

Culann

Celtic Warrior-Monk

Saga of the 7th Century

By

Duncan MacDonald

13 December 2012

Revised 12 September 2018

Dedicated to my darling wife Shinta D.S. MacDonald  
muse, mate and motivator

Copyright 2012-2018 Duncan MacDonald

Published by Duncan MacDonald at Smashwords

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Exciting illustrated historical novel set in 7th century Ireland and Northern Britain. Lifestyle, love and loss of larger than life characters who lived in these troubled times. We follow the adventures of a gallant Irish warrior, an intrepid Irish Princess and a daring young Pict. Their predicaments, as well as the plight of many others were influenced by plagues and battles as a backdrop to looming events that took place prior to and after the Synod of Whitby in 664.

Table of Contents

Celtic Monasteries in 7th Century

List of Characters

Place Names

Prayers

Illustrations

Dates CE/AD

Prologue

Chapter 1 - In the Beginning 645 CE

1.1 The Fianna

1.2 The Cattle Raid

1.3 Manhood

Chapter 2 - Wicklow hills

2.1 St Brigid's

Chapter 3 - You May Call Me Fea

3.1 The Wedding March

3.2 The Long Road Back

3.3 King Sigmall's Response

3.4 Retribution

3.5 A Humiliating End

Chapter 4 - Fateful Meeting

4.1 Hot Heads and Hard Questions

4.2 The Road North

4.3 The Enchanted Isle

4.4 Ardslignish

Chapter 5 - Fergus

5.1 The Gaining of Wisdom

Chapter 6 - Celtic Church versus Rome

6.1 The Novice Nun

6.2 Physicians and Medicine

6.3 The Plague

6.4 Aftermath

6.5 Jura

6.6 Visiting Curach's

Chapter 7 - To Lindisfarne

7.1 On to Whitby

7.2 Lios mór

Chapter 8 - Synod of Whitby

8.1 Return to Lindisfarne

8.2 Abbot Colmán's Decision

8.3 Two Selfish Men

Chapter 9 - St Abbs

9.1 North Ber-wic

9.2 Abernethy

9.3 To Dumbarton

9.4 Lug's Lookout

9.5 Loch Earn

9.6 Veridis Insula

Chapter 10 - Culann

10.1 Lios mór Infirmary

10.2 Saving Lives

10.3 A Proper Job

About the Author

End Notes

Other books by Duncan MacDonald

Bibliography

* * * * *

Celtic Monasteries in 7th Century

### List of Characters

AEbbe <#> Abbess of Kirk Hill (St Abbs), sister of King Oswy [615 - 683]

**Alhfrith <#>** \- Son of King Oswy

Art \- cattle herder - Irish hero means 'bear'

Bec \- Monk at St Ninian's

Breuse - Leader of Fianna, raised Culann

Bryan - Monk at Iona

Ciniod of Fortriu - Pict Chieftain - Fergus father

**Colmán <#>** \- Abbot of Lindisfarne [605 - 676]

Culann - Fianna and warrior monk

**Cumméne <#>** \- Abbot of Iona [d 669]

Daire - Monk at Iona – scribe

Danan of Alba - Chieftain of Pict Alba - brother of Sirona - River Tay

Decca - Head sister of Jura

Eamon - Monk at Iona – scribe

**Eanflaed <#>** princess from Kent, married King Oswy [b 626 - d after 685]

Ecne \- Abbot of Jura - means poetry, wisdom, inspiration

Eogan mac Cairill - Irish King and enemy of Sigmall

Fea \- Daughter of King Sigmall

Fergus mac Ciniod - Pict of Fortriu - Firth of Moray

Flann - Fianna accompanied Culann to Derry - means 'red blood'

Gille Dhu - Pict Chieftain, Lasair's uncle

Galen of Pergamon <#> Greek physician [129 - 199/217 (disputed)]

Giona - Irish King, potential father-in-law of Fea

Harbondia - Abbess of St Brigid's of Kildare

**Hilda <#>** \- Abbess of Whitby [614 - 680]

Hesus - Monk at Jura, left-handed, speaks Greek

Father Jowan - Abbot at Lios mór

Kerhanagh - unprincipled Irish Chieftain

Lasair - Pict heroine - means 'flame'

Lien \- Fianna warrior

Medros - cattle herder - obscure Celtic god associated with cattle

Sister Mish - Nun at St Brigid's who mentored young Fea

Morann - Monk at Iona, later Abbot of Ardslignish

Mullo - Head monk at St Brigit's scriptorium

Odras - Childhood friend of Fea

Osgar - Leader of Fianna after Breuse

**Oswald <#>** \- King of Northumbria [d 641

**Oswy or Oswiu <#>** \- King of Northumbria [612- 670]

Pamp \- Irish bard, also known as;

Pampinus Pronuntio - Bard at Sigmall's court - see Pamp above

Ruad \- Abbot of Abernethy

Sigmall - Irish King - Fea's father

Sirona - Fergus mother, sister of Danan of Alba

Slane - Blind monk in charge of scriptorium at Jura

Sutugius - Gaullist monk at St Brigid's

Tamara - Sister at St Brigid's, young milk maid - means 'river nymph'

Una \- Sister at St Brigid's. Treated Fea on arrival at St Brigid's

Vosegus - Pict guide from Danan's tribe

**Wilfred of Rippon <#>** -Monk from Lindisfarne, spokesman for Church of Rome [633-709]

<#> Actual historical figure

* * * *

Place Names

**Dál Riata** \- South West Scotland conquered by Scotti from Ireland

**Éire** \- Ireland

**Lios mór** \- Lios mór, means "great garden", now called Lismore

**Veridis Insula** \- Green Island, as named by the Picts

Prayers

**Vigils** – during the early hours, around 4 a.m. while it is still dark;

**Lauds** – morning prayer, at daybreak;

**Terce** – mid-morning prayer, around 9 am;

**Sext** -midday prayer, around noon;

**None** – mid-afternoon prayer, around 3 pm;

**Vespers** – evening prayer, ideally at sunset;

**Compline** \- night prayer, which completes the day.

Illustrations

Designed to show how 7th century inhabitants of Ireland and northern Britain dressed, and the type of buildings in which they lived. There were no great stone castles or cathedrals.

All illustrations by Duncan MacDonald ( **dMAC** ) unless otherwise stated.

Dates – AD/BC or CE/BCE

Common Era or Current Era (CE) is one of the notation systems for the world's most widely used calendar era – an alternative to the Dionysian AD or BC system. The Era preceding CE is known as Before the Common Era (BCE), while the Dionysian era lists those eras as AD (anno domini) "the year of the Lord" and BC "before Christ".

The two systems are numerically equivalent, '2018 CE' corresponds to 'AD 2018' and  
'300 BCE' corresponds to '300 BC'. Both notations refer to the Gregorian calendar _(and its predecessor, the Julian calendar - compiled by Julius Caesar)_. In 2002, England and Wales introduced the BCE/CE notation system into the official school curriculum, while Australia in 2011 advised school textbooks would replace BC/AD notation with BCE/CE notation.

This book uses BCE/CE.

* * * *

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Prologue

**Hadrian's Wall** was built in 122 CE to mark the Northern border of the Provence of Britannia. It is the longest Roman monument in the world - 117 km (73.5 miles) long.A common misconception is that Hadrian's wall marks the boundary between England and Scotland. This is not the case; Hadrian's wall lies entirely within England.

**This image shows the remnants of the Wall**. Over the years possibly 90% of the brick shaped stones have been removed. Originally it measured 9.7 ft (3 metres) wide and 16-20 ft ( 5-6 metres) high.

Our saga begins in Ireland and Britain in the 7th century CE.

**Britain:** The Roman legions which had occupied much of Britain for almost 400 years, but not the northern part, which was inhabited by the Caledonians or Picts, withdrew in 409 CE. The great Roman Empire began to disintegrate.

Once the Roman army left, raids into Britain by the Picts and the Irish increased. To protect themselves the Romanised Britains requested assistance from the Germanic tribes of Angles, Saxons and Jutes.

**Ireland:** To the west of Britain lay Ireland. Of all the foreigners who settled in Ireland, none left a cultural legacy to rival the Celts. They were brave, intelligent, resourceful and proud. They established a language and way of life that persists today.

The Celts arrive in Ireland very gradually from around 500 BCE. They came from the Iberian Peninsula and the original Bronze age inhabitants were either eliminated or assimilated. Many people in Ireland had been converted to Christianity by Saint Patrick, _(the first person in recorded history to speak out against slavery)_ who died in his seventies, probably in 461 CE.

The Christian monasteries that sprang up in Ireland became centers of learning. It is to the monks inhabiting those monastic scriptoriums [Scriptoriums: from Latin scriptus, 'to write'] who copied thousands of texts, we owe much of our knowledge of the ancient Greek, Roman and Middle Eastern world.

During the 5th to the 6th centuries the Celtic Church in Ireland had limited contact with the Roman Church in Europe. It was either not aware, or chose to ignore, major changes in Christian doctrine put into effect by Rome.

_For example;_ calculating the date of celebrating Easter was changed twice by Rome. But the Celtic Church still celebrated that most significant event in the Christian calendar as stipulated by _Saint Stephen_ and their own _Saint Columba_ of Iona.

In the 4th century a powerful Irish tribe called the Scotti [ Scotti is Latin for Scots. The country Scotland is named after them although they originated in Ireland ] from the north of Ireland, invaded what is now the west coast of Scotland. The kingdom was known as Dál Riata. [ Dál is old Irish for 'a piece of ' (as in a piece of land) while Riata is likely to be a personal name ] They continually fought the Caledonians or Picts, unsuccessfully, up until the 9th century. The Picts after losing their King fighting the Vikings, were finally defeated in 840 CE by the King of Dal Riata, _Kenneth mac Alpin_ , who was married to a Pictish princess.

**Celtic Ireland in the 7** th **century** comprised many kingdoms, large and small. There were no cities or towns, only small villages, hamlets and isolated farms. It would be left to the Vikings to establish early townships on Ireland's east coast. One of the first being located on the river Linn called Dublin in 795 CE.

These seventh century Irish kingdoms were agrarian [ Agrarian: from Latin agar meaning field. In Ireland crops were mainly cereals, emmer wheat & barley ] or farming communities, growing crops, tending sheep, cattle and pigs. The measure of wealth was cattle. Sheep were grown for their wool and perhaps their milk, not to eat. [ evidenced by the old age at which they were butchered ]

The Celts had a warrior culture and all those small farmers possessed weapons to protect their farm and livestock from the endless endemic raiding. Most also had an allegiance to their local Chieftain or King, who could call on their support if a large raid was planned against their neighbours.

The local king or chieftain retained a select group of warriors, their numbers in direct relation to the wealth of the King. In times of need he could also call on the services of the _Fianna_ , provided they were not aligned to his adversary.

On a social scale the warrior nobility was equal to the bards, druids and craftsmen _(the smiths)_. By this time the druids' previous supremacy was surpassed by Christian monks.

Although it was a male dominated society, Celtic women, played a more prominent role than _their sisters in Rome or Greece_ _\- particularly in the Celtic Church_ _._

Life expectancy was short. Males died in their twenties, thirties and early forties. Females died in late teens or early twenties, due mainly to the perils of pregnancy and childbirth.

Ireland in the 7th century had a population of between 500,000 and one million people. That number fluctuated according to the effects of plague and famine.

How then did one of Europe's most savage warrior-people create a new kingdom using spiritual methods?

Pugnacious, boastful Irishmen, in their own green land and on a strange coast _(Britain)_ , armed with nothing but cross in hand? But such an image would be, to say the least, hasty.

Irish monks were not necessarily gentle friars. **They too could fight when need arose**.

* * * *

The Venerable **Bede**

Much of our knowledge relating to this period comes from the writings of the monk Bede (673- _735). At the age of seven, Bede was offered by his family to the monastery of Wearmouth,_ [1] _Northumbria. He spent the rest of his life as a monk, first at Wearmouth then later at Jarrow, five miles away._

Using the monastery library, Bede became; _'the most learned man in Western Europe'_.[2] Scholar, teacher and prolific writer of biblical and other works including _The Ecclesiastical History of the English People_. He has been described as the 'Father of English History'.[3]

[1] **Wearmouth** : modern Monkwearmouth in county Durham

[2] as quoted by **Dom David Knowles** (1896–1974)

[3] **The Age of Bede** , translated by J.F. Webb, Penguin Books, London, 1965

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* * * * *

Chapter 1 - In the Beginning 645 CE

Culann with his father - The Smith

Culann had no memory of his mother. His father told him when asked, that his mother died giving birth to his sister.

"Where is my sister?" asked five-year-old Culann. His father looked up from the red-hot slab of iron that he was fashioning into a sword.

"You ask too many questions Boy. Your sister died with your mother." He lowered his blonde bearded head and continued hammering the glowing point of the hot iron.

Culann knew his father well enough not to ask any more questions, just now. His father was a _Metal-smith_ , shortened to _Smith_ , a special craftsman who worked with a forge designed to allow compressed air _(through a bellows)_ to superheat the inside, making possible the melting of metals. The forge is also known as a _smithy_. While a _Blacksmith_ worked with iron and steel, a _Metal-smith_ referred to craftsmen who practice their craft in different metals including gold, copper and silver, plus enamelling, to make jewellery.

Culann's father naturally was called 'Smith'. He had a fine reputation in Eire (Ireland) also working with iron, making swords, axes and spears as well as fine jewellery. Smiths were highly regarded in the Celtic community.

No doubt Culann would have grown up to become a Smith, but fate intervened to drastically change the course of his life. Culann had clear memories of his father; a large man with a fantastic blonde beard and big white teeth - noticeable when he laughed. The Smith had made his son a tiny child's sword; his most prized possession along with his toy wooden horse.

Culann's father always called him "Boy". If he had another name he was not aware of it.

The Smith did not stay in any one location long. He moved from one king's great hall to another. The more important the local chief or King, the more he was likely to spend on gifts such as swords and jewellery. The more gifts and feasts, the more warriors wished to join his entourage. The more warriors, the more important the King, and so on.

**In the year 645** CE the Smith moved to the court of the King of Meath, located in the land of the Southern Uí Néills in central Ireland.

Unfortunately, it was a very wet year with much flooding. Crops yields were down and many people had nothing spare to barter except for basic goods. There was not much demand for his high-quality swords and fine jewellery.

A courier came to the Smith one day with a request. An outlying Chieftain called Kerhanagh, had just returned from a successful raid, with much plunder. The Smith was asked to come with his stock of swords and jewellery. He was promised the Chieftain wanted to buy the Smith's entire collection.

In great anticipation the Smith, with his son, set out on horse and cart laden with his wares. They passed through the great forest of Meath, and stopped overnight. Their selected campsite was run by one of the leaders of the Fianna, a famous warrior named Breuse. The Fianna, a very effective fighting force standing on the outskirts of society were well regarded. Admission was based on skill and strength, rather than noble-blood or wealth.

The previous summer the Smith had sold several swords to Breuse. The Fianna leader was very pleased to see the Smith again, and particularly his young son, of whom he had taken a great liking.

"He is the liveliest young lad I have ever seen," said Breuse. "If I ever have a son. I would like him to be just like your young boy. But he is better off with you, Master Smith. We live a rough life here in the forest." The Smith had agreed.

Next day the Smith pushed on to his appointment with Chieftain Kerhanagh. They met in Kerhanagh's Great Hall, which was not all that great. It was gloomy inside, still reeking of stale food and vomit from previous bouts of feasting.

Culann remembered his father gathering an armful of swords, and entering the hall. He instructed Culann to stay in the wagon.

"I need you to guard this cart Boy," he said with a mock severity. Young Culann took his task seriously. The five-year-old stood on the driver's seat, toy sword in hand, ready to cut down any criminal.

His father seemed to be gone a long time, but time is difficult for a small boy to measure. At some stage he was aware of raised voices coming from the hall. He held his sword tighter and waited anxiously.

Suddenly his father was dragged through the entrance of the great hall, and thrown heavily to the ground. He was immediately surrounded by a dozen warriors who spilled out of the hall, all wielding swords or spears. Their Chieftain, Kerhanagh, even bigger than Culann's father, strode out. Bending down he grabbed the Smith by his blonde beard, hauling him roughly to his feet. Holding a sword at his father's throat, Kerhanagh yelled words Culann would never forget.

"If I want your second-rate swords as a gift, Smith, you'll give them to me. Or I'll have your head decorate my doorway."

For an awful moment nothing happened. Then the Smith turned his head, looked straight at Culann and, silently mouthed the word _go!_ He simultaneously flicked the flank of the horse harnessed to the cart with a small knife that magically appeared in his hand.

The horse reared in fright, knocking Culann backward into the cart, stunning him, and galloped out of the camp. Instruments and equipment went flying as it bounced over the rutted track leading back the way they had come. Culann sat up shaking his head and holding on for dear life. He looked back at the developing drama.

The Smith turned and deliberately spat in Kerhanagh's face. The Chieftain, shaking with rage, his red face splattered with spittle, still holding the Smith by his beard, spitefully sliced Culann's father's throat. Blood spurted in great gusts over both men.

The five-year-old, shocked at what he had witnessed, could only hang on to the side of the cart until the horse, winded at last, slowed to a trot, then a walk and finally stopped and began grazing, deep in the forest.

Night came.

* * * *

Culann was holding his toy sword with both hands to ward off the  
Goblins & Demons that prey on young boys in the night forest

Breuse through his contacts in Kerhanagh's camp, heard about the Smith's death that very afternoon. He immediately sent his followers out to search for the cart carrying Culann. They found it well after midnight. The small boy was still standing, wide eyed with fright. His toy sword held high to ward off all the goblins and demons that prey on young boys in the night forest.

Just before daybreak Culann was brought to Breuse. Wrapping his huge arms around the lad in a big bear hug the Fianna Chieftain spoke with his deep soft voice to calm the boy who was still shivering in shock.

"There, there, lad, I won't let anyone hurt you. You are safe with me." Culann clung to the big man as Breuse gently stroked his head for some time. Breuse then held him at arm's length and looked him straight in the eye.

"Well now, we have to give you a name. What did your father call you?"

"B . . B . . Boy".

"Hmmm . . ," mused Breuse half smiling, "we'll have to do better than that." He paused for a few moments thinking hard.

"I know. Your father once told me you were born near that huge circle of mountains in Northern Ireland called the Ring of Gullion. We'll name you after the famous Fairy King and Irish hero who lived there \- _Culann_. We'll call you Culann."

"What then should I call you Sir?" asked Culann.

"Why, you should call me Breuse, just like everybody else," smiled Breuse.

The rock-hard Fianna leader then carried the young boy to a stream nearby. He knelt on the bank and with one hand scooped water and splashed it on Culann's head.

"You are hereby known as Culann, a great warrior and defender of the downtrodden."

The Celts regarded fresh water as sacred and its use in naming rights stretched back into the dim past. The other warriors, who had all gathered around, smiled and applauded.

So it came to pass that Breuse, a rough, uneducated Fianna, but a fine leader of men, raised the son of the slain Smith, as his own.

There were no women in the Fianna camps.

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* * * * *

1.1 The Fianna

Breuse watched his ward Culann with a father's pride.

Culann could hold his own against Fianna twice his age.

The Fianna was seen as a means of social advancement for youths wishing to improve their potential fighting expertise. Their raw talent was shaped to produce skilful warriors through an exhausting training program lasting years. Only the best succeeded. The Fianna comprised mainly young men who were not in service to any of the great lords.

It included some bandits who thought it better to belong to a larger group than try to survive on their own; also some sons of nobles, sent to hone their fighting skills. Membership was subject to rigorous tests, and many failed. Those who gained admittance to this effective fighting force, were in demand from Kings, Warlords and Chieftains, who hired their collective services from time to time. Payment was usually by apportionment of plunder, so there was great incentive to win battles.

Culann entered the Fianna world at the age of five. Most other novice males were at least in their early to late teens. By the time he was seven summers old, whether because of the prolonged vigorous exercise or the plentiful food, particularly meat, Culann began growing. By the time he was twelve summers old, he was as tall or taller than those lads five or eight years older. As such, he was treated as an equal by those young men. This meant he mentally reached manhood much earlier. The disadvantage however was his childhood, so crucial in developing into a well-balanced adult, was limited or non-existent.

Culann had to try much harder just to keep up with his peers. Many nights he lay on his sleeping skin, body aching, silently wiping tears in the dark, vowing not to let those older boys outdo him again.

Breuse closely watched his young adopted son. Initially with concern as the boy was pitted day after day against much older youths, deliberately not interfering. He judged young Culann would attain the skills a man needed in this dangerous world, more quickly if he solved life's problems himself, rather than rely on the protection of a full grown father figure. Of course Breuse never doubted for one moment that Culann would eventually succeed.

Culann continued to ask many questions as he grew up. He noticed one big difference between his father and Breuse. Well two actually. First, his father had rarely physically touched him, except to muss his hair occasionally, or more often, slap his bottom if he misbehaved. Breuse however delighted in wrapping his large hairy arms around the boy and giving him a big hug, particularly when he noticed Culann was upset or sad.

Secondly, Breuse delighted in answering Culann's many questions. Sometimes when he didn't know the answer, Breuse always said he would find out. And he did. What Culann didn't know was, Breuse tried to encourage his young ward to develop an enquiring mind.

By the summer of his twelfth year it was becoming obvious to all who saw him, that Culann had developed superior skills with the sword. Whether he inherited his fast eye-hand co-ordination from his father, or the fact he spent day after day in real life contests with weapons against much older boys, couldn't be answered.

The fact remained he could more than hold his own against Fianna twice his age. Of course it did no harm that Breuse, watching his young ward with a father's pride, afterwards would give him private lessons. Particularly on how Culann could more easily disable an opponent or correct some technical skill.

But the mantra Breuse would repeat over and over were his four rules of engagement;

( i ) Don't fight unless you absolutely have to;  
( ii ) Where possible, you pick the time and place;  
( iii ) Most important, always attack from the high ground;  
( iv ) Don't stand and fight against an opponent longer than a few strokes, and certainly not against more  
than one opponent. It's better to retire, and live to fight another day.

"Run away?" asked Culann, wide eyed.

"No, retire. Perhaps a better description would be _'strategic withdrawal'_ ," said Breuse.

"But if I make a 'strategic withdrawal'," said Culann, "the bards won't sing songs about me when I'm dead."

"Listen lad, the bards won't sing songs about you if you stay and get yourself killed. They'll be busy singing songs about the warrior who defeated you," advised Breuse wisely.

* * * *

Breuse was the successful leader of a small group of warriors. He was successful because his basic ideology was to protect the lives of the men who looked to him as their leader. This was the direct opposite to the male Celtic outlook, which valued valour and glory above life itself.

Culann while thriving in his new environment with the Fianna, still had problems. Night time would bring nightmares about his father's death. Culann developed a deep seated feeling of guilt, because he did nothing to help his father in his final few moments. At times the gruff Breuse, and some of his warriors, would be awakened by Culann thrashing about. He was reliving those moments during dreadful dreams. The warriors and youths all slept together in cow hide tents or rough huts.

Breuse would try to comfort his young ward, explaining it was unrealistic to expect a small boy of five years to defend his father in those circumstances.

"There is plenty of time to avenge your father."

The second problem was night itself. Culann was fearful of the night. This was something Breuse could address. On nights when there was no moon or the sky was overcast and no light came from the stars, Breuse would take Culann outside and they would walk together through the dark forest. They would take their weapons in case they met some stray demons. But the demons were clever and stayed out of their way.

Eventually wise Breuse suggested to Culann, that because the cold effected his old bones, Culann might wish to try finding the demons by himself. So Culann on the next dark night ventured out alone. Breuse sat up all night, in a state because Culann did not return until dawn. He came back smiling broadly. He had conquered his demons of the night and thereafter ventured out by himself every moonless night.

Although Breuse was illiterate, as were almost all the Irish Celts at that time _(with Celtic Monks the exception)_ , he was a shrewd judge of men - and boys. He was aware of the burning hatred young Culann had for the man who had murdered his father.

That could be a problem. For no matter how adventurous and brave the young lad was, as he grew up, sooner or later, he would try to avenge his father's death.

No doubt he would try before he was skilled enough to succeed. And he would die. And that would break Breuse's heart.

So Breuse, according to his own code of honour, on the third anniversary of the Smith's death [Celts had a thing about the number three. It was regarded as especially good ], waited until the unprincipled Kerhanagh had gathered a large number of warriors and was hosting a grand feast in his great hall. Breuse, with ten Fianna, marched into the meeting hall. His warriors fanned out inside the entrance.

Breuse strode to the top table where Kerhanagh was drunkenly pounding the table in time with the bard singing next to him. The room fell silent, save for the table pounding Kerhanagh. Eventually even he stopped when he focused on Breuse standing before him, sword in hand.

Breuse declared in his deep loud voice, that Kerhanagh had killed an unarmed Smith, just so he could steal the man's wares, and he, Breuse, on behalf of that slain Smith, challenged him to a duel - _to the death_.

Kerhanagh looked on in amazement. That a single man would enter his hall, insult him, and then challenge him, was unbelievable. He was surrounded by his warriors. He stood, pushed the table over, mead, meat and all, and bellowed for his followers to kill this upstart.

But the Celtic code of honour was upheld by most, if not all those present. Kerhanagh had been challenged, personally. He would have to respond, personally. The warriors all stood, but none reached for their weapons.

Kerhanagh noticing this, backed away. A great gasp went up within the hall. Their Chieftain was retreating.

Kerhanagh realizing his mistake, drew his sword and cursing loudly launched a frenzied attack at Breuse. The Fianna chieftain deftly stepped aside, driving his weapon into Kerhanagh's ribs as he plunged past. Kerhanagh staggered, dropped his sword, looked in disbelief at his wound, then collapsed, arms and legs spread-eagled. Blood quickly stained the straw covered floor.

Breuse stood over the fallen man, and while the body was still quivering in its death throes, grabbed the head. He hacked it off and held it high. No one moved.

He then walked calmly out of the hall, holding the head. The Fianna warriors fell in behind him.

Next morning, a new head was displayed on a pole at the Fianna camp in the forest. Culann walked past it, stopped for a moment, spat on it, then walked away. The episode was never mentioned again.

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* * * * *

1.2 The Cattle Raid

Medros called to his companion Art, who was sleeping in the sun as usual.  
The Fianna raiding party appeared out of the tree line.

It was time for the Fianna to obtain more cattle. They did not look to acquire cattle as a form of wealth, as did the local kings. It was more practical. They couldn't keep large herds of any animals in the forest - but they needed the food. So they did what all tribes did - they raided a neighbouring tribe - one they did not have a current affiliation with. This was also a good way to 'blood' the more youthful Fianna.

The trick was to acquire the cattle without killing anyone, if possible. That way there was less chance of reprisals or revenge killings.

After discussing the potential target with the other senior warriors, Breuse told Culann they would be raiding a tribe two-days march to the west, the Slieve. Culann, who was now in his twelfth summer, would be allowed to come, but only as a lookout, armed with a horn to sound warnings and a wooden staff. He would not be allowed to be part of the attack.

Culann said nothing but Breuse could see he was thinking hard.

"Don't try to do anything foolish Culann. You are going because I told the senior warriors you could be trusted. Don't let me down," warned Breuse. Culann nodded but still said nothing.

Breuse preferred taking only a small raiding force. Eight warriors plus Breuse and Culann, each carrying rations for five days, moved out through the forest at daybreak.

* * * *

The morning sun highlighted the shortening shadows cast by the cows as they all faced uphill grazing. Medros was sitting with his back to one of rocks just below the tree line. He shaded his eyes as he watched two old hunchbacked peasants approaching from the valley floor. He reached for his spear, but then relaxed as they turned toward him waving and hobbling closer. He didn't recognize them at that distance but perhaps they were from the new clan he had been told would join them for the _Beltane_ celebrations. [Beltane meaning 'good fire' was celebrated on 1st May. It was connected with the sun's warmth and fertility of crops and cattle]

He called to his companion Art, who was sleeping as usual. Art lay on a large rock about twenty paces away. The lazy fellow simply snorted and rolled over. Medros shrugged in exasperation and gathering his spear and pack, stood up and walked over to Art. He looked up at the sun to gauge the time. The hunting party for Beltane should be returning shortly. They will want to take some of the cows with them for the feast.

He glanced again at the two figures who were now closer. They were coming from the direction of the village further down the valley so couldn't be part of the hunting party.

As Medros reached over to shake Art awake, the two peasants suddenly threw off their cloaks, stood up to their full height and started running, swords in hand, toward Medros and Art. Within a heartbeat another seven warriors suddenly materialized out of the tree line just behind him.

Their leader in a deep voice said softly,

"Leave your weapons lad. Don't do anything silly. We just want some of your cattle."

By the time Medros had realized what was happening the deep voiced leader had taken his spear and was holding a sword at the throat of Art who was still shaking his head. The two peasant-warriors also arrived. Nine.

"Where is the hunting party?" blurted Art to Medros.

"Quiet," hissed Medros between clenched teeth.

"What's this about a hunting party?" queried one of the warriors to the deep voiced leader.

"I don't know, " said the leader quietly, "but if there is one, our young lookout will spot them." nodding toward the wooded crest of the hill.

Quickly he instructed several of the men to cut out several cows.

"Only ten and no calves."

' _They've done this before,'_ thought Medros as he watched the smooth way they worked the cattle.

* * * *

Culann had climbed one of the tallest trees on the crest of the mountain. He had a good view over the valley and surrounding countryside. He watched as two of the Fianna slipped out of the tree line on the far side of the hill and dressed as peasants quickly made their way to the bottom of the valley. Then they turned toward the two cattle herders who appeared to be asleep. Hunched over with capes covering their weapons, the two Fianna made their way up to the herders. They were the decoys.

Culann was so engrossed in watching this play acting proceed, he almost didn't see the hunting party approaching from the far side of the hill. There were about thirty hunters in two groups. All were heavily laden with their kill, some hung on poles, some slung over their shoulders.

Culann quickly slid down the tree. He grabbed his wooden staff and made his way to the edge of the tree line immediately in front of the approaching hunting party. He was about to blow his signal horn when he noticed two large pine trees felled, and stripped of their branches laying at the edge of the clearing. No doubt awaiting transport to some building site in the valley.

The ground in front dropped away sharply. It was covered with grass and small shrubs. The first group of hunters were now passing below. Culann put away the horn and tried to lever the first tree trunk over the small restraining stones with his staff.

It didn't move.

* * * *

"We have company," quietly called one of the Fianna, nodding to a line of men just appearing into view from a dip in the hillside about 200 paces away and just below them.

The leading group of about 20 waved at Medros and Art and changed direction toward them. As they came closer it became clear four of them were carrying what appeared to be the carcasses of two deer slung on poles. Others had carcasses of smaller animals draped over their shoulders.

"What do we do now Breuse?" asked one of the warriors looking at their leader.

"No names," hissed the leader.

"Sorry Chief," muttered the man shamefaced.

"You, boy on the rock," Breuse said nodding to Art, "wave to your friends." Art looked at Medros but did not move.

The leader standing behind Medros placed a firm hand on the lad's shoulder and placed his sword in the youth's back. The approaching party could not see this.

"Do as I say, or your friend dies - now!"

Art turned and waved at the approaching line of men, some of whom waved back. When they were about 100 paces away the small leading group suddenly stopped and pointed at them. They at last noticed there were more than the two lads they had expected near the rocks.

Just then a second group of ten came into view.

"That's torn it," muttered Breuse. "Leave the cows and move back quietly uphill into the trees. We can't take on thirty."

"Look out!" suddenly yelled Art, who was immediately knocked senseless by the Fianna warrior standing next to him.

The two groups below had by now merged and were holding an animated discussion as to what was happening above them. The front pair put down their deer carcass and drew their swords.

Suddenly an ear-splitting war cry came from high up on the mountain followed by the long blast from a battle horn, seemingly directly above the hunting party. Everyone looked in that direction. Abruptly the nearest group dropped their burdens, some even their weapons and frantically began running downhill.

From the tree line not 50 paces from the hunting party a large long tree trunk careered into view, its thin top whipping menacingly as it bounced unevenly downhill with ever increasing speed. It quickly overtook the fleeing men. Some had the presence of mind to lay flat on the ground hoping it would bounce over them. Those that didn't were mown down as it tore through them on its way to the valley floor. None were killed but some ended dazed and injured and others nursed broken bones.

Upon the heels of the run-away tree trunk came a young Fianna warrior leaping through the high grass which had been partly flattened by the preceding tree. Staff in one hand, he paused to pick up one of the discarded swords. He turned and waved-on unseen companions hidden high in the tree line. Turning again downhill with another ear-splitting yell he raced straight at the remains of the hunting party, sword and staff held high.

The foremost few of the hunting party that had escaped the wild demolition of the run-a-way tree had already drawn their weapons and formed a defensive line against the oncoming hoard they expected to follow from the tree line.

Meanwhile Breuse, still standing beside the rocks watching, uttered a not so silent curse and turning to his men waved them onto the fray yelling,

"Forward Fianna, let's help our colleague Culann and his friends." They charged diagonally downhill toward the front of the hunting party yelling at the top of their lungs. As they ran, one of the Fianna said to his colleague,

"What friends? It's just young Culann, There's nobody else."

The leaders of the hunting party, now realised they were being attacked by second group on their right. Thinking they were possibly outmanoeuvred and outnumbered, the hunters decided they had more important things to do. Voting with their feet, they fled downhill following their earlier colleagues. Those left, still stumbling and trying to recover from the onslaught of the tumbling tree, saw their colleagues fleeing, and concluding there must be a good reason for so doing, decided to join them. They all turned and leaving their spoils fled downhill, carrying some of their more injured companions with them.

The top of the mountain was suddenly empty except for one slightly built breathless Fianna warrior, surrounded by numerous animal carcasses and heaps of food carelessly littered over the hillside. He held his sword and staff high and uttered another victory cry to the heavens, then turned and with a beaming smile greeted his approaching fellow Fianna.

"Culann," panted Breuse as he reached his young ward, "I don't know whether to put you over my knee or congratulate you."

"It seems to me congratulations are in order Chief, looking at all this booty we have just acquired. We can load it on the ten cows and now take it all with us," said one of the Fianna sagely.

And so it came to be that Culann's first cattle raid was so successful it was discussed and sung about for years to come.

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* * * * *

1.3 Manhood

Culann of the Fianna

Culann grew to manhood as part of this Brotherhood of fighting men. Each trying to outdo the other in terms of daring deeds and feats of weaponry. Perhaps that was why, even as a youth, Culann strived to be more aggressive, more brave, yes, even more foolhardy, than any of the other warriors. All of who were all much older, and more experienced.

Of course Breuse couldn't be happier. Here was this handsome young lad, who by The Grace of God, he had become the surrogate father. To cap it all, the boy was smarter, braver and had developed better fighting skills than any other young warrior in the Fianna.

As Culann reached manhood and his voice changed, some of his comrades noticed his strange new behaviour. He would arrive some mornings with his cheeks and chin bleeding. Most odd.

Breuse on hearing this, discussed it with some of his lieutenants.

"I remember Culann's father had an impressive blonde beard," mused Breuse. "Culann told me once that the Chieftain who killed him, hauled him around by the beard before cutting his throat. The Smith was a gifted craftsman, not a warrior. We all grow moustaches or beards, but I think Culann doesn't want to have a beard. That is why he pulls his facial hair out."

The next day Breuse gave Culann a very small, very sharp bone razor, similar to the ones some monks used, to shave the front of their heads. Culann said nothing, but took the gift. His face stopped bleeding and he never grew a beard or moustache.

* * * *

The Fianna moved south and joined the services of the Kings of Leinster. Their numbers had increased to over fifty. Some got married and left to become farmers. Some left to join other Fianna bands. Most fought on until they were maimed or were killed. Very few lived beyond thirty years of age. But then in those times, most people died before they were forty from injuries or disease.

When Culann was twenty summers old, Breuse led a small raiding party on a neighbouring band. It didn't include Culann who was hunting with another group. Breuse's raiding party was ambushed, at a ford or river crossing. None returned. Culann mourned him for months, once again cursing himself for not being with his foster father and protecting him.

He stayed with the Fianna because it was the only home he could remember. A new leader had to be selected, and although Culann was regarded by many as being the most skilled warrior amongst them, he was considered too young to lead.

Osgar, one of Breuse's lieutenants, was elected leader. Ten months later Osgar agreed to offer their services to a minor King called Sigmall, in order to escort his daughter, the Princess Fea to her arranged wedding with a neighbouring prince.

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* * * * *

Chapter 2 - Wicklow Hills

Fea with her best friend, Odras. Odras's wooden home was typical of the freeman land-owning farmer.  
The interior contained 2 vessels; one of milk and one of mead. A stone hearth with a fire stood at one end, hung with cauldrons. Sleeping cribs were placed along the walls.

Fea spent her early years in the court of her father, a minor King called Sigmall, whose Great Grandfather had taken the land by force. But the Grandfather had many sons, who also had many sons, both legitimate and illegitimate. The land was subsequently sub-divided, and further subdivided, until each portion was quite small.

The many sons of the original old warrior proved much less capable of managing their estates. By Sigmall's time, only two other family estates remained, each ruled by their 'Kings'. But a much stronger clan moved in from the west, and took them over by force of arms - the clan Cairill, then led by their brutish ruler, King Eogan mac Cairill.

Sigmall's small landholding, was in a relative poorer upland region in the area now called Wicklow Hills. While the soil was thin and produced few crops, it did have many streams running through it. And in those streams, were to be found small pebbles and tiny nuggets, of what proved to be the lifeblood of Sigmall's court - _gold_.

The hill-fort or Dun was located on a small plateau on top of one of the highest hills. The defences, comprising a ditch in front of a wooden wall or rampart about the height of a man, had been built possibly 400 years earlier in the _Iron age_. [ Irish Iron Age began about 500 BCE and lasted until the beginning of the Christian era, about 400 CE ]

The timber buildings inside the defensive perimeter had been re-built more recently by Sigmall's father. They comprised a large round timber building which served as a meeting hall for feasts and meetings, three smaller wooden dwelling houses, for the family, servants and noble warriors attached to the King. There was also a smithy, and two storehouses, plus a small number of other timber buildings, some outside the rampart. All the buildings had thatched roofs.

Fea was irrepressible in her early formative years. She was the youngest of three daughters of the local King. She had all the advantages of a young princess, without any of the obligations. In short, possibly because she was considered 'adorable' by many, she was greatly indulged by all who dealt with her.

Before all this, however, King Sigmall decided he needed sons. As his current wife couldn't give him one, he took another wife. In fact, he took another two wives. Many Lords as well as Kings had more than one wife. It was the custom in Eire in those days. The official reason was to produce more sons. Many women had other opinions.

Sigmall was then subsequently blessed with five sons. Two died in childbirth, or shortly after.

One died of a plague that swept through the countryside. One was killed during a cattle raid and the fifth son, after a somewhat boisterous drinking session, fell off the roof of the great hall.

Bad luck. _Now no sons_.

Fea's best friend was another girl of similar age, named Odras, who lived with her family on their farm in the valley below King Sigmall's dominating Dun. Visits to Odras home were special treats for Fea. A chance to get away from the claustrophobic dark wooden halls and gloomy rooms of King Sigmall's court, then dominated by her half-brothers.

Odras' home was typical of the freeman, land-owning farmer. The land was originally given by the King, _one hide_ in size [ traditionally the size varied but was a measure of value for assessing annual food-rent], which was considered large enough to support one farming family. Apart from the strip of land, it comprised a small round dwelling house surrounded by an earth rampart, called a ráth. Inside the ráth were six other buildings; a barn, a kiln, a pigsty, a calf-fold, a sheepfold and a lean-to building that stood next to the dwelling house. All buildings were constructed of timber with thatched roofs.

The interior of the dwelling house contained two vessels; one of milk and one of mead. No visitor was ever denied a meal and drink. A stone hearth with a fire, stood at the far end, hung with cauldrons, large and small, for cooking. The wooden table, which had many uses other than eating meals, dominated the room. Sleeping cribs were placed along the walls.

Odra considered her family better off than many of the other small farmers. Some farms had two or three families living in a single hut.

Odras' father, Bredán, owned 20 cows, two bulls, six oxen, 30 sheep and 10 pigs. He was fortunate enough to own an iron plough, invaluable in the boggy soil of the valley. Many other farmers had to make do with a spade.

The entire community was dependent on farming. They were continuously struggling just to provide enough food for their family to survive, year by year. Very little excess food was traded. Of course they all had to supply the King their _'firstlings'_ [ the first pick of the crop or harvest ], plus each year Bredán's _food-rent_ to the King consisted of _;_ one cow, three calves, a cauldron of milk, 20 loaves of bread, a tub of butter, two fistful of onions, two leeks and a two arm length long flitches of bacon.

The upland community depended mostly on cattle, particularly dairy cows. Because of the difficulty growing oats, barley and wheat; milk formed the major part of the diet of these people - cow's milk for the well off and sheep's milk for the poor.

A local priest was hired by Sigmall to educate his children and also to provide spiritual guidance to the surrounding community. His place of residence was a small wattle and daub building just outside the main entrance to the King's Dun. The priest had more knowledge of the afterlife and the old testament than of things worldly. That resulted in Fea with her sisters and brothers learning little apart from the Ten Commandments.

Pleading a headache, Fea would often be excused from classes and skip off downhill to play with her friend Odras, who was appointed to look after her father's cows as they grazed.

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* * * * *

2.1 St Brigid's

Fea and Sister Mish at St. Brigid's

When Fea was twelve years old her mother died, in the same plague that also killed her six-year-old half-brother. Her father decided Fea needed more discipline _(in other words, he couldn't control her)_ , as well as a smidgen of education - not too much, as she was just a girl after all.

So Fea was sent to St Brigid's of Kildare, which was run by nuns and only two-days ride to the north-west. At that time, it was the foremost learning centre in all Éire. The monastery had been formed around 490 CE as a joint monastery, catering for nuns as well as monks, the first joint monastery in Éire, and quite possibly the first in the known world.

St Brigid's had three thick walls that separated the monastery from the outside world. The walls were far enough apart to allow the nuns two sheltered walks, much favoured in winter weather. The strong wide wooden gate that dominated the entrance of the outermost wall, would be closed at night.

