 
The Culann Chronicles

Book 2:

The Picts Plight

By

Duncan MacDonald

13 December 2013  
_Revised 18 June 2018_

Dedicated to my darling wife Shinta DS MacDonald  
muse, mate and motivator

Copyright 2013 Duncan MacDonald

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Exciting historical novel set in 7th century Caledonia and Northern Britain.  
We continue the adventures of a gallant Celtic Warrior Monk,  
an intrepid Irish Princess who has joined the Celtic Church,  
and a daring young Pict.
Table of Contents

List of Main Characters

Culann's Voyages

Author's Note

Prologue  
Chapter 1 - Fergus' Discovery  
Chapter 2 - To Dunadd

2.1 A Little Bit of Background

2.2 In the Hall of the Dal-Riata King

2.3 Aftermath  
Chapter 3 – Lios mór  
Chapter 4 - North to Albannach Territory  
Chapter 5 - Two Moons Earlier  
Chapter 6 - To Poolewe

6.1 The Poolewe Hunting Party  
Chapter 7 - The Long Way Home  
Chapter 8 \- In Search of Culann

8.1 Repercussions

8.2 Search Party

8.3 Overland  
Chapter 9 – The Eigg Episode

9.1 Arrival on Eigg  
Chapter 10 - Lios mór Finale

10.1 When a Girl Marries

About the Author

Other Books by Duncan MacDonald

Bibliography

* * * * *

List of Main Characters

_Alpin_ – Chieftain of the Loch Ewe Clan

_Baile_ \- Monk at Lios mór ( _sweet spoken Baile)_

_Bryan_ \- Monk at Iona

_Colmán_ **< #> \- Abbot of Lindisfarne** [ ? - 675]

_Culann_ \- Fianna and warrior monk

_Cumméne Find_ **< #> – Abbot of Iona** [656 – 669]

_Daray_ \- monk from Ardslignish

_Domangart_ **< #>\- King of Dal Riata** [ ? - 672]

_Emcat_ \- Picti warrior from Gairloch

_Fea_ \- Irish princess, now Sister in charge Lios mór infirmary

_Fergus_ mac Ciniod - Picti of Fortriu - student at Lindisfarne

_Gart_ \- Picti fisherman from Poolewe

_Hesus_ \- Monk at Lios mór, left-handed, speaks Greek

_Jowan_ \- Abbot of Lios mór

_Máia_ \- sister at Lios mór (means ' _great mother_ ' in Greek)

_Marcus_ \- monk at Eigg - (means ' _of the sea_ ')

_Morann_ – Abbot of Ardslignish

_Nia_ – Picti mother of Sinead and Sreng

_Nuada_ – head monk on Eigg

_Sinead_ – Picti girl from Poolewe (means _'kind'_ )

_Sreng_ – older brother of Sinead

_Tamara_ \- sister at Lios mór, young 'milk maid' (means ' _river nymph_ ')

<#> Actual historical figure

* * * *
Culann's Voyages

* * * * *
**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 Northern Britain dressed and the types of buildings in which they lived. There were no great stone castles or cathedrals.

_All illustrations by Duncan MacDonald_ dMAC.

_Fergus with his mother, Sirona_ ~ ~ _Brother Bec was briefed by Sirona before he set off to Lindisfarne  
with Fergus. "Fergus needs to learn to read and write. I want my  
son to have great knowledge"._

**Author's N** **ote**

T **he historical novels** incorporated within these Chronicles, are written for those of us who wish to learn more about the fascinating actual events that took place in Ireland, Caledonia and Britain in the 7th century. Because of the paucity of information available in the past, the period between the end of the Roman occupation and the Norman Conquest (409 CE to 1066) has been described as the _'Dark Ages'_.

In fact, there were dramatic changes and development of the people who inhabited these islands. Our information is derived from the latest archaeological discoveries, and the surviving manuscripts from the most learned men of that period - The Monks of the Celtic Church.

Hopefully the research I've incorporated into this book will shed a little light on those 'Dark Ages'.

My special thanks to Peter Wharton based in Jakarta who very professionally proof-read this revised manuscript.

Any mistakes contained herein are mine alone.

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* * * * *
Prologue

O **ur saga continues** in Ireland and northern Britain in the 7th century AD _or_ CE.

[AD is the abbreviation of Medieval Latin **Anno Domini** translated as _'In the year of Our Lord'_ used to label or number years in the Christian Era \- also known as the _'Common Era'_ CE. As Jesus of Nazareth was born some years before 1 AD _(most scholars assume a date between 6_ BC _and 4_ BC _)_ ,  
_plus_ , we have many readers who are not Christian, so we will use the terms BCE _'Before Common Era'_  
and CE _'Common Era'_ ]

**Ireland** _(Eire):_ The Celts who were the last settlers of Ireland at that time, were brave, intelligent, resourceful and proud. They were converted to Christianity by a number of early British missionaries, most notably _St. Ninian_ and _St. Patrick_. The first person in recorded history to speak out against slavery was _St. Patrick_ , who died in his seventies, probably in 461 CE.

Christian monasteries sprang up in Ireland and became centers of learning. It is to the monks inhabiting those monastic _scriptoriums_ [1] who copied thousands of texts; we owe much of our knowledge of the ancient Greek, Roman and Middle Eastern world.

_[1]_ [Scriptoriums: from Latin scriptus 'to write']

The Irish Celtic missionaries expanded their evangelism to neighbouring countries and eventually into what is now Europe. The earliest overseas monastery was established on Iona, off the west coast of Caledonia _(Scotland)_ in 563 CE, and Lindisfarne, now called Holy island, in north-east Britain in 634 CE.

**Britain:** The Roman legions which had occupied much of much of Britain for 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.

**Invasions by Angles, Saxons and Jutes:** Most of us were taught at school that once the Romans left, raids into Britain by Picts and the Irish increased. To protect themselves, the Romanised Britains requested assistance from the Germanic tribes of Angles, Saxons and Jutes. Accordingly, these tribes then began a massive migration, overran the originals inhabitants and forced the Britains west, into what is now Wales and England's West Country. Henceforth Britain became _'Anglo-Saxon'_ and was known as 'England' _(Angle land)_.

These so called _'facts'_ were developed extensively by racist Victorian scholars, who promulgated the superiority of the 'pure German _Anglo-Saxon_ race'. This was no doubt driven by the perceived notion to justify the presence of the first German King to take the throne in England, _George I_ , the great-great-grand father of _Queen Victoria_.

**George I** _(_ George Louis; German: Georg Ludwig: 28 May 1660 – 11 June 1727) was King of Great Britain and Ireland from 1 August 1714 until his death, and ruler of the Duchy and Electorate of Brunswick-Lüneburg (Hanover) in the Holy Roman Empire from 1698.  
~ ~ ~ George was born in Hanover, in what is now Germany, and inherited the lands and titles of the Duchy of Brunswick-Lüneburg from his father and uncles. At the age of 54, after the death of _Queen Anne of Great Britain_ , George ascended the British throne as the first monarch of the House of Hanover. Although over fifty Roman Catholics bore closer blood relationships to Anne, the Act of Settlement 1701 prohibited Catholics from inheriting the British throne; George was Anne's closest living Protestant relative.  
~ ~ ~ In retaliation, Jacobites attempted to depose George and replace him with Anne's Catholic half-brother, _James Francis Edward Stuart_ (father of Bonnie Prince Charlie), but their attempts failed.{Wikipedia}

~ ~ ~ Due to anti-German sentiment in the British Empire during World War I, _King George V_ changed the name of the British Royal Family, from the German _Saxe-Coburg & Gotha_, to the English _Windsor_ , by royal proclamation on 17 July 1917.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ King George 1 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Prince James Francis Edward Stuart

Subsequent archaeological excavations tended to reinforce these mass migration theories, justifying it on finds of the changes of 'grave goods' and burial fashions, that matched those in Western Europe. This mindset continued up until the last few years of the 20th century.

Since then, courageous archaeological scholars have had the temerity to challenge to the 'establishment' with the re-evaluation of such earlier findings, _that they_ _did not_ _signify a mass migration and social upheaval_. They simply show a change in 'fashions'.

Much the same as the early Britains changed housing, clothing and burials fashions to mimic Roman ways, so they changed to the new fashions of the minority Angle and Saxon kings, who did in fact rule them in the sixth to eleventh centuries.

If one needs to see how fashions change without countries being conquered militarily, just look at all the youths in Europe and Asia who wear jeans and T-shirts, with baseball caps on backwards. Are they all Americans? Are all the people in Britain driving Mercedes, BMW's, Audi's and VW's German?

There were Angle Kings and Saxons Kings - as well as British Kings - ruling in many parts of England. _However, the great majority of the population was, and continued to be British_ _._

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* * * *

And so, to continue our story:

Culann has recovered from his injury suffered at the hands of the Angles and Britons, thanks to the treatment received from Sister Fea, at the Celtic Monastery Infirmary on the island of Lios mór (Lismore). Culann and his companion, the young Picti warrior, Fergus mac Ciniod, are escorted on to Iona by none other than the Abbot of Iona, Cumméne Find. There they proudly delivered their invaluable collection of twelve codices' (books) from Lindisfarne Abbey.

Colmán of Lindisfarne resigns as Abbot, after the Synod of Whitby decision and travels to Iona. He and many Celtic monks from Lindisfarne who do not wish to remain under the orders of the Church of Rome, accompany him. They arrive just before the celebration of Christmas in 664 CE.

* * * * *
Chapter 1 – Fergus' Discovery

Fergus stood, waited a few heartbeats then quietly walked off. "What's got into him?" asked one student.  
"He's a Pict you fool." was the reply

F **ergus began attending classes** as a student at Iona, following on from his three years at Lindisfarne. He and Culann were treated as celebrities after news spread of their epic journey from Lindisfarne through hostile Angle and Pictish territory to deliver the important codex (books) to Iona. Culann seemed embarrassed with the attention and sought solitude when possible, to exercise his injured arm. Fergus however thrived on all the attention he received from monks and students alike.

Sister Fea remained on Lios mór, patiently waiting, for Culann to return. Iona was not a joint monastery like Lios mór with monks and nuns.

It was ten days before Christmas. Fergus was relating the part of his journey through Pict country between classes, when one of the local students enquired,

"What do you think Fergus, about the Pict slaves captured by King _Domangart_ [1] on his recent raid north into the Hebridean islands?"

_[1] [_ Domangart, son of Domnall Brecc – King of Cenél nGabrán, and over-king of Dál Riata, died 673]

Fergus was suddenly still. After a few seconds pause he asked,

"What Pict slaves?"

"Domangart just returned from a very successful raid up north. My uncle told me he captured many Picts and much booty," related the student.

"What will happen to the Picts?" asked Fergus quietly.

"Why they are slaves and will be sold or given to his cohorts," said the student as others nodded.

"Do you know where they are now?" asked Fergus.

"Why yes, they would be at Dunadd, Domangart's main fort. It's just down the coast in Argyll."

Fergus stood, waited a few heartbeats then quietly walked off.

"What's got into him?" asked one of the students.

"He's a Pict you fool," responded a colleague.

* * * *

Culann was standing in the smithy, pushing the bellows vigorously up and down with his right hand. The two smiths alongside were joking as they hammered heated iron, happy that some of their heavy work was being done by Culann, as he exercised his injured arm.

"Well, we are honoured today brother," laughed one of the smiths as he saw the slight red headed figure enter the doorway. "We have not just one hero at our humble shed, but two. Welcome Fergus. This is a nice warm place out of the rain, yes?"

Fergus nodded greetings and walked up to Culann who smiled at his young friend.

"Hello Fergus, I haven't seen you since Abbot Colmán arrived last week. How have you been?"

Fergus stood embarrassed, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

"Brother Culann," he said quietly, "I have a problem."

"Your problems are my problems Fergus. Tell me and we will see how to solve it."

Fergus related his news that the local King Domangart had returned from a successful raid in the northern islands with much booty and a number of Pictish slaves.

"I cannot leave my kin to be slaves Culann; yet I have no means to buy their freedom."

Culann ceased pumping the bellows and put his arm around Fergus shoulder.

"Don't worry my friend. We will solve this. Let's go and talk to Brother Bryan. He knows the local leaders and their customs better than anyone I know."

Nodding to the two smiths he led Fergus from the Smithy to the scriptorium in search of Brother Bryan.

* * * *

The scriptorium was almost deserted, with the monks attending _None_ (mid-afternoon prayer). Fergus, accompanied by Culann, related details of the northern raid to Brother Bryan, who was sitting silently on a stool.

"I, too, am offended Fergus, by this act of barbarism. I suggest we talk direct to Abbot Cumméne. If I'm not mistaken he entered yonder room earlier. Let us see if he is still there," said Bryan, as he ushered them to a room at the far end of the scriptorium.

After knocking discreetly they were bid 'Enter' and found Abbot Cumméne in deep discussion with Colmán of Lindisfarne.

"Oh, I beg your pardon sirs, we will come back later when you have finished," apologised Bryan.

"Nonsense Brother Bryan, please enter and bring your honoured guests with you. We have had little time to talk with Brother Culann and young Fergus, both of whom we owe a great deal," said Cumméne standing and waiving them to seats in from of his desk.

"Amen," murmured Colmán smiling.

Bryan, Culann and Fergus sat at the designated seat which in fact was a rough wooden bench. As senior of the trio Bryan began, explaining how Fergus was deeply offended by the raid of King Domangart which resulted in capturing a number of Picts as slaves.

There was silence after Bryan finished. Abbot Cumméne sat stoking his chin thoughtfully. Eventually he commented,

"I understand your concern my friends, however King Domangart, son of Domnall Brecc – king of Cenél _n_ Gabrán, is a very influential man. He commands the loyalty of one of the most powerful, if not the most powerful kingdoms of the Dál Riata Irish Gaels. We must ask ourselves, is it in Iona's best interest to antagonise such a man, over a handful of Pictish captives?"

Culann snorted "I was not aware the Celtic Church at Iona bent its knee to any mortal man; be he, Irish, Pict or Anglo." Fergus grinned in gratitude.

Abbot Cumméne drew in his breath at this outrageous response, from a mere monk, but prudently said nothing, no doubt in view of Culann's current high standing at Iona.

Colmán of Lindisfarne tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile and enquired of the Abbot, "Pray tell me my good Cumméne, have you sent any missions north into the land of the Picts?"

Brother Bryan raised his eyebrows, at Colmán's clever diplomacy. He was aware the former Abbot of Lindisfarne knew quite well such missions had taken place many times over the past one hundred years.

"Well yes," responded Cumméne, "we have sent numerous delegations to the northern isles. The first ones were instigated by our beloved Saint Columba when he first set up our monastery. We currently have a small permanent monastery on the _Eilean a' Cheò_ 'isle of the mist.' [ known today as the Isle of Skye] But why do you ask?"

"If that is the case my good Cumméne, we must assume that many, if not all the Picts inhabiting those islands are Christians."

Again, Bryan noticed that Colmán was addressing Cumméne as an equal, even though he had resigned his post of Abbot of Lindisfarne, and in fact Lindisfarne was a daughter monastery to Iona, the acknowledged pre-eminent center of the Celtic church. What Bryan found amazing was that Cumméne accepted the arrangement.

"Your assumptions may be correct Colmán, but what significance does it have regarding our current problem. The kings of Dal Riata have been raiding those northern islands for slaves since, . . . since, King Áedán last century."

"Saint Patrick."[2] said Colmán.

"Saint Patrick?" queried Cumméne, mystified.

_[2] [_ Patricius, the 5th century Romano-British missionary, now known as Saint Patrick, who successfully converted many of the Celts of Northern Ireland to Christianity.]

Colmán spread his hands and leant forward to explain.

"Saint Patrick wrote a very famous letter in the 5th century, addressed to the warriors of Coroticos, who I understand, occupied the coastal area just down from Iona, in what we now call Argyll. He was very upset because these warriors had enslaved Irish Christians, some of whom Patrick had baptised himself. (Patricius, Ep., 2,15)

"Patrick angrily accused the Coroticos of apostasy[3]. Saint Patrick, as you all know, was the first recorded person to speak out against slavery. It behoves us to speak out against slavery, particularly to Celtic Kings who need the endorsement of the Celtic Church on Iona to rule," concluded Colmán with much feeling.

_[3]_ (Latin apostata was borrowed from the Greek word meaning 'deserter' or 'turncoat'. In ecclesiastical Latin it was used to denote one who forsakes Christianity.)

"Well said," applauded Cumméne with a sly smile, "and I believe you Colmán, with your eloquence and undoubted knowledge of history, should be the one to deliver this message to King Domangart."

"Thank you, Cumméne, for your belief in my humble skills." said Colmán with bowed head.

"May I request Brothers Bryan and Culann with young Fergus, be allowed to accompany me?"

"Of course, of course. You choose your companions well my friend. Brother Bryan knows King Domangart, Brother Culann can keep you safe and Fergus can communicate with his fellow Picts. When do you wish to start?"

"Is tomorrow soon enough?" enquired Colmán as he looked at his potential travel companions. They all nodded.

Culann sat almost in a state of shock. This was the first time an Abbot, let alone a former Abbot, had asked his approval for anything.

"Then it is agreed then," said Colmán. "We will leave at first light tomorrow."

And that is how Fergus arranged, in the company of three other monks, to visit the stronghold of one of the most powerful Dál Riata kings, and request the King give up his Pictish slaves – _something that Iona had not done during the one hundred and one years since its inception by Saint Columba._

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Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω
Chapter 2 – To Dunadd

The dim morning light found our four colleagues in a large curach[1] manned by four sailors. The island of Iona disappeared behind them as first they made their way south, using oars. The sail was hoisted to take advantage of the prevailing south-easterly winds, to sail between the island of Scarba and Jura.

[1] [ Curach; traditional Irish wood-framed boat, covered in animal skin or hides ]

By mid-afternoon as they were about to turn due south into the Sound of Jura, the sailors pointed to a large flock of sea birds circling a ring of white water.

"That's the _Corryvreckan_ whirlpool laddies," shouted one of the sailors pointing to the maelstrom off their bow.

"The birds are feeding on the fish brought to the surface by the whirlpool. Very nasty place for God fearing sailors. We try to keep well away."

Back to the oars again as the curach turned south down Jura Sound, with the island on their right, and the mainland on the left.

The sun was setting as the boat turned into a small mainland bay. They sailed up to the top end and then entered a small river which the sailors navigated expertly despite its meandering course. The shoreline was dominated by the rocky outcrop high off to the left. It was dark when the sailors helped their passengers disembark onto a long rough wooden jetty.

"Welcome to Dunadd," said Brother Bryan rubbing his arms in an endeavour to get warm. The ground about was wet and marsh-like.

"These sailors will await our return." advised Bryan as he then greeted a group of village people swarming around the new arrivals.

After discussions with one of the elders, Bryan advised that they would stay overnight in one of the official guest houses. The elder would arrange for them to meet with King Domangart on the morrow, in his great hall, which dominated the rocky outcrop above.

They were led up a long path to a group of wattle and daub huts clustered around the main entrance to the hill fort above. The elder, who carried a lighted torch, indicated they should enter one hut near the center. The weary travellers dropped their duffle bags, containing a change of clothes and eating utensils, on the rush covered floor. Culann also had his sword carried inconspicuously on his back under his cloak, as well as his strong wooden staff. Fergus had his sword which he kept in plain view.

After they had refreshed themselves at the nearby river Abb, Colmán conducted **Compline** (night prayers) outside their hut. His service was attended by many of the villagers, and Culann noted, also numerous warriors.

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* * * * *
2.1 – A Little Bit of Background

Brother Bryan related how an angel, holding a glass book, whipped Saint Columba

Before they retired, Brother Bryan gave them some background on King Domangart, and the importance Dunadd had in the history of the _Dál Riata_.[1]

[1] [ Dál Riata; the collective name of possibly four groups of Irish warriors from the Northern Ireland Scotti tribe, that invaded and settled the west coast of Scotland in the 5th to 7th century. The name Dál Riata is derived from Old Irish. Dál means 'portion' or 'share' [as in 'a portion of land'] and Riata or Riada is believed to be a personal name. Thus, Riata's portion.]

"When Saint Columba took exile from Ireland in the year of our Lord 563, he visited one of the main rulers of Dál Riata, King Conall, here at Dunadd."

"I'm sorry Fergus, are you comfortable if I speak Irish Gael?" asked Bryan.

"No problem, Sir," replied Fergus with pride, "I learnt Gael at Lindisfarne, along with Latin and a little Greek."

"Excellent!" smiled Bryan,

"Columba was looking for a suitable place to locate his monastery from where he could conduct his missionary work. King Conall offered him a number of islands, but Columba rejected many of them, because from their peaks he could still see the coast of Ireland."

"Why did that matter?" enquired Fergus.

"Saint Columba realised that the task of converting the Dál Riata Gaels, and the much more numerous Picts to Christianity, would be long and difficult. He knew that there would be times when their spirits would be low. If he could see the fair coast of Ireland, he and his helpers may succumb to temptation and return home without fulfilling their mission.

"However, when he saw Iona, which the Pictish people called _'I'_ meaning _'Island'_ in their language, he knew that was his place. It was removed from the Irish horizon, was centrally located to many of the Hebridean islands and even though it was quite small, was very fertile.

"Saint Columba was very successful in converting many of the Gaels and Picts, as far away as Fortriu," nodding at Fergus, acknowledging his tribe's location.[2]

_[2]_ [ on the East coast near Inverness ]

"In 576 King Conall was killed. A new leader was needed, ideally one endorsed by the church, as well as the local Gaelic warrior nobility.

"As you are aware in Celtic kingship, the crown doesn't automatically pass to the eldest son. Duncan mac Conall, son of the late king was one of the three men claiming the throne. The other two were sons of the former king, Gabrán of Kintyre; Ewan, the eldest and well liked, and; Áedán, wilful, aggressive and no friend of his brother.

"Columba favoured the former King's eldest son Ewan, as he was a committed Christian. As it happened Duncan mac Conall was killed in a raid, so that narrowed the field to the two brothers. One evening as he slept, Columba was visited by an angel who showed him a book with pages made of glass. On those pages was written the King List of the _Cenél nGabrain_.[3]

[3] [Cenél; 'kingroups or dynasties' who claimed descent from Gabrán mac Domangairt ]

It contained Conall of course, plus his predecessor Gabrán, but instead of the eldest son Ewan, was written Áedán. Columba refused to endorse Áedán as he considered him to be young, aggressive, and not a good Christian. The angel whipped Columba and left. Columba woke with wealds on his body. The next night the angel again returned in a dream, showed Columba the book, and still our revered Saint did not agree. The angel whipped him again and left. On the third night Columba realized that this must be God's will, so he agreed to endorse Áedán.

"And so it was that all the warrior nobility and much of the Dál Riata population came to Iona to witness Saint Columba anoint Áedán as King. Was Columba's initial reluctance in any way influenced by a foreshadowed knowledge that Áedán's grandson, Domnall Brecc, who was killed in 643 after a disastrous reign, in which he effectively lost all the gains made by the family Gabrán over the previous five generations? I suspect that is something we will never know. However all the Dal Riata kings since then have deemed it necessary to be anointed by Iona."

Bryan paused for a moment, but his enrapt audience in that small candle lit hut, entreated him to carry on.

"Dunadd had been an important place," he continued "for the Pictish kings that inhabited this area, long before we Gaels arrived. On the plateau above there are two unusual rock formations. One is a small depression that looks like a bowl carved out of the rock. Near it is a large carved footprint. It is believed that the Picts when choosing their king, filled the footprint with earth. The new king placed his foot in it, signifying he was to rule over not just the area, but the earth and the people who lived on it. Afterward, we assume his foot was washed in water from the carved stone bowl. So, you see this place has a lot of historical significance."

When it became apparent that Bryan was not adding more to his story, the monks and Fergus rolled themselves in their cloaks and slept.

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* * * * *
2.2 \- In the Hall of the Dál Riata King

A gasp went up from all present as Culann raised the newly acquired Gladius sword above his head.  
The girl still knelt, eyes shut, hands held out in front. The sword suddenly slashed down at the girl's body  
and with a loud **'thunk'** hit the bench

After Lauds prayer next morning, Colmán, Bryan, Culann and Fergus were led up the steep rock faced defile, to the citadel known as _Dunadd_.[1] Culann noticed four rock walls at different levels, as they climbed the defile toward the top. "This place would be very easy to defend." he commented.

[1] [ Dunadd; fort on the river Add ]

At the top a very large wooden hall with a high, thatched roof, dominated the area. There were also a number of smaller wooden buildings and some lean-to sheds. Many people were in evidence, filing into one of the two main entrances of the hall.

"Word of your arrival has spread brothers," advised the same elder who met them last night. "It is regarded as a special occasion to receive visitors from Iona."

"Let us see the footprint first," requested Brother Bryan of their guide. They were led over to the edge of a flat rock outcrop. There was clearly carved a man's footprint.

"This is an important part of the ceremony when a new king is anointed. He has to stand with one bare foot in that imprint."

Fergus walked over and slipping off his sandal placed his foot in the carving. "I can't be king," he said amid the others laughter, "my foot is too small."

"Come," said their guide, beckoning, "we should go and meet the real King."

Fergus noted the cold wind they had experienced yesterday, blew even harder up here on the top of the hill. They were on the windward side of the great hall. It was deserted. Everyone not in the great hall was sheltering from the elements on the far side.

At the insistence of their guide they were led to one of the two main entrances. The inside of the dimly lit hall was packed with people; warriors, local farmers, plus village men and women. A glowing fire in a stone hearth was burning in the middle of the hall. A large number of flickering wooden torches lined the oak walls, which were as high as a man, helping to illuminate the great hall. Each torch was surrounded by a baked clay frame to protect the thatch roof above. There were no windows, just a large hole in the middle of the roof to let out some of the smoke.

At the far end was a raised dais on which stood a number of men. One of them was seated.

"The King," advised the guide pointing to the large, bearded, long haired man lounging on a high-backed chair, in the middle of the group.

The monks made an impressive sight, dressed in their un-dyed, off-white woollen habits with hoods. Culann was half a head taller than most people around him. The audience parted to let them through and an increased murmuring followed them through the hall. An advisor bent down next to the King and pointed in their direction. Suddenly the King stood up, and in a booming voice announced

"Welcome to our guests from Iona. Please come forward so I may greet you."

A path was cleared as the Iona contingent made their way to the far end of the hall in front of the King and his retainers.

"Now," proclaimed the King, still standing on his raised dais "I seem to recognize Brother Bryan of Iona. Welcome back Brother. Could you please introduce your friends." A command, not a question.

Bryan stepped forward and with an outstretched arm indicated his companions;

"Thank you Sire. It is my pleasure to introduce you to Abbot Colmán of Lindisfarne;" Colmán nodded slightly. Culann thought _'good, that sounds better than ex-Abbot of Lindisfarne.'_ But Culann had been watching Colmán closely as he was worried how he should he acknowledge his own introduction – should he kneel, bow, salute, or what? Colmán simply nodded his head.

"And next to him is one of our esteemed brethren, Brother Culann of Iona;" Culann nodded his head.

"Last, but not least, is one of our students from Lindisfarne, Fergus, who together with Brother Culann has performed a vitally important task to the benefit of Iona."

Fergus bent his head ever so slightly, but nullified the gesture by scratching his ear at the same time.

"Well, we are more than pleased that you have made the journey to our kingdom brothers, particularly in such difficult weather. How can we be of service?" asked the King with arms outstretched.

Colmán stepped forward and took over.

"Thank you Sire, for your most generous welcome. We have come because we understand you have recently returned from the northern islands with a number of Picti prisoners. If this is correct, we humbly request to see them."

The King, now seated beamed with pleasure.

"Why of course Abbot Colmán, your information is entirely correct. We did indeed conduct a very successful raid on those ignorant barbarians, and were fortunate to capture a number of slaves. About twenty two if I'm not mistaken."

