The Black Rood (6 page)

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 disgraceful 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.”

I began to see what he was telling me. “Murdo is afraid I will go to the Holy Land, and he will lose me, too.”

“All things considered, it is not an unreasonable fear.” He looked at me, but I kept my eyes straight ahead so I would not have to meet his gaze.

“I see. So you are united with him in this.”

“It is not like that, Duncan.”

“What if I were to tell you that God was calling me to undertake the pilgrimage myself? How would you counsel me then?”

He did not reply at once, and so I thought I had him at my mercy. I boldly pressed my advantage. “Well, abbot?” I demanded. “Obey my father, or obey God—which is it to be?”

When he did not answer, I glanced across at him and saw that he was squinting into the distance as his eyes searched the far-off sea haze on the horizon. “There is a ship,” he told me. “Someone is coming.”

“Where?” I quickly scanned the horizon.

“There,” he said, pointing to a patch of bright water out beyond the headland. “Who could it be, I wonder?”

We watched as the tiny speck grew slowly larger. It was a sizeable ship with red sails, speeding swiftly toward us on the landward breeze. All at once the answer came to me. “Eirik!”

A moment later we were both hurrying back along the path toward the dún to alert the others that my brother had finally returned.

T
HAT NIGHT WE
welcomed Eirik home with a modest feast, and sat him in the place of honor at table. He was happy to be back in God's country, he said, and far away from the southern Scots and their interminable squabbles.

“You would think common dignity the rarest, most valuable substance in all the world, the way they ward and worry over it,” he said. “And if any of them ever get any of the stuff, why he is the most miserable man you ever saw, for he must be on constant guard lest anyone besmirch it with a careless word.”

“Too true,” concurred Emlyn ruefully. “I once heard of a man from Dunedin who killed a beggar for stepping on his shadow.”

“Are they all so contentious in the south?” said Ragna. “If that is so, I never want to go there.”

“What say you, Murdo?” asked one of the masons. “You and Abbot Emlyn have been farther south than anyone hereabouts. Are the fellows so bloodthirsty as that?”

Murdo glared at the man for raising the question. “Worse,” he muttered ominously; and, though the men asked for a story, he bluntly refused to say more.

Eirik marked his father's bad manners, but wisely passed on to other matters. He asked the mason about the new church, which was beginning to resemble something more than just a heap of rubble on bare ground. This proved a
durable subject, and we finished the meal with a retelling of the work almost stone by stone.

After supper, Eirik came to me and expressed his sorrow at hearing of Rhona's sad death. I accepted his condolences, and he asked, “What has happened to Father while I was away? A bear with a sore head growls less. Is he feeling well?”

“He is well enough,” I allowed. “A ghost has returned to haunt him.”

Eirik raised his eyebrows at this, and begged me to say more. I told him about Torf-Einar's untimely return and his lingering death. “I begin to see now,” replied Eirik. “The old wounds are reopened.”

“That is exactly what Emlyn says,” I replied. “Myself, I think the two of them have a secret.”

This intrigued Eirik, and it flattered me to have my elder brother hanging on my every word, so I continued recklessly. “Indeed,” I said, “I think something happened while they were on the Great Pilgrimage together—something they have forbidden one another ever to mention aloud.”

Although I was speaking out of utter ignorance, I had struck closer to the truth than anyone could have known.

“Emlyn keep a secret?” wondered Eirik. “It must be something terrible indeed.”

“Oh, aye,” I said carelessly. “Whatever dark deed it conceals has reared its head once more, and it has made our father's life a misery ever since.”

“And it was something to do with Torf, you say?” asked Eirik.

“Perhaps,” I replied, “but that is not what I said. Rather, it was something Torf said.”

“What did he say?”

“Why, he spoke of many things. Mostly, it was to do with his life in the Holy Land—his battles, and treasures, and the like. Father would not listen to him. He called it traveler's tales and dangerous nonsense.”

“Did he, now!”

Eirik pondered this for a moment, then asked, “Tell me, brother, was Murdo vexed from the first? Or, might there have been a particular moment when his disposition changed?”

“From the very first,” I told him. “From the moment he clapped eyes to Torf-Einar he was—” I halted as it occurred to me what my brother was really asking. “No, now that I think about it,” I said, considering the matter more completely, “it was when Torf began talking about the relics.”

This intrigued Eirik. “Which relics?” he asked, leaning forward, his expression keen.