An avenue, with small wooden workshops on either side, that provided most of the requirements of the community, led from the main gate to the middle of the enclosure, and the centerpiece itself, the church.

The church at St Brigid's, at the time Fea attended, was one of the largest Celtic churches ever built. It was constructed from stout oak timber, much taller than most buildings, with a substantial thatched roof. [ Cogitosus, a 7th century monk, who wrote Saint Brigid's Life, described the church as 'elevated to a menacing height' ]

It had many windows to let in the light, or when the candles were lit, so worshipers could appreciate the wonderful tapestries and colourful linen hangings that adorned the walls, and the decorated screen that concealed the alter. The Celts loved colour.

A partition, splendid in exquisite metalwork and tapestry, ran the length of the centre aisle. St Brigid wished her monks and the local Christians to worship Almighty God, together with her nuns. To ensure the sisters not be distracted, she used this sensible means of separating the sexes.

At the rear of the _nave_ [ The nave is that part of a church set apart from the laity (people who are not members of the clergy) ] sometimes could be seen sleeping Irish wolf hounds or sheep dogs, left by shepherds while they attended the church service.

Behind the church, in the innermost section of the monastery, stood the many little huts where the nuns slept. The huts contained no furniture and the floor was lined with rushes.

Next to the huts were two large rambling buildings; the guest houses for travellers and students; one male and one female. To the right and left of the church was the area set aside for the pigs and poultry. The cultivated land owned by the monastery lay outside its walls.

_[_ _They Built on Rock_ _, Stories of the Celtic Saints, Diana Leatham, Hodder & Stoughton, London, 1948, p214 ]_

* * * *

Fea found it quite different from her free and easy lifestyle at her father's Dun. She had some initial difficulty, settling into the more regimented ways of the Celtic monastery with its regular periods of lessons, coupled with the ritual prayer sessions; up to seven times daily.

Initially she had no friends. Within three days she had two friends. Within a week she had many friends. Within two months she was known to all of the students _(who were mostly older)_ , many of the Sisters and some of the Monks, who ran the monastery. Her irrepressible personality affected everyone she met.

Fea was fortunate to be mentored by one of the older nuns at St Brigid, Sister Mish. Many years earlier, Mish had a daughter, much younger than Fea, with similar sparkling eyes and winning smile. Her husband had died and Mish arrived home one day from tending cows, to find her late husband's family, who were almost starving because of one of the periodic famines, had sold Mish's young daughter to a travelling _Laird_. [ Nobleman ]

Mish was devastated. Her in-laws made it clear she was no longer welcome in their round hovel they called home. With nothing but a small bundle of clothes on her back, she left, spending weeks wandering and begging for food. A kindly monk took her to a place that helped the unwanted, particularly desperate, homeless, women: St Brigid's.

Mish never left.

* * * * *

Mish not only instructed Fea in Latin and needlework, she also taught her about the great Monastery called St Brigid's. Perhaps Mish was living out the role of helping develop a young girl, who could have been remarkably similar to the daughter she had lost, so long ago. In many ways she proved to be a wonderfully caring, talented tutor. Fea, with her thirst for exploring this exciting new world of knowledge, was an apt pupil.

"Sister Mish," enquired Fea one day after Terce prayers, "why do they call this place St Brigid's? I thought Brigid was the goddess daughter of the great _Dagda_ , lord of the earth. Why would the Christians call a monastery after a Celtic goddess?"

Mish smiled, and indicated Fea sit beside her. While continuing her embroidering of a long linen altarpiece, the elderly Nun told this story:

"Our very own Saint Brigid was not the daughter of some Celtic god," she explained, "but was born in the year of our Lord, around 452. Her father was called Dubthach, one of the pagan Scoti chiefs of Leinster, and her mother, Brocca, was a Christian Pictish slave."

Mish paused for a moment, with a pained faraway look on her face, as if reliving some past traumatic event.

"Shortly before Brigid's birth, her mother was resold to a Druid who owned land in the west country. There the little girl remained, until she was considered old enough to serve her legal owner, her father, Dubthach.

"During this time her mother educated her as much as she could, regarding the Christian faith. It is said that at one time little Brigid was taken to hear a sermon by the great St Patrick." Mish paused again, and looked around to see if anyone was listening, "But I don't believe everything the monks tell us. They tend to combine fact and fiction at times, particularly when dealing with the lives of Saints.

"What is of less doubt, is the fact Brigid possessed a strong and healthy body, which enabled her to work with such stamina all through her life. There is also no doubt she saw the world through God's eyes.

"Her mother Brocca, remained in the west country, but Brigid was brought back to Leinster to work for her father. Remember, she was still in bondage to him. However, once back, she continued to embarrass him, and scandalise his wife, by her unfailing generosity to all and sundry.

"The problem was, because she had nothing of her own to give away, it was her father's possessions that disappeared."

Fea burst out laughing and clapped her hands in delight.

"If she met a beggar, she would not just give him food. She would give him a whole sheep. A sheep that belonged to her father. When reprimanded, she would answer, _'Christ lives in all creatures and that from Him, to Whom all mankind owes so immeasurable a debt, nothing should be withheld.'_ But of course we must remember that logic didn't go down very well with her father, who after all was not a Christian.

"So at his wits end, Dubthach decided he would sell Brigid to the King of Leinster. He drove Brigid in his chariot to the Great Hall of the King, and bade Brigid wait in the chariot, while he endeavoured to negotiate the best deal with the King.

"Alas, as Brigid waited, along came a leper and stood forlornly behind the chariot. Brigid looked into his poor ravaged face and gave him the only moveable object she could find; her father's prized, highly engraved sword - the ultimate symbol of his authority.

"When Dubthach brought the King out to view the maiden he had so glowingly described, emphasizing her strength and good looks, and we assume, mentioning not at all, her habit of giving goods to all she considered in need - he discovered his sword was missing.

"He flew into a rage and ignored the calm explanation of Brigid, that through the leper, she had given the sword to God. As her father raised his hand to strike her, the King of Leinster, who was a Christian, intervened, and commanded Dubthach to desist as, _'her merit before God is greater than ours.'_

"As he drove his daughter home, Dubthach decided the only thing he could do, was give his exasperating daughter her freedom.

"Brigid went immediately across country to her mother, who was still a bondwoman. Her mother, who must have been a remarkable woman herself, was working in charge of a dairy. The responsibility of looking after twelve cows can be arduous, but by no means the most unpleasant job for a slave.

"However Brigit consigned her mother to the kitchen and she took on the role of running the dairy. The work committed her to be continually on the go, from morning to night, but her stamina was boundless. She would croon to her cows, which probably encouraged them to give more milk. Which was just as well, as Brigit continued to give away milk and butter to those she considered in need.

"The old Druid became so grateful to the young girl, for the way she had made his dairy flourish, he granted her the one wish she cherished - the freedom of her mother, at last.

"So Brigit decided once more to return to Leinster. This time however, of her own free will, leaving her mother to enjoy her old age, in peace in her own cottage, in the west country.

"When she returned to her father's home, she found he had made an effort to arrange a marriage for her. It was to an eligible young Bard. In those days Bards, because of their great learning, ranked next to Kings and Druids

"But Brigid told her father she was already dedicated to God, as were many other _'virgins in Christ'_. Brigid, like those other daughters, who refused to participate in arranged marriages, had to endure the reproaches and persecution of their fathers as well as their relatives.

"Brigit at first went to Bishop Mel of Ardagh, a disciple of St Patrick, and after suitable training, received her final vows. By some mistake Bishop Mel read the wrong service over her, and she received consecration as a bishop, an office she was allowed to retain because of her sanctity.

"She selected seven other nuns, and set about gathering all those Christian women who were being persecuted by their families. Those young women whose lives were being wasted, for want of the lack of a leader.

"Because of her high energy level, no sooner had Brigid founded a convent and selected a suitable sister to run it, then she would be off again, in her chariot and driver to start another.

"Her Christian settlements soon became renowned, not only as a haven for the poor, the sick and the weary traveller, but also schools for potential converts and Christian children."

"When did she start the monastery at Kildare?" asked Fea.

"We think it was about the year of our Lord 490," said Mish, "when she was given this land on the Liffey plain, by our old friend, the King of Leinster, remember?" Fea nodded, enthralled.

"It was called _'Cill-Dara'_ the church of the oak, so named because Brigid began building under a very large oak tree. It is very interesting that the early Christian church was drawn to oak forests, as much as the old Druids were. I think those early Christian saints were smart enough to adapt local tradition, when it suited their purposes. When a druidic site such as a holy well was discovered, the Christians would bless it with Holy Water and it would then become a Christian place of pilgrimage. Clever eh?"

Fea nodded in agreement. She was learning a very important lesson; not to take everything she was told by the Church at face value. There could be some other hidden meaning behind it.

"Kildare very soon became the base from which the energetic Abbess worked. She appointed the monk Conlaeth, already famous for his exquisite metalwork, to become the resident bishop, charged with ordaining priests, consecrating nuns and supervise the many male workers."

"Did St Brigid live longer than my mother?" asked Fea, in a tiny voice.

"Yes my child, St Brigid was a very strong woman. She was 72 years old when she died. She spent much of her time in the fields with the wild animals when she wasn't caring for the sick or looking after her nuns."

"Or giving things away to poor people." giggled Fea.

"Yes," smiled Mish, "I understand she even upset some of her nuns with her tendency to give everything to the poor.

"St Brigid passed away on 1st February 524, the day on which we, and our ancestors celebrate Imbolc, the day winter is supposed to end - although as you know, it can still be very cold then. We _plait_ [ from Latin plectere "to fold". To intertwine strands or strips in a pattern ] crosses from rushes, to hang over our doors, to protect us from fire.

"By the way, the goddess Brigid was the goddess of fire. Another strange coincidence, don't you think." mused Mish.

"Anyway, enough storytelling for today, my girl. Off you go, and study your Latin verbs."

* * * *

Saint Brigid invented the double monastery. To her it seemed common sense to have a neighbouring community of monks under her rule. The monks could handle the heavier outside work, while the nuns, could concentrate on looking after the cows at pasture, or creating lovely paintings, and sewing beautiful tapestries that hung on the walls of the great wooden church. Thus making the interior of Kildare a place of beauty, whether by day, with light streaming in through the many windows, or at night, lit by a multitude of candles.

Most of the joint monasteries that were set up by the Celtic church in later centuries, followed the sensible pattern of Kildare, with the Abbess ruling supreme. The resident abbot being under her authority, just as he would have if he worked with a bishop.

* * * *

Fea spent most of her time at St Brigid's. She did not go home for 'holidays', as there were no such things as holidays, in those days. However, she did go home each year for one month at Christmas.

Like most young girls of her age, Fea grew up quickly. Even at age sixteen, she would have been considered a young woman. With her good education, a sophisticated young woman. But a young woman with a quick temper.

Sister Mish, so much a font of knowledge for Fea in her early years when her young mind was moulded at the Monastery, had suffered from coughing spells for years. She began coughing blood just before Fea's sixteenth birthday. Sister Mish was confined to the female infirmary.

Fea would visit her every day. Mish so looked forward to those visits, and was seen to deliberately pinch her cheeks, just before Fea came, to give her now gaunt hollow face, some semblance of colour.

* * * *

By age 35, King Sigmall was considered an old man. He had not campaigned for many years, and his midriff expanded as his hairline receded. He had married off his two eldest daughters to local Lords, in order to retain their continued support.

When the neighbouring kingdom ruled by Eogan mac Cairill, began making threatening moves to take over his land, Sigmall had few choices.

One option was to defend his land. His estate however was too small to support a standing army. Sigmall's sons were all dead, as were his nearest relatives. Sigmall could call on his client farmers, who were obliged to take up arms on behalf of their King, if commanded. Unfortunately, they had little military training and lacked battle experience.

Another option was to hire one of the bands of Fianna that lived in the forests. While not exactly mercenaries, one could obtain their services, by payment disguised as entertainment, feasting, drinking, lodging, and the lion's share of any booty. Provided of course they thought the King's aspirations were ethical - and more important, achievable.

The third option was to form an alliance with a neighbouring kingdom, which was militarily stronger, through marriage. King Sigmall still had one daughter of marriageable age, Fea, who, by now, while studying at St Brigid's, had just turned sixteen.

It transpired the only kingdom interested in such an alliance, which could pit them against the powerful clan, mac Cairill, was King Giona. His lands were on the River Barrow, on the southern side of mac Cairill's lands. While Giona had a large retinue of warriors, unfortunately he had only one son.

Even more unfortunate, the son was only ten years old. That small fact did not deter King Sigmall. It was the custom then for daughters to be given in arranged marriages, which it was hoped would bolster the political standing of both families. King Sigmall dispatched the cleverest man at his court, the Bard, Pampinus Pronuntio, to negotiate the marriage between his sixteen-year-old daughter, and King Giona's ten-year-old son. It was not considered necessary for the bride-to-be, to meet her potential groom, prior to the wedding ceremony.

King Sigmall also hired one of the smaller Fianna groups, led by Osgar, to strengthen his warrior base. This would hopefully impress his new ally King Giona and deter his _nemesis_ [1] \- Eogan mac Cairill.

[1] **nemesis** from the Greek Goddess of retribution **Nemesis** , deserved punishment that comes to someone who hoped to escape it.

Fea was told of her impending marriage while at St Brigid's. It is not recorded what her response was.

* * * *

The dreadful day came when Fea, tearfully, had to tell Sister Mish she had been summoned by her father to return home. She was going to be married to a ten-year-old boy.

"My dear, why don't you stay here in the Monastery?" said Mish. "You don't have to go off and ruin the rest of your life. You could become a nun, be a Bride of Christ."

Fea thought for a while, stroking Mish's brow before answering,

"I have been aware that this day would come sooner or later Mish. Girls like me are the property of our fathers. We have to do what they command. Besides my father always treated my mother well, when she was alive."

"Along with his two other wives," interrupted Mish, with barely disguised venom.

"Yes, but that is how all men like him behave. He wanted sons, and my mother was unable to give him sons."

"It is just so unfair," cried Mish. "You have your whole life ahead of you. If there is a God, why doesn't he look after girls like you."

"There, there Mish. Don't be sad. I cannot disobey my father. Plus, I haven't experienced anything of the outside world yet. All I've known for the past four years is within the walls of this wonderful old Monastery."

Sister Mish began weeping, "How long until your wedding?"

"Oh, I've been told about three months. That should give me enough time," said Fea.

"Enough time for what?" asked Mish quickly.

"Dear Sister Mish, I have a plan."

"What plan?" asked Mish, trying to push herself up with one arm.

Fea bent down and whispered in Mish's ear. She pausing often to look around for any eavesdroppers, then continued explaining, ever so quietly.

Mish paced both hands on Fea's shoulders, looking up at her in wonder,

"Do you think that could possibly work? What about your father, he'll know."

"I'll make sure my father stays in his Dun and doesn't attend the wedding," said Fea, smiling confidently. "Now you lay back and rest. I have to go pack."

Mish waved goodbye feebly, at the retreating figure of the young girl. Fea turned at the doorway, smiled that wonderful smile, and said,

"I'll come visit you, after the wedding," and was gone.

Sister Mish passed away, peacefully, two weeks after Fea left St Brigid's. The other Nuns all noticed, her eyes were closed, but she seemed to be smiling.

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* * * * *

Chapter 3 - You may call me Fea

You may call me Fea

"W **hy did you become a monk** Brother Culann?" The firelight played on the rugged facial features of the man sitting on the edge of the group. His eyes half closed and his face softened. He thought back to those days so long ago in _Éire_ [ Ireland ]. Those wonderful days.

The first time he saw her, golden hair windblown, running around the corner laughing at something behind her - and collided with him.

"Milady, let me help you," he reached down and offered his hand, as she sat stunned but uninjured at his feet. The smile was still there as she ignored his hand, picked herself up, and dusted off her skirts.

"Who are you? I haven't seen you here before," eyeing the tall, dark haired, broad shouldered warrior up and down.

"I am called Culann milady. I'm with the bodyguard to escort the Princess Fea to her wedding".

"Really," the smile turning to a mischievous grin, "you don't look old enough to escort anyone."

"Well, " embarrassed, "I'm good with the sword," patting the weapon at his side.

"So Master Culann, you belong to the Fianna. That rag-tag bunch of warriors who live in the wild wood and sell their swords to the highest bidder." Her hands on her hips now.

"We don't sell our services to just anyone, milady. We have offered them to your King Sigmall, at his request".

"Do you read Latin?"

"No milady".

"Pity, I need something translated", she skipped past him and along the building.

Raising his voice, "May I know your name milady?"

Just before she rounded the next corner, her head turned, golden hair fanning out framing her gorgeous green eyed face, and with a smile that melted his heart,

"You may call me Fea," and was gone.

* * * *

Again. . . "Why did you become a monk Brother Culann?"

He shook his head, bringing his thoughts back to the present.

"Oh, I once met a girl who was beyond my station".

Someone in the small group grunted, and as nothing more was offered by Culann, they pulled their cloaks over their heads and one by one, slept.

The fire had almost died, but Culann could not sleep. He remembered those mischievous green eyes and her wonderful smile.

_You may call me Fea_.

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* * * * *

3.1 The Wedding March

The dinner passed in a blur for Culann who sat mesmerized next to the real Fea, who looked at him throughout the evening with an amused smile, as she asked him many questions.  
He assumed he answered but could remember none next morning.

Three days after Culann had first met Fea, the Fianna began their journey, escorting the Princess and her entourage, to her arranged wedding with King Giona's son.

During that time Culann had discreetly asked about Fea. He discovered she was the youngest daughter of King Sigmall. She was considered headstrong, wilful, spoilt, with more education than was considered suitable for a girl, with a very engaging personality and most attractive.

The King had offered his daughter in marriage to the young son of a neighbouring King Giona, as part of a deal to seal a strategic alliance, as was the norm in Éire in those times.

The journey to King Giona's territory would normally take two days. However, they could not journey through the lands of the neighbouring kingdom of mac Eogan. The longer detour would add a further four days.

Culann's troupe of twenty-five men, led by Osgar, would escort the bridal party of Fea and her handmaidens, attendants and musicians, to the border of King Giona. There they would be met by the bodyguard of the husband-to-be. King Sigmall remained ensconced at home on his hill fort, in case his enemy Eogan mac Cairill, decided to attack the Dun while he was absent.

At the end of the first day, camp was set up near a small stream. The main tent for the royal party was pitched and Osgar selected the first group of sentries, who moved out into the darkness to take up their positions.

Culann was cleaning his weapons when Osgar came up to him with a puzzled look.

"Culann, the Princess Fea has requested you and I dine with her group. She said you can translate some Latin document. I didn't know you spoke Latin".

Culann thought furiously for a moment before answering, "Only a little".

Osgar and Culann entered the royal tent. Culann was half a head taller than his leader, with broader shoulders but not as thick set from the chest down.

A long table had been set, taking up most of the tent. At the centre sat the Princess Fea in all her colourful clothes and regal gold jewellery. On either side were her handmaidens and attendants.

Osgar walked opposite the Princess Fea and bowed his head,

"Princess Fea". The Princess Fea smiled, and indicated he should sit opposite her.

Culann stood, confused. He had a problem. That wasn't Princess Fea. Culann glanced down at the ladies in waiting, sitting either side, and immediately recognized that mischievous smile. As he opened his mouth, Princess Fea, who was disguised as a handmaiden, put her finger to her lips, indicating silence, while patting the seat next to herself.

"So you remembered," she whispered, green eyes sparkling. He was so close to her, his body felt on fire.

"Of course I remember. But I don't speak Latin."

"No, but you shall. _Semper meus_ " [ always mine ].

The dinner passed in a blur for Culann. He noted his leader Osgar, spoke animatedly to the lady at the centre of the table, who he believed to be Fea.

Culann meanwhile sat _mesmerised_ [ mesmerise, to fascinate and hold spellbound ] next to the real Fea, who looked at him throughout the evening with an amused smile, as she asked him many questions.

He assumed he answered, but could remember none next morning.

By the time the sun had penetrated the ground mist next morning, the oxen were hitched again to the two wagons. The scouts moved ahead and the whole entourage moved slowly off to an appointment with destiny that no one was anticipating.

* * * *

Day two brought some unsettling news. The scouts had seen groups of men in the distance. They remained too far away to identify, but their presence was a concern. Who were they? Were they friendly? If they were friendly, why didn't they approach?

That evening Culann and his leader Osgar, were again invited to dine at the main tent. Osgar by this time had noticed something unusual was going on with the ladies in waiting. Although he didn't know at that stage, he was having conversations with the stand-in Princess Fea.

Again Culann sat next to Fea. This time she told him she learnt Latin at the monastery of St Brigid of Kildare, just a day's march from here and related some of the experiences she had enjoyed there in that centre of knowledge.

Half way through the evening the head scout came in and had a long conversation with Osgar.

Both men looked at Culann. Osgar rose, came to Culann, and indicated they should both go outside.

The cold air physically hit the men as they pushed through the tent flap.

"Culann, our sentries advise those men we saw in the distance today have moved closer to the camp. We don't know who they are and I am assuming they are not friendly.

"You are our best swordsman. Can you go now to King Giona's men, who should be waiting for us by the River Barrow, and bring them here immediately."

Culann nodded in agreement, his head swimming. _Why did they choose me? I'm good, but there are others just as good. Is he jealous of my sitting with Fea?_

Osgar grabbed Culann by both shoulders,

"Hurry man. Go straight through mac Cairill's land - not around. You should get there by tomorrow evening. We will wait here. I will organize a defence perimeter. Can you do it?"

"Yes," replied Culann, and hurried off to get his weapons. As swiftness was imperative he took only his sword. He left spear and shield behind. Aligning his path by the stars, as the moon was not yet up, he started out at a fast lope. Culann was at home in the dark night.

* * * *

Sunrise found Culann past two swift flowing streams and climbing a low range of hills, well on the way to the meeting place at the River Barrow. He had heard movements of men early on, but detoured so they would not hear or see him. He had given a wide berth to farms and stopped only to drink at the two streams before setting out again with his long loping stride.

The tents of King Giona came into view in the late afternoon, as expected, on the near side of the River Barrow. Culann was challenged on the perimeter, and then escorted after being disarmed, into the largest tent in the camp.

"Who are you sir, and what do you want?" asked a tall man dressed in a long blue cloak. He described himself as the Chief Advisor to King Giona.

"I must see King Giona" rasped a still breathless Culann.

"Well you cannot. The King is not here."

"Where is he?"

"That is none of your business my friend. Look at you. What a mess. Take him away and clean him up."

"Wait" cried Culann "Some outlaws may be trying to attack the Princess Fea. You have to come now before it is too late."

"Attack Fea? She is not due for another four days. Who is attacking?"

"I don't know. You have to get a message to King Giona."

"I don't have to do anything my friend, least of all take advice from a ruffian Fianna fool like you. Take him away."

Culann went berserk, grabbing the Chief Advisor by the neck. He would have no doubt throttled him, had not six guards wrestled him to the ground, where one belted him on the back of the head with a clay pot, breaking the pot and knocking him unconscious.

* * * *

It was dark. Culann couldn't speak. He couldn't move. His head throbbed. He wanted to throw up. He passed out.

It was still dark. Someone was sitting next to him. He couldn't move his hands. The figure saw him attempt to move, and came closer. Culann saw the dull glint of a knife as it came close to his face.

The gag binding his mouth was cut and the figure poured a little water onto his lips. Culann coughed. The figure shushed him, suddenly listening for any sound emanating outside the tent - for that was what they were in.

After a few seconds the figure cut the cords binding his hands and feet. The blood painfully ran back into those limbs giving feeling once more. He was given a small water bladder which Culann drained without stopping. Still no words passed between them. The dark stranger handed him a lump of meat which he placed in a cloth container, and drew the drawstrings. Then a coal-black cloak with a hood, and finally he handed Culann the small knife he'd used to cut the bonds.

Culann struggled into the cloak. The stranger held up his hand showing five fingers, pointed to the rear of the tent and then like magic slipped through a sliced opening Culann had not previously seen; and disappeared.

Culann shook his head to clear his thoughts and immediately wished he hadn't. The throbbing headache came back. Obviously the stranger had wanted him to wait a short time before following him out the back of the tent. Presumably there was a guard at the front.

Not knowing what time it was, and not wishing to be caught as night ended, Culann quietly opened the rear slit in the tent, and crawled out. No one was there. He silently stood up and walked normally to what he assumed was the edge of the camp. He passed a couple of armed figures on the way, but no one challenged him.

Suddenly he was away from the clearing and in light forest. He kept moving until he came to a slight rise and could see the stars through the partly overcast sky. Where to go? Obviously there would be no help for Fea here. Time to go back and try to protect her from whatever danger may come. He considered himself a fool for leaving in the first place.

He turned slightly east and began the long run back to his original camp.

Back at Giona's camp, the mysterious benefactor watched Culann's dark figure disappear into the forest.

_"Damn,"_ he said, _"as if there hasn't been enough trouble and strife._

Now I have to get another good knife".

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* * * * *

3.2 The Long Road Back

Culann rescuing Princess Fea

It took Culann much longer to retrace his steps. He lay down for a moment to rest on the hillside before the first stream, and instantly fell asleep. He woke with the sun streaming into his eyes. It was mid-morning.

Cursing, he took off again, thankful for the meat given by the unidentified stranger; tearing pieces off the bone with his teeth as he ran onward.

By mid-afternoon thunderclouds were building in the south. Sundown saw lightning flashing on the horizon. A big storm was coming.

He reached the final stream around midnight. No tents. Was he up stream or downstream of the camp? He sat on his haunches and tried to think. _Climb a tree and look for camp fires_.

Culann took off the black cloak and climbed the tallest tree nearby. Halfway up he saw the red glow. It was downstream. A feeling of deep foreboding filled his heart. The camp fires shouldn't be that big. Something's happened.

He re-donned the cloak and moved downstream more cautiously now. Thunder sounded nearer.

He almost tripped over the first body. The wind was up and the trees were bending and moaning. He didn't recognize the face or the clothes. The next body was one of his fellow Fianna.

Around the next bend of the stream he saw the glow, with figures silhouetted against its red flare. One wagon was on its side. The other was nowhere to be seen. The main tent was in shreds but some of the smaller ones remained.

More bodies littered the ground. One was a woman, but not Fea.

He drew his only weapon, the knife, and pulled the pitch-black cowl over his head. Silently he slipped forward, gliding from tree to tree.

One man was standing drunkenly against a bush, urinating. Culann clamped a hand over his mouth and cut his throat. The body slid, still twitching to the ground, as Culann took its sword.

Three men stood talking with their backs to Culann. The first one's head flew into the air as if in slow motion, blood gusting from its neck. The two others did not even have time to reach for their weapons before they were dispatched by the flashing blade that severed flesh and sinew.

He moved into the centre of the camp.

Lightning flashed and a great resounding rumble of thunder followed almost immediately.

Culann crept toward the first tent. He opened the flap. Half a dozen men were lying around drinking from goatskins. One looked up through glazed eyes. Culann dropped the tent flap and moved on.

The second tent had four men. Two were standing watching their colleagues holding the arms of a maiden who was struggling on the ground, golden-hair sprayed over her face. The crumbled figure of another woman lay lifeless on the ground.

In the confines of the tent Culann couldn't swing his sword. He thrust it instead into the body of the closest man, then put his foot on the man's belly while he was still standing, and pulled the blade out. The other men jumped up and started shouting but another great clap of thunder drowned their voices. The second man was struck down. Culann's dagger gutted the third and the fourth slipped on a bloody carcass before having his head half chopped off, gurgling and thrashing on the tent floor.

Culann gathered the girl in his arms. She fought him.

He whispered _"Semper meus"_. She froze for a heartbeat, then relaxed.

The ebony coloured cloak he draped over the maiden, before stepping out of the tent. Torrential rain was now lashing down driven by a howling wild wind. The only figures he saw were scurrying for cover. He walked out of the camp carrying the limp female form in his arms.

There was a wooded hill not far from the camp. Culann scrambled half way up before finding an overhanging ledge that would give them some small shelter from the driving rainstorm. He placed her gently on the leaves and grass, then wrapped her properly in his cloak. A small keening sound came from her busted bruised lips. Both eyes were swollen shut. Blood was on her nose and lips. He wept.

The rain eased after some time. He decided it was better to keep moving. Over the hill and down the other side. A couple of times he nearly slipped on the muddy ground. He had to move more carefully.

* * * *

The clouds were still low when sunrise came. Fea's keening had stopped. He placed her down gently. Kicking himself for not thinking of it sooner, Culann wet her lips with what was left in his water bottle. She tried to say something but he could not understand the words.

She lost consciousness again. There were no sounds of pursuit, as he carefully picked her up and carried on.

Culann saw smoke from the farmhouse before he saw the building. He crouched in the high grass and surveying it for some time. The only movement came from a woman going in and out of the house. The men must be off working somewhere.

Cautiously he carried his limp bundle to the front door, stood and rasped to the surprised farmwife inside,

"Please help".

She took one look at the maiden in his arms and indicated he should place her on a cot along one wall. She opened the cloak and shooed him outside.

He squatted down beside the door and waited.

A long time later the farmwife, who looked middle aged, came out wiping her hands,

"Your woman needs good medical care".

"I know".

"You probably shouldn't take her home looking like that." He nodded.

"The best people to look after her would be at St Brigid's monastery". He looked up startled.

"She studied at St Brigid's".

"Then she is no farm girl," muttered the farmwife. "Do you know where it is?"

"Not really."

"I thought not. It's for women only. Come on, I'll show you the way." The farmwife grabbed a shawl and strode out of the house. Culann gathered up the still semi-conscious, but now modestly attired Fea, and followed.

They walked silently along a winding track until daylight was almost gone. The sky was still heavy with cloud.

The farmwife stopped suddenly, pointed ahead saying,

"It's over yonder hill. You should get there before long". With that she turned, and without another word disappeared back the way they had come.

Exhaustion swept over him.

Culann looked down at the still figure he was holding. Was it his imagination or did one eye look a little more open? He brushed the hair from her forehead. Her hand came out and squeezed one of his fingers. Suddenly he had the strength of ten men.

* * * *

The clouds parted and some stars twinkled as he stood in front of the impressive wooden door that was the entrance of St Brigid of Kildare Monastery.

He banged with the big wooden knocker. Silence. He banged again.

He heard shuffling behind the door. Then a voice asked,

"What do you want?"

"I need help".

More whispering.

"It's a man," louder, "Come back tomorrow".

"I have the Princess Fea, daughter of King Sigmall. She desperately needs your help".

The door swung open,

"Why didn't you say so? Come in silly boy." The door swung shut behind them.

And that is how Culann saved the Princess Fea from a fate worse than death _(well almost)_.

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* * * * *

3.3 King Sigmall's Response

Sigmall's little rag-tag force assembled at his hill fort. Most were armed with spears,  
some with swords and a few just brought their hoe or shovel.

Word of the massacre of the bridal party by King Eogan mac Cairill's men, swept through the region like wildfire. All condemned the attack and subsequent abduction, of who was thought to be Princess Fea, and some of her handmaidens. But very few men had the courage to stand up to the powerful King Eogan.

King Sigmall did have the courage, or perhaps he had no alternative. His image would be tarnished forever if he did nothing, and it was obvious only a matter of time before Eogan decided to take over his kingdom, with its streams of gold.

So King Sigmall went to war.

He gathered all his client farmers, plus any other able bodied man (or boy) who wished to join. There were a few Fianna somewhere still deep in the forest, but with their leader Osgar, killed, he had no way of immediately contacting them. _Time was of the essence_ , thought Sigmall. He had to strike first and take Eogan by surprise.

Sigmall's little rag-tag force assembled at his hill fort. There were fewer than 50 men, including Odras' father and brothers. Most were armed with spears, some with swords and a few just brought their hoe or shovel.

Sigmall stood before his small force and in a fiery speech extolled them to seek revenge on his daughter's killers and abductors. He neatly added, that if they didn't, Eogan would certainly come and ravage their own land.

The little retinue moved off.

* * * *

They marched for two days without seeing anyone, and on the third day one of the scouts ran back with news that an unfortified camp, comprising tents, was just through the next valley. Sigmall consulted with his personal Druid. Although he was nominally converted to Christianity, in times of trauma the Old Gods' came to the fore.

The Druid sacrificed a chicken, and after divining its entrails, declared tomorrow would be an auspicious day for Sigmall. The King gathered his nobles around him. His plan was simple. Tomorrow morning, they would all attack the enemy's camp. They would storm in and kill everyone.

Two freemen, including Odras' father, had the temerity to suggest maybe they should keep some of the warriors in reserve, just in case.

Sigmall exploded, "If you are not brave enough to run with me when I lead the charge, then you can stay here, and cower like a woman."

Nothing can be worse for an Irish Celt, than be accused of cowardice. It was agreed they would all charge together.

* * * *

As the morning mists were rising, Sigmall and his warriors were gathered on a slight rise about 400 strides from a group of tents standing on the banks of a small stream. Smoke curled from some campfires, but no movement was seen.

"Where are the warriors?" whispered some of the men.

Sigmall turned to his Druid.

"They must be all sleeping off the effects of last night's mead," said the Druid.

"Yes of course," agreed Sigmall. He stood, raised his sword arm and with a yell leapt forward toward the tents in the valley. His men, roaring defiance followed, streaming down the grassy slope waving their weapons. They formed a long line, the younger, fitter fellows leading, as they covered more ground. A growing gap appeared in the running column as they neared the tents.

When they were half way to their objective, something strange happened. Movement was seen on the tree line to their right. Those in the front group of the downhill race, missed it, but those bringing up the rear now slowed and started shouting warnings. A large troupe of chariots suddenly materialized out of the trees, crowded with armed warriors.

A trap!

Sigmall's force was now split in two. The front group still running for the tents and the rear bunch milling around looking desperately for a way to evade the chariots.

As their leader, Eogan mac Cairill, lowered his spear, the chariots charged forward, straight at the rear group, who leaderless, split up and raced for the farther tree line.

They had no chance. The chariots quickly closed the gap. As the chariots swept passed the fleeing men, Eogan's warriors slashed, stabbed and bludgeoned their opponents into the ground.

By the time the chariots drew rein after their initial charge, the leading group, who were almost at the tents, realized something terrible was wrong. They stopped and turned to face their assailants.

Had Sigmall been better versed in warfare, he would have withdrawn everyone over the far side of the creek, where some defence against the chariots could have been organized.

But Sigmall, now certain he would die, chose to die like a Celt; in battle, facing his enemy. The thought of saving some of his men, did not even enter his head. He did not drive the base of his spear into the ground at an angle as some protection against the horses, but waved it in one hand, and holding his sword aloft in the other, screamed abuse at his foe. The chariots gathered in a line, now directly in front.

Fortune, it is said, favours the bold. But the brutal facts of warfare indicate fortune favours the one who is better armed, and better led.

After what seemed an eternity, the chariots charged the thin line of men before them. Horses and chariots drove straight through. When the charioteers wheeled to see the results of their devastating charge, there was not one Sigmall man standing.

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* * * * *

3.4 Retribution

The Fianna looked listless, leaderless and demoralized.  
"I need four brave men to join me on a mission." said Culann.

It was some days before Culann reached the old Fianna camp site, deep in the wild-woods. There he met what was left of his colleagues. Their leader, Osgar of course had been killed in the raid along with everyone except Culann and two other wounded warriors. They had managed to limp back to the others and tell their story.

Culann learnt that Fea's father, King Sigmall, had raised a small force consisting of mainly farmers who owed him allegiance. They had left their fields and hurriedly marched to recover the woman they believed to be Fea - in fact one of her handmaidens. There were no accompanying Fianna.

The neighbouring kingdom of Eogan mac Cairill, was larger, stronger, and had many more warriors. Word filtered back some days later that King Sigmall, not surprisingly, had been killed and his men routed by mac Cairill.

"Why had not the rest of the Fianna joined Sigmall's force?" asked Culann.

No one met his gaze and the response was,

"We weren't asked. We only found out about the King's foolish response after news of his death."

Culann snorted in disgust, but recognised that if they had gone, they too would be laying lifeless in some far off field. Or become slaves of the victorious Eogan mac Cairill.

The men looked listless, leaderless and demoralized. There were no more than twenty all told.

Culann had revenge burning in his heart, partly because his friends had been killed, but more so because of the terrible wrong done to Princess Fea. Twenty men would not be near enough to take on the much larger body of armed men King Eogan commanded. Plus, they would be very confident after two impressive victories in the past few weeks. _Perhaps overconfident?_ thought Culann.

Some men took ages to come to a decision. Some had the ability to crystallize their thoughts within a few heartbeats. Such a man was Culann.

"I need four brave men to join me on a mission," said Culann.

One of the older men, Lien asked, "Why only four?"

"Because twenty is not enough to take on the mac Cairill clan while five men can infiltrate his camp easily."

"And then what?"

"And then kill him."

Increased murmuring broke out among the men. Suddenly they had a plan. It was crazy, it could not possibly work, but here was a way to avenge their brothers in arms, and if one had to die, better to die in battle.

The Celtic warriors of Ireland all thought it more honourable to die in battle, than lay in bed and die of old age, or sickness. And if one had to die in battle, make it something spectacular, so Bards would sing about their exploits for years to come.

"What is your plan Culann?"

"I'm working on it."

"Come on, you have to tell us."

"It's secret."

"Rubbish, you don't have a plan."

"I do, but I'll only tell you when we reach mac Cairill's camp."

Some were shaking their heads and the mood suddenly turned negative. He has no plan. He's too young. Why should we follow him anyway? Because he has a plan and you don't. He has no plan.

Culann stood and announced,

"I am leaving now. Those of you who wish to come with me, come now. I only need four."

Suddenly ten men stood up and indicated they wished to follow. Perhaps it was the unbelievable restriction Culann put, on needing only four men - that meant five including himself, and five was a magic number to the Celts.

Culann chose the four strongest.

"Get your weapons and follow me. We need a week's oatmeal."

The warriors collected their swords, spears, small shields and a bag of dried oatmeal, the staple diet of men on the move.

The five-man mission moved out.

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* * * * *

3.5 A Humiliating End

Culann raised the dead King's golden torc up to the heavens and uttered a terrible war cry

The Dun or Hill Fort of King Eogan mac Cairill stood at the far end of a long valley. The hills on either side were heavily forested. Small homesteads dotted the valley with a cluster of wooden huts near the hill fort itself. The Dun had a deep earthen ditch with a dry stone wall, the height of two men, surrounding it.

A small _burn_ [ a creek or minor tributary to a river ] ran in front of the Dun and meandered down the length of the valley. At the far end it was quite wide and waist deep. Culann and his companions watched from the nearest wooded hill for a full day, noting the number of warriors, and where they were posted. There were some horse and chariots.

The Celts were among the first European people to domesticate the horse. But they did not ride upon the animals back. Instead they hitched them to speedy two wheeled chariots that they used for travel, and especially battle.

As dusk settled Culann decided to go down into the hill fort itself to get more information. His men wanted to accompany him, but he told them it was easier for one man to blend in, than five. Plus, he really didn't have a plan at that stage. So he went, alone.

No one gave this tall warrior a second glance as he made his way down into the valley, and up to the hill fort. He passed a blacksmith working on his forge repairing a sword.

"Busy times for you now master Smith," commented Culann.

"Aye it is," not looking up from the red glowing sword blade he hammered. "And there be more work if they keep hunting them deer in the hills."

"The King is a keen hunter then."

"Aye, when there's no more pretty maids to hunt, he goes after deer," laughing.

More casual conversation resulted in Culann learning the best hunting ground was at the far end of the valley.

Later that evening Culann laid out his plan to his companions.

"The King hunts with a dozen or so men in chariots, and maybe twenty attendants on foot. They mainly hunt down the bottom of the valley. When they catch a deer, everyone stops and allows the King to make the final kill. Tomorrow we will go there and watch."

And so they did. That afternoon the King and his entourage came into view. Beaters with large Irish wolf hounds in the lead.

"I don't like messing with dogs," said one of Culann's colleagues.

"No problem. We catch some hares beforehand," said Culann.

The next day Culann and company watched the King's entourage come down toward the end of the valley, where they were waiting. It was well after midday. However the dogs must have picked up a scent, and they suddenly moved to the far side of the valley and into the tree covered hills.

The third day Culann and company had laid their own trail. They dragged hares bodies, that they had caught previously, across the middle of the valley and up into the glen between two thickly wooded hills. A small stream bisected the hills.

The day was bright and the hunters came into view, as expected, around mid-afternoon. The King was driving his chariot in the centre of the group. Suddenly the dogs picked up the scent of the dead hares and raced off into the glen followed by their handlers.

The charioteers followed, but more slowly as they entered the dimly lit forest area and began the climb. Culann and his men flitted from tree to tree, on the high side

The horses came to the small creek. Most pushed on, but the King and four of his retainers stopped while his horse drank from the stream.

Culann knew it was now or never and signalled to his men to attack.

Fianna spears brought down the two warriors holding the horses' reins. The Kings horse reared high in fright. Eogan grabbed at the chariot rail, missed and fell on his back into the stream. The King's other two companions were quickly dispatched with sword thrusts. Culann in an instant was beside the King, who had drawn his sword and was struggling to his feet.

Culann's sword flashed high in the air and sliced the Kings sword arm off at the wrist. He grabbed the stunned King by his hair and looking into his eyes snarled,

"This is for your cowardly attack on defenceless women."

The King looked terror-stricken for a moment, then Culann pushed his head under the water and stood on it. The Kings body flayed and thrashed but his head remained submerged.

The sounds of the hunters could be heard, growing louder as they raced back to the commotion in the creek bed.

"Come Culann," cried one of his men, "finish him quickly, before we are finished."

Culann shook his head, pointing his sword at anyone who tried to approach. The King was still gurgling and moving more faintly. Blood still spurting from his severed arm. Bubbles came to the surface, then slowed, even slower; then stopped.

Culann reached down to the now inert body under his feet, and pulled the _torc_ [1] from the neck of the dead King.