He then clapped his hands and addressed one of his retainers "Go bring the slaves. Yes all of them. Bring them in here. Now." Then turning to the Iona group still standing in front of him, smiled and asked, "This may take a little time brothers. They are being kept down in the marshes. Is there anything else you wish to see?"

Culann said to Fergus out of the corner of his mouth, in Latin, so his hosts could not understand, "Just as well your little friend _Lasair_ [2], is not here," nodding to the dry thatch roof above them. Fergus frowned for a moment then broke into a grin.

_[2]_ ( Lasair; the Picti heroine whose name means 'flame')

A period of awkward silence followed the King's question, so Culann stepped forward. "With respect Sire, I couldn't help notice the small sword hanging on your chair. I've not seen one quite like it."

King Domangart beaming with pleasure again, reached over, unhooked sword and scabbard, and handed it down to Culann. "You have an eye for quality I see Brother. It is indeed a fine piece of equipment. It is a _Roman Gladius_.[3] We don't see them anymore since the Roman army withdrew from Britannia, what, two hundred years ago. This one was found in a crypt beside Hadrian's Wall. What do you think of it?"

_[3]_ (Gladius, Latin for sword - a short 'stabbing' sword, as against the much longer 'slashing' sword favoured by the Celts. It is thought to have originated in what is now Spain).

Culann carefully slid the sword from its protective scabbard and felt its balance. The blade had parallel cutting edges and a triangular tip; then after running his finger lightly along both cutting edges exclaimed, "It's a beautiful weapon Sire. My father was a Smith and made many fine swords, but I've never seen one as fine as this."

"Then it is yours," declared the King magnanimously.

"Oh no, I couldn't accept," stammered Culann.

"Why, because you're a monk?"

"No, not at all. In fact I have a sword already," said Culann, as with a whistling sound and blurring movement too quick for most to see, he drew his sword in his right hand while holding the Gladius in his left. "We monks are not allowed to acquire worldly goods."

Both Colmán and Bryan nodded sagely, while involuntarily stepping back from the flashing blade.

"Well then," said the King stroking his beard, "why not swap your sword for mine?"

"Oh, I couldn't do that. Your sword is much better than mine."

"Who says? Everyone knows we Celts much prefer a long slashing sword. Anyway your sword makes a much more exciting sound than mine. Please, as a special favour, swap swords with me."

Everyone burst out laughing and applauded the King for his clever use of words, ensuring the monk was now obliged to take the much better short sword.

"You are too kind, Sire," said Culann as he placed his long sword at the Kings feet, then secured the Gladius and scabbard around his own waist.

Just then more murmuring broke out as the Picti slaves were herded into the hall.

"There are woman too." Exclaimed Fergus, as the foremost figures, some clad in tattered clothes, hands tied in front with leather thongs, were pushed toward the front of the hall. They were lined up at an angle to the King's dais. Culann noticed many were red haired, like Fergus.

Colmán approached the King and placing his hands together as in prayer, began "Wise King Domangart, you asked earlier why we came. We came because we are very concerned that by enslaving Christian Picti, you may be committing a mortal sin. We at Iona are concerned that if you commit a mortal sin, you may be denied a place in the heavenly here-after."

"Who says so?" said the King now sitting straight up.

"Why, our revered Saint Patrick no less. You know of Saint Patrick?"

"Of course I know of Saint Patrick," annoyed now.

"Well you may not know Saint Patrick wrote a very strong letter to the warriors of Coroticos, who in those days ruled the land of Kintyre, just south of where we stand now. He accused them of enslaving Irish Christians, whom he had himself baptised. Patrick accused the Coroticos of _apostasy_. In the Church, that means one who forsakes Christianity. Iona doesn't want you to be accused of _apostasy_."

The King conferred hurriedly with some of his advisors. Loud voices were heard. All present in the hall waited to see how this now dramatic scene would be played out.

Finally the King waived away his advisors and said,

"We don't believe these people are Christians, so your arguments are not valid."

Colmán turned and walked up to Fergus. Knowing women were more likely to embrace Christianity before most males, said,

"Fergus can you ask that Picti," pointing to a young girl with long dishevelled blonde hair in a torn dress, "if she is a Christian."

Fergus took a deep breath, walked up to the girl who looked at him initially with loathing, and asked in the Picti tongue "Are you a Christian?" The woman stared at him blankly. A dark murmuring spread around the hall. Fergus frowned and said more urgently,

"I am Picti. I am here to help you. What is your name?" After a moment's hesitation the woman replied, "Sinead."

"Thank you Sinead," said Fergus. "Please do me a big favour. If your name is really Sinead, just nod your head!"

The girl nodded her head.

"See Sire," said Colmán, "she is a Christian."

"Rubbish!" responded the King unconvinced. "Anyone can nod their head."

"By your leave Sire," interrupted Culann "I believe I have a foolproof system of testing the woman's faith." As an aside to Fergus, once again in Latin,

"Tell the woman to bend down on this wooden bench with her hands held apart so I can cut her bonds. Just do as I say, and trust me."

Fergus again approached Sinead and said in Picti "Please bend down on the bench so the monk can cut your bonds. Hold your hands far apart." The girl hesitated a moment then knelt down with her torso over the bench; her hands held out in front. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Culann stepped in front of her, but without blocking the Kings view, and in a very loud voice, in Irish Gaelic, which everyone in room understood - _except the Pictish prisoners_ , cried,

"I am going to cut your head off. If you truly believe in our Lord Jesus Christ, you will stay still, and go immediately to greet our Heavenly Father. If you are not a true Christian, you can run away."

A gasp went up from all present as Culann raised the newly acquired Gladius sword above his head, and held it there for what seemed a long time. The girl lay still, eyes shut, hands held out in front. The sword suddenly slashed down at the girl's body and with a loud thunk, hit the bench – and cut the leather bonds cleanly. The woman leaped up and threw her arms around Fergus, hugging him.

"I'm sorry, Sire, but I am unable to take another's life," said Culann, tongue in cheek. Fergus stared in disbelief at that statement.

"No, no, I am convinced," cried the King.

"This woman is no doubt a Christian, and a very devout one as well. You may take her."

"Can we take the others as well my Liege?" asked Colmán.

"The others? No of course not. And your clever test will not work anymore, as they all know now, you cannot deliberately kill anyone," said the King, with a confident smirk.

Colmán became serious.

"Saint Patrick, as you all know, was the first recorded person to speak out against slavery. It behoves us to speak out against slavery, particularly to Dal Riata Kings, who need to be ordained and anointed of the Gaelic Church on Iona to rule."

"Don't threaten me my good Abbot. I am already ordained King. You cannot un-ordain me."

"What further sign do you need my Liege, to release your prisoners?" asked Colmán his voice raised ominously.

The King thought for moment, then smiling replied,

"You can have any prisoner in exchange for their weight in gold plate. I have heard Iona has much wealth. You can spare some."

"I warn Your Highness not to make fun of our Celtic Church, nor take Iona in vain," hissed Colmán, his fists clenched.

"Then show me a sign from God that I should let my valuable prisoners go," yelled the King as he smacked his hands on his chair in a fit of anger.

Fergus put his hand to his mouth, and mumbling he was feeling sick, pushed through the throng to the nearest door.

A dangerous hum filled the hall. Sinead, the now free Pict girl, with Fergus gone, grabbed Culann's arm in alarm. Dál Riata warriors moved ominously to the front, hands on sword hilts, afraid they may lose their precious plunder. The Picti prisoners huddled together, whispering in hushed tones and glancing at the enemy surrounding them.

Brother Bryan waved his hand, palm down at Colmán as if to say _'calm down'_. Culann put his left arm around Sinead and held the short sword in his right.

* * * *

Fergus paused at the door of the great hall and licked one finger, holding it up to test the wind, then grabbed one of the large flickering wooden torches lining the hall. Everyone's attention was on the drama playing out in front of the King's dais. Fergus calmly walked out of the hall carrying the torch. Looking left and right he turned into the wind and ran to the corner of the building. As before, the windward side of the great hall was deserted. If anything, the wind gusts had increased in strength.

Extending the torch, he could easily reach the lower fronds of the thatched roof, which reached well below the top of the thick oak walls. He held the torch up until the dried thatching caught fire. Running along the building he stopped every ten paces or so and lit a new area. Before he was half way along, the first fires had blazed up with flames and smoke fanned by the wind, racing up the side of the roof. Just passed the half way point of the building, he tossed his torch high up on the thatch, and calmly walked back into the hall through the far door.

* * * *

The King was quarrelling with some of his advisors. Warriors were milling around in discord. Brother Bryan was arguing with Colmán to be more diplomatic or all would be lost. Culann was trying to comfort the frightened Sinead who was still clutching his arm and wailing at the same time. The prisoners were calling out in their own tongue and squabbling. Villagers were shouting, some pointing at the monks, others at the Picts.

And then some saw the smoke!

The uproar increased near the front of the hall. Suddenly people were pointing at one side of the roof as it became engulfed by flames and thick smoke. They were probably yelling too, but couldn't be heard over the increased hubbub.

At the King's dais the commotion stopped, as everyone suddenly noticed the flames eating the roof above them.

"You want a sign from God!" screamed Colmán. "There's your sign you fool! Recant now, or next you could be struck by lightning!"

King Domangart stood dumbfounded, as the flames suddenly seemed to be consuming one side of the entire front half of the building. Worse though was the thick smoke. People began choking as they panicked and pushed toward the doors. Turning to Colmán, the King, white-faced cried,

"Take the damned Picts, take them." Then with his hands held high in prayer,

"Make Him stop. Make Him stop – _please!_ "

Grim faced, Fergus suddenly appeared.

"We need to move. Not through the doors, too many people. Over there," pointing to the far side of the hall.

"There's no door" yelled Culann.

"We'll make one," yelled back Fergus over the din.

"Come on," grabbing Brother Bryan and Colmán by their sleeves, and then waving the Picts to follow, he led them to the now almost deserted far wall. Drawing his sword he hacked at the oak wall, without success. It was too thick.

Culann pointed to the thatch roofing,

"Try the roof" he yelled to Fergus. "Here, I'll lift you." Grabbing Fergus round the waist he lifted him above the wall. Fergus thrashed at the thatch with his sword and suddenly they could see daylight.

"Take my short sword, its easier." cried Culann, handing up the gladius to Fergus. The young Pict quickly enlarged the hole in the roof. Culann lowered him down and yelled "Bring some of those wooden benches. You can climb up using them." Monks and Picts pushed benches up next to the wall and began climbing up and out.

Culann raced over to the dais where the King, and many of his entourage were still standing, frozen in fear. They gazed at the roof then watched the hordes of humanity, all trying desperately to push their way through the only two doors at either end of the great hall. Pieces of burning roofing began falling to the floor, igniting the straw covering.

"Quickly Sire," yelled Culann, "over here. We can escape over the wall," pointing to the small group by the far wall already climbing out through the hole in the roof above the wall and jumping to safety outside.

The King shook himself out of his stupor, stared briefly at Culann, then waved his entourage to follow the tall monk. Some of those desperate ones at the back of the mass trying to escape also noticed, and peeled off to force their own holes above the far wall.

Culann hoisted the King, with the help of Fergus, up the wall and through the escape hole. After all, the King was a big man. As Domangart fell down the on the other side, he was caught by some of the Picts now outside, who were helping people escape.

Culann was now perched straddling the wooden wall, where the hole punched in the roof formed an escape route, out of harm's way. He checked to see everyone he knew was safe and sound outside the hall. Everyone in his group was out. Everyone except Fergus. He reached down to pull the young Pict up, but there was no one there, Fergus had disappeared. Smoke swirled up through the opening, blinding him for a few precious seconds. Blinking furiously he couldn't see anything inside the smoke filled hall. Great chucks of flaming timber were crashing down, further igniting the straw covered floor. Someone outside pulled his leg and he toppled to the ground. He tried to climb up and inside again yelling "Fergus, I have to get Fergus." Colmán and Bryan held him back.

"No lad," cried Colmán "it's too late. He's gone, poor boy. You've done your best."

As he spoke a great gust of flame burst from their escape hole, forcing everyone back from the soon to be gutted hall. People were still spilling out of the far door, but there would be no more escape via the wall.

Culann slumped down, his head on the ground, overwhelmed with grief.

'Why does everyone who trusts in me have to die?'

* * * *

With Culann straddling the wall, Fergus looked behind and saw some of those still struggling to escape through the clogged doorways. He decided to run over to them and grabbing the hindmost, pointed toward the now growing number of escape holes being punched in the roof, along the far wall. He was still re-directing people when some of the blazing roof rafters began crashing down. There were now flames consuming great swathes of the floor area.

It was then he saw he was cut off from those escape holes, by the flames and burning timbers.

" _Ah well, so be it. I started it anyway,"_ he said to himself as the smoke swirled around him. He shielded his eyes from the burning embers thrown up by the latest lump of burning timber to hit the floor nearby. Then he turned, and blinded by smoke, automatically reached for the person standing in front of him – and found no one. Gasping and choking now, he stumbled forward and suddenly his hand hit a door post. Everyone was out. Still half blinded and coughing, Fergus staggered out through the door to safety, enveloped by smoke and sparks.

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* * * * *
2.3 – Aftermath

The leader swung his left fist and smacked Colmán full in the face, knocking him over. Fergus raised his sword to strike but one warrior smashed his shield into Fergus' chest. The force knocked Fergus backwards.

_Sinead threw herself over Fergus to protect him from the potential further attack. Sinead's brother simultaneously leaped at the nearest warrior, barehanded and grabbed his sword hand, in an effort to distract him from killing his sister. Another warrior struck at the young Pict with his sword, slicing the youths_ shoulder. _Then a blurred white-clad figure, running full tilt swept in ~_ .

Culann eventually rose and looking round found Colmán and Bryan comforting the Picts, gathered together, now well away from the still burning building. The King and his entourage stood off to one side watching open mouthed as the great hall's roof slowly disintegrated.

The Picts' hands were still bound by their leather thongs. Culann realized his new sword was somewhere inside that inferno – with Fergus. He shook his head trying to dismiss that dreadful thought, and taking his small eating knife monks always carry, he began cutting through the thongs binding the Picts.

"Try this Culann, its quicker," said a slight, singed, soot blackened figure who had quietly walked up behind the monk.

Culann looked in disbelief at this apparition from hell – all black except the whites of his eyes and his wide smile.

"Fergus? Is it really you?"

"Well this is your Gladius isn't it?" replied Fergus drawing the short sword he had stuffed in his belt.

Culann placed his hands firmly on Fergus shoulders and looked in amazement at the young man he believed had perished in the inferno.

"Thank you friend. I am very pleased you are alive," said Culann, as he released the young Pict and gratefully took the proffered sword.

"So am I," smiled Fergus.

Colmán and Bryan came up, and after offering thanks to the Lord for Fergus safe return, both indicated they should move the newly released captive Picts, to the safety of their boat below.

"Our boat won't carry everyone," pointed out Culann as he finished separating the Picts bonds.

"Yes of course," agreed Colmán. "I shall talk with the King." And he walked over to the King, surrounded now by not only his courtiers, but a growing number of angry warriors.

Colmán pushed his way into the throng. The ex-Abbot of Lindisfarne was not used to waiting for anyone. He was certainly not in awe of any earthly king,

"Excuse me, Your Highness, we wish to begin our return journey, but we do not have sufficient boats to carry all the Picts to Iona. Can you provide them?"

The King, looking distracted, turned to Colmán, and said, "Yes, yes, alright, I'll arrange transport. Just get those damned people away from here."

He waved a hand to summons one of his advisors, and instructed him to provide as many boats as necessary. Now! The advisor bowed and pushed his way through the gathering throng toward the path leading down to the jetty. Colmán waved Bryan, Culann and the Picts to follow.

The Iona group with their Pictish colleagues had to push their way down through the narrow defile to their boat below, passing people endeavouring to climb to the top of the rocky plateau, no doubt wanting to see the still smouldering building, and check on friends and family.

* * * *

Eventually the group gained the wooden jetty where their curach with its trusty sailors, along with three other boats were moored. The local curachs each had four pairs of oars, with a steering oar aft.

"How many boats do you need, Sir?" enquired the King's advisor. Colmán did a quick head count and conferred with Brother Bryan.

"Two of the larger boats together with our own curach should be sufficient," concluded Colmán.

Fergus was asked to instruct the Picts to board the boats. He sought out Sinead and asked, "Who was the Picts' leader?"

"We are from different clans," she replied. "My brother, over there, is probably senior in our group. And I think the man with the red beard is influential with some of the others."

Fergus walked up to the two indicated men, with Sinead following behind. As he was conferring with them, a commotion began, near the defile leading from Dunadd, which they had just exited.

Five warriors armed with swords and oval shaped shields, plus one with a spear, spilled out of the defile and headed for the Picts. Their leader, a big man, shouted as he ran toward the boats being loaded with people.

"Stop! They are my prisoners. Give them to me."

The King's advisor held up his hands as he confronted the angry warriors.

"The King has granted these people their freedom. They are on their way home."

"Sez you," sneered the leader, pushing the advisor to one side. "Most are mine, not the King's to give away." The warriors drew up in line, swords out, on either side of their leader.

In front of them was Abbot Colmán, Brother Bryan and now Fergus, together with Sinead and a small group of Picts who had not yet boarded the boats. Fergus drew his sword and noticed in amazement, Culann was fading away to the left.

The King's advisor scampered away toward the defile,

"I'll tell the King on you," he cried over his shoulder as he ran.

Colmán marched up and confronted the armed leader, "I demand you leave this place and let these people go in peace, _in the Name of God!_ " The leader swung his left fist and smacked Colmán full in the face, knocking him over.

"That's what I think of your god." Things then got out of hand.

Fergus raised his sword to strike but it was blocked by one warrior's spear, who then smashed his shield into Fergus' chest. The force knocked the Pict backwards. Sinead threw herself over Fergus to protect him from potential further attack. Sinead's brother, Sreng, simultaneously leaped at the nearest warrior barehanded, and grabbed his sword arm, in an effort to distract him from striking his sister on the ground. Another warrior struck at the young Pict with his sword, slicing the youth's shoulder. Sreng collapsed, bleeding profusely.

"Stop," thundered the leader, "don't harm my slaves."

Both sides drew back for moment. In the background a small group of villagers watched in awe. Fergus struggled to free himself from Sinead's clutching arms.

Just when it seemed inevitable the Dál Riata warriors were about to recapture the unarmed Picts, a blurred white-clad figure running full tilt, crashed into the line of warriors – their unprotected sword arm side, screaming a _Fianna_ [1] war cry, and savagely wielding a short sword.

_[1]_ [ Fianna; a small independent Irish warrior band ]

Most warriors were knocked off-balance by this sudden onslaught, staggering into their next in-line comrade. In the few heartbeats before they regained their composure, two of the end warriors lay crumpled on the ground, bleeding from the stab wounds caused by the Gladius wielding monk; then three; then four.

The two remaining warriors turned to face their now blood covered wild-eyed adversary, who was in the process of pulling his sword from the body of his latest victim. As they both raised their weapons to attack the monk, one screamed in pain - his leg severed by the sword of the soot covered Pict, who had swung his weapon while still on his knees. Culann clinically dispatched the sixth and final adversary.

Fergus shakily regained his feet, nodded at Culann, then methodically began hacking off the heads of the slain Dal Riata warriors.

When Brother Bryan protested,

"What is he doing?" Culann calmly told him, "Don't worry, it's his custom. Let's get the rest of these people on the curachs before more trouble arrives."

The small group of villagers watched wordless, as the Picts then boarded the boats. Brother Bryan arranged for the five Pictish women to sit in their curach along with the injured brother of Sinead, together with Colmán, who was semi-conscious and bleeding from the mouth and nose. The men were distributed among the other two boats. Bryan boarded the third curach. Culann and Fergus looked at the remaining empty fourth boat.

"Let's punch a hole in it," suggested Fergus, "so they can't follow us."

"No need, "said Culann as he climbed into the empty boat.

"We'll take these with us." He handed the oars to Fergus, then calmly dismantled the aft rudder device. Both men then clambered onto the leading curach, and all three boats were rowed the short distance down the river Add. They then went west into the wide loch.

When questioned later by King Domangart, the villagers who witnessed the event, gave a confused description of the leading monk calling on the warriors to let the Picts leave, ' _in the name of God.'_ When the warriors refused, suddenly an off-white coloured angel swept down from above with a golden sword, and smote them to the ground. One of the Picts then methodically beheaded them.

The King shook his head, grateful that Monks and Picts had now left, before anymore divine calamities could befall him. But, he thought it was very strange that the angel uttered a Fianna war cry.

* * * *

When the three boats reached the Jura Sound, Culann asked the experienced sailors in the lead boat, to manoeuvre so that all boats were along-side each other. Sinead had ripped lengths of material from her skirt and the four other Pictish women with her, and bound her brother's wound to stop the bleeding. As all three vessels rose and fell in the slight swell, Culann and Bryan discussed where they should head. Both agreed that it would be hard work to row against the wind directly to Iona. As Colmán and some of the Picts were injured and needed urgent medical care, it would be quicker and easier to head north then east to Lios mór. The sailors suggested they not try to navigate the dangerous Corryvreckan Straight in the fading light; best to head between the islands of Scarba and Luing, which would bring them directly to Loch Linnhe and Lios mór.

It was also agreed that Culann command the leading curach, with Fergus to transfer to the second boat, making it easier to communicate with the Picts in boats two and three. Culann, in the only boat with a sail and therefore faster, should make haste to Lios mór where the injured may be cared for. Bryan would follow and guide the other two boats. The sun was a red globe, setting low over the silhouetted hills of Jura as these arrangements were finalised. The sailors on the leading boat raised their sail, and moved quickly ahead of the following boats, which were manned by Picts on the oars.

As night enveloped them, a near full moon shone down from above. Although covered at times by low cloud, its light enabled the small boats to keep well clear of the white water breaking on rocks rimming the islands on either side.

Bryan noticed all the Picts peering at the shore and skyline as they rowed onward. He asked Fergus to enquire if this was any way similar, with the voyage down from their homeland to Dunadd. An animated discussion followed among the Picts. Fergus translated the outcome.

"They say they can't tell. They were all tied up and covered with large blankets. They didn't even know how many of their kin were still alive and with them, until they reached Dunadd."

Bryan turned back toward Dunadd and with a look of disgust, raised his fist and shouted in a very un-Christian-like manner

"May the Lord make you pay for your unspeakable behaviour towards these poor people."

Fergus quietly translated this curse to the amusement of the Picts!

_[ Note:_ _King Domangart_ _was killed in battle in 672. The stronghold_ _Dunadd_ _was laid siege in 682, most likely by the British kingdom of Alt Clut, in collaboration with the Picts of Fortriu and Fife, whose king was_ _Bridei son of Beli_ _._ _)_

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* * * * *
Chapter 3 – Lios mór

Sister Tamara assisting Sister Fea, supervising patients at the Lios mór Monastery Infirmary

Lauds (morning prayer, at daybreak) had just finished, and many of the monks and sisters at the monastery on Lios mór, were at work.

Sister Fea was not happy. Most of the other sisters in the infirmary gave her a wide berth lest they receive a dressing-down from the woman in charge of both male and female wards. As so often happened when there was a problem, Brother Hesus entered the room. After glancing at the nuns gathered at one end of the room, he walked over to Fea, folding bedclothes by herself.

"Good morning Fea. Is everything OK?" smiled Hesus as he sat down beside her.

"Everything is fine," said Fea between clenched teeth as she roughly shook the bedclothes into place.

"I feel something is troubling you my dear Sister. You once told me it relieved the soul to confide a problem with a friend."

"Did I?" said Fea wearily, holding a bundle of clothes to her chest, head down.

Hesus began ever so quietly,

"You remember when you got me to confess to you in that barn, back on Jura, so long ago. You allowed me to relieve myself of all my guilt of not being able to work in the scriptorium, because of my crippled right hand. The monks accused anyone who wrote with their left hand of being possessed by the Devil. It was you who arranged for me to come with you and your 'milk maids' to Lios mór. It was you who arranged for me to work in the scriptorium translating Greek text to Latin, not by writing but by 'dictating' to other monks.

"Sister Fea, you gave me a new great meaning for life. I can never repay you, but please, let me help, if I can. What is troubling you?"

"Oh, it's nothing. It really just a silly woman's thing," said Fea sitting opposite Hesus, her hands clasped in her lap. Hesus said nothing, just looked expectantly.

"That mad young Irishman said he would come back from Iona soon. It's been weeks. He hasn't even sent word where he is." Fea put her head in her hands and her shoulders shook.

Hesus moved to sit next to the distressed Fea and gently put his good left hand on her shoulder.

"Ahhh, the young Irish monk, Culann, hero from Lindisfarne. I shouldn't be too upset Sister. From what I gathered he seems quite smitten by you."

"Where is he then? He said he was going to leave the order and become a smithy. They were just going to deliver those silly codices to Iona. That's only a day's sail away. It's been weeks. Has something happened to him?"

"There, there," comforted Hesus, "if something had happened to him I'm sure we would have heard by now. Most likely Abbot Cumméne has asked him to perform some special task before he returns to Lios mór. Brother Culann struck me as being a young man with a great sense of integrity."

The Sisters watched as Fea and Hesus sat together talking for what seemed a very long time. The consensus among them was that Hesus would calm Fea down.

* * * *

A monk ran into the infirmary, "Sisters, quickly, they are bringing in some injured people from a boat that has just landed."

"Not another group of warring Scotti. We just released the last batch of wounded warriors' yesterday." said Fea.

"I think not Sister," said the monk, "they seem to be mostly women."

Just then a group surrounded by monks entered the infirmary. A tall hooded monk in a bloodstained habit was carrying an injured lad. Another older monk with blood on his face followed, assisted by some dishevelled young women.

Fea took charge.

"Put the injured down on those pallets – carefully." Then to Sister Tamara standing next to her.

"Take care of these women. Get some warm clothes for them and see if they need any medical care. And food, get the _refectory_ [1] to send over hot food."

_[1] [_ _refectory_ _;_ monastery kitchen & dining room ]

Sister Tamara nodded and disappeared out the door.

"Where are you from?" Fea asked one girl standing in front of her. The girl looked blank and said nothing.

"Does anyone speak their language?" asked Fea looking around.

"They came from Dunadd, Fea, but originally from northern Hebrides. They are Picti." stated the tall monk, now standing beside the Pict lad he had placed on a pallet.

Fea looked up sharply, then walked quickly in front of the still hooded monk in the blood-stained habit.

"Culann?"

"It is I Fea," he said quietly.

Sister Fea clenched her fists and beat him repeatedly on his chest, crying,

"Where have you been? Why didn't you contact me?"

Culann put his arms about her and held her tight.

"I'm here now."

The other sisters smiled at each other, as they tended their patients.

"Can anyone here speak Pictish?" asked Culann still stroking Fea.

"Yes, Brother Wyn speaks Pictish. He should be in the scriptorium. I'll get him," volunteered one of the monks.

Fea, realising her Sisters were watching, abruptly quit Culann's embrace and quickly regaining her composure began organising the new arrivals.

Culann suggested it would be best if they could be kept together, as many appeared to be still traumatised by the events over the past days. Fea advised there were still a few Scotti warriors recovering from wounds in the male ward, so she would keep everyone here. It would be easier as they had to determine who needed treatment.

The Sisters set up a long linen screen to separate the males and females. The men were initially reluctant to allow these strange looking women to examine them. However, once they saw how effectively they disrobed, washed and bandaged the still unconscious brother of Sinead, they followed the instructions of the Sisters.

On the other side of the screen the women watched in wonder at the skilled Sisters, as they, smiling, and using a combination of sign language and play acting, arranged the washing, then dressed, their patients in clean long robes. Food and water was eagerly consumed, as none had eaten in two days.

