The stables and outhouses in the yard were stirring into early morning life; the fortress was getting to work. As we climbed the raised walkway to the wall we saw, below us, an apprentice and his older colleague rekindling the blacksmith’s fire. The younger complained that he always had to spend all day at the bellows and he was tired of it; his colleague sneered that such a menial task was all that he could be trusted with. The yard echoed with the sound of the milkmaids’ iron-bound leather buckets being slung into place under the cows. The herdmaster encouraged his sheep with their new lambs and cattle with their calves from their byres and out into the yard and from there outside the castle to the hill pasture. The kitchen door was thrown open and a senior servant bellowed to no-one in particular for a hand of pork for the king’s breakfast. It was a scene whose noise and clatter indicated that Strathclyde - this part of it, at least - was at peace for the moment.
The perimeter wall was not very tall, about fifteen feet, but the view showed why it didn’t need to be. The fortress stood on top of a rock that rose sharply from the narrow coastal plain on the estuary of the Clyde, the river that gave the kingdom its name. From here, Owain’s guards could see many miles upriver and downstream to the east, the south and north, and quite a way to the north as well. Invaders could be spotted hours before they got anywhere close. Even on foggy days (which were by no means either unknown or rare) the task of an attacker would be well-nigh impossible, because of the terrain. A seaborne assault would be faced with cliffs several dozen yards high,that wrapped round three sides. The route up the fourth filed its way up through a narrow cleft between the two halves of Dumbarton Rock, over steep and uneven ground patrolled by palisades and pits. The road to the fortress itself wound its way back and fore up this last approach. It was a killing field. Strathclyde was as secure as it could be from external forces.
The hill stood isolated from the range that rose inland, hemming in the Long Tarn[17] like a sentry on picket-duty - or a lone rearguard, perhaps.
I had Seen a blonde tidal wave wash over most of the south - only to break on the mountains. Maybe Strathclyde would survive the final assault, whenever it came. Maybe it had already: hadn’t the two brothers and their uncle driven the English back eastwards over the mountains in the south of their kingdom?
These were thoughts that could not be resolved at the moment and so should be left for another day. For now, there were other matters on my mind, principally concerning Ieuan and, at the risk of upsetting him again, I remembered something that felt impelled to raise.
“Ieuan,” I started, “there is something that has been bothering me since last night. I must ask you about it.”
“Well, do so. I would rather there was nothing between us that would affect our friendship. What is it?”
I sighed and looked over the river to the far shore before continuing. Nothing was coming to my rescue. I had to deal with it on my own. I turned to my friend and looked him squarely in the eye.
“Owain mentioned last night that you had Divined that no harm would come to him at Scone.” It was Ieuan’s turn to stiffen. He averted his head for a moment, then faced me squarely in his turn. I continued. “Divination comes with the Sight. I have heard of it being raised but only by way of immense effort and great risk, of real danger, when it wasn’t. But you don’t have the Sight, I know you don’t. It was always a source of anguish to you. What’s going on? How are you Divining?”
The druid smiled and said about the worst thing I could have heard. He was looking directly at me, deep into my eyes. His own had lost their dullness and seemed to glow.
“Come now, my prince of Donegal, - “ he was about to continue but I turned away. There was silence while I gazed across the water. My stomach was hollow and I felt sick. I didn’t trust myself to say a word. Ieuan said nothing: the only sound from him was a heavy sigh, then another. I spoke first, but after a long time.
“Ieuan, I know about the phrase of power that used to control me.”
There was a pause, which became a silence. It stretched for minutes and minutes before Ieuan finally spoke again.
“How?”
“By accident. On Iona, one evening when Padhraig and the Abbot and I were talking. They both knew about my history - we were talking about nothing in particular. It was just chatter. I said something; Padhraig repeated the phrase jokingly. He knew nothing of its power - nor did I of course - but I snapped into a trance. It took hours to get me out of it. It was very strong, and I was lucky that there was an older monk there who had been a High Druid. He was very skilled but it took even him most of the night to break the spell. But he did. And now,” I turned again to face my friend, to look him squarely in the eye again, “it has no power over me at all. Other than the power to make me feel desperately, desperately sad and concerned at hearing it now, from your lips, right now.
“Ieuan, what are you hiding? What is it that is so terrible that you would use a forgetting-spell on me - on me,” I punched my own chest with a clenched fist, and my words came thickly, “here, and now, after I’ve asked you about this new Power of yours. What is it, Ieuan?”
Again, he said nothing for some time. He was looking away, across the river, as if seeking assistance himself. At length he spoke, without facing me.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said softly. “You are a Christian, and you have the Sight,” a bitter laugh. “A Christian with the Sight. The gods play games with us Anselm, they play games with all of us. We are their puppets, their shadow play, their mummery to help pass Eternity. The Sight!” he sighed. “The Sight! A Gift from the old gods to their people. Their people. Not you followers of your dead God.”
“He rose from the dead, Ieuan.” The bitter laugh again.
“Risen with healing in his wings: oh yes, I know. And forgiveness, too. Did he forgive those who killed Him? Do you think He could? Or would?”
“He came for us all, Ieuan, with hope and forgiveness for all who repent.”
“Repent!” he snorted. “Repentance! Forgiveness! A deathbed story to fool the gullible. Forgiveness for all! And all you have to say is ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean it’ and you get forgiveness! I wish it could be so, but I’ve seen things for which there can be no forgiveness, not from a multitude of dead gods and a myriad of Resurrections. Give me an honest sinner who will jump into your Christian Pit sooner than a deathbed repentance. No Anselm,” he sighed and continued, “the gods roll their dice and we pay the losers’ share, and Heaven rocks with their laughter. The Earth trembles, and they just laugh. They just laugh. They play games, that’s all.”
“This is the voice of despair, Ieuan. The Devil’s work. Tell me what you’ve done, open your heart to me: ease your mind, at least. There is forgiveness, no matter what you’ve done.”
“Did he forgive Judas, his betrayer? How would you know? How could He? Don’t your own teachings say that, despite his remorse, despite hanging himself as he tried to make amends, he is condemned to the deepest circle of Hell. Don’t they?”