[1] **torc:** a large, usually rigid, neck ring, made from strands of metal twisted together. Mainly open-ended in the front, designed for near permanent wear. It was considered a sign of nobility and high social standing. Worn by Celtic warriors from 4th century BCE.

He raised the golden torc up to the heavens and uttered a terrible war cry, as water cascaded down his arm.

"Now we go. We have no argument with them," pointing to the figures now coming into sight higher up the hill. As one they turned and ran down the creek bank away from the pursuers.

For a while all they could hear was the panting from their own exertions. But gradually the sound of pursuit came closer. Suddenly they came to open grassland. Do they chance it and run across the valley or continue inside the tree line? The following chariots would have to drive further upstream to a ford, as the banks of the burn were too steep for them to cross here.

Never one to play safe, Culann dashed forward into the open field. He jumped down into the now waist deep burn, waded across and scrambled up the other side, into the knee high grass. His companions, after a moment's hesitation followed.

Ten chariots each carrying two or three armed men, broke from the tree cover and wheeled upstream to the shallower crossing.

Running hard, Culann noted it was only five hundred or so paces to the nearest tree line, and safety. They redoubled their efforts.

They almost made it.

The chariots swept around in front of the five Fianna, horses snorting, as their drivers pulled back on their reins. The warriors remained in the chariots with their spears held ready, forming a line between Culann's men and the safety of the forest, now barely fifty paces away

Culann and his men carried only their swords. Spears and everything else had been dropped as they sped through the forest. The drivers, with the warriors in the chariots, slowly walked their horses forward. This would not be pretty.

"Ahoy the chariots!" called a loud voice from the edge of the forest behind them. Everyone turned and looked at the long line of shadowy figures that had suddenly materialized at the edge of the forest.

"I would advise you to drop your weapons and don't try to harm my friends. I have two hundred men here, just waiting the chance to cut you to pieces."

The charioteers milled around suddenly confused, shading their eyes against the setting sun as they tried to see what and who was behind them.

"What do you want?" yelled the chariot master.

"Those scoundrels you were chasing, and your horses will do at this stage. Climb down."

"How do we know you won't just kill us if we do?" It was getting darker.

"You have my word based on all our Gods. You can walk free with your weapons. Just leave the horses".

The nearest charioteer suddenly turned his horse for home, whipping his horse into a gallop. He hadn't gone far when three men from the tree line threw their spears at the horse, which mortally wounded collapsed sideways throwing the men in the chariot to the ground. They were clinically dispatched.

More men were now moving out of the forest line. The remaining charioteers hesitated for a long moment, then determining they had little option, dismounted.

"You can keep your weapons. Just walk back down the valley," commanded the leader of the forest men.

The now dismounted warriors scurried back down the darkening valley, leaving their chariots and horses with bridles hanging on the ground.

The leader of the forest men walked toward Culann and his four companions, sword in hand. Still in silhouette he paused, sheathed his sword in its scabbard and said,

"Next time Culann don't leave your friends out of the excitement. But more important, don't use five men to take on ten chariots," It was Lien and the Fianna. He embraced Culann.

"Where did you get two hundred men?" asked Culann.

"Ah you know me Culann, I was never very good at numbers. We just have fifteen or so, plus some rather impressive scarecrows we acquired from the last farm meadow.

On closer inspection, Culann could see perhaps twenty stick and straw figures stuck in the ground on the edge of the tree line.

And that is how Culann killed King Eogan mac Cairill, who died _(by Celtic standards)_ a disgraceful death, not in battle, but by drowning. _A fitting end for a man who killed innocent women_.

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* * * * *

Chapter 4 - Fateful Meeting

Culann was ushered into a spacious room near the front of the monastery.  
There sat the Princess Fea, her left eye still swollen and dark bruises just visible on her face.  
Another nun sat to one side, watching.

It was almost one month before Culann was allowed to see the Lady Fea after he left her at St Brigid's. The nuns were very concerned about her well-being, and wouldn't allow any visitors before then.

Culann was ushered into a spacious room near the front of the monastery. In the centre was a low table. On its far side sat the Lady Fea looking pale, her left eye still swollen and dark bruises just visible on her face. Her swollen lips looked much better. A colourful rug covered her from the waist down. Another nun sat to one side, watching.

Fea smiled and pointed to a seat opposite her. Culann bowed his head slightly and took the proffered seat.

She looked at him for what seemed a long time with those clear green eyes, then said quietly,

"I have to thank you Master Culann, for saving me and bringing me here."

"It was nothing milady."

"You are too modest – an unusual trait I understand for a Fianna," she smiled that dazzling smile again.

"But tell me Master Culann, Oh, how formal; may I call you Culann?"

"Please."

"Good. Then you must call me Fea."

"As you wish mil . . . err, Fea."

"Wonderful," then more serious, "Culann I don't remember very much until I reached here. The sisters tell me you brought me here alone. Where are your men?"

"Yes milady . . . . Sorry, . . . Fea, my colleagues were all killed, except two. I brought you here myself."

"You – alone. Just you?"

"Well I had some help from a farm lady over the hill."

"Yes we heard from her. She checked here some days ago asking after my well-being. Sweet thing.

"May I ask where you were, when those wretches attacked our camp?" asked Fea softly.

Culann briefly explained the task he was given by Osgar, to get help from King Giona, how it was refused, how he was helped to escape by an unknown stranger, how he returned to their camp to find it a shambles, and he found Fea and brought her here.

He did not mention the men he had killed.

Fea sat staring at him, for what seemed an eternity to Culann.

Finally, "I don't know what I am to do with you Culann."

Silence again, "I am the daughter of a minor King, who has got himself killed. I am no longer a bargaining chip in the royal houses of Éire. [ Ireland ] I am now _'used material'_ "

"No milady."

A tight smile, "I may not have been conscious all the time Culann, but am fully aware of what was done to me, and my handmaidens."

"That makes no matter to me Fea."

"You know; I think I believe you – bless you," more silence.

"I have been thinking hard during these past weeks. I am used property, without value," she put her hand up to stop his protest, "and you Culann, you are obviously a very skilled warrior. Skilled in war, well beyond your years, but with no property, no cattle. You do what you do very well, until the day you will undoubtedly meet a man, who does it better than you.

"I need more time here to decide what I wish to do with the rest of my life Culann. Perhaps this is God's message to me, that I should remain in this convent and do His work.

"But more importantly Culann what of you? You who risked everything to save a woman you met, what, three times? I don't want to think of you lying dead or maimed as you undoubtedly will if you continue this lifestyle."

"It's the only thing I'm good at milady."

"Yes that's the point. I even asked the reverend mother Abbess here, if there was some task that you could perform, of benefit to the convent. She said you could become our gardener."

"Is that what you wish milady?"

"Of course not. Oh why didn't I meet you a year ago? This could all be different. No Culann, you are terribly sweet to say so, but we both know you would go crazy if you had to live the life of a gardener."

Silence again. Culann's head had sunk low. He had a terrible feeling of foreboding. This meeting, which he had been so looking forward to, was turning to ashes.

Fea saw how he was affected, and had to stop herself from reaching out to comfort him. That was underlined by the sharp look given her by Sister Una, the nun sitting off to one side.

"I have an idea Culann. An idea I hope you will consider."

Culann's head snapped up.

"You are a very personable young man You can turn the head of even a silly young princess. So much so, that she doesn't want to lose you."

Her eyes locked on his, "I wish you will consider going to a special island, for say three years, and joining the community there. Then, if you still wish to see me, I will wait your return."

"What is this island? What is its name?"

"It is called Iona, off the coast of Dál Riata [ South-west Scotland ]. Saint Columba, an Irish warrior monk, founded a mission there, many years ago. They do wonderful things. You could learn Latin, and read books."

"Iona? I have heard of it. That is where monks live. You want me to become a monk?" Standing now, _annoyed_.

"Please Culann, please just think about it. You don't have to decide now. Here, . ." she took a scroll from her blouse, "give this letter to the head of the Iona mission. It will open all doors for you."

He reached over and almost snatched the scroll,

"And here is something for you milady," somewhat bitterly. He drew the golden torc from his satchel and tossed it on the table.

Fea reached out and picked it up.

"It belonged to the man who was your persecutor and killed your father; Eogan mac Cairill," said Culann, coldly.

Fea dropped it as if it were suddenly red hot.

"And how did you get this? I suppose you went to his fortress and stole it," also angry now.

"No, five of us sought him out and I killed him myself."

Really angry now, "Can't you men think of anything except killing. What is the matter with you? Who asked you to kill anybody?"

Culann, white lipped, seething, turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. Fea collapsed onto her chair as the nun ran to give her comfort.

"What have I done? Oh what have I done!" she sobbed.

Hooves clattered on the courtyard outside, the crack of a whip, then the sound of a chariot moving off, further away, much further, then silence.

And so ended the only meeting between Fea and Culann at St Brigid's; so full of promise but ending in dregs of despair.

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* * * * *

4.1 Hot Heads and Hard Questions

Culann noticed the scroll lying on the ground. He carefully picked it up.  
It was addressed to someone, but the writing was in Latin. "Great, I don't read Latin."  
But he could understand one word at the bottom - _Iona_

Culann didn't steady his horse from the gallop until he was well out of sight of St Brigid's. Even then he let it trot for some leagues. Finally, the horse's sides lathered in sweat and his own emotions more under control, he stopped and let the horse graze while he stepped from the chariot and threw himself under a shade tree.

Fea's last angry words burnt in his mind. _"Can't you men think of anything except killing!"_ Well, she is totally ungrateful. After all I have done for her. But she is a woman, and what do women know about honour.

Culann had grown up with the Fianna, in the forests. There were no women in Fianna camps. He had no experience what-so-ever in dealing with women.

His breathing slowed to normal. He became aware of birds flitting in the branches above. _It would be so easy to be a bird, and not a warrior. But even birds have to deal with female birds, so I suppose they find it just as difficult._

What was he to do with his life? Go back to the Fianna? Most of his friends were dead. He rolled over and punched his fist into the ground.

"What else can I do? I'm only good as a warrior. But I have to admit I'm not even that good as a warrior. I've been lucky. Very lucky in fact." He sat up, suddenly sober. What if Osgar hadn't asked me to go for help? I'd be dead like the rest of them.

What if that unknown friend hadn't helped me to escape from the tent at River Barrow? I'd still be there, or possibly dead, _and Fea also_.

What if the thunderstorm hadn't happened at the very moment he rescued her from the tent at the camp? Those men's cries could have brought any number of enemy warriors.

What if he hadn't met the old farm woman. She tended Fea and then showed him St Brigid's.

What if Liam and the Fianna hadn't followed him and his four colleagues to mac Cairill's camp. Or hadn't been there just as they were cut off by the chariots? _Dead, dead, dead_.

Why was he so lucky? He remembered Breuse used to say; _'Men make their own luck'_. Well Breuse was dead now. Didn't do him much good. Are we given just so much luck in life and when it runs out, we die? _How much luck do I have left? Not very much I'll wager_.

Why was it, he was there, at the right moment for Fea to run into his life. He'd never have spoken to her otherwise. She wouldn't even know he existed.

She would never have told him _"You can turn the head of even a silly young princess. So much so that she doesn't want to lose you."_ His eyes watered, and a great pain started in his chest.

Then the thought struck him like a thunderbolt. _My good luck started the moment I met Fea. She is the lightning rod for my good luck_.

His back straightened, and he wiped his eyes, suddenly noticing the scroll lying on the ground beside him. It must have fallen out of his tunic while he thrashed about, feeling sorry for himself.

He carefully picked it up. It was sealed with red wax. It was addressed to someone, but the writing was in Latin. _Great! I don't read Latin_. But he could understand one word however, on the bottom \- _Iona_.

In life, sometimes everything becomes clear _(if one is lucky)_. All the mists and miseries are washed away. The clarity of what he must do was suddenly self-evident. _He would go to Iona_.

And that was how Culann changed his life, and others whose lives touched his, by going to Iona.

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* * * * *

4.2 The North Road

Next morning standing on the harbour jetty Culann said goodbye to Flann  
who had expertly guided them along mostly cattle trails to Derry Monastery.  
Culann wished his young companion _'God Speed'_ and gave him his prized horse and chariot.

Decision made, Culann drove his chariot back to the temporary camp of his Fianna friends. He told them of his resolve and asked if anyone knew the best way to get to the island of Iona. One younger member called Flann stepped forward and said his family came from the Northern Uí Néill clan. He remembered there was a monastery called Derry on Loch Foyle which regularly sent goods by _curach_ [1] to Iona. Both monasteries were founded by St Columba. He offered to guide Culann.

[1] **Curach** ; an Irish boat with a wooden frame, covered in animal skins stretched over the frame. Design is unique to Ireland & west coast of Scotland.

As many of the Fianna were now considering leaving because of the traumatic events of the past month, collectively the small Fianna group resolved to disband. If it had stayed together most felt Culann would have been elected leader as apart from being the best swordsman, he had been a member of the group longer than anyone now living.

To show their appreciation of this fact, plus his determination to go to the Iona monastery _(he did not tell the reason why he decided to go)_ , it was decided to give Culann the horse and chariot he had driven to St Brigid's.

After a long afternoon of farewells and with the horse now rested, Culann and Flann set off to the nearest monastery, Killashee. They knew that the monks never refused anyone admittance to their guest houses and would offer meals to travellers free of charge.

The following nights found them at Holmpatrick, Clonkeen, Armagh, Donaghmore and Bodoney heading north. On the seventh day they reached Derry.

The monks at Derry were very pleased to arrange passage for Culann on the curach to Iona, which would be leaving the next morning. _More good luck_ , thought Culann due to the young woman with sparkling green eyes and that wonderful smile

Next morning standing on the harbor jetty in the early light Culann said goodbye to Flann, who had expertly guided them along mostly cattle trails to the various monasteries.

Culann wished his young companion _'God Speed'_ and gave him his prized horse and chariot.

He had a comfortable feeling that with this prestigious gift, Flann would not only be highly regarded by all the warriors he met, but would also be regarded as desirable marriage material, if and when he decided to take a wife.

It was common in Ireland for the ordinary people to marry among equals and both husband and bride to contribute equally to their joint dowry.

Flann watched and waved as the boat bearing Culann drew away from the quay. It was eventually swallowed by the morning sea mist. He then turned and looked at the chariot with its enamelled sides and elegant whip handle proudly harnessed behind the tail flicking horse. It was the most expensive and esteemed item he had ever owned. He knew what he must do.

Outside the Derry monastery was a large marketplace where most things could be bought and sold. Everything was bartered; there were no coins. After several hours of haggling one of the stall holders stood beaming beside his newly acquired horse and chariot.

In the distance one could see a young man cracking a fine whip to move his four milk cows along the track toward the distant hills. Flann was going home, the successful son returning to his family.

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* * * * *

4.3 The Enchanted Isle

Saint Columba, also known as Colm Cille founded the Celtic monastery on Iona in 563 CE.  
Saint Martin's Cross on Iona, a replica of the original 8th century Saint John's Cross. A number of these exemplary crosses with the characteristic 'Celtic' ring around the intersection were sculptured on Iona

The small curach with its six oarsmen was barely making headway against the heavy swell and wind whipped waves, as it headed to its final destination, the rocky green island ahead. It had left Éire two days before, sheltering each night in coves on the islands of Islay and Colonsay.

The captain seated in the stern pulled heavily on the rudder oar to keep the light, timber framed boat covered in animal hide, on course. Culann sat in the middle amongst the packs and kegs, bailing water with a large cup, as required by any passenger.

The curach was the vessel of choice to move men and material along the coast of Éire, and the many islands comprising the Hebrides, off the west coast of Alba [ Scotland ].

The wind dropped and the swell diminished as they passed into the lee side of the island. The much larger island of Mull was on their right hand, clearly visible.

The curach pressed on past some rocky inlets and occasional rock strewn beaches. As the sun was about to slip behind the large granite hill the captain steered their small boat into a larger cove, between outcrops of rock. The sailors rowed hard until their curach grounded on the white sandy beach.

"Welcome to Iona laddie," the captain shouted as he stepped into the water above his knees, hauling the boat higher up the beach.

Culann clambered over the gunwale and onto Saint Columba's island. He gazed in wonder at this small piece of land, surrounded by sea, that was the epicentre of Celtic Christianity.

A group of monks were hurrying down from the wattle and daub buildings, further up the inlet. The sailors unloaded the provisions in the boat onto the beach. They would stay the night with the monks, and set sail tomorrow at first light.

After securing the boat, sailors and monks carried the provisions to one of the barns. Culann was taken by a monk to one of the many simple wooden buildings comprising the Iona monastery.

Abbot Cumméne looked up as the monk entered his abbot's hut carrying a scroll.

"We have a visitor Brother Abbot, from Éire."

"We have many visitors from Éire my son."

"But this one has an _epistle_ [ from the Greek epistole, meaning 'letter' ] addressed to you Brother Cumméne," The monk handed over the scroll sealed with red wax.

Abbot Cumméne opened the scroll and read the Latin text.

"Well you had best show in this important visitor."

Culann was ushered into the timber hut, somewhat larger than the other huts and set on higher ground.

"Welcome to our modest monastery my son," said the Abbot keenly sizing up his young visitor.

"How can we be of service?"

Culann shuffled nervously under the gaze of the much older man, sitting at a wooden desk, parchments spread in front of him and folded bundles on both sides.

"Well sir, I understand I am to learn Latin."

"Hmm, may I ask who recommended you come all the way to Iona?"

Under no circumstances was Culann going to admit it was the wish of a young Irish princess.

"Well," slowly, and thinking hard, " I had visited a monastery in central Ireland, and was given that scroll," pointing to the opened epistle on Cumméne's desk.

"And you dropped everything and made your way all the way to Iona to deliver this letter?" questioned Cumméne, a little incredulously.

"Not exactly. At first I had no intention of coming here. But later on I was laying under a shade tree looking at two birds, when this overpowering thought came to me; that I should come to Iona and learn Latin."

Cumméne straightened perceptively, "Well that puts a different light on it. It seems to me that you might have experienced some kind of divine intervention."

Culann said nothing, mainly because he had no idea what the old Abbot was talking about.

After reading the letter again in more detail Cumméne said,

"This letter is from the Abbess of Saint Brigid of Kildare. We know of her monastery. It is very famous. The Abbess says you have done her Abby a great service and we should accord your wishes, if possible.

"So what are your wishes my young man?" looking up expectantly. "Do you wish to enrol as a student or become a monk?"

"Which is more difficult?" asked Culann.

"Why, becoming a monk of course," smiled Cumméne.

"Then I wish to become a monk and learn Latin," said Culann seriously.

* * * *

Monks at the monastery spent their time praying, studying, copying earlier texts, praying again, and farming. They grew their own food and the Monastery was mostly self-sufficient. Each monk built his own little hut, from wood, or an individual rock beehive dwelling.

There was a kitchen; a _refectory_ [1] to eat in; a _scriptorium_ ,[2] where the texts were copied, with a library; a kiln; a mill; two barns; a smithy and a modest church.

[1] **refectory** , from the Latin **refectum** meaning ' **meal** '

[2] **scriptorium** , from the Latin script- **scribere** meaning ' **to write** '

Irish monks were not interested in creating massive buildings, dedicated to the glory of God, as much later became the case in Europe. They were just as comfortable praying to their God in a rough wooden hut, or outside, under an oak tree.

Because of the growing stream of visitors, Irish, Scots, Picts and even Angles, a guest house had also been built. Irish monks never refused hospitality to any guest.

Monks could often be found constructing monastic buildings, or tending the barley fields of Iona, fence building, grain threshing, fruit gathering or milking.

Culann was advised every monk had to do some communal work, besides studying and praying.

"Most of us help with the farming. Would Culann be interested in farming?" asked Brother Bryan who had been assigned to mentor Culann, the new novice monk.

"Is farming like being a gardener, only on a larger scale?" asked Culann.

"Yes you could say that." responded Bryan.

"Then I don't want to be a farmer." said Culann.

"Well then, what do you want to do? What are you good at?" enquired Bryan.

"I'm good at fighting," responded Culann.

Bryan smiled, "Brother Culann, here we try to save lives, not to take lives."

"I was told Saint Columba was a warrior monk."

"Why yes, he has been described as such."

"Then I wish to become a warrior monk."

"I think I need to talk to Brother Abbot about this," said Bryan, perplexed.

* * * *

Brother Bryan and Abbot Cumméne discussed this issue with some of the more senior monks.

"It is true that the founder of this monastery, Saint Columba, was regarded as a warrior monk. But that was over 100 years ago. Things were different then."

"How were they different? Things are just as dangerous now as they were then."

"Yes but he didn't kill anyone."

"Not so, Columba was blamed for the battle of Cúl Dreimhne in the Year of our Lord 561, in which 3,000 lives were lost."

"Yes, that was because of a dispute over a copied Gospel. Columba led his powerful kinsmen, the Clan Conaill, against King Diarmait's army, and defeated them."

"Saint Columba also would have had armed monks with him on his journey through Alba, to meet King Bridei, of the Picti."

"Probably, but we don't know that for sure."

Finally, Abbot Cumméne, after listening intently to this discussion, raised his hand for silence and gave his decision,

"I am not convinced we should encourage any of our monks to carry weapons to use on anyone, even if our lives are threatened."

"However all monks carry a strong staff. I see no reason why they should not be guided in the effective use of their staffs to protect the innocent, or defend any sacred objects with which they are entrusted, such as our gospels needed to enlighten the poor souls who are not yet converted to Christianity.

"Perhaps our new Brother Culann may be entrusted in instructing those amongst us, who wish to avail themselves of this form of protection."

"Brother Culann also asked if he could continue to wear his sword," enquired Bryan, hopefully.

"Hmmm," mused Abbot Cumméne, "I don't think it is wise for monks, who are men of peace, to be seen wearing weapons. However, knowing how highly Brother Culann is regarded by our sister monastery of St Brigid, if he wishes to wear his sword, he may do so - _as long as I can't see it._ "

* * * *

Culann entered into the spirit of Iona with much enthusiasm. He began attending classes on Latin every morning after Lauds prayers with Brother Bryan. Later he watched in fascination as older books and manuscripts were copied from Latin into Irish _codex_ [3] in the scriptorium, and attended the regular prayer sessions during the day and night.

[3] **Codex** distinguishes a book, as we know it, from the more ancient scroll. It was made from mottled sheepskin. The taller than wide format, was determined by the shape of the sheepskin, which was more economically cut into double pages and when folded, to yield our modern book appearance.

He built his own little beehive hut from the many stones available on the island. Then he began giving lessons to any monk _(or student)_ wishing to improve their skills using the staff.

"For self-defence purposes only of course," stated Culann, with a straight face.

Oh yes, he also rigged a leather strap and scabbard, which he slung over his shoulder to carry his sword, out of sight under his cloak.

One thing which relieved Culann, was the fact that everyone spoke Irish Celtic. He was originally concerned that the monks would speak only Latin, and he would not be able to communicate with anyone.

In fact, only the books or codex were written in Latin.

Latin was spoken only at meal time in the refectory. Everyone sat in silence during the meal, and the only sound heard - _apart from wooden spoons scraping food from wooden bowls_ \- was the spoken words of a nominated monk, who read aloud from one of the gospels.

A far cry from the riotous behaviour at the evening meals at the great halls of Kings with all their warrior entourage. Or in the deep forest with the Fianna, that Culann had experienced most of his life.

Brother Bryan explained to Culann that the Columban Celtic monks relied on no man for their support or keep. They grew their own crops, built their own buildings and tended their own animals. Some exchange was made between other monasteries such as Jura where milk was more plentiful on the larger island and Iona provided grain. In fact, Iona was self-sufficient in milk, but the Abbott was keen to continue the custom as it was an excuse to visit Jura each week, without that monastery feeling Iona was checking up on them.

The same strong discipline regarding prayer and meditation was exhibited in the matter of food. They fasted during Lent, for forty days before Christmas and all Wednesdays and Fridays. During the season of Lent, they took no food until evening, but on other fast days they took their meal in the afternoon. Their ordinary fare was frugal consisting of barley bread, milk, fish and eggs. On Sundays and festivals something extra was allowed _._

Culann fitted easily with the strict regimentation of the monastic order with its prescribed timing of prayers, meals, lessons and periods of silence. He had led a highly regulated life with the Fianna, learning skills with sword and staff every day, where a mistake in training resulted at best a sharp cuff across the head or worst case a severe life threatening wound.

* * * *

While taking lessons one day from Brother Bryan, Culann asked, "Why did Saint Columba found _Iona_?" [4]

[4] a small Hebridean island originally known as **'I'** , known today as **Iona** , a late misreading of its Latin name **ioua**

Bryan paused and then related the famous story.

"In the year 561, when Columba was forty, he went to visit his old master Saint Finbarr at Moville. While there Columba determined to make a secret copy of one of the valuable manuscripts owned by Finbarr, the _St. Martin's Gospel_. Each night he stole to the scriptorium and copied part of the great Gospel.

"Unfortunately, after he completed his task, St. Finbarr discovered what had taken place while he slept. He was furious. But then Columba was equally short tempered and declared he would not give up his copy.

"He advised Finbarr to take the matter to the High King's Court at Tara.

"But the unpredictable occurred. High King Diarmait brushed aside the accused's exalted position in the land: Columba was a direct descendant of Nial of the Seven Hostages; whose men captured the young Saint Patrick on one of their raids on the British coast.

"The King found in favour of St. Finbarr. 'To every cow,' he said, 'belongs her calf. To every book her son-book.' _(Possibly the earliest legal decision on_ _copyright_ _on record)_.

"Columba was imprisoned, escaped and roused his clan in Ulster. Together with allied clans from Connaught, he led them to victory in a bloody battle against King Diarmait near Sligo.

"However the High King appealed to the church. A _synod_ [5] was held to discuss this unprecedented event. This resulted in the _excommunication_ [6] of Columba for causing civil war in the land, resulting in the death of 3,000 warriors.

[5] **synod** , a special church council which meets to discuss church affairs. From the Greek **sunodos.**

[6] **excommunication** , from Latin **excommunicare** to exclude from the community.

"Upon appeals from his friends, Columba's excommunication was repealed but Saint Columba was exiled from Ireland. An additional apt penance was; _he had to win for God as many souls as were lost in battle_.

"In 563 Columba sailed for Alba with twelve disciples and thereafter founded this monastery on Iona. Plus he brought with him that contested _psalter_ [7] Gospel of St Martin, which was called the _Cathach_ , or _'Warrior'_."

[7] **psalter** , a book of psalms

The story appealed enormously to Culann, the former Fianna warrior.

* * * *

As a novice Culann was allocated considerable time to study. Learning the basic tenants of Christianity was easy, but he found it very difficult mastering Latin. In fact it would take some years before he would be deemed proficient.

Copying or writing text however was something else. His teachers were amazed at how quickly he developed that particular skill. Those who knew of his background might have suggested it was a special ability passed on from his father, the Smith.

Reading and writing Irish Celtic was easier as it was his mother tongue.

And thus began Culann's time at Iona; a warrior learning how to become a monk; _and quietly teaching monks to become warriors._

Culann with some of his students from his self-defence classes.

For the first few weeks, Culann investigated every nook and niche of his new island home. Everything that is, except the smithy. For some reason, he was unable to fathom, he could not bring himself to go inside the building.

One windy day, after a particularly strenuous workout with his students, and the inevitable finishing plunge into the icy sea, Culann was walking in company with two of his students. They passed the smithy building, aglow with the fire from the bellows.

"Quick," said one student, grabbing Culann's arm, "let's go inside; it's warmer."

Culann, initially resisted, but unable to say why, allowed himself to be pulled inside.

Two monks, stripped to the waist, looked up smiling at their sudden audience. One was working the bellows while his companion hammered a glowing red hot metal object on an anvil.

"Welcome Brothers," said the monk wielding the hammer, sweat streaming down his body. "Come to see how real men work have you?"

"No, "laughed one of the students, "we came in to get out of the cold."

"And you Brother Culann," said the monk on the bellows, smiling, "why haven't we been graced by your company before."

Culann was staring around at some of the equipment and metal items decorating the walls. His revere abruptly snapped by the monk's question,

"This brings back memories of long ago, Brother Smith," he said slowly.

"Pleasant memories I trust," smiled the monk.

Culann paused for a long moment, as if trying to decide on his answer, then with a smile, "Yes. Surprisingly, good memories."

From that day forward, Culann became a regular visitor to the Smiths' shed. The monks grew used to his manner, which changed radically; some days just sitting deep in thought and other times carrying on an animated inquiry on how some procedures were carried out.

Back to top

* * * * *

4.4 Ardslignish

Culann watched as the villagers gasped in wonderment as they observed the carved cross

Six months after Culann joined the Iona community, Abbot Cumméne called Brother Bryan to his hut. Upon entering Bryan immediately noticed a forlorn looking monk sitting slumped at one side. The Abbott motioned him to be seated opposite.

"Brother Bryan we have a problem at our new monastery at Ardslignish." began Cumméne. "We have just received word that there are disagreements between the Abbott of Ardslignish and his fellow monks. This may be spilling over into disturbances with the local tribe" Bryan sat stony faced saying nothing.

"I believe you are familiar with our operation at Ardslignish Brother Bryan. In fact, if I remember correctly you arranged the transfer of cattle from the Lios mór monastery to Ardslignish last summer." Bryan nodded.

"Excellent!" The Abbott smiled. "Would you be prepared to go to Ardslignish and determine if the current Abbott is the appropriate person to lead that parish?"

"Just me?" asked Bryan in astonishment.

"No, no, of course not. You may choose some companions to assist you. However, I have selected Brother Morann to accompany you. If you decide that the current Abbott is not suitable, I would request that Brother Morann be installed in his stead. However, let me be quite clear on one thing. You are in charge of this mission Brother Bryan. I have great faith in your ability in these matters and I need you back here for other work." Abbott Cumméne rose in dismissal.

"Do you need our colleague here," nodding to the melancholy monk, "to guide you?"

"Not necessary sir, I know the way." replied Bryan thoughtfully. He was already trying to determine who else he should take with him.

Bryan retired to his beehive hut to think. After a short time, he walked over to the scriptorium where he knew Culann would be studying Latin. After a quiet word to the monk instructing the class, he motioned to Culann to follow him outside. Culann gratefully packed his codex into his satchel and followed his mentor into the pale sunlight.

Brother Bryan led them to a log beneath one of the large trees nearby. There they sat while Bryan explained what he had been told by the Abbott. Culann said nothing, but gripped his satchel a little tighter in anticipation.

"Culann, I have given some thought to this matter." said Bryan. "At this stage I don't know the extent of the problem in Ardslignish. I plan to go with two older learned monks and use their seniority and obvious respect to influence the monks who wish to remain at Ardslignish.

"Regarding the local tribe which seems to be involved as well, I need someone who has an understanding of tribal matters. Is there anyone among your students learning how to use the staff, who could be useful? "

Culann spoke slowly looking Bryan directly in eyes

"Many of my students are enthusiastic, but they have little experience I feel in this area."

"Ah yes, I was afraid you might say that. In that case I will have to go and evaluate the situation myself."

Culann placed a restraining hand on Bryan as he moved to stand.

"Take me with you Brother Bryan. I fought with men from Dál Riata in the Fianna. I know them."

"I was hoping you might say that." smiled Bryan. "I will talk with your lecturers and obtain leave from your lessons for a couple of weeks."

* * * *

Early next morning the curach manned by six seamen pulled out of the cove where Culann had landed barely half a year earlier. Onboard were Bother Bryan, Brother Morann who had a full head of hair, but cut of course in the style of the Celtic tonsure, shaving the front from ear to ear and always seemed to be smiling, plus two grey haired monks and Culann.

The small craft rounded the southern tip of Iona and headed due north. The weather was kind to them, with only light winds and little swell. With islands Tyree and Coll on their left and Ulva and the large island of Mull on their right they pressed on till sundown. The sailors tiring after a full days hard rowing, pulled into a cove on the top end of Mull where a makeshift camp was set up for the night.

Next morning brought overcast skies with the wind gusting, threatening rain. The travellers set off at first light and rounding what would later be called Ardmore Point, hoisted their sail and with the wind behind them scudded east across the Sound of Mull and into Loch Sunart.

Ardslignish monastery came into view and the oars were brought out to pull them into the cove below the four wooden buildings lining the dark rocky shore.

No one came to greet them. A few figures silhouetted on the skyline, obviously not monks, watched as they disembarked. Bryan gathered his small party and leaving the sailors to unload their gear, marched up toward the nearest building.

Pushing through the door they found ten monks lying or sitting on blankets, rubbing their eyes as the suddenly open door let light stream into the stuffy room.

"Come on lads, " exulted Brother Bryan clapping his hands "Time for _Terce_ [1]. Quickly now, over to the Church."

[1] Terce, mid-morning prayer, around 9 am

Years of order and strict regime kicked in. The lolling monks quickly jumped to their feet, struggled into their habits and followed Brother Bryan into the middle building which indeed was the church.

Culann watched as the Ionian monks and the ten local monks knelt on the church floor. Brother Bryan led them in prayer. Culann then turned and climbed to the crest of the nearby hill where he had earlier noticed figures. None were now present.

From this position he could see south into the next cove. There was a small farming community with a number dwelling houses, what appeared to be a barn and some lean-to sheds. Sheep were scattered in the distance. There was no sign of life except for the smoke rising from both dwelling houses. They must be hiding.

Culann retraced his steps, but observing a small grassed flat area to his right, he detoured toward it. There was a strange object in the middle of the clearing. As he approached he noticed with surprise it was a large standing stone. It was moss covered on top and looked very old.

Puzzled, Culann turned and made his way downhill to the church.

Prayers were still coming from the church so Culann instructed the sailors to place the equipment they had just unloaded in the building the monks had been found sleeping. He then waited for Brother Bryan.

On emerging from the church Brother Bryan nodded to Culann and indicated they should walk together.

"We certainly have a problem here Culann." said Bryan clasping his hands behind his back. "Well we have two problems actually. It appears our former Abbott was unsuitable for the task given him. His autocratic manner succeeded in alienating not only most of the monks but the local people as well."

"With all due respect sir," suggested Culann quietly, "I thought our own Abbott acts in a somewhat autocratic manner."

Bryan burst out laughing.

"Bless my soul Culann," said Bryan clapping his hand on Culann's shoulder, "you are observant. However, there is a difference between strongly suggesting something be done, which is how I think Abbott Cumméne conducts himself, with dignity, and telling someone to do something without adequately explaining why."

"Where is the Abbott of Ardslignish?" asked Culann. "Well that is the only bit of good news. He left."

"Left?" repeated Culann incredulously.

"Yes, apparently things degenerated to such a state that the majority of the monks refused his instructions, so he and two of his followers took one of the only two curachs and left for Ireland. The second one was then taken by the poor fellow I saw in Abbott Cumméne's room, to report the mess to Iona.

"The monks here are totally demoralised. Never the less, I think Brother Morann will be able to rejuvenate them."

"And the second thing?" prompted Culann.

"Ah yes. The locals. It appears that our little community here have upset the locals because they did not to allow them to continue to worship at some obviously pagan site. Now the locals refuse to have anything to do with the monastery or accept any of our teachings."

"I think I may have seen that pagan site." volunteered Culann.

"You have? Where is it?"

"Up yonder hill." said Culann pointing. "Would you like to see it?"

"Yes, yes man. Take me to it now."

* * * *

A short time later Culann and Brother Bryan stood contemplating the standing stone. Bryan walked around it a number of times.

"Amazing," said Bryan. "I have seen something similar a few times in Éire. Hmmm, . . . this may solve our problem with the locals."

"How is that?" asked Culann.

"Well my son, when Christianity first began spreading in Éire, we faced many problems with the pagan practices of the Druids. They had sacred oaks trees, wells and streams - the Druids also revered water. They believed it was a doorway into the afterlife.

"Originally Saint Patrick and our own Saint Columba countered this by casting Holy Water into the wells and streams, blessing them and therefore changing them into Christian holy places.

"As for the oak trees, our own Saint Brigid, may her soul rest in peace, built her most famous monastery located under a huge oak tree, and originally called it _Cill-Dara_ [ Church of the Oak ], now known as Kildare. I recall you have in fact been there Culann.

"So I think we will carry on that tradition. We will carve a cross on this standing stone, bless it and then allow the locals to pray at our now Christian relic."

"But that is not honest." stated Culann.

"No, it involves something the Christian church does very well - _adaptation_. We simply adapt to changing conditions. Now do we have any stonemasons down there?" pointing to the monastery below.

There were no stone masons among the monks, but most had worked at some time in the scriptorium. So Brother Bryan selected one to draw the outline of a cross on the side of the stone facing the sea.

"That is fine," stated one of the Ardslignish monks, "but how do we carve the cross? We have no tools for carving stone."

"We will use this." said Brother Bryan bending down and selecting one of the larger pieces of stone that lay at the base of the rock.

"It won't work." said the Ardslignish monk, picking up two stones and cracking them against each other - both stones crumpled equally.

"Ah yes," replied Brother Bryan, "but we will use Holy Water." He picked up two stones and walked to a small soak about fifty paces away. He blessed the water and made the sign of the cross. Then he dipped one stone in the water for a few moments. Then standing and facing his audience struck both stones together. The wet one crumbled and the dry one remained intact.

"That is how we will dress our standing stone gentlemen. I witnessed some of our monks carving the Celtic Cross at Iona some years ago using this water method to prepare stone."

* * * *

A leather shield was erected around the stone to hide the monks activity. For the next three days and nights two monks worked diligently, one using a rag, dripped water onto selected areas of the standing stone while the other chipped away using the dry stone.

Culann kept watch from the ridge at night. His keen night vision enabled him to observe the local villagers creeping up the side of the ridge to watch the flickering shadows of the monks cast on the leather shield from the candles inside. If they ventured too close Culann walked deliberately slowly toward them. On noticing his hooded silhouette, they fled into the darkness.

On the morning of the third day Brother Bryan asked Culann and Brother Moran to accompany him to the village in the next bay. When they arrived it seemed deserted as usual, but smoke was still issuing from two dwelling huts.

Brother Bryan turned to Culann, "What shall we do now Brother Culann?"

Culann indicated they should all sit respectfully in front of the main huts with their hoods removed and wait.

They did . . . And they did . . . . And they did.

After quite some time there was movement in the undergrowth behind the village and eventually a dozen armed men approached. They stood in front of the seated monks and then Culann motioned they should all rise. Brother Bryan nodded to Brother Morann who approached the leading warrior holding out a mirror and other gift items that had been brought specially from Iona. The leader reached forward with both hands and took the gifts.

Just then one of the warriors at one side, dressed in a bearskin, leapt forward, shouting and waving his sword menacingly. The monks instinctively took a step back. Before anyone could blink Culann had his sword out and with a flicking motion cut the shoulder strap holding the warrior's bearskin. The warrior desperately grabbed at the falling garment and in doing so dropped his sword. His colleagues all burst out laughing and the leader turned on his embarrassed colleague and abused him soundly. Then turning to the monks, apologised for their behaviour.

Everyone understood him as he must have been _Dál Riata_ [2] and spoke Irish Gaelic, albeit with a very strong accent.

[2] Scholars now consider there were up to four groups making up what had been referred to as the **Dál Riata** occupation of south-west Scotland, all with links to Ireland.

Brother Morann stepped forward again and began distributing gifts from a bag at his side. Culann just as quickly hid his sword under his cloak and watched as woman and children appeared as well to watch and join in the gift giving.

After a little time, Brother Bryan motioned to everyone they should climb the hill separating the two communities. It was now midday.

When everyone reached the small plateau they noticed all the Ardslignish monks kneeling in front of the standing stone, which was surrounded by candles, praying.

The villagers looked at one another in confusion. Here were monks praying at the sacred stone that previously they had tried to forbid the villagers approaching.

Brother Morann raised his hands and called loudly that the monks were now performing Sext, their midday prayers. If anyone wished to join them they were most welcome. He then led the remaining monks to the standing stone, knelt and began praying.

Culann also knelt to pray but made sure he was facing the villagers, just in case.

As the villagers moved to the front of the stone a gasp of wonderment went up when they observed the carved cross. The rubble had all been cleaned away and the midday sun highlighted the embossing. _A miracle!_

After some long moments of animated discussion, Culann noticed some of the women moved to the stone along with couple of young children to pray. The reconciliation had begun.

Two days later the curach manned by the sailors pulled out of Ardslignish cove. It contained Brothers Bryan and Culann. The other Iona monks, together with now Abbott Morann and the Ardslignish monks waved them fair wind.

Alongside on the foreshore, the villagers also waved.

Back to top

* * * * *

Chapter 5 - Fergus

Fergus with his mother Sirona, at St. Ninian's on Moray Firth

Fergus son of Ciniod, or Fergus mac Ciniod as he would have been called, was seven summers old when he went to live with Danan of Alba, near what is now called the river Tay. Like most noble Pict boys, he was not raised by his birth parents, but fostered, or raised by a relative.

Fostering was designed to promote ties of brotherhood between two clans.

Fergus was the third child of Ciniod, a chieftain of the _Fortriu_ [1], and Sirona, the sister of Danan.

[1] Fortriu, a tribe located around the Moray Firth

It was considered a great honour to be entrusted with the upbringing of another's child. As such, Danan would be responsible for providing an all-round education suitable for a young warrior.

This included; running, leaping and hurling weights, shinty; spear throwing; use of sword, plus sword and _buckler_ [2], quarterstaff; hunting, fishing and hawking; poetry, musicianship, and diplomacy.

[2] **buckler** , a small shield, 15-45 cm in diameter, gripped with the fist. Used as a companion weapon with the sword.

Even though intelligence and learning were highly regarded, martial arts were the first priority. Training began at age seven. Skills in warfare were considered vital with Picts as well as the Irish Celts.

As the Picts fought without any armour, the emphasis was on agility and co-ordination. Wood-running was considered crucial and Fergus was taught how to run - _without clothes to hinder him_ \- in races to the tops of nearby hills, against much older boys. He must leap low branches or duck under high ones. It was considered important that no strand of hair was loosened as he weaved around trees without leaving a leaf shaking.