Father Jowan, Abbot of Lios mór, bustled in to discuss the arrival of the Picts, and to greet Abbot Colmán. The ex-Abbot of Lindisfarne was up and about. His face was still swollen but that didn't stop him complaining about his treatment at the hands of the Dunadd Scotti. When asked if he wanted to stay at Lios mór or go on to Iona, Colmán quite emphatically stated he would not stay anywhere near the Dal Riata. He would visit Iona but then go on to Ireland.[2]

[2] (Colmán returned to Ireland, and formed a monastery on the remote island of Inishbofin, which means 'island of the white cow'. He died there in 675. ]

* * * * *

It was late afternoon when the other two boats reached Lios mór. Brother Bryan's boat guided them into the bay below the monastery. Culann, now in a new clean off-white woollen habit, came to meet them.

The Picts were initially reluctant to leave their boats. However, when Sinead ran out to meet them, and tell how well they had been treated, particularly by the Irish Sisters, they overcame their apprehension and allowed her to walk them to one of the guest houses, which had been made ready.

Brother Bryan indicated to Fergus, who had just disembarked from the second boat, to join him, together with Culann and Abbot Colmán.

"Friends we have a problem with the Picti," Bryan stated with a worried brow. "They seem to be arguing amongst themselves. Luckily, they have no weapons, but I fear further bloodshed."

"What is the cause?" asked Colmán. "Can you enlighten us Master Fergus?"

Fergus shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

"From what I hear, these people come from two different tribes. They are all _Albannach_ people, or what you call Picti, but as you know we are not known for forming alliances, even against a common enemy. If someone comes from a different tribe, which may even be located in the next valley, they are not trusted. I gather one of these two groups came from a large island, while the second were from a valley on the mainland. They have always been enemies.

"Yes" continued Bryan "I think the 'large island' is called _Eilean a' Cheò_ (now the Isle of Skye) If I remember correctly, our beloved Saint Columbus actually visited it sometime around the year 565."

"Well, it seems after rescuing these Picts from slavery, our next task is to return them to their homelands," mused Colmán.

"But this is the winter season," observed Bryan. "It is dreadful weather to travel, particularly by boat."

"I don't think the Picts want to stay at Lios mór or Iona," said Fergus. "They all want to go home as quickly as possible."

"Well that's understandable," said Colmán looking at Bryan. "How do we get them home?"

"By boat is the only way. We will just have to brave the winter weather. I will offer to take them," said Bryan quietly.

"I will help. You will need two boats" said Culann quickly.

"Me too!" chimed in Fergus grinning widely. _What an adventure._

* * * *

And so, it was agreed that Brothers Bryan and Culann, together with Fergus, would lead the four women and sixteen Picti men, back to their homeland in the northern Hebridean islands.

Sinead decided to stay on at Lios mór, until her brother had recovered, which took some weeks. However, she was so impressed with the Sisters and the work they were doing, she decided to remain, and eventually joined the monastery. There she was to learn about Christianity, but more so, to discover the many skills needed to tend the sick and injured.

It was decided to take the original four oared curach which had a sail, together with one of the larger six oared boats. The sailors who had manned the curach from Iona agreed to continue. The Picts manning the second boat, would take turns at the oars.

Culann and Fea were able to see each other fleetingly, during the five days it took to provision the two curachs. When Fea asked on their last evening together, when he would be returning, Culann could only answer softly "As soon as I can. According to Brother Bryan, who has travelled these parts more than most, it could take between eight to ten days. It depends on the weather."

"You will keep out of trouble, won't you?" asked Fea.

"I have Fergus to look after me," smiled Culann as he felt her head rest on his shoulder. They sat watching the dark clouds scud across the full moon. Fea wondered how long it would be before they could sit and watch the moon like this again. She had a feeling of deep foreboding, it would be much longer than ten days.

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* * * * *
Chapter 4 – North to Albannach Territory

T **he two heavily laden curachs** departed Lios mór early morning on Christmas Eve. Father Jowan tried in vain to convince them to delay their departure until Christmas had been celebrated, but Brother Bryan argued convincingly, that they had good sailing weather, with the wind from the south-east and no rain. It was best to strike out when the weather was kind. January was understood by all, to bring the worst of the winter weather.

Fea, together with her Sisters, Father Jowan, Abbot Colmán, Brother Hesus and many monks, waved bon voyage to the travellers, as they slowly pulled away from the harbour, and then disappeared around the far headland. Sinead also joined the farewell briefly. Her brother was improving, but still confined to his pallet in the infirmary.

The six sailors from Iona agreed to crew the first boat, which also contained four Picti women and two Picti youths, plus Brother Bryan acting as navigator. The second larger boat had six pairs of oars but no sail. It carried the balance of fourteen Picti males, plus Culann and Fergus.

Brother Bryan advised before they launched, that it was better to sail down Loch Linnhe to the southern tip of Lios mór, then turn north-west up the Sound of Mull between the mainland and the Isle of Mull. If they continued past the long western shoreline of Mull to Iona, it would take much longer. Time was of the essence, as the favourable weather would not last.

Although the sky was overcast and the wind from the south-east, gusting dangerously at times, the hills on Mull offered some protection and they made good time. The projected destination for the first day was the Celtic monastery at the top of the Sound of Mull, Ardslignish. The men in the second boat rotated in rowing, as they were not as skilled in handling their craft as the Iona sailors. Culann and Fergus also took their turn, Culann joking he needed to do it to keep warm.

The sun was glimpsed briefly, low in the sky through scudding clouds, as they turned to port into Loch Sunart. Straight ahead was a small cove with a white sandy beach. Above the beach were a group of wooden buildings; _Ardslignish_. By the time they had landed and dragged their boats up the beach above the high-water mark, a gathering crowd of monks and some local villagers, hurried down to greet them. Ardslignish did not receive many visitors.

Abbot Morann was the first to welcome them as they disembarked. He warmly embraced Brothers Bryan and Culann, as it was they who had arranged for him to be given the post of Abbot, over two years ago. Fergus and the other Picts were made welcome as well, which surprised them as the villagers were Scotti Dál Riata.

"If you come in peace we are very happy to see you," explained one of the villagers to Fergus.

"We do not receive much news of the outside world, here in our little community."

There was some confusion initially with the Picts' clothing. Because they were attired in the same off-white garments worn by Celtic monks, it was assumed by all, that they too were monks. Brother Bryan explained how the Picts had been captured as slaves by Scotti at Dunadd, and freed by the Iona monks and Abbot Colmán, late of Lindisfarne. Now they were on their way back to their homelands in the Hebrides'. At that, the Dál Riata villagers applauded. There seemed to be little love lost between them and their southern kin.

Darkness was upon them as they were ushered into the only guest house at the monastery. After washing and changing their clothes, they were invited into the refectory where a substantial hot meal _(by Celtic monks' standards),_ was served. When Brother Bryan complemented Abbot Morann on the abundance and variety of the food they had partaken, the Abbot replied,

"Brothers in God, we have been saving this feast to celebrate Christmas tomorrow. Despite our entreaties to stay and celebrate with us, you have decided to press on with your journey at first light tomorrow. Therefore, I instructed our kitchen staff to serve our celebratory meal tonight instead of tomorrow. May God bless you and keep you safe. You do our humble establishment great honour, by choosing to be with us on this special evening."

Although the Picts had difficulty communicating with the locals, even with Fergus trying to translate as much as possible, they soon became aware of the warm welcome afforded them, particularly by the Scotti as well as the local monks. As the night wore on, the Picts began singing and some even dancing. This was the first time since their terrible ordeal began, that they felt the air of freedom and comradeship.

By the time _Compline_ was called (night prayers, which completes the day), the feasting, singing and dancing was completed, and the weary travellers slowly made their way back to the guest house.

As a special treat for his guests, Abbot Morann decreed that the call for _Vigils_ prayers (during the wee hours, around 4 am while still dark) be postponed for the next morning, and the sleepy travellers were woken only for _Lauds_ at day break.

* * * *

Day two found both boats rowing into a strong westerly wind, accompanied by a rising swell. It was with relief when they could at last round the Point of Ardnamurchan, and head northeast. By midday they had passed the islands of Muck and Eigg, and Rum was visible on the horizon. Ahead however rose the forbidding black mountains of Skye, the Cuillins (pronounced 'Coolins').

The majority of the Picts in the second boat were jubilant. The Isle of Skye was their home. The others were noticeably somber. Their home lay further north, on the mainland. The Albannach of Skye were feared by the inhabitants on the mainland.

They entered the Sound of Sleat and the coastline narrowed on either side. The wind dropped but the current became much stronger, and it was difficult making headway. To make matters worse, the cloud cover came down and it started to rain.

Brother Bryan decided to put into a small inlet on Skye, which had a _burn_ (creek or stream) running into the sea. As they approached the shore they noticed some farm houses through the rain squalls. The shoreline was protected by a large sandbank, and they had to climb out and manhandle the curachs over the obstruction, before gaining the shore.

As they pulled the boats onto the beach, Culann noticed a small group of men carrying hoes and sticks, gathered above them. He pointed them out to Bryan who suggested he, Culann, Fergus and two of the Picts from Skye, go and meet them. They seemed to be farmers, not warriors. As they approached the farmers, Bryan held his hands up in a universal gesture of peace. Fergus asked the Picts to tell them; _'we come in peace and are just looking for shelter for the night'_. The Picts who came originally from the far side of the island, convinced the farmers they meant no harm.

The farmers, who incidentally, did not recognize their clerical robes, thought they were some sort of Druids, and were a little in awe. They pointed to one of their wooden farm buildings, indicating they could stay the night there. It was a barn for their cows. Bryan waved the other travellers forward, and everyone traipsed off to spend at least a dry night in the barn. The cows however were not happy.

* * * *

Next morning the travellers ate some of the provisions they had brought with them, and made their way back to the boats. Two of the farmers were standing next to the upturned boats. They must have been guarding them all night. Brother Bryan said a prayer over them, as everyone else prepared to disembark in the boats. The farmers seemed impressed by the short religious service, even though they had no idea what it meant.

The tide was in and they did not need to carry the boats over the now submerged sandbank, before gaining access to the very narrow passage. As they rowed through the straight and turned north to follow the coastline, the Skye Picts became more excited as they recognised more familiar landmarks.

By midday, despite the numerous rain squalls, they had passed between two smaller islands, and on advice from the Picts in the second boat, turned into another larger bay. There was a sizable village at the far end, but no one was in sight. Brother Bryan in the lead boat hove to beside the larger boat and through Fergus, conferred with the local Picts.

"Is this your village?" asked Bryan.

"Yes," came the translated reply.

"Where is everyone?" questioned Culann looking at the still deserted village.

"They must be hiding. They are afraid of strange craft after the raid by the Dál Riata," translated Fergus.

"What do you call this place?" asked Bryan.

After conferring amongst themselves the Picts replied, _"Home."_ [1]

Trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile Bryan replied, "That's as good a name as any I suppose."

[1] [Now known as Portree. The current name, Port Rìgh translates as 'king's port', possibly from a visit by King James V of Scotland in 1540. However this etymology has been contested, since James did not arrive in peaceful times. The older name appears to have been Port Ruighe(adh), 'slope harbour'. Prior to the sixteenth century, the settlement's name was Kiltaraglen ('the church of St. Talarican') from Gaelic 'Cill Targhlain'.].{Wikipedia}

"What about the large curach?" queried Culann. "We won't have enough people now to row both boats." With twelve men staying here on Skye _,_ that left only eight mainland Picts, four men and four women.

"Well, I think we should give it to the local Picts. We only need one boat now," said Bryan. This message was conveyed to the twelve Picts who were now on shore. They waded waist-deep back out to the leading curach on which Culann and Fergus had now transferred. The local Picts, some with tears streaming down their faces, reached up and clasped hands in gratitude with not only the monks from Iona, but Fergus and the remaining Picts, women and men.

With the large curach beached on shore, and its new owners still in the water waving farewell, Bryan's boat pulled away, out of the bay and headed toward the northern most point of the isle of Raasay. Then onward, past the much smaller isle of Rona.

As they rounded the northernmost point of Rona, they could see on the eastern horizon, the low line of hills that marked the mainland. They made toward the mouth of what they observed as they came closer, a large loch. (In fact, Loch Torridon)

The inhospitable rocks lining the northern mouth of the loch, suddenly glowed a dull red, as the sun momentarily appeared from behind the cloud cover. Two male Picts both shouted as they recognized the landmark. Fergus explained, they stated this was called Red Point. Their village lay just to the north in the next loch. He said they called it _'Loch Gair'_ (now known as Gairloch, unsurprisingly. 'Gair' is a Gaelic word meaning 'short', hence 'short loch'.)

The seamen duly changed course and followed the coastline, until they entered a smaller loch. Again, no people could be seen. There was no sign of life on the meadows between the shore and the tree line.

On direction from the Picts, who were now excitedly shouting and pointing to the far end of the loch, the curach made its way to a deserted sandy beach. The Picts leapt from the boat before it had been beached, and ran yelling and waving their arms toward the nearest buildings. However, on closer inspection they were revealed to be the remains of burnt out wooden structures. By the time the monks and the sailors had secured the boat, the local Picts had spread out scouring the area, looking for their kin. From time to time a great wail went up. The now decomposing body of one of their relatives was discovered, lying crumpled in the long grass, or on one of the many rocky outcrops dotting the small plain.

Fergus came back to the monks standing mute on the beach with the sailors, staring at the result of the savage assault on this small Pictish community,

"The Dál Riata of Dunadd attacked this village early in the morning, just as most of the men were preparing their boats for a day's fishing. Those they didn't kill they carried off as slaves."

Two of the Pictish women came up to Fergus, crying and urgently pointing inland. Fergus translated,

"These women say they come from another village half a day's walk away. They were visiting here when they were captured along with the others. They want to go back to their own village."

Brother Bryan looked at the darkening sky.

"It's too late now to go anywhere. We will make camp here, and tomorrow look to guiding these ladies back to their home. I will ask our sailors to help me bury these poor souls who have been killed."

Looking at Culann he continued, "Perhaps Brother Culann and Fergus can escort these ladies back to their home." Culann nodded in agreement.

After building a warming fire and eating what was left of their provisions, everyone took shelter under the upturned curach after they removed the wooden mast. The good news was it stopped raining. The bad news; it started snowing. Culann sat protected by his cloak, and kept watch.

* * * *

Burying the dead at Gairloch

A **light layer of snow** covered the ground when everyone woke at first light. The wind had dropped, and the snowing had stopped. It was eerily quiet, no birdsong, nothing broke the silence. The embers of the fire were stoked into life, and most stood around warming their hands and rubbing limbs to get warm.

Brother Bryan conferred with Culann,

"Our food has all gone Brother Culann. I fear we shall all go hungry today. If those two women are correct, and their village is only half a day from here, you and Fergus could take them there and return by the latest tomorrow. In the meantime, I will arrange the burial of these poor souls. There should be some food stored somewhere in the village. I will find it, so you shall have something to eat on your return. We then must make plans to return to Iona. Take care my friend, and return soon."

Culann and Fergus were about to move out with the two Pictish girls from the neighbouring village, when the two girls from Gairloch indicated they wanted to join them. Apparently, they were afraid to stay in this place of death. So Culann and Fergus moved inland with now four women.

Bryan and the six sailors, together with the four local Pict males, began the grim task of locating and burying the bodies dotting the surrounding area.

* * * *

The youngest of the Pictish women walked ahead, guiding the group. They moved due west into the trees along a faint path that could be a deer trail. It was early mid-morning when they passed a tree lined loch, the local girls called 'Loch Tollaidh'. Everyone paused to refresh themselves from the clear cold water. Shortly after they mounted a rock-strewn ridge. Before them to the right, stretched a long narrow loch (Loch Maree). To their left lay a larger loch (Lock Ewe). Their guide pointed to the small stream that ran between both lochs. That appeared to be the location of the women's village.

After taking a few minutes to admire the view, Culann indicated they should continue, now downhill, following the deer trail. As the little group brushed past and ducked under low hanging branches, Culann noticed it had not snowed on this side of the ridge, or if it had the snow had melted. The ground was rocky but slick. The women, now nearing their home, happily chattered and occasionally gave a little cry as one accidentally slipped.

It seemed only a short time until they entered a small clearing. As they moved across it, toward the deer trail disappearing into the bushes on the far side, an imposing figure of a man materialized in front of them. He stood silently with his arms crossed over his chest. A huge sword hung from his waist. His long hair and full beard was silver.

Culann and his group abruptly stopped. The dim shadows of armed warriors now emerged into the forest clearing. Culann and Fergus were surrounded and greatly outnumbered.

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* * * * *
Chapter 5 - Two Moons Earlier

Gart – Picti fisherman at Poolewe

S **unrise on Loch Ewe** found thirteen men readying their fishing nets in preparation to launch four small _coracles_.[1]

[1] [ Coracles; light oval boats, wooden framed and covered in animal hide - smaller than a curach ]

The rain and heavy winds of the past two weeks had subsided, and the men were anxious to row out toward the mouth of the Loch, where traditionally, the best catches were to be had. The inclement weather had curtailed their fishing activities, and many of the families that made up their little community, were short of food.

This was caused in no small measure, because earlier that month, they were visited by warriors from Skye _._ The Loch Ewe Clan had to pay their winter tribute, to the men from the _Isle of Mist_. This comprised three containers of milk, three tubs of butter, a slaughtered cow from their diminishing herd, and three large containers of salted fish. The farming and fishing families on the mainland, lived in awe of the fierce fighting warriors from Skye, and were obliged to pay tribute every spring, summer, autumn and winter.

The chieftain of the Clan, was a tall, wiry, silver bearded man called Alpin. He directed the other twelve and waved them off. The boats each with three occupants, paddled north toward the mouth of the loch, barely discernible in the distance. Alpin, although a hard man, was considered too old to endure the rigours of the sometime wild ocean in those small boats. Plus, he had now to supervise the lads herding the cows, back up the valley.

Alpin trudged back over the muddy ground, toward a cluster of small round thatched wooden buildings. A group of women and young girls waved to him as they carried water in cow skin containers from the swiftly flowing stream that linked the long narrow landlocked Loch Maree to the seaward Loch Ewe. Their village was built near a deep pool fed by that stream, running into Loch Ewe. It was no surprise then that they called their hamlet _Poolewe_.

"Is your daughter Sinead and her friends back yet, Nia?" asked Alpin to one of the women.

"No, not yet Alpin," replied the woman.

"It's been what, four days now. Aren't you worried?"

"Oh, Sinead will be all right. She has her brother with her to take care of the girls. They visit their friends from time to time, but I must admit they normally only stay overnight. They probably have more food in Gairloch. If she is not back this evening, I will ask my husband to go and check."

The clan Chieftain nodded and continued up the valley, to where the cattle were grazing under the watchful eyes of some young boys. He gathered them together and advised them to herd the brown shaggy animals early, into the special cow shelters, in case the weather turned bad again that evening.

Suddenly one of the boys called out and pointed to the trail leading over the mountains to the south. "Look there's someone coming. He's running and falling over." Everyone looked up, and Alpin commanded,

"Look lively lads. Whoever it is, he's in trouble. Go quickly and help him."

The boys ran off with Alpin jogging behind.

When the leading boys reached the stranger, he was stumbling and holding his left arm. It was bleeding. Just as Alpin reached him, the wounded man called out,

"Attack, attack!" then collapsed.

He was quickly carried to Alpin's house where his wounded arm was wrapped in cloth to stop the bleeding. After Alpin's wife raised his head slightly and dribbled some water into his mouth. The man's eyes fluttered open and he mumbled,

"They attacked us. They killed everyone."

"Who attacked you?" asked Alpin "The _Eilean a' Cheò_ mob?"

"No, no," now whispered the man. "Big boats, Celts, many warriors. They killed our men and took some women." He lapsed back into unconsciousness.

A crowd had now gathered in the small one room dwelling. "I recognize him," said one of the boys. "He's from Gairloch."

"Oh no," cried Nia, her hand going to her mouth, "they have my Sinead!"

"Don't worry lassie." said Alpin in a comforting tone. "We'll send some people over to check."

"But who?" cried one of the women "The men are all out fishing. If they attacked Gairloch from boats, they may come here next."

"It will be all right," said Alpin, calmly. He was not Chieftain for nothing.

"I'll send a couple of the lads to check. They can run over to the next glen and scout the area from the tree line without being seen. Everyone here will move up yonder hill, and hide until the men return tonight. You'll all be safe."

Two of the eldest boys were sent up over the hill, to check on Gairloch. Alpin arranged for the remaining women and children to gather some belongings and climb up a nearby hill. There they remained hidden from potential predators, but could observe any vessels coming down the loch.

It was late afternoon when the two boys sent to scout returned, and breathlessly told their story.

"Most of the buildings at Gairloch have been burnt. There were many bodies. We could not find anyone alive, even though we call out for a long time. It was terrible."

"Did you see my Sinead?" asked Nia fearfully.

"No, she was not there. Neither was her brother, Sreng. All the dead seemed to be men although there were some older women. Many were all together. It looked like the raiders herded them together and killed them. The wolves had not arrived, so we think it must have happened yesterday, probably early morning because the fishing coracles were still on the beach. They had been slashed and broken."

"Curse them," uttered Alpin "It looks like they only took the young men and girls. They were after slaves. There is nothing of value in our villages." He shook his head in sorrow.

The men returned in their coracles just before sundown. Their elation at obtaining a good catch was instantly tempered by the news of what befell their neighbouring clan.

Alpin began organizing makeshift living quarters for everyone. It was considered too dangerous to return to their houses. Lookouts were also posted high on the hills, to watch for anything coming down Loch Ewe. Canny Alpin had lookouts rotated every day, to watch if anyone returned to neighbouring Gairloch.

In the days that followed only two coracles were sent out at one time for fishing. The rest of the men remained to guard the clan, now located high on the hill. The men also fashioned additional weapons, mainly spears and clubs, as they could not make metal swords.

* * * *

Days went by. One woman gave birth, but the baby died. The wounded man from Gairloch became delirious as his wounded arm festered. He passed away without regaining consciousness. The new living arrangements became routine. Food was desperately scarce. Apart from fishing, some of the men and boys were sent inland, hunting. They caught the occasional squirrel, some small birds and one small red deer. Winter was not a good time for hunting.

On a day blessed with sunshine, one of the Gairloch lookouts raced breathless into the camp.

"A large ship with many people just sailed into where the village used to be."

"Is it an _Eilean a' Cheò_ boat?" asked Alpin.

"No, no, it is different. It has a sail."

"How many warriors?" queried Alpin as the others gathered round.

"I only saw one with a sword. The sailors manning the oars wore leather. The others were all dressed strangely, like _Magas,_ [2] " said the boy.

_[2] [_ _Magas_ _;_ pagan priests ]

"Druids," said a worried Alpin. "Go back lad, and see what they are doing. Let us know if they leave again. They may be planning to sail to our loch next."

The lad nodded and after eating a hurried meal, left. Alpin began organizing the men and the older boys with weapons. They would have to defend the clan.

Early next morning the scout returned even more breathless.

"They are coming," he cried.

"Where?" asked Alpin sharply, "In the loch?"

"No" breathing heavily "they are coming over the hill. Many of them. They wear white – like ghosts."

"Damn," muttered Alpin. "Alright men, follow me. We will move up the trail and ambush them on their way over. They won't be familiar with this territory. You women go hide in the trees until we return. Don't let any babies cry."

Alpin and two other men had swords. All the others were only armed with wooden spears and clubs. The men moved out.

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* * * * *
Chapter 6 - To Poolewe

"Keep still. Don't move," commanded Culann as he held his right hand, as a sign of peace  
to the silver haired warrior ahead of him. Fergus repeated this to the Picts, but drew his sword anyway.

Brother Bryan watched the small group led by Culann, move out and disappear into the tree line. He stood silently watching even after they were no longer in view, thinking hard. Then, as the six sailors and four young Picts from Gairloch waited, he turned and issued his instructions.

"We need food men. You sailors can help me collect these poor souls and we will bury them in a mass grave, just up from the beach." Luckily one of the young Picts called Emcat, understood a smattering of Gaelic, and was able, with the assistance of some sign language, to translate what Bryan said to his companion.

"You Gairloch boys, please check what's left of the buildings in your village, and find any barley that may be hidden under the floor, or in one of the sheds."

"What about any weapons we find? We should bury those with the dead. It is our custom," asked Emcat.

Bryan thought for a moment before replying,

"Yes, I am aware of your custom, but I think it is best if we keep any weapons for the time being. Although none of your comrades are Christians, I will offer special prayers over them and ask your Gods' permission to use the weapons, not just to protect you and any of the women, but we will need to hunt some animals here for food. I can see by the bones, that the wolves have stripped them clean, since they were killed. At least there should be wolves available, somewhere close."

The Picts looked at each other and nodded. They were only too aware that without these men in white with their strange religion, they would be still be slaves back in Dunadd.

"It is agreed," said Emcat.

The sailors were a big help to Bryan, as they set about the grisly task of gathering the remains of the slain Picts, and laying them gently in the shallow grave that Bryan scooped out of the sand above the high-water line. He initially used the only tool they had available, one of the wooden oars. This was supplemented after a short while with a bronze bowl used for cooking, found in one of the burnt-out houses. Bryan then asked the Picts to bring him any other metal objects they found as well.

By day's end they had gathered all the remains and placed them in the makeshift grave. Brother Bryan said a solemn prayer in Gaelic Irish, offering the souls of the departed to the care of God the Father in the Kingdom of Heaven. After he finished his short homily, the Picts were still looking at him expectantly, so he repeated what he had just said in Latin. The Picts, now satisfied, smiled happily.

Bryan then took stock of what they had found; two small bags of oats; an earthenware bowel of what appeared to be vegetables, but had now turned to inedible mush – Bryan kept the bowl; a wooden container with probably twenty dried fish covered in dirt, but they could be washed and eaten; a small torn bag of white substance which turned out to be sea salt; two metal dishes they could use for cooking the oats; three swords, two badly bent and one broken; six spears with metal blades which had been left imbedded in the Picts bodies, and nine small knives, probable used for cutting food.

By nightfall, neither Culann nor Fergus had returned so Bryan arranged for some of the oatmeal to be cooked in one of the metal dishes, using water from a nearby stream. He decreed that they should keep the fish for when Culann and Fergus returned, and then everyone could feast upon them.

Luckily the snow did not recur that night, and they slept again under the upturned curach, close to the dying fire's embers.

* * * *

"Keep still. Don't move." commanded Culann as he held up his right hand as a sign of peace, to the silver haired warrior ahead of him. Fergus repeated this to the Picts, but drew his sword anyway. Everyone was aware of more warriors bearing spears and clubs, emerging from the surrounding forest.

"Papa, Papa!" cried the Pict girl

Suddenly the silence was shattered, as one of the Pict girls ran forward to a Pict warrior holding a spear menacingly in both hands, crying, "Papa, Papa!"

The girl threw herself at the warrior, embracing him. This unexpected event released the tension between the two groups. Many warriors warily lowered their weapons, as two more girls ran to relatives they now recognized.

The silver haired leader of the warriors suddenly smiled, and held his hand out to Fergus, whom he took to be the leader, because he spoke their language. Fergus clasped hands and tried to explain that Culann was in fact their leader. The silver haired man then turned to Culann, and introduced himself as Alpin, chieftain of the clan. The two groups intermingled as they found relatives and friends that none had expected to see ever again.

After a few hectic minutes Alpin clapped his hands for attention, and said everyone should return to their village, Poolewe. The now larger group moved off down the narrow trail, still talking animatedly. The former prisoners related how they had been captured, roughly bound and stowed on large boats by the Scotti, then taken, along with other prisoners to the Scotti stronghold of Dunadd. There, while fearful for their lives, they were miraculously rescued by these marvellous monks, whose God had burnt down the Scotti hill fort, and killed many warriors.

