“I’ve enjoyed better. I’d sooner not mix with unrepentant brigands, as I believe you are.”
“Indeed I am, driven to it by poverty. I make my living in the gaps the armies leave, until something better turns up. Are you not afraid of me? Aren’t you frightened that I will send you on your way to your God as well as your companions? And who would pray over your pyre, eh?” I didn’t answer and he continued. “Fear not, Father, I see no point in robbing you. And if there’s no point in robbing you, then there’s no point in killing you either. I have enough sins to carry without adding the murder of a poor Irish cleric, for so I see you are. A plump Roman priest now,” he winked a leering grin at me, “that’s a different matter. They have coin jingling in their purse and fine silks and cloth-of-gold on their backs. They’ve barrels of food in their train and they often carry some very nice pieces of gold and silver. They’re worth a risk now, though they go around so well guarded these days. They have so much to protect, you see? Not like you poor monks who wander around with nothing but a few herbs.”
“The Romans collect alms for the poor from their rich patrons, I believe.” I replied.
“Aye, they’re always on the lookout for deserving cases. They don’t seem to find many that are deserving enough though, it seems. So they keep their wealth for the most deserving they come across - themselves. And so they get fatter and even more ripe for the plucking. They have difficulty finding deserving poor. I have none. I can find them very easily.”
“Starting with yourself, I suppose.” I said, and he smiled.
“Charity begins at home, Magister. But don’t think for a moment that I think only bad of the Romans. They commune with God every day I understand, and I think they realise it’s important to look their best. Otherwise why the silks and fine linen? But then, God created us naked, did he not, and maybe our finest raiment is our birthday suit. I hope so,” he laughed, “because that’s how I leave them, more often than not. I’m a sinner, I know it.” He fell to his knees and spread out his arms. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
I cut him short.
“Get up. You blaspheme against God, and I know you have no earnest of reform.” He rose to his feet again.
“Alas, no. Would it were otherwise. Not that you could shrieve me, anyway. You could do nothing for yon smoking fellow, whose repentance was in no doubt as he went on his way to his Maker. You must feel a fool, Magister. You, a man of God, unable to satisfy his need in the extreme of his agony?” I was silent, but the bandit was irritating me. “What use are you then, to man or beast? All the man wanted was absolution, and even the Romans give that - and look what they get. Converts falling out of the trees. And you’re real holy men, or so you say. Just think, you could have made a deathbed convert with a few comforting words - just some words, Magister - but you wouldn’t. And you call yourself a man of God. Where’s your famous Christian charity, that you wouldn’t help a suffering fellow. Where was it?”
I was pricked to reply, at last.
“Aye, we claim to be holy men - we try to be, at least, in what we do and the example we set. We won’t deceive a poor dying soul who’s just seen his family murdered. He’ll be standing before the throne of God and protesting his faith for himself and know that he’d no need of my forgiveness. I’ll pray for him, and his family, that God forgives him his sins. But,” I went on, forestalling the bandit’s attempt to interrupt, “he had it in his own power to live a worthy life. And so do you. You are responsible for everything you do, and will have to answer for it before the Throne of God. Be sure you have some good arguments, or good deeds. The latter would be preferable, I think.”
“You think so?” he looked at me with interest.
“I do. Change your ways now.” But the interest was nothing more than mockery.
“Ah, but I’ve been listening too long to the Romans. They tell me that the Elect have been recorded in the Book of Life since before time began. My destiny is in your God’s hands alone, and nothing I can do will make any difference. If he wishes me to be good, he will make me so and if I’m in, I’m in - and if not, then nothing I do will make any difference at all. I could be blessed by the Pope himself and it would mean nothing, or so they say, so I’ll just go about my business and leave the rest to your God.”
“You can make a difference, you know.”
“Och, I’ve had enough of philosophy for today,” He hitched up his weapons and picked up his bag, “so I’ll bid you good day - oh,” he had made to walk away but now he turned again to face me, still with his sardonic smile, “and a safe journey to you. A word to the wise: travel alone. You bring bad luck to your companions. Either stick with them - if you wish to share their fate like a good Christian - or let them be.” He headed off once more but couldn’t resist a last word. What now? I thought. “You were in Strathclyde, yes? At Dumbarton?” I nodded. “Baptise many, did you?” And with that, he left for good, walking off up the path back towards the Clyde. I started to go after him and ask what he meant but I realised it would be pointless. The bandit wouldn’t tell me even if he actually knew anything. I was more likely to get another jibe than any real information.
It was his parting shot. I hadn’t been asked while at Dumbarton, and of course I hadn’t seen many children while I was there - other than the sick child Ieuan had healed, and the bandit’s last dart had awakened again the puzzlement I’d felt on that last morning. It was growing beyond puzzlement now, it was assuming the character of a dark and shapeless mass in my mind, like a thundercloud building up on the horizon. It was a troubling image and one that resonated in a tentative harmony with the fear behind the locked door in my mind. But he was probably just jibing at Strathclyde’s paganism and our apparent powerlessness against it.