Part 16 (1/2)
”Then you are not opposed to the idea of fighting?” Arnault asked.
”Not if the cause is just,” said Brother Fionn. ”In slaughtering the people of Berwick, Edward has proved himself a tyrant without conscience. To allow an evil man to continue to do evil at the cost of innocent blood is a thing which cannot be allowed.”
”Indeed,” Ciaran put in. ”As our Lord's servants on earth, we must be ready to defend the lives of others as faithfully as we must be willing to sacrifice our own.”
The mention of sacrifice reminded Arnault once again of the mysterious Uncrowned King of the prophecy, and it seemed to him increasingly likely that, in the end, this capacity for self-sacrifice might well be the measure between victory and defeat.
Their little party made good speed the next day, coming into sight of Iona under the rose-gold skies of dusk. The half-mile ribbon of water that separated Columba's isle from the Isle of Mull was calm as a lake, softly reflecting the low, gray cl.u.s.ter of monastic buildings nestled against the island's gentle hills.
When Brother Fionn went down to the waterside and shouted, his voice seemed to reverberate like the peal of a bell across the distance. Very shortly, a flat-bottomed boat could be seen putting out from the opposite sh.o.r.e, trailing a V of ripples, two white-robed figures at its oars.
In the time it took to unload the ponies and turn them loose to graze, the little boat had made the crossing. Leaving Brothers Fionn and Ciaran to stack the newly cut peat turfs under a lean-to for drying, Ninian and his strong-backed Templar companions made short work of loading several panniers of previously dried peat into the boat for the first trip back. When the three of them had also climbed aboard, Ninian and Torquil taking the oars as they started back across, Arnault was struck by the feeling that they were leaving the material world behind, in favor of a place where time held no sway. The impression was only illusory, he knew; yet there was something strangely durable about the simple cl.u.s.ter of buildings growing larger against the sh.o.r.eline, as if the stones themselves had been endowed with some measure of the spirit of the community's founder.
The little ferry grounded smoothly on pebbly s.h.i.+ngle, to be taken in hand by a pair of fresh-faced novices, neither of them above twenty. As the three pa.s.sengers splashed ash.o.r.e, carrying their belongings, a further gaggle of novices joined the first two and began offloading the cargo of turf, some of them cheerfully vying for the privilege of taking the ferry back for its second run while others cast curious but friendly glances at the two sword-bearing men in Augustinian habit who had come with Ninian.
Up the slope from the pebbly beach, a waist-high freestone wall encompa.s.sed the monastic buildings, also including a burial ground adjacent to the church, where lay many of the ancient kings of Alba. In the fields beyond the enclosure, sheep and cattle were placidly grazing in the gathering dusk. As Ninian began leading his companions up toward the abbey complex, there came the chiming of a hand bell from before the abbey church, calling the community to evening prayer.
From conversations of the past week, the Templars had gathered that the full Iona community numbered about a score, with twelve fully vowed brothers like Ninian, who made up the seniors of the order, and nearly that many novices in various stages of formation, all under the governance of Abbot Fingon, their superior. Most of them seemed to be congregating before the abbey church as Ninian led his companions toward the sound of the bell. The church beyond was gracefully proportioned, without any of the costly embellishments that Jay had lavished on the chapel at Balantrodoch.
The abbot himself proved to be the ringer of the bell, and handed it off to another smiling, white-robed brother before coming forward to greet them. He was a spare, white-haired figure of a man with a broad, chiseled brow and far-seeing blue eyes. Though his lean frame was slightly stooped with age and years of study, his voice still had the ringing clarity of youth as he and Ninian exchanged an embrace and the monastic kiss of peace.
”Welcome back, my son!” he exclaimed warmly. ”We have been praying every day for your safe return.
Have you been successful in your quest?”
Ninian inclined his head, indicating his black-cloaked companions with the sweep of an arm.
”I have, Father Abbot. Despite their misleading attire, these are knights of Cra-gheal: Frre Arnault de Saint Clair and Frre Torquil Lennox, Knights of the Temple. They have news of grave concern regarding the Stone of Destiny-and questions that need to be answered.”
