Then the headache came but it was mild, almost as if I’d paid the price of the Vision during it, but it was still bad enough to warrant a small draught from my brown bottle.
I looked out of my small window at the night sky. The moon had set and the firmament was dark, which meant cloud cover. It might rain during the day, which would not be pleasant for the company when we started our walk up the valley that cut deep into the hills towards the south. The going would be muddy and I expected we would find some snow lying as we made our way to higher ground. The darkness also meant that I couldn’t be certain what time it was, but I was pretty sure that it was near to the hour for my morning office: close enough to make no real difference, anyway.
Afterwards I went outside for a walk in the early morning air. Full Spring was the best time for the dawn chorus but even at this early time the sound was sweet. Blackbirds were in evidence, as were robins of course, and a couple of early thrushes were competing for mates that may or may not be there. They had no need of words or structured songs; their very voices were a hymn of praise.
In a short time the eastern sky lightened enough for me to find my way easily. I hadn’t meant to walk so far: the Inn was almost a mile back. I turned to retrace my steps but then, seeing I was at the foot of a relatively low hill, I continued on up to the top.
The day was getting under way at the Inn. Someone came out of the door carrying two buckets and went into a barn. If there was cow’s milk I wanted some. Even after all these years I still found goat’s milk sharp and longed for the creamy, warm taste of the cow. I made my way as quickly as I could back to the friendly little building.
The Innkeeper met me at the door; he was just coming out to attend to some host’s chores.
“Magister, good morning to you,” he said. “You’re up even earlier than I expected. You Christian priests rise earlier than the Druids in these parts. Then again, they stay up later than you. I fear that there is little ready for breakfast yet and even the fire is barely warm. But if you can find your own way into the bar I’m sure we’ll have it comfortable for you shortly. I’m just on my way to get some more wood. It’ll be some time before we serve breakfast, your companions are still a-bed but we can find something to keep you going till then.”
I thanked my host and said that, if the servant had gone to milk the cows, I’d love to have some fresh milk and a piece of fruit to go with it. The Innkeeper laughed and said that I would have my wish.
My companions came down some time after I’d broken my fast, while I was deep in conversation with the Innkeeper. It transpired that his wife was a Christian and all the children had been baptised. He asked me to perform a short service before I left, which he said he would be pleased to attend. It would also serve the purpose of a blessing on our trip.
A short while later I presided over a small and simple service in the open air. Some of my companions came, the total attending his benediction including the Innkeeper’s extended family and servants being no more than three dozen. I noted that the number included the group who were travelling to Melrose, and the woman who had spent the boat-trip moaning.
Those who attended mainly stood, as was the Irish custom, around a table obtained from the Inn. The merchant and his family knelt or stood at various times, which distracted me a little - especially as they seemed a bit confused themselves - but I let it go. The Innkeeper had also provided a small loaf of bread and some beer, in place of wine. The offering was humble but the spirit in which it was taken was enough to grace the grandest Frankish cathedral, I thought. The father of the Melrose party hesitated before dipping his portion of bread into the beer, and the rest of his family looked to him for approval before following suit. Only the toddler showed unrestrained enthusiasm.
The wind was picking at my hair and my habit as I preached on a passage from the Gospel of St. John, in which Christ healed a man who was impotent.
There were those who couldn’t understand how the passage applied to them, as they weren’t impotent - their children demonstrated that - but the message seemed to be accepted by the rest. I wondered if I should read the Parable of the Sower to try and get through to the obstinate ones, but decided against it.
After the service and breakfast, the whole party set off up the valley: We were essentially three groups, one that was going to Luguvallium, in which was included the moaning woman, and one was headed for Dumfries in the valley of the Nith. The third was heading for Melrose. I would be with this group until then, after which I would go on alone.
We set off about two hours after full light, all together for a few miles, until our paths diverged. As I expected, a combination of recent rain and melting snow had made the road muddy. The going was slow and not eased by the constant complaints of the moaning woman from the boat. She’d been at the service in the morning and wanted me constantly by her side. When I was with her she kept up an unceasing stream of praise for me and my calling, and told me how she bore her pains bravely (if not silently, I thought), and offered all her trials up as a sacrifice that she may partake in some way in the Sacrifice of Christ.
“And I have a lot to put up with,” she told me, “what with my son-in-law - as idle a beggar as ever there was, Magister, I have to confess I don’t know why my daughter married him, lovely girl she was, could have had any man in the kingdom (saving yourself and your brothers, of course), but she settles on him and nothing I could say would change her mind. And now here he is dragging me here and there all over the countryside and into foreign lands where they speak strange languages - the Devil’s tongue, I say - and my daughter should never have married him, as I said and it is no way of life for a woman of my years - why, I am nearly forty and many of my friends have gone to their graves, God have mercy on them....”
“Lord, save me from pious women,” I muttered as I escaped from her for the third time. The merchant bound for Melrose overheard and smiled conspiratorially. He came over to join me.
“That was the first time I have attended one of your Church’s services, Father. It was an experience for me.”
“’Father’ is normally addressed to Druids in these parts, my friend. We’re known as ‘Magister’ or ‘Saint’.” The man looked mildly shocked.
“I apologise, sir. Where I am from, Saints are holy men - and women - who have died in Christ and been canonised by our Holy Mother Church, by the Pope himself in Rome, with all his Cardinals by him. So if you don’t mind, Magister is what it will be.”
“In these parts, ‘saint’ means holy man, or member of a Christian community. I take it you’re a follower of the Roman Church?”