Fergus, listening to this, decided to say nothing to correct the record at this stage. Mainly because it sounded much better than the factual events. By midday they emerged from the undergrowth and looked out onto the peaceful scene that was Loch Maree and Loch Ewe.

"Where is everybody?" asked Culann noting the empty fields and buildings. Alpin explained that the women and children were hiding on the nearby hill. He sent one of the warriors off to tell them to come down to the village. There would be a great feast to-night to celebrate the return of their lost children.

"What will we feast upon?" asked one of the warriors. "We have little or no food."

Alpin said "We will kill one of the cows. This is a special occasion."

Culann requested that one of the Poolewe warriors make haste back over the hill, to advise Brother Bryan and his little band, to sail their curach into the next loch, Loch Ewe, and join them at their new benefactors' village. Alpin readily agreed and sent off one of their fastest runners.

A short time later they reached Poolewe, and were soon joyously joined by the women and children, who ran down from their hiding place.

"Where is my Sinead?" cried a suddenly frantic Nia. "Where is my daughter and son?"

Fergus explained to Alpin, that Sinead had decided to stay at the infirmary on Lios mór, to help care for her brother Sreng, who had been wounded trying to protect his little sister. On hearing this Nia collapsed and burst into tears. As she was being comforted by some of the other women, she suddenly stood and wiping her eyes asked,

"Did someone say there were two girls from Gairloch here, who had lost their parents?"

People nodded and pointed to the two Gairloch girls who were standing by themselves on the edge of the group.

Nia walked over to the girls and holding out her arms embraced them both.

"I may have lost two of my children, but I have gained two more. You girls will be my new daughters, if you care to stay with me." The girls in turn hugged Nia, their new mother.

The rest of the day was taken up preparing for the feast. The clan at Poolewe had no great feasting hall, so they all gathered in the largest dwelling of the village, a house owned by the fisherman, Gart.

Brother Bryan and his band of sailors and Picts, rowed into Loch Ewe late in the afternoon, and were equally warmly greeted by the people of Poolewe.

Culann noticed the clan had very few metal objects, no metal spears, a couple of small axes and only three swords. When he queried Alpin, through Fergus, he discovered the clan had little knowledge of metalworking. They had no access to iron ore and had never seen a _'smithy'._ [1] If any of the few metal objects they did possess broke, they were unable to mend it.

_[1] [_ smithy; a forge, which by use of a bellows. was used to superheat metal ]

As the festivities wore on into the night, Bryan noticed Culann was quiet and withdrawn.

"Brother Culann, you seem sad. Why are you not enjoying the feasting and singing?"

Culann looked up and brushing hair away from his eyes said,

"I have been thinking how these people could improve their lives, if they could have access to metalwork. They could make an iron ploughshare, to till the soil more easily for crops. They could make containers to cook in. Also, they could make better weapons and protect themselves against marauders. Wooden clubs and spears won't stand up to iron swords and spears. I was thinking if those Dunadd raiders had come to Loch Ewe instead of Gairloch, most of these people would not be alive."

"What do you suggest?" asked Bryan.

"I think I can show them how to work with metal. Nothing special, just basic stuff."

"Like what?" queried Bryan.

"Well, I could show them how to make a forge, so they can melt metal. The problem is, they don't have any metal to work with."

"I have metal." said Bryan with a big smile.

"You? Where?" said Culann wide-eyed.

"In our boat. I collected many metal objects while we were burying the dead in Gairloch. You can have them, but where will you get more?" said Bryan.

Culann grabbed Bryan's arm and stood up quickly, a secretive smile spread across his face.

"Show me your metal Brother Bryan. I can use it to show this clan the rudiments of metalworking. I suspect they are smart enough to figure out where to get other metal objects."

"Where?" asked Bryan as he was almost pulled out through the low doorway and into the cold night air. It was snowing slightly.

"Their fellow Picts from Skye," smiled Culann. "I suspect they have lots of metal swords and spears."

"You're not suggesting they go raiding? We are supposed to spread the word of the Lord; peace and harmony and goodwill to all men," cried Bryan as they hurried through the night toward where the curach was moored.

"No, I'm not suggesting they go raiding. Fergus told me the Picts from Skye come here three or four times a year, and take a heavy tribute in foodstuff. Food the clan can ill afford. If they are prepared with better weapons, they could stop losing food, and acquire metal swords and spears at the same time."

"I'm glad Abbot Cumméne cannot hear this conversation. He most certainly would not approve. It is not the way a monk of the Celtic church should think," said a worried Bryan. "But on the other hand, I'm glad you're on our side, Brother Culann."

Culann just smiled as they clambered onto the boat, and Bryan indicated where the metal objects were stored.

* * * *

Back at the dwelling where the celebratory meal was continuing, Alpin came over and sat next to Fergus.

"My young friend," began Alpin, "I have not had a chance to talk to you and thank you properly, for bringing our children back home. I know you are not from Eilean a' Cheò, where does your clan hail from?"

Fergus wiped some of the fat dripping from his mouth with the back of his hand and smilingly answered,

"I am Fergus mac Ciniod of the Fortriu."

"Ah, forgive my ignorance Fergus, but where is Fortriu?"

Fergus thought for a moment and replied,

"It is on the far side of the country sir, by the sea. I left there when I was only twelve summers old. My mother insisted I go to a monastery to learn to read and write, far to the south in Anglo territory. It is called Lindisfarne and run by monks from Iona, the same ones who rescued your kin."

"You have travelled far young Fergus. I am ashamed to say I have only been to a few valleys on either side of our home here. Oh, and I have been to Eilean a' Cheò twice, but that is all."

"I have been fortunate sir," said Fergus modestly _(which was unusual for Fergus)_. I was lucky to sail much further down the coast where the sun rises, to another monastery called Whitby where a great meeting was held between the Church of the Celts and the Church of Rome. I don't know where Rome is, except it is a great distance away from everywhere. It was there I was rescued by Brother Culann. He brought me back to Lindisfarne, and then we went back to the Island of Iona. The Celts regard that island very dearly. They consider it their most holy place."

"Hmmm," mused Alpin, "and Brother Culann, you have much respect for him."

"Oh yes. He is the greatest swordsman I have ever seen."

"But he is a monk, like a Druid, isn't he? I didn't know they carried weapons. I thought they just made magic spells."

"Ah, but Brother Culann was a Fianna warrior in the country they call Eire _(Ireland)_ , before he became a monk. The leaders of the Celtic church think very highly of him, and allow him to carry weapons."

"Well, speak no evil, do you see who just walked through the door." said Alpin pointing at Brothers Bryan and Culann as they stepped into the hut, brushing a layer of light snow from their cloaks.

"Please ask them to join us young Fergus."

Noticing Fergus gesturing across the way, Bryan and Culann made their way through the crowded, smoke-filled cottage. With Fergus translating, Alpin began the conversation, as the still shivering monks resumed their seats on the wooden trestle.

"Brother Culann, I understand from your friend Fergus mac Ciniod, that you are highly skilled with the sword."

Culann looked quickly at Bryan who retained a blank expression and said nothing.

"If is not too much trouble," continued Alpin "would you consider passing on some of your knowledge to our young men."

Culann looked uncomfortable.

"I am honoured good sir that you have that opinion of me. However, as Monk of Iona, it would be considered improper of me to encourage the skills used in warfare and killing."

At this revelation, Bryan's stony face dissolved into a wide smile.

"However," continued Culann more enthusiastically, "I believe a more appropriate way I can help, is not to encourage skills in fighting, but show you how to improve your clan's skill in metalworking."

Alpin frowned.

"The problem I believe," continued Culann, "is not having the skills in fighting, but the skills to work with metal."

Alpin's frown deepened, "How would that help?"

"Well, I notice you only have three swords. Instead of teaching skills to only three men, why not show all your males how to make a 'smithy'. That way you could make ploughs to till the land, pots and pans for cooking, oarlocks for your boats, and, . . . ." a long pause, "spear heads, knives and swords."

Alpin jumped up and bear hugged Culann.

"My man, that makes very good sense. Just what we need, ploughs, pots, oarlocks – and swords. How come you know about these things?"

Embarrassed, Culann disentangled himself from the Pict's embrace,

"My father was a _metalsmith_. Plus, there are some very good smiths on Iona. I only know a little, but it may help."

The rest of the evening was taken up in discussion between Alpin, Fergus, Bryan and Culann, deciding how the new skill of metal working could be implemented. Initially Bryan was concerned that they should return to Iona, now that their original task was accomplished by delivering the Dunadd captives to their homes.

Alpin argued however that the weather had deteriorated, and would only get worse, this being the first month after the _winter solstice_.[2]

[2] [ The time at which the Sun appears at noon at its lowest altitude above the horizon. In the Northern Hemisphere this is the Winter Solstice, the time at which the Sun is at its southernmost point in the sky, which usually occurs between December 21 to 22 each year ]

This brings the worst weather. It is very dangerous to go anywhere by boat. Sudden violent storms would occur, and any boat caught at sea could be swamped, or driven onto a rocky shore. The six Iona sailors sitting nearby endorsed this view. They also wished to return home ,but were fearful of venturing out at this time of year, particularly as they were not familiar with the area so far north.

So, it was decided that the Iona monks, and the sailors, would remain at Poolewe village until the next full moon, before sailing south to Iona.

* * * *

The villagers moved back into their round thatch-roofed houses for the time being, as they considered it to be safe from any raiding party, protected by the beastly weather. Most days it rained. The wind blew in heavy gusts, with occasionally gale force from the south west. Snow and frost only occurred on the higher mountains and in the upper reaches of Loch Maree. The sailors were happy to stay indoors and sleep.

Brother Bryan, never one to remain inactive, organised daily prayer sessions, and began instructing those interested, the basic teachings of the Celtic church. Chieftain Alpin stopped in occasionally along with the odd male, but the audience comprised mainly women and girls.

The weather was considered too severe for the coracles to be launched for fishing.

Culann led a small group of males including Alpin, in learning the basics of metalworking. Initially Culann was puzzled as to how the clan cut the timber for their dwellings and the timber frames of the coracles, as they had so few metal axes. Alpin and Gart explained they used very finely made stone axes to cut and dress timber. Their woodworking skills were quite high.

Culann shows the Poolewe Picts how to make a smith  
The word ' smith' is derived from an old Teutonic word; smeithan, 'to forge'.

That made Culann's task of making a rudimentary smith much easier. First, he showed how to construct a bellows to superheat the metal. He drew the outline of the three pieces of flat wood shaped like a raindrop, needed to construct the bellows, using a piece of charcoal. The clan quickly produced the slats together with the wooden frame. Next, he indicated how to attach dried cows hide to the slats, so air may be trapped then expelled. The Picts had no metal nails, so used the same method of attaching the skins to the wooden frames of their curachs, sewing using flax thread.

Then they gathered and shaped stones, to make the hearth in which the fire would be made. Ideally, they also needed a metal container to hold the molten metal. But that would have to wait.

The hearth was originally sat on a low wooden frame. Then all was needed was a fire. Fuel for the fire was _charcoal_.

The traditional method for making charcoal in Britain, used a 'clamp'. This is essentially a pile of wooden logs (e.g. seasoned oak) leaning against a chimney (logs are placed in a circle). The chimney consists of four wooden stakes held up by some rope. The logs are completely covered with soil and straw allowing no air to enter. It must be lit by introducing some burning fuel into the chimney; the logs burn very slowly (cold fire) and transform into charcoal over a period of five days' burning. If the soil covering gets torn (cracked) by the fire, additional soil is placed on the cracks. Once the burn is complete, the chimney is plugged to prevent air from entering.

The fire was started and air from the bellows was forced into the burning charcoal, increasing the temperature. The piece of metal needing heating (or melting) was placed in the charcoal. When the required degree of heat was applied, so that the metal object softened or liquefied, it was taken out, placed on a large stone anvil, and hit repeatedly with a shaped stone hammer. When the desired shape was achieved, it was then quickly immersed in a bucket of water.

Before any spear heads or swords could be made, proper tools had to be formed such as hammer heads, tongs, and _swages_.[3]

_[3] [_ swage; (a) a tool used in bending or shaping cold metal; (b) a stamp or die for marking or shaping metal with a hammer ] _._

First, however, they had to build the hearth, the bellows and the wooden frame.

Back to top

* * * * *
6.1 \- The Poolewe Hunting Party

The burning image Fergus had of this sudden apparition, was its massive antlers,  
reaching almost the width of the trail, and its hot black eyes

The day after the celebratory dinner, Gart asked Fergus if he would like to join a small group of men who were going hunting.

"Of course." replied Fergus "What are we hunting?"

Gart smiled and responded

"Whatever we see, young Fergus. There are wolves, wildcats and mountain hares on the hillsides. We have otters by the loch's shoreline, pine martins are available, however we won't see any of them, as they only come out at night. If we get really lucky we might catch a red deer."

"Where will you go?" queried Fergus, excited now.

"Today, we go inland, down Loch Maree on the north side. There are high hills near the far end of the Loch. It has many red deer."

"But it's raining." said Fergus looking out from the lean-to, the hunters were sheltering under.

"All the better," said Gart. "That means we are unlikely to meet the tribe at the far end of the Loch. They are trouble makers."

"Oh," said Fergus, "what do you call them?"

"Troublemakers," repeated Gart sternly. "They think they own the mountain, and much of the Loch."

"Well don't they, I mean if their village is down there?" asked Fergus.

"No one _owns_ the land, or the lochs. They are held in safekeeping by the Gods," said Gart seriously. "By the way, are you handy with a spear?"

"Well, let's say I'm better with a sword."

"Hmmm," mused Gart "that's a shame. To be honest, we are better fishermen than hunters. It would have been helpful if you could throw spears."

"I am happy to learn," suggested Fergus. "I have been told by some of the clan where I grew up, the Alba, that I am a faster runner than most. I am quite fast running hills."

"Well that's interesting," said Gart pausing to rub his beard thoughtfully. "If we find deer you may be able to circle around and herd them toward us. Yes," suddenly enthusiastic, "we sit in boats most days, so we are not very fast at running. This could be a good sign."

After further discussion on whether the rain was likely to increase or decrease, the majority decided they would head off along Loch Maree anyway. And so that was how Fergus became a member of the Poolewe hunting party.

* * * *

Evening found Brother Bryan and Culann looking for Fergus at mealtime. It was well after dark and most people had eaten, when the hunting group returned, tired, wet and bedraggled. They had seen some deer in the distance, but as soon as they stepped out of the tree line, the deer turned tail and easily escaped. They did catch two small birds and an otter.

However, they were laughed at by the fishermen who ventured down Loch Ewe. It was too windy to launch any boats, but during one of the few bright spells between rain showers, they came across a seal sunning itself on the lea side of some rocks. They killed it, and the women were busy with the butchering. It was a special treat. The meat and oil would last for at least the next ten days. Except of course for the feast the previous night, the Clan had been eating mainly oat porridge and bread. The salted fish had all gone.

Brother Bryan advised his scripture meetings had been well attended, particularly by women and young girls. It would take quite a long time however, to impart sufficient knowledge of the Christian religion, to enable the local people to become true Christians.

Brother Culann was happy with the progress he had made building the _'smith'_. He thought another couple of days and it would be ready for trial.

Fergus, when he did arrive, mentioned briefly he was not impressed with the hunting skills of the locals. "They walk upwind of their prey, and of course are smelled well before they are seen by any animals nearby. I think it just as well they are good fishermen."

The next two days passed in a similar fashion; Bryan preaching, but to a smaller audience; Culann excited with the progress of his 'smith'; Fergus complaining he had seen at least two red deer in the distance on the hill sides, but they disappeared well before anyone was in range.

Brother Bryan was concerned because their presence was putting a strain on the dwindling food supply of the local people. Despite the fact that highlanders were known for their hospitality, two monks, Fergus, and six sailors, were many extra mouths to feed.

Day four found Fergus with six hunting companions, once again paddling two coracles down the north side of Loch Maree. The prevailing winds were predominately from the south-west.

Fergus and the leader of the Pict hunting party, Gart, decided that they would split into two groups. Uen and three colleagues would be dropped off first. They would make their way to a large upland meadow where deer frequently grazed and wait in ambush. Fergus would be dropped off a little way down the loch. He, with the wind behind him would run to the top of the hill. Any animals on the hill would smell and hear him and hopefully flee down toward the waiting hunters. Gart's group had two metal tipped spears which had been salvaged from the ruins of Gair Loch. Fergus had his sword and a borrowed wooden spear.

After dropping Fergus off, the sole member in the coracle waived good luck, and paddled back to where the original group's boat was moored, far in the distance. Fergus quickly made his way through the scrub on the edge of the loch, heading toward the nearby hills. As the ground started rising he broke into a run, and threaded his way through the thick timber. He was looking for a deer trail that would make his passage easier. After running for only a little while, he came upon a clearing that hadn't been visible from the loch. It was surrounded by thick forest. Fergus paused on the edge and quietly surveyed the scene. It was quite still. He was suddenly aware none of the leaves were moving. The wind had dropped.

Fergus stood still for some time, waiting to see what would happen next with the wind. It began with a quiet zephyr of a breeze slowly gathering strength. It was coming from the north. Bad news. This meant any animals ahead of him would smell the scent of the other hunters. Their surprise factor would be lost.

Fergus decided to head off for the top of the high hill ahead, _(it could hardly be called a mountain, although it was very steep in places)_. He cut directly across the clearing, instead of following the edges, as was his normal practice, to try and find a deer trail on the other higher side. That would save time as he might still be of benefit to the hunters.

He was only half way across when six red _doe_ [female deer is a 'doe'] with four small _fawns_ [baby deer], suddenly spilled from the tree line on the far side. The small herd of deer and Fergus saw each other at the same time. Both stopped suddenly and stood absolutely still. Then the deer turned slightly, and raced away downhill, into the forest on the far side.

_Damn!_ thought Fergus. _I'll never outrun a deer. Best to head on up the hill and meet my colleagues_. At least now, he knew where a deer trail was. He ran to the opening where the deer had emerged and started up the steep trail. As he navigated the narrow winding path, he could feel the wind growing in strength, even through the canopy of pine leaves and branches above. In typical Fergus fashion, the lithe young Pict from the east coast, increased his tempo as he ran ever upwards. Holding his sword scabbard in one hand and his wooden spear in the other, he turned a corner in the trail and directly in front, not ten paces away, was a large red stag deer trotting toward him.

* * * *

The burning image Fergus had of this sudden apparition, was its massive antlers, reaching almost the width of the trail, and its hot black eyes. Survival instinct for stag and youth took over. Without missing a beat, the stag lowered those terrible antlers and charged straight at the puny youth blocking his passage to the rest of his herd.

Fergus had no time to draw his sword, but jammed the base of his wooden spear into the ground at an angle toward the approaching red blur and crouched down. In a flash the stag thundered past Fergus, the sound of its pounding hooves intersected by a loud _crack_ , as the wooden spear splintered. One hoof struck Fergus on the shoulder, sending him sprawling. The stag staggered momentarily, then disappeared down around the next bend.

Fergus stood up slowly, with one hand holding his injured shoulder. It was painful, but it could have been much worse. He surveyed the scene. The back half of the broken spear lay no more than a body length behind him. Where was the top half? He quickly searched the downhill passage and undergrowth nearby. Nothing. A few paces further on he noticed some strange bright markings on the trail. As he knelt down to examine them, he felt a sudden surge of excitement. _Bloodstains_ ; the front half of the spear must be in the stag.

He started running back downhill, following the blood splatters. His shoulder began throbbing, but he ignored the pain, and quickened his pace. As he burst out into the clearing he had recently crossed, he saw the large red stag tottering near the far side. Its rear legs collapsed. It sat on its haunches and turned its head to watch Fergus walk slowly closer. Its big black eyes watched him approach, without showing any fear. The jagged end of the spear protruded from its chest. It did not cry out. The only sound came from blood bubbling from the chest wound as it breathed. Fergus could see it was dying. A sudden feeling of pity swept over him. He drew his sword, with the thought of putting the poor animal out of its misery. Despite his custom of beheading enemies, he could not do it. He re-sheathed his sword. This magnificent deer was not his enemy.

The stag still watched him, eyes following the hunter even as its front legs buckled, and it sagged to the ground. Fergus wiped tears from his cheeks. Its eyes were still bright and followed his movements as he squatted in front of the magnificent animal. The eyes now seemed sad. They stopped following his movements. After a short time, they still remained open, but the spark of life left them, and they filmed over. This monarch of the mountain had gone.

Fergus sat down exhausted, next to the dead animal. It was too heavy for him to move. The other hunters were expecting him to join them on the other side of the hill. His shoulder began throbbing again. He put his head in his hands and wept.

* * * *

Gart's group patiently concealed themselves at the edge of the large meadow. They waited for any animals that might be flushed out of the farther tree line, by Fergus. Nothing happened. The wind died.

"Where is Fergus?" whispered one of the hunters.

"Quiet," said Gart. "He has to come a long way over the top of the hill. Give him time."

Then the wind sprang up again; from the north.

"That's not a good sign," sighed Uen. "Now our scent will be carried to our prey."

"What will we do?" asked another hunter.

"We wait here for Fergus," stated Gart. It proved to be a long wait. The sun was approaching midday and still no prey, and no Fergus. The men were getting fidgety.

"Shouldn't we go and look for him?" asked one.

"How would we find him?" said Gart. The forest is very thick. We could pass each other within a couple of spear lengths and never know." They continued waiting.

The cold north wind, now growing in strength, forced them to find shelter behind a couple of the larger trees. One of the two sailors guarding the coracles climbed up to ask if there was any trouble.

"The only trouble is we have seen no prey and we don't know where Fergus is," said Gart despondently.

"Well what about that column of smoke I saw over the other side of the hill?" asked the sailor.

"What smoke?" asked Uen. "I don't see anything."

"You can't see it from here because the wind is blowing it out across the loch. It seems to be coming from the general area we left Fergus" said the sailor.

"Damn it man," exploded Gart. "It must be Fergus. Maybe he has caught something and is cooking it."

"Or maybe he's in trouble and it's a signal," said the sailor.

"By the Gods! You may be right. Quickly back to the boats. We have to investigate."

Gathering their weapons, the small group headed downhill through the trees to the shoreline.

They relaunched the two coracles and paddling furiously, headed back down the loch to where they had left Fergus. It took less time than before as the light skin covered craft were assisted by the wind, although it tended to push them into the middle of the loch as it drove them south. The sailors redoubled their efforts to bring the craft close into land. Eventually they beached the coracles, and leaving one man as usual to guard the boats, headed inland and uphill. The sailor who had deposited Fergus earlier that day, pointed in the direction he had seen the young Pict take. It indeed seemed to lead directly toward the smoke they could now clearly see, coming from less than half way up the hill.

It was only a short time later when they came to a small grass covered clearing. In the middle was a small fire with smouldering embers still producing a thin line of smoke. Near the fire was a large red stag lying on its side. A red headed form lay curled next to the stag, its head on the dead deer's neck. As they approached the form suddenly sat up.

"What took you so long?" said Fergus smiling.

* * * *

Fergus related how he came upon the stag, and how it died. The hunters stared in awe. They had never heard of one man killing a stag before.

"Well, that's fantastic," said Uen "but how are we going to get this beast home? It will take the best part of a day to cut it into manageable pieces, and then we wouldn't be able to fit it into the two boats."

"Cut a few branches and make a sled." suggested one of the warriors. We should be able to slide it downhill to the boats."

They quickly cut four long branches, stripped the leaves and constructed a two-rail wooden sled with smaller wooden cross-beams. They tied the entire unit together using some of their leather belts. The stag was then loaded onto the sled and with men at the front pulling and some at the back pushing, made their way back down to the boats.

Another dilemma faced them on the shoreline. The carcase was too big to be carried by any one of their small boats.

"Why don't we add some more wooden rails to the sled and float it behind the boats," suggested Gart. This was quickly done, and when the enlarged sled, now a raft, carrying the stag, was launched into the water, the stag floated, albeit with the sled/raft slightly underwater.

Not glamorous but it worked.

Finally, using more leather belts and straps, the raft was lashed between the two coracles. The sun, glimpsed through the low scudding clouds showed it was mid-afternoon. This time of year, produced shorter days, and longer nights. It was not the time anyone would want to spend the night out of doors.

The little flotilla moved out, back toward Poolewe.

* * * *

Fergus was greeted by Bryan and Culann, together with the Poolewe Clan,  
who celebrated with food and drink well into the night

T **here was great rejoicing** when the hunters returned home, just after sundown with their large red deer. Venison was a highly prized food, even more so than beef. Many people wanted to congratulate Fergus, but he winced every time someone slapped him on the back. His shoulder still hurt.

Bryan gathered Culann and Fergus together, after their evening feast. He was concerned that their continued stay at the village would bring more hardship to the people, particularly in the harsh winter. He wanted to return to Iona as soon as possible.

Culann advised they now had a rudimentary 'smith' working, but needed much more time to train the locals in metalworking. Bryan thought on that for a moment, and waved them over to Alpin sitting among the fishermen. Explaining his concerns, Bryan suggested to the Chieftain it would be better and easier if he would allow two of Culann's trainee metalworkers to accompany them back to Iona. There they could receive even better training, and return with a full set of metal tools in the summer.

Alpin, after conferring with some of the other elders, agreed.

"But how will my men get back from your Iona?" he asked.

Culann advised that has already been discussed. The men would bring one of their small coracles. It could be towed behind the larger curach. The trainees could return in easy stages when the more favourable summer weather prevailed.

It was then agreed by all, that the Iona group, plus the two Poolewe trainees, would leave the following day. Although the winter weather was not recommended for sailing, the winds were now coming mainly from the north. That would assist them sailing south to Iona.

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* * * * *
Chapter 7 - The Long Way Home

The Picts from the Isle of Skye demanding the deer hindquarter, as toll from the Iona curach.  
Meanwhile Fergus deftly destroys their boat.

The women of Poolewe worked through the night, to prepare and cook one of the deer's hindquarters, as a farewell gift to the Iona travellers. That should sustain them for four or five days. Although the team planned to leave at daybreak, it was around _Terce (mid-morning prayers, around 9 am)_ before they launched their curach. Tearful farewells and 'safe-trips' were given by all the Poolewe inhabitants.

It was raining, but only lightly, with the wind from the north as the curach made way, using oars up Loch Ewe, their little coracle merrily bobbing behind. The Poolewe fishermen accompanied them in their boats to the mouth of the loch.

There, the larger curach turned west, then south, and with the wind favouring them, hoisted sail and began the journey home.

The mountains of Skye on their right were hidden from view by the frequent rain squalls. Spray would occasionally sweep right over the gunwales as the wind strength increased from the north. The water in the bottom of the curach would also be added to, by the frequent rain storms that soaked boat and crew. Fergus volunteered to bail water from the boat. His left shoulder was now purple with severe bruising, following his encounter with the stag and was unable to help with the rowing.

The wind decreased in strength toward midday, and visibility improved. As the curach continued south they passed Gair Loch on their left, then the islands of Rona and Raasay on their right. On the mainland, half-way between Loch Torridon and the beginning of the narrow passage of water separating Skye from the mainland, (now called Kyle of Lochalsh) the sun suddenly burst between the cloud cover, and a wonderful beam of sunlight, bathed the very picturesque bay on their left. The summer trees had all lost their leaves, and the upland meadows were visible stretching to the fir tree line in the distance, and the hills beyond. All occupants of the curach stopped to watch the golden glow.

"Lovely country," murmured Brother Bryan.

"We call it _Aporcrosan_ ,"[1] said one of the Poolewe men softly.

