We pushed the small boat out into the swell of the grey water and set off for the short trip across the Sound to Mull. I took a long parting look at beautiful, bleak Iona, my home and my sanctuary, windswept and solitary against the western sea. I hated to leave.
We reached Mull two hours before sunset. By the time it was dark we were safely sheltered in the small house of a family of lay followers of the Church, whose premises were well-stocked by the community of Iona in compensation for the frequent demands made upon them by visitors and missionaries. The following morning we rose early and caught a fishing boat on the island’s southern coast that would, in a day - or two, or three - make it to the mainland near Dunstaffnage. For the fishermen, time was measured in the movement of the shoals of fish – the “silver darlings” – rather than mundane days and nights. They followed where their harvest led.
3
Dumbarton
Dumbarton in late February is one of the most miserable places on God’s green Earth. Rain was hurling itself in sheets at my face and the lazy north wind forced its way through every gap in the fabric of my cloak as I trudged up the Castle Rock. The track slithered up through a narrow cleft in the great rock and then zig-zagged up the bony crag to the castle itself. It could have been purposely designed by nature to be a killing field; barely three armed warriors could make their way side by side and there were natural positions for archers to rain down arrows, tiered up either side. It should be impregnable but it had occasionally fallen, to my knowledge; once to siege and twice to treachery.
There was a moment’s respite from the rain when the route of the path mean that I turned my back to the wind but, in the end, all that did was ensure that I was soaked through to the skin on all sides. Only a fool or a driven man would be out on a night like this and I wasn’t really sure which category I came under by the time I reached the gates. It was close to full dark and Iona was nearly a week’s walk behind me. If I could have turned back time to earlier in the day I would have been very tempted to take the offer of a horse when it was made by one of the king’s patrols but it was brighter then, and the rain was softer. More fool me, maybe.
Up ahead, the castle was little more than a darker, angular mass against the darkening sky but small rectangles of dull, flickering light held the promise of warmth and company. I was admitted through the side door at the gate of the perimeter wall. The returning patrol had brought news of my approach and I was expected.
“You’re just in time, Magister,” a guard said. “We’re ready to lock up for the night. Another couple of minutes and you’d have to find a warm rock to shelter under.”
“Oh, he’s used to it. He’s from Iona and they make them tough, out there,” another voice responded.
“Would you rather stay out for the evening, come see us tomorrow?” the first asked.
“Let me in and stop your chatter. I’m soaked,” I replied. “And none of your nonsense about suffering being good for the soul.” The pair of them laughed.
“Go on in, Magister. The king’s expecting you. Follow the torches: he’s got a good crowd in tonight.” I nodded my thanks and made my way through. They shut and barred the gates behind me.
My crossing over the outer ground was noticed but no-one approached me, either to interrupt my progress or to guide me to my destination. Whatever staff were around were busy putting the rough-coated brown sheep and squat, long haired and skinny cattle into their stalls for the night. I reached the Keep, spoke my name and business, and was allowed in. A guard showed me down a short corridor through the castle proper and into the hall. The castle’s function was defensive: no rooms in the Keep were big enough to accommodate the guests, warriors and functionaries who gathered about a powerful Court and so the hall had been added later.
I entered to find a feast in full swing as I entered. The guard announced the arrival of a monk from the Community at Iona and then waved me forward to stand in full view of the party, which slid into silence. I removed my cloak, handed it to a servant and threw back my soaking hair from my face. Water ran down my head and dripped off my habit.
“So what brings you here, Magister?” the young man sitting at the high table demanded. He was handsome and well-made, with a face pretty much free from the scars that would not have been out of place on a warrior. The unwary might even go so far as to think he had remained relatively unmarked by avoiding battle; they would be in error. The tales that had reached my ears said that, to the contrary, Owain, king of Strathclyde, was a very good fighter indeed. He tended to win his battles, quickly and easily, with the minimum of losses to his side. This made him popular with his forces. Warriors may love a fight but they prefer to come home to celebrate it in person, afterwards, rather than being remembered in song as an heroic, but dead, soul.
The young man who considered me now saw someone of sturdy middle age, dressed in a simple robe of rough-spun fabric and with a head of vigorous dark hair, silvered with grey and shaven from the forehead back to a line running over the crown from ear to ear. This tonsure and garb marked me as a cleric of the Irish Christian Church founded by St Columba.
“King Owain, I’ve come to ask permission to cross your lands,” I said. “I’m on my way from the Holy Island of Iona to Lindisfarne, to visit our brother community there.”
“And why do you now seek permission, priest? Your fellows have wandered as they pleased over Strathclyde since I was a boy, without ever asking leave of anyone.”
“Your uncle was kind enough to grant us the freedom to roam unhindered during his lifetime. As he is now dead and you’ve succeeded him to the throne, Abbot Cunnian the Fair felt it would be courteous to ask you to renew that permission.”
“Ah. Courtesy. I hear that you Scots hold courtesy amongst the highest of all the virtues.”
“I left my people when I joined the community at Iona, sir.”
“Or perhaps some time before? Aren’t you the one known as Anselm?”
“I am.”
“Well, Father Anselm, saint Anselm, or Magister, whatever you style yourself, did you leave behind you all the honours and customs of your people when you joined the community of saints on that bleak rock?”
“I left behind much, but tried to keep with me those courtesies which help us all to make our way peacefully in this troubled World.”
“So you come to ask my permission to cross my kingdom.” He paused and took a sip from a grey pewter goblet. The audience of courtiers, druids, warriors and their women were watching the scene in as much silence as the smoke-filled atmosphere would allow. “To whom do you owe your duty, Saint Anselm?” he pronounced the prefix deliberately. I could feel tension in the hall. This was a pagan kingdom: Druidism was the court religion, my kind was tolerated at best, and sudden death was by no means unknown.
“I owe my duty to God alone, sir. My obedience I owe to my Abbot.” I replied.