup. Soon he was sitting up and after wiping the milk from his beard and admiring his fresh set of robes began relating his story.

  “My name is Marcus (meaning ‘of the sea’). I am from Bangor (the great monastic community in Ulster). Five years ago I joined my cousin Nuada, the head monk on Eigg. I go to sea most days and provide our community with seafood.” He paused here and his shoulders shook as he tried to gather his composure. No sound, apart from Marcus deep breaths, was heard in the room.

  “Today I was in my boat fishing as usual just off the headland near our monastery. A strange boat came into view from the north.” Here the monk paused again and covered his eyes as if trying to block out some terrible memory. “I waved but the men on the boat either didn’t see me or ignored me. Their boat pulled into our small harbour. I was curious so I gathered in my lines and began paddling back home. I was soon close enough to see warriors spilling out of the boat and marching up toward our monastery buildings. They were met by a number of our monks.”

  Here Marcus again covered his eyes and great sobs wracked his body. Abbot Moran gently placed a hand on the distraught monk’s shaking shoulder. “There, there, my son. Take your time. I know this must be distressing to you. We are in no hurry.”

  “But you must hurry,” blurted Marcus wiping his mouth and eyes. “While I watched these strangers suddenly drew their weapons and cut down all the monks. They killed them. In cold blood. They slaughtered unarmed monks!” Another long pause.

  “I watched as my cousin came down toward them holding a large cross on high. They just stood there and suddenly the big man I took to be their leader raised his two handed axe and struck Nuada in the head. He almost split him in two.” Stunned silence greeted this revelation.

  “What happened then?” ventured Abbot Moran quietly.

  “I ran away.” said Marcus almost in a whisper. Then louder “I paddled away. I panicked - I left my companions to die - alone.”

  Abbot Moran put his arms around the distraught monk to comfort him. “Don’t blame yourself my son. There was nothing you, an unarmed monk could do.”

  A voice from the back of the room asked “Why did you come here to Ardslignish? Why not go to Rum or Muck - they are closer.”

  “I came to you because when I was here some days ago I saw you had warriors. The other islands have only monks. I want to go back and avenge my friends - my fellow monks.”

  Another figure who had been standing at the back of the gathering crowd of onlookers pushed his way to the front to address the monk from Eigg. It was one of the leaders of the neighbouring Dal-Riata village.

  “Who were these warriors who killed your monks? Were they Dal-Riata or Picts?”

  Marcus rubbed his head before answering, “I recognise Irish Gael and Pict curach when I see them. It was neither. This boat was long and made of wood. It had eight or ten oars each side and a large sail. I have not seen a boat like that before. The warriors looked different also. They were big men with long blonde or white hair and beards. They wore some sort of chain mail on their chests. Most carried axes and a few carried swords.”

  The silence following this vivid description was broken my Fergus. “I have seen boats similar to the one describe.” Everyone turned to look at the slight Pictish figure standing to one side next to Culann.

  “My clan lives on the far side of this land, where the sun rises. We have occasionally been visited by men similar to the ones you describe, sailing long wooden boats. But they were traders, not raiders. They called themselves Norsemen. I understood they came from a country across the sea, north of Caledonia.”

  “Whoever they are, they are a menace to all in our region” called Abbot Moran. “I endorse Brother Marcus; we must send warriors to Eigg and eliminate these pirate
s.” Moran was looking straight at the Dal-Riata elder, who suddenly looked uncomfortable shifting from one foot to another.

  “I cannot send any of our men. They may be needed here if anyone attacks our village or your monastery.” said the Dal-Riata leader.

  Moran snorted and replied sarcastically “God will look after us and your people can go inland if they are afraid.”

  Suddenly Culann stepped forward, hand on his Roman gladius, “I will go Abbot Moran. These monk killers hold no fear for me.”

  “Me too!” stated Fergus with a grin, holding his long Celtic sword.

  “Oh no,” replied Abbot Moran “I cannot send just one monk and a Picti youth against these killers.”

  “I am not just a monk brother Abbot,” stated Culann in a low voice “I am a warrior monk from the Fianna. If we leave now with Brother Marcus and a couple of monks to help row, we could be in Eigg before dawn. While it is still dark Fergus and I could scout the island and find out where these killers are heading next.”