[1] _[ The bay or sound is known today as_ _Applecross_ _. Its name is an Anglicization of the Pictish name_ _Aporcrosan,_ _'confluence of the [river] Crossan' (Obar Crosain in modern Gaelic). In 672 a monastery was founded here by the Irish monk_ _St. Máelrubai_ _(Old Irish form) or_ _Maelrubha_ _, who came from the monastery of Bangor, County Down. He was the monastery's first abbot, dying on 21 April 722 in his eightieth year.  
There are many churches dedicated to_ _Maelrubha_ _on Skye and throughout northern Scotland, the saint's name sometimes taking distorted forms (e.g._ _Loch Maree_ _and its holy island of_ _Eilean Ma-Ruibhe_ _(site of an early church and holy well) are both named after the saint._

As they passed the site the cloud cover came over again, and everyone turned their attention south. By early mid-afternoon they approached the passage separating Raasay Island and its smaller neighbour, Scalpay. Then, as they watched, two boats emerged from that passage ahead, but bearing toward them. The two boats had no sails but as they came closer, it was apparent they had at least ten oarsmen, plus at least ten warriors with spears in each vessel.

"Do you think they are friendly?" asked Bryan.

"If they were friendly they would wave," said Culann sagely.

"Well it's lucky we have our sail. We should be able to outrun them if necessary."

Everyone continued watching the two boats on their starboard closing the distance between them. All boats seemed to be heading to that narrow passage between Skye and the mainland. The sailor in charge of the Iona curach altered course from south, to south by east. The north wind faded in strength. The sailors adjusted the sail to catch the now fluky wind. The sail began flapping.

The wind died.

"Quickly," yelled the head sailor "man the oars."

The six sailors unshipped their oars and quickly gained a rhythm, oars biting into the grey-green swell. The curach leapt forward again. The two foreign boats were ahead of them, seemly trying to crowd them onto the mainland shore.

"Would it be better to ship the sail?" asked Bryan.

"No sir," replied the head sailor, "the wind may pick up at any time. Best leave it up for now."

The two boats were coming closer. A warrior standing in the bow of the leading craft cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled something.

"What is he saying?" asked Bryan.

"Beg pardon your worship," said one of the Poolewe men "he's saying we are in his territory and we should pull into yonder bay."

"And why should we do that," responded Bryan.

"Well, your worship, they are from Skye. They are hard men, not very nice people. They probably want you to pay some sort of toll."

The two foreign boats were now slightly ahead of the Iona curach, and closing.

"We don't have anything of value," said Bryan, "what could we possibly give them."

"We could give them the hindquarter of deer," suggested Fergus.

"What? Give them that magnificent piece of venison that you caught with your bare hands," asked Bryan. "We won't have anything to eat if we do that."

"Frankly, Brother Bryan I couldn't eat it anyway. But perhaps Brother Culann could lend me his Gladius," said Fergus.

"Really? What do you think Brother Culann?" asked Bryan.

"I think it is the only option we have. And I think Fergus has another mad plan in his head. Am I right Fergus?" asked Culann.

Fergus smiled slightly and said nothing, as Culann swapped him his Roman Gladius for Fergus's sword. The young Pict strapped the short sword in its scabbard to his waist. The nearest _Eilean_ _a'_ _Cheò_ curach was now only a little further than two boat lengths away. Its partner moved up alongside it.

"Ok then," said Bryan to the Poolewe men, "show them the venison hindquarter and tell them they can have that in exchange of our safe passage."

The Poolewe men held up the large hindquarter of venison and shouted the offer. The warriors on board the other boats conferred and then yelled their agreement.

"Put the deer onto the small coracle behind. I will swim it over to them," said Fergus.

"That's too dangerous lad. Maybe we should land on yonder shore to transfer the hindquarter," said Bryan.

"No, the lad knows what he is doing," said Culann. "We are more at risk, and greatly outnumbered on land."

The sailors by this time had ceased rowing. The three boats drifted closer together. Men on the Skye boats had dropped their spears, and crowded closer to the sides of their respective boats to view their prize. The Iona sailors pulled the small coracle by its tethering leather strap, close in behind their curach. They carefully lowered the large venison hindquarter into the smaller vessel, with the larger end in the bottom of the craft and the thinner leg overlapping the side.

Fergus had removed his cloak and stood for a moment dressed only in his loose shirt top and trousers. Then he jumped feet first into the sea next to the coracle. Everyone watched fascinated as his red head disappeared under the waves, only to reappear a few heartbeats later. He raised his left hand and the sailors threw him the coracle's long leather rope. Fergus turned toward the nearest Skye hide covered curach, and paddling using one hand and both feet toward it. Eager hands reached down and grabbed the offered rope when he reached the bow. Two Skye warriors clambered down the side of their boat and attempted to attach the carcass to ropes held by their colleagues above. The small coracle rocked alarmingly and amid cries from their colleagues to be careful lest their precious cargo slip away into the sea. More ropes and hooks were handed down, and the warriors tried again.

While the occupants of all three boats were watching this drama play out, Culann was anxiously observing Fergus, as unnoticed, he had quietly drifted down one side of the Skye curach. His left hand held onto the straps that were lashed down each side, to help attach the cowhide covering the wooden frame of the boat. Only his head and neck and left arm appeared above waves. His right shoulder was hidden, but from time to time seemed to move vigorously for a few heartbeats, then stop as he floated once move toward the stern of the boat.

Suddenly a great cheer went up from the Skye boats; the stag hindquarters had finally been hoisted aboard. The now empty coracle was still attached by rope and bounced high out of the water. Fergus had disappeared.

"Do we get our coracle back?" asked one of the Poolewe men, albeit a little forlornly.

"Don't worry about it lad," said Culann moving up next to Bryan. "I've lost Fergus. Can we move our curach away to the left a little? He might be behind the _Eilean a' Cheò_ boat."

"What is he doing there?" asked Bryan mystified, but instructing the sailors to do so.

"I think he's cutting holes in those curachs."

"My God!" exclaimed Bryan, then making the sign of the cross, "I mean goodness gracious me." Just then Fergus came into view, now heading to the rear of the second curach.

At the same moment a commotion erupted on the first Skye curach. Men were yelling and scrambling for utensils to bail out their craft, which was rapidly filling with sea water.

As if on cue, taking a leaf out of Coleman's book, Brother Bryan stood on one of the rowing benches, and facing the Skye boats, holding a small crucifix high in one hand, bellowed,

"Hear ye, hear ye, thou men of criminal intent. Thou hast angered the Lord our God! Our Great Father in Heaven has seen fit to punish you. Repent now or you will be caste into a watery grave!"

The occupants of the second Iona boat stood in shocked silence at this outburst, then eyes widening, watched as the closest Skye craft seemed to be rapidly settling lower in the water.

Pandemonium broke out on both pirate boats. Warriors on the first boat, now up to their knees in water, determined their craft was beyond saving. The stronger ones drew swords and knives, and proceeded to slash their way forward through their comrades, to where the little coracle was still tethered. Three large men jumped into the little craft. Another five followed. The coracle promptly capsized throwing everyone into the water. The first curach was now settling down with water overlapping its gunwales. Then it suddenly disappeared, leaving many men thrashing madly in the water.

The occupants of the second boat watching this, suddenly seized their oars and began rowing frantically toward their struggling comrades. All boats by this time were moving faster, drawn by the increasing tidal race that had developed, as the land narrowed between Skye and the mainland. The second boat was now much more sluggish in the water as the crew tried to drag their drowning companions from the water.

"Do we help them Brother Culann?" asked Bryan.

"We pick up Fergus first," yelled Culann pointing to the small red head, now drifting toward the second Skye boat. Everyone was being swept along toward the narrows.

"Row lads, put your backs into it. We have to save young Fergus, for it was he who saved us."

The lighter Iona curach was swept past the surviving Skye craft by the strengthening current. They lost sight of Fergus behind the Pict boat.

Under the frantic urging of Culann, the sailors redoubled their efforts and rowed back around the second Skye craft. They were greeted by the sight of six or so sailors thrashing wildly in the raging water. A few more were clinging desperately to the side of the surviving Skye craft, but there was no sign of the young red headed Pict.

"Fergus is gone." cried Brother Bryan in despair.

Culann's shoulders sagged, and he let out a low moan.

One of the Iona sailors grabbed a floundering Skye warrior, and dragged him into their curach. Both craft were now being buffeted by increasing waves as they neared the narrowest point of the passage.

The prow of the Iona boat swept past a dark-haired Pict, who was clinging doggedly to a wooden oar with one arm, and waving wildly with the other. Culann made a desperate grab for his shirt as they swept past, and yelled triumphantly as he dragged the waterlogged warrior aboard.

The Skye curach headed toward a rock-strewn beach on the mainland. It grounded roughly on a hidden sand bank throwing most of the occupants off their feet, then shuddered free and buried its bow in the beach.

The Iona boat swept past. "Do we keep going Culann?" yelled Brother Bryan, pointing at the beached boat.

"No, pull in to the beach. We'll give them back their men," replied the warrior monk. Culann strode to the stern of their boat and looked back from where they had come. He didn't want anyone to see the tears that had suddenly formed in his eyes. Blinking furiously, he tried to see any sign of life in the choppy waters. The sea was empty save for a group of seagulls circling over some wooden debris. _So be it. I've lost a great friend._

* * * *

The Iona curach pulled into the beach, about ten boat-lengths further down from the Skye craft. The sailors and Poolewe Picts stayed with the boat, while Culann and Brother Bryan assisted the two shivering Skye warriors back up the beach to their comrades. As they got closer they noticed the Skye crew had already started a fire on the beach to warm their drenched companions. Seeing the small Iona group come into view with their two survivors, the Skye crew let out a load cheer and some raced up the beach to greet them. Culann found it strange that these men now busily slapping them on the back in congratulations, were just a short time ago, threatening them with death.

Culann and Bryan came to the now large fire and held out their arms to greet the warmth, like the others. Culann looked back to the beached Skye boat and noticed three inert forms lying face down just above the water line. No doubt unlucky men who were already drowned when they were pulled out of the water. He peered at the figure in the middle. He had red hair, and a short gold coloured sword hung from his waist.

Culann dashed over to the three bodies, stood for a moment then cried out in a voice filled with pain "Fergus." He squatted and gently took the red headed form in his arms. Fergus eyes were closed, his face was deathly white, and his lips were blue. Culann wrapped his arms round the body of his young friend, and rocked back and forth, crying.

The others, noticing this act of grief walked over slowly. Brother Bryan knelt down next to Culann and said,

"There, there, Brother Culann. At least we have the poor boy's body. We will take it back to Iona and bury it there. He will lie next to saints and kings."

Culann was inconsolable.

"Why Fergus? Why him? Why not me?" He held his friend's body tighter and rocked even harder in his grief. Brother Bryan wiped the lank wet hair from Fergus face. The Skye warriors milled around, murmuring among themselves at this outpouring of grief.

Then something extremely extraordinary happened. ~

Fergus coughed.

* * * *

Pandemonium broke out.

"Quickly get his wet clothes off. He's alive," shouted Bryan. Culann ran, carrying his limp burden to the fire. There, Fergus was stripped of his soaked garments, and clothed in dry kit from the Skye curach.

After continual massaging of his arms and legs Fergus feeble breathing became noticeable, but his eyes remained closed. He was still unconscious.

"We need to get the boy back to the infirmary on Lios mór," said Culann quietly to Brother Bryan who was still massaging Fergus feet.

Bryan nodded and added,

"I'll go down to our curach and get the lads to bring it back up here. Best we head off this evening."

Culann nodded assent and Brother Bryan rose and walked quickly down the beach to their curach.

The Skye leader, the same tall blonde bearded warrior who had demanded toll, came, stood next to Culann and looked at the inert Fergus. The leader, still shivering because he had ended up in the water, said to Culann,

"Your friend is lucky. I thought he was dead like the others," pointing at the now two bodies lying near the high waterline.

Culann said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Iona curach being dragged up along the water's edge toward them.

"Well I would have preferred the deer carcase, but he's better than nothing," continued the leader. A couple of the warriors standing next to them grinned. Culann slowly stood up, still holding Fergus still form.

The Iona boat drew up next to them. Brother Bryan and the two Poolewe Picts hurried over to the fireside. Bryan could see Culann and Fergus were surrounded by the Skye warriors, which now only numbered fifteen.

"What's happening?" asked Bryan as he pushed through the group until he stood next to Culann.

"I don't understand it all," replied Culann still staring directly at the Skye leader, "but I think because they lost the deer, they want Fergus."

"But that's preposterous," spluttered Bryan. Then turning to the nearest Poolewe Pict asked,

"Can they do that? Do your people take slaves – just like the Dál Riata Scotti?"

The Poolewe man looked down at his feet,

"We don't, but the Skye people do. They are hard people."

"But we risked everything to bring back twelve of their men from Dunadd," cried Bryan.

The Poolewe Pict translated this to the leader, who merely shrugged.

"I think they are from a different clan group. They say they know nothing about men coming back from Dunadd," revealed the Poolewe Pict.

Culann handed the unconscious Fergus to Bryan; then turned to confront the Skye leader.

"Get the Poolewe lad to translate this, . . . I don't want any misunderstanding."

Bryan glanced at the Poolewe Pict who nodded he understood.

"Tell him," said Culann quietly, nodding at the blonde leader, "tell him Fergus belongs to us. He is coming with us, _now_."

As soon as the Poolewe Pict finished translating, the Skye leader threw back his head and laughed. The Poolewe lad then hurriedly translated the response.

"What? Who are you to tell me what to do? We are . . ." he paused and counted his comrades, "fifteen warriors. You are only two monks, two boys from Poolewe and six sailors. You can't tell me what to do." At that, he put his hands on his hips and looked around at his grinning fellow warriors.

Brother Bryan's face hardened

"We rescued two of your comrades my good friend. Is that how your treat someone who has done you a great favour?"

"That's true," replied the leader rubbing his beard. "However, I'm not sure you didn't use some special magic from your _'so called God'_ , to sink our ship. If you want your red headed friend, you will have to give me something in return."

"What do you want?" asked Culann quietly.

"Ah, this monk has a tongue after all," grinned the leader. "Well, tell me my friend, what can you give me?"

Everyone looked at Culann, who dropped his cloak, reached over his shoulder and unsheathed Fergus's long sword, "I'll give you your life," voice ice cold.

"You dare challenge me!" yelled the leader stepping back and drawing his own sword. The crowd murmured approvingly, and formed a large circle around the two combatants. This was entertainment. But it would be a bit one-sided. Their leader was chosen because of his fighting skills. He was the best among them. _but who was he fighting – a monk? It was not really a fair fight._ This was murmured by some of the Skye warriors.

"I don't care" roared the leader waving his sword menacingly at Culann. "He challenged me. He will die!" The leader raised his sword above his shoulder and sliced viciously down at where Culann was standing.

The Skye leader sliced viciously down with his sword where Culann was standing

But Culann holding his sword defensively in front of himself, slid easily to one side as the leader's sword blade arced overhead. The leader swore and swung again - and missed again. The murmuring began again among the Skye warriors. _This was no ordinary monk_. He has excellent fighting skills.

The leader changed tactics and lunged forward with the point of his sword. Culann easily deflected the thrust and stepped behind his opponent, sword at the ready. The Leader, now wild eyed, swung around to face his adversary. He was breathing heavily.

Culann held up his left hand. "Your last chance. Will you give Fergus to us now?"

The leader, red faced with anger, snarled, "I'll give you his head on a shield," and swung viscously at Culann. The tip of the blade sliced through Culann's woollen sleeve as he stepped aside, knocking both men slightly off-balance.

Culann recovered quickest, and with his arm movement too fast for the eye to follow, drove his sword in and up under the leader's rib cage. The Skye leader shuddered, his mouth gaped open, but no sound came. Culann, one hand still on the hilt of his sword plunged deep into the leaders side, grabbed his opponent's back, and gently lowered him to the ground. Then placing one foot on the still quivering warrior, pulled out his sword. The leader's body lay sprawled on the beach, twitching spasmodically. Blood pumped into the sand. No one said a word. The leader, mouth frozen wide and sightless eyes gazing to the heavens, stopped twitching.

Culann turned, and the Skye warriors moved out of his way. Bloody sword still in hand, he strode toward Bryan who was cradling the unconscious Fergus.

"We go home" said Culann as he put his left arm around the shoulders of Bryan and marched them toward their curach.

No one attempted to stop them. According to their code of honour, the leader of the Skye warriors had challenged the tall monk, and had been killed in a fair fight. They would not help their adversaries; but neither would they hinder them.

The Iona sailors pushed their curach through the small surf and out, into deeper water. With the water up to their waist, they clambered on board, joining Culann, Bryan, Fergus and the two Poolewe Picts. Then manning the oars, the sailors turned their craft south. As if in compensation for their tribulations, the wind picked up from the north. They raised their sail and headed home.

For years to come, the warriors of Skye did not dare attack any Columbian Monk, who continued to establish small monasteries on the Isle of Skye, and on the mainland at Applecross. These strange fearless men, in long, off-white robes had shown they fight like demons, and if in trouble, could call on their all-powerful God.

* * * *

Fergus regained consciousness just before sundown. Actually, his eyes fluttered open and he mumbled,

"Where are the milk bags? Who has taken my milk?" He didn't seem to recognise anyone.

Bryan and Culann knelt down close to the lad's mouth, straining to catch his words. Bryan looked perplexed.

"What is he talking about? _'Milk'_ what does he mean, _milk?_ "

Culann smiled slightly before answering.

"I think he is dreaming about Lindisfarne. Every morning Fergus would swim to the mainland, collect two large leather bags of milk and swim back to the island. He is used to being immersed in cold winter water."

"Well, it's a good sign his eyes are open, and he is talking – even if he is not making sense. I feel we should get him back to Iona as soon as possible. He needs good care urgently."

"If that's the case shouldn't we take him to the Infirmary at Lios mór?" suggested Culann

Bryan turned away from the others and whispered to Culann

"I understand our sailor friends feel we have been away from their home on Iona for too long. They want to get back quickly. We have already exposed them to enough danger for one journey. I think it best to head for Iona. Then if necessary, we can get another boat to Lios mór."

Culann nodded thoughtfully and turned to Fergus lying beside him, and stroked his white face.

"He still feels cold. Perhaps we should cover his head with one of my hoods." They bundled Fergus head in Culann's spare hood and wrapped him in a fresh dry cloak.

Night came. The crew shared the small parcel of food given to them by the people of Poolewe. Fergus eyes still fluttered occasionally, but he couldn't eat. Culann wet the lad's lips from time to time from his water bottle.

Dark scudding clouds covered the moon and stars most of the time. The sailors however easily navigated the south west passage between the heel of the Isle of Sky and the mainland. The white-water breaking on either shore was clearly visible, as were the dark menacing mountains of Skye.

It was a long night. This was still mid-winter. The days were short and the nights seemed endless. By sun-up they had passed through the dangerous passage and left _Eilean a' Cheò_ behind.

Once more in open ocean they still had the mainland on their left but by setting their course south-west, the sailors searched for the outlines of the islands Rum and Eigg on the western horizon. All they could see was a forbidding dark cloud bank towering ever upwards.

The helmsman shouted over the gusting wind to Brother Bryan,

"I fear we are in for some very bad weather sir. The wind has changed from the north and is now coming from the south and west." Bryan looked at the sailor's outstretch arm pointing to the fast-approaching storm clouds.

"Methinks we should pull into shore until this nasty business passes."

Even as he spoke the master sailor waved instructions to his crew to lower the sail, which was flapping dangerously.

"Man the oars my boyos. We will make for yonder shore."

He then dragged the steering oar hard over, and pointed their little craft at the mainland.

The curach pitched up and down, buffeted by waves and increasing wind squalls. Spray from the waves lashed the boat's occupants forcing them to squat low in the curach, and turn their faces from the wind. Culann and the two Poolewe Picts began bailing the water from the boat's bottom with their drinking mugs.

The sailors dragged harder on their oars. They were broadside on to the fierce wind gusts, but were of tough stock. The master sailor shielded his face and eyes as much as he could. He was sitting higher than anyone, facing the elements, while controlling their direction with his steering oar mounted aft starboard.

Brother Bryan sat cradling Fergus who stared upwards without saying anything as water sloshed around them.

The wind howled, and fierce spray drummed against the leather sides of the curach. The boat pitched alarmingly, but each time the helmsman turned into the wind, righted it, and then turned it back again toward where he guessed the shore lay. By this time however, no one could see the shore. Rain lashed down in near horizontal sheets. Visibility was down to a couple of boat lengths.

Culann and the Picts increased their bailing efforts, but the water inside the curach kept rising.

Suddenly the helmsman gave a heart stopping scream and yelled,

"Hard a-starboard lads or we are done for!"

Culann looked up to see immediately ahead huge white-water waves destroying themselves against a black cliff. He turned to warn Bryan and Fergus, but before he could do anything the unstoppable swell smashed their little craft onto the murderous rocks. His last fleeting thought before everything went dark was of Fea.

The tempest howled louder as if in victory, obliterating everything.

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* * * * *
Chapter 8 - In Search of Culann

The nuns filed back into the Lios mór infirmary after Terce (mid-morning prayer, around 9 am). Sister Fea checked the bandages on the young Pict, Sreng, who was sitting on the edge of his bunk talking to his sister Sinead.

"You seem to be healing quite well young man," smiled Fea. "Another few days and you will able to leave our infirmary."

Sinead clapped her hands in joy. "See Sreng, I told you my prayers to the Christian God would help you get better," beamed Sinead happily. Her brother gave a lop-sided grin but said nothing.

Sister Tamara joined them along with Sister Máia.

"Things are very quiet Fea. We don't have any other patients today. The sun is out; first time for days and the beastly wind has dropped. Why don't we walk up Barr Mór?[1] You need to get out into the fresh air. . . . Why, what is the matter Fea – you've gone quite pale."

_[1] [_ [ _Barr Mór_ _;_ the highest hill on Lismore at 127 metres or 417 feet ]

Fea suddenly put both hands on her heart, her knees went weak and she all but collapsed onto the bunk next to Sreng.

"Terrible, . . . something . . . terrible has happened," she stammered.

"What do you mean? What has happened?" cried Tamara as the other sisters gathered around in consternation. Fea now buried her head in her hands.

"It's Culann. Something dreadful has happened to Culann." She began to cry silently, shoulders shaking.

Tamara put her arms around her friend to comfort her.

"There, there, not to worry. How do you know something has happened to Culann? He's up north with Brother Bryan, Fergus and the Picts they saved. He'll be all right. You've been working too hard. Please take a rest. We all need you to be well. Let's go out into the sunlight."

Fea allowed herself to be helped outside into the pale rays of the winter sun. Sinead frowned at her brother who still sat on his bunk, and motioned for him to follow her and the sisters outdoors. The little group sat together just outside the infirmary building.

"Now, tell me Fea, how do you know something's happened to Culann?" asked Tamara, her arm still around Fea's shoulders.

"I can't explain it, really. I just had a sudden feeling Culann was calling out to me. Then it all went black. Something has happened. I know it," said Fea quietly.

The nuns looked at each another. Sister Máia shrugged; _poor thing, she's had a vision_.

"How do know Culann is not back at Iona?" asked Tamara. "After all it was an Iona curach that took them."

"No," whispered Fea, "I checked with the weekly Iona boat that came in yesterday. They haven't heard anything. It should have been back a couple of weeks ago."

Suddenly Sreng spoke up "I know the waters up north. I am a fisherman. We sailed down from Poolewe to Eigg and Muck a couple of times. I even visited the monastery on Rum once."

"What, you sailed down past _Eilean a' Cheò?_ " asked a startled Sinead. "Mother would have your hide if she knew that. You know that island is full of pirates."

Sreng smiled, "We sailed at night. Nobody saw us. If I can get a curach I could go and look for them."

"You are not healed yet," said Sinead.

"Oh, I think he is just about as well as he will ever get, with that wounded shoulder," mused Fea looking keenly at her patient. "Do you really want to go back to your home at Poolewe? Your sister says she wants to stay here and become a novice nun."

"Of course I want to go back. Sinead can stay here and become a nun, but I have all my friends at Poolewe. It's my home."

Sinead said nothing, but cast her eyes down. Fea sat up straight, energised again.

"I think I should talk to Abbot Jowan. It may be best to allow young Sreng to return home. But I think we should send someone from the infirmary with him, in case he has a relapse."

"Oh no you don't," interjected Tamara "I know what you are planning. You want to go along. Well if you go, I go. I won't let you go alone."

Fea smiled at Tamara.

"Very well then, let's go and talk to Abbot Jowan."

* * * *

And so it came to pass, that Abbot Jowan was persuaded to let Sisters Fea and Tamara join a special curach crew to take the Pict, Sreng, back to his homeland. Plus Jowan also had some epistles (letters) he wanted delivered to his colleagues at the monasteries on Rum and Eigg. However, he insisted one of his monks called Baile (sweet spoken Baile), who had been to those islands before, accompany them. Furthermore, he issued instructions that they were not to stay away longer than two weeks. He needed to have his _Sister in charge of the infirmary_ , Fea, back running things by then.

The very next day saw a six oared curach pull out of the harbour of Lios mór, and head north-east up the Sound of Mull, carrying excited passengers Fea, Tamara, Baile and Sreng. The weather although overcast with occasional showers, did not hinder them. The wind coming from the south west was of no help, so the sailors had to row all day. It was decided to call into the monastery of _Ardslignish_ for the first long night.

Of course the monks at _Ardslignish_ were delighted to have company. However a somber note was struck, on learning that their guests of Christmas Eve were missing. Their departure was delayed as word quickly passed to the village in the next bay, that two nuns skilled in medicine had arrived. Fea and Tamara spent several hours tending to minor cuts and abrasions, before the curach cast off again around midday.

The curach rowed out past Ardnamurchan Point into the wider ocean and headed north to Eigg. The wind was helpful now coming from the south west, and they were able to hoist their sail. The small island of Muck passed by on their port (left) side. Navigation was by sight only, as heavy clouds obscured the sun. By late afternoon the imposing features of Eigg loomed ahead. The helmsman steered their craft to an inlet at the south eastern side of the small island.

A stone beehive hut was just visible halfway up the green low rising hillside. The entire southern side of the island was dominated by a vertical-sided stone crag the locals called _An Sgurr_. The sailors secured their craft above the high-water mark, and accompanied their passengers to the wooden structure, which Brother Baile advised was the main monastery building. Several wooden huts and sheds surrounded the main building.

They were met by four monks who had been working a small garden plot. Once again, the local monks were delighted to have visitors. Theirs - _by choice_ \- was an extremely lonely life.

Over a very frugal evening meal, the head monk, Nuada _(this monastery was considered too small to support an Abbot)_ , related the story of their founding father, Saint Donnán of Eigg.

"Saint Donnán was an Irish monk who bought Christianity to many places in the western highlands. It is said that he went to Iona to ask Saint Columba to be his _'Annam Cara'_ (his soul friend). It transpired that Columba graciously refused, as he saw _'the red cloak of martyrdom'_ [2] around Donnán, and told him he was destined for sainthood."

_[2] [_ _red cloak of maryrdom_ _; To b_ e killed while doing God's work. Columba had the 'white cloak of martyrdom' around himself - i.e. to leave one's homeland never to return. Although Columba did in fact return briefly to Eire (Ireland).]

"Donnán came to Eigg and founded a small _muinntir_ [3]. However, the pagan Pictish Queen of _Moidart_ [4] who believed she owned the island, became increasingly jealous of Donnán. She thought that the people here became so fond of him, that she fell out of favour.

_[3]_ [ muinntir; a monastic community, from Old Irish muinter (family, community, or attendants) ]

_[4] [_ Moidart lies to the west of what is now called Fort William, and is very remote ]

"So, the Queen hired some brigands to kill Donnán. They arrived at the church on Eigg on 17th April 617, Easter Sunday _(as calculated by the Celtic Church)_ , just as Donnán was conducting his Easter sermon. He asked the brigands to leave him alone until he had finished his service, and then they could do as they wished. At the conclusion of the service Donnán and fifty-one of his monks were killed. And so Columba's prediction proved correct."