“The Holy Lance, and the Black Rood. It was when I asked our lord about those two relics that he grew angry. He would never listen to anything Torf had to say about them; he said it was all lies, and he refused to hear a word of it. When I asked Emlyn about it, he declined to tell me anything. He told me it was not for him to say.”

“A very mystery,” said Eirik. Already, I could see the plot forming in his mind.

“And likely to remain a mystery. There is no power on earth to make Lord Murdo change his mind.”

“True,” allowed Eirik, pursing his lips and nodding. “We shall see. We shall see.”

My elder brother is tireless when it comes to achieving the unobtainable. Tell him a thing is impossible, or impractical—better still, impossible
and
impractical—and that is the thing he wants. Nothing else will do. His ceaseless energy knows no impediment, no restraint, no limit. As a boy growing up, I watched him lavish the utmost of his strength and effort on all manner of hopeless enterprises.

Do not think I judge him over-harshly, Cait; he would be the first to admit it. You only have to ask him, and he will tell you. He glories in it! All the more so because every now and then he succeeds—as much to his own amazement as anyone's. One of his impossible achievements was gaining a bishopric at an age when most priests are only beginning to entertain the possibility of becoming an abbot. Another was Niniane. If you want to hear the tale of
that
courtship, Cait, ask your gracious aunt. It is a tale well worth hearing.

Over the next few days, Eirik went to work on the problem. I could see him thinking about it as he attended his priestly duties. He schemed well into the autumn with it; had I not known my brother, I might have imagined he had for
gotten about it. Not at all. He was only waiting for the best possible moment to pounce. You see, he was up against a man whose capacity for daring the impossible exceeds even his own: Lord Murdo Ranulfson himself. No doubt Eirik believed that if his chance was squandered, it would surely never come again. True enough, but the Swift Sure Hand was already moving to bring about its own inscrutable purposes, as you shall see.

Just after harvest, Eirik left the abbey and went to make a circuit of the realm. He took four brothers with him, loaded a few supplies and trade goods on a horse, and set off. He was gone but three days, when he returned abruptly saying he had had a vision. Everyone gathered around to hear what had taken place.

“We were camped beside a stream,” he told us, “and I was tending the fire while the brothers prepared our porridge. I was bending to the flames when I heard someone calling to us from the nearby wood. I looked around and asked the brothers who it could be, for all we were far from any settlement. But they heard nothing.

“I waited a little, and the voice called out again, and yet once more. Did these good brothers hear a sound? No, they never did. Here,” the bishop said, “ask them—they'll tell you.”

“What did you hear?” demanded one of the vassals.

“We did not hear anything at all,” replied the monks.

“And while I was considering what this might mean, a man came out of the wood. He was dressed all in white, and he called me by name. When I hailed our visitor, and pointed him out to the brothers here, they could not see him.”

“We never did see him,” confessed the clerics. “We neither saw nor heard anything at all.”

The vassals, agog at this wonder, turned in wide-eyed amazement to one another, and I began to smell a rat.

Strange to say, however, I noticed that Murdo had grown very quiet, and now wore a most thoughtful expression on his face.

“This stranger asked me to walk with him, and truth to tell, I did not want to go,” Eirik said. “But, he said, ‘Fear nothing,
brother. No harm will come to you.' So I said, ‘Who are you, lord?' For I thought it might be an angel speaking to me.”

“Oh, aye,” murmured the vassals, knowingly—as if they were well used to conversing with angels.

Eirik raised his hands for quiet, and continued. “The stranger looked at me, and said, ‘I am a friend, and well known to your family.' And I did not know what to say to this. ‘How can this be?' I ask. ‘I have never seen you before.' This brings a smile to my strange visitor's lips. ‘Brother Eirik,' he says to me, for he knows my name, as I say. ‘Come, I must be about my business.'

“He turned and walked a little away from the camp, and bade me to follow. I did, and he said, ‘The day is coming when the church your father builds will be my home. Tell Murdo to look for me.'

“I agree to deliver the message, and ask, ‘What name shall I give him?' And this is the strangest part of all, for the stranger merely raised his hand in farewell, and replied, ‘Tell him the Lord of the Promise is well pleased with his servant.'

“And then,” Eirik concluded, “he disappeared into the wood the way he had come.”

The vassals gabbled in astonishment and, when it was certain the bishop had no more to tell them, they went away shaking their heads in awe of this miraculous occurrence.