  Four monks immediately raised their hands, “We will go with Brother Culann.”

  “If that’s the case, then you go with my blessing.” said Abbot Morann, “But have you recovered enough from your ordeal?”

  “Yes thank you my Abbot. We are just going to look around,” replied Culann with a straight face.

  “We are not just going to look are we?” whispered Fergus to Culann.

  “Of course not,” replied Culann quietly “but if we don’t say that we won’t be given a boat and crew.” Fergus grin returned.

  The entire group moved down toward the beach. One of Ardslignish’s curach was readied and the four monks who had agreed to row, together with Brothers Marcus, Culann and Fergus climbed aboard. Culann requested all the monks be given their customary wooden staffs - just in case they were confronted by wild animals. That description of course didn’t fool anyone, but no objection was raised. Culann even agreed to trade in his oar, carried overland in lieu of a staff, for a new hardwood staff.

  The curach cast off as the monks on the beach began Vespers (prayers conducted at day’s end or sun-down), combined with well wishes and safe return for the crew. Celtic monks did not require prayers to be always carried out in a particular building, such as a church, but could be conducted outdoors, under an oak tree, or in this case, on the beach.

  Back to top

  Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω

  9.1 – Arrival on Eigg

  Brother Marcus grieving for the massacred monks on Eigg

  Everyone took turns at rowing, but the Ardslignish monks were considerate enough to give Marcus, Fergus and Culann very short spells. The moon shone briefly between breaks in the cloud cover. Marcus was comfortable even at night to guide the curach around the western point of the Ardnamurchan peninsular and then north directly to the small island that is dominated by the dramatic stump of pitchstone, sheer on three sides called An Sgurr, rising like some pre-historic backbone from the island partly obscured by sea mist.

  The tide and wind was with them and good time was made. That great ridge of rock came in sight well before Vigils (around 4 a.m. while it is still dark). Marcus expertly navigated their craft past a small elongated island on the left and a partly submerged reef onto the sandy beach which served as the sheltered harbour of Eigg.

  The dark night could not hide the ominous outline of the long wooden ship dragged high up on the beach. “Quick turn right”, said Culann urgently, “we don’t want to land anywhere near that craft. They may have guards posted.” The nimble craft deftly changed direction under the guidance of the rowers and made landfall at the eastern edge of the beach. The monks quickly carried the light craft up the beach and hid it in some foliage next to a rock outcrop.

  Culann was the acknowledged leader now they were on Eigg. He issued instructions in whispered tones; keep together; make no noise and keep your weapons (staffs) handy. Fergus held his long sword in both hands and Culann had his short gladius in his right hand with his staff in the other.

  “Do we go first and check the monastery buildings?” asked Marcus quietly.

  “No - we check if there if there is anyone guarding the boat,” replied Culann equally quiet.

  “What happens if we find someone?”

  “We kill them.” stated Culann in a matter-of-fact tone.

  One of the Ardslignish monks gulped and gripped his staff more tightly. They moved off down the beach, Culann and Fergus in the lead. The boat’s silhouette grew larger. Culann motioned that they should climb up the rock shoulder above the beach so they could look down on the boat. The wind had increased blowing from the south east into their faces, thus muffling any noise as they approached. Suddenly Culann held his hand up signally everyone to stop. Fergus crawled up next to the Celtic warrior monk. Culann pointed to some glowing embers on the beach near the bow of the boat on the lea side, to protect the former fire from the wind. The vague shapes of two figures wrapped in blankets could barely be seen beside it.

  “There are our guards,” he whispered. I’ll take care of them. You stay here and watch to see there are no more. If so, I rely on you to protect me.” Fergus frowned at being left out of the action but understood the sound strategy. He nodded. Culann quietly told the rest of the monks to remain here hidden. If anything happened to him, Fergus was in charge. They nodded agreement.

  The monks with Fergus watched as Culann slipped from view down a small gully. Their gaze returned to the two still figures who lay next to the dying embers. After what seemed a very long time a ghost-like apparition emerged from the shadows near the boat. They heard the whistle of the staff as it whipped through the air and the dull thud as it connected with the head of one of the sleepers. The second figure abruptly sat up but before he could utter a sound Culann plunged his short sword into his chest.

