“You must be wondering how I know so much about a simple saint from Iona.” It was true, I was puzzled as to how I had attracted the attention of the busy King. “Let me enlighten you. I’ve been aware of your story for many years - since I was a boy - but only learned earlier today that it was you who was approaching. I was surprised at that – we thought you were dead, at Penda’s hand. Or Oswy’s. I’ll tell you how I know of you; I can see you’re wondering. My Lord Druid!” he called down the table. “Come and greet your old companion.”
I looked past the King along the table to see who he was addressing. All that came in sight was a pale and mottled head, sparsely covered with white hair and sporting a tonsure similar to my own, rising from the forehead. I stood up to receive the newcomer, who was a stooped, elderly figure. The face was thin, the skin stretched across the skull like a membrane over a knotty log. The head was alabaster white but the eyes that regarded me without blinking were deep set, small and dark and without much shine. He wore the robes of a High Druid. I couldn’t say that the wizened figure was completely unfamiliar, but I didn’t recognise him.
“Don’t you know him, Magister? Come, Father Druid. Refresh his memory.” Owain was smiling.
“My greetings to you across the years, Ciaran,” the old man said in Gaelic and I stiffened. “Don’t you remember me? Your old room-mate from the College at Innisgarbh?”
I looked at him more carefully, and studied the eyes in particular. I couldn’t resist a sensation of horror as recognition crept up my spine like a chill. If it was who I suspected, then the old man in front of me was only a few years my senior.
“Ieuan? Ieuan ap Talog? Is it really you?”
“It is. I see the years have been kinder to you than I.”
“Only of late, I think. Since I joined the Community I’ve fared well.”
“I think your new God demands less of you than the life you rejected, Ciaran.”
“Anselm,” I said. “My name is Anselm.”
“I knew you as Prince Ciaran MacAidh, the Dark Twin of Donegal when we were young. I’ve always thought of you thus.”
“I’ve not been called by that name for nearly ten years, Ieuan,” I replied. “I’m honoured that you thought of me at all, but you were always kind to me. Kinder than I deserved. Nonetheless, I’m Anselm now, and have been since I was taken in by the community of Iona. I’d rather you think of me so.”
“If I must, I will. But you were a legend, and mothers frightened their children to bed with tales of you. Prince, Druid, kin-slayer, wanderer and madman.”
“Kin-slayer is just another way of saying murderer, and you can add mercenary to the list, if you wish,” I said, evenly. Ieuan shrugged.
“They said you could disappear when the very fingers of your enemies were around your throat and take refuge in the Hollow Hills for as long as it suited your purpose. Until Winwaed – I heard you had died at Winwaed. You must tell me how you got away that time, without your old friend to help you.” I shivered. I had been too close to death in the past, more than once. The last time I’d seen the old man in front of me, thirty years before, he’d helped me to achieve one of those escapes. “You were like a Sidhe of Erin’s stories, you know. It’s not everyone who can say they knew a legend.” I asked that he did not remind me of that life, insisting that it was behind me now. I preferred not to be connected with those tales.
“As you wish. I’m glad to see you settled and part of a Community again, brother,” Ieuan addressed me as a fellow-Druid even though I’d converted to Christianity. “Cha dhuine duine ?n aonar - the man alone is no man.”
This exchange had been carried out in low voices and in Gaelic, the common language of our youth. In anyone else this would have been a gross discourtesy in the presence of the King but the High Druid was not bound by normal rules. He was a figure of wisdom and fear and no-one - not even a King - would make any public criticism of his behaviour. But the eyes I saw as I glanced around the hall were very curious and Owain himself was looking fretful at his exclusion from the conversation. It was no surprise that he liked to know what was going on, particularly at his own table - and Gaelic was the language of the Scots, with whom relations were rarely peaceful for long. It was an enemy’s tongue. I asked Ieuan to speak in British from now on, to include Owain in our discussion. He agreed, reluctantly, but warned me that the King was curious about me – a figure of legend, returned from the dead.
“My Lord King, please forgive us: we did not mean to be discourteous,” he continued, in British. “Saint Anselm and I have many years to bridge. The language of our earlier days together helped to span them.”
“My Lord Druid, I know you will do as you wish,” he smiled, it was formal and slightly forced. “but I wouldn’t have Magister Anselm feel himself outside the circle of my hospitality.”
“He himself requested that we converse in British. We shall do so whenever we speak again in your presence. I’ll leave you to your guest now.” With that, Ieuan moved stiffly back to his place. He had reserved the right to speak to me in Gaelic whenever we were not in the King’s company. It was not just in other halls that the King had his spies and the point was not missed by either Owain or me. His mood had changed.
“Magister, I would talk to you about your mission, and soon. When you’ve finished your refreshment, I’d like you to join me in my chambers.”
“I’m at your disposal,” I replied as a wooden platter with a small loaf of soft bread and crumbly white cheese was placed before me. I asked for the beaker of whiskey to be replaced with plain water; this was done almost immediately. I felt impelled to look down the bench towards Ieuan, who was looking the other way. Whiskey and I had been close friends and it fired up my heart and soul; if there was no fight to be had when I started drinking it, I would find one soon enough. Or start one myself, if need be.
Owain was talking with Gawain: he was all business now. His companion to the left was speaking to one of her ladies. I presumed she was a royal consort; speaking to her without formal introduction would be a gross breach of etiquette and likely to result in a challenge to swords, even to a Christian cleric. I would be unable to respond and would have to leave the British court. The repercussions would have been serious, so I directed my thoughts elsewhere.
I thought about Ieuan. I’d been under the impression that Dyfrig, an old and harmless man who was aware of his limitations, was the official chief adviser in the kingdom; I had no idea that Ieuan had taken his place. I personally knew a small number of the dwindling band of prominent Druids and a few others by reputation. Most of that religion had, like myself, converted to Christianity but we retained contacts with our old lives, to a greater or lesser degree. It might not, strictly speaking, be in conformity with the monastic life but in a world of ignorance, the educated were drawn towards each other. We lived in uncertain times. It was important to know what was going on, who was allied with whom, or otherwise, and who could be relied upon as a defender. The Abbots tolerated these ongoing connections in the interests of preservation. For all my interest in the outside world, I had heard nothing of Ieuan, for nearly 30 years. He must have kept himself well hidden. The sight of him tonight had been a shock.