“I have delivered the message, Father,” Eirik said. “What does it mean?”

“It was
your
vision,” Murdo replied sharply. “You tell me.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked quickly away.

The bishop sent his monks along to the abbey, and I walked with Eirik to the hall. “That was well done,” I told him when we were alone. “How did you find out about the White Priest?”

He stopped in midstep and turned to me. “How did you know he was a priest?” he demanded.

“You must have said it just now.”

“I said nothing about that,” he insisted adamantly, and I felt a sudden tingle raise the hairs on my arms.

“
Was
he a priest?” I asked.

“You know very well that he was,” Eirik said. “But I kept that part of my tale back on purpose. You have had it from someone else.”

“And so have you,” I accused. “I know what you're trying to do. The vassals may be gulled by your talk of visions in the night, but I am not. I doubt Murdo will be taken in by it, either.”

Eirik regarded me with a look of exasperated pity. “Duncan, Duncan, what are you saying? Do you think I made up a tale? Is that what you think?”

“Of course you did,” I told him. “It is nothing to me one way or the other, but—” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “What? Are you telling me now it was true?”

“In the name of all that is holy, it is the very truth,” he declared. “It happened just as I told it. Why would I concoct such a tale?”

“To discover the secret—”

The light of understanding broke over my brother just then. “Murdo and Emlyn's secret—is that what you mean? You believe I made up a story to try to draw them into confession?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “That is what I thought. And I hope it works, too.”

“Brother,” replied Eirik with a smile, “you are far more devious than I imagined. I do believe you have the guile of the young Lord Murdo himself about you, and no mistake. But surely as God is my witness,” he vowed earnestly, “it happened just as I said.”

“Very well,” I allowed, accepting him at his word. “But will it work, do you think?”

“It might,” replied Eirik, thoughtfully tapping his lower lip with a fingertip. “We will have to be shrewd about it. Say nothing to either of them. Leave it with me. I think I know a way.”

We parted company then, and he hurried off to the abbey.

“When?” I called after him.

“Soon,” he answered. “Leave it with me.”

That night at supper, Eirik came to the table, dour-faced
and grim of aspect. He said little and stared at his food as if he suspected poison. When anyone spoke to him, all they received was a cheerless nod, or a halfhearted grunt. His doleful humor so permeated the meal that conversation ceased halfway through and people began to speak in furtive whispers so as not to disturb the melancholy cleric.

Murdo, as host of the meal, at first tried to ignore his son's gloomy demeanor. When at last that became impossible, he finally gave in and asked, “Is it ill you are? You seem to have the weight of the world around your neck.”

Eirik raised his eyes slowly, as if contemplating at the cause of all human misery. “Take no thought for me, Father,” he intoned solemnly. “The weight I bear is mine alone.”

“Is there nothing we can do for you, my son?” asked Lady Ragna.

“I fear not,” he said with a heavy sigh. “The vision was given to me, and it sickens inside me ere I discern its meaning. This I will do, though I fear the effort will drive me to madness.”

He rose from the bench and made to depart. “I am sorry. I should not have come to table tonight. I have spoiled a good meal, and beg your forgiveness, my lord.” He made a bow toward mother. “My lady. I wish you a good night.”

A glance passed between the lady and lord. Ragna urged her husband with her eyes. “Wait,” said Murdo, calling Eirik back. “There may be a remedy for your ills. Come back and sit down. Eat something. I will summon the abbot and we will talk when you are feeling better.”

“My lord,” said Eirik resuming his place once more, “dare I hope that you know something to help put my mind at rest?”

“Perhaps,” allowed Murdo. “Perhaps. But this is not the place to discuss it. Eat something, son, recover your appetite if you can, and the abbot will be here shortly.”

Murdo dispatched one of the serving-boys to fetch the abbot, and the meal continued in a more convivial spirit than before. Eirik, I noticed, recovered his appetite wonderfully well. By the time Abbot Emlyn arrived, my brother was well into his third barley loaf and second bowl of stew.

The ample abbot settled at the board, declining an offering of meat, but accepting a bowl of brown ale. The other guests, eager to learn the outcome of the curious affair, fell silent and all eyes turned toward the head of the table.

“Good abb,” began Murdo, somewhat uncomfortably, “it seems our bishop has been suffering for the sake of his extraordinary vision.”

“Indeed?” replied Emlyn, turning sympathetic eyes on the young churchman. “I would that you had come to me, my friend. What is the matter?”