  The monks began to rise when Fergus waved them to remain still. He needed to see if any other enemy warriors appeared. Culann waited sword in hand for a few heartbeats then deftly climbed on board the wooden ship. He quickly searched it for any signs of life then waved his arm to indicate they should join him on board.

  A few minutes later all had assembled on board the boat. Fergus looked at the wooden rowing benches build into the side or gunwales of the craft and the tall wooden mast. The sail was folded and lying near the bow. “Yes this is similar to the Norse boats I have seen before.” the young Pict stated.

  “Good,” said Culann. Then turning to Marcus, asked “Where is your monastery?” The monk pointed north. “Over that ridge, about three hundred paces.”

  “We don’t know how many of them there are, nor if they are all together or spread out,” mused Culann. No matter what happens to us we must make sure they never leave this place.”

  “How do we do that?” asked Marcus.

  “We destroy their boat.” replied Culann.

  Fergus spoke up, “I can cut holes in an Eilean a' Cheò curach, but I can’t cut holes in this wooden ship. Plus if I try the others may hear me.”

  “Ah, Fergus you are right. This is a wooden ship. Remember what you did to the hill fort at Dunadd? We will set fire to the boat.”

  “But I have no flaming torch,” said Fergus “plus the fact the wood is wet.”

  “True yes,” confided Culann “but we have the remnants of that fire below, and I believe that animal skin sail all folded up in the front of the boat will burn quickly. That should burn a hole in the boat. That’s all we need.”

  And so in the pre-dawn darkness Culann with the monks climbed to the ridge leading to the monastery and waited. Meanwhile Fergus skilfully gathered some of the ember sticks from the fire, climbed back onboard the boat and together with Marcus, who insisted on helping, fanned the sail into flames. After waiting until he was satisfied the wooden sides were also starting to smoke and glow, he deftly cut some of the burning sail and stuffed it under one of the rowing benches at the stern of the boat. He now had two fires quietly burning. They then rejoined Culann and the others
on the ridge.

  The path toward the monastery building was clear of undergrowth so Culann decided they would take the long way round on the edge of the tree line. That way they would be less likely to be seen from the monastery.

  * * * * *

  The eastern sky was beginning to lighten signalling the approaching dawn. Culann and his colleagues crouched down on the edge of the tree line opposite a small group of wooden buildings and scattered huts which the monks used to sleep and meditate.

  “What are those four larger buildings?” asked Culann. Marcus kneeling next to him replied “The nearest building is the scriptorium, next to it the church, then the refectory (eating hall) and furthest away is the workshop.”

  “Hmmm . . .” mused Culann “there seems to be light coming from the scriptorium and the refectory. That means our ‘friends’ are inside both buildings. We will check the scriptorium first. Follow me - single file.” The small group set off at a smart pace and quickly covered the open ground to the scriptorium. They crouched down hard up against the side wall. It was a narrow building about fifty paces long with four windows either side. This design let in good natural daylight to aid the monks sitting on stools at benches as they copied texts and manuscripts.

  Culann carefully rose and peered in through one of the windows. He ducked down quickly and with a steely voice advised Fergus and the monks “There are five warriors inside. They are armed. They seem to be tearing codex (books) apart. Some pages they are throwing on a fire set in the middle of the room at the far end. Other pages are being stuffed into a large bag. Why would they be doing that?” to no one in particular.

  Brother Marcus relied quietly “There is nothing of value in our modest monastery but when I was in Bangor I saw some monks used valuable gold leaf to illustrate the more important codex. Perhaps they are looking for that.”

  “Yes,” said Fergus thoughtfully “I remember seeing a lot of gold and gemstones used at the scriptorium at Lindisfarne particularly on codex covers.”

  “Well we will put a stop to that now.” said Culann as he moved toward the only door at the end of the building. “You monks wait outside and belt anyone who tries to escape with your staff. Aim for the head or knees; they are wearing chain mail on their upper body. Care to join me Fergus?” Fergus grinned and nodded.