Abbot Fingon bestowed his greeting on the two Templars, in their turn, keenly surveying their faces as he took their hands in his.
”You are most welcome to this house, my brothers. Clearly, we have much to say to one another. Our first duty, however, is to our Lord. It is the hour of Vespers. If the two of you would be pleased to join us, I promise there will be ample time later for us to speak of our common concerns. Please. Come.”
Turning to enter the church, they pa.s.sed close beside a ringed stone cross, nearly twice the height of a man, and exquisitely carved. The upper portion of the cross bore a scene from the Last Supper, while the longer lower portion depicted Jesus stilling the storm at sea; the arms to either side were decorated with an intricate knotwork design that put Arnault in mind of Irish ma.n.u.scripts he had seen in the library of an abbey in Brittany.
Inside the church, the air smelled not of incense but of delicate floral offerings, underlaid with the scent of beeswax. Garlands of greenery were swagged across the upper reaches of the simple Rood screen that stood before the choir, and the white-draped altar beyond the screen was lit by stubby candles of a pale, creamy gold, which gave off the mingled fragrances of heather and thyme and honey as they burned and gave the church the air of an ancient shrine.
As Arnault and Torquil took places amid the other members of the community, to either side of Ninian, Abbot Fingon moved into the center of the choir. Lifting his hands in an att.i.tude of praise, he all but sang a graceful bidding antiphon in Gaelic that Torquil clearly understood, then s.h.i.+fted into the Latin versicles of the opening litany without missing a beat. The answering harmony of the monks' sung responses was arresting in its beauty.
The office proceeded along lines that were generally familiar to the two Templars, but the Columban brothers tended to revert to the Gaelic for their hymns, and sometimes even the prayers were interwoven with poignant invocations from Celtic tradition, recalling Ninian's prayer that had calmed the wind.
But the transitions from Latin to the Gaelic and back again were virtually seamless, their versatility finally underscored yet again as the monks segued into the ancient and hauntingly beautiful Phos hilarion, praising G.o.d in the setting of the sun and the gracious radiance of the Vesper light, which symbolized G.o.d's abiding presence through the night to come. In the interweaving of these many strands of spiritual tradition, as vivid as the knotwork adorning many a page of precious psalter or Gospel illuminated by the great abbey scriptoria of the Celtic lands, Arnault found himself profoundly moved, the harmonies awakening answering resonances from the depth of his own spirit.
The simple evening meal that followed in the abbey's refectory was eaten in contemplative silence. The prevailing mood was one of tranquillity and abiding joy. After a final grace had been offered, while the boards were being cleared, Abbot Fingon invited his Templar guests to join him in his writing room, signing for Ninian to accompany them as he led them to a small whitewashed chamber on the east side of the cloister court.
Beside a cheery hearth, Fingon listened intently as the two Templars acquainted him with the background of their mission and described their examination of the Stone in meticulous detail. When Arnault produced the Breastplate, the abbot's gaze took on a thoughtfulness that reflected both profound respect and keen discernment.
”A curious and apt juxtaposition,” he said. ”These two gifts of heaven-the Stone and the Breastplate-have always existed for the same purpose: to bring the Light of the Divine within the reach of mortal men. With G.o.d's help, it may well be that we may use that common purpose to aid us in our understanding of His will.”
When Arnault had related the prophecy concerning the Uncrowned King, the abbot gestured for silence and closed his eyes, repeating the words to himself as he committed them to memory. Having done so, he lapsed into a thoughtful reverie, fingering a wooden neck cross he wore on a leather cord.
”The realm has fallen into the hands of an apostate,” he mused. ”Someone close to the throne, it seems-and we must not a.s.sume that it is the king himself-has turned his back on the faith of Columba.”
”Why do you say it could not be John Balliol?” Torquil asked.
”Because, given the diminished state of the Stone of Destiny, it is he who has most suffered, by having failed to receive the divine mandate that should have accompanied his enthronement.”
”An excellent point,” Arnault agreed. ”But if not Balliol, then who?”