He was taught swordplay using sticks or cudgels. Games were an important tool for developing battlefield skills. Games such as _'Shinty_ ' were considered ideal practice for fast moving mêlées typical of Celtic warfare. The main emphasis was on field craft, agility and prowess in individual combat.

Fergus excelled at Shinty. His agility and ability to effectively use shoulder to shoulder contact made him highly respected among players.

Shinty was played over two thousand years ago in Caledonia by the Picts. It was introduced by the Celts from Ireland where it is called Hurling. From it developed the modern game of Field Hockey, Ice Hockey and Lacrosse.

Shinty is a team game played with sticks and a ball. The aim is to play the ball into a goal or 'hail' erected at the ends of the playing area. The ball may be played in the air and both sides of the stick can be used. A player may block the ball with his stick, chest, or feet. Playing the ball with the head is considered a foul. A player may tackle using the body.

_Some Shinty players have asserted that_ _Quidditch_ _, the fictional sport in the Harry Potter books and film series by J.K. Rowling was inspired by_ _Shinty_ _._

Fergus excelled at Shinty, which was considered ideal training for typical Celtic warfare

The Picts were taller in stature than the Irish and more solidly built. However, Fergus was not as tall as his compatriots and it was noticeable he was more slender in build. This was not a disadvantage in the rough and tumble of wrestling and other body contact sports, plus he was more adapt than many of his peers at wood running and overall agility.

The average height for Celtic males in Britain in Late Iron Age (100 BCE \- 100 CE) was around 1.71 m (5ft 7 1/2 in) and females 1.58m (5ft 2in) [3]. Irish Celts were slightly taller.

[3] archaeological analysis of 700 Iron Age burials excavated in East Yorkshire 1960 and late 1980's

Fergus had been living with the clan of Danan for two years when word came that his father, Ciniod, had been killed on a cattle raid against the clan Fidach, southwest of his territory. Leadership of Crinoid's clan passed to one of his northern uncles.

* * * *

Every ten days the youths in Danan's camp would run to the top of one of three large _braes_ [4] at the far end of the peninsular on which the village was located. Everyone was very competitive and none more so than Fergus. It was therefore doubly frustrating for him to be continually beaten by some of the other boys. The fact that they were older, faster and stronger was irrelevant: They beat him.

[4] **brae** , a hill or hillside, a steep slope

He sat on the shore, staring at those three peaks, as he did many days after finishing well behind the leaders. If they were quicker than him, he would have to be smarter than them. But how?

In his mind he traced out the track to be taken to reach the top of each high hill and the return. On two of the hills it was quicker to run up the valley and then directly climb the steep slope to the summit. While on the third hill it was faster to run up the side ridge, then slide down the steep slope. But everyone knew that. Where he lost most ground was on the relatively long tidal plain at the base of the peninsular and up around the shore to the village itself. Pity he was not a fish - he could swim directly across. _Ha, Ha_ , but fish have no legs, so it couldn't run.

_But dogs swim - and they have legs!_ He stood up suddenly, took one of the hunting dogs down to the water's edge, threw in a stick and watched the dog swim out to retrieve it.

* * * *

Two months later Fergus was visited by his mother, Sirona. She greeted him warmly and enquired how he was faring with his foster father, Danan, as she always did.

Fergus said everything was fine and he was treated well by Danan, as he always did. This time however he asked her to stay to watch him run in tomorrow's brae race.

All the boys gathered at daybreak, ready for the start of the race to the middle mountain and back. Danan standing at the front of the runners raised his hands slowly then they flashed down. The race began. Fergus was just visible in the middle of the pack as they ran past the far tidal plain and began the climb up the middle mountain.

Sirona went over to Danan and asked how Fergus fared in these races. Danan smiled at his sister and replied

"He is just a small boy, Sister. He usually starts out well but cannot match the older boys on the long run home around the bay on the flat and somewhat boggy ground. Perhaps in a couple of years he will do better."

Sirona nodded and sat down to await the reappearance of the runners down the mountain. The sun was half way to its zenith when the first small figures appeared far away through the tree line at the base of the brae. Gradually more people gathered to watch the final stage of the race. There was much animated discussion as to who would win this time. Three names Sirona did not recognize were being bandied about by the spectators as to who would finish first.

Sirona stood on tiptoe as the runners reached the tidal flat on the far side of the bay and began the long run around the shoreline to the finish here at the village. The runners were spread out in a long line and eventually she spotted Fergus, well back. At least he had more runners behind him than in front. She would tell him that and say how proud of him she was, when he finished.

Suddenly a gasp went up from the crowd. Sirona's vision was blocked for a few precious seconds. When she moved to a get a clear view she couldn't see Fergus. Had he fallen? Some people in the now larger crowd were pointing to the bay. She peered in that direction and saw what appeared to be something in the water, splashing away from the far shore.

"What is it?" asked Sirona, puzzled.

One of the warriors turned and said laughing,

"One of the lads must have got too hot and he jumped into the water to cool off." Others joined in the mirth.

"Do you know who it is?" asked Sirona in a concerned voice.

"I think it is young Fergus." came the reply.

"Yes it's Fergus alright." said another "But he seems to be heading directly for us."

"Why would he be doing that?" asked someone.

"Beats me," replied another, "maybe he has a touch of the sun." more mirth from the spectators.

"Hey," yelled an older warrior, "the runners have just struck the peat bog down where the burn runs into the bay. That will slow them down."

Sirona appealed to Danan "Please, can someone get a boat or something to save my boy?"

Danan shielded his eyes with his hand before replying,

"Your boy doesn't seem to be in any difficulty Sister. In fact he looks as if he's almost half way to this side of the bay."

Others then began focusing on the splashing figure as it came ever closer.

"What has he got there? Some sort of raft or wooden plank?"

"No he doesn't appear to have anything. He is just paddling."

"Paddling? What's paddling?"

"You know paddling, like a dog. He's _'dog paddling'_." Gusts of laughter rang out.

"He's crazy." sniggered one man. Sirona covered her face in shame.

Danan still watching the swimmer getting ever closer said slowly,

"He's crazy all right. Crazy like a fox. He's closer than any of the runners." Voice rising, "If he keeps this up he might just beat them."

Sirona uncovered her face and stood again, caught up in the sudden excitement that energized the group. Fergus was now plainly in view not very far from them. His head high out of the water while his hands and feet thrashed even harder as he closed in on the shore.

Without realizing what she was doing Sirona was suddenly leaping up and down clapping her hands and crying "Fergus . . . Fergus."

The cry was taken by others "Fergus . . . Fergus."

The first group of runners were still some distance away. "Fer **gus** . . . Fer **gus**."

Fergus stumbled out of the water over the rocky shore and staggered toward the finish line.

" **Fergus! . . . Fergus!** "

He straightened, stole a quick glance at fast approaching runners and head thrown back, arms and legs pumping, sprinted for the finish line, " _FERGUS !!_ _. . ._ _FERGUS !!_ " Danan held his arms out as Fergus collapsed into him.

Sirona was screaming, "Fergus, Fergus, you've won, you've won," and rushed to kiss her wonderful son.

Fergus stumbled out of the water toward the finish line

Literally, before one could complete reciting The Lord's Prayer, the foremost of the other runners crossed the finish line - in second place.

Utter uproar broke out. People gathered around to congratulate young Fergus. Others argued heatedly that it wasn't fair to swim across the bay. It was a running race, not a dog paddle.

After the tumult subsided somewhat Danan held up his hands for silence.

"I will call a meeting of our elders to decide what rules we should adopt for future mountain races. In the meantime, I want to sincerely congratulate Fergus for showing such initiative. I don't know how he learnt to paddle like that but in any case, I believe he is the fair and deserving winner of today's race."

Sirona beamed, embracing her son. Fergus looked acutely embarrassed. Not by all the attention being showered upon him, but the fact his mother, a woman, was hugging and kissing him in public.

The elders duly met and decided, not unexpectedly, that all future races had to be run on the land in their entirety. They were elders after all and set in their ways. However, everyone present acknowledged that on that particular day, Fergus was the first one home.

Fergus continued practicing paddling just in case they changed the rules. Plus, it was great fun.

* * * *

In the summer of Fergus's twelfth year of birth, his mother Sirona again came to visit her Brother Danan, and of course to see her son. Sirona explained to Danan that since the death of her husband, she had been living at a small Christian monastery, started many years ago by the first Christian evangelist to come to Alba, Saint Ninian.

She reminded her Brother that not only had Fergus father been killed, but so had his two older brothers in clashes with the neighbouring clan; Fidach. This was a violent era and life expectancy was short. Fergus was now her only living son.

Sirona asked her brother Danan's permission to send Fergus to a very famous monastery, located further down the coast, called Lindisfarne.

"Why do you want your son to go to a Christian monastery? Do you wish he becomes a monk and not a warrior? Are you worried he will be killed like his brothers?" asked Danan.

"No not at all." replied Sirona. "I know he wishes to become a warrior like his father. I couldn't stop that even if I wanted. But while I have been living in the monastery of St Ninian, I have seen a wonderful new skill, called reading and writing. I want my son to learn to read and write."

"But we Picts write, - look at our standing stones and the Ogham script chiselled into it." protested Danan.

"Rubbish! The Ogham script originated across the sea in Hibernia. And can you read it Danan? No - only the Druids can read it."

Sirona was now angry "These monks write a beautiful language on pieces of calfskin. They draw wonderful colourful letters on it and bind it up in a thing called a codex. They copy old scrolls so everyone can read and understand it. They know lots of languages, Irish, Latin and many others. We Picts - we write nothing!

"All we learn is from Druids or old men who recite poems and songs. The monks can teach people to read and gain much more knowledge. They say knowledge is power, and I believe them.

"You know Fergus was very sickly when he was a child. He had fever and was near death many times as a boy. You see his is not as big as other boys. I want him to have more learning than anyone, to make up for his physical disadvantage. I want him to learn to read and write!"

Danan was a brave chieftain but he could never stand up to his sister, especially when she was angry.

"If your Christian monks are so smart, why don't you take Fergus to your St Ninian monastery, it's closer," suggested Danan.

"It is only a little mediocre monastery," replied Sirona. "The best place for learning is on an island many leagues away on the west sea called Iona. That is too far, and I have no contacts there.

"Iona started a new monastery some years ago at Lindisfarne, to bring Christianity to the Angles and the Picts. They sent many of their best Irish monks and teachers and I am told it is second only to Iona for learning; not just on our land but in all the lands across the sea.

"Plus one of the St Ninian monks has been there and can take Fergus and introduce him to their leader. I want him to go there Danan."

Danan shrugged and threw his hands in the air,

"If that's what you want my sister, then Fergus shall go. He thinks differently than most boys here. He runs fast, but is not big enough to be a great warrior. He can go with my blessing."

That resulted in young Fergus being sent to learn to _'read and write'_ at Lindisfarne.

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* * * * *

5.1 The Gaining of Wisdom

Sirona briefed Brother Bec before he left for Lindisfarne with Fergus.  
"Fergus needs to learn to read and write. I want my son to have great knowledge."

Sirona briefed the monk, Brother Bec, who was quite wise and not young anymore, before he set off to Lindisfarne with Fergus.

"You must make sure that the Abbot at Lindisfarne - what's his name . . ?"

"Colmán my lady"

"Yes Colmán. You must make sure that Abbot Colmán understands one day Fergus could be chieftain of all the Picts. He needs to learn to read and write. Not just Latin but those other languages like Irish, the one you monks speak, and what's the other one, Geek?"

"Greek my lady."

"Yes, Greek. I want my son, not just to run blindly into battle and get himself killed. I want him to have great knowledge. If he is to rule wisely he must have wisdom. He can get wisdom from your books."

"Most certainly my lady. I spend much of the year between St Ninian's and Lindisfarne. I will keep a close eye on his progress and advise you."

"Bless you Bec. I know I can rely on you."

The next morning Bec and Fergus set out on their journey. For Fergus it was a great adventure. He was sad to say goodbye to his mother, but he had seen her only a few times over the past few years and was actually closer to Danan and his foster family

For the first several days they were able to sleep in huts of Christian farmers that Bec knew. The farmers would not accept any payment, so Bec would conduct a short religious service for the family. That pleased everyone.

Bec arranged for a curach to take them across the large waterway known as the Firth of Forth which saved many days walking upstream to a ford. All told, it took ten days in easy stages to reach Lindisfarne. They were now in the land of the Angles. There were no Pictish tribes here.

The farmhouses they stayed in now, were occupied by much stockier, thick set people, not nearly as tall as the Picts. Fergus thought their women were not as attractive as the Picts either.

When they reached Lindisfarne. Fergus was surprised to see that the monastery was in fact on an island. "Where are the boats? How do we get across?"

"We don't need boats. We walk."

Fergus smiled in disbelief. "I have heard of your Gods, Bec, who walk on water. I didn't know you were a God. I can swim but not walk on water."

Bec smiled back. "All in good time young Fergus. I guarantee you will be able to walk to the island later today."

And of course Lindisfarne was a tidal island. Twice a day the tide came in and covered the sand walkway, and twice a day it receded leaving a trail marked by wooden posts to show the way. Later that afternoon Bec and Fergus walked over to Lindisfarne.

There were about 150 monks on the island. There were many students and visitors who were accommodated as well. Fergus settled in and looked forward to learning this new skill, _'reading and writing'_.

When he saw his first codex in the scriptorium with its wonderfully colourful characters, it almost took his breath away. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life and was totally captivated.

The most difficult adjustment for Fergus however was the lack of physical activity at the monastery compared to his very athletic life at Alba. Within the first week he was becoming very agitated. Bec conferred with Abbot Colmán who suggested he be given the task of collecting the milk from the farm on the mainland every day.

Fergus at first thought that was too easy a task. However, he soon discovered the timing would be slightly different every day because of change in the tides.

The monk charged with teaching him Latin was not happy, that one of his pupils would arrive for lessons slightly later each day.

After careful consideration Fergus decided he would leave for the mainland every morning at first light. If the tide was out – fine. If not, he would swim. Not an easy task when the currents and rips were in full swing. At times he would reach the mainland some leagues further away from the normal landing point and would have to run to the farm to collect the milk. Well that was okay getting to shore. But how could he get the milk back to the monastery when the tide was in?

Discussion with the farmer led to the farmer pouring the milk into two large leather sacks which were double sewn at the top to make them waterproof. Fergus would carry them on his back if the tide was out, and if the tide was in, he would swim back. The milk containers floated easily in the sea water.

This meant the milk arrived before mid-morning every day and Fergus pushed his growing body so that it began filling out. It also helped him work off most of that youthful energy and he could concentrate more on his studies.

After one month Bec was satisfied that Fergus had settled in satisfactorily, he took his leave to return to St Ninian's. Bec would continue to check on Fergus' progress every three months or so over the next three years.

That is how Fergus tamed some of his youthful exuberance, and began gaining wisdom.

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* * * * *

Chapter 6 - Celtic Church versus Rome

Culann felt a terrible empty feeling in his chest.  
He blindly turned and walked to the shore and sat mindlessly on a rocky outcrop.  
He cried, covering his face with his cloak, so no one could see.

I **ona was high on the itinerary** of any traveller coming from Éire to any settlement in Dál Riata.

News from Éire was eagerly sought from those travellers, who were always given hospitality on Iona, because Éire, that wonderfully green island was the birthplace of many of the monks at the monastery.

Culann had heard soon after he arrived, that Fea had become a novice nun at St Brigid's. Then one day a visiting monk brought news of a terrible plague that had ripped through St Brigid's. More than half of the monks and nuns had died, he told his apprehensive audience.

Culann sought out this monk and asked him if he had met a nun called Sister Fea. The monk stroked his chin in thought, and replied that he had met all the surviving nuns, but he could not recall one named Fea.

"Perhaps your friend did not survive the plague." he suggested sadly.

Culann felt a terrible empty feeling in his chest. He blindly turned and walked to the shore and there sat mindlessly on a rocky outcrop, and cried, covering his face with his cloak, so no one would see.

* * * *

Mid-Summer Day [ 24 June as per the Julian calendar ] had just passed in the year of our Lord 664, when Abbot Cumméne called a meeting of the monks of Iona, to discuss the push by the Church of Rome, to change the teachings of the Celtic Church.

"We have had disputes through the years with the Church of Rome about many things. They want to have Bishops to run the Church. That is because their church is cantered in large towns and cities. They keep to the cities to curry favour with the ruling kings and princes. They consider the countryside _(which is for the most part, heathen)_ too dangerous and refuse to venture outside the city walls.

"We in the Celtic Church see no need for Bishops. We don't have any cities in Ireland [ Cities or towns were not known in Ireland until the 9th century, when they were established by the Vikings ] or in Caledonia. Our churches and monasteries are in the countryside, where the people who need our guidance and support live. We only need Abbots to run our churches and monasteries. We are not afraid to go into the countryside and preach the gospel.

"The Roman tonsure is different from ours. Instead of shaving the head from ear to ear as we do and letting our hair grow long at the back, the Romans shave the top of their head.

"Why? Because that is how they used to identify slaves in the Roman world, by shaving the tops of their heads. They say we Christians are all slaves of God.

"I say we are not slaves of anyone. Wasn't it our beloved Saint Patrick who cried out in pain at the act of British Christians capturing and enslaving Irish Christians over two hundred years ago? We worship God. We are not slaves of God.

"However the most significant difference between the Celtic Church and the Roman Church lies in the calculation of the date of Easter, our most important religious festival celebrating the resurrection of Christ. There can be a difference of up to two weeks or more between the two churches in any given year.

"The Celtic Church is governed by love. The Roman Church is governed by law and regulations. They want everything to be the same.

"I am advised by our man in Lindisfarne, Abbot Colmán, a major problem has arisen in the northern kingdom of Northumbria. As you know Northumbria is currently ruled by King Oswy who became king after his very successful brother, Oswald, was killed in the year of our Lord 641. Although they are Angles, both Oswald and Oswy spent time in Ireland and Iona when they were in exile, so we expect Oswiu to be sympathetic to our cause.

"However in 642 Oswy married a princess from a ruling family in Kent called Eanflaed."

"But King Oswy is already married to the British princess Rieienmellt," blurted Bryan.

"Ah yes, Brother Bryan, but Kings sometimes make their own rules. Oswy no doubt married the princess from the important Kentish royal family to strengthen his rule in Northumbria.

"He is under threat from the neighbouring pagan king, Penda of Mercia, also by his own son

Ealhfrith, [ Alfred ] as well as his nephew Ethelwald, [ OEthelwald of Deira ] the son of his brother Oswald who ruled before him.

"The king of Northumbria has many enemies and so needs to find more friends."

"I have trouble following who is who. I wish these Northumbrian kings would take simple names." said Bryan.

"Like Bryan." smiled Abbot Cumméne.

"Yes like Bryan." stated Bryan.

"Back to the important matter at hand," said Abbot Cumméne serious again.

"The king, while in exile in Ireland and Iona from the age of four until he was twenty-one, was of course brought up in the Celtic Church. His wife Eanflaed however was brought up under the Roman faith. And the Romans celebrate Easter on a different date to ours.

"Things were brought to a head at the last celebration of Easter at King Oswy's court. While the king was celebrating Easter his wife Eanflaed was still fasting for Lent."

Bryan interrupted, laughing, "The problem is the Queen, under the laws of Lent; it is prohibited from engaging in any sexual activity, while the randy King was ready and raring to go. That does not make for a happy marriage, nor a happy kingdom."

"Just like a woman. Not able to see things clearly," murmured Culann from the back of the room.

"Ho, Brother Culann. You have had much experience with women then?" asked one of his fellow monks in jest.

"No, just one. Enough to learn they do not see the world through a man's eyes." retorted Culann to the general amusement of the gathering.

Abbot Cumméne took control of the meeting again.

"To solve this dilemma once and for all, King Oswy has called a special church council, or Synod, to determine whether we follow the Celtic or Roman method of calculating the celebration of Easter.

"It is to be held at the monastery of Whitby which is run by our own Abbess Hilda. It is located south of our main monastery on the east coast, Lindisfarne. Abbot Colmán of Lindisfarne will represent the Celtic Church. He has sent me this notice and requested we send some monks as assistants and observers to accompany him. You may be aware Lindisfarne has both Celtic and Roman monks studying and working there.

"The Synod is scheduled to take place at the end of September. That leaves us just three months to send our contingent to Whitby. I would ask Brother Bryan, who has spent time in Lindisfarne, to lead our contingent."

* * * *

Bryan chose three other monks to accompany him to Whitby; Daire, and Eamon both excellent scribes, and to keep them safe on the way, Brother Culann.

Abbot Cumméne prepared a long _epistle_ [1] for Abbot Colmán, which he handed to Bryan. And he gave this advice,

"Brother Bryan, the soldiers who guard King Oswy's court are Angles. They are a warlike race from across the North-Sea. Although Oswy is a Christian, the Angles are still mostly heathen and have no love for the Irish. I am pleased you are taking Brother Culann, but you should be careful. We are in need of your services when you return."

[1] [ From the Greek **epistole** meaning **'letter'**. Christian epistles were written in a formal style with the author named first, followed by the recipient. The body of the letter followed. It was usually very concise as writing required much expense in ink, paper and time. The scribe may be mentioned together with the messenger at the end. ]

Culann on the other hand was overjoyed to have been selected to accompany Bryan. He had never been on such a long journey in a strange land before. When conferring among his fellow travellers, they indicated their party would be away for at least a year, perhaps longer.

The next day everyone gathered in the sheltered cove to wish the four monks God Speed and a safe trip. They entered the curach which would take them initially around the island of Jura then south to the mainland at Dumbarton Rock on the River Clyde.

"Brother Bryan will you be passing the monastery at Jura?" enquired Abbot Cumméne.

"Yes of course it's on the way."

"Would you mind delivering this latest batch of gospels from the scriptorium," asked Abbot Cumméne. "I have also enclosed an epistle to Abbott Ecne advising him of your mission to Lindisfarne and Whitby." Bryan nodded agreement, taking the package.

The curach was cast off, the four sailors rowing strongly until the sail could be raised, while the monks waved farewell.

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* * * * *

6.1 The Novice Nun

Fea with young Sister Tamara and the milk maids. Abbess Harbondia  
suggested Fea be taken outside the Abbey buildings in 'God's garden' to recover.  
Fea used this opportunity to study the Latin translations of the Greek Galen's medical texts.

Following Culann's abrupt departure from St Brigid's monastery, Fea moped for two days. She spent most of her time sitting and praying at the grave of Sister Mish. Nothing the sisters said or did, seemed to shake her out of her depression.

Sister Una, designated as her attendant during this time, reported to the Abbess, her charge seemed very dejected.

"Why even this morning I found her trying to scratch her own face, enough to draw blood, before she was restrained."

"I think she believes all these tribulations have been caused because of her beauty, and she is trying to disfigure herself." suggested Abbess Harbondia.

The Abbess suggested Fea be taken outside the abbey buildings, and into the sunshine.

"Take her out with the sisters looking after the milk cows. That will keep her outside in _God's garden_ for a while."

So next morning Fea was encouraged to walk with the sisters who acted as milk maids, herding the cows to pasture, and then returning them each evening to the cow sheds, in the monastery.

At first Fea seemed to just go through the motions of walking. Her mind was obviously elsewhere. Suddenly, in the early afternoon she began peering intently at the milk maids. That evening she asked to see the Abbess.

"Mother I have a question."

"Yes Fea, ask and I will see if I can help you."

"I notice all the milk maids have some sort of pox or blisters on their hands and some on their face. But I have not noticed that with any other nuns in this monastery."

"You are indeed observant my dear." responded the Abbess Harbondia. "Over the years we noticed such effects, not just on our girls, but on many milk maids, all over the region. It is sometimes not a pretty sight, but it does not cause any harm to the girls, and they all remain in good health. God sometimes moves in mysterious ways, and we don't know why he does this."

_It does not harm them, but it disfigures many of them_.

"Mother Abbess," said Fea after thinking for a moment. "You have been more than kind in looking after me all these weeks."

"We are here to do God's work my child. Ever since St Brigid founded this monastery under the mighty oak tree over 100 years ago, we have never closed our doors to anyone needing guidance or healing. We are pleased to have been able to help you in our small way."

"You have been of great help to me Reverend Mother." said Fea sincerely. "May I ask a further favour?"

"Of course my child."

"I would like to stay in God's house and study to become a nun. Can you accept someone such as me?"

"Why of course my dear. You would be especially welcome. You studied here as a young girl. I have been praying you might wish to stay with us."

"There is one thing I would ask. Could I work with the milk maids, with the cows?"

"Why of course my dear. But that is not very challenging for someone with your education. Is there not something else you wish to do? We have a very advanced tapestry school as well as an excellent needlework and sewing classes."

"I think being in the open all day would give me plenty of time to study. As a student here, I enjoyed reading and learning Latin. Could I study while tending the cows?"

"Why goodness gracious me. I don't believe I've ever had anyone request that before. However, I can't see why not. Instead of coming to the chapel three or four times a day, you could study the scriptures all day out in God's garden."

_Not exactly what I had in mind, but that will do for now_.

"Thank you Reverend Mother. You have made me very happy." said Fea as she rose, kissed the Abbess' hand, and left the room.

* * * *

Next morning, while on her way to the chapel for Lauds, Fea walked past the scriptorium. It was a large room with more than twenty monks working on long desks. Each one had a candle illuminating their work as they diligently copied text from an old document to another new _codex._ [1]

The codex holds many advantages over other book formats such as the scroll, as both sides could be used for writing. Technically any modern paperback is a codex, but the term is now reserved for manuscript _(hand written)_ books produced up to the Middle Ages.

[1] **Codex** \- (Latin **caudex** for 'trunk of a tree') is a book in the format used for modern books, with multiple sheets of paper or vellum in multiples of two which are folded and stitched through. They are typically bound together and given a cover. The Romans used wax covered tablets of wood for taking notes and other informal writing. The wooden tablets were later tied together using thongs or cords.

At the turn of the 1st century CE a kind of folded parchment notebook called **pugillares membrana** in Latin, became commonly used for writing in the Roman Empire. This term was mentioned by both the pagan poet Martial and the Christian apostle Paul.

Some of the earliest surviving fragments come from Egypt. They include part of St John's Gospel dated between 125 and 160 CE. There is insufficient evidence to determine whether Christians played a major if not central role in the development of early codices. They may have simply adopted the format to distinguish themselves from Jews.

Fea walked over to an old monk and watched as he dipped his quill in a small container of black ink, and ever so carefully, copied the Latin letters from an old parchment to a new codex.

"Excuse me Brother, but that does not look like the Old Testament or New Testament, you are working on." said Fea.

"No, my lady." replied the old monk, grateful that someone was taking an interest in his work.

"This is a copy from a 450-year-old article by a Greek philosopher, who was the personal physician for two Emperors in Rome."

"Really? I thought you only copied things from the bible."

The old monk smiled "We copy everything we can lay our hands on my lady. This is from a new batch of documents we have just received direct from _Iberia_." [ modern day Spain and Portugal ]

He looked covertly around the room and gave Fea a sly wink. "Because I am the senior monk here, I get first choice on what to copy. This is very interesting material. I don't understand all of it, but the parts about curing injuries to the Gladiators is fascinating."

"Is it possible for me to read some of your codex, Brother, when you have finished of course. But not here. I would feel uncomfortable in your scriptorium."

The old monk stepped down from his stool. "I am in charge here my lady. All the religious codex go directly to the Abbess, and everything else is just stored in our archives. I have never had anyone come and ask to read any of my non-religious material. I am delighted you find what we do of interest. You can come anytime lady Fea and I will loan you anything you wish to read."

"You know my name?" said Fea, surprised. There were over one hundred nuns and more than two hundred monks at St Brigid's.

"Yes my lady. We all know of your arrival, and the young Fianna warrior, Culann, who brought you. I consider myself fortunate that you show interest in my humble work."

"Bless you kind sir. May I ask your name?"

"I am known as Mullo my lady. " said he, now embarrassed.

"Brother Mullo, I will take up your kind offer." Fea grasped the older man's hands in hers.

"I shall come here every day and check what is available. You have given me a reason for living once more."

Brother Mullo was beaming as Fea turned and left the scriptorium, humming to herself. As he sat down he noticed the other monks looking and smiling at him. He immediately lowered his bushy eyebrows and scowled at them. They all hurriedly resumed their work.

Suddenly Fea reappeared at the entrance.

"Oh Brother Mullo, what is the name of your Greek Physician?"

"It's _Galen_ , Lady Fea." [ better known as Galen of Pergamon \- modern day Bergama in Turkey ]

"Oh good. I shall return tomorrow to learn of Master Galen."

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* * * * *

6.2 Physicians and Medicine

Sister Fea treating the sailor suffering from the Plague _(Smallpox)_.  
A number of monks and some sisters gathered at the doorway, discussing in  
hushed tones the unprecedented event of a sister working in the male infirmary.

So it came to pass that Fea rose before dawn every day with the other novices, and nuns, to attend _Vigils_ , the pre-dawn prayers at the chapel. Monks also attended these prayer sessions but a wooden divider covered in beautiful tapestries and metalwork, made by the nuns and monks of the Monastery, separated male and female at prayer.

Immediately afterward she went to the cow shed with the other novice milk maid nuns, helped milk the cows, and then herded them outside into the pastures for the day. Once the cows were peacefully grazing she would sit under one of the shadier trees and take out the pages of one of the codex, given the previous evening by Brother Mullo.

The other novices and nuns were a little in awe of this beautiful young girl, who would spend all her spare time reading, not gossiping or sleeping, like the rest of them.

As sundown approached, they would herd the cows back to the enclosure at the monastery for the evening. Then, after washing, would attend _Vespers_ at sundown, followed by evening supper and finally the night prayers of _Compline_ , before retiring.

Behind the church the nuns dwelt in a whole village of little huts. Here they prayed, meditated and slept. There was no furniture but the floor had a warm lining of rushes.[1]

[1] **They Built on Rock, Stories of the Celtic Saints** , Diana Leatham, Hodder & Stoughton, London, 1948, p215

It took almost three months before Fea first developed cow pox on her hands and arms. Her companions were very sympathetic, but could not understand why Fea seemed quite pleased. They were even more mystified when they noticed her rubbing her pockmarked hands all over her face.

But try as try as she might, the pox marks never infected her face.

Each evening after supper, Fea would slip down to the scriptorium, where she would sit next to Brother Mullo as he described the latest texts he had transcribed. Then he would hand her some newly transcribed material in exchange for the ones she had read.

At the end of nine months the Abbess Harbondia called Fea to her small office.

"My dear, are you enjoying your _novitiate_ [2] so far?" asked the Abbess.

[2] **Novitiate** , the period during which one is a novice in a religious order]

"Oh yes, Reverend Mother, I feel better now than I can remember."

"Good, good. Well my dear I think it is time you changed from being a lowly milk maid. We need to teach you more skills.

"Would you like to learn tapestry and sewing, or perhaps painting some of our murals is more to your liking? I know you are fluent in Latin so perhaps you could help in our classrooms, teaching other nuns and students?"

"Well of course I will do whatever you suggest Reverend Mother. But I have been learning a great deal about medicine and herbal treatment from old Roman and Greeks texts. I think I could be of more help in the infirmary."

The infirmary? That is the domain of the monks."

"When I was first brought here nine months ago, I was treated there very kindly by Sister Una."

"Well that was because you had woman's troubles. Do you want to treat women only?"

"No I believe I have knowledge to treat men and women."

"No I'm afraid I can't give permission for you to treat men my dear. If you wish to heal men when they come to us, as they mainly do with injuries from fighting, you can pray to the Lord for their recovery. That is final."

Fea frowned, then after a few moments hesitation said, "If that is what you wish Reverend Mother, then I will work in the women's ward."

There were not many women patients. Fea knew most women's health problems revolved around childbirth and that was always handled at home by mid-wives. Perhaps she could use some of the healing skills she had read about.

A pity she could not treat men as most of the texts she had read from the Greek, Galen, described the treatment he dispensed when physician to the gladiators of the High Priest of Asia in Pergamon. He gained favour of the High Priest, one of the wealthiest and influential men in Asia, after he _eviscerated_ [3] an ape, then challenged other physicians to repair the damage. They refused, so Galen did the surgery himself. In doing so he won the favour of the High Priest.

[3] **eviscerated** , remove the internal organs. Latin ' **e** ' meaning 'out' + **viscera** 'entrails'

Over the next four years Galen learnt the importance of diet, hygiene, fitness and preventative measures. He learnt the best treatment of fractures and severe trauma, referring to the wounds as _'windows into the body'_.

Only five deaths occurred while he held the post. Sixty gladiators died during his predecessor's time.

* * * *

_It's a pity women don't engage in mortal combat_ , mused Fea.

"What am I thinking? Am I going mad?" And after me scolding Culann with the words ' _Can't you men think of anything except killing_.'

Now why did I suddenly think of that? Where is Culann? Did he go to Iona? Most likely not. Most likely he is dead or maimed in one of his stupid battles. If he was maimed, could I save him? I must try.

And so Fea went to work daily at the women's infirmary. As there were no combat injuries to heal, she spent most of her time learning about the healing qualities of herbs and plants.

Occasionally she would speak to one of the monks who were treating some wounded warrior or farmer in their care. She initially suggested some treatment, but they either laughed at, or ignored her suggestions. What would a woman know of combat injuries? Most of the men died. The ones that lived were mostly crippled. The monks said the ones that did survive, did so because of their prayers.

So Fea stopped making suggestions.

* * * *

One day after _Sext_ prayers [ about midday ] Brother Mullo rushed into the women's infirmary, looking for Fea.

"Wonderful news Sister Fea. Wonderful news. We have received some new texts written by Galen. Some in Latin and some in Greek. I cannot read the Greek, but the Latin ones look wonderful. Come and see."

Together they almost ran to the scriptorium. All the monks were gathered around a bundle of scrolls.

"Where did you get them from?" asked Fea.

"A sailor, direct from Rome. Isn't it wonderful? He brought it here from the harbour on the river Liffey."

"Why did a sailor bring these all the way from Liffey to here?"

"Oh, he said his shipmates were sick and people told him to come to St Brigid's for healing."

"Where is he now?"

"He's in the male infirmary. Don't you want to look at these scrolls?"

"No I want to talk to a man who brings these scrolls to us because all his shipmates are ill." Fea marched out of the scriptorium.

The monks looked on in amazement, then collectively shrugged and went back to investigating the scrolls. _"Women!"_

* * * *

Fea stormed into the male infirmary.

"Where is the sailor?" she demanded. The two monks on duty, tried in vain to ask her to leave.

"I'm not leaving until I see the sailor. Where is he?"

Chastened, they pointed to a pallet in the far corner. A figure was curled up in a fetal position. He had no clothes on. His body looked black.

Fea knelt down beside him, turned him over so he lay on his back and moistened a wet rag over his cracked lips.

"There, there, don't worry," she crooned. You'll be fine. Rest now and we'll talk later."

His eyes fluttered open and finally focused on her face. He tried to speak, but Fea could not understand the dialect.

"Does anyone speak his language?" her tone sharp.

"Brother Sutugius says he is from Gaul. He understands him," said one of the monks.

"Get him in here. Now!" the nearest monk almost jumped at Fea's command, and ran out the doorway.

Within a few minutes he was back with a middle aged monk who was breathing heavily from the sudden exertion.

"What's, going on?" panting heavily.

"Can you understand this man?" asked Fea not looking up, still wiping the sailors face, which she could tell was burning with fever.

"Yes, he speaks a dialect I am familiar with. I think he is from Gaul.".

"Then ask him where are his companions."

Brother Sutugius knelt down close to the sailor and spoke quietly to him. The sailor mumbled a reply.

"He says they are all dead. The last three died on the way here from their boat. He said the people at the Liffey port told them they would be cured at St Brigid's."

"Tell him not to worry. We will cure him." said Fea.

"But how? It looks like they have the plague."

"Tell him!" said Fea through gritted teeth." If he doesn't believe he can live, he won't survive. And get me some fresh water and bandages."

"But you shouldn't be here. This is the men's infirmary."

All the pent up disappointment at being denied access to the male infirmary spilled over. Fea, although a novice nun at this great monastery, had spent her whole life as a princess in her father's court, used to giving commands and having them instantly obeyed, even as a young girl.

"If you don't have the courage to stay here, then leave. If you stay - make yourself useful," _really angry now_. The monks scattered. They had never heard a woman use such language.

She was alone with the dying sailor. Frustration welled up in her and it was all she could do to stop crying. But that was impossible in front of her patient.

Suddenly a familiar male voice said,

"Can I help Sister Fea?" It was Brother Mullo who had quietly entered.

"Dear Mullo, thank you. I am afraid this poor man has the plague. His symptoms look similar to those described by Galen, as the _Antonine_ _plague_.[4] If it is, then many of us here will die."

"If it is God's will we die, then so be it my child. In the meantime, how can I help?"

[4] It is believed the **Antonine Plague** was **Smallpox**. The Antonine Plague was named after the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (121-180 CE) who probably died from the plague which raged through the Roman Empire in the late 2nd century.

It was reported extensively by **Galen** who was in Rome at its outbreak in 166 CE. Approximately 2,000 people a day were dying in Rome at its height. The mortality rate of the plague was 7% to 10%. The outbreak in 166/169 CE would have caused 3.5 to 5 million deaths.

"Oh you wonderful man." cried Fea now brushing away tears. "Thank you dear friend. I need clean water and cloth to bathe him."

And so Fea and Brother Mullo began the task of saving the foreign sailor.

Word spread quickly throughout St Brigid's. A number of monks and some of the sisters gathered at the doorway to the infirmary, discussing in hushed tones the unprecedented event of a sister working in the male infirmary. Fea looked around at the gathering crowd.

"If you want to help, get me some willow bark. Mash it in water so I can get this man to drink it. Quickly!" Some of the sisters disappeared to do her bidding.

She went back to bathing the sailor. He had a rash with large pustules, some the size of her fingernail all over his face and most of his body. The skin had turned a dull dark colour. He had a high fever, and was vomiting.

"Ask him how long has he felt sick." Fea said quietly.

Brother Mullo murmured to the sick sailor who mumbled a reply.

"He said about ten days. Do you think he will live?"

"I don't know. If this is like the plague mentioned by Galen, and he survives the next two or three days, he will live."

Two sisters brought in a container with the willow water and scurried out. Fea poured it into a small cup, and gently raising the sailor's head, encouraged him to sip. It took a long time just to empty the cup. The sailor then fell asleep. Fea covered him with a cloak, and waited.

Over the next two days Fea and Mullo ate and slept in the infirmary. They left only to wash, separately. The nuns brought food and water plus some more herbs Fea requested. No one else stayed in the infirmary.

The Abbess came in briefly, and suggested they need not leave their patient to attend prayers.

On the third day the sailor's fever abated and he sat up and asked for food.

The entire body of monks and nuns came by to see for themselves, and congratulate Fea and Mullo. Fea was so exhausted, she could hardly stand, and had to be helped to her quarters to change her clothes and rest.

She laid her head on her bed of rushes and was instantly asleep.

It seemed just moments later, although it was in fact half a day, when Fea was shaken awake by one of the nuns.

"Sister Fea, please come quickly. Three of our nuns have fallen sick with fever and have a rash."

The plague had spread.

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* * * * *

6.3 The Plague

Claudius Galenus, better known as **Galen of Pergamon** , is regarded as the most accomplished  
medical researcher of antiquity. His theory on the circulatory system in which he determined that blood circulates with the heart acting as a pump. Galen was in Rome when the _Antonine Plague_ (smallpox) struck in 166 CE. He described its symptoms and treatment.

Fea went to the Female Infirmary to treat the sick nuns. The sisters on duty were nervous and did not want to go near their sick colleagues. They stood over against the far wall, only delivering wet towels and willow water, when asked by Fea.

By mid-afternoon another two nuns were admitted suffering fever and Brother Mullo sent word he had six monks all with similar symptoms, fever and a rash over their body.

Fea was struggling alone to help her patients, wondering how long she could keep up this schedule before collapsing herself. Suddenly, in marched fifteen young nuns. The milk maids had volunteered _en mass_ , to help their former colleague.

Fea divided them into teams to assist in the female and male infirmaries.

Over the next few days more nuns and some of the monks also volunteered. Which was just as well, as more and more of their brethren were falling ill.

They had their first death on day eight. One of the nuns passed away during the night and another the next morning.

Day ten brought the worst news. Brother Mullo was ill. Fea rushed to the male infirmary to take personal care of the old monk. His face was covered in large pustules as was the rest of this body. He was delirious and had a high fever.

More monks and nuns were falling ill.

* * * *

The farmers and their families from the surrounding area, began avoiding St Brigid's. With all the milk maids working in the infirmaries and many monks sick, the Monastery was starting to run out of food.

The Abbess called a meeting after the _Lauds_ prayer meeting at daybreak, of all able bodied monks. She instructed them to visit all the farming communities, and request food. Her final instruction:

"Don't come back empty handed."

She personally went to see the local Chieftain. He sat ill at ease, when she requested he send food, mead and milk to the monastery.

"I don't know that I should, Reverend Mother," he said, "Word has it the Devil has taken over your monastery."

"Who says that nonsense?" snapped the Abbess Harbondia.

"Many people," he said sheepishly.

"I'll tell you what, my good Chieftain. If you don't fill your wagons with food and drink and deliver them to St Brigid's by sundown today, I will gather all my nuns and monks and we will collectively pray to the Lord Almighty. We will pray that your soul and those of all your family be delivered to Hell, and damned there for all eternity."

The feisty Abbess stood hands on hips, looking down on this normally fearless warrior, as he sat bolt upright at his banqueting table, having gone quite pale. His entourage collectively uttered a gasp, and most involuntarily took a step back.

"All right, . . . all right, . . . I'll see that it's done," said the Chieftain, capitulating.

"Thank you," she said dismissively, and turning on her heel, stormed out. The food began arriving by that evening and continued daily.

The Abbess Harbondia fell ill on day twelve. More died over the next ten days. Probably half the monastery population fell ill, but people were either caring for the sick or sick themselves, so nobody counted.

Brother Mullo recovered with pock marks all over his face. By day twenty no more fell ill, but some still died. One of the last was the Reverend Mother Harbondia, Abbess of St Brigit's, who passed away holding Fea's hands in hers.

