The Well of Shades (4 page)

This is a difficult time for Brother Colm. He is a son of the Uí Néill, the warlike family that wields such influence
in the north of our land. Colm was never warrior or secular leader, but the Uí Néill blood runs true in him and he cannot escape it. No matter that he put aside worldly ambition long ago to serve the Holy Cross
in true humility. I see his breeding in his proud stance, his keen eye, and his commanding voice. I see it also in his impatience with fools, for all his efforts to moderate that.

There is a tale associated with this good priest, a dark tale that explains his urgent quest to quit our home shore. Some say all that drives him is the fire in his belly to spread the faith in the lands of the Priteni.
The tale suggests otherwise.

There was a great battle in the north of our homeland. Cúl Drebene, the place was called. North fought south; that is to say, northern Uí Néill fought southern, for are not all the most warlike chieftains and petty kings in that part of Erin descended from the same stock? The High King himself is one of them. Their common blood does not hold them back from warring
among themselves, and Cúl Drebene was just one blood-soaked example of their territorial struggles.

It was fought on a plain in early autumn. At the time I was far away, over the sea in the kingdom of Circinn. I had not yet encountered this man of God who would so profoundly influence the course of my life. A missionary monk, I was, not an exile but a standard-bearer. The folk of that land were
but newly come to knowledge of God’s word, and my task was to strengthen that knowledge; to nurture the small flame of belief in their hearts. I met two kings in the lands of the Priteni, and one was to the other as a great eagle is to the least of finches, but that is a different tale. I met a king with faith in his gaze and strength in his heart, and that king was no Christian. Bridei of Fortriu
presented a puzzle; an enigma. It exercises me still.

To Colm, then, and the field of Cúl Drebene on a drizzling, clammy autumn morning. The armies were ranged, ready to march forward into combat. No less a man than
the High King led the forces of the south. The northern army was led by Colm’s close kinsmen. No sooner had the leaders called their warriors to advance than a thick mist descended
on the field, so that no man could see beyond the end of his own arm.

Horses whinnied in confusion; men cursed; the chieftains muttered accusations. It was the southerners who had done this, their druids being known for a capacity to call up freakish weather in times of difficulty. No, it was the Christian northerners who had done it, through the power of prayer. Warriors clashed on the field
and did not know if it was the enemy or their own comrades they smote. Their leaders called:
Retreat! Fall back!,
but the curtain of vapor muffled their cries. The battle descended into screaming, bloody chaos.

Fionn of Tirconnell sent a messenger to his cousin Colm, who was then lodged in a house of prayer but a stone’s throw from that field of battle. In response, the holy brethren saw the
devout monk fall to his knees in prayer, remaining thus a goodly while. By the time Fionn’s messenger came back to Cúl Drebene on a panting, foam-flecked horse, the mist had lifted, its blinding blanket shifting in the way best calculated to give the northerners the advantage. They moved, closing in on the flanks and squeezing the southern forces tight. Many men fell. The High King was among the wounded.
War is no respecter of birth or blood.

Now, whether the holy man Colm caused the defeat of the High King of Erin and the rout of his forces, or whether the whole thing was no more than a fortunate coincidence, is not for a lowly cleric to express in words, let alone set down in writing. Suffice to say there were those who believed Colm responsible. In time he was called before a synod, to which
he offered a most fluent and powerful defense. It was not sufficient. The bishops made it clear to him that he was no longer welcome on his home shore. It was not quite excommunication, but it was plain that, if he were to remain in Erin, Colm could
neither preach the word of God nor live his life in the example of Our Lord. The taint of his kinsmen’s disputes and the stain of the blood apparently
shed through his own request for divine intervention must always hang over him. The field of Cúl Drebene would always lie between him and his yearning for a life lived wholly in godliness.

It was during that time of uncertainty that I met the man and found my life transformed. I saw in him a power beyond the earthly, a faith beyond the saintly, a voice and a presence that spoke to the place deepest
in every man’s spirit. I had believed myself devout. He awoke in me a joy in God’s word I had never before dreamed of. My time at the court of Circinn was over, and I expected a long and peaceful stay in my homeland, exercising my wits on scribing and scholarship and avoiding the other activities that had become part and parcel of my existence in such a place of plotters and schemers. I wished
to stay with Colm; to join the small band of brethren who shared his vision for the future.

He had by then formed a profound desire to quit the shores of our homeland and not to look back. From the Dalriadan king, Gabhran, he had obtained a promise of a haven: an island known as Ioua, off the western shores of the Gaelic part of Fortriu, on which he might settle with a small band of brethren
and found a monastic center. It would be a new land: a new beginning, where a life of simplicity and obedience might be lived free from the dark cloak of the past. Before them lay a realm in which the light of Our Lord had barely begun to shine: Fortriu, heartland of the Priteni.

As it fell out, I found myself called away from home once again, this time to serve as translator and spiritual adviser
at King Gabhran’s court. Colm approved the venture, saying it could only benefit our cause for me to have the king’s ear and keep him mindful of his promise. So I traveled to the Gaelic territory of Dalriada, in the west of Priteni lands. No sooner had I arrived than the
tide turned. Fortriu moved on Dalriada. Bridei’s tactics were brilliant; even a man of limited military knowledge, such as I
am, could see his flair. The advance took place far earlier than anyone expected. It was on a grand scale, with a multitude of separate forces converging by land and sea on our countrymen and almost annihilating Gabhran’s army. Nobody had believed Bridei of Fortriu could do it without the support of Circinn, the southern counterpart of his own country; but he did. To me it was less surprising. From
the first I saw something exceptional in Bridei. Whether that quality can be exercised for pursuits other than war is still to be proven, but I believe it can. Whether that passionate faith will ever veer from the ancient gods of the Priteni, those in whose laws Bridei has been steadfastly nurtured from infancy by his mentor, Broichan, remains to be seen. That is a higher mountain to climb.