Brother Nuada paused but the room was ever so quiet. Everyone was spellbound by his story.

"Where is Moidart?" asked Fea, stirring at last.

"Why, it is opposite us on the mainland. But the Lord must have been angry, because the plague swept through it. Nobody lives there anymore. It is a wilderness. . . . At least I thought so, until I saw the smoke last week," replied Nuada quietly, almost to himself.

"What smoke?" asked Sreng quickly. He had learnt a little Gaelic while at Lios mór.

"Oh, a couple of days ago," replied Nuada. "There hasn't been any today. It was probably a bush fire started by lightning."

"Not during mid-winter," stated Sreng. "Everything's too wet. Tell me, what colour was the smoke?"

"Well, come to think of it that's what made me really notice it. The smoke kept changing from black to white, then black again. I haven't seen that before."

"I have!" shouted Sreng jumping to his feet. "That's a Poolewe signal smoke. We do that when we have made a big catch and need help to bring it home. They must be from Poolewe."

"Oh goodness," cried Fea "could that be Culann? But no it couldn't be. They left before Christmas. It's now end of January. They would be long gone by now."

"Ah, Sister Fea," said Brother Baile, "they are not going, but most likely coming back. Let's not get our hopes up too much, but it could be them. We will have to wait till morning."

Not unexpectedly Fea didn't sleep a wink that long, long night. _It has to be Culann, it has to be_.

* * * *

Lauds (morning prayer, at daybreak) seemed later than usual for everyone. Daylight came eventually, but no sunshine. Fast moving cloud covered most of the sky. However the mainland was clearly visible from the Eigg monastery, much to everyone's delight.

Brother Nuada indicated a rocky outcrop on the mainland due east of where they were standing.

"The smoke seemed to be coming behind that point," he advised. "If you wish I can send one of my monks, Marcus, to guide you. He spends much of his time in our coracle fishing, and I know he has been there a couple of times over the years. It's not very good country. All rocks and trees."

"We accept your kind offer Brother," said Baile. "We may need Marcus's expert local knowledge."

The Lios mór sailors readied the curach on the beach. Into the light bobbing crafty stepped Brother Baile, Sisters Fea and Tamara, the young Pict, Sreng and lastly Brother Marcus.

They were off; the sailors bending their backs at the oars against the gusting wind as they rowed across the water toward the rocky outcrop. There was no sign of smoke.

Although to Fea it seemed to take forever, soon the little craft pulled into a small cove on the north side the headland. The beach consisted of small stones, not sand. Stunted undergrowth grew between large rocks which reached down to the waterline. The hills above the cove looked bare of trees.

Fea and Tamara hitched their skirts as they waded through the shallow water to the shore. Brother Baile gathered the little group on the edge of the stony beach, and gave his instructions.

"I suggest we spread out and walk to the top of yonder hill. Keep the person on your left and right in view at all times. We don't want anyone getting lost. Brother Marcus says this is wild country and I believe he is correct. Everyone be very careful. Remember, we are looking for anything that may indicate people were here recently. This is rough country; do you girls wish to stay with the curach?"

"Definitely not!" stated Fea and Tamara with feeling. "We can climb as well as you men."

Baile looked at Marcus who shrugged and smiled. "All right then, spread out. Let's go."

One of the sailors stayed with their boat.

It took the climbers the best part of an hour to reach the bare summit of the rock hill. They gathered together again and looked down on more rock-strewn country to the next bay. The wind gusts were quite strong on the summit, and most shielded their eyes.

"Look," pointed Sister Tamara, "there is a tiny beach down there. It's tucked in behind the rocks on the left."

"Hmmm, so it is," mused Brother Baile, "we could climb down there. It's easier going downhill even though we are on the windward side."

Then addressing the remaining sailors he asked them to return to the curach and sail it round the point to the small beach and meet them there.

The small group split, sailors going back and the rest heading south, downhill. Just past half way down, they had to detour around a clump of stunted trees, branches bent almost horizontal from the prevailing south westerly winds.

Wait . . . wait," called Sreng. "Here's something."

Everyone rushed over to where the young Pict was standing, holding a handful of tree leaves in his hand. "

"What is the matter?" asked Brother Marcus. "That is just leaves from the tree. The wind probably blew them off."

"No," replied Sreng excited now, "these have been stripped from one of the branches. Someone has used a knife or a sword. See the cut marks." The others gathered round.

"Are you sure?" queried Brother Baile dubiously.

"I'm a Pict warrior. I know a sword cut when I see it. And look, here in this bush, someone has hacked out a couple of branches. This is new. It's been done in the last couple of days. See the sap oozing out of the branch stump."

"Bess my soul, I believe the lad is right," said Brother Marcus. Fea and Tamara hugged each other in glee.

"Where can they be?" asked Fea breathlessly.

Sreng searched the immediate area.

"Over here," he said pointing "there's more leaves here, and here. They must have stripped the leaves as they walked along this hill." He began running. The other struggled to keep up as the young Pict ran along the brow of the hill, going inland.

"Wait. Stop. You're forgetting the wind," yelled Marcus.

"What do you mean," called Sreng pausing and looking back at the others.

"The wind has blown the leaves up the hill. The person who stripped the branches most likely went downhill," suggested Brother Marcus.

"Look, there is a small clearing down near the beach. Let's look there."

Sreng shrugged, turned and ran down toward the beach. The other followed in a long straggly line. As Fea and Tamara finally reached the clearing they almost bumped into the men, standing in a line, peering at the far end of the clearing.

"Well we know now what they wanted the wood for," said a solemn Baile. Tamara put her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. Fea went white, and her knees buckled.

At the far end of the clearing was a cairn of small rocks with a cross made of two sticks tied together with a monk's belt, stuck on top; a fresh grave.

Back to top

* * * * *
8.1 \- Repercussions

The shock of being swamped in bitterly cold water, snapped Fergus out of his long reverie. Men, equipment, bits of boat, were tossed unceremoniously together in a freezing green hell. Fergus, because of his years of experience swimming daily between Lindisfarne and the mainland to deliver the milk, coped better being suddenly immersed in cold water than anyone on the curach. He surfaced, and immediately saw the danger from the large black rocks ahead. Some of the crew were still struggling underwater, but Culann and Brother Bryan were thrashing and coughing beside him. Fergus instinctively grabbed the monks by their habits, and with his legs pumping powerfully, swam toward a gap in the cliffs. A wave slammed them sideways against one of the rocks with Brother Bryan taking most of the shock. Fergus quickly recovered and still holding the now limp brethren, caught the next surge and all three were deposited amid seaweed, sand and rope from the curach, between two rocks. Fergus dragged both monks above the wave line, turned and dived back into the roiling sea.

_On average, ocean_ _winter_ _temperatures on the_ _west coast_ _of Scotland are higher than those on the_ _east coast_ _, due to the warming influence of the_ _North Atlantic Drift_ _. In_ _summer this situation is reversed_ _, as waters in the shallower North Sea warm up more quickly. So summer temperatures on the east coast are higher than on the west coast -_ _but still very cold_ _._

The curach had been totally smashed on the rocks, and pieces of debris, wooden struts, animal hide, part of the mast, all roiled in the turbulent currents. Men surfaced, gasped for air before being dragged under again. Fergus grabbed one of the sailors, and guided him to land. Again and again the young Pict plunged back into the maelstrom, seemingly impervious to the numbing cold seawater, while guiding drowning men to the rock-strewn shore.

Eventually he collapsed, utterly exhausted, on a mollusc encrusted ledge. The violent storm that had destroyed their boat had moved further up the coast. The sea still smashed relentlessly against the shoreline, but the rain eased and finally ceased.

* * * *

"Fergus,. . . Fergus, . . . Fergus." It was Culann shaking his shoulder, waking him up.

"Fergus, thank God you're Ok. Come up over here. One of the Poolewe Picts is starting a fire. We can get warm." Fergus staggered upward toward the small group sheltering under an overhanging rock.

The Poolewe Pict was busy striking flints together, endeavouring to start a fire with kindling he had gathered. Brother Bryan was lying on his side not moving, as was one of the sailors. Two other sailors sat, head in hands, shivering. Fergus noticed blood was streaming down the side of Culann's head, from a cut over his eye.

The small clump of brushwood burst into flame. The Pict carefully added pieces of driftwood he had discovered under the rocks.

"I need seaweed, lots of seaweed," said the Pict still carefully tending his fire.

"What for?" queried Culann "The seaweed is all wet."

"My friend is missing."

Culann counted heads; yes, the second Pict was missing, along with four of the sailors.

"I will send him a signal, so he knows where we are," said the Pict.

Culann shook his head. The Pict and the four sailors must surely be drowned. However he dutifully made his way down to the waterline and gathered several handfuls of wet slimy seaweed. The Pict lad separated it into two heaps. One he laid next to the fire. The other he left outside the sheltering rock.

Everyone except the still figures of Bryan and the inert sailor, watched as the Pict slowly built up the fire. He held strips of seaweed near the flame drying it. Perhaps because most were still in shock from their ordeal, but they became mesmerised by the show put on by the young Pict. After drying a number of pieces of seaweed, he judged the flames robust enough and carefully placed dried weed on the fire. White smoke billowed upward. The lad fed the flames with the dry seaweed.

"I need more fuel," he said.

"Let's put Brother Bryan and the sailor closer to the fire," suggested Culann as he dragged the two forms closer to the warmth.

Culann and a couple of the sailors, together with Fergus, scouted the area and brought a substantial amount of seaweed to the fire.

Suddenly the Pict placed a few pieces of wet seaweed on the flames. The fire died down somewhat, but started issuing thick black smoke.

"What's that for?" asked Culann.

"It's a signal for my friend. We signal each other at Poolewe with black and white smoke when we need help. If he sees it, he will know where to find us."

For the rest of the afternoon their signal fire emitted alternate black and white smoke. No one came.

Brother Bryan stirred just before darkness descended. He tried to stand but collapsed in pain, holding his leg. Culann and Fergus drew his habit back to check. His left foot was pointed almost backward.

"I think his leg is broken," whispered Culann. When they tried to turn his foot back in line with the right one, Bryan gave a terrible scream and lapsed into unconsciousness again.

The night was long and cold for everyone. They all huddled together under the ledge next to the low burning fire. Brother Bryan kept most people awake, by moaning intermittently during the night. When dawn finally broke, Fergus discovered the sailor who had not regained consciousness, and had lain next to him all night, was very, very, cold.

Culann who had watched Fea take the pulse of patients in the Lios mór infirmary, checked for any faint beat at his neck or wrist. There was nothing.

"I think he has died," said the monk sombrely.

That left the Poolewe Pict, Brother Bryan with a broken leg, Fergus, Culann, whose cut on the head had stopped bleeding, and two sailors – six – with no boat, no food, no water and the only weapons - Fergus' long sword and Culann's gladius.

"We need to move and try and find some farmers or water and something to eat," said Culann to Fergus. "But can't carry Brother Bryan like this. I'll stay behind with him."

"We could make him a sled," suggested Fergus.

"How would we do that? There is no timber. It all went down with the curach."

"I made a sled for the big deer. I think I could make one from the bushes higher up the hill," said Fergus.

Culann brightened at the suggestion.

"Ok my friend, let's go looking." The two moved out and up the hill. The Pict had started his smoke signal again. The sailors scoured the shoreline for bits of the boat, particularly any twine, which would come in handy.

Half way up the hill Culann and Fergus came upon a clump of weather-beaten bushes; their branches bent over from the continual wind.

"This may have to do," said Fergus stepping into the midst to attack the largest branches. Together they hacked a considerable number, and with Culann holding an armful, they made their way back to camp. Fergus grabbed a branch, one at a time, stripping the leaves and unwanted twigs from the core as they walked.

As they approached the camp, pandemonium broke out. When they finally slipped down to the overhanging ledge, they were greeted by the joyous scene of the Poolewe Pict embracing his missing colleague, who together with one of the missing sailors, had followed the smoke signals to safety. They had both grabbed onto a piece of timber as the curach broke up and been swept far down the bay.

Culann decided the sailors were better at lashing the pieces of wood together to make a sled, under Fergus's direction. So he sadly hoisted the deceased sailor over his shoulder, and climbed back up to a flat piece of land, he noticed earlier. He carefully laid the sailor on the hard ground. There were no tools to dig a grave, and the ground was too hard anyway. So he aligned the sailor facing east, and gathered some of the many surrounding rocks, and carefully placed them over the sailor's body.

He stood when finished, and said a prayer he remembered from Iona, over the dead sailor. As he turned he saw the remaining sailors had gathered, standing silently watching the simple eulogy. One had fashioned a cross from two sticks. But the grass he used to bind it refused to work. Culann took off his belt and gave it to the sailor. A grateful murmuring broke out from their ranks as the cross was expertly tied together, and placed reverently on top of the cairn of stones.

"We tried a sled, Culann, but it won't work with Brother Bryan," explained Fergus. "The ground is too rough. So we have fashioned a stretcher instead. We just need two men to carry it,"

"I'll carry it," said Culann. "The others can take turns at the back."

And so the little group moved off, heading east along the coastline of the large bay; Fergus taking the point, followed by the two Poolewe Picts, Culann and one of the sailors carrying Brother Bryan's stretcher, and the remaining sailors bringing up the rear. They collected the odd piece of wooden debris, including two oars that had been washed up on shore.

It was around midday when Culann called a halt.

"This is no good. It will take us weeks to wind our way through all these bays and headlands." He turned to the sailors, "Do any of you know where we are?"

The sailors conferred and then one stepped forward. "That island over there to the west, with the large escarpment in the distance is Eigg. The mountains you see behind it must be the larger island of Rum." He turned and pointed south-west,

"See the land way down on the horizon, where the coastline curves right around, we think that must be the Point of Ardnamurchan."

"Why, the monastery of Ardslignish should be just behind it," exclaimed Culann.

"That is so," confirmed the sailor.

"Well then why don't we build a boat and sail direct to Ardslignish, and get help?" asked Culann.

"We don't have the materials to build a boat. No wooden spars, no cowhide for covering, nothing," replied the sailor despondently.

"Why don't we build a raft then?" asked Fergus. We have a couple of oars. They are too long just to paddle but we could cut them down."

"There are some larger trees up on that ridge. We could add them to the wooden stretcher we made for Brother Bryan," suggested Culann.

"But we can't all fit on one tiny raft," protested one of the sailors.

"No of course not," said Fergus. "But two men could. We could paddle across, and bring help back."

"Not me," cried one of the sailors as the others shook their heads.

"Across open-ocean on a flimsy raft - no way!"

"I will," said Fergus. "I once paddled almost down the east coast of this island, and back again. What say you Culann?"

Culann smiled, remembering their epic voyage from Lindisfarne to Whitby and his journey back again with Fergus is a tiny one-man coracle.

"Why not Fergus, it's better than staying here and starving to death."

Decision made, Fergus and Culann quickly climbed the nearby ridge, selected four trees which were taller than Culann, with trunks a bit thicker than a man's arm, and hacked them down. Then, with the help of the sailors, lashed them one to either side of the wooden stretcher and two in the middle. It's not pretty" said one of the sailors, but it should carry you both. Lucky, Fergus is not very heavy."

The raft bounced high on the water as they launched it into a small surf. However, it floated noticeably lower when the two adventurers climbed aboard.

"I suggest you secure yourselves by trying yourself to the raft," suggested a sailor. "Otherwise, you will be washed overboard with the first big wave. Just here at the top of your legs, your groin, that way you can bend your knees. It's easier to row like that."

"At least I won't have to spend all day bailing," grinned Culann remembering the last boating experience with Fergus.

"Don't you want to wait until morning to start?" asked one of the Pict lads.

"No, the sooner we start the sooner we finish. What say you Fergus?"

"Let's go," said Fergus grimly.

The sailors all helped to push them into deep water. Fergus in front as usual, started paddling on the right side and Culann fell into the rhythm on the left. Everyone, including Brother Bryan, who was lying quietly on a grassy bank, watched the little craft disappear at times down a swell, but then reappear again, until a rain squall hid it from view.

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* * * * *
8.2 – Search Party

Fea's hand went to her mouth as she starred at the small wooden cross on top of the grave.

"That looks like Culann's belt," she whispered.

Tamara took her by the shoulders and tried to turn her away, as Brother Baile began removing stones, so they could try to identify the remains.

Fea shook away the restraining hand, and stared resolutely at the head of the corpse as it slowly came into view.

"I have seen many dead bodies," she said calmly, "I will see this one," moving closer.

As the last stone was removed, they all starred at the dark-haired face that came into view, eyes closed, no visible marks or wounds with an almost peaceful expression.

"It's not Culann," sighed Fea, as she sank to her knees in prayer.

* * * *

After replacing the stones on the cairn, the little party moved down to the water's edge, to await the curach being sailed round the headland to meet them. They discovered the remains of the fire that had been built under the large ledge.

"This is where they stayed all right," observed Sreng, stirring the now cold ashes with his foot. "This fire is only a day or so old." Then nodding to the footprints in patches of sand "They walked off that-a-way, along the shore. With the boat we should be able to overtake them today or tomorrow.

It was not long after, that the curach came into view, and pulled into the small rock covered cove. Everyone climbed on board and the sailors pushed off, rowing resolutely along the shoreline, in an easterly direction.

Mid-afternoon found the curach making good headway along the coastline, still heading east. It was helped by a strong current moving clockwise around the great bay.

"Shouldn't we start looking for a place to anchor and spend the night? The light is fading fast," suggested Brother Baile.

"Good idea," yelled Sreng, who was peering intently from the bow of the boat. "Why don't we camp next to those chaps jumping up and down, waving on that small beach?"

"Bless my soul," cried Brother Baile, "I believe we've found them. Pull in lads, pull in."

It was difficult to determine who were happier; what was left of the Iona curach crew, or their rescuers from Lios mór. As the boat grounded on the slip of sand, everyone climbed, clambered and leaped ashore, to be embraced by those formally demoralised crew members. Even Brother Bryan waved bravely from his grass ledge, tears streaming down his face.

But the celebrations were cut short by Sister Fea "Where is Culann? Where is Fergus?"

The Iona crew went quiet. Many looked down at their feet and shuffled uncomfortably. Finally, the two Poolewe Picts who had been busy greeting their colleague Sreng, turned and addressed Sisters Fea and Tamara, who were standing together on the edge of the crowd.

"Brother Culann and Fergus set out on a raft, to row to the monastery beyond that point." He indicated the Point of Ardnamurchan, but it was no longer visible. It was hidden by sea mist and failing light.

"Why would they do something stupid like that?" asked Fea to no one in particular.

"Ah lassie, don't fret. They did it to save us. We have no food, no supplies, and it would take perhaps weeks, to walk all the way around these bays to get help," explained one of the sailors. "We all thought the brave lads most likely would not succeed, but it was the only chance we had."

"When did they leave?" asked Brother Baile.

"Oh, not so long ago, about midday I think," said one of the Poolewe Picts.

"Well don't just stand here," said Fea. "Let's get back in the curach and find them."

Brothers Baile and Nuada both shook their heads. "It's getting dark lassie. We could not see them if we sailed right by them. We will have to wait until first light tomorrow."

Fea covered her face so no one could see her bitter disappointment. Then suddenly,

"Where is Brother Bryan? Is he with you?"

"Over here dear Sister," called Bryan softly. "I'm sorry I can't stand to greet you. I have a slight problem with my leg."

Fea and Tamara hurried over to the grassy bank where Bryan lay, propping himself up on one arm. They gently drew back the stained habit that covered his legs. Years of practice of not showing any emotion which may upset her patients, allowed Fea to remain calm when they saw Bryan's twisted leg. Tamara did draw in her breath, but made no other sound.

Fea gently felt around the swollen discoloured leg. Bryan winced a couple of times but bravely said nothing during the examination.

Fea smiled to show confidence to her patient.

"I'm afraid your leg is broken Brother Bryan, below the knee. Normally we would get you to drink some of Brother Hesus' wondrous whisky[1] which greatly eases the pain, but alas, we have none. However, we have some strong lads who can help hold you still, while we straighten your leg."

_[1] [_ 'whiskey' as spelt in Ireland or 'whisky' as spelt in Scotland - but although we are dealing with Irish monks we are in Scotland, so we'll spell it 'whisky' ]

Fea pulled out her eating knife hidden in her skirt, and cut a thin strip from her hem. Knotting it double, she handed it to Brother Bryan.

"If you bite in this knot when we start dear Brother, it may help."

There was no doubt now who was in charge, as Fea turned to Brother Baile and said quietly "I need four strong lads to hold down the good monk while I straighten his leg. I also need two straight pieces of wood, as long as the monk's leg."

Baile nodded and chose the four toughest sailors,

"I think the best wood is the top halves our brave lads cut off their oars, to make them more manageable on their raft.

Fea and Tamara both rolled up their sleeves and knelt down beside Brother Bryan.

"If you are ready dear Bother, we will start now." Bryan squeezed his eyes shut, and with the knotted gag in his mouth, started saying The Lord's Prayer. A muffled 'crack' was heard as Fea nodded to Tamara, and they straightened the leg. Bryan's whole body jerked, but the resulting spasm was contained by the four sailors. Fea then laid the two pieces of wood on either side of the leg and bound leg and splints together with material she had cut from her skirt.

"That's the best we can do until we get him back to Lios mór," Fea announced quietly, as she stood and brushed her hands on her cloak.

* * * *

Even before first light, Fea was pacing up and down the little beach, impatient to leave. She supervised the moving of Bryan into the curach. Although he was laid on the bottom, she arranged for some spare cloaks to be placed as makeshift bedding, to lessen the shock of waves on the curach's hide sides. Bryan smiled weakly and closed his eyes.

Visibility was good as everyone settled into the curach. It was cramped, but the sailors had sufficient room to man their oars. Everyone strained their eyes to catch any sign of a raft bearing two men.

They rowed all day against a strong current. By late afternoon, Point of Ardnamurchan was well in sight. Once past the point they were able to take advantage of the prevailing wind and hoisted the sail. After discussions between Baile, Marcus and the helmsman, who knew these waters well, they decided to press on down into Loch Sunart, and Ardslignish.

And so, the isolated monastery of Ardslignish, whose monks were lucky to receive visitors twice a year, welcomed their third boatload of guests in less than a month.

Sister Fea sought out Abbot Morann, and asked him where the monk Culann and the Pict Fergus, who sailed here on a raft, were. Abbot Morann looked perplexed "I know Brother Culann very well. He was last here on Christmas Day. I haven't seen him since and no one has ever come here on a raft."

Fea had this now familiar sinking feeling. _Where could they be?_

* * * *

Brother Bryan was in pain. Ardslignish had no infirmary, so he was laid on a bunk with the other monks. He was determined not to keep other monks awake with his groans, so he kept his mouth firmly clamped shut on the same knotted piece of cloth Fea had given him earlier. Moreover, Celtic monks were encouraged to endure bodily and mental tribulations, in order to show devotion to their God.

When morning came Fea sought out Abbot Moran, who was conferring with Brothers Baile and Marcus.

"Come closer dear Sister," said Abbot Moran, "I can see you are concerned."

"Yes, I am worried about Brother Culann and Fergus, replied Fea. "Brother Culann saved my life many years ago. I feel I must do more to find him before we return to Lios mór."

"Well Brother Marcus was just requesting we return him to his monastery on Eigg. Brother Baile suggested we use the Lios mór curach to sail back around the Point of Ardnamurchan, on to Eigg, then follow the coastline back to where you discovered the Iona people. He can arrange for the Lios mór sailors to follow the far coastline all the way back to our monastery and search for the two intrepid rowers. They must be stranded somewhere along that shore," advised Abbot Moran.

"Oh, that would be wonderful," replied Fea gratefully.

"Do you wish to join us in our search Sister Fea?" asked Brother Baile, who was aware of the special bond between Fea and Culann.

"I think not, thank you," said Fea "Sister Tamara and I should 'minister' to Brother Bryan. He is in great pain. We do not have any _Comfrey_ [2] here. We need to return him to Lios mór where the plant we use to mend bones, is plentiful. How long will it take to return Brother Marcus to Eigg, and return here?"

[2] [ The Comfrey plant is erect in habit, rough and hairy all over. There is a branched rootstock, the roots are fibrous and fleshy spindle-shaped, an inch or less in diameter and up to a foot long, smooth, blackish externally, and internally white, fleshy and juicy. One of the country names for comfrey was 'knitbone', a reminder of its traditional use in healing bone fractures. Modern science confirms that comfrey can influence the course of bone ailments. (Wikipedia) ]

Brother Baile looked at Marcus before replying.

"We have discussed that. The wind is favourable and should get us to Eigg in half a day. We will probably have to row back, but the boat should be back later tonight. We could leave for Lios mór by first light tomorrow,"

Fea nodded and said a silent prayer, ' _Dear God, let them find Culann on the way_.'

Fea joined Tamara at the bedside of Brother Bryan. There she updated Tamara as to the search for Culann and Fergus, combined with returning Brother Marcus to Eigg. Tamara said nothing. She didn't hold any hope that the two travellers would be found.

Fea wiped Brother Bryan's perspiring brow with a cool wet cloth, and ran her fingers through his matted hair, trying to comfort him.

"We may have lost two very special people," murmured Fea, "but we must not lose Brother Bryan as well."

* * * *

The Lios mór curach had fair wind all the way to Eigg. Brother Marcus waved them safe voyage from the Eigg beach, as they headed back along the route they traversed two days earlier. Cloud cover thinned, and the sun shone fitfully as they reached the far shore, and retraced their path up to the spot where they discovered the Iona group.

Brother Baile then conferred with the sailors, and they struck straight across the bay to the far shore. It was inhospitable country, and the curach prudently stayed a few boat lengths off shore, to reduce the chance of being swept onto any of the outlying rocks. All eyes however, peered carefully at the passing coves and inlets, looking for any sign of life as they headed back.

The light was failing as they neared the Point of Ardnamurchan "There's a raft!" yelled the helmsman, pointing to what seemed to be some logs and driftwood jammed onto a nasty looking reef, that ran out probably ten boat lengths from a rocky shore.

"Are you sure?" queried Baile peering intently at the reef.

"Aye sir, I'm sure. Come on lads," to the sailors "careful now, let's get a little closer."

The curach was skilfully nudged closer to the reef, so it was now side-on to the remains of the raft.

"You can see the thicker pieces on either side, sir. There are scraps of material used to bind the smaller pieces of wood together."

"Oh dear God," murmured Baile, "those binding strips look the same colour as our off-white habits. It must be their raft. Can we pull into shore Helmsman? They may be lying injured somewhere."

The sailors skilfully guided the curach into a small sheltered beach, a little further up the coast. Leaving two sailors to mind the boat, the rest of the sailors plus Brother Baile ran back to where the reef lanced out into the sea, yelling, "Culann," "Fergus," as they went.

The only sound they heard was the relentless waves smashing on the rocks. Baile peered up the featureless rocks to the low horizon. There were no trees; no vegetation; and no sign of life. As they moved back to the boat, they scoured the waterline for any sign of bodies.

Nothing.

An air of despondency settled over everyone, as the curach slowly made its way around the Point of Ardnamurchan, and back to Ardslignish. No one wanted to be the bearer of bad news.

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* * * * *
8.3 – Overland

Fergus and Culann rafting to get help for their stranded colleagues

Fergus and Culann soon established a good rowing rhythm, and their little raft rode up and down the ocean swells quite easily. The rain squall that hit soon after leaving shore, was an irritant but not dangerous. Both rowers were soaked, but by now they were used to sailing, and the inconvenience of being wet, most of the time. They reacted as usual by rowing a little harder to keep warm.