None of the milk maids, nor Fea, caught the plague.

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* * * * *

6.4 Aftermath

When Brother Mullo came to talk to Fea she seemed listless and disinterested.  
She blamed herself for not knowing more about the plague.

"Why don't you take the Greek texts to a monastery where they do  
understand Greek and have them translated," suggested Mullo

A **great silence settled over the monastery**. People went about their duties as if in a trance.

Prayers were still said seven times a day, but the great church hall seemed strangely empty. Prayers were intoned but not chanted exuberantly as they had been in the past.

There was little laughter to be heard. Those that survived seemed almost guilty to have done so. Why had they lived yet many of their friends had not?

As it became obvious that none of the milk maids had become sick, it was said that the Lord spared them because he felt sorry for them. It must be because they had endured humiliation for years, bearing those awful pock marks on their hands and arms, and some even their faces.

**Dr Edward Jenner:** In May 1796 a dairymaid, Sarah Neimes, consulted Jenner (in Berkley UK) about a rash on her hand. He diagnosed **cowpox** rather than **smallpox**. Sarah confirmed that one of her cows called Blossom, had recently had cowpox. Jenner decided this was his opportunity to test the protective properties of cowpox by giving it to someone who had not yet suffered smallpox.

He chose James Phipps, the eight-year-old son of his gardener. On 14th May Jenner made a few scratches on one of James's arms and rubbed into them some material from one of the pocks from Sarah's hand. A few days later James became mildly ill but recovered within a week.

So Jenner proved cowpox could pass from person to person as well as from cow to person.  
On 1st July Jenner inoculated the boy with smallpox virus. As Jenner anticipated, James did not develop smallpox, either on that occasion or on any future occasion.

**In 1798 Jenner published his research showing cowpox protected against smallpox**.

_Note:_ _Jenner no doubt thought the son of a gardener was expendable._

_I would be more impressed if he had injected himself with the smallpox virus.  
But what do I know?_ dMAC

Dr Edward Jenner ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Dr Jenner inoculating James Phipps with Smallpox virus

Fea was utterly drained. Not even the news of Brother Mullo surviving could bring her out of her feeling of depression.

When Mullo came to talk to her she seemed listless and disinterested. He noted that she seemed to blame herself for not having more knowledge about the plague. If she had, she could have saved more patients.

Mullo thought about this, and some days after the last patient was discharged from the infirmaries, sat and spoke with Fea.

"Sister Fea, you should not scold yourself so. If it were not for your efforts, I'm sure I would have died, along with many, many, other of our friends here. You took charge when everyone was too frightened to do anything. You organized everyone when no one knew what to do. Your tender loving care and your willow water saved many lives. Please don't blame yourself."

Fea sat staring blankly into space.

"I should have done more."

"What more could you have done my dear? You worked more than five people, you hardly slept for three weeks."

"What happened to the sailor?"

Brother Mullo smiled, "He left some days ago to go back to the river Liffey and find a boat to Gaul. And that reminds me, we still have all those scrolls from Rome, many by Galen."

"Yes, but you said they are mostly in Greek and no one speaks Greek here," Fea said dully.

"I was thinking about that my dear. Why don't you take them to a monastery where they do understand Greek and have them translated?"

Fea suddenly sat up straight, and Mullo noticed a spark in her eye he had not seen since the sickness ended.

"Where might that be?" she asked.

"The nearest one I know of is at Jura. Brother Slane, who studied with me many years ago, was a Greek scholar. He moved to the scriptorium at Jura. I understand he is still there."

"Where is Jura?" asked Fea.

"Oh, it's an island off Dál Riata, near Iona."

"Near Iona!" Fea's eyes widened, then her shoulders slumped.

"No, someone like you or one of your scribes should go."

"Not at all. I'm too old to travel, and you have more knowledge about Galen than any of my monks. You would be of great assistance in the translation. You should go Fea."

"Hmmm," interest coming back, "do you really think so Brother Mullo?"

"I know so my dear. These documents are too important not to have the best possible translation. I firmly believe you should take them."

"But is the monastery at Jura a joint one like St Brigid's?"

"No my dear, I think not. I recall that a small number of nuns used to live there. Perhaps they still do. Remember our gracious founder Saint Brigid herself, took seven nuns with her to form this great monastery, over one hundred years ago. Why don't you do the same at Jura."

"Really! I mean, I couldn't do that. I'm no saint."

"Well, I know a number of people walking around here now, who think you are. That aside, it would be marvellous if you could start another mixed monastery in Dál Riata. [ now south-west Scotland ] I can't think of a person more qualified than you, my dear."

"Who would go with me?"

"I think the nuns you call your 'milk maids' would be eager to go with you."

"Perhaps you're right. I'll ask them," Fea brightened considerably and turning gave Brother Mullo a big hug.

"You are a wonderful man Brother Mullo. I'm going to miss you greatly."

"And I you my dear." _More than you will ever know_.

* * * *

And so it came to pass that all the 'milk maids' wanted to come, but Fea selected seven only, so with her making eight, the same as Saint Brigid, all those many years ago, when she founded her first convent.

Fea insisted that there be no fanfare when she left, as the monastery was still in the process of mourning, reorganising, and taking in new recruits. Many were not even aware she had left to go to Jura.

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* * * * *

6.5 Jura

Brother Hesus confessing to Sister Fea

It was late spring when Fea and her seven companions stepped onto the rocky beach at Jura. The island was dominated by the two peaks called the Paps of Jura, which were visible from the many surrounding islands.

They were given a lukewarm greeting by the Abbott Ecne, who was in charge. He seemed less than happy at the prospect of having an additional eight nuns suddenly included in his monastery, which already contained a small community of nuns.

The women were directed to special quarters in an old wattle and daub hut located some distance from the main buildings. The sister in charge was called Decca. Fea found her to be a gentle, kindly woman, but not a strong enough leader to stand up to the dominant monks.

The sisters were excited to meet the new arrivals and the next few days were spent giving the latest news from _Éire_ [1], what had happened at Kildare, and in particular the effects of the awful plague. [1] Éire, Irish-Gaelic name for Ireland, from Ériu, believed to be the matron goddess of Ireland.

Fea sought out Brother Slane as soon as possible. He was an old monk. He spoke Greek and Latin fluently; but his sight had gone. _He was blind_.

Fea became quite despondent. The Abbott obviously didn't want to have nuns take an active role in his monastery. She had come all this way to have her scrolls translated and the monk who had been recommended to her could not see. The island was nothing like the green fertile lands she was used to. There was precious little good soil suitable to grow herbs and spices needed for healing. The only thing that seemed to thrive was that beastly purple heather. Oh yes, and it rained all the time.

To make themselves useful Fea and some of the nuns herded the few cows belonging to the monastery and drove them up into the hills, looking for green feed. There was very little to be found in the rocky soil.

At the end of each day they would bring the cows to the farm shed where they were housed for the night. The attendant was a small monk, Brother Hesus, crippled on his right side. He walked awkwardly, with a pronounced limp, but quietly and efficiently took care of the cows.

One evening as Fea was hurrying to attend Vespers, one of the four scrolls she had been studying, slipped from her carry-bag. Hesus following behind, picked it up. He called out to her but she had already disappeared around the corner of the cowshed, out of earshot.

With difficulty, because of his crippled right hand, he unfolded the scroll.

* * * *

Next morning, as the nuns collected the cows, Hesus shyly approached Fea,

"Pardon, my lady, " he said quietly, head bowed, "you dropped this scroll last night."

"Why thank you Brother Hesus," smiled Fea. She placed it carefully in her carry-bag.

"There are no Dandelion or Liquorice Root on Jura, Sister Fea," said Hesus.

"Oh, that's a shame, but thank you again," said Fea over her shoulder as she hurried after her colleagues.

Later that morning, Fea sat under one of the stunted shrubs that dotted the hillside, reading. Something bothered her. One of the 'milk maid' nuns sat down beside her.

"You seem distracted Fea. What is worrying you?" asked the concerned nun.

"Something Brother Hesus said to me this morning. As he gave me a scroll I must have dropped last night, he said, _'there were no Dandelion or Liquorice Root on this island'_."

"Well he has been here a long time, he would know."

"But why would he suddenly mention just Dandelion and Liquorice Root?"

"He must have read about it in the scroll you dropped yesterday Fea."

"No - I have just reread all three of them and there is no mention of any herbs or plants."

"Three? But you have four scrolls," said the nun, pointing at the scrolls on Fea's lap.

"The fourth one is written in Greek. I can't read it." said Fea.

Suddenly, the implication of what she had just said, dawned on them both. _Brother Hesus must read Greek_.

"But that is impossible," stammered the nun. "He is a lowly cow herder. The literate monks all work in the scriptorium."

"Yes, and none read Greek, except Brother Slane, who is blind. I must go down and talk with Brother Hesus, to solve this mystery," said Fea gathering up her scrolls.

* * * *

It was after Sext, the midday prayers, when Fea reached the monastery and found Brother Hesus mucking out the cow shed. He looked up happily as he noticed her approaching.

"Brother Hesus, could I interrupt your work for a moment?" asked Fea, sweetly.

"Why, of course my lady. Please sit down. You look as if you've walked a long way," said Hesus as he dusted old straw from a nearby trestle with his habit for her to sit upon and then stood, leaning on his shovel.

"Thank you, you are very kind," said Fea sitting and placing her carry-bag on her lap.

"Brother Hesus, I have a mystery and I need your help to solve this mystery."

"Oh wonderful," said Hesus rubbing his good left hand on his chest. "I love mysteries."

"This morning you told me there were no Dandelion or Liquorice Root on Jura."

"Did I . . .?" very slowly and now looking anxious

"Come on, you know you did. I just need to know if you read about those herbs in this scroll." Fea took out the forth scroll and partly unrolled it.

Hesus glanced quickly at the scroll and then suddenly dropped his shovel and collapsed on the ground at Fea's feet.

"Oh please my lady, I meant no harm. Please don't tell anybody."

Fea was shocked at this response.

"But why not? This text is in Greek. You can read Greek. That's wonderful."

Hesus' body was now convulsed with great sobs, "Please, please, you don't understand. You must not tell anybody," he was now crying uncontrollably.

Fea reached down and patted his shoulder, trying to comfort the man.

"If it is that important, then I won't tell anyone. First you must tell me why. It will be our secret." She continued stroking him and his sobbing gradually diminished.

"Promise? "

"Yes I promise. I won't tell anyone until you give me permission."

"It will be our secret?"

"Yes, but you have to tell my why."

Hesus sat up and wiped his nose on his sleeve, looking around furtively. They were alone in the dark of the cow shed. It would be a couple of hours yet before the cows were brought down from the pastures.

"I really shouldn't tell you."

"Yes, you can," said Fea in a soothing tone.

"Think of me as your Personal Confessor."

The **Celtic Church** endorsed a method of personal confession. One could confess their sins to another close confidant on the clear understanding it would remain secret.

The **Roman Church** on the other hand originally adopted public confession where a transgressor might have to stand at the church door each week for a year and repeat his/her confession out loud to the congregation

"I've never had a Personal Confessor. In fact I've never confessed to anyone before."

"Well now you have one. Me. And we both know the rules. Anything you tell me as a confession remains secret. Just between you and me."

The logic of that appealed to Brother Hesus. He straightened up and stared at the open doorway for a while. Fea sat still, waiting.

In a voice so quiet Fea had to lean forward to listen, Hesus began speaking - gazing intently into the past.

"My mother was a slave. She was bought by my father who was a merchant. At that time we lived somewhere in Iberia. I don't remember because I was very young. My father was not a nice man."

Another long pause and Fea guessed this recounting the past was very painful. She remained silent.

"My mother spoke Greek and Latin as well as the local dialect. Although she never mentioned her past, I later surmised she must have come from an educated family before somehow she was sold into slavery. My father was not as well educated but I think he was rich. My mother told me he bought her mainly because of her language skills. She was not his main wife, just a concubine.

"From when I was very young my mother would speak to me in Greek. But she was worried that if my father knew I could speak Greek or Latin, he would sell me too. So I promised her not to speak to anyone else in Greek or Latin," another long pause.

"When I was about five, my father brought my mother and me, on a ship to southern Éire. It was related to his trading business. Anyhow, something went badly wrong and he sold my mother to a local chieftain. He left us; and went back to Iberia.

"My mother worked as a servant for the chieftain's family. She continued to teach me to read and write in Greek and Latin. The chieftain didn't care, he only spoke Gaelic. My mother died when I was thirteen. I had this withered right arm, so I was no use to the Irish chieftain. I couldn't hold a sword or drive a plough. He gave me to a group of monks. I was passed from one group to another and ended up here on Jura. I have been here for twenty two years."

"But why aren't you working in the scriptorium. You are fluent in Gaelic and Latin and read Greek."

"Ah yes," another long pause.

"When I first came here I did help out for a while in the scriptorium. I spoke Latin but there were no texts in Greek at that time. About twenty years ago Brother Slane arrived to take charge of the scriptorium. He was very strict. I don't think he liked me for some reason.

"One day a Greek text arrived. I was excited and being young, I probably wanted to show off. I started copying it out and translating it into Latin. I showed some of the other monks.

"Brother Slane became very upset. I thought he was jealous because he wanted to be the only one here who could read Greek. He said I was possessed by Satan and refused to have me anywhere near the scriptorium. He even tried to get me expelled from the monastery, but lucky for me the old Abbott refused. He said I could stay if I herded the cows and didn't go anywhere near the scriptorium. I had nowhere to go so I agreed. This is the only home I have known."

"Why would anyone believe you were possessed by the Devil?" asked Fea.

"Have you ever seen anyone at a monastery write with their left hand?"

"Well no, but I haven't taken any notice."

"I write with my left hand because my right hand is useless. The monks believe if you write with your left hand it's because the Devil possesses you."

"That's silly!" said Fea, getting angry.

"All the monks believe it. Please don't tell anyone what I've told you. You promised," pleaded Hesus.

"Very well," said Fea with gritted teeth, "but I will think of something. This is such a waste. Brother Hesus, please do me a great favour." Hesus nodded. "Please just read to me in Latin, what is written on the Greek scroll."

* * * *

The milk maid nuns returned later that afternoon to find Fea seated on a wooden trestle and Brother Hesus squatting next to her on the floor of the cow shed.

"Well did you find out if he reads Greek," enquired one of the nuns later.

"Oh no, I don't think so," said Fea with a straight face. "His mother was a slave I'm told. You can't expect a cow herder to be literate," and the topic was dropped.

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* * * * *

6.6 Visiting Curach's

The two nuns watched the curach pull into the jetty far below.  
"Sister Fea," said Sister Tamara, "the boat from Iona is not due today.  
Whatever could they want?"

The two nuns watched the curach pull into the jetty far below. They were shepherding the small herd of cattle on the hillside.

"Sister Fea," said the younger nun, "the boat from Iona is not due for another two days. Whatever could they want?"

"I'm not sure." replied Fea, shading her eyes while trying to identify the small figures as they climbed out of the boat.

"Abbott Ecne is greeting them so they must be important."

They watched the visitors for a while, then noticed farewells were being said as the men climbed back into the boat.

"How strange," said Sister Tamara, "they haven't stayed for a meal. Everyone stays for some refreshment. We won't be able to meet them," disappointed.

The two nuns watched the boat as it pulled slowly away from shore, heading south.

"They are not going back to Iona. That's unusual," said Fea. Gradually the curach and its crew were swallowed by the sea mist and disappeared.

Sundown was upon them when Fea and Tamara reached the refectory for the evening meal. The assembled nuns were still discussing the visitors that had left earlier.

Fea listened while the monks' proposed pilgrimage to Lindisfarne and then to Whitby was related. Many of the nuns knew Brother Bryan as he had visited before. The two scribes were new, but most conversation was about the tall broad shouldered monk, who stood silently at the rear the whole time, watching and holding his staff. Some were certain they saw a sword hilt under his cloak.

"Did you remember their names?" enquired Fea to one of the nuns who met them.

"Why of course. There was Brother Bryan and the scribes Daire and Eamon. Eamon looks a little old for such a long journey don't you think?"

"What about the one with the staff?" persisted Fea.

"Oh the warrior monk," smiled her companion, "he was called Culann."

* * * *

Over the next month, after the curach carrying Culann had left, Fea made a point of meeting the scheduled weekly boat from Iona. They did stay overnight before leaving. Normally the curach would sail next to Islay and then back to Iona on its weekly trip.

One particular trip however, one of the sailors mentioned to Fea that they would instead be sailing to Lios mór, on the morrow.

" _Lios mór_ [1] \- that means 'great garden' in Gaelic." said Fea, wondering. "Where is this Lios mór? " enquired Fea of the sailor. [1] now known as the island of Lismore

"A day's sail Sister," replied the sailor. "It's north of here in Loch Linnhe. A lovely little island. The monks there grow all sorts of vegetables and fruits. We try to get there every few weeks."

"Vegetables and fruits? Hmmm - perhaps dandelion and liquorice? "mused Fea.

"Good sailor, can you take an extra two passengers tomorrow to Lios mór?" said Fea, smiling sweetly and grabbing the hand of a startled milk maid, Sister Tamara, standing beside her.

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* * * * *

Chapter 7 - To Lindisfarne

Beblowe Crag on Lindisfarne

Lindisfarne is a tidal island off the north-east coast of England. It is also known as Holy Island.  
The monastery of Lindisfarne was founded by the Celtic Monk Saint Aiden in 635 CE.

It became the base for Celtic Christian evangelising in the north of England _(Northumbria)_.  
In 793 CE the Vikings raided Lindisfarne. This caused much consternation throughout  
the Christian west, and is now taken as the beginning of the Viking Age.

Bryan was pleased their task on Jura had been concluded so quickly. Although Abbott Ecne had invited them to stay for supper, Bryan insisted they had to leave immediately, as they had a long journey ahead and he wanted to reach the mainland before dark.

The curach pitched occasionally as the small craft rode the swell that was building up while they sailed through the dangerous Sound of Islay. Bryan moved aft to sit opposite Culann, who had been fidgeting with nothing to do, and offered to relieve one of the sailors rowing.

"Culann, if I remember correctly, you arrived with a letter of introduction from the Abbess of Saint Brigid of Kildare, yes?"

Culann nodded, while continuing to pull rhythmically on the oar.

"Why I ask is, Abbott Ecne invited us to stay for dinner. I said no, of course, but standing next to him were two nuns who said they were from St Brigid's. They also pressed me to stay for dinner.

A coincidence is it not? I see it as a good omen for our journey."

Culann half missed a beat on the oar. "Did they tell you their names?" he asked.

"Why no. I didn't ask. I only thought of it when we were pulling away from their jetty."

Culann went back to his rowing but his mind was elsewhere. _Why does the thought of her upset me so much? The woman is long out of my life. She is almost certainly dead from the plague. I had not even thought of her since we were told of our great journey, two days ago. I will never see her again in this life. Why do I keep thinking about her?_ He pulled on the oar with even more venom.

Their boat reached the mainland just as the sun was setting. They found lodgings in the small church at the top of the hill above the harbour.

It took four more days to sail around the Mull of Kintyre and up the Firth of Clyde to reach Dumbarton Rock.

That morning, with their long packs containing a change of their simple cream coloured clerical robes, wooden plate and spoon and five days' supply of oats tied securely and slung over their shoulders, all four monks set off overland. They headed due East to the upper reaches of the Firth of Forth.

Christianity had been developed in this region for over one hundred years. Most of the farmsteads they encountered would willingly give them food and lodging. There was a sprinkling of small wooden churches along the way, particularly at the collection of fishing cottages on the mighty Forth river.

The land they travelled through was initially populated by Irish Scotti. As they pushed on they were met by the Picti who were noticeably taller and with fair hair compared to the Irish monks.

Later they encountered the Northumbrian Angles, or Anglos, as they were commonly called.

This was a well-travelled route and the Irish monks had been very successful in converting much of the local population, over the years.

Bryan related stories in the evening of the various tribes which still fought each other occasionally, but resorted now mainly to cattle raids to 'blood' their young warriors. As they pushed further east, they began hearing news of the Anglos of Northumbria raiding north of the Forth, into the land of the Picts.

* * * *

After more than three weeks the small group stood on the beach on the east coast of Northumbria, opposite Lindisfarne Island. It was early mid-morning. While they were waiting to see when and where it was safe to cross the black sticky sands, a young Pict student from Lindisfarne approached them, carrying two large skins across his shoulders, which turned out to be milk for the monastery.

Seeing the monks standing and staring at the island, the young Pict asked,

"Are you wishing to visit Lindisfarne Brothers?"

"Indeed we are." replied Bryan. "Can you advise us the best route to reach yonder shore?" pointing with his wooden staff.

"Just follow me Brothers. I know this path well, but we have to make haste. The tide has already turned and we shall get wet if we don't hurry."

Although the young Pict was speaking to them in Celtic Irish, Culann had to strain to understand his accent.

"You are one my friend, and we are four. Pray let us help you with your heavy load," offered Culann.

The young Pict smiled and replied,

"A most kind offer Brother, but I tread this path every day. It is quicker for me with the load balanced thus." And with that he set off at an alarmingly fast pace.

The monks had to half run in order to catch up. Some of them sliding into deeper water at times and relied on help from their brothers to regain the path. By the end they were sloshing though water above their knees. The young Pict was waiting for them on dry land as they finally made their way to the end of the causeway.

"Many thanks my friend. You have done us great service. May I ask your name here?" asked Bryan panting still from the exertion.

"I am Fergus mac Ciniod, of Fortriu."

"We shall remember well your service Fergus. One final question, where can we find Abbot

Colmán?"

Fergus pointed to one of the larger wooden buildings not too far distant, "I think you should find him in the scriptorium."

And with that he nodded goodbye and jogged off toward what they would later learn was the refectory, his load still balanced easily on his shoulders.

And that is how Bryan, Daire, Eamon and Culann came to Lindisfarne. Little did they think that events of great importance were about to take place, which would engulf them all.

* * * *

Culann spent the next few days attending prayer sessions and looking around the island which was very flat. The only high hill, called Beblowe Crag which comprised hard dark coloured rock, was located on the southern tip of the island. There were more buildings here than on Iona and a larger population of monks and students.

It was on the second day Culann was passed by a group of students, when one detached himself and came over. Culann recognised him,

"Greetings again young Fergus mac Ciniod. Have you come from class?"

The youth smiled, flattered that Culann had remembered his name,

"Indeed Brother Culann. Are you enjoying your stay? I understand you will leave shortly for Whitby."

"Well to be honest, there is not much for me to do here at present. Lindisfarne doesn't appear to have any martial training programs."

The Pict lad looked at him sharply.

"You train with weapons?" he asked incredulously.

"Mainly just with staffs. We are not supposed to show our swords."

Fergus looked around furtively,

"Brother Culann, I am Picti of the Fortriu. I have not been able to practice my swordplay properly since I came here three years ago. Can you instruct me?"

Entering into the tone of conspiracy, Culann smiled and also looked around furtively whispered,

"Young Fergus it would be frowned upon here on this island. Anyway you don't have a sword."

Wide eyed Fergus said, "But I do. I keep it on the mainland with one of the farmers who supplies the milk. We could practice over there."

Culann thought for moment. It was true he was now bored here. All he could do was join in the prayer sessions and walk around the island. And he needed the exercise.

"Why not, when?"

"Now."

So it came to be that Culann accompanied Fergus to the mainland again at low tide and onto the small dairy farm where Fergus, after introducing him to the farmer, claimed his hidden sword from the barn.

Culann inspected Fergus sword closely,

"A good blade young Fergus, but a little too long for you at present I feel. "

"Well, it's all I have so it will have to do," stated Fergus practically.

Culann became serious and began his lesson.

"The first thing to learn about swordplay is do everything possible not to begin a fight. I say that because you never know how it will end up. He may be better than you, or have friends nearby, or both."

"That's the monk talking, not the warrior," said Fergus sarcastically.

Culann became suddenly silent. After a long pause, with a steely voice,

"You asked for my advice. Don't waste my time with your flippant comments. Either listen and do as I say, or I go home."

Fergus, mortified, blurted an apology,

"I am sorry sir. Please don't go. I will listen, I promise."

Satisfied for the moment, Culann relaxed. "I know you Picts, like many Celts, think the highest honour you can achieve is to be killed in battle. Blindly getting yourself killed is not smart - it's stupid. You are here at Lindisfarne to learn and gain wisdom. Don't throw it all away in a rush of blood to the head."

Culann suddenly realised what he had just said. Although the mantra of his former foster father, Breuse, it was almost the words Fea had scathingly used at their last meeting, so long ago. He shook his head and continued.

"You are younger and more slender than your most likely opponents. So if you _have_ to fight, here are some tips,

"Don't take on another man, one on one. You'll lose. The idea is to kill or maim him, not get yourself killed. Forget about the bards singing about how gallantly you died. They won't anyway. They'll just sing about how good your opponent was in killing you."

"What do I do if I'm challenged then?" asked Fergus.

"Me - I'd run away."

"You can't be serious!"

"Oh, yes I am. I'd run away, or at least let him think I'd run away. He will become boastful and let his guard down."

"And then what?"

"And then come up behind him and slice the tendons behind his knees. With that he can't stand up. When he's on the ground, he's helpless."

"But that's not fair."

"You're not listening," angry now,

"I'm not telling you how to impress the bards. I'm telling you, a teenage boy with no clan behind you, how to survive. Do you want to continue?"

Fergus chastened, nodded.

"Learn to fight at night. If there are more of them than you, it helps to even the odds. They can't kill what they can't see."

"But they can see as well as I can in the dark"

"Not if you keep them between your sword and the light. They will have a camp fire or be inside a hut or hall, which will be all lit up. Their eyes are used to the light. They can't see out in the dark. But you can see them silhouetted against the light. Take your time. Pick them off."

"What if it is not dark?"

"Always attack from the high ground. Move so you are running downhill. If there are many, slice your way through them and keep running. Don't stand and fight if there are more than you or they are bigger than you. Before you attack, look for an escape route. If there is none, don't attack."

"What if I am attacked without warning?"

"Always be on the lookout. Try not to be surprised. If attack is imminent, negotiate. Keep them talking. If talking fails, pray - and hope you were born lucky."

Fergus nodded.

"Now it is time to get back. What is the most important thing you've learnt?"

Fergus thought for moment then replied,

"Do everything possible not to fight."

Culann grinned and gave Fergus a playful slap on the shoulder.

"Good lad. We might make a warrior out of you yet."

They started back across the causeway.

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* * * * *

7.1 On to Whitby

Fergus _'borrowed'_ a small curach to follow the Lindisfarne and Iona monks  
as they sailed down the coast to Whitby

Abbot Colmán was not a young man. His hair was grey and mostly missing from the top of his head. However, his eyes were bright and his voice strong. He shuffled the papyrus in front of him as he began speaking to the small audience gathered in the scriptorium.

It was five days since Brother Bryan and his fellow monks from Iona had arrived. They sat among another ten monks from Lindisfarne.

"We welcome our brethren from Iona, who made remarkably good time on their trek to our part of Northumbria." The other monks murmured their agreement.

"We have a vital task ahead of us. The Synod which we will be attending at Whitby may well determine the future course of our Celtic church in this entire region.

"We are all aware of the inroads the Roman church has made in Northumbria over the last few years. Even some of our monks here in Lindisfarne, as you see from their tonsure, come from Roman orders. We are all Brothers under God, but the Romans spend more time in making and enforcing rules, than doing the work of God, in my opinion.

"However I am very confident which way the decision will go at the end of our Synod. King

Oswy [ also spelt Oswiu ] as you will recall, as a small boy was banished by his uncle and spent almost sixteen years living under our guidance in Ireland and later at Iona before returning to claim the throne. [ Oswy (612-670) reigned 642-670. As a youth he went into exile with his brother Oswald in Ireland and both spoke Gaelic ]

"The King is opposed by the courtiers of his Kentish Roman wife and I hear bad things about his son Alhfrith, who I understand has a blind hatred of things Celtic. He has been no doubt indoctrinated by his mother and her Roman clerics. But after all, Oswy is king and will no doubt determine on the side of the Celtic church.

"We will leave tomorrow and travel by two large curachs in easy stages down the coast to Whitby. This is not the season for storms so we expect to make good time."

* * * *

The next morning dawned overcast with moderate winds blowing from the west, offshore. Two large curachs were launched with six sailors manning the oars and a captain seated aft, steering.

The first craft also carried Abbot Colmán and five monks from Lindisfarne. The second carried Brothers Bryan, Daire and Culann from Iona plus three Lindisfarne monks. An extra one was added at the last minute as Brother Eamon had not recovered from the trek from Iona and it was decided to let him recuperate on Lindisfarne.

The boats kept fairly close to land and planned to stop at an appropriate sheltered cove each night and camp. The journey was expected to take three days.

By mid-morning the captain of the second boat pointed to a small one man curach following them some distance back. The occupant was paddling enthusiastically but was gradually being left behind as it could not match the speed of the larger boats.

A few fishing boats were sighted as they made their way south on that first day but otherwise it was uneventful. As they pulled into a rocky cove for the night, the little curach was nowhere to be seen.

They made camp at the edge of a small stony beach. The boats turned upside down made a good shelter when light rain started during the night. Culann was uncomfortable with the large fire the monks made and was glad when the light drizzle came. He subtly scrubbed the fire out with a stick leaving only faint embers glowing in the darkness. He didn't want to advertise their presence with a fiery beacon. For most of the night he sat up on a ridge above the cove, sleeping fitfully, feeling the comfort of his sword strapped securely under his cloak.

The second day brought higher winds, this time from the north west. The ocean had more of a swell but the wind was driving them toward their destination. The captains stood the boats out a little more from shore so they could not be driven onto any rocks if a sudden squall sprung up.

"There he is again, by damn," pointed the captain. The small curach came out of cove behind them some distance away. The occupier still paddling enthusiastically.

"Are you sure it's the same one?" asked Bryan.

"Aye sir. It's the same one all right. He must have paddled half the night to catch up with us."

"Do you think he is dangerous?" asked one of the monks.

"No sir, I think it's only a lad. Anyway he's not a sailor. With this wind, we'll soon lose him."

Culann peered at the small craft hidden from time to time by rain showers. He then rolled himself in his cloak and tried to sleep.

That afternoon they passed the mouth of a river which would be later called the Tyne. There was a substantial village on both banks of the river, but Abbot Colmán had decided they would not stay in any village as they did not know if the locals were friendly or not.

A sandy inlet surrounded by high cliffs was sighted in late afternoon and that is where they landed. After a simple supper, Culann decided to walk around the north headland to the next cove. The night was overcast and he couldn't see much beyond the white water of the breakers washing onto the rocks. In a short time, he gathered some dry kindling from the beyond the tree line and with his flint, start a fire. This he built up with a number of branches until he had a real bon-fire.

Satisfied Culann retreated higher up the side of the headland so he had a clear view of the cove now clearly lit with his fire. The glow was hidden from the main camp by the headland.

He once again wrapped his cloak around himself, but this time drew his sword and laid it across his lap.

"Now my fine feathered friend, let's see who has been following us."

He waited.

Abbot Colmán was quietly confident as he led the monks in the main camp in prayer. Soon the despised Romans would be put in their place once and for all. They turned in early once again under the upturned curachs. If the weather stayed fine they expected to reach Whitby by the morrow.

* * * *

"Your fire's nearly out Culann," Culann woke with a start at the voice behind him. He automatically reached for his sword but it wasn't there. A dim figure sat two body lengths from him, grinning.

"Thank you for lighting the beacon for me. Without it I might have paddled right past."

"Fergus - what the devil are you doing here? I might have killed you."

"Not without your trusty sword Brother Culann. You should take better care of it," laughing as he handed the weapon back.

Culann took his sword and sheathed it carefully. He looked again at the beach.

"Very good, my young friend. Where is your boat?

"The previous cove. When I saw your fire I paddled back so I could land and come overland. Someone once told me to keep my enemy between me and the fire."

Culann snorted, then asked,

"Why are you following us?"

"I've always wanted to see Whitby."

"Rubbish. Why didn't you just ask to come with us?"

"Oh I did. And I was told, no! It was only for selected monks."

"Who told you that, Abbot Colmán?"

"Oh no, my mentor Brother Werbuh. But I am sure he consulted our grand and glorious Abbot first."

"Hmmm, well you will just have to keep on following us in that case. Are you armed?"

"Of course," said Fergus patting his sword.

Culann looked at the sky which had a pink tinge on the horizon,

"It will be daybreak soon. I must be getting to the camp. You had better get some sleep."

"No, I'll be getting back to my curach. I will need a head start."

"Don't you need any sleep?"

"Not as much as you old men." Fergus ducked as Culann aimed a backhander at him.

* * * *

The third day dawned cloudy but fine with a slight north wind and little swell. A good day for sailing. The boats made for a prominent headland just visible in the distance, Whitby.

Mid-morning the captain mumbled to no one in particular,

"I'll be damned. There's that little curach again, on our lea. How did it get ahead of us?"

As they passed it the sole occupant waved in their direction. Culann waved back.

"Do you know that person Culann?" asked Bryan.

"Long story," said Culann with a half-smile, and wiped spray from his face.

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* * * * *

7.2 Lios mór

Sister Fea discovers Dandelion on Lios mór _(in Gaelic means 'great garden')_  
a fertile low-lying island in the Inner Hebrides. It is now known as Lismore.

It was a major centre of Celtic Christianity. The original monastery was founded by  
_Saint Moluag_ in 562 CE. Born in Ireland he was an Irish noble and was educated in Bangor, Ireland.

A week after departing for Lios mór, Fea and young Sister Tamara, arrived back in Jura. The milk maids were gathered as usual in the cow shed before herding the cows to pasture, when Fea called them together. She asked Brother Hesus to join them, as she described her journey.

"Our passage to Lios mór took less than a day. The island is lovely, not mountainous like Jura. We sailed up one side and could clearly see the mainland on our right. The monastery is located near the top end. There are no nuns, but we did see some women who were wives and daughters of the local farmers.

"There are many trees and the grass is lush and green."

"Almost as green as Éire." broke in Sister Tamara excitedly.

"But here is the important part." said Fea. "We were welcomed by the Abbott, Father Jowan."

"Lovely man." said Sister Tamara.

Fea frowned at this latest interruption and one of the nuns nudged Tamara, who lowered her head, sheepishly.

"Abbott Jowan was very interested when we told him we were looking for special herbs and spices to help in healing the sick. Originally I asked if he would allow us to visit every so often to collect some specimens. He said we would be wasting our time doing that, because nothing would grow on Jura.

"However, someone must have told him about St Brigid's because he knew all about the plague, and seemed very impressed when he discovered we had helped there.

"But guess what! He said we should all come and live in Lios mór. He wants us to open an infirmary there. Isn't that wonderful?"

The nuns all started talking excitedly at once. Fea beamed with happiness, until she noticed Hesus slumped dejectedly on a hay bale.

She walked over and sat beside him.

"Brother Hesus, why are you sad. Isn't this wonderful news?"

Hesus nodded, "Yes indeed. It is very good news for you and your sisters. But just when I found my best friends, you will all leave me." His head sunk lower.

"Oh I'm so sorry. I should have explained. Dear Brother Hesus, you have to come with us. Without your translation of the Greek texts we don't know what to do with the special herbs and medicines.

"I asked Abbott Jowan, and he wants you to come as well, and work in their scriptorium. It's only small now, but they can enlarge it"

"But I explained before - I won't be allowed to work in the scriptorium." cried Hesus.

"Ah, but we have a plan." said Fea. "You won't write anything. You will be just like Galan of Pergamon. You will read the Greek texts and dictate in Latin to the scribes. They will write it down."

"Really? "said Hesus in a hopeful tone. "But I don't know how to, what do you call it, 'dictate'."

"Yes you do." laughed Fea. "You read that Greek text and spoke to me in Latin, as you translated."

"That's 'dictating'?"

"Yes."

"Well bless my soul," said Hesus as he sat there with the biggest grin anyone had ever seen.

* * * *

The preparations to leave for Lios mór took only two days. Abbott Ecne feigned sorrow, but everyone knew he was pleased to see them go. He initially questioned why Brother Hesus should go and leave them without a herder, but after a quiet word from the blind Brother Slane, he gave his blessing.

Meanwhile Abbott Jowan, ever keen to ensure his new nuns would arrive as promised, sent two curachs the next day with instructions to the sailors they were to wait at Jura until the nuns, together with Brother Hesus, embarked, and bring them all safely back to Lios mór.

And so Lios mór became a joint monastery, literally overnight, just 102 years after it was first founded by _Saint Moluag_ from Ireland.

Saint Moluag

Accommodation was the first order of the day and the monks of Lios mór worked feverishly to build first a temporary shelter, then a permanent building for the nuns.

Fea, as soon as everyone was settled in, began a daily ritual of surveying the island to locate any interesting plants. Within a week she discovered Dandelion and one of the farmer's wives showed her where Liquorice plants grew.

Brother Hesus was installed in the small scriptorium where two monks were allocated to him to transcribe all the Greek texts he dictated, into Latin.

Within a month a building was set aside to act as the infirmary. It was divided into male and female wards, but Sister Fea was firmly in control of both sections along with her former 'milk maids'.

* * * *

Brother Hesus had soon translated all the Greek texts they had brought from St Brigid's. Fea sat with him every night trying to understand the complexities of the writings of the Greek physician Galen, as well as other Greeks Galen referred to; _Hippocrates of Kos,_ [1] who died approximately 370 BCE; and _Herophilus of Chalcedon_ , who worked at the Alexandria medical school in Egypt.

[1] **Hippocrates** is considered the 'father of modern medicine'. He invented the Hippocratic Oath for Physicians, which is still in use today ]

Fea noted that Herophilus distinguished between arteries and veins - arteries pulse, while veins do not. Galen also noted the difference: venous blood is dark while arterial blood is bright.

Fea was also pleasantly surprised, when one of the scribes working in the scriptorium, noting Fea's interest in medicine, pointed out several health related items in the Hebrew text called the _Torah._ [2]

[2} the Five Books of Moses, later incorporated into the Christian Old Testament

These included:

(i) Hand washing after handling a dead body, _[Numbers 19:11-19]_

(ii) Isolating infected people, _[Leviticus 13:45-46]_ and

(iii) Burying excrement away from the camp. _[Deuteronomy 23:12-13]_

Hearing of this good work, other monasteries, including Iona, began sending copies of medical treatise they had translated from Egyptian, Greek and Hebrew.

One gem sent by Iona, was the Babylonian medical text, _Diagnostic Handbook_ , which was written by physician _Esagil-kin-apli_ , around 1050 BCE. As the name implied, it was based on the assumption that examination of the patient, and inspection of the symptoms, could allow determination, or diagnosis, of the patient's disease or injury, its future development and the chances of recovery.

Treatment was by application of bandages, creams and pills. It was devoid of supernatural announcements, magical thinking and incarnations to turn away disease-causing demons.

Fea loved it.

Galen's work with injuries to gladiators fascinated Fea. Because _vivisection_ [3] of human bodies was outlawed in Rome at the time, Galen practiced on monkeys and pigs. He determined, correctly, that their body structure was similar to humans.

[3] from Latin **vivis** meaning 'live' and 'dissection'. Doing surgical experiments on live animals and humans.]

The monks and farming families on Lios mór seemed a healthy lot and needed little in the way of medical treatment. However, the Scots that inhabited the mainland were forever fighting the Picts further inland, or in many cases, amongst themselves. The wounded and maimed would be brought over by boat almost every other day for treatment. Some died, but the majority were treated and returned to fight another day.

As the months passed, word of the wonderful medical treatment performed by Fea and her nuns quickly spread.

* * * *

Fea was sitting in the scriptorium with Brother Hesus as he described the results of his latest translation. As he finished Fea looked around and mused,

"Brother Hesus, we should do something special to celebrate our good fortune at finding our new home here in Lios mór. Not right away, but plan something in the months to come."

"Well," said Hesus, "what did you celebrate as special as a child?"

After some moments of consideration Fea ventured,

"As a child I thought Christmas was always special."

"Why?" asked Hesus softly.

"Oh I guess because everyone was happy and smiling and all the families were reunited."

"All the families were reunited because it was mid-winter and no one could do any farming or raiding?" suggested Hesus.

"Not just that. We were also celebrating the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ."

"Ah yes, and what day did you celebrate that on?" enquired Hesus.

Fea paused; she knew from past experience Hesus was leading up to something important and this intrigued her.

"Why the 25th of December of course. You know that."

"Do you know why Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus on the 25th?"

"The Bible tells us so, doesn't it?" suggested Fea.

"Well, my dear I'm afraid the actual birth date of Jesus is not mentioned in the Bible at all. It was first celebrated on 25th December in the year 336 CE during the reign of the first Christian Roman Emperor, Constantine. It was officially proclaimed some years later by Pope Julius I, that the birth of Jesus would be celebrated on 25th December."

"Really?" said Fea in wonder. "Why did they pick the twenty-fifth?"

"Ah yes, a good question. It appears the early Church had a problem because the majority of its converts celebrated the pagan Roman midwinter festivals called _'Saturnalia'_ and _'Dies Natalis Solis Invicti'_ [ birthday of the unconquered sun ] around this date. Seeing they could not stop this, the church leaders decided to select this day as the birthday of Jesus and thus _'Christianise'_ the pagan practice."

Fea smiled, remembering how Sister Mish explained how the early Church took over some of the Druid sacred sites and practices in Ireland.

"Oh I know all about the Mid-Winter Solstice," enthused Fea. "It's when we have the shortest day and the longest night. It means that winter is over and spring begins. We used to call it 'Yule', but how did they actually pick the exact date. I can't tell exactly when winter ends."

"Neither can anyone else my dear. The Romans used to celebrate the festival of Saturnalia between 17th and 23rd of December. However, in 46 BCE the Roman dictator Julius Caesar in his newly created Julian calendar, decreed December 25th to be the winter solstice in the Roman Empire."

[ Since then, the difference between (365.25 days) and the tropical year (365.2421897 days) moved the day associated with the astronomical solstice forward approximately 3 days every 4 centuries, arriving at December 12 during the 16th century.