So, Dalriada is lost to the Gaels, for now at least, though our presence remains; folk do not inhabit a land for three generations to be entirely cast out, not when the conqueror is as just and wise a man as this young king of the Priteni. Gabhran is a prisoner within his own fortress at Dunadd, and his territories now fall under Priteni chieftains, all answerable to King Bridei. But those communities,
those outposts and villages are full of a new folk, bred of both Gaelic and Priteni blood. And, for all Bridei banned the practice of the Christian faith in Dalriada, it still goes on in lonely cave or on windswept island, in smithy or barn or on the deck of a small boat plying the choppy waters of the west in search of codfish. As they spin and weave, women sing of Mary, Mother of God. The Lord’s
flame flickers; the coming of this man we call Colmcille will fan it to a great blaze.

We have not yet sailed. Gabhran promised a sanctuary, but it is no longer his to give. Bridei told me once that I am everywhere. Not possible, of course; but the skills God has granted me have certainly led to extensive travel. I was there when Bridei became king of Fortriu. I
was present when Gabhran ceded
the kingship of Dalriada and Bridei pronounced sentence of banishment, a sentence commuted to a period of incarceration in recognition of the Dalriadan king’s poor health. On that field of war, with the Gaelic dead lying in their blood, I spoke of Colm and of his mission. I spoke of the place called Ioua, Yew Tree Isle, and of the making of a promise. Bridei heard me and understood. I believe his
messenger will seek us out.

We wait, meanwhile; winter is coming, but in spring God will send us a fair wind and a fortunate tide. Colm will not give up the promise of a haven in that realm, even though the one who gave it no longer has the power to grant us our island. We will sail for the Priteni shores regardless of that; if need be, Colm will petition Bridei to grant us the land. In doing
so he will be swimming against a mighty current, for the taking of Dalriada has shown Bridei of Fortriu to be a leader of immense power, and I know he is devout in his adherence to the old faith of his people. I believe the meeting of these two men will be extraordinary.

S
UIBNE, MONK OF
D
ERRY

A
T
W
HITE
H
ILL
, it was raining. The days had grown short, dusk settling early
over the high walls and orderly stone buildings of King Bridei’s hilltop fortress. The gardens were drenched. Water gurgled busily into drains and, below the walls, the stream coursed brimful down the pine-clad slopes of the hill.

Derelei had spent the afternoon with Broichan, making boats from twigs and leaves and sailing them on the pond. Observing from a distance, Tuala had noted the capacity
of each of them, infant and druid, to maintain a dry area around himself no matter how heavy the downpour. She’d seen also how the small craft moved, pursuing-one
another, making a steady course without need of wind or oar, in a game of maneuvering that owed far more to the art of magic than to luck or physical skill. She hoped Broichan would remember how young her son was and that, for all his
exceptional talents, Derelei tired easily. As for the druid himself, his health was much improved since his sojourn among the healers of Banmerren, but Tuala knew he was not infallible. He, too, needed to husband his strength.

Derelei was indoors now, eating his supper in company with his nursemaid. Today his small vocabulary had been augmented by a new word,
boat.

It was time, Tuala had decided,
to broach a particularly delicate subject with the king’s druid. She had avoided it up till now, lacking the courage to confront the man she had feared since childhood, when he had bent all his considerable will on ensuring she and his foster son did not form too strong a bond. As a child of the Good Folk, Tuala was an unlikely wife for a king of Fortriu. If Broichan had had his way, Bridei
would have wed a far more suitable girl, someone like Ana of the Light Isles, for instance. Tuala and Bridei, between them, had won that battle and in time Broichan had become almost a friend to her. He had saved Derelei’s life when fever nearly took him. Tuala had helped Broichan battle his own long illness. She had agreed to let him tutor her gifted son. Now, with a second child expected and Bridei
away seeing to a matter at Abertornie, it was time to confront Broichan with an event in his past. She did not expect him to welcome it.

For a long time Tuala had struggled with the mystery of her identity in silence. She might never have acted on what little she had discovered if she had not observed her son’s talent developing in all its confident precocity. She had seen Broichan watching Derelei;
seen the watchful love in the druid’s eyes. If what she believed was true, the two of them should know it, Broichan now,
her son when he grew older. There were some painful truths, Tuala thought, whose importance was such that they must be exposed to the light.

She willed herself calm as she made her way to the druid’s private chamber. Even now her heart thumped and her palms grew clammy at the
prospect of raising such a matter with her old adversary. What if she was wrong? This was conjecture, after all, based on her own interpretation of a vision in the scrying bowl. One of her very first lessons at Banmerren, the school for wise women, had been how deceptive such images could be and how easily misinterpreted. The gods used them to tease and to test, and the seer walked a narrow path
between giving good counsel or ill.

Tuala used her skill rarely; there were those who would seize any opportunity to point out the strangeness of her origins, seeking thus to weaken the foundations of her husband’s kingship. For a while she had not used her craft at all. She had come to it again after a vision of hers helped save Bridei’s life at the time of the great battle for Dalriada. She
had known then that the risk was worth it. Today she planned to scry again.

She knocked. Broichan opened the door, showing no sign of surprise when he saw who it was.

“I need to speak to you in private,” Tuala said. “If you will.”