As the rain squall eased and they could once again see the far horizon, it became obvious something had pushed them well inside the large bay. They were noticeably more distant from the Point of Ardnamurchan. Fergus turned to Culann,

"We seem to be further away from the point than when we started Culann. What's wrong?"

Culann shrugged; he was not a sailor. "Is it the wind?" he ventured.

Fergus wet his finger and held it up. "No, I don't think it is strong enough. Wait. . . look at that," - the young Pict pointed to a clump of debris floating past their raft.

"Those leaves and stuff are going faster than we are; but they are going east. We have been paddling just south of west, but we are being pushed further away."

"What is causing it?" asked Culann who was resting on his oar, quite puzzled.

"I think it must be similar to conditions I struck when swimming with the milk at Lindisfarne. Sometimes, particularly when the tide was changing, I would be caught in some very fast-moving water. The locals called it a _'rip tide'_. I discovered it was best not to swim against it, and just let it carry me along. It usually went in a sort of circle. I wasn't in danger. It just dumped further up the beach than I wanted to go, and I had long walk back home, that's all. I think this must be similar, but on a bigger scale. Best we just let it take us. Eventually it will diminish or fade away and then we can continue."

"Are you sure?" asked Culann, concerned.

Fergus grinned, "No, but we haven't any other option, have we." Culann thought about it for a moment, and shrugged in resignation. It was difficult for this former Fianna warrior to sit and do nothing in a crisis. He was a man _(or rather now, a monk)_ of action. But he saw the logic of Fergus's argument. "How long will it take?"

Fergus pondered the question for a moment and answered sagely, "Probably until the tide changes."

"And when will that be?"

"I really don't know Culann. On the other coast it used to change twice a day. But each day it was a little later than the previous day. I guess it must be similar over here."

Culann slapped his oar down in the water in frustration. Then realising his childish action, lent forward and grasped Fergus on the shoulder,

"Forgive me my friend. I am not used to floating, or fighting, on water. I much prefer dry land."

Fergus smiled and clasped the monks offered hand.

"So do I Culann, so do I. But I suggest we relax for the time being. When this sea has finished with us, we will need all our energy to get back to that point."

So the two hardy travellers sat on their bobbing raft and relaxed – for a while.

"What are all those birds doing?" asked Culann pointing to a group of seagulls wheeling over some white water further down the eastern bay.

Fergus shielded his eyes and peered ahead at the spectacle.

"Uh oh, I don't like the look of that."

"What is it?" asked Culann.

"It looks very similar to that the _Corryvreckan_ whirlpool. You remember, between Scarba and Jura. The sailors said it was dangerous. I think we better head over to that southern shore."

"Good," said Culann, "I much prefer to do something than just sit here all day," as he dug his oar savagely into the now white crested water.

"We need to both row on our left side," shouted Fergus. "Make for the land directly opposite on the far shore. Don't try to steer back toward the Point of Ardnamurchan."

The water became choppier and their little craft seemed to be speeding up. At first, they didn't appear to be making any headway against the current, which was drawing them sideways, closer to the eastern bay, and the dangerous whirlpool. This encouraged both men to increase their efforts with the oars. Time lost all meaning in situations such as this. It seemed to Culann he had been paddling forever. His arms ached. His chest had a tight band clamped about it. All he focussed on was keeping in time with Fergus, as the young man's oar bit into the water, up, down, pull through, up again. Gradually Fergus noticed the troubled waters were more behind them than abreast. _They were winning_. The far shore now seemed definitely closer. Fergus held up one hand,

"Slow down. We've done it."

Culann slumped forward, breathing heavily, totally exhausted. He looked up to find everything was becoming dark. He shook his head and discovered in fact the sun, still mostly hidden by clouds, was setting. _Ahhh . . . thank goodness_. _I'm not losing my mind after all_.

Fergus pointed to what appeared to be a small inlet on the rocky shoreline.

"We need to make landfall over there." Their raft glided into the rocky inlet. The narrow sandy beach was wedged between rocky outcrops and was barely two raft lengths wide. The exhausted rowers staggered ashore, and dragged their raft to the top of the sand. Culann used his oar as a staff, as they climbed up on a ledge, which gave them some shelter from the now strengthening wind. Some rock pools of water were nearby, and both travellers eagerly lay down and drank their fill. Culann looked up and in the gathering twilight commented that there was little vegetation of any kind, on the bare rocks that reached up to the skyline.

The light was rapidly fading. The far shore from where they had begun their journey was no longer visible. Either was the Point of Ardnamurchan which was somewhere off to the west. Our intrepid travellers had no flints and could not make a fire. There was precious little kindling to make a fire anyway.

"We will have to continue our journey at first light tomorrow my friend," said Culann. "Best try and get some sleep behind these rocks. Fergus nodded mutely, and both travellers wrapped themselves in their cloaks and attempted to sleep. Food would have to wait another day.

Culann slept fitfully. There was no moon or stars visible through the heavy cloud cover, and he couldn't see anything. So he rolled over and drifted back to sleep. _At least if we can see nothing, no one can see us, so we are safe_.

Both woke as the sun feebly tried to penetrate the solid cloud cover. Fergus rose and stretched, trying to bring life back into his arms and legs. He looked down to their raft.

The beach was under water and the raft was not there.

"Oh no," he cried in alarm. "The tide must have come in while we slept. It has taken our raft."

Culann leapt up and ran to the high point above the little inlet which had small waves lapping against the rocks. He searched in vain for any sign of their vessel up and down the shoreline. "But we pulled it up to the top of the beach," he said, baffled.

"I should have thought of it," said Fergus, bitterly disappointed with himself. "Now is the time of the full moon. The tides are always bigger then. They can vary as much as the height of man between low and high tide. I am so sorry Culann. It is my fault," he sank despondently to his haunches, his head in his hands.

Culann satisfying himself there was no sign of their raft climbed down to the distraught Fergus and placing his hand gently on the youth's shoulder said "There, there, lad. It's not your fault. It seems to me that the Lord the monks pray to so often didn't want us to row around the Point of Ardnamurchan anyway."

"But what will we do now?" cried Fergus.

"Well we will walk. I much prefer walking anyway."

"Walk? That will take forever. I can't even see the point from here," said Fergus in disbelief.

"Oh, we won't walk around the point. We'll take a shortcut – straight overland," said Culann pointing toward the crest of the hill behind them. "If I remember correctly Ardslignish should be directly over this neck of land."

"Do you really think so?" said Fergus with a glimmer of hope in his voice.

"Aye lad. I spent some time in Ardslignish some years ago. I'm pretty sure it's located on a loch somewhere just over this strip of land. We might get a little hungry, but we will have plenty of water in these rock pools. And we won't have to worry about any more whirlpools."

Their mood turned from despair to defiance. They would make it, _come hell or high-water;_ (or rather, _rock pools of water_ ).

So, our intrepid travellers turned, looked at the high ground ahead of them, and began walking south, uphill.

"I've run up higher braes (hills) than this," muttered Fergus. Culann smiled and followed the young Pict, glad he had retained his oar, which he now used as a staff.

* * * *

All morning Fergus and Culann followed a dry gully as it wound generally south-west. There was no vegetation. It rained twice but they were shielded to some extent from the wind by the rock sides of the ditch. The sun was not seen. Clouds raced overhead sometimes obscuring the top of the hill ahead. They were able to slake their thirst easily by drinking from the numerous small rock pools.

They reached the crest of the first hill around mid-morning. Ahead was another flat rock hill. The land dipped down a little then rose ever upward at a gentle rate. Their journey all afternoon consisted of climbing gently sloping hills of solid rock, that followed one after another.

A particularly severe thunderstorm forced them to seek cover in a nearby rock crevice. The rain ceased. They continued, clothes now thoroughly drenched.

"Are you sure this is only a small strip of land Culann? I can't see any end in sight," said Fergus despondently. The light was fading, and night was almost upon them.

Culann stopped, and peered ahead to the next rock crest.

"I thought there were more trees, but when we reach the top of these hills we will be able to see better. Perhaps we had better look for a place to camp for the night."

They finally selected a group of rocks that offered some protection from the south-west winds and rain, if it did come through the night. _And it did come_. Once again; no fire and no food.

* * * *

Day two of their trek began the same as yesterday. More rock hills; more rock waterholes, some now so large they had to detour around them; and more rain.

It was midday when Fergus suddenly called out,

"Hey, this track is not going uphill. It's going downhill!"

"Ay lad," responded Culann, shielding his eyes as he looked into the distance. "And there is water between those two hills. It must be Loch Sunart. Ardslignish is down there somewhere."

Both travellers now headed toward the cleft in the far hills through which a sliver of dark water showed, a new spring in their step.

It was now three days without food. Culann in fact was very weary, but he would not admit as such to his younger companion. The rain had ceased, at least for the time being. Small clumps of vegetation were now seen. The almost continuous rock formations had given way to thin patches of soil. They carried on. Even though weakened from malnutrition, their pace quickened as the slope was now downhill.

Late afternoon, through one final pass, and the grandeur of Loch Sunart spread out ahead of them. It took Fergus's breath away.

"Wonderful," was all he could utter, as he sank down on his haunches.

Culann helped his young colleague to his feet.

"Are you OK lad?" asked the monk, concerned. "Do you need to rest?"

"No, no, I'm fine," replied Fergus. "You take the lead. You know the lay of the land here. I will follow."

Culann moved ahead, but checked regularly that Fergus was following. He paused a couple of times to allow the young Pict to catch up. The light was fading, but thankfully the rain had stopped. They pushed onward. The going was easier as the track they were following was mostly downhill.

It was sometime later that Culann pointed to wisps of smoke barely visible on the shoreline off to their right.

"That's either Ardslignish or the little farming village in the next cove lad. We're nearly home."

He turned; delighted their arduous journey was almost ended. The trail behind him was empty. There was no sign of Fergus.

"Fergus! Fergus lad; where are you?" cried Culann. The only answer was his own echo.

Culann strode back up the track he had just traversed, looking left and right and calling continually for his companion. Over the next rise he glimpsed Fergus' crumpled figure lying face down on a bare flat rock. Fergus was breathing, but did not respond when Culann tried to wake him.

It was now quite dark. Culann decided his only option was to carry his friend. He lifted the young Pict and draped him over his shoulders. Once more he headed downhill toward what he hoped was shelter and safety.

Twice he stumbled and had to rest for a short time, before shouldering his burden and pressing on. It was too dark to see the waters of Lake Sunart, and the smoke he had seen earlier had disappeared. To keep moving in the direction he believed Ardslignish lay ,he walked so the wind was in his face. At least that way he reasoned, he wouldn't end up walking in circles.

He trudged on. Would this never end? He noticed there was more vegetation now, but the ground seemed flat. He bumped into a tree and staggered sideways. The world seemed to be spinning. One leg buckled, and he fell heavily. Fergus lay on top of him. He had no strength left to rise. His last frustrating thought was _Damn it - Fergus and my friends will all die because I've failed_.

The two inert figures lay still, alone in the wilderness.

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* * * * *
Chapter 9 - The Eigg Episode

Abbot Morann was just commencing Compline (night prayer, which completes the day), in the small stone building which served as Ardslignish's church, when he was disturbed by a commotion outside. A group of villagers burst in,

"Father, Father, come quick. One of your monks and a Pict are in our hamlet. We think they are dying."

The Abbot quickly completed a short prayer, rose and stepped outside. The villagers indicated he should follow them around the headland to the next cove, where the Scotti village was located. A separate crowd, carrying torches, were gathered under a large tree.

Abbot Morann, who was now joined by some of his monks, made his way through the throng gathered around the tree. The flickering light shone on two bedraggled figures lying face down, one on top of the other.

"It seems the monk was carrying his friend when he collapsed, explained the village headman.

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

"We don't know. One of the lads came out to check, when he heard our dogs barking and discovered them."

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

Four strong men from the village, lifted the two unconscious figures by their arms and legs, and everyone marched back to the monastery.

"One of them was carrying an oar. Where is their boat?" asked one of the monks.

"They didn't come by boat," advised the headman. "We followed their tracks back through one of our fields. They came over the mountain."

Morann shook his head in disbelief. Just then, the younger figure regained consciousness and began mumbling, first in Pictish – which nobody understood, then in Greek, of which everyone was equally ignorant, then finally in Irish Gael, which everyone knew. "Put me down. I'm OK"

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

Culann and Fergus were sitting inside on their temporary bunks, when a number of monks crowded in, carrying a limp figure who was babbling incoherently. Questions flew at random,

"Who is he?" "Where did he come from" "Has anyone seen him before."

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

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

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

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

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

"My name is Marcus (meaning 'of the sea') _._ I am from Bangor (the great monastic community in Ulster). Five years ago I joined my cousin Nuada, the head monk on Eigg. I go to sea most days and provide our community with seafood."

He paused here, and his shoulders shook as he tried to gather his composure. No sound, apart from Marcus deep breaths, was heard in the room.

"Today I was in my boat fishing as usual, just off the headland near our monastery. A strange boat came into view from the north." Here the monk paused again, and covered his eyes as if trying to block out some terrible memory.

"I waved, but the men on the boat either didn't see me, or ignored me. Their boat pulled into our small harbour. I was curious, so I gathered in my lines and began paddling back home. I was soon close enough to see warriors spilling out of the boat and marching up toward our monastery buildings. They were met by a number of our monks."

Here Marcus again covered his eyes and great sobs wracked his body. Abbot Moran gently placed a hand on the distraught monk's shaking shoulder.

"There, there, my son. Take your time. I know this must be distressing to you. We are in no hurry."

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

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

"What happened then?" ventured Abbot Moran quietly.

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

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

A voice from the back of the room asked,

"Why did you come here to Ardslignish? Why not go to Rum or Muck - they are closer."

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

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

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

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

The silence following this vivid description was broken my Fergus.

"I have seen boats, similar to the one described. "Everyone turned to look at the slight Pictish figure standing to one side, next to Culann.

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

"Whoever they are, they are a menace to all in our region," called Abbot Moran. "I endorse Brother Marcus; we must send warriors to Eigg and eliminate these pirates."

Moran was looking straight at the Dal-Riata elder, who suddenly looked uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four monks immediately raised their hands,

"We will go with Brother Culann."

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

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

"We are not just going to look, are we?" whispered Fergus to Culann.

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

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

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

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* * * * *
9.1 – Arrival on Eigg

Brother Marcus grieving for the massacred monks on Eigg

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

The tide and wind were with them and good time was made. That great ridge of rock came in sight well before daybreak. Marcus expertly navigated their craft past a small elongated island on the left, and a partly submerged reef, onto the sandy beach which served as the sheltered harbour of Eigg.

The darkness could not hide the ominous outline of the long wooden ship, dragged high up on the beach.

"Quick turn right," said Culann urgently, "we don't want to land anywhere near that craft. They may have guards posted."

The nimble craft deftly changed direction under the guidance of the rowers, and made landfall at the eastern edge of the beach. The monks quickly carried the light craft up the beach, and hid it in some foliage next to a rock outcrop.

Culann was the acknowledged leader, now they were on Eigg. He issued instructions in whispered tones;

"Keep together; make no noise and keep your staffs handy.

Fergus held his long sword in both hands, and Culann had his short gladius in his right hand, with his staff in the other.

"Do we go first and check the monastery buildings?" whispered Marcus.

"No - we check if there is anyone guarding the boat," replied Culann equally quietly.

"What happens if we find someone?"

"We kill them," stated Culann in a matter-of-fact tone.

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

"There are our guards," he whispered. I'll take care of them. You stay here and watch to see there are no more. If so, I rely on you to protect me."

Fergus frowned at being left out of the action, but understood the sound strategy. He nodded. Culann quietly told the rest of the monks to remain here, hidden. If anything happened to him, Fergus was in charge. They nodded agreement.

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

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

A few minutes later all had assembled on board the boat. Fergus looked at the wooden rowing benches build into the side or gunwales of the craft, and the tall wooden mast. The sail was folded and lying near the bow.

"Yes, this is similar to the Norse boats I have seen before." the young Pict stated.

"Good," said Culann. Then turning to Marcus, asked

"Where is your monastery?" The monk pointed north.

"Over that ridge, about three hundred paces."

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

"How do we do that?" asked Marcus.

"We destroy their boat." replied Culann.

Fergus spoke up,

"I can cut holes in an _Eilean a' Cheò_ curach, but I can't cut holes in this wooden ship. Plus if I try the others may hear me."

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

"What are those four larger buildings?" asked Culann. Marcus kneeling next to him, replied,

"The nearest building is the scriptorium, next to it the church, then the refectory (eating hall), and furthest away is the workshop."

"Hmmm . . ." mused Culann, "there seems to be light coming from the scriptorium and the refectory. That means our _'friends'_ are inside both buildings. We will check the scriptorium first. Follow me - single file."

The small group set off at a smart pace, and quickly covered the open ground to the scriptorium. They crouched down, hard up against the side wall. It was a narrow building, about fifty paces long with four windows either side. This design let in good natural daylight, to aid the monks sitting on stools at benches as they copied texts and manuscripts.

Culann carefully rose and peered in through one of the windows. He ducked down quickly, and with a steely voice advised Fergus and the monks,

"There are five warriors inside. They are armed. They seem to be tearing codex (books) apart. Some pages they are throwing on a fire set in the middle of the room at the far end. Other pages are being stuffed into a large bag. Why would they be doing that?" to no one in particular.

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

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

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

Our two heroes quietly opened the door. They were within striking range before one of the warriors pointed with one hand holding a codex, and yelled a warning. It was too late. Culann drove his short sword into the back of the neck of the nearest warrior. Fergus decapitated another, then tipped a bench on top of another two, who sprawled kicking and squealing on the floor, before being silenced with his long, now blood red sword. The fifth warrior grabbed his axe, but it was not the best weapon to wield in a confined space. Culann easily parried the warrior's attempted two-handed swing, with his staff, then drove the point of his gladius into the man's open mouth. After a quick glance at Fergus, he stubbed out the burning codex with his staff. Fergus knelt and grabbed a still glowing piece of wood. He winked at Culann "We may need this."

The two victors re-joined the monks waiting speechless outside the door. Then Marcus uttered a very un-monk-like curse, and spat _"Good - they deserved that!"_

The group crept quietly past the church. Noise could be heard now coming from the refectory.

"Sounds like the others have discovered your mead Brother Marcus. They seem to be having a party," observed one of the Ardslignish monks.

Marcus said nothing. He was staring at the entrance of the wooden church, which faced the now brightening sun rise. The bloodied bodies of perhaps six monks lay sprawled on the church floor. Marcus fell to his knees and with his hand raised to the heavens, uttered a terrible cry. Then quickly he rose, and began running toward the refectory.

Culann and the others ran after him. Knowing it was pointless to try and stop the anguished monk, plus his cry had probably alerted the warriors inside the refectory. Assuming surprise was lost, Culann called to Marcus,

"Go inside and entice them out. Don't fight them by yourself."

As Marcus disappeared inside the refectory doorway, Culann issued orders to the other monks to kneel on either side of the door, with their staffs shin high. He wanted to trip any warriors who emerged from the refectory. "But don't trip any of us." Then waving to Fergus, they too stepped inside the hall.

Fergus first handed the glowing stick to the nearest monk. "Hold this." he instructed.

Pandemonium had already broken out. It was dim inside the hall, and at first glance one could notice the eating benches lined up along both walls. At the far end were perhaps twenty warriors, in various stages of sobriety. Some were lying on the floor as if sleeping, or more likely passed out. Others were sitting on stools, or tops of benches. Most had mugs of mead in one hand and food in the other. The nearest ones had turned, and were laughing at the raging monk standing in front of them, spittle running out of his mouth, cursing and swearing. They couldn't understand his Irish Gael tongue, but the tone and body language were obvious. One hand held his staff and the other fist he thumped at his chest as if to say, _'Come on, here I am, take me on, you killers of unarmed monks'_.

No warrior felt threatened by a single monk. A couple wondered how he had escaped their original killing spree, and jokingly asked, 'Who was going to do the honours on this one?'

A few noticed another beardless monk in his white robe, and a youth, also enter. This was too much. What was it with these weird monks? They just present themselves to be sacrificed. The two new comers walked purposefully toward the nearest warriors. Too late, the swords held at the ready were noticed.

The warriors at the far end were confused. There was noise and screams in front. The flashing of blades could be seen in the dim light. Out friends in front are having all the fun, slicing up these stupid monks. But wait, what is this? Those monks are still standing. They are the ones swinging the swords. And one is belting us with that wooden staff.

"We are being attacked!" yelled one warrior before he was felled with the staff. Two more or less sober warriors, leaped up onto a bench with their axes held high.

"Legs." yelled Culann and in the blink of an eye, both warriors had their leg tendons sliced, as the tall monk and the Pict passed in front. They fell, screaming, twitching and bleeding, to the floor.

Culann and Fergus despatched more stumbling warriors, but then stood back-to-back, as they were gradually surrounded by the milling enemy. Suddenly, Marcus burst through the throng, but as he reached Fergus he was cut down.

"Back outside," yelled Cullen, "and bring Marcus."

Each grabbed the bleeding monk by an arm, and surprised their adversaries by changing direction, and slashing their way back to the door. Culann had discarded his staff to help drag Marcus. They ran the last few steps and were abruptly in the early morning sunlight.

As they turned, four warriors running in pursuit tripped, and sprawled over one another on the ground. The monks with the staff had done their work well. Culann and Fergus quickly dispatched the struggling combatants. One further warrior stuck his head out the door, and Fergus deftly sliced it off. The rest of the warriors inside were stunned to see their comrade, spurting blood where his head used to be, take a step back inside and collapse.

For a breathless few moments there was a standoff. The warriors inside trying to determine what had happened, and who had attacked them. More importantly, how many were outside waiting? It was dim inside but outside was sunlight. However, all they could see was the bodies of their comrades lying lifeless, on the ground outside the door.

Outside, Fergus asked "What do we do now?"

Everyone looked at Culann.

"We stay here and kill them as they come out, or until they kill us." Well, that was clear to everyone.

Brother Daray of Ardslignish squatted down next to the bleeding Marcus. "I think he is alive, but I don't know for how long."

"What if they don't come out?" asked another monk.

"They'll come out." stated Fergus as he reached for the glowing stick still held by the Ardslignish monk. He doubled down so he was below window height and ran to the far end of the refectory. There he stood and thrust his glowing stick into the lowest levels of the thatching that covered the roof. Within a few heartbeats, small flames flickered upwards. Fergus ran back, stopping every ten steps or so, to repeat the process. By the time he had returned, the far end thatching was well aflame, and heavy smoke was rising up the roofing.

"Good lad," murmured Culann.

Inside, order was being restored. Their leader was one of the fallen, but the more senior warriors calmed the rest down, and began planning what to do next. The consensus was - do nothing. "We are safe for the time being inside here. Just cover the windows and the doorway, to make sure no one can enter. No one can hack through these wooden walls. We will just stay here in our secure little fort, and wait for our comrades at the boat and those checking that library over yonder, to come and rescue us."

"Why haven't they come already?" asked one warrior with a wounded shoulder.

"It's only just become daylight. They'll be here soon," responded the senior warrior confidently.

That was a good plan. Or at least it was, until they noticed the roof was burning, and the large room began filling with smoke. Discipline disappeared. Every able-bodied man ran for the door.

* * * *

Culann and the monks tended to Brother Marcus, while Fergus guarded the door. Marcus had opened his eyes and spoke quietly, as they tried to stem the blood flowing from the deep cut in his shoulder. "I am dying, yes?" he asked.

"No, you're not," responded Culann. We are patching you up, and will take you to the infirmary at Lios mór. They can fix any wounds."

"Are the foreign devils all dead?" even more faintly.

"There are some left in the hall," advised Culann. "As soon as they emerge, we will dispatch them, and then take you to safety."

Marcus moved his lips, but the words were so faint, Culann had to place his ear next to the dying monk's mouth.

"I want to die here on Eigg. I want to lie next to my friends. In the church. Leave me in the church. Then burn us all together. I don't want to be put in a grave."

Culann spoke to Brother Daray, the senior monk,

"He said he wants to be left in the church - and burnt. He doesn't want to be buried." Culann was incredulous.

"Oh, he comes from Bangor," replied Daray. "It used to be the tradition hundreds of years ago; everyone was cremated. It is only since the arrival of Christianity the custom changed back to burial."

Just then Fergus yelled, "Heads up! Here they come," and raised his sword menacingly. Two monks again knelt on either side of the door with a staff just less than knee high. The others, including Culann, stood back a few steps with weapons ready.

The thumping of heavy feet was clearly heard, and this time war cries rang out, as the group of large men jostled to fit through the door, that was only wide enough for two normal monks. As before, the first two or three tripped over the staff, but their fellow followers jumped on top of them, in desperation to get out of the burning building.

Fergus and Culann cut down four, and the other two monks swinging their staffs, battered more, but the numbers were too great. At least eight axe wielding warriors burst through the thin defences, and raced downhill to the beach and their boat.

Fergus clinically despatched the warriors writhing on the ground, then looked at Culann. "What now?"

Culann absently wiped the blood from his gladius on his habit and sheathed it.

"It is best if the monks carry Brother Marcus to the church. You and I Fergus, will attend to those fellows," nodding in the direction of the beach.

And so, on this morning of carnage, the monks gently carried their dying colleague, and laid him reverently among the bodies in the small wooden church. They then began collecting those monks who had been slain out in the open and placed them inside the church. The bodies were arranged in line with the doorway, so they all faced east.

Meanwhile Culann and Fergus cautiously made their way to the beach. As they reached the crest leading down to the surf, they crawled forward and peered down to the activity below.

"Damn," said Fergus "the boat didn't burn. They watched as the eight warriors were struggling to push their craft into deep water. Smoke still drifted from the smouldering sail, but apart from that, the boat appeared to be intact. Culann stood up as the men clambered up the boat's sides and onboard. The current caught the craft and swung it toward the open channel, between Eigg and the mainland.

One warrior slipped and fell back into the water. His colleagues watched from the gunwales as he thrashed and gurgled in the ships wake, before finally disappearing beneath the waves. No doubt weighted down by his chain mail vest.

Disappointment lined Culann's face, as he watched his quarry appear to escape. The craft was now about ten boat lengths from shore and gaining speed, borne by the current.

Fergus suddenly pointed excitedly, "Look, something's happening at the back of the boat. They are all gathering there. I think they are trying to scoop water out."

"Yes," said Culann suddenly smiling, "your second attempt to destroy the boat by setting fire to the stern rowing bench seems to have worked. There must be a hole burnt through the hull."

The warriors appeared more frantic in their endeavours, but the stern was now noticeably lower in the water. The current was slowly turning the boat as it was dragged further out to mid channel. Then the stern dipped beneath the waves.

One of the warriors grabbed an oar and leapt overboard. The others then jostled to find a piece of equipment which may help them float and followed. It was to no avail. None appeared to be able to swim, and their heavy clothing weighted them down. One by one they disappeared beneath the waves.

"They would have been better off staying inside the boat." mused Fergus remembering his episode with Culann in a submerged curach, off Lios mór, all those months ago.

Culann clasped Fergus by the shoulder, "You've done it again lad. Let's go back and tell our colleagues the good news."

They turned after one last look at the ocean, empty now of all but circling sea birds

* * * *

Culann and Fergus - Eigg aftermath

The monks advised, Brother Marcus had sadly passed on to the afterlife. They placed him next to a badly disfigured monk, they took to be his cousin and Head Monk of Eigg, Nuada. All the lifeless forms scattered in front of the buildings, had been placed reverently inside the church, with their compatriots. They then held a discussion, and decided to collect the deceased warriors, from both scriptorium and refectory, and placed them inside the church as well.

"It is up to God to judge them, not us," was the response, when asked _'why?'_ by Culann, on his return.

In deference to Brother Marcus dying wish, came the task of collecting brushwood and placing it strategically inside the church building. They would need this to ensure all bodies were properly cremated. Just setting fire to the thatched roof was not enough. As proof, the roof of the refectory was mostly burnt and still smouldering, but the walls and much of the interior was intact.