In 1582 Pope Gregory XIII decided to restore the exact date to correspond with the seasons. So the Pope annulled the 10-day error accumulated between the 4th century CE _(based on the Council of Nicaea of 325 CE)_ but not the 3 day one between 1st BCE and 4th CE. This change _(in the now named Gregorian calendar)_ brings the northern winter solstice to around December 22.]

Is it just my imagination, or does this ancient image of **King Winter Solstice**  
look similar to our modern rendering of **Father Christmas** , even down to the Holly? ~ dMAC

"Thank you Brother Hesus," beamed Fea. "You are a remarkable fountain of information for me. We will have our special celebration for our new beginning on December 25th, combining the Mid-Winter Solstice and Christmas Day."

Brother Hesus glowed inwardly as Fea skipped out of the room. It was wonderful to have met someone who really appreciated him and allowed him to work at what he craved most - the accumulation of knowledge.

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* * * * *

Chapter 8 - Synod of Whitby

Abbot Colmán, his Celtic monks, Abbess Hilda and King Oswy listen to Wilfrid of Rippon  
deliver his argument on behalf of the Church of Rome

Whitby Monastery was situated on the headland above the harbour. It was simply a collection of timber and wattle and daub buildings. There was no walled enclosure. In fact, as the Iona monks discovered to their surprise it was a joint monastery, one for nuns and one for monks, both run by the steely Abbess Hilda. Worshiping and eating were communal but living quarters were separate.

"The Romans would love this set-up," said Abbot Colmán sarcastically. "This is pure Celtic."

All the visiting monks from Lindisfarne and Iona were introduced to the royal family at a gala dinner held in the refectory. There they met the monks of Whitby and the Church of Rome contingent led by Bishop Agilberht [ a Gaul, Agilberht was Bishop of Wessex (648 \- 660) ] and Abbot Wilfrid of Rippon, plus many other clergymen and lay notables.

Security was maintained by many organised armed warriors who, Culann found out, were the private army of King Oswy's son Alhfrith. They were Angles, tough, stocky, mean looking men. They were deferential to the monks of the Roman order, easily identifiable by their tonsure, less so to the Celtic monks and outright hostile to the local British farmers.

Culann walked around the Whitby buildings after dark, looking for any sign of his young student Fergus, whom he felt sure would try to attend the meetings. He found nothing and retired for the night.

Next morning the great hall was filled to capacity. Abbot Colmán and his entourage sat alongside Bishop Agilberht and his Roman party immediately in front of King Oswy who sat on a simple wooden chair. Albeit a rather large wooden chair, on a raised dais at the head of the hall.

Culann sat at the rear of the hall, near one of the doors. He felt more comfortable there as he could add nothing to the debate that was about to commence. Plus, he could more easily check what was going on outside.

After prayers were said, King Oswy rose and address the assembly.

"Brothers of the faith, thank you for coming to this ordained gathering. We are here to determine once and for all the true date for celebrating our most holiest festival, the resurrection of our beloved saviour, the Lord Christ. We have leaders of the Celtic Church in Iona and Lindisfarne," indicating Abbot Colmán, "and representatives from Rome and Canterbury," indicating Bishop Agilberht.

"Bishop Cedd will act as interpreter. I will now call on our friend Abbot Colmán to deliver his address." Oswy resumed his seat.

Abbot Colmán rose, bowed to the King and moved to one side to address the assembly. At the back of the hall Culann heard the distant sounds of a disturbance and quietly rose and slipped out the door.

All eyes were on Abbot Colmán as he began to speak,

"The Easter which I keep I receive from my elders. All our forefathers, men beloved of God, are known to have kept it in the same manner. This should not be seen to be contemptible, or worthy to be rejected. It is the same which the Apostle John the Evangelist, the disciple beloved by our Lord, with all the churches he presided, is recorded to have observed."

Bishop Cedd summarised [ translating the 'Celtic' into what we would now call 'Old English' ] for the gathering, "Abbot Colmán has stated the Celtic church's method for calculating Easter can be traced back to the Apostle John, at the very beginning of Christianity."

"Thank you Abbot Colmán," said King Oswy, "I understand the Roman position is led by Bishop Agilberht of the West Saxons. However, Agilberht requested Wilfrid, Abbot of Ripon be allowed to give arguments in his stead, since he is more at ease with the local Celtic language. If you please Abbot Wilfrid."

_Wilfrid_ _was a Northumbrian monk. Trained first by Irish monks at Lindisfarne and later in Rome. Upon his return to Britain he became the spokesman for the 'Roman' side at the Synod of Whitby. Soon after he was appointed bishop of Northumbria. A controversial figure, renowned for his love of luxury and opulent lifestyle, he was expelled from his see, and appealed to Rome. He was reinstated._

After a later second expulsion and appeal to Rome he was eventually reinstated as bishop of Hexham. He died in 709.

[ **The Life of Wilfrid** , written by little known priest Eddius Stephanus, between 710 and 720. Stephanus knew Wilfrid well and travelled with him to Rome ]

Wilfrid was much younger than Abbot Colmán. He had recently returned from a pilgrimage to Rome where he possibly learnt some of the stagecraft he now put into effect.

Instead of standing in one place as was the wont of speakers, Wilfrid moved around the front of the audience. He waved his hands, stood for long moments in silence to reinforce a point and raised and lowered his voice for effect.

"Your Majesty, Brothers in Christ, fellow Christians. I stand humbly before you to enlighten you on the correct method of calculating Easter. Abbot Colmán states that the Celtic church follows the calculations of Apostle John.

"Well and good, but the tradition of the Catholic Church of Rome had been handed down from both the blessed Apostles Peter and Paul, who lived, taught, suffered and were buried . . . long pause . . . in Rome.

"The Apostle Peter taught us that Easter should be celebrated on the Lord's Day _(Sunday)_ following the rising of the moon on the fourteenth day, since the Lord rose from the dead on the first day of the week."

The **First Council of Nicaea** ( 325 CE) established the date of Easter as the first Sunday after the full moon following the northern hemisphere's vernal equinox. Ecclesiastically, the equinox is reckoned to be on March 21 (regardless of the astronomically correct date), and the "Full Moon" is not necessarily the astronomically correct date. The date of Easter therefore varies between March 22 and April 25.

"When I travelled through the countries of Tuscany, Lombard, the Empire of the Franks, Aquitania and Burgundy for pilgrimage and prayer, I found Easter celebrated at one and the same time. Also in Africa, Asia, Greece, Egypt and all the world, wherever the church of Christ is spread abroad, through the various nations and tongues, all use the same date." _Here a long dramatic pause._

"Except of course amongst the Britons and Picts. In their obstinacy, foolishly, in these two remote islands of the world, and even only in part of them, oppose all the rest of the universe."

Wilfrid resumed his seat and the King asked Abbot Colmán to reply.

"My Brothers, I appeal to you to observe the pattern set down by both Saint Anatolius of Alexandria and Saint Columba of Iona. Both were revered as servants of the Lord. Both celebrated Easter in the Celtic manner. How could such holy men, used by the Lord, have been so wrong in this matter?"

Wilfrid sprang to his feet.

"I am not persuaded by this argument Brothers, and nor should you be. Abbot Colmán and the Celts have simply misunderstood and incorrectly followed the practice of Anatolius.

"Further I suggest Columba was either not a Christian _(who will find himself rejected on the final day of judgment)_ or one who can be excused because of 'rude simplicity'. Wrong practice in ignorance is acceptable, but rejection of the correct teaching - which I am now offering you - would be unacceptable on judgment day."

Loud murmurings of discontent were coming from the Celtic camp.

It is here that Wilfrid plays his trump card,

"Do you think that your small number, in a corner of the remotest island, is to be preferred before the universal Church of Christ throughout the world?

"And though that Columba of yours was a holy man and powerful in miracles, yet should he be preferred before the most blessed prince of apostles to whom our Lord said, _'Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. And I will give up to thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.'_ "

Stunned silence greeted this enunciation by Wilfrid.

Finally, the King asked,

"Is it true Colmán, that these words were spoken to Peter by our Lord?"

"It is true, O King." confirmed Abbot Colmán.

"Can you give me any such power by your Columba?"

"None."

King Oswy then address both Colmán and Wilfrid,

"Do both of you agree that we were principally directed to Peter and that the keys of heaven were given to him by our Lord?"

Both answered, "We do."

The King then concluded,

"I say unto you all, that he is the doorkeeper, whom I will not contradict, but will, as far as I know and am able in all things obey his decrees, lest when I come to the gates of the kingdom of heaven, there shall be none to open them, he being my adversary, who is proved to have the keys."

[ Life of Wilfrid, Edius Stephanus, between 710 and 720 CE, - later The Age of Bede, Translated by J.F. Webb, Penguin Books, London, 1965 ]

_Thus it came to pass that all present, both great and small were asked to give their assent and confirm to the teachings of the_ _Church of Rome_ _in all matters._

Abbot Colmán sat stunned at the outcome, as were most of his followers. They rose unsteady and slowly made their way out of the hall only to be confronted by another, albeit less world shattering, event.

Culann, surrounded by twenty warriors with spears, was holding, what transpired to be an Angle troop leader, in an iron grip, with a knife at the hapless man's throat.

* * * *

When Culann slipped out of the meeting hall he moved toward the commotion he had heard. At the opposite side of the main compound facing the meeting hall, a crowd had gathered amid much shouting. A group of soldiers with spears were holding someone on the ground, who was struggling violently. A collection of local monks and townsfolk had gathered around, all peering to see what was happening.

Culann pushed through the crowd and in a commanding voice said,

"Let him up."

The troop leader of the guards turned, and hands on hips looked Culann up and down,

"Well if we haven't got one of those Celtic piss-ant priests telling us what to do."

"Let him up – _please_ ," the last word emphasized menacingly by Culann.

The troop leader laughed.

"I don't take orders from the likes of you. Run away and pray to your god." He turned away as some of his troop continued dragging the struggling figure toward the nearest building.

In a cream-colored blur the Irish monk shouldered three soldiers to the ground, roughly grabbed the troop leader across the chest, and within the blink of an eye had his back against the wooden building \- the troop leader now held securely in front with a knife at his neck.

The crowd was shocked into silence. The only sound now being the high pitched mewing of the hapless troop leader, his head bent back almost double with the knife now just under his ear, beginning to draw blood.

Ice cold now, Culann hissed,

"Let the boy go."

The confused soldiers released the still struggling bundle on the ground. Fergus bounded to his feet shaking his hair and dishevelled clothes, took in the scene in an instant and strode quickly to Culann's side. Looking down he drew the sword of the troop leader and faced the mob.

"I could have handled this you know," wiping blood from his mouth. "What do we do next?"

"We wait."

The noise level increased as the crowd numbers grew. More soldiers arrived and formed a semi-circle around Culann and Fergus, lances at the ready.

Pushing through the throng emerged the Captain of the Guard, red faced accompanied by more soldiers.

"What the devil is going on here?" he shouted seeing his troop leader now blubbering as not only blood trickled down his neck, but an ominous dark stain spread down his pants from his groin.

The Captain marched toward Culann shouting,

"I demand you let that man go!"

Culann stared back, said nothing but tightened his hold on the hapless soldier who let out a high pitched keening.

The Captain of the Guards stepped back, unsure what to do next. The crowd it seemed, did not favour the soldiers, and started murmuring ominously, some even yelling encouragement to the two men facing off the Anglo soldiers.

"Let them go."

"Good on you Brother."

The stand-off was brought to an end as a solidly built woman with short grey hair in a nun's habit, burst through the throng. Eyes flashing, she sized up the situation and pointing directly at the Captain of the Guards commanded,

"You - take your men and leave - now!"

"But, but he has assaulted one of my men," spluttered the Captain waving his arms.

"I don't care what he has done. This is my monastery and you are on consecrated land. Leave now, or I will damn your soul in hell and have King Oswy nail you and your heathen soldiers to yonder tree." One hand on a hip and the other still with finger pointing threateningly at the hapless Captain.

Into this throng stepped the group of monks emerging from the meeting hall, including Abbot Colmán, Brother Bryan and the collective monks from Lindisfarne.

"Brother Culann!" blurted Bryan, startled.

"Is he one of your group?" asked Abbot Colmán looking around at Bryan, then noticing for the first time the grey haired nun at the centre of the throng.

"I beg your pardon, Mother Superior Hilda."

"Ah, Colmán of Lindisfarne," replied the nun regarding the newly arrived group. "I take it this rascal," nodding at Culann, "is one of yours."

"Well yes, I mean he's from Iona. But he came with us, yes."

"Well young man," nodding toward Culann," I suggest you turn loose that poor excuse of a man and put your knife away. And you young Pict, sheath that sword. It's too big for you anyway. Come, this is no place to converse," indicating the still curious crowd of monks and townsfolk - the soldiers having quietly disappeared.

"We will go to my quarters." The Abbess of Whitby led the way, followed by the monks from Lindisfarne, and Fergus, who had stuffed the sword into his belt.

* * * *

They settled into the small room dominated by Hilda's desk. Some of her staff were briefing her quietly. After a few minutes she nodded solemnly, waved them away and turned to her guests.

"Now please explain what in the world is going on here," looking first at Culann then Abbot Colmán.

"This has been a momentous day for all of us. The last thing I need is an altercation with the soldiers who belong to the King's son, Alhfrith, particularly as he is no friend of the Celts nor," looking now at Fergus, "the Picti."

One of the Lindisfarne monks suddenly pointed at Fergus,

"I know you lad; you're one of the students from Lindisfarne."

Another spoke up,

"No, you are the person paddling that curach behind us, down to Whitby." Fergus sat back smiling, happy at being the centre of attention.

"You are right on both counts Brothers," said Culann. "This is Fergus mac Ciniod of the Fortriu. He has been a student at Lindisfarne for the past three years, and he paddled all the way from Lindisfarne to be here. He is under my protection"

"What are you doing here lad?" queried Abbot Colmán. "And why were you fighting with the King's soldiers Brother Culann?"

"I came here to witness the Synod of Whitby on behalf of my clan," replied Fergus, "many of whom worship at St Ninian's. I was attacked by those soldiers for no reason what-ever. I tried to explain I came here to witness, but they either didn't understand me or more to the point, I think they don't like Picts."

"And I don't like armed men attacking innocent unarmed young boys," said Culann with a straight face.

Abbess Hilda sat back with a slight smile,

"Well I admire your courage young Fergus, sailing all the way from Lindisfarne. However, I question your tactics, taking on the entire Angle military establishment, sent here by Prince Alhfrith.

"And as for you my Celtic warrior monk from Iona," nodding to Culann, "you are safe enough in my monastery, but I fear you have made some serious enemies who, I understand, will be waiting for you to leave. What are we to do with you!" A statement, rather than a question.

"Can't they leave with us?" Asked Abbot Colmán.

"Abbot Colmán, I have a special feeling in my heart for Lindisfarne. I was recruited by your beloved founder, St Aidan, to begin life as a nun, here in Northumbria. While I will obey the ruling today of King Oswy, I will do everything in my power to protect you and your followers.

"I will tell you, the King's son Alhfrith is not a nice person. He commands many of the Angle soldiers. He is a Christian, but follows the Roman church, as does his mother the Queen. He hates the Celtic church and all it stands for. But if there is anything he hates more it's the Picti. I think he is evil.

"Brother Culann and young Fergus, we have a problem. Any suggestions?"

Not for nothing was Abbess Hilda held in high regard as an advisor to kings, nobles and peasants. Inside that compassionate face she showed to the world, was a lady of steel.

"Surely Alhfrith would not dare touch anyone under the protection of Lindisfarne," said Abbot Colmán.

"Not directly," replied Hilda. "He would no doubt send some of his heathen soldiers to do what was necessary, and then deny all knowledge of any wrong doing."

"We will leave separately from the main group, at night," said Culann.

"That may work," said Hilda thoughtfully. "We may have to create a diversion though."

"How will you get back to Lindisfarne Brother Culann?" asked Bryan. "It could take weeks through unfriendly territory."

"We can use my curach. It will take two," suggested Fergus excitedly.

"Where is it?" Asked Culann.

"It's hidden."

"Yes, but where?" exasperated.

"I can't tell you. I'll show you."

"What if someone has taken it?"

"Then I'll steal another one."

"I didn't hear this conversation," said Hilda trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "I suggest you both leave tonight before our friends get too organized. I will hold a communion to celebrate the end of the Synod, and invite everyone."

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* * * * *

8.1 Return to Lindisfarne

Culann and Fergus paddled all the second day and into the night.  
They swapped roles of paddling and bailing with the drinking cup.

And so it came to pass, that Culann and Fergus slipped out of Whitby monastery that very evening. At the time, an extremely noisy, all night celebratory party, was held for all participants, by Abbess Hilda.

It was still dark as they scrambled down the cliff face. Fergus paused for a moment to get his bearings, then moved left along the edge of a dense patch of low scrub. Paused again, then pushed in through the tangle of vegetation. Culann waited, impatient. More movement then Fergus emerged shaking his head.

"It must be along further."

The sky was beginning to lighten on the horizon but clouds were building in the north. Fergus disappeared for the third time into the thicket. Silence. Then,

"Ahhh, I told you so," and emerged from the undergrowth pulling what appeared to be a large bundle, swaddled in saplings, rushes, foliage and various pieces of vegetation.

Quickly stripping away the coverings revealed a curach, big enough for - two very small men - at a pinch.

"That's not big enough for two of us," said Culann in exasperation.

"Well it's all we've got."

Culann threw his kit bag on the ground in frustration and sat on his haunches. Fergus in a small voice suggested,

"Why don't we take it down to the beach and see" Culann looked, shrugged his shoulders, rose and said,

"Why not."

They slipped and slid their way down to the beach, manhandling the curach and their kit bags, which had been filled to capacity by Abbess Hilda's nuns, with foodstuffs and their spare clothes. The curach itself was light enough, made with a wooden frame and covered in cow-skin. It was just awkward to negotiate between the small trees and rocks on the way.

Finally, they stood on the narrow beach, very small waves washing next to them. It became obvious the small craft would not take them both and their kit bags as well.

Bye-bye food.

While still on the sand, they tried different seating arrangements. The only one that worked was if they sat with Fergus in front, knees up and Culann behind with his legs straddling the youth.

"We've only got one paddle." said Culann.

"Of course we only have one paddle. It was just me to begin with, remember. Stop moaning."

"Watch your tongue lad. Respect your elders."

"If it wasn't for me we wouldn't have the curach."

"If it wasn't for you we wouldn't be in this mess." A strained silence ensued for several moments.

"Yes, you are right," said Fergus. "I haven't thanked you for rescuing me either. You take the curach. I'll walk to Lindisfarne."

Culann, suddenly embarrassed for his mean spirited approach, reached over and _cuffed_ [1] the youth's shoulder. [1] Cuffed, strike playfully with an open hand

"Oh don't mind me, lad. I've been itching for a fight for weeks and you gave me the excuse. We are in this together. Let's make the best of it. We should get back to Lindisfarne before the others, and break the news about the Roman takeover." He held out his hand, and after a heartbeat hesitation, Fergus with a shy smile responded and they both shook hands.

Culann put his arm around the lad's shoulders,

"Let's get this craft launched before Alhfrith's heavies come calling. All we can bring are our weapons and leather water skins . Fold them in our spare clothes."

"We need one cup to bail the water."

"Good thinking lad."

After some experimenting they found the easiest way to launch into the small white crested waves was for Culann to sit in the back of the curach holding the paddle, facing the shore. Fergus pushed the boat into the surf beyond the first line of breakers, then being lighter, pulled himself on board between Culann's outstretched legs. Culann then dug the paddle in to turn the boat around and began paddling furiously off-shore.

They were lucky the waves were quite small and this enabled them to improve Culann's paddling skills. After a short-time the paddle was switched to Fergus in front and Culann scooped out the water which continually filled the bottom of the craft, with the cup. Their small boat passed beyond the northern headland as the sun rose in the east.

They paddled north along the coast all day, pausing only to swap the paddle and drink from the water skins. The clouds increased and the wind picked up from the north east so by late afternoon they decided to pull into a small sheltered cove, and make camp. They spent the night huddled around a small fire, wet, cold and hungry.

Culann and Fergus paddled all the second day and into the night, no doubt preferring to paddle than freezing onshore. Dawn on the third day found them drifting half asleep, woken with a start by the water now sloshing about in more than a third of their boat. Culann began bailing furiously while Fergus scooped out handfuls of water, until their almost swamped little vessel bounced once again on the top of the waves.

Fergus was their navigator as Culann had absolutely no knowledge of the coastline. By the time for Terce prayers [ three hours after sunrise ] the familiar shape of Beblowe Crag came into view. Fergus took over the paddling and carefully guided them into the seaward beach sandwiched between the otherwise rocky foreshore.

No one saw them stagger like drunken sailors through the surf, carrying their small bundles of clothes and water bags and collapse on the beach. They were back on Lindisfarne.

The tide came in and the two still forms lay exhausted half way up the beach. Waves lapped around their abandoned curach, slowly, silently lifting it from its resting place and bit by bit carried it back out to sea.

A group of monks, herding sheep, later in the afternoon saw the inert forms and while they hurried down to help, one ran back to the monastery spreading the word that two men had arrived on the island from the ocean side, without any sign of a boat.

It must be a miracle.

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* * * * *

8.2 Abbot Colmán's Decision

Abbot Colmán was sitting in an almost trance-like state.  
The Roman devils had won. His beloved Celtic church was to be no more.  
Brother Bryan, seeing this, took it upon himself to organize their departure from Whitby

Abbot Colmán was quiet and withdrawn. He still couldn't believe the way the Synod had ended. His beloved Celtic church was to be no more. His whole life's work was now in tatters. The Roman devils had won. They, with their laws, rules and regulations, their stupid slave like tonsure, or as they pathetically called it the 'crown of thorns tonsure', their absurd calculation of Easter, and worst of all calling our beloved St Columba _(may his soul rest in peace)_ ignorant.

Brother Bryan, seeing Abbot Colmán was sitting in an almost trance-like state, took it upon himself to organize their departure. After the all-night long celebrations during which the lady Abbess Hilda had made sure there was a plentiful supply of mead, no one was in a hurry to do anything - except sleep.

However, change was in the offing. Abbot Wilfred - whom one assumed didn't drink one drop of that very palatable mead - insisted on calling the faithful to prayer not only at Martins [ first light ] and Vespers [ evening, lighting of lamps ], but Prime [ 1st hour of daylight ], Terce [ 3rd hour of daylight ], Sext  
[ 6th hour of daylight ] , and None [ 9th hour of daylight ]. The Celtic monks were much more flexible regarding praying, and excused those working in the field or away from the church buildings.

King Oswy also proclaimed that a new spiritual centre of would be established at the more easily accessible York, to begin the Romanisation of all of northern Britain. It was obvious to all, that Lindisfarne's pre-eminent position as the centre of Christianity in northern Britain had become outmoded overnight, with the rejection of Abbot Colmán.

It must be said however, that Abbot Colmán, as he bid farewell to King Oswy and Abbot Wilfred, graciously stated,

"In the past, when there had been contact between Celtic Christians and the representatives of the Bishop of Rome, there had been conflict. Where Christians previously had not been civil to one another, and in some cases, would not even eat together, he, Colmán, would ensure that there would be peace."

Abbess Hilda held tearful farewells with those monks, stating that although she had spent most of her spiritual life in the Celtic church, she would change what-ever was necessary, to now conform with the Roman way.

It took the Lindisfarne monks a further three days before they finally bid everyone farewell and took to their two large curachs to wend their somber way home.

During that solemn boat trip Abbot Colmán made a momentous decision. While he acknowledged Oswy had the means to impose his will on all things temporal, he could not accept that the King had the authority to rule on spiritual matters.

Therefore, he would leave Lindisfarne forever and return to Iona, where he could practice his religion in the Celtic manner.

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* * * * *

8.3 Two Selfish Men

Culann, Fergus with Brother Bryan and Brother Bec entered the small candle lit room.  
Abbot Colman and three of his advisors looked up from the documents they were studying  
and waved them to sit on the wooden trestles in front of his desk.

Four days after the two intrepid travellers had miraculously appeared (although the miracle _was discounted, after Culann and Fergus told the monks they had arrived by boat - although they were at a loss to explain how the boat disappeared)_ , Abbot Colmán arrived. By then, the inhabitants of Lindisfarne all knew of the momentous news regarding the outcome of the Whitby Synod.

Disquieting word also arrived from the mainland that a number of armed soldiers had arrived on horseback. They were looking for a Celtic monk and a Pict youth, probably making their way to Lindisfarne.

Abbot Colmán told his monks that he was aware a group of _Papal_ [1] representatives would be arriving shortly to _exorcise_ [2] all documents and relics, considered by the Church of Rome, to be _heretical_.[3] Murmuring broke out on receipt of this news.

[1] **Papal** , from the Pope

[2] **exorcise** , to expel **evil spirits** by prayer & religious rites

[3] **heretical** , a belief that is against the principals of a particular religion

Everyone knew the Celtic monks transcribed every manuscript they could lay their hands on; psalms, gospels, manuals, in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic - anything and everything.

The Roman church however only allowed the copying of the Old and New Testament documents.

It would be inconceivable that all those wonderful scrolls and codex, so lovingly compiled over the years, could be destroyed. It must not be allowed to happen.

Yet here was the conundrum. Abbot Colmán had already given his word he would comply with Rome's doctrine. He did not believe Kings had the right to make spiritual decisions, but he had given his word. He would not be able to defy the Church of Rome while he was Abbot of Lindisfarne. But if he was not Abbot of Lindisfarne, if he was just plain Brother Colmán, and the documents were not here. Hmmm . . . but where could he take the documents?

Where else of course, but Iona.

As if Abbot Colmán didn't have enough problems, Brother Bryan, very agitated, repeated the rumour that soldiers were looking for Culann. When Culann was told, he said he was not going to run away. _'If the soldiers wanted him, they could come here and try and take him'_.

"And Abbot Colmán, he was polishing his sword as he told me that," related Bryan.

Abbot Colmán threw his hands in the air. Why does everything always happen at once. Now visiting Brother Bec had arrived, and after learning of the danger to his charge Fergus, was demanding safe conduct for the lad back to his clan, as he was placed here under the protection of the Monastery.

Culann and Fergus met two evenings later accompanied by Brother Bryan and Brother Bec.

They had been summoned by Abbot Colmán to his office.

"This doesn't look good does it?" Fergus stated glumly. "The Abbot is upset because we caused that problem in Whitby. I hear we will be asked to leave."

Culann remained silent as they all strode to the appointed meeting place. They entered the small candle lit room. Abbot Colmán and three of his advisors, plus Brothers Bryan and Bec, looked up from documents they were studying, and waved them to sit on the wooden trestles immediately in front of his desk. They sat in silence while the Abbot continued reading.

Eventually the Abbot looked up.

"Brothers in God, we are entering very difficult times for our church. The most serious threat to our very existence has been caused by the events in Whitby."

Culann and Fergus looked at each other. This was not a good beginning.

Two men have caused this situation. The good work that has been carried out at Lindisfarne for over twenty years is now threatened - all because of the selfish interests of two men," he paused. The sound of a candle spitting could suddenly be heard.

"I have decided that I can no longer remain as Abbot of this monastery," shocked silence. "I will notify everyone tomorrow that I will resign and remove myself to Iona." Then everybody started talking at once.

"No Holy Father, please don't," shouted Brother Bryan over all the tumult, "I'm sure we can ask those two men to recant and do penance," looking at Culann and Fergus.

Abbot Colmán suddenly snapped out of his semi trance-like state.

"Recant! Penance! Don't talk nonsense, Brother. These men answer to no one for their actions." He looked around the assembled group, as if suddenly realising there was perhaps some grave misunderstanding.

"I am speaking of King Oswy, who cares more about St Peter not allowing him entry to heaven when he dies, and Abbot Wilfred who cares more about expanding his position in the Church of Rome, than his British parishioners!" thundered Abbot Colmán.

The collective exhaling of breath from most of those present could be clearly heard.

"I ask you all to keep this confidential until I announce my decision to all monks tomorrow." A confused murmuring spread around the room.

"Ahhh, . . . you are all wondering why I asked you here this evening." Abbot Colmán eased himself back in his chair.

"We have some wonderful codex and relics here at Lindisfarne. I will not allow them to fall into the hands of the Church of Rome. I will take them to Iona.

"That will take some time to arrange and I am mindful that not all the monks at Lindisfarne view the Celtic Church as we do. They may try to disrupt or delay our labours.

"Therefore I have decided to remove the most valuable codex this very evening, before anyone is aware of my plan to go to Iona. I have thought hard and long as to who I shall entrust this sacred duty. There are twelve codex I consider irreplaceable. Twelve, the same number as our Lord's disciples. Twelve, the same number of monks who accompanied our beloved Saint Columba when he first set out from Hibernia [ Ireland ] to Iona over one hundred years ago.

"I need two exceptional men who can travel quickly through the countryside to Iona carrying these codex. We will use our special leather robes with pockets sewn inside and concealed under our normal habits. Each has room for six codex.

"To ensure speed and security, our special couriers will travel together, but without any _entourage_.[4]

[4] **Entourage** , people accompanying or attending an important person, ( from French **entourer** meaning 'to surround' ).]

"They need to have proven that they can complete difficult journeys in the past. We have no margin for error here. The men we need Brothers are right here in the room. I speak of course of Brother Culann and Master Fergus. Your journey back from Whitby, evading all pursuers and in record time, has not gone unnoticed.

"Will you both accept this challenge to carry our most precious copies of the world of knowledge, to our far flung sanctuary, Iona? It cannot be one, it must be both," stated Abbot Colmán.

Culann sat dumbfounded at the dramatic change of events. He came to this meeting fully prepared to be asked to resign from the order in disgrace. Instead it was the Abbot Colmán who was resigning, and he was being charged to perform a mission of great honour. To deliver the most precious books in Lindisfarne to Iona.

"I will go Holy Father, and protect the codex with my life," said Culann.

"Me too," beamed Fergus. _What an adventure_.

And so it came to be, that Culann and Fergus were the first bearers of the most priceless books from Lindisfarne. Both charged with making that perilous journey through now hostile territory to Iona. Little were they aware of the tribulations and danger that lay ahead.

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* * * * *

Chapter 9 - St Abbs

Pamp the Irish Bard at St. Abbs

It was still dark as the small group of monks from the scriptorium quietly brought out the long leather book bags complete with the valuable codex securely sewn in each pocket. These leather containers were placed over the shoulders of Culann and Fergus, then laced together under the arms and at the waist. Culann slung his sword and scabbard over shoulder and back.

Fergus pulled on his checked trousers tied at the waist with strong cord. Both then donned undyed cream-coloured woollen habits, hoods thrown back and tied at the waist with a leather belt. From the belt hung a few pouches containing their wooden eating bowl, mug, spoon and knife. Fergus also strapped on his shorter sword outside his habit while Culann's, of course, was hidden from view. Culann also collected his thick wooden staff, which was just slightly taller than a man. Each had an additional soft food sack draped over their shoulder, which also containing a fresh set of clothes. They were ready to go.

While this activity was going on in the scriptorium, Brother Bec of St Ninian's sought out Brother Bryan.

"Brother Bryan I am concerned that my charge, young Fergus, is journeying such a long way from his homeland with just one monk for protection. He was originally sent to Lindisfarne to study, not to engage on what I consider a frivolous trek, to transport documents which can more easily sent by cart or curach to Iona."

"I agree Brother Bec. However, I think you are missing the point Abbot Colmán has subtly grasped. Both Culann and Fergus are now wanted by Prince Alhfrith and his Angle soldiers. They have men even as we speak stationed at the other end of the causeway, waiting to assassinate both Culann and Fergus. We are also hearing that an Anglo-British army is raiding north beyond the Firth of Forth, creating much destruction as they go.

"The adherents of the Church of Rome will come shortly to Lindisfarne accompanied by the Angles. Neither Culann nor Fergus will be safe here then. I know Culann has too much pride to be seen running from his enemies. He will stay, and in doing so will be killed. The same fate awaits young Fergus as this is not Pictish territory.

"Abbot Colmán has sought to solve this dilemma by giving both men a heroic task. They have undertaken this task. It is highly probable they will not succeed, given the odds against them, but if they do not go, they most certainly will die here."

Brother Bryan finished and both men remained silent for a while.

"Then I will go north to Fortriu and enlist the help of the Picts there," said Bec, extending his hand in farewell to Bryan.

Culann and Fergus gathered with Bryan on the northern seaward beach, Brother Bec had already left the previous day. They had agreed the best plan was to go by boat north to the river Forth, proceed upstream, then go overland, retracing their original steps to Dumbarton.

If they left before dawn, there was little chance they would be seen from the mainland as it was overcast and raining. The Abby had arranged for a curach with two sailors to take them to the Firth of Forth.

Farewells were said and the four figures in the small boat disappeared through the low surf into a rain-squall.

* * * *

The rain stopped just after dawn and although the swell increased they made good time. The mouth of the River Tweed came into view just after midday. The rain in patches came back again making all members of the boat cold and miserable. Culann and Fergus swapped rowing duties with the sailors from time to time, so everyone could rest a while. It was in fact warmer rowing than just sitting and bailing water from the bottom of the curach.

The swell was increasing as night fell, so the sailors suggested they pull into shore and spend the night at _urbs Coludi_ [ Colud's Fort ], now known as _St Abbs_. This deserted 5th century fort was now a dual monastery run by the Abbess AEbbe, the sister of King Oswy.

The sailors dragged their boat well above the high water mark, and led the way from the small sandy cove up a steep path to the headland high above. There they saw a number of bee hive huts made from wattle and daub surrounding a larger timber hall, which was lit up.

The dwellings were enclosed on the landward side by a substantial three-meter-high turf rampart. No doubt the remains of the original fortifications, built 100 years earlier.

Entering the main hall, they were brought to Abbess AEbbe herself. When Culann explained their mission AEbbe insisted they sit at her table. Fergus was amazed to see monks and nuns together. Not just in the same room, but sitting and talking together.

"Have you seen anything like this before, Culann?" he asked.

Culann smiled, remembering, "Why yes, I visited a similar monastery many years ago, in

Ireland. But it was much bigger."

Abbess AEbbe said to Culann, "Brother Culann, we have been expecting you. Your friend

Brother Bec was here just last night. He said you may call in. He asked you meet him at _North Bere-wic_."[1]

[1] **North Ber-wick** , East Lothian, on the Firth of Forth. The name North Ber-wick means North 'barley farmstead'. **Bere** in Old English means 'barley' and **wic** in Old English is 'farmsted'; **sted** in Norwegian means 'place' i.e. 'farm place'.

"Where is that?" asked Culann.

"Oh I know," said one of the sailors. "It's on the mouth of the Firth of Forth. A fishing village. Not far."

Culann noticed there were, what he assumed to be, local people as well, not just monastery personnel, enjoying the food. A bard was entertaining those dining on the far side of the hall, reciting poems in praise of a local _Laird_ ,[2] who was sitting with some of his followers. The noise level was increasing, so much so, that Culann had to lean forward at times, to hear the conversation between Abbess AEbbe on one side, and Fergus on the other.

[2] **Laird** , a landowner of a large estate; Scots variant of Lord.

Serving girls brought plates of venison and beef. Casks of mead and milk stood at intervals behind the tables and the diners' mugs were filled regularly. Whisky was also served and Fergus took a cup.

Abbess AEbbe explained that tonight, the local Laird was celebrating the birth of a new baby son. He was providing the food, drink and entertainment. The Abbess allowed him to use the monastery hall, 'for a small consideration', as his had burnt down some months previously.

Fergus expressed a wish that the same fate didn't befall this hall tonight. The Abbess smiled in agreement.

Culann and Fergus both took venison shanks from the serving plate as it circulated. Culann, Fergus noticed, in this environment, reverted to his warrior days with the Fianna, by slicing meat from the bone of the shank, then stabbing his knife upright into the wooden table while eating. This was not done in the more refined refectories at Iona or Lindisfarne. So Fergus did the same.

Much merriment continued during the night. At one stage another group of Anglo warriors entered and demanded food and drink. The local Laird invited them to join his tables. The bard circulated, singing and reciting clever poetry. Some of those he entertained, tossed him an old Roman coin, or a broach or other articles of adornment.

Culann, who was keeping a wary eye on the Angle warriors, noticed some were holding animated conversations with the local Laird and began turning and pointing in his direction. Of course they could be pointing to the Abbess, so he did not become unduly alarmed.

The Bard swept passed, playing his lyre, but as he was well versed in these events, did not tarry, as he knew the monks and nuns, having no worldly goods, would not throw him any donation.

Culann leaned to one side to address the Abbess, when he became aware the Bard had returned and was standing in front of him, strumming the lyre. Culann looked at the Bard who sang softly, in perfect Irish Gaelic

"Brother monk, Brother monk, upon my life,

"I don't believe I've seen, such a wonderful knife."

Culann closed his hand around the knife handle standing upright in the table, still looking at the Bard, responded quietly in Gaelic, "The knife is mine, master Bard, it is not for sale, nor for giving."

"I know, quite so, forgive my preamble,

"But does it have the letter "P", on its bone handle?"

Fergus noticed Culann's hand clenched, but his gaze never left the Bard's face, "You'll have to use a better trick, than good eyesight, to get this knife, master Bard."

"Brother monk, Brother monk, I do not do tricks,

"I remember the past, and my memory sticks,

"On a dark winter night, a Fianna, a tent,

"With a knife just like that, a slit I did rent."

Culann stood suddenly, hands on the table, leaning across, "Was it you?" The Bard danced away, laughing and strumming his lyre.

"It is true, it is true, I cannot lie,

"Your bonds were cut, by none other than I."

Fergus looked on astounded, as this little bit of theatre was played out. Culann reached down, pulled the knife from the table, and reversing it, handed it to the Bard,

"I owe you my life Master Bard. I gladly return your knife."

"No, no, I'm so glad you're alive,

I've wondered for years, if you did survive."

In my travels I noted, my deed was rewarded

By your saving Miss Fea, it's been so reported

Alone and unaided, you vanquished her foes

No doubt enamoured, as everyone knows,

All who have seen her, fall under her spell

I among others, could just wish her well,

When marriage was mooted, to that Prince ne'er-do-well."

Culann stood, head down, the knife still in his hand,

"Master Bard, I cannot match your eloquence, and words can never express my gratitude to you, for what you have done. I am forever in your debt. May I know your name?"

A serious look crossed the Bards face. He ceased playing.

"I entertain and flatter great men,

" _I slay with satire, lofty fools, beyond their ken,_

" _I'm known far and wide, as Pampinus Pronuntio_ [ to declare publicly, to recite, to narrate ]

" _An Irish narrator of much informio_ [ to educate, information ]

" _My real name is known, to only a few_

" _Those I respect, and that includes you_

" _My friends, I ask my long name supplant,_

" _So you, Brother Culann, please call me Pamp"._

Culann grasped the Bard's proffered hand, and held it. Fergus all but collapsed on his bench, overwhelmed by Pamp's command of rhyming skills. The noise around them continued unabated.

Only the Abbess noted the communication between monk and bard.

Then, Pamp, bowing his head, danced off back to his main benefactor for the evening, the Laird and his followers at the far table.

Fergus commented, "Those nuns seem very friendly Culann. I think a few are actually drunk. Was the monastery you visited in Ireland like that?'

"No, of course not. In fact, the monks and nuns were not allowed to socialise. They even had a linen barrier placed down the middle of the church, where they all worshiped, so they couldn't even look at one another."

Culann was secretly pleased that Fea was not at a joint monastery like this one. _But Fea is no longer at St Brigid's - she is dead_. He shook his head to clear that terrible thought.

Culann didn't regret not telling Pamp the terrible news about Fea. Obviously the Bard had met her some time before her marriage was arranged, and fallen under her spell. Let him keep happy thoughts about her.

The noise from the hall carried on, into the wee hours. Culann and Fergus, both agreed it would be difficult, if not impossible, to try and sleep through all the din. So they stayed on, watching the ever changing scene at the table of actors around them, rolls changing as their mead levels rose.

* * * *

One of the monks hurried to the Abbess' side and whispered urgently in her ear, pointing repeatedly at one of the far tables, where Culann noticed, an agitated group of men were milling around.

The Abbess leaned over and spoke solemnly to Culann,

"I fear your friend, the Bard, may have upset one of the warriors with his sharp tongue. Not all Anglo males appreciate his sometimes barbed satire, Brother Culann."

Culann immediately stood and nodding to the Abbess, said,

"With your leave, my Lady Abbess, I will sort this out," and strode around his table and across the hall.

"Hey, wait for me," yelled Fergus, scrambling to catch up. Culann and Fergus shouldered their way through the now gathering crowd. At the centre was Pamp, being shaken by a large, rough looking Anglo warrior wearing a black bearskin, his face contorted and spittle running down his beard.

The other warriors were giving him a wide birth, a sure indication that he was the alpha male in this group. Fergus couldn't catch his words, but he was definitely very angry. The Laird stood to one side of the table, a smile on his countenance, obviously enjoying this added spectacle.

Culann, swept up to the pair, reached out, and firmly grabbed the warrior's shoulder,

"No need for violence my friend. If the Bard has offended you, I'm sure he will apologise."

The warrior swung around, shaking Culann's hand from his shoulder,

"I don't take orders from gutless monks. Clear off, or I'll have you too," very nasty.

Culann turned to the Laird,

"Good Sire, will you command your man to behave. This is supposed to be an evening of celebration, not fighting."

The Laird, still grinning, and obviously enjoying every minute, replied,

"I can do nothing Brother. He is his own man. If someone feels aggrieved, then he should seek satisfaction, no?"

The black bearskin warrior, still holding Pamp in one hand, grinned, and spat on Culann's cream-colored habit.

_Big mistake_.

The monk smashed his fist into the warrior's nose, who lurched back, dropping Pamp and grabbing his now blood soaked, face. A communal sigh of anticipation went up from the surrounding audience, who en mass, involuntarily took several steps back, giving the potential protagonists more room.

"Brother, leave now. This man is dangerous," called someone from the crowd.

The warrior, a murderous look in his eyes, wiped his face, and deliberately drew his large two handed sword.

Culann swept the codex coat and cloak from his shoulders, and in one swift movement drew his own sword from his back scabbard, and began circling.