”Bear with me,” Fingon replied. ”The possibility we must first consider-based on your vision, Brother Torquil-is whether the extinction of the Canmore dynasty was the opening gambit in a campaign to reinst.i.tute the darker aspects of the old pagan faiths. From the quelling of the Stone of Destiny, we may infer that this campaign has largely succeeded. Balliol himself may be only a tool. But if, on some level, Scotland is now being ruled in accordance with pagan traditions, the repercussions could be very serious, indeed.”
”In what way?” Arnault asked.
Abbot Fingon's visage grew graver still. ”A return to the old ways means a return to all the old ways,” he said grimly. ”In the days of the old religions, before the coming of Columba and his followers, the king was ritually wedded to the land. This was done in several ways, according to the region. In some of the Celtic lands, this marriage was consummated by union with a mare, which then was ritually slaughtered.
But the shedding of blood remained a common thread-and sometimes, even by the time of the Romans, the blood offering was that of the king himself, or that of a suitable, ritually designated subst.i.tute.”
Torquil was nodding as the abbot spoke, obviously aware of the tradition, and Arnault thought he recalled hearing references to similar practices in his native Brittany.
”The coming of Christianity mostly put a stop to this,” Abbot Fingon went on. ”In Scotland, when her kings embraced Christianity, Christ Himself became the sacrificial victim whose blood sustains the land and its people. The Stone of Destiny was given, through Columba, not just as a symbol of this union, but as the material vessel through which such sacramental virtue was carried over from one monarch to the next.”
”In other words,” Arnault said slowly, ”in terms of kings.h.i.+p as well as the redemption of mankind, the divine sacrifice of Christ made all other sacrifices unnecessary.”
Abbot Fingon nodded. ”That is correct-as long as the bond between the earthly monarch and his divine surrogate was maintained through a properly const.i.tuted line of succession. At the death of one monarch, the power reverted to the Stone until the enthronement of his legitimate successor.
”Now, however, it appears that the link between the Stone and the monarchy has been broken, through at least two acts of regicide. So it may be that only another sacrifice, in imitation of Christ, will repair the damage and restore the Stone's life-giving power. This may simply mean a death in battle. I hesitate to make too close a connection here, between ancient practices and what most would find incompatible with our Christian faith, but we are speaking here of a very primal link between king and land.”
”Only blood may pay the ransom price,” Torquil quoted thoughtfully. ”That does seem to point to an oblation of atonement.”
”The blood of the Uncrowned King?” Arnault ventured.
”So it would appear,” Fingon replied.
”But-who is he, and how are we to find him?”
”Therein lies our first difficulty,” Fingon said. ”It would seem that John Balliol has not proven-for whatever reason-a suitable receptacle for the sacred kings.h.i.+p. By extension, I should point out that this makes his son likewise unacceptable.”
”But Balliol was adjudged the most direct in descent from the Canmores,” Arnault pointed out.
”The most senior-yes,” Fingon replied. ”But the law of primogeniture-the precept which says that a king must be succeeded by his eldest son-is a relatively recent innovation in Scotland. In earlier times, when the king was merely the ”~chief of chiefs'-and the chiefs of many clans are still determined in this way-the king was elected from amongst a group of potential candidates of royal or chiefly descent, within a specified degree of kins.h.i.+p with the previous king or chief, known as the derbfine. The selection of John Balliol from among the other contenders reflects this tradition, in part.”
Arnault nodded his understanding as Fingon went on. It had taken Luc and Torquil hours, that winter at Balantrodoch, to explain the concept to him.
”The individual thus elected was known as the tanist,” Fingon said. ”And in pre-Christian times, the tanist often secured his claim to the throne by killing off his political rivals as a sacrifice to the G.o.ds. Nowadays, in general, the tanist is simply the designated heir, who may or may not be the chief's eldest son.
”Taking all these precedents into account, and adding in the apparent importance of your Uncrowned King, it seems to me that if the sovereignty of Scotland is to be restored, this ancient king sacrifice of the tanist-the Uncrowned King-must be reenacted-but it must be done in a Christian way.”