It was time for _Sext_ (midday prayer, around noon) when all was ready. Everyone stood solemnly as Brother Daray recited a short funeral service. Then the monks, including Culann, collectively lit the kindling inside the church. As the fire took hold they stepped outside, and made the sign of the cross. The building and its contents were consumed. After a short while, the burning roof collapsed, sending sparks showering skyward, joining the heavy smoke.

Culann gathered everyone together, before they made their way back to their camouflaged curach.

"Brothers I am troubled as to what our colleagues may think of our behaviour here, taking so many lives, even if we believed these foreigners deserved to die. I think it is best if we say it was me alone who killed these warriors, and you were forced to look on. Any blame should be mined alone."

Fergus took a step forward, "Don't forget I took as many, if not more lives than you Culann. If anyone is to blame it should be me. Plus, as a Pict, I am expected to fight. I have no restrictions such as you monks."

After a brief consultation, the four Ardslignish monks nodded, and their senior monk, Daray, declared,

"Brother Culann, we monks have already discussed this matter, while you and Fergus were on the beach. While we appreciate both you and Fergus, wishing to take responsibility of the killings, and thereby absolve us of any blame, if blame there is, we cannot in all conscience allow you to do this. We all knew what would happen, the moment we stepped foot on this island. Most likely, we would all be killed, or our enemies would be killed. Either way, we did it to avenge our slain brethren on Eigg. The Lord has seen fit, to grant us success over our adversaries. As compensation He has taken Brother Marcus, to sit at His table in heaven."

"We monks concluded it would be best to say; _'Fergus skilfully disabled the Norsemen's boat causing it to sink with a number of them aboard, as they tried to flee. They all drowned. Furthermore, Brother Marcus was so distraught to see the bodies of his colleagues he collapsed, and died of a broken heart. But before dying, he requested he and his slain brethren, be cremated in the church'_.

"We simply carried out his wishes.

"I sincerely hope you both _(nodding to Culann and Fergus)_ , agree with this scenario, which we believe, while being perhaps an abridged version of what took place, has the advantage of containing no lies."

All the monks nodded in agreement.

Culann turned to Fergus, "What say you Fergus? Our colleagues seem determined to ensure that I am not censured in any way, by our church, for any un-Christian transgressions I may have committed. I am comfortable this island has been cleansed of the evil that was originally perpetrated here. Do you see your role in these events diminished in any way by their suggested scenario?"

"I don't go around counting notches in my sword, Culann," smiled Fergus. "I can live with the version the learned Brothers suggested."

"Then it is agreed," concluded Culann. "What took place here, will be as our colleagues suggested."

* * * *

The curach bearing the four monks, Fergus and Culann, arrived back in Ardslignish early that evening, less than a full day after leaving. No one wanted to stay on that island of death, a moment longer than necessary.

Brother Daray duly related what had happened on Eigg, to an astounded Abbot Morann, and the assembled monks.

"Praise be," said the Abbot, "I was fearful for your lives at the hands of those scoundrels. I am saddened by Brother Marcus demise, but perhaps it is best he remains with his friends. Brother Culann and Fergus, you have not commented. Is everything all right?"

"We are fine sir," replied Culann quietly, "just pleased this is all over."

Fergus nodded, then added with a sly grin, "I think Culann just wants to get back to Lios mór."

"Of course, of course. I shall arrange it". said Morann. "We can have a curach ready tomorrow."

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* * * * *
Chapter 10 - - Lios mór finale

Sisters Tamara and Máia, laughing, said to a distraught Fea, "That's not a Ghost;  
that's actually Brother Culann and young Fergus climbing up the hill."

Five days had passed since the curach carrying Sisters Fea and Tamara, together with Brother Baile, the injured Brother Bryan, Sinead's brother Sreng and the two Poolewe Picts, plus the original sailors from Iona, arrived back in Lios mór.

Fea was determined to keep as busy as possible to try and shut out the terrible ache in her heart, on hearing of the death of Culann. One patient she paid particular attention to was Brother Bryan and his broken leg. It was refreshing to treat someone with an actual injury, not caused by sword or spear wounds. Bryan was responding well, although it would be some weeks before he could walk without the aid of a crutch. There was no infection, and his leg appeared to be straight, after what was a very severe break in his leg below the knee.

It was well past _Compline;_ the patients were asleep, and lights dimmed when Sister Máia swept into the infirmary.

"Where is Fea?" she asked Sister Tamara.

"She is in the next room checking the herbs, why?" asked Tamara.

"We have to get her out of here. A boat has just arrived, and two men from Ardslignish are being brought to the infirmary. I don't want to see her crying again. That's what happens every time Ardslignish is mentioned."

"Yes," agreed Tamara, "she doesn't need to be reminded of poor Culann. Come with me. We will take her outside to see the full moon."

Tamara and Máia spoke to Fea who was listlessly checking the supply of herbs and spices, used in treating patients.

"There is a wonderful full moon outside Sister dear. Come with us and get some fresh air. You've been cooped up in here all day."

Fea allowed herself to be taken outside. Trees obscured most of the sky, so the women walked up the nearby hill which was devoid of trees. The large full moon could be seen quite clearly, rising over the nearby high ground, casting its bright light over the monastery buildings, and farmlands. The sisters continued to climb until they were at the top of their hill. There was no wind and very little cloud cover.

* * * *

It was dark when Culann and Fergus climbed out of the curach, onto the beach at Lios mór. While the sailors made safe their craft and unloaded the supplies, our two heroes quickly made their way to the infirmary, which lay in dark shadow in the middle of the monastic compound buildings.

As they opened the door a startled sister put her hand to her mouth.

"Are you from Ardslignish?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"Yes," responded Culann glancing around the dimly lit infirmary. "Where is Sister Fea?"

"She is not here," responded the sister backing away. "She doesn't want to see you."

"What!" exclaimed Culann, suddenly grabbing one of the wooden pillars to steady himself.

"But I am Culann."

"We know who you are. When Fea was told you were coming, she left so she wouldn't have to see you."

Culann's shoulders sagged. He turned slowly and with Fergus looking on incredulously, made his way slowly to the door.

"Fergus, Fergus, is that you?" called Sinead

Just then, another slight figure ran into the room. "Fergus, Fergus, is that you?"

Fergus looked around to find a slim blonde girl in a nun's habit, standing in front of him. "Aye lassie, it's me," he smiled, as he recognised the young girl Sinead from Poolewe,.

"We were told you had been killed. What are you doing here?"

Fergus shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the now empty door.

"I came with Culann. He travelled all this way to meet Sister Fea - but apparently she doesn't want to see him again."

"Rubbish!" said Sinead with feeling. "She has done nothing but cry since she was told Culann had died. A couple of sisters took her outside when they heard some people were coming from Ardslignish. They didn't want to have her upset again. I saw them go up on yonder hill," pointing at a nearby window.

Fergus smiled in gratitude, before rushing out the door to find Culann.

* * * *

Fea watched the moon for a while, then shifted her gaze to the mainland, which was just a dark silhouette. Again, she looked down toward the monastery building, when she suddenly gave a little cry, covered her eyes and turned away.

"Whatever is the matter, Fea?" asked Máia in a concerned voice.

"I've just had another vision," Fea cried.

"What sort of vision?" this time from Tamara.

"I saw Culann's ghost," said Fea with a sob in her voice, pointing behind her.

Máia and Tamara both looked skyward in the direction of Fea's outstretched hand. They could see nothing. Both sisters looked at each other, greatly concerned. Perhaps Fea was losing her mind, poor thing. It must be terrible to lose one's loved one.

Just then Máia glanced back down, toward the infirmary. She gasped, and pulling Tamara's sleeve, pointed downhill. Tamara looked and was speechless for a moment and burst out laughing. Turning to Fea she cried,

"That's not a ghost. That's Culann and young Fergus climbing the hill towards us."

Fea cautiously turned, and peered wide eyed at the white robed figure which had now just gained the crest of the hill.

"Is it really you Culann?" she cried.

Culann paused, held out his arms and replied,

"It's really me." Fea ran toward him and they embraced on the Lios mór hill, in front of the now clapping Máia and Tamara, bathed by a beautiful full moon.

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* * * * *
10.1 – When a girl marries

Culann and Fea \- united at last

The small wooden meeting hall on Lios mór was packed. Abbot Jowan finally signalled that Culann and Fea, who had been waiting outside with some of her 'milk maid' sisters, should enter. As they walked down the centre isle toward the front seats allocated for them, murmuring broke out on both sides. More people crowded at the open door, and peered through the windows. It seemed the entire population of Lios mór was present.

Abbot Jowan called the congregation to order, "Brothers and Sisters, please be seated. Before we proceed further, I wish to summarise the discussions that have taken place here, while Brother Culann and Sister Fea were waiting outside.

"As we all know, I have called this special meeting to discuss the fact that Brother Culann and Sister Fea, have requested they be married. The Celtic Church does not forbid its brothers and sisters from marrying, if they so choose. However, in all cases of which I am aware, that person marries someone who is outside the church, not a member of the clergy. They normally leave our cloisters to better look after their new family."

"I am aware that occasionally, if the marriage does not work out, and this applies invariably to our formers sisters, should the wife, or ex-wife, or widow, expresses a desire to re-join our community, we welcome her back."

"The problem I face here is, while Brother Culann and Sister Fea have indicated they wish to marry, which they may do with our blessing, they have also requested to be allowed to remain in the church. I was not aware of any rules or regulation regarding such procedures. So, over the past five days I have researched our church _canons_ (a Church decree or law), the New Testament, plus all the information we have, of any synods of note, that have taken place over the past six hundred years, which may relate to this issue."

Here the Abbot paused to gather his thoughts.

"I am aware of the Synod of Whitby, which took place late last year, and resulted in the Church of Rome being appointed as the final arbiter, on things such as determining the date we celebrate Easter, and the manner of tonsures. However, I, and a number of other brethren of the Celtic Church, do not intend to blindly follow the dictates of the Church of Rome.

"As Abbot of Lios mór I will determine, in consultation with you, Brothers and Sisters, the manner in which we conduct church affairs, and spread the word of our Lord, to our parishioners throughout this country.

"Let me share with you some of the important historical items I have discovered, with the help of our learned brothers from our scriptorium.

"Firstly, Jesus disciple Saint Peter, _'the Rock'_ , to whom the Lord gave the Keys to Heaven, and was the first Pope, was in fact a married man. This is stated in the Gospel of Matthew and Mark where Jesus cures the mother -in-law of Peter, who was in bed with a fever. [Matthew 8:14, Mark 1:30] We know many of the men and women who first spread the gospel in those early years were married. Saint Paul states in his first letter to the Corinthians [ 1-9:5] "Don't we have the right to take a believing wife along with us, as do other apostles and the Lord's brothers and _Cephas?_ [1]"

[1] [ Peter means "stone" in Greek, while Cephas is "stone" in Aramaic. Paul did not have a good relationship with Peter. ]

Culann and Fea looked at each other and smiled.

Abbot Jowan continued, "I look at Timothy _1-3:2_ , and I quote: _'Now the overseer must be above reproach'_. It is acknowledged that the term 'overseer' in the New Testament means 'Bishop'. As you know we in the Celtic Church do not have Bishops, which in the Church of Rome are senior members of the clergy in charge of a _diocese_.[2]"

[2] [A diocese is the district or see under the supervision of a Bishop. It is divided into Parishes.].

"The Roman Church is big on organisation, and models itself along the lines of the later period of the Roman Empire, which the term 'Dioceses' was used to group several provinces.

"We in the Celtic Church are small on organisation, but big on spreading the gospel, healing the sick, and copying the Word of God, _plus any other historical document we can lay our hands on."_

At this point the entire congregation burst into laughter and applause.

"However, I digress", smiled Jowan. "In quoting Timothy, using our current understanding, it would read: 'Now the _Bishop_ must be above reproach, _the husband of but one wife_ , temperate, self-controlled, respectable, hospitable, able to teach, not given to drunkenness, not violent but gentle, not quarrelsome, not a lover of money. He must manage his own family well and _see that his children obey him_ with proper respect. If anyone does not know how to manage his own family, how can he take care of God's church?"

Utter silence greeted these pronouncements, which was not common knowledge, to the gathered congregation.

"Now let us look at the other side of the argument," continued Jowan, "Brother Hesus has provided me with the Greek copy of the Council of Elvira meeting, in Spain in 306 CE. A group of western Church of Rome Bishops, met and adopted the first _anti-sex_ church decree or law, although they stopped short of banning marriage. By that I mean priests could remain married but had to practice celibacy. That seems quite pointless to me and totally impractical."

Abbot Jowan continued, "Our own beloved Saint Patrick, who two hundred years ago in Éire (Ireland), established churches in conjunction with _civitates,_ [3] like his own in Armagh. They were small enclosures in which groups of Christians, often of both sexes and including the married, lived together, served in various roles, and ministered to the local population."

_[3] [_ _civitates_ _;_ a collective body of citizens, where belief in God is the contract binding them all together]

"I have concluded then, that there is no reason why Brother Culann and Sister Fea cannot marry, and remain in their respective positions within the Celtic Church. If they so wish, I would be pleased to carry out the wedding ceremony now."

A chorus of "Amen's" rang out from the assembled crowd as both Culann and Fea nodded agreement.

_Note_ _:_ From early periods, the kin nature of many monasteries meant that some married men were part of the community, _(but obliged to abstain from sex during fasting periods)_. Originally, the land on which the monasteries were built, was given to the presiding Abbot, by the local king or war-lord. Some abbeys passed from father to son, and then even to grandson.  
Celibacy again enters the conflict in 1018 CE, when Pope Benedict VIII issued a series of decrees, _all of which were primarily aimed at avoiding the shift of valuable property from church control_. In 1039 CE, Pope Leo IX imposed celibacy on all clergy, a decision that contributed to the Great Schism of 1054, when the Catholic Church split. _The priests who formed the Eastern Orthodox Church have always maintained, that the Catholic celibacy rule is man-made, as opposed to Divine law_.  
The Eastern Orthodox Church does not forbid its priests to marry.

* * * *

The entire congregation moved out of the meeting hall. As was the custom for weddings, Culann and Fea stood before the Abbot just outside the church door. The multitude gathered around, some moving to higher ground to ensure a good view of the proceedings. The weather was kind.

Abbot Jowan first addressed the crowd, "Normally I would ask someone from the audience to deliver a brief overview of the bride-to-be's life achievements. This is to ensure she is fit and proper person to be joined in holy matrimony. However, as I had selected Sister Fea to organise and supervise the building of the Infirmary on Lios mór, I have personally researched her background, and been privileged to work very closely with her over the years, I believe I am possibly best able to list her attributes.

"Some four years ago I learnt about a terrible plague that swept through one of our greatest monasteries in Eire, _Saint Brigid's_. I was advised by some of the many monks that travelled through this region, that a great number of the clergy, male and female, were saved by the skill and dedication of a young nun called Fea, and her so called _'milk maids'_.

"At that time, we had no suitable infirmary on Lios mór, and I resolved that we should have one. But I had no one who had the necessary skills to build and supervise such a major venture. Less than twelve months later, two young nuns arrived on Lios mór to pick herbs and spices for their monastery just down the coast on Jura. Imagine my delight, when I discovered that not only had they come originally from Saint Brigid's, but Sister Fea was the leader of the nuns directly involved in saving so many people from that terrible plague. Naturally I immediately arranged for Fea, and the rest of her _'milk maids',_ to move permanently to Lios mór, and supervise the building and running of our infirmary. I have to say, they have done an excellent job, and the Lios mór infirmary is renowned throughout the entire region.

"I also have to mention Fea brought with her, a monk from Jura, Brother Hesus, who despite his physical disabilities has enhanced our scriptorium with his language skills, particularly Greek.

"Sister Fea is a learned, considerate woman with wonderful leadership skills, fearless, as recently seen when she undertook a journey to our outer islands with our Pict visitors, as well as dealing with sometimes stroppy, (bad tempered) wounded warriors, _and_ monks. So, I can wholeheartedly endorse Sister Fea, as a person whom I'm sure will make an excellent wife."

The large group gathered in front of the church, loudly cheered and applauded, obviously in agreement with the Abbot's views.

"Now," continued Jowan, "I will call on someone who knows our prospective groom much better than I. Please make welcome our beloved colleague from Iona, Brother Bryan."

Bryan rose from the bench on which he'd been sitting, and with the aid of a wooden crutch, stood and addressed the crowd.

"Thank you, Abbot Jowan, and my good wishes to all brothers and sisters. I have been fortunate to have known Brother Culann for many years. He first came to Iona from Éire as a Fianna warrior, with a marvellous endorsement from the Abbess of Saint Brigid's. I understand he single-handedly rescued Sister Fea, from a raiding party while she was still a student at Saint Brigid's. However according to our esteemed Abbot Cumméne, Culann was a recipient of a divine intervention or vision, which led him to become a monk at Iona.

"I recall Culann expressed a desire to become a monk, because he had heard of the exploits of our glorious founder, Saint Columba _may his soul rest in peace_ , who was known as a _'_ _warrior monk_ _'_. Culann not only wanted to be a _warrior monk_ , but requested to be able to carry his weapon. This caused quite a stir at Iona. Finally, Abbot Cumméne agreed he would be allowed to do so, but in the Abbot's own words ' _as long as I can't see it_ '."

A murmur of laughter rang out at this revelation.

"I have had the good fortune to have Culann accompany me on a number of ventures, where his presence not only ensured the safety of our brothers, but by doing so ensured the success of those ventures. I must mention the most notable, when Culann accompanied me and two other Iona monks, when we travelled to Lindisfarne, and then onto Whitby, to attend that Synod last year.

"While at Whitby, Culann saved a young Pict lad called Fergus, from a band of British warriors led by their bloodthirsty Anglo war-lords. I mention this particularly because I notice that youth, Fergus mac Ciniod, is present here today."

Bryan pointed to a group off to his left, and the young Pict smiled, and raised his hand in acknowledgement.

Brother Bryan continued,

"By upsetting the Anglo brother of King Oswy, who commanded this scurvy band of brigands, Culann could have put our entire party, which included monks from Lindisfarne as well, in harm's way. However, he decided to sail back to Lindisfarne together with Fergus, before we all left to return, thus saving us from any danger. I might mention they sailed back in the _one-man_ curach that young Fergus used to sail, or rather paddle, alone, all the way from Lindisfarne to Whitby, so he could observe the Synod."

A round of applause broke out as people acknowledged the perseverance of the Pict lad. This was proving most entertaining. The Celts loved adventure stories.

"But, when the rest of our contingent had safely returned to Lindisfarne some days later, we were shocked to discover Abbot Colmán of Lindisfarne, decided he would resign his Abbacy and return to Eire. He could not bear to continue his work under the laws and restrictions of the Church of Rome.

"We were then advised, that a number of Anglo/British warriors were already opposite Lindisfarne on the mainland. Abbot Colmán requested Culann and Fergus greatly assist the monastery, by carrying twelve of our most precious codices back to Iona. We are aware that people who might be sympathetic to the Church of Rome, may destroy any codices we have copied, which are not endorsed by Rome. Culann and Fergus both immediately volunteered for this very dangerous venture. I remember waving them farewell in the early hours of the following morning, as they set out on their perilous journey by boat. I honestly thought their task was hopeless. As you may recall, large number of Angles and Britons had invaded the country, north of the river Forth. I never expected to see them or those codices again."

Note: The Church of Rome had many scriptoriums in their monasteries, in cities throughout Europe. But the scribes working in those scriptoriums were only allowed to reproduce copies of the Old and New Testament. Everything else was considered blasphemous.  
The monks in the Celtic Church on the other hand, copied not only the Old and New Testament, but any other documents they could lay their hands on; Roman, Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic - everything. _It is due to the Celtic monks that we have any knowledge at all, of early Roman, Greek or Middle Eastern history_.

Murmuring broke out among the crowd at this point. Abbot Jowan rose and waved the assembly to be quiet, then indicated to Brother Bryan he should continue.

"Needless to say," responded Bryan in a slightly louder voice, "I was wrong in my assumption, as you see both Culann and Fergus are with us today. The codicils are also safely ensconced on Iona. This is neither the time nor place to relate the adventures our two brave colleagues experienced in achieving their formidable task.

"However it _is_ the time for me to endorse my fellow monk, Brother Culann, by saying he is one of the bravest and steadfast friends I have had the pleasure of meeting. I can only wish him and the lovely Sister Fea all the very best for their future together. And I speak also for all the monks on Iona."

More applause greeted this oration as Bryan took his seat.

Abbot Jowan raised both hands to quieten the crowd, before asking Fea and Culann to stand before him. There was silence.

"Brothers and Sisters, we are gathered here to-day to witness my solemn duty to join these two people in holy matrimony."

Jowan asked Fea and Culann to clasp each other's hands. He then took a long piece of embroidered cloth from around his neck, _which was made for this purpose_ , and wound it around the couple's clasped hands.

"This symbolises the binding together in marriage of Fea and Culann. Do you both accept this symbol as a contract before God, to honour and obey your partner, forever and ever, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

"I do," responded Fea quietly, and Culann rather more loudly.

"Then I declare you man and wife," stated Abbot Jowan with a large smile. The happy couple, possibly embarrassed at being the centre of attention in front of such a large audience, simply smiled at each other, and continued holding hands.

Abbot Jowan's final decree was "I have taken this opportunity to ask our monks to prepare a meal in the refectory. You are all welcome to join."

And that is how Fea and Culann were married.

What will their future bring?

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FINIS

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment  
to leave me a review at your favourite e-retailer.  
With kind 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 Executive Director of the business he founded in 1993, **dMAC Group in Asia**.

Duncan has had a passion for history since childhood. 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.

Duncan has written this 7th century historical novel, with the hope that particularly younger people, if they find it interesting enough to finish, will have acquired as a bonus valuable knowledge about a fascinating era.

_Photos of some of Duncan's special events:_  
_Umrah_ \- (mini hajj) Duncan and Shinta performed _Umrah_ in 2013, see photos of this special event when they visited _Jeddah_ , _Mecca_ and _Madinah_ ; plus, photos of Shinta receiving her MBA from _Universitè Grenoble Alps_ in 2015; also our 2016 visit to _Scotland_ and _England_ , to see some of the sites mentioned in this e-book; finally, the WW2 _Dutch War Graves_ at _Ereveld Ancol, Jakarta,_ in 2017, are shown on Duncan's Photo Digest >>>

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* * * * *

Other books by Duncan MacDonald

Culann, Celtic Warrior Monk \- Saga of the 7th Century

Anzac & Lone Pine Revisited \- 1975

dMAC Digest Vol 4, No 1  
▫ Tennis Elbow ▫ Cure Anxiety without drugs ▫ Lose weight naturally

dMAC Digest Vol 4, No 2  
▫ 1918 Spanish Flu ▫ Leprosy or Hansen's Disease ▫ Anaemia & Iron Deficiency

dMAC Digest Vol 4, No 3  
▫ First Fleet 1788 ▫ A B C's of Hepatitis ▫ Late life exercise

dMAC Digest Vol 4, No 4  
▫ Diponegoro War ▫ Dengue Fever ▫ Asthma

dMAC Digest Vol 4, No 5  
▫ MERS ▫ Kidney Stones ▫ Medical Milestones of 20th century

dMAC Digest Vol 4, No 6  
▫ Waterloo

dMAC Digest Vol 5, No 1  
▫ Breast is Best ▫ Tourette's Syndrome ▫ Stress Management

dMAC Digest Vol 5, No 2  
▫ Meningitis ▫ Alzheimer's Disease ▫ Dementia

dMAC Digest Vol 5, No 3  
▫ Djakarta Journal # 1

dMAC Digest Vol 6, No 1  
▫ Djakarta Journal # 2

dMAC Digest Vol 6, No 2  
▫ Diabetes

dMAC Digest Vol 7, No 1  
▫ History Behind The Lindisfarne Gospels

More information on Duncan MacDonald  
is available on: www.dmacdigest.com

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* * * * *

Bibliography

_The Anglo-Saxon Age_ , A Very Short Introduction, John Blair, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2000

_Bede The Venerable_ , Translated by Dom David Hurst, Cistercian Publications, Kalamazoo, USA, 1985

_Britain AD, A Quest for Arthur, England, & the Anglo Saxons_, Francis Pryor, Harper Perennial, London, 2004

_Iron Age Communities in Britain_ , Barry Cuncliffe, Book Club Associates, London, 1975

_Celtic Myth & Legend_, Charles Squire, New Page Books, Franklin Lakes NJ, 2001

_The Celts_ , Aedeen Cremin, original published by Landsdown Publishing, Sydney, 1997

_The Celts_ , Nora Chadwick, Penguin Books, Harmondsworth UK, 1978

_The Celts Conquerors of Ancient Europe_ , Christiane Eluere, Translated from the French by Daphne Briggs, Harry M. Abrams, New York, 1993

_The Celts The People Who Came Out of the Darkness_ , Gerhard Herm, Book Club Associates, London, 1976

_The Epics of Celtic Ireland_ , Jean Markale, Inner Traditions International, Rochester Vermont, 2000

_Celtic Fashions_ , Tom Tierney, Dover Publications, New York, 2002

_The Rise of the Celts_ , Henri Hubert, Dover edition 2002, translated from the French by M.R. Dobie, originally published in London, 1934

_The World of the Celts_ , Simon James, Thames & Hudson, London, 1993

_The Book of Creation, An Introduction to Celtic Spirituality_ , J. Philip Newell, The Canterbury Press, Norwich UK, 1999

_They Built on Rock, Celtic Church in the Dark Ages_ , Diana Leatham, The Celtic Art Society, Glasgow, 1948

_Listening for the Heartbeat of God, A Celtic Spirituality_ , Philip Newell, SPCK, London, 1997

_Sea Road of the Saints, Celtic Holy Men in the Hebrides_ , John Marsden, Floris Books, Edinburgh, 1995

_Columba_ , Nigel Tranter, Hodder & Stoughton, Sevenoaks UK, 1987

_Columba's Island_ , E. Mairi MacArthur, Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh, 2007

_The Stones of Iona_ , John MacKenzie Semple, The Iona Community, Glasgow, 1963

_Holy Bible, New International Version Anglicised_ , International Bible Society, Hodder & Stoughton Publishers, London, 2008

_Ancient Ireland_ , Nick Constable, Chartwell Books, Edison NJ, 1996

_A History of Ireland_ , Edmund Curtis, Methuen & Co, Oxon UK, 2002, imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, 1936

_Hero Tales of Ireland_ , Jeremiah Curtain, Dover edition 1999, unabridged version of original publication by Macmillan & Co, London, 1894

_How the Irish Saved Civilization_ , Thomas Cahill, Hodder & Stoughton, London, 1995

_Historic Costume from Ancient Times to the Renaissance_ , Tom Tierney, Dover Publications, New York, 2003

_The Monks of Melrose_ , Rev. W.G. Allan, James Thin, Edinburgh, 1892

_From Caledonia to Pictland Scotland to 795_ , James E. Fraser, Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh, 2009

_Picts_ , Edited by Christopher Tabraham, HMSO Publications, Edinburgh, 1989

_The Pictish Warrior AD 297 - 841_ , Paul Wagner, Osprey Publishing, Oxford UK, 2002

_Rome's Northern Frontier AD 70-235 Beyond Hadrian's Wall_ , Nic Fields, Osprey Publishing, Oxford UK,2005

_Scotland BC_ , Anna Ritchie, Her Majesty Stationery Office, Edinburgh, 1988

_Scotland A Concise History_ , Fitzroy MacLean, Thames & Hudson, London, 1970

_The Past All Around Us_ , The Readers Digest Association, London, 1979

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Ω ~ Ω ~ Ω ~ Ω ~ Ω