Fergus picked up the fallen garments, yelling, to no avail,

"Hey, what happened to all this stuff about not starting a fight? What about walking away, eh?" Culann, still circling, eyeing the warrior, said,

"Just get the codex to Iona."

The crowd began yelling, egging on the combatants. The warrior feigned a thrust and Culann stepped nimbly aside, sword still held in front with one hand, while the other held what was once Pamp's knife.

Fergus was aware the Bard, Pamp, suddenly materialized beside him.

"I didn't expect this to happen, or for the night I would retire,

" _These Anglos react different to Celts, when I use satire,"_ he said, standing now just behind Fergus.

The warrior raised his huge sword above his head and lunged at Culann, who neatly stepped inside the blade and sliced the warrior's sleeve, drawing blood as he glided through to the opposite side.

The warrior turned to face him again. The crowd suddenly realised that this was no ordinary monk. He had real fighting skills, and could have dispatched the warrior then, if he had wanted.

A feeling of rage, born of desperation, swept over the Anglo warrior. He rushed Culann again, swinging his sword, in great figures-of-eight arcs. Culann moved back a few steps, then parried the blade with his sword, lunged forward and quicker than the eye could follow, drove the knife into the warrior's belly, twisting it up, and out.

The large man dropped his sword and collapsed onto Culann, who held him for a moment, then lowered him face down to the floor. The crowd stood shocked into silence, as the warrior lay twitching spasmodically, then all movement stopped. A dark pool of blood kept fanning out, ever wider.

The silence was broken by Abbess AEbbe, surrounded by monks, who rushed into the circle surrounding Culann, grabbed him, Fergus and Pamp, and bustled them out of the hall muttering aloud,

"Come this way. I'll fix this. It happens all the time."

Fergus handed Culann his discarded clothes, who under the night sky, carefully put them on.

Pamp stood there shaking his head, repeating the same word over again,

"Amazing."

Abbess AEbbe returned shortly, with their sailors, and advised that although there would be no immediate retribution from the Laird's warriors, it would be advisable if they left now, rather than later - just in case.

"Please don't think poorly of my hospitality," she added, "I'm really just thinking of your wellbeing."

Culann said he understood, and graciously said he wanted to get an early start anyway. The monks helped the two bleary eyed sailors, who had snored through all the excitement, and the now three passengers, push the curach into the pre-dawn surf.

At least the rain had stopped.

"We should be at North Bere-wic before nightfall," advised one of the sailors.

Fergus said nothing. He felt rotten. Probably drank a bit too much whisky.

As their little craft bobbed between the waves near shore, the sailors set about raising the mast and setting the small sail.

"The wind's favourable lads. We should make good time today," said the head sailor.

The curach initially turned away from shore to the north-east as the wind bit into the sail but the sailor on the stern rudder oar, dug deep into the water and turned them more north to follow the shoreline, easily visible on the port.

Pamp spent most of the morning staring at Culann, who had closed his eyes and was trying to sleep. Eventually the Bard said;

" _At first Brother Culann I didn't believe,_

" _All those wild stories, of what you'd achieved_ ,

" _In rescuing Fea, from mac Cairill's men,_

" _Outnumbered I hear, by at least ten by ten,_

" _But after today, when with consummate ease,_

" _You dispatched my attacker, without 'by your leave'_

" _I stand in awe of your swordsman-like prowess,_

" _The stories I'll weave of this, will go on for hours."_

Culann opened one eye, half smiled, and went back to sleep.

Back to top

* * * * *

9.1 North Ber-wic

Brother Bec waiting at North Ber-wic for Culann and Fergus  
to arrive from St Abbs. Behind him is the local landmark, Bass Rock.  
St Baldred, a Christian hermit, had a chapel built on Bass Rock in the 7th century.  
The island is the remnants of a volcanic plug formed during severe seismic activity 350 million years ago.

All the men relaxed as the wind did most of the work, pushing their boat up the coast. It was late afternoon when the headland marking the southern mouth of the great river Forth came into view. The sailors dropped the sail and rowed west toward the small fishing village of North Bere-wic.

They landed at a small sandy beach and the local fishermen helped pull their craft above the high water mark. On noticing Culann's monk habit, one of the fishermen pointed to small round hut some distance away, indicating they should go there. Leaving the sailors to tend their craft, Culann, Fergus and Pamp climbed up to the hut. Inside they were greeted by an older monk, short in stature, who immediately threw his arms around Fergus.

"My boy, my boy. Thanks be to God you are safe. I was afraid I would miss you."

Fergus disentangled himself and with a sheepish smile to Culann explained,

"This is my mentor, Brother Bec. He is from St Ninian's."

Bec turned and embraced Culann,

"Thank you my son. I am grateful you have taken good care of young Fergus. His mother is worried about his well-being and I am relieved I can inform her he is well."

Culann introduced Pamp to Brother Bec, as _'a gifted Bard who had once saved his life'_.

"What news have you Brother Bec, that we should stop here." asked Culann.

"I was afraid you would continue up the Forth. There is great danger for you there. The Anglos are out in force on both sides of the river because of earlier raids by the Picts. I have also heard they are especially looking for a tall Irish monk and a young red headed Pict, travelling together."

"If we can't go upstream, we certainly can't stay here. How do we get to Iona?" asked Culann.

Yes, yes, I know, I know. You will have to go north to Abernethy. Then you can go direct across to Oban and on to Iona."

"But that's Pict country," said Culann.

"That's my country," said Fergus, grinning.

Brother Bec arranged for them all to stay the night and take a frugal meal with one of the fisher family.

Pamp indicated he wished to travel by boat, anyway, back up the Forth river, by himself. He had worked his way through that route, over the past year, and had made friends who could look after him. Plus, he wanted to return to Eire. All his belongings had been left at _urbs Coludi_ , St Abbs.

Back to top

* * * * *

9.2 Abernethy

"Don't . . . ." yelled Fergus, but before the words were out of his mouth  
the Chieftain's head was yanked back and Culann's knife was at his throat.  
"We'll see who is safe around here," hissed Culann.

Next morning the sailors arranged two boats. One carrying Pamp to go west, upstream, and the other, north, to Abernethy. Their original crew rearranged the belongings in the boat to take Brother Bec, with his bag. It was a tight squeeze but soon all was ready to caste off.

Waved goodbye by some of the women of the village - most of the men were already out in their boats, Brother Bec stood in the little craft and made the sign of the cross to the well-wishers on shore, as they moved once more out to sea.

Pamp stood precariously in the stern of his curach, much to the chagrin of the two sailors who were rowing him, waving his arms and delivering his final couplet;

" _God speed my comrades, I wish you 'safe journey',_

" _May foes remain few, and friends you gain many."_

Culann, Fergus and Bec all waved back. Fergus remarked frustratingly,

"If I live long enough, I want to be able to answer him one day, in rhyme."

The wind was favourable and their sail was hoisted carrying the little craft swiftly out across the wide mouth of the Forth. After some time, the far shore gradually came into closer view. They could see the rocky headland and the waves breaking relentlessly on its serrated shore.

Culann marvelled at the unusual yellow colour of the rocks which dipped down into the waters' depths. This was certainly different country to what he had seen before.

They turned north and let the wind carry them further away from the coast across a large wide bay. Early afternoon they sighted the entrance to the Firth of Tay, and lowering the sail, turned west and began rowing toward it.

Culann observed the Tay was much smaller than the Firth of Forth. The tide had turned and helped carry them upstream. They noticed some dwellings on both sides of the river as it narrowed. People were seen moving about. Some waved but most seemed to ignore them. It was obviously a common sight to see craft on the river.

Brother Bec gave instructions to the sailors to make for a smaller tributary, or burn, that flowed into the south side of the river. The sun was behind the trees when a small collection of buildings came into view. Culann noticed immediately there were monks tending some of the cleared fields nearby.

When he stepped out of the craft onto the rough jetty, he was even more surprised. There were nuns as well.

Brother Bec smiled when he saw Culann's expression.

"Brother Culann, you should feel at home here. This is a double monastery."

"Not like the one at St Abbs, I trust?" said Culann.

"Goodness me no," laughed Bec. "St Abbs has a bad reputation. This is a sister monastery of one of your great Irish monastery's in Kildare."

"St Brigid's," said Culann, astonished.

"Why yes, my son. Do you know of St Brigid's?" said Bec surprised.

"Oh, I've been there a couple of times. Many years ago. Where is the Abbot, or should I say Abbess?" changing the subject.

Bec looked enquiringly at Culann and pointed to a figure hurrying down the path toward them.

"Here comes Father Ruad."

A short stout monk held out his hands in greeting,

"Brother Bec, how good it is to see you," clasping Bec's hand in both of his.

"And you have bought friends with you, wonderful. I am Ruad, Abbot of this poor establishment. Please come with me, refresh yourselves and tell me of your journeys."

Ruad led them toward one of the larger round wooden huts which was used as a guest house.

Within a short space of time, all, including the sailors, had washed and changed into fresh clothes. They were then taken to the Abbot's own hut where they were given refreshments.

Culann noticed that although they passed a number of nuns, each one looked down respectfully and did not make eye contact. For that matter neither did the monks. This is certainly different from St Abbs.

Father Ruad _(as he was referred to by everyone)_ , was impatient for news of the Synod of Whitby and pressed Culann for details. Culann briefly explained what had taken place in the great hall at Whitby, particularly the decision by King Oswy to find in favour of the Church of Rome.

"Oh dear, that's terrible," cried Ruad.

"Will we now have to shave the top of our heads like those silly Romans and change the way we calculate celebrating the death and resurrection of our Lord Jesus?"

"I'm afraid so," responded Bec. They were all silent.

"I have a question." said Culann suddenly.

"How is your monastery linked with St Brigid's?"

All heads turned to Father Ruad.

"My son, that question has not been asked of me in many years. May I enquire why you are interested in St Brigid's?"

"I visited the abbey in Ireland a couple of times," said Culann, now embarrassed.

"Well then I am very pleased to hear that. I have not had the honour of so doing."

Father Ruad paused to gather his thoughts, placing his palms together and looking to the ceiling as if for inspiration.

"The Abbess St Brigid formed her Irish church at Druin Criadh in the plains of Magh Life [ now Kildare ] about two hundred years ago. Her church was erected under a large oak tree. Her convent was called _Cill-Dara_ , which means, _'the church of the oak'_. It was a double monastery, with monks and nuns. As far as I am aware, it was the first double monastery ever built.

"St Brigid also took in students," continued Ruad, "and encouraged the development of a school of art, including metalwork and illumination. The scriptorium has produced wondrous books of the gospels. St Brigid also took a keen interest in health and healing. I know she searched for many old manuscripts on the art of healing, particularly from Egypt and Greece. Many of her nuns were renowned for their skills in medicine.

"Over the years St Brigid founded other double monasteries in Ireland. After her death in the year of our Lord 525, the second Abbess of Kildare _, Dairlugdach_ , carried on the good work. She helped set up a joint convent on the island of Jura and then came overland to this spot.

"This is where the capital of the Southern Picts was located. In those days this place was called Apurnethige, which means confluence of the Nethy ( _with the river Tay )_. The Nethy Burn flows past our church. In fact, you would have rowed up it today.

"The Pictish King Nechtan gave the land on which to build this church."

Just then their discussions were interrupted by a commotion outside and the arrival of none other than Chieftain Danan.

"Where is my nephew? Where is young Fergus?"

Everyone rose and Fergus stepped forward,

"I am here Uncle." Danan took him by the shoulders and looked him up and down.

"By the Gods you have grown lad. I am pleased to see you, but what are you doing here? I understood you would be at Lindisfarne for at least another two summers. Who are your companions?"

Fergus introduced Culann and Brother Bec.

"Well, welcome to our country good sirs," said Danan. "And now Fergus, your mother will be back in a few days. She will be pleased to hear you are back for good."

"Oh, I am not back for good Uncle, I am on the way to Iona."

Danan's face darkened in anger,

"What? You going to Iona? With all the trouble now between here and the west coast? You will not, and that's final."

Danan turned and walked to the door. Everyone was stunned into silence.

* * * *

Fergus was distraught, "I gave my word I would get these codex to Iona."

Culann tried to comfort him, "He's not your father. He can't stop you."

"Unfortunately he can my son," said Father Ruad. "Danan is Fergus guardian. In his clan it is impossible for Fergus to disobey his guardian until he reaches manhood."

Bec nodded in agreement.

"Then I shall have a word with the Chieftain," said Culann as he walked to the figure still standing looking out the door.

"By your leave, Sire," began Culann respectfully, "your nephew has been of great service to me. I will ensure his safety on our journey to Iona."

King Danan looked Culann up and down and his lip curled,

"You, a monk. You couldn't ensure the safety of my hunting dog."

"Don't . . . ," yelled Fergus, but before the words were out of this mouth, the Chief's head was yanked back and Culann's knife was at his throat.

"We'll see who is safe around here," hissed Culann.

The King's two bodyguards who had been lounging against the far wall sprang up and drew their swords.

"Back, "snapped Culann, "or your Chief loses his head."

The bodyguards stopped and looked for instructions.

Fergus stepped forward and laid his hand on Culann's arm,

"Brother Culann, please, this is my battle. Release my Uncle. He is just concerned for my well-being."

Culann released the Kings head and stepped back. His hand dropped to his side, but he did not sheath the knife.

Chief Danan also stepped back rubbing his throat, glaring at Culann.

"I'm sorry Uncle, but Culann was a Fianna warrior before he became a monk. Underneath he's still a warrior, just like you. You shouldn't have insulted him."

"Me. Insult him. He tried to kill me." The bodyguards moved around to be on either side of Culann, swords at the ready.

"I've seen Culann in action before Uncle. If he wanted to kill you, you would not be breathing now."

"Stop!" cried Father Ruad,

"Put your weapons away - all of you. There'll be no blood spilled in God's House."

The bodyguards looked at Danan who nodded. They sheathed their swords. Culann's knife disappeared inside his cloak.

Still looking at Culann, Danan spoke,

"Why did you try such a foolish thing? If you had harmed me, you know you would never have escaped from my country alive."

"We all die sometime," answered Culann in a flat tone.

"Hmmm, I don't know whether you are extremely brave - or extremely stupid," mused Danan.

"Uncle, Culann saved my life at Whitby. He single-handed took on and defeated fifty Anglo warriors."

"Well young Fergus, if anything had happened to you, your mother would make my life not worth living. It appears I owe your friend the monk, an apology, and my forgiveness for his hasty action," said Danan half smiling.

"Does that mean I can go to Iona?"

"No, you cannot go to Iona."

"In that case Uncle, I renounce you and your clan. I will leave and never return," said Fergus.

"What, you leave?" laughing, "Leave my camp with all my men?"

"You forget Uncle," said Fergus, "if I walk out that door, I will run to the hills and neither you nor any of your men will ever catch me."

Danan's face turned sober,

"By the Gods, you may be right. You were always the quickest lad I ever saw. Alright then, tell me why I should let you go to Iona with this , . . this, . . warrior monk?"

Fergus walked to his Uncle and whispered in his ear, "I only told you half when I said I had taken an oath to deliver these books to Iona. More importantly I swore an oath to Abbot Colmán of Lindisfarne, that I would protect Brother Culann with my life on the journey."

"You did that!" said Danan, astounded. Fergus nodded and continued whispering,

"We have already travelled a far greater distance through hostile Anglo territory, from Whitby to here; further than from here to Iona."

The others cast wondering glances at what was being said.

Danan stroked his moustache thoughtfully.

"Young Fergus," said Danan, placing his hands on Fergus' shoulders, "I see there is a large streak of stubbornness in you, no doubt inherited from your mother. I am impressed by your loyalty to your friend. If this journey means so much to you, and you are confident of your skills to survive in hostile territory, then I would be more than mean, if I didn't allow you go. But on one condition. You can write now, can you?"

"Of course Uncle."

"Then write a letter to your mother, detailing what you told me, why you should go. Do that, and I will give you my permission."

"Thank you Uncle," said Fergus with a wide grin, "I shall write it now."

"One more thing," everyone stopped smiling, "Do you have the slightest idea how to get from here to Iona?"

Fergus said, "As I understand, all we do is walk toward the setting sun."

Danan rolled his eyes, "It is a bit more involved than that. The best way is to go south-west to Dumbarton Rock which is held by the Scotti. You can get a boat from there to take you to Iona. I will provide a guide who has travelled to Dumbarton. You must take him with you."

Fergus looked to Culann who frowned, then after a moment nodded,

"Yes, we originally came overland from Dumbarton to Lindisfarne."

"Then it is agreed," said Fergus.

"In that case you go with my blessing" said Danan.

* * * *

Later that day King Danan met with his chosen guide, Vosegus.

"You are charged with protecting my nephew Fergus with your life. Do you understand?"

"Yes my Liege."

"One more thing," said Danan, looking around to ensure no one could hear them,

"That monk, Culann, ensure he does not live to see Iona. I'll teach him to hold a knife at my throat."

Vosegus smiled showing his yellow teeth,

"I will see that he meets his God before he sees Iona, my Liege."

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* * * * *

9.3 To Dumbarton

Fergus and Lasair in front of a crannog

The day they set out to Dumbarton dawned clear with only scattered clouds. Culann sized up their guide, Vosegus. He was a large lump of a man with a heavy ginger beard and long greasy hair down over his shoulders. He was armed with sword and spear, as well as his carry bag with food and clothes.

A large group had gathered to see them off. It included Chief Danan, Brother Bec, Father Ruad, some monks, and a few nuns standing off to one side.

The monks clasped Culann's hand in farewell and some of them hugged Fergus. Danan threw his arms around Fergus and nodded at Culann.

Looking back, waving, Culann, Fergus and Vosegus headed west following the Nethy Burn. The group watched until a clump of trees hid the travellers from sight. They then disbanded, many thinking the travellers would not reach their goal, because of the unrest that lay between them and Dumbarton Rock.

The three travellers made good time the first day. The burn turned south after midday so they pressed on through mostly open ground. Much had been cultivated. They passed a few farmers who were preparing the dry ground for next year's crop. Father Ruad mentioned that this had been a long hot summer. Crop yield was down. Many prayed for rain.

Fergus noticed that Culann, who normally liked to take the lead, remained behind Vosegus, always keeping him in view. Vosegus, in front, set a fast pace and was somewhat surprised to find his two companions kept up with him, easily.

As night fell they camped beside a small stream under a group of large Caledonian Pines. Over the fire they cooked a simple oatmeal dinner. Fergus took first watch, Vosegus second and Culann the last.

Next morning after a quick bathe in the burn next to their camp and eating the leftovers of last evening's oatmeal they set off.

Vosegus said they were heading toward a small village where he had relatives. They could spend the night under cover. Before sundown they came to a small loch.

A wooden building on stilts stood just off shore. It was a _crannog_ ,[1] a house-platform, constructed offshore in shallow lakes or lochs. These dwellings were not uncommon in Caledonia, and popular because of their defensive qualities.

[1] **Crannog** , from Old Irish **crannóc** a wooden structure or vessel, from **crann** meaning 'tree'.

It was just large enough for one homestead and a timber defensive palisade A planking gangway linked it to the shoreline which was cleared of trees. Wispy smoke curled from the wooden building.

No movement was seen from the structure.

"How do we get in?" asked Culann, "The gangway has been taken up."

Vosegus stood at the edge of the loch and called in a loud voice to the structure. He did this a number of times. Finally, a figure appeared in the shadow of a doorway and told him to stand closer. Vosegus walked to the edge of the gangway and held his arms up. There was murmuring and then two women appeared, bringing with them some of the missing planks for the gangway. It took a little time for all the planks to be put in place. They then retreated to the doorway and waved Vosegus forward.

The three travellers walked up and over the gangway to the water girt dwelling. Inside they were surrounded by about 30 figures, their faces difficult to make out in the dim light.

Some fuss was made of Vosegus while Culann and Fergus stood in the background, waiting to be introduced. The scene seemed surreal, then it suddenly struck Fergus what was strange,

"There are no men in this village," he whispered to Culann.

"So I've noticed. Something's wrong."

Vosegus was waving his arm in their direction and the village women all began staring at Fergus and Culann.

"We have a problem my friends," said Vosegus walking over.

"The Angles are raiding this valley from the south and all the warriors left three days ago to defend their lands." He paused, trying to put his troubled thoughts into words. "The women haven't heard from them, which is unusual. They are very worried."

"Is there anything we can do?" asked Culann.

"Not you. The problem is me. The women have asked me to seek help for my tribesmen from Chief Danan. However, I gave my word to Danan that I would guide you south to Dumbarton Rock. With the Angles in great numbers between us and the Rock, we cannot continue south."

"Then Fergus and I will go west to Oban. There we will obtain a boat to take us to Iona," said Culann.

"I have not travelled much through those mountains, but I have heard they are very difficult. If you have no guide you could be lost there for weeks. Is time not of the essence for your journey?" asked Vosegus.

"We must not tarry, true, but it appears the only alternative in these changed circumstances. Unless Fergus has travelled these mountains. What say you Fergus?"

Fergus shook his head,

"I have never been in this territory. As a boy I spent my time on the coast."

"Then we are lost without a guide." said Culann.

"I can guide you," came a voice from amongst the villagers.

"Who said that?" asked Vosegus, surprised. A slim figure stepped forward from the group, wearing a long dull shirt and leggings.

"It's a girl!" exclaimed Fergus in depreciation.

"Well, so it is" smiled Culann, "and about your age too Fergus, by my guess."

"A girl can't guide us," snorted Fergus.

Culann, still smiling, turned back toward the young girl, who stood defiantly with arms folded on the edge of the group of women. All were silent, watching.

"Pray tell me young Miss, how are you able to guide us through, what everybody tells me, are impenetrable mountains?" asked Culann.

"I have kin at Loch Earn. My father brings cattle from there every summer. I go with him."

Culann looked at Vosegus, who nodded, "Yes, some families who have no sons take their daughters to help drive the cattle. People here have kin at Loch Earn."

"And how far is Loch Earn from Oban?" asked Culann.

"It is two days from here. Another four days to Oban," stated the girl.

A woman carrying a baby spoke quietly to Vosegus. He then came to Culann and whispered,

"This woman says she is the girl's mother," nodding toward the young girl. "She says it would be safer for her daughter to go to Loch Earn, rather than to stay here. The Angles do terrible things to any young girls they find."

That struck a chord with Culann. He asked the girl,

"What is your name young Miss?"

"Lasair. It means _'flame'_."

"Not named after your blonde hair." smiled Culann. "Tell me Lasair, why would a young girl be willing to go off alone with two men she has never met before? Aren't you worried."

"I can take care of myself."

"How?"

"With this," Lasair pulled a leather sling shot from her shirt and twirled it twice before making it disappear.

"I kill small animals for food."

"Have you ever killed a man with it?" mocked Fergus.

"Not yet," said Lasair, looking straight at Fergus.

"Well then, Lasair," said Culann, "we accept your gracious offer to guide us. When shall we start?"

"It's dark now," said Vosegus, "I will leave and go back to Abernathy. You should wait and leave at first light. You have a difficult trail to follow over the mountain."

So saying Vosegus bade farewell to his kins' women, slipped out the door and ran heavily over the gangway, which some of the woman then removed, and disappeared into the night.

Culann and Fergus were given straw sleeping pallets and settled down for the night. Despite the crowded quarters, the continual coughing and murmuring, the pair slept well. With the hearth fire in the middle of the room, it was warm there at least.

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* * * * *

9.4 Lug's Lookout

"Well, well, we have more visitors" boomed the Anglo leader

Next morning found the youth, the monk and their female guide, well on their way, heading now north-west. The wooden hut on the water was soon left behind and they entered lightly wooded undulating country.

Lasair led the way followed by Culann with Fergus bringing up the rear, mumbling from time to time that he hoped no one would ever find out he was being led by a woman.

They stopped briefly at noon to drink from one of the many burns flowing down from the now high hills close by on their left. Lasair explained she was heading for a narrow trail which would save them much time, rather than going further up and following the wider valley.

The next rise in the terrain they came to was covered only in heather and gave a good view of the immediate surrounding countryside. The wind had picked up and was blowing from behind bending the heather. Culann and Fergus almost bumped into Lasair who had stopped suddenly and was peering intently off into the middle of the valley.

"There are men out there," she said quietly, pointing ahead and to their right. Neither Culann nor Fergus could make out anything.

"I see nothing but scrubland and pine trees," said Culann shading his eyes.

"Female imagination," muttered Fergus also staring in vain.

"There are two groups. They seem to be working together," a long pause, then she added, "They are not Picts."

"Your eyes are good lassie; I still can't make them out," said Culann. "Wait, I see movement now, over there," pointing.

"Yes, they are spreading out. One group heading north, the other going south. About twenty in total. What are they doing?" asked Lasair.

"I think they've seen us," said Culann quietly. "We shouldn't be standing on top of this ridge. They are trying to head us off. How far away is this trail you were talking of?"

"Not very far," pointing to her upper left. "But they must know of it also - they are running toward it."

"Can we beat them?" asked Fergus.

"It will be close. Higher up the trail it becomes quite narrow, but in the lower reaches we could never hold off ten or fifteen warriors." Culann looked at Lasair sharply as she spoke. He was surprised this girl was thinking in strategic terms.

"What are our options?" he asked, acknowledging her leadership, at least for now.

Lasair put her finger in her mouth and then held it up in front, gauging the wind direction.

"I think we can distract them. Quickly, down to those line of small trees ahead."

They followed her as she ran ahead, pulling clumps of heather as she went. At the edge of the tree line she bent down and pulled something from her clothing,

"I need more heather, quickly," she commanded.

Culann and Fergus gathered each an arm full, returning to find Lasair striking a small flint repeatedly into the clump of heather she had bound up with twigs. Suddenly a small flame erupted from the sparks and Lasair held it aloft.

"Light yours," she ordered and they each thrust their bundle of heather onto hers. She then turned and held her burning bundle among the topmost branches of the smaller pine trees, running from tree to tree about fifty paces. She then ran back igniting the tree branches on the other side. Some flames dropped to the ground and ignited small clumps of dry undergrowth which burnt slowly. However, the pine trees reacted differently. Their needles quickly caught fire and then with increasing speed spread to other tree tops fanned by the brisk wind.

Taking the burning bundles from Culann and Fergus she ignited more small pine trees. Their last glimpse of the warriors ahead showed them halting briefly then turning and running frantically away from the oncoming forest fire.

"Now I know why they call you _'flame'_ ," smiled Culann to Lasair, whose eyes were dancing with excitement.

"Quickly, "cried Lasair, as she turned and ran behind the billowing smoke and flames. "We have to reach the trail before those Anglos regain their courage and try to head us off."

Culann and Fergus looked at each other, shrugged and followed her in the smoking inferno. The main flames raced well ahead, but patches of still burning heather and small scrub had to be negotiated as they ran forward.

Lasair pulled her cloak over her mouth and nose. Both Culann and Fergus followed her example as they ran through the haze. Their eyes still watered from the smoke, but breathing was certainly easier.

Within twenty minutes of running Lasair paused amid the smouldering clumps of vegetation and large rocks that now littered the immediate landscape. Visibility was still only fifty paces or so. One large rock with strange designs carved on it appeared through the haze. Lasair gave a squeal of delight as she ran toward it.

"This way," she called, "here's the trail," pointing upward.

Fergus stopped suddenly and pointed to a smouldering clump of clothing that caught his attention,

"What's this?"

Culann came over and prodded the bundle with his staff. It was a body, badly burnt.

"It would appear one of those Anglo warriors wasn't fast enough to outrun the fire." he mused, looking around for any live specimens that may be lurking nearby. They could see nothing suspicious.

With Lasair beckoning them on, they turned and followed her up a slight ridge that gradually became steeper and merged into the side of a narrower offshoot of the wide main valley.

"Why don't we just go up that valley below?" asked Culann, breathing heavily as he strove to keep up with Lasair. Fergus seemed to be only loping as he brought up the rear.

"Because it ends in a sheer rock face," shouted Lasair, "this is the only way over the mountain."

Culann glanced down quickly to the narrow valley below. A few trees were still burning on the valley slopes lower down. The wind pushed the flames up the main valley, which was now far below them. Smoke from burning undergrowth hid the valley floor. He could not see if there were any Anglos below.

The trees thinned as they climbed higher. The trail was now only wide enough for two people. On the left above them rose the main shoulder of the mountain, while the right dropped precariously into the valley floor.

"Watch your footing." shouted Lasair who was now reduced to a nimble fast walk. "I don't want to have to stop and pull you out of the valley and back up this mountain."

Culann smiled as he heard Fergus mutter behind him,

"Mountain, mountain? This is no more than a big hill. I'll show you mountains."

After half an hour more climbing Lasair turned and advised,

"You can't see much now, but just ahead is a clearing called Lug's Lookout. It is just below the top of the mountain and has a wonderful view right across the countryside to the east."

Turning, she ran quickly up around the next bend and out of sight. Culann and Fergus followed more slowly.

Two more bends and they came to a clearing seemingly cut out of the side of the mountain.

Front and centre was Lasair, arms and legs thrashing frantically against a huge bearded warrior, who was holding her off the ground, one giant hand clamped over her mouth and the other holding a spear.

Eight more Anglo warriors holding spears and shields, stood at his side. The clearing was bound on one side by a steep rock incline dotted with stunted shrubs then trees on up to the summit, and on the other a sheer drop into the valley floor.

"Well, well, we have more visitors!" boomed the Anglo leader still clasping the violently struggling Lasair.

Two more Angles who had been hiding in a rock cleft moved behind Culann and Fergus, cutting them off.

In the blink of an eye, Fergus ducked between the two warriors' spears and disappeared back down the track, tearing his clothes off as he ran.

"After him!" barked the leader. The two warriors hesitated for a moment and then took off downhill in pursuit.

Culann quietly edged to the high side of the trail and backed up against a Caledonian pine.

Four of the Anglos surrounded the monk. One pointing his spear at Culann's neck. Culann moved his staff ever so slowly so it was about a hand span from the inside of the spear head

The other Angles gathered around him, grinning, while their leader sneered,

"We will catch your craven little Pict, my friend and bring him back squealing. I want you to see me cut his throat, after you have told us where your treasure is." Culann remained impassive.

Lasair, still violently struggling, bit the offending hairy hand, freeing her mouth momentarily and screamed,

"Fergus, you coward. Come back!"

The cursing Angle leader back-handed her savagely, knocking her to the ground.

_Wrong move_. The girl picked herself up, and in an instant scrambled between his legs, up the bank, into the bushes, out of reach.

The rest of the Anglos surrounded Culann with their spears. Their leader still shaking his now bleeding hand, moved menacingly forward.

"Don't worry about that vixen. This monk and his friend are probably the ones who started the fire. Is that so?" gesturing with the uninjured hand, which still held the spear.

Culann remained silent, his back hard against the tree.

"Well, my friend, we'll soon loosen your tongue like we did with that big fat Pict we caught last night. He squealed plenty before dying. He told us you were heading to this pass with untold treasure. You don't seem to be carrying much treasure to me. Where have you hidden it?"

Staring straight at the leader, Culann said nothing.

"The strong silent type are we? Well we have ways to loosen your tongue," turning to his men, "Start a fire."

Two men moved to the edge of the clearing and collected some brushwood. Within a few minutes they had a blaze going with a collection of small sticks from the undergrowth on the high side of the clearing.

* * * *

Fergus sprinted down around the first bend, then, while running, continued discarding his clothes. Cape and blouse were easy. He pulled out his knife and sliced the thongs binding the leather book bag. It fell away. More difficult were his trousers, he had to slow considerably to get them off. Then, kicking off his sandals, he was naked. With one glance over his shoulder to ensure his pursuers were not in sight, he leaped into the bush on the high side of the trail, knife in one hand, sword and scabbard in the other.

He quickly climbed higher up the side of the escarpment, sure footed as ever. He was in his element. Some distance away from the trail he paused, to listen for pursuit. The was no sound. Satisfied, he turned and continued running uphill, twisting, bending, leaping, almost flowing between the trees, large and small. The ground was rocky and at times the stones were covered in moss, he had to slow somewhat, so not to slip or dislodge any. _I've run steeper hills than this_. Upwards, ever upwards.

* * * *

The Anglo leader indicated with his spear that Culann drop his food sack. With his left hand Culann tossed it on the ground. One of the warriors opened it and shook his head, finding only food and clothing. "Nothing here chief." he muttered.

The leader looked back at the two men stoking the fire,

"How long till I have something red hot?"

"The wood's green Chief, it will take a little while."

"No matter, we have plenty of time. Sounds like your young Pict is being brought back now, friend."

Culann was measuring his chances against nine Angles, when just then the two pursuing warriors returned. Nine was an outside chance; eleven, no way.

"We couldn't catch him Chief. He was so scared, he threw off all his clothes as he ran, even his sandals, look," with that they threw Fergus' cloak, trousers sandals and the leather book bag in a heap on the ground, still breathing heavily and laughing.

Culann peered; eyes narrowed, _but no sword_.

"All right. What's in that leather thing?" snarled the leader.

"Just some Christian gobbledygook. You know, writing and stuff - rubbish really."

"Here, keep your spear on this fool while I look." Two of the warriors with spears on Culann moved closer, hoping he would make a move, but he didn't as much blink.

"Spineless Celtic monks and gutless Pict boys," spat the leader, disappointed. He squatted down next to the pile of clothes and ransacked everything. Some of the codex he tossed over his shoulder oblivious of its priceless value.

"That fat Pict told me they had some treasure with them. Must have hidden it." He looked up at Culann,

"Well my friend, do you want to tell me where to find it, or do we use the fire sticks to loosen your tongue?"

Culann still stood with his back against the Caledonian Pine, silent, but with a look of loathing on his face.

"Ok my friend, we'll start by burning your clothes off your back," then to his men, "Give me one of those fire sticks." His eyes narrowed in anticipation as he reached backward to take the glowing stick.

A man's scream echoed out across the clearing. As they all turned in astonishment, a second blood curdling shriek rang out. The two men nearest the fire were writhing on the ground, the sinews behind their knees sliced through.

A third man dropped as a frenzied, naked, red haired, sword wielding youth, severed his head.

A blood red mist filled the air.

Culann in one motion brushed aside the spear at his neck and drove his staff up into the spear holder's jaw with such force, blood, bone, and teeth spewed out in all directions.

Next Culann drove the head of his staff into the solar plexus of the second Anglo who jack-knifed with a whooshing sound, unable to breath, then collapsed as the staff, swung in a short arc, cracked his skull.

The remaining Anglos, totally bewildered at this two-pronged attack, milled in confusion.

The leader, still sucking his injured hand stood up and pointed with his spear to a shape that materialised above them on the bank between the trees, but before he could utter any word of warning the stone from Lasair's sling struck him in the face and he fell backward screaming in pain, dropping his spear as both hands grabbed his now sightless eye.

A collective pause overcame all the combatants. The five remaining Anglos were together, spears at the ready, backing toward the ledge at the edge of the clearing.

Lasair calmly reloaded her sling and aimed a shot at the one nearest Fergus. The Anglo howled in pain as the pellet struck his cheek. He stumbled back, missed his footing and disappeared over the edge, into the valley below. His screams echoing ever more faintly.

The rest of the Angles automatically raised their shields to protect their faces. and stepped forward away from the edge.

Fergus dipped low and swept his sword again into the leg of the next nearest warrior who dropped to the ground squealing and grabbing his almost severed limb.

Culann swung his staff in an arc and smashed the skull of another, then reaching over his shoulder, his sword made a whistling sound as he drew it from the scabbard under his cloak. Parrying one man's spear with his staff he sliced the arm off with his sword.

Two left. They looked at each other. Their only escape was downhill. They both nodded and charged at Culann with their spears. Culann parried the spear of the nearest one with his staff, and drove his sword into the man's belly, but the second man's spear struck Culann on the chest, below the right shoulder.

The force knocked Culann backwards. He collapsed on the ground, the spear quivering in his body, blood streaming over him, entangled with the dead Anglo.

The surviving Anglo, seeing the path clear, leaped over the bodies of Culann and his fallen comrade, and raced downhill.

Lasair whirled her loaded sling and released the missile at the disappearing figure. It struck his shoulder causing him to stumble, but he quickly regained his footing and disappeared around the first corner. Fergus, buck naked and covered in blood, holding his sword high in both hands and screaming a hideous war cry, swept by in hot pursuit.

Lasair slid down from her vantage point and stood in the centre of the clearing, surrounded by the human carnage. Her shoulders shook and she started to shiver. She turned to find Culann sitting up, pushing the dead Angle from on top of him, and struggling to dislodge the spear from his chest.

"I, . . I, . . I, thought they'd killed you." Lasair stammered.

With a shrug and a final tug, Culann withdrew the spear and flung it away.

"They killed one of the codex," he grunted, pulling the thick damaged book from its pouch on the leather book bag. The spear blade had gone right through the book and had just penetrated his chest through his habit, causing some slight bleeding. But this was not immediately noticeable as the Anglo, with his belly sliced open, had bled copiously over them both.

Culann stood up gingerly, pushed the lifeless form to one side, and withdrew his sword from the man's body. He looked over at Lasair, arms hanging by her side, shaking uncontrollably.

"There, there, my brave young girl," he said as he moved quickly and put his arms around the girl as shock set in. "It's all over now."

She buried her face in his chest ignoring the bloody robes and cried,

"What's become of Fergus?"

"He will be okay, you'll see," stroking her hair to calm her as Breuse had done to him many times as a frightened child.

The cries and moaning of the crippled Anglos writhing on the ground, now filled the air.

As if on cue, Fergus emerged back up the trail, still looking horrific, but holding his sword in one hand and the severed head of the Anglo in the other. Without a word he tossed the head against the nearest tree and then went to each warrior, most still agonizing on the ground and methodically hacked off all their heads: Pict style.

When he caught Culann's questioning eye, he responded flatly, "It's our custom."

Culann nodded mutely.

Lasair in a small voice said,

"You came back. Forgive me, I thought you had run away."

For the first time since he had met her Fergus grinned, a really big grin, showing all his teeth.

"I didn't run away. I was just following the advice of Brother Culann; always attack from the high ground. Right Culann?"

Culann released his hold on Lasair, who had now stopped shaking, "Absolutely. Always attack from above."

"Kind of them to bring my clothes back," said Fergus as he pulled on his trousers.

"Well done lad," smiled Culann as he mussed the youth's blood streaked, red hair.

"Aren't you going to say any prayers for them?" asked Fergus.

"No lad, they're not Christians. Someone may have to say some prayers for me, for killing them though."

"You didn't kill all of them."

"Yes, you are right, just some."

They collected their belongings, particularly the discarded codex strewn on the ground. Culann took an axe from one of the bodies and stuffed it in his belt.

Lasair and Culann were inclined to leave this place of death as soon as possible, but Fergus initially wanted to place sticks in the ground on which to place his severed heads. The ground was too rocky, so he settled instead on jamming them one by one on living tree branches, he first stripped of foliage.

In years to come this place would be regarded as haunted. Particularly after leaves were seen to be growing out of the decayed eye sockets of the grinning skulls.

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* * * * *

9.5 Loch Earn

Gille Dhu, Lasair's uncle and local Pict leader, in front of his hill fort, Dun Durn,  
just west of Loch Earn. Dun Durn was located on an imposing rock outcrop  
that must have been used as a fortress since mankind first came to this place.

After one last look at the grisly scene, they turned and walked the short distance to the mountain crest, and gazed out over other mountains ranges seemingly stretching forever to the west. Lasair pointed excitedly to the glimpse of sun glinting on water - Loch Earn.

"We won't get there till tomorrow. Let's move," said Culann.

They didn't expect any more trouble with Anglos, but to be prudent, Fergus walked well ahead to scout, as they continued into the next valley.

The path down the mountain was less steep and wider than the reverse they had just travelled. It was agreed that they would stop at the first of many burns they passed, to wash and change into clothing not covered in blood. The men together, and Lasair upstream hidden by bushes.

When darkness fell, they camped beside a sparkling burn under a canopy of large fir trees. Lasair skilfully made a small fire and carefully hid the glow of the flames with some rocks. It made no smoke. They ate a simple meals of cooked oats. To escape the cold wind Culann suggested they scrape out dead leaves and soil from the lea side of a large fallen tree. Then after laying the leather book bags on the ground, each rolled in their own cloaks, they slept the sleep of the exhausted.

Before dawn they were up and on their way. Moving swiftly to warm up their bodies stiffened from the night's cold, Fergus noticed Culann had switched his staff to his left hand and seemed to be favouring his right side. He said nothing.

The trees were taller now with less undergrowth as the ground flattened out. It was easier going. By mid-day they had passed a couple of small farmhouses, which seemed deserted. No animals were seen. They detoured, to be on the safe side.

That night they came to a much wider burn, this one running due west. Lasair said they should follow it downstream as it flowed into Loch Earn. The wind was picking up so they settled in for the night behind a large rock which acted as a wind break.

* * * *

The sun was up, but low clouds were sweeping by when Culann and Fergus awoke. Lasair had gone. They had a cold breakfast, waited a while, calling her name from time to time, but to no avail.

Culann examined the dew wet grass around their camp site, and determined the girl must have walked west, down-stream.

Never one to wait when action was an alternative, Culann decided to follow the tracks.

"Why would she leave, just like that without even saying good-bye?" asked Fergus.

"Don't ask me lad. I'm no expert in the ways of women folk," said Culann in an exasperated tone.

"Perhaps something we've done, or haven't done, has offended her."

They walked on. The country became more rugged with rain threatening.

Suddenly they came upon Lasair. She was surrounded by at least twenty armed warriors, who, as soon as they noticed Culann and Fergus, all drew their swords menacingly.

"Oh no, not again." cried Fergus, drawing his sword in turn with Culann, who dropped his staff and hefted his new axe in his left hand.

Almost immediately the slip of a girl in their middle, ran to the front of the larger group and with one hand on her hip and the other rapidly pointing, appeared to be scolding them.

"They are Picts." whispered Fergus, surprised.

Almost as one, the large group, dropped their heads in shame, and sheathed their swords.

Lasair turned and skipped toward Culann and Fergus.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she cried. "These men with no manners are my kin," she ran and put both arms around Culann and Fergus who still had their weapons out.

"I left early so I could tell them you were coming. The last thing I wanted was an episode like this. They don't see many strangers, and when they do, assume the worst. Please forgive me."

Culann and Fergus sheathed sword and axe. Culann retrieved his staff. Lasair beaming happily, grabbed both their hands and led them to the larger group and introduced them to all.

The Picts took turns to clasp the hands of Culann and Fergus, murmuring words of welcome.

One rangy Pict wearing a deerskin over his patterned trousers, Lasair introduced as Gille Dhu, her Uncle.

"I am in your debt, friends, "he said. "You saved my niece from the clutches of those wicked

Anglos. "

"I am not sure who saved who," responded Culann, smiling. "Your niece can create havoc with her sling shot."

"And you, my young friend, Fergus is it? I hear you slew single handed, most of these marauding fiends."

Fergus cast a sharp look at Lasair, who, suddenly, would not meet his eye and was staring at her feet.

"I am Fergus mac Ciniod of Fortriu," said Fergus. "My foster father is Danan of Alba."

"Ah yes, Danan of Alba. I know him. He steals cattle from us and we steal cattle from him. You are welcome Fergus mac Ciniod," said Gille Dhu heartily.

And so Culann and Fergus were escorted to the Picts fortified village they called Dun Durn. It was located on a steep rocky hill which rose above the flat land on the western rim of the wonderful Loch Earn.

* * * *

Culann and Fergus were entertained grandly that evening, in the circular stone building atop of Dun Durn. It was an imposing rock outcrop that must have been used as a fortress, since mankind first came to this place.

The men all sat on cattle skins and ate from low trestle tables. The women and girls served mugs of mead. Wooden plates with haunches of veal and venison were placed in front of each warrior. Noticeably, the two largest portions were given to Culann and Fergus.

It was quite late when the feasting, singing and boasting ended. Many, including Culann and Fergus simply lay on the floor, rolled in their cloaks and slept.

It was mid-morning before Culann and Fergus were clear-headed enough to continue their trek. This time however, instead of having a lone girl to guide them, Gille Dhu arranged for a war party of ten warriors, led by him, to act as escort.

Culann suggested they only needed one guide as he preferred to travel light. However, Lasair's uncle was adamant. The countryside was too dangerous to travel without adequate protection. They would have to contend with not only threats from other Pict clans, but also closer to the coast, the Scotti.

"But I am Scotti." said Culann in amazement.

"Friend, these Scotti are crazy people. They attack first and ask questions later," said Gille Dhu.

"And as for the Picts, they just attack any stranger. But we are the most powerful clan in this area. They know us and will grant us safe passage through their territory."

And so it was, that Lasair, who was directed by Gille Dhu to stay at Dun Durn, bid a sad farewell to Culann and Fergus as they began their westward journey. Culann noticed, smiling, that she held Fergus's hand a couple of heartbeats longer than necessary saying goodbye.

The first day was easy. They boarded three curachs on the western bank of Loch Earn, which ran east-west, and were rowed to the far end. On disembarking, Gille Dhu led them north up a narrow glen until they came to rising ground which was heavily forested. A well-used deer trail led them over the crest and down to a swift flowing burn. They turned west once more and followed it downstream. As evening approached they came upon a farm house with a small group of men watching them.

Gille Dhu send one of his men to talk to the farmers, who, after some discussion, indicated they could spend the night in the barn, with the cows.

The next day the wind came up and scattered rain showers made travelling difficult. They followed a fast flowing burn until it converged with a smaller stream running down from a narrow glen from the north west.

Gille Dhu pointed upstream and they followed the smaller burn uphill. Toward sundown another burn joined it from the west, but they pushed on northward. The burn petered out and they climbed higher amongst now just rocks and heather.

Darkness found them at the top of the divide. There was no moon. It was decided that the weather was too cold to camp and as it would not be prudent to light a camp fire, they would press on downhill.

This time the trail they were following wound to the west. Gille Dhu said they were now in Scotti country. Fergus became concerned as Culann stumbled a few times, and had to be helped to his feet. Because of this they slowed their pace.

Dawn saw them passing the top end of a large Loch which stretched to the south. They stopped and ate some cold food. One of the Picts who had been scouting ahead ran back and advised there was a Scotti village ahead.

They decided to detour up the side of the mountain. Culann stumbled again and this time sat there without trying to rise.

Fergus squatted beside him and noticing he was holding his right side, slowly opened his cloak. His blouse was stuck to his chest. Gently they pulled it off and beneath was an ugly wound below his shoulder. It was where the spear had hit him. The flesh was an angry red colour and the edges of the wound was a dirty yellow. It was badly infected. Fergus cut the straps of the long leather jacket containing the codex, and draped it over his own shoulder.

Culann struggled to his feet and allowed one of the stronger Picts to support him as they continued their trek.

Gille Dhu came up to Fergus and said, "I am concerned for your friend Culann, Master Fergus. I think that wound will kill him long before he reaches Iona."

"No," said Fergus, "I won't let him die."

"Then you need to get treatment for him soon."

"Is there anywhere at Oban I can take him. "

Gille Dhu thought for a moment then said, "Neither you nor I would last ten heartbeats if we tried to take him to Oban. The Scotti would cut us down. Besides, there is nothing there to help him. The only suggestion I can think of is to get him to the monastery on Veridis Insula."

"Green Island," said Fergus, "where is that? "

"It's an island in the Firth of Lorn. A monastery has been there for many decades. The monks at least won't kill you, and they might be able to get a curach to get you to Iona or perhaps Jura."

Fergus said nothing. He was thinking furiously. I have to save Brother Culann. I gave my word.

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* * * * *

9.6 Veridis Insula

Culann and Fergus on Loch Etive pursued by a Scotti curach

They had to stop more often now to let Culann rest. His legs were getting weaker. Fergus gave him water as they sat on the wet ground. He didn't seem to recognize Fergus. His eyes had a vacant stare and he would occasionally mumble words incoherently. All Fergus could make out was the word _'fear'_.

Mid-afternoon they came to the narrow Loch they called Etive. It ran due west and Gille Dhu said it ran past Oban to the sea.

"We need to find a boat, urgently," said Fergus. Two men were now needed to support Culann.

Gille Dhu sent out scouts to find a boat. Within a short time, they returned, with news there were four curachs near some fishing huts on the loch. They set out in single file, silently. The curachs were there all right, but so were half a dozen fishermen, who were busy mending nets and gutting fish.

Gille Dhu sat next to Fergus, "Can you handle a curach Fergus?"

"Of course," replied Fergus." I sailed one from Lindisfarne to Whitby. And back."

"I don't know how far that is," replied Gille Dhu, "but with a bit of luck you should be able to sail one to Iona."

"How do I get to Iona from here?" asked Fergus.

"Oh it's simple. You sail to the main channel, and come to Veridis Insula. Turn left and go down the channel until you come to a large island on your right hand. That's Mull. Follow the coast line of Mull until it turns north and there is Iona. You can't miss it."

"How do you know this?" asked Fergus.

Gille Dhu smiled, "Lad, I used to engage in a little bit of looting up and down this coast when I was younger. I've been to Iona once, many years ago. The monks there were very kind to me, and my Pict companions. But first let's get you your boat. If we wait until it's dark, the Scotti might take them inside that enclosure. It's best we take it now."

Gille Dhu was referring to the small group of round dwelling houses, surrounded by a tall wooden enclosure a few hundred paces beyond the boats.

"How will you do that?" said Fergus. "The fishermen are still there."

"Well, we will just cause a little diversion lad. You take Culann down and grab a boat, and be on your way before they know what's happened. Simple." said Gille Dhu, smiling.

Seeing the Pict leader was serious, Fergus shrugged and said, "Okay, let's do it."

Gille Dhu gathered his men and explained his plan. Everyone nodded and began moving out. Gille Dhu then came over to Fergus and said,

"I will give you a hand with Culann lad. My boys know what to do."

Fergus and Gille Dhu, half carrying Culann, made their way down the slope to the water's edge. As they approached, nine half naked Picts, who had painted their upper bodies blue, burst out of the tree line, screaming like banshees, running straight at the fishermen.

The fishermen took one look at the apparitions approaching them and scattered, running toward the huts in the enclosure. The Picti chased them.

The four curach were all lying on the bank upside down. Fergus selected the likeliest curach, turned it over, pulled it into the loch, and lowered Culann inside.

"Take some food," shouted Gille Dhu as he stuffed a shoulder bag into the boat.

Fergus tossed in Culann's leather codex coat.

A loud roar came suddenly from the enclosed village. Gille Dhu looked up to see at least fifty warriors streaming from the village carrying weapons, all dressed in fine clothes.

"That's torn it. Looks like we've interrupted a wedding party or something."

He waved his nine men back to the boats. "We need two boats. You have one. Away to the Loch my lad. They won't catch us. And just to be sure I'll fix this one." With that Gille Dhu picked up a rock and stove two large holes in the bottom of the fourth curach.

The other Picts came with a rush and they quickly pushed all three curachs out into deep water. Just in time, as the shoreline was now crowded with armed Scotti, all screaming, jumping up and down and shaking their weapons.

When they were out of spear range, Gille Dhu, with a big grin yelled,

"Off you go now lad. You go west and we'll go east, back home. Iona's that-a-way," pointing to the setting sun.

"I have a problem," Fergus shouted back as the craft drifted further apart.

"What's that?" yelled Gille Dhu, cupping his hands.

"No paddle."

"Oh damn," looking around his boat.

"Neither have we. Use your hands lad." And with that the Picts all started paddling furiously with their hands, upstream and away from Fergus.

Gille Dhu waved goodbye and shouted something Fergus couldn't hear.

The Scotti on shore split into two groups. The larger running along the shoreline upstream, and the smaller running downstream, ahead of Fergus. Culann lay semi-conscious in the bottom of the boat.

Fergus shrugged mentally and kneeling in the curach began paddling with both hands towards the setting sun. The loch was getting narrower. _I just hope there are no boats further downstream._

Wistful thinking.

Very soon Fergus settled into a good rhythm. He seemed to be outdistancing the followers on the shore. He paused to rest for a moment. His curach still was going faster than the pursuers. Suddenly it dawned on him; the two headlands were now very close, the tide was ebbing and forming a fast tidal race. That was the good news.

The bad news was the curach was filling with water. Quickly he untied his wooden drinking cup and started bailing furiously.

The wind was springing up, coming from the south-west. He tried to mentally calculate if that would be a help or hindrance if the Scotti had curach with sails. He sat the cup in the bottom of the curach and began paddling again.

Culann was mumbling "fear" again. _I'll give you 'fear' my good monk, if we don't beat this mob to the open sea._

A large curach launched ahead of them, with at least a dozen warriors aboard. Fergus increased his paddling rate and tried to steer his little craft toward the far north side of the narrowing channel.

The larger curach hoisted a sail. He wasn't going to make it.

He tacked out further toward the far side of the loch. The Scotti craft quickly bore down on him, the warriors swarming to the side ready to throw their spears. As the two craft approached each other, Fergus tried to think what he would do if he was on land. _Take the high side. Run through and don't stop. I'm more nimble._ _That's it!_

The Scotti craft was now running parallel with Fergus across the loch. It was within four boat lengths and closing fast. The spearmen were almost in range, but waited, arms cocked, until they could be sure of a killing throw.

Suddenly Fergus drove both hands into the water on his left side, one hand holding his bailing cup to give more thrust. His little curach spun around almost within one boat length, and sped back toward the opposite shore.

The larger Scotti boat tried to do the same as the helmsman pushed the tiller hard over. The spearmen surged toward the rear of the boat, all now on the side nearest Fergus so they could throw their weapons. The sail whipped around and the heavy wooden boom knocked some overboard, the rest slid down to the lower gunwale, their boat rolled dangerously, paused for moment, then capsized.

* * * *

Fergus was alone with the open bay ahead of him. The low outline of an island straight ahead some distance off must be Veridis Insular, the Green Island. All he had to do now was turn left and find the island of Mull.

He reached for his bailing cup. It was gone.

Stunned, he realized he must have let go of it when he was desperately trying to evade the large boat. Worse, the tide had turned, and now was carrying him further up the sound, away from Mull. The sun was almost gone behind the low island. The curach was filling up with water. Time was running out.

* * * *

It was now dark. The silhouetted skyline of Veridis Insular grew closer. Fergus could see he was being pushed ever further north, away from Mull and Iona. Water now more than half filled the curach, which was moving very sluggishly. He moved so that he could cradle Culann's head in his lap and keep the monk's face above water.

Earlier he noticed Culann's chest wound had reopened, as blood mixed with the sloshing salt water that soaked the monk's clothes.

Fergus was fighting a losing battle against the rising water. Small waves now splashed over the gunwales of the curach.

He was going to have to try and swim to the Green Island, supporting Culann and the codex. It was all or nothing. Either they would all make it to shore, or he would die in the attempt.

He was still trying to estimate how far the shoreline was away when the curach suddenly slipped beneath the waves. Fergus automatically lifted the unconscious form in his arms so Culann's mouth and nose remained above water. The two sets of codex leather coats floated on the surface, further obscuring his view of the shoreline.

Fergus realised he had lost his battle with the elements. He stopped struggling and simply sat in the submerged curach and waited for death. He hoped it would come quickly. It soon became apparent to him, that it would not be quick. His head was just above water and Culann's nose also. Small waves washed over them making him cough salt water. He wanted to just relax and get it over with, but some inner force of self-survival kept his and Culann's face above water.

This was taking forever; _splash, . . . cough, . . . cough!_ What was the matter with this damn curach? It was just sitting in the water, the gunwales awash, a couple of hand spans below water. They were still moving up and down with the swell; he was still kneeling on the hull of the boat; the boat was still moving north and now somewhat closer to shore.

Fergus thought he must be hallucinating, perhaps this is how one feels when one is dying. The boat still rocking with the waves, the sky above now becoming very dark, the sound of waves breaking, water occasionally spilling over him, more of the sky now dark.

Wait a minute. That's not the sky. That's the shoreline. They were close in to the island's lea shore. The sound now was waves breaking on rocks. He could see the phosphorous in the white water. The current was carrying the submerged boat and its occupants to a small headland. Fergus struggled to hold Culann higher in the water.

Suddenly he pitched forward and his face went under water. Their small craft had hit some submerged obstruction, possibly a rock. It shuddered momentarily, then refloated on the next swell.

Fergus violently coughed up the water he had swallowed.

A couple of large evil looking black rocks passed them on his right. then a larger wave deposited the curach and its two occupants on a rock strewn, sloping strip of land, covered in seaweed.

Fergus scrambled onto his backside and with waves washing over them, pushed further up the beach with his feet, dragging Culann with one hand and the two codex containers in the other. His progress was marred by small rocks and great globs of seaweed. Finally, when he determined they were above the high water line, totally exhausted, he collapsed.

The waves lapped over their feet. The bottom half of one codex floated listless in the water.

* * * *

The peasant couple paused and the man arched his aching back.

"Have we enough for tonight now, wife?" he asked. "This basket is killing me."

"My basket is still not full," she replied. "This next cove usually has plenty. I'll just have a quick look. You wait here."

She moved deftly over the rocks out of sight, while he sighed, dropped his dripping basket of seaweed, and flopped onto a rock.

"Husband - quick, come here quick. There's something here."

"If it's another dead seal, it can damn well stay there." he shouted."

"No, no, it's two men. One of them is alive. The other one looks like a monk."

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* * * * *

Chapter 10 - Culann

Where am I? Images of past events. Blackness. A face; a curach, rocking.  
Wet. Cold. Very cold. Shivering. Flickering light;  
a woman's pale face; I know those eyes. **Shock**! Fea. But Fea's dead.  
Ahhh . . . I am dead too

The boat trip down Loch Earn was a godsend for Culann. He sat in the curach and the throbbing pain in his chest diminished. It came back however, when the trek began again, particularly when they started climbing.

He tried to hide the pain he was in, as he did not want to slow down the others. The days and nights blurred and he lost track of time.

Culann knew something serious was wrong when he stumbled for the second time and then had trouble standing. Gratefully, Fergus took his codex coat. He was not too proud now to accept help from one of the Pict warriors.

Time blurred once again and when his head cleared he noticed two men were now helping him walk. The pain increased and the throbbing now seemed to be in his head as well as his side.

Shadows and grey images. Much talk, some shouting. He was in cold water up to his neck. He must be dying. Good - if he died the pain would stop.

It was dark. He couldn't feel his arms or legs. Tired, very tired.

_Where am I?_ . . . Images of past events . . . Sleep.

Movement, shaking - _go away. Leave me alone_. .Darkness . . .

* * * *

Something was out there. What was happening. Still dark, but there was something out there. Light, some sort of light.

Where am I? No feeling; no arms; no legs; no pain. Small light flickering. Something near the light. _His eyes could not focus_. A face; very pale; a woman? Black all around, but a pale woman's face, flickering. She was saying something, lips moving. I know those eyes. Where have I seen those eyes before?

**Shock!** _Fea_. But Fea's dead. _Ah . . . that explains it;_ smile _\- I am dead too._

Darkness.

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* * * * *

10.1 Lios mór Infirmary

Sister Fea with her 'Milk Maids' and Brother Hesus, in the Lios mór infirmary

There were never less than six Scotti warriors in the infirmary. Fea requested it be extended and a separate smaller building was added next to the original. In the larger one she kept the men who were suffering from wounds and in the other, those diagnosed with sickness or disease.

Initially, most of the warriors with severe wounds died. Quietly, before they were wrapped in shrouds, and given to their relatives for a Christian burial, Fea investigated their wounds to try and determine why they died.

Some, she discovered had foreign bodies deep in the wound. Pieces of clothing, sometimes soil and occasionally the tip of a spear or sword she would find. This led her to, where possible, open the wound as much as possible when the patient first arrived, to wash and clean it.

One of Galen's Greek texts describe how he had great success by washing the gladiators' wounds in special water from the sea. He filled a special urn full of this sea water and kept a fire underneath to keep it continually heated. He would top the water up each day to compensate for the evaporation. Fea was particularly interested in his description of the salty crust which accumulated on the urn's inside.

Maybe the sea water in the Aegean Sea had special qualities that sea water here lacked. But Fea thought it would do no harm if she tried his technique in Lios mór. It seemed to work, but Fea did not understand why.

One of the traditional techniques Fea used, not mentioned in the Greek texts, was to rub garlic into infected wounds. It also worked in many cases. The nuns complained though, as it was difficult to remove the garlic smell from their hands.

One day a boat bought two wounded warriors from the mainland. One was a young Pict lad, the other was a Scotti.

The Scotti warriors accompanying the pair explained that they had been fighting each other and both succumbed to their wounds. When the nuns said it was very Christian of them to bring their enemy for treatment, they said they wanted the young Pict to be healed, so they could execute him later.

On hearing this, Fea arranged for the two to be treated in separate rooms. Luckily both recovered. The nuns then arranged for the young Pict to be taken secretly, by night, to the far northern area of Loch Linnhe, which was Pict territory. They told the Scotti, that unfortunately he had died.

The nuns confessed their sin of lying, to each other, as Personal Confessions.

* * * *

It was just before Vigils and Fea as usual was up early checking on her patients. She knew that if there were complications, many times it seemed to occur about this time, just before dawn.

However, that morning all seemed well.

A bent figure carrying a scroll shuffled in the door.

"Brother Hesus, you are up bright and early," said Fea. "Will you join us at Vigils?" Fea was genuinely happy to see him, for the last few days he had been absent. Word was he had been sleeping. Sleeping, because he had been drunk.

"Perhaps later," said Hesus, which was his inevitable response to attend any prayer meeting. Hesus was fanatical in his search for knowledge, but had little time for the distractions of religion.

"I have just discovered more information regarding the _Asclepieion of Epidaurus_ , which dates from 350 BCE. You know of course that the Greeks built many temples dedicated to their God of Healing, Asclepius." Fea nodded mutely, but of course she knew nothing of the sort. She found it better to let Hesus keep talking on his initial subject. Otherwise he would launch into a significant discourse on a side issue, and in the end neither he nor Fea, could recall what his original topic was about.

"Anyway," he enthused, "we have here the case histories of 70 patients, including their complaints and cures. Two of the cures I find fascinating. It involves the opening of an abdominal ulcer and the removal of, what they term as, 'traumatic foreign material'."

"That sounds wonderful Brother Hesus," said Fea, "but what do they do to reduce the pain while these procedures are taking place? You know the trouble we have here. I have to ask the help of some of the strong, young monks to hold down our patients, if we try to cut them."

"Ah yes, I'm glad you mention that, I was going to tell you. They administer a sedative to make them sleep. They call it 'opium', but I don't know what it is."

"That's a pity," mused Fea, "if we knew what this 'opium' was, it would make our lives much easier, and no doubt even more easier for our patients."

"Yes, yes, "said Hesus, "you know Fea, I have been giving his much thought. I have a suggestion you may wish to try.

"I notice you have most success when you use surgery on patients that are unconscious. But if they are so badly wounded that they are unconscious, the chances of them surviving is small."

"Correct," said Fea. "The patients who have the best chance of survival are those who are still conscious. But they create so much havoc thrashing around, we can't operate effectively on their wounds."

"Between the Devil and the deep blue sea," murmured Sister Tamara, who had been standing by quietly, listening. Fea shot her a withering glance. Sisters should not speak of the Devil in the Infirmary. It may encourage _him_.

"Sorry," said Tamara, head down, with half a smile.

"Sister Tamara may not be far from the truth." said Hesus.

Both sisters starred at him.

"Have you ever noticed what all warriors do when they feast?" asked Hesus.

"They eat," said Fea flatly.

"They drink," said Tamara.

"Yes they drink," said Hesus, excited now, "and what happens when they drink?"

"They get drunk." suggested Tamara.

"They get stupid, legless, fall-down drunk," said Fea with passion.

"Exactly, and what do they drink? asked Hesus.

"Mead?" said Tamara.

"Mead and Whisky,[1]" said Fea.

[1] **Whiskey** , as spelt by the Irish. **Whisky** as spelt by the Scots. Although we are dealing with the Scotti here, who were originally Irish, but dwell in what would become Scotland, we will use the Scots spelling.

"Correct," beamed Hesus. "Mead and 'Devil's Water' or Gaelic 'Water of Life', as we call Whisky. And what happens when they get drunk?"

"They get happy," said Tamara.

"They throw up, all over the place," said Fea.

"Right on both counts," said Hesus, now really excited.

"And then what happens?"

Both sisters looked bemused.

"They get _sleeeepy_ ," pronounced Hesus triumphantly.

"Oh!" said Fea, suddenly realising where this was heading.

"But which one works best, Mead or Whisky?" asked Tamara.

"The very question I asked myself," said Hesus. "So I decided to conduct a little experiment.

"You did get drunk then," laughed Tamara

"All in the interests of good medicine," said Hesus with a straight face. Fea smiled.

"Well?" asked Tamara, leaning forward in anticipation.

"First I drank a large quantity of Mead. That was two days ago, I believe. Before I fell asleep, I cut my arm, to see if it hurt." He held up his withered right arm, which had two bandages near the wrist.

"And?" asked Fea.

"It hurt," stated Hesus. "Then yesterday, I drank a lot of Whisky, and cut my arm."

"And?" asked Tamara.

"I can't remember." They all burst out laughing.

"But seriously," continued Hesus, "I think Whisky works better, and quicker. I think you should try it on your next patient."

"Very well, Brother Hesus," said Fea, "do you have any whisky left, you can give us?"

"I may be able to find a dram or two," said Hesus innocently.

"Good, in the interests of better medicine, I'll ask you to administer the correct amount, to our next patient," announced Fea.

Just then one of the on-duty Sisters in the Infirmary rushed in.

"Sister Fea, come quickly. A farmer and his wife have just brought in two men they found in the water near Balnagown cove. The young one seems to suffering from exposure, but the older one has been badly wounded. I think he is dead."

* * * *

They all rushed into the next room. Two forms lay on pallets at the far side. Fea glanced at nearest body which was covered entirely with a blanket. It was dim pre-dawn light, but she could see no sign of breathing.

The younger red haired one was unconscious, but breathing. His lips were blue from cold. As was their custom in cases like this, all resources were focused on the person who had the best chance of survival - the red headed youth.

Fea supervised as the sisters grabbed more blankets and rudely rubbed his body to increase circulation and quickly packed heated towels between his legs and under his arm pits. His head was raised and warm broth was forced down his mouth. He coughed and his eye lids fluttered. A good sign. They all relaxed.

Fea turned to the figure on the next pallet. The remnants of a monk's robes lay on the floor. She carefully pulled down the blanket covering the body. The face was turned away. She noticed the livid wound on his side. There was no chest movement. Fea gently turned his head. His lips were white. His eyes were closed. He was dark-haired, clean shaven but with a four day or so stubble. He was stunningly handsome. He was Culann.

Fea screamed, and threw herself on the cold still form. The others stood in shocked silence as Fea embraced the corpse white body, wailing, "No! . . . No! . . . No!"

Her predictions carelessly uttered all those years ago at St Brigid's had now come true. The man who meant more to her than anyone, was dead.

Brother Hesus tried to prize her away, but her arms fiercely embraced his shoulders and her head was buried in his neck, her golden hair spread halo wise, over his pale ashen face. Several minutes passed. Fea's wailing subsided to loud sobs.

More nuns ran to the Infirmary in response to the noise, then stood bewildered against the wall, when they saw it was caused by Sister Fea.

Abruptly Fea sat up. "He's alive!"

"Come, come now, Sister Fea," said Hesus soothingly,

"You've had a great shock. We'll take care of the body" The sisters all looked at each other in embarrassment.

"No," said Fea adamantly." He's alive I tell you. I can feel his pulse," pointing to his neck.

Hesus leaned over and placed his fingers on Culann's neck,

"Upon my soul, she's right."

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* * * * *

10.2 Saving Lives

Just then Culann's back arched and his whole body went rigid.  
"I can't open his mouth. His teeth and jaws are locked together." said Hesus.

"Oh no," cried Fea, "what can we do?"  
"It must be the wound. I wonder if we poured the whisky on the wound  
would it stop the pain, or put it to sleep?" murmured Hesus

Fea was in command once more. "Bring me a candle." Sister Tamara held the candle near Culann's face, while Fea stroked his forehead with one hand, and carefully pulled back one of his eyelids. The blue eye stared out of focus, but, just for a brief instant, Fea thought there was a flash of recognition, then the eye rolled back into its socket.

Fea sat straight up.

"We have work to do ladies." In the next hour, Culann was washed in warm water, force fed some broth and his wound cleaned in the special salt water. His pulse was very slow and sometimes intermittent.

Fea conferred with Hesus. "The wound must be the trouble. Even though it is closed, the edges are yellow with pus and proud flesh."

"Yes," said Hesus, "and there is that nasty red lump in his right arm pit. That's a sign that there is poison in his blood. Do you think we should bleed him?"

"I think he has lost a lot of blood already. He looks so pale. I think the problem is in his wound. We have only cleaned the outside. There may be something inside." said Fea.

"But we don't know how deep it is. It looks like a spear wound." said Hesus.

"If we don't do something, I'm afraid he will die," said Fea. "I'm going to slice that damn lump under his arm."

So Fea and her girls carefully washed Culann's arm pit. Fea took her bronze scalpel, and sliced open the abscess. They initially all reeled back from the putrid smell that emanated from the wound.

They washed it, smeared it with garlic, and finally applied a mustard poultice.

Next Fea probed the chest wound. It was not very wide and she gingerly prized open the grey-white proud flesh. It only bled a little as she washed it with special warm sea water. At the bottom of the wound, which was less than her finger in depth, she found some other material. It was not flesh. She pulled it out with her tweezers. It was a small piece of vellum - calf skin.

Not content to do things by halves, she began scrapped the grey-white flesh away. Culann suddenly shuddered and groaned agonisingly. One arm thrashed about. Fea stopped.

"Hold his arms and legs. He must be in great pain."

She wiped his brow. He moaned and rolled his head left and right.

"Brother Hesus, do you have any of your Whisky handy?"

"Right here, Sister Fea, "said Hesus.

"Can you give some to Culann."

Hesus took Culann's head in his hands and tipped the whiskey bladder to his mouth. The whiskey sloshed over his face.

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

"I can't open his mouth. His teeth and jaws are locked together."

Just then Culann's back arched and his whole body went rigid.

"Oh no," cried Fea. "He must be in too much pain. What can we do?"

"It must be the wound," said Hesus. "I wonder if the whisky will stop the pain, or put it to sleep, if we pour it on the wound instead."

"Do you think so?" asked Fea, now desperately worried.

"We have nothing to lose lassie. Let's try it. Hold the wound open."

Fea delicately held open the spear wound and Hesus poured the neat whiskey into the wound. It filled and spilt down over Culann's chest. Culann bucked violently, then lay still.

"Close the wound lassie. We can only wait and see now."

* * * *

By this time Fergus was awake and eating ravenously. He related to the nuns most of what had transpired since he had first met Culann in Lindisfarne, until they landed here on Veridis Insular.

"What do you mean 'Veridis Insular'?" asked Sister Tamara, "this is Lios mór."

"Oh, the Picts call this island Veridis Insular," said Hesus. "It means 'green island', which is appropriate, I guess."

During the rest of the day Fea sat beside Culann. His pulse was still weak, but his breathing became steadier.

By night time Fea could prize open his teeth a little, enough to give him some more broth and water. During the night Culann began moaning and sometimes calling out.

"That's what he was calling out when we were on the way here - 'Fear'." said Fergus.

"That's not 'fear'," said Tamara, nodding to the nun wiping Culann's brow and occasionally weeping.

"He's calling for Fea."

"Oh," said Fergus, surprised. "How does he know Sister Fea?"

Tamara smiled, "You'll have to ask him."

* * * *

By Lauds on day two, Culann had not regained consciousness, but seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Fea remained at his side, refusing to leave, fearful some crisis may develop the moment she left.

Sometime in the late afternoon she must have dozed off. She woke with a start to find Culann gazing at her with a look of wonderment.

"I thought you were dead." he whispered.

"I thought _you_ were dead," she cried and embraced him.

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* * * * *

10.3 A Proper Job

Just then a beam of sunlight came through the window, bathing Culann and Fea  
in its golden light. An omen for a brighter future ?

F **ergus sat on Culann's pallet** , updating him on the events of the past four days.

"Where are the codex?" asked Culann.

"They are outside in the sunshine," said Fergus. "The sisters have kindly spread them out to dry. Don't worry, as soon as you are well enough, we will deliver them to Iona. I'm told it is only a day's sail from here."

"What happened to Gille Dhu?"

"The last I saw of him, he and his companions were madly paddling up the loch in two curachs, away from a mob on the shore. I'm sure he got away, back to his Dun on Loch Earn," said Fergus.

"He's a good man. I hope he is all right," said Culann.

Fea interrupted their conversation, insisting Culann lay back and rest.

Word spread quickly of the arrival of Culann and Fergus on Lios mór, and their epic journey from Lindisfarne through Angle and Pictish territory. And, with each telling, the facts seemed to be slightly _embellished._ [1]

[1] embellished, to make a story more interesting by adding details which may not be true (old French embelir)

Day four, saw the arrival of none other than Cumméne, Abbott of Iona, with a small retinue of monks. He hurried to see Culann, who was now walking short distances, in the infirmary.

"Brother Culann" called Cumméne, arms open to embrace Culann, who was sitting on one of the pallets. Culann, surprised, rose to greet his Abbot.

"My son, as soon as I heard of your tribulations, I insisted we come visit. Sit, sit, - Brothers, bring us something to drink," waiving his hand in the air to no one in particular.

"What happened at Whitby? Did the Romans really win the day? Is it true Lindisfarne is closing? I have heard you brought valuable codex for Iona. Did a Pict girl and boy really slay a company of Anglo warriors?" asked Cumméne, staccato fashion.

Culann sat, drew a deep breath, looked up and down the line of monks, and replied,

"Yes."

Of Culann, it could be said, if he had the option of describing something using ten words or two, he would most likely end up using just two, or in this case; one.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then everyone started talking at once.

The bedlam was interrupted by Sister Fea walking into the infirmary, one hand holding a cup of medicine, the other held high as a sign of silence.

"Quiet. Quiet, I said!" the conversations ceased and all looked at this young nun as she regally walked to Culann's side, took him by his good arm and led him back to his own pallet.

"This man needs his medication, and rest".

"But, but, this is the Abbott of Iona. He's come all this way to see Culann," stammered one of the monks.

"I don't care if he's the Archangel Gabriel," said Fea irreverently.

"This is my patient, and I decide when he can have visitors, and for how long." Culann stood for moment, looked around the assembly, then shrugged his shoulders sheepishly as he was led back to his pallet.

"Find the young Pict, Fergus," said one of the Lios mór monks, "He can tell you the details."

An unseemly exit by the monks resulted as they scrambled to find Fergus.

* * * *

It was day break. Fea was sitting next to Culann's pallet in the infirmary. Culann awoke and looked at her. She smiled.

"Brother Culann, I've been thinking about you," Fea paused, "we can't have you continually running around the countryside, causing havoc like you have recently. We have to get you a proper job, don't you think?"

"If I did get a 'proper job'," said Culann cautiously, "would you stay with me?"

"That thought had crossed my mind," smiled Fea, "but what would you do, apart from annihilating Angles, putting an end to Picts, and slaying Scotti?"

Culann, suddenly serious said, "But you're a nun. Aren't you married to the Church?"

"That's the Roman Church talking. We belong to the Celtic Church; it's much more flexible. We nuns have been known to leave the order, and get married, if they meet the right man."

"If they meet the right man, and he is able to support them, and their family," added Culann.

"You do have a way with words, Master Culann," smiled Fea.

"My father was a Smith," said Culann.

"And?" said Fea.

"I've been thinking."

"Yes?"

"I think I could become a Smith."

"And make swords?" said Fea, frowning.

"No, I would like to make jeweller and ornaments. I have seen some designs in the scriptoriums that I think I could make."

Fea reached over, took his hand in hers, and squeezed.

Just then, a beam of sunlight came through the window, and bathed them both in its golden glow.

Fea said smiling, "It must be an omen for our brighter future."

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FINIS

**Ω** ~ **Ω** ~ **Ω** ~ **Ω** ~ **Ω**

Thank you for reading my historical novel **Culann, Celtic Warrior Monk**. If you enjoyed it,  
please take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite e-retailer.  
Best regards  
_Duncan MacDonald_

About the Author

Photo by Melbourne The Photographer

Duncan MacDonald is an Australian currently living in Jakarta, Indonesia. He is married to _Shinta Dewi Sanawiya_ , muse, mate, motivator and President Director of the business he founded in 1993, dMAC Group in Asia.

Since childhood Duncan has had a passion for history. He travelled to Turkey in 1975 to visit ANZAC Cove, scene of Australia and New Zealand's entry to World War I. He then worked for five years in London, enabling him to research the Roman Empire's occupation of Britain and question the Arthurian legends.

_He has written this historical novel with the hope that particularly younger people, if they find it interesting enough to finish, as a bonus will have acquired valuable knowledge about a fascinating era_.

End Notes

My appreciation to _Frank Tait_ and his brother _Stuart_ in North Berwick, for supplying me rare old books relating to early Celtic history. I am grateful to _Dr Richard Tomlins_ for his expert oversight, particularly on the medical aspects related in this book. Also thank you to brother _Warwick_ and sister _Julianne_ , her hubby, _Peter Scott_ , plus the many friends who have critically reviewed earlier editions and given their suggestions, corrections and comments.

My special thanks to _Peter Wharton_ based in Jakarta who very professionally proof-read this revised manuscript.

Any mistakes contained herein are mine alone.

A friend once asked me why I was writing a book about the 7th century.

I replied, "Because not much has been written about that period."

His acid response, "There's probably a good reason for that Duncan."

Hopefully this book sheds a little light on a period often referred to as 'the dark ages'.

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* * * *

Other books by Duncan MacDonald

Culann, Celtic Warrior Monk - Saga of the 7th Century

**The Culann Chronicles** , Book 2, Picts' Plight

**Anzac & Lone Pine Revisited** \- 1975

dMAC Digest Vol 4, No 1  
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dMAC Digest Vol 4, No 5  
_▫ MERS ▫ Kidney Stones ▫ Medical Milestones of 20_ th _century_

dMAC Digest Vol 4, No 6  
_▫ Waterloo_

dMAC Digest Vol 5, No 1  
_▫ Breast is Best ▫ Tourette's Syndrome ▫ Stress Management_

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dMAC Digest Vol 7, No 1  
_▫ History Behind the Lindisfarne Gospels_

More information on Duncan MacDonald is available on: www.dmacDigest.com

### * * * * *

Bibliography

_The Monks of Melrose_ , Rev. W.G. Allan, James Thin, Edinburgh, 1892

_Hero Tales of Ireland_ , Jeremiah Curtain, Dover edition 1999, unabridged version of original publication by Macmillan & Co, London, 1894

_Great Norse, Celtic & Teutonic Legends_, Wilhelm Wagner, Dover Publications, New York, unabridged version of original publication Norroena Society, London, 1907

_A Calendar of Scottish Saints_ , Dom Michael Barrett, The Abby Press, Fort-Augustus, 1919

_An Old Story of a Highland Parish_ , George P. Shaw, Covent Garden UK, 1926

_The Rise of the Celts_ , Henri Hubert, Dover edition 2002, translated from the French by M.R. Dobie, originally published in London, 1934

_The Celts The People Who Came Out of the Darkness_ , Gerhard Herm, Book Club Associates, London, 1976

_The Celts_ , Nora Chadwick, Penguin Books, Harmondsworth UK, 1978

_The Celts Conquerors of Ancient Europe_ , Christiane Eluere, Translated from the French by Daphne Briggs, and Harry M. Abrams, New York, 1993

_The World of the Celts_ , Simon James, Thames & Hudson, London, 1993

_The Celts_ , Aedeen Cremin, original published by Landsdown Publishing, Sydney, 1997

_Celtic Myth & Legend_, Charles Squire, New Page Books, Franklin Lakes NJ, 2001

_Celtic Myths & Legends_, T.W. Rolleston, Dover Publications,1990, unabridged version of original publication by G.G. Harrap, London, 1917

_Sea Road of the Saints_ , Celtic Holy Men in the Hebrides, John Marsden, Floris Books, Edinburgh, 1995

_The Druids_ , Stuart Piggott, Penguin Books, Harmondsworth UK, 1978

_Columba_ , Nigel Tranter, Hodder & Stoughton, Sevenoaks UK, 1987

_The Stones of Iona_ , John MacKenzie Semple, The Iona Community, Glasgow, 1963

_Columba's Island_ , E. Mairi MacArthur, Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh, 2007

_The Saint & the Hunchback_, Donald Stauffer, Michael Joseph, London, 1947

_The Encyclopedia of Celtic Mythology & Folklore_, Patricia Monaghan, Checkmark Books, New York, 2008

_They Built on Rock, Celtic Church in the Dark Ages_ , Diana Leatham, The Celtic Art Society, Glasgow, 1948

_The Past All Around Us_ , The Readers Digest Association, London, 1979

_How the Irish Saved Civilization_ , Thomas Cahill, Hodder & Stoughton, London, 1995

_Iron Age Communities in Britain_ , Barry Cuncliffe, Book Club Associates, London, 1975

_Ancient Ireland_ , Nick Constable, Chartwell Books, Edison NJ, 1996

_The Age of Bede_ , Translated by J.F. Webb, Penguin Classics, London, 1965

_Bede_ , The Ecclesiastical History of the English People, Edited by Judith McClure & Roger Collins, Oxford University Press, Oxford UK, 1969

_Bede The Venerable_ , Translated by Dom David Hurst, Cistercian Publications, Kalamazoo, USA, 1985

_The Epics of Celtic Ireland_ , Jean Markale, Inner Traditions International, Rochester Vermont, 2000

_From Caledonia to Pictland Scotland to 795_ , James E. Fraser, Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh, 2009

_The Pictish Warrior AD 297 - 841_ , Paul Wagner, Osprey Publishing, Oxford UK, 2002

_A History of Ireland_ , Edmund Curtis, Methuen & Co, Oxon UK, 2002, imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, 1936

_Britain AD, A Quest for Arthur, England, & the Anglo Saxons_, Francis Pryor, Harper Perennial, London, 2004

_Picts_ , Edited by Christopher Tabraham, HMSO Publications, Edinburgh, 1989

_Rome's Northern Frontier AD 70-235 Beyond Hadrian's Wall_ , Nic Fields, Osprey Publishing, Oxford, UK, 2005

_Scotland A Concise History_ , Fitzroy MacLean, Thames & Hudson, London, 1970

_A History of Scotland_ , Rosalind Mitchison, Routledge, London, 2002

_Scotland BC_ , Anna Ritchie, Her Majesty Stationery Office, Edinburgh, 1988

_Great Walks Scotland_ , Hamish Brown, Rennie McOwan & Richard Mears, Ward Loch, London, 1989

_Irish History for Dummies_ , Mike Cronin, John Wiley & Sons, Chichester, UK, 2006

_The Anglo Saxons_ , Edited by James Campbell, Penguin Books, London, 1991

_The Anglo-Saxon Age_ , A Very Short Introduction, John Blair, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2000

_The Book of Creation, An Introduction to Celtic Spirituality_ , J. Philip Newell, The Canterbury Press, Norwich UK, 1999

_Listening for the Heartbeat of God, A Celtic Spirituality_ , Philip Newell, SPCK, London, 1997

_A Tour of Britains Abbeys & Cathedrals_, Jane Marshall, Chancery Books, London, 1961

_The Saints of Scotland_ , Edwin Sprott Towill, The Saint Andrew Press, Edinburgh, 1983

_Historic Costume from Ancient Times to the Renaissance_ , Tom Tierney, Dover Publications, New York, 2003

_Celtic Fashions_ , Tom Tierney, Dover Publications, New York, 2002

_The West Highland Way_ , Robert Aitken, Her Majesty's Stationery Office, Edinburgh, 1987

Duncan MacDonald   
founder of dMAC Group in Asia

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**Ω** ~ **Ω** ~ **Ω** ~ **Ω** ~ **Ω**
