the
monachi,
which ran to the north, into the edge of the slope. From where we stood, we could look down slightly on the row of timber shops
that marked the village.
Coroticus fell in step with me, leaning in close to my ear. “Malgwyn, Rhiannon could not have killed Elafius.”
“Why?”
“She is a stout woman, I grant you, but she is not the murdering kind. Yes, she is strong in her beliefs, but she is gentle as a lamb.”
“People, even gentle people, can be roused to violence if their beliefs are challenged strongly enough.”
“Not she.”
His strong support for the woman made me question his relationship with her. In those days, though abbots and
monachi
were forbidden the pleasures of the flesh, many ignored the
prohibition.
With that he fell into a silence as Arthur glanced back at us.
“Coroticus,” he bellowed. “What temper is Patrick in?”
“He is in a foul mood, my lord. Though ancient he may be, he is stout as a bull. And just as loud.”
I chuckled quietly. Obviously, Patrick’s visit was as welcome to Coroticus as to Arthur. Patrick did not like leaders such as Arthur, Christian though they might be. He considered them all
false believers. His hopes for bringing our peoples together lay not with kings or lords, but through the Christ. Yet even in that single purpose, the fathers of the church seemed to have no
consistency and much controversy. It was no wonder I regarded them with a skeptical eye.
“And what brings the great man to such an anger?”
“He has heard there is Pelagianism among us. And once he arrived here, Gildas whispered in his ear about Rhiannon and her Gallic beliefs in the divine sacrifice.”
“Is it not enough, Coroticus, to worship the Christ and his Father? Must you always be fighting so fiercely over such nonsense?”
Shock and amazement rolled across the abbot’s face. “Malgwyn! ’Tis not nonsense. These are very important affairs.”
By then we were approaching the great hall, and Arthur was looking about for me. I saw Bedevere standing close by, whispering in the Rigotamos’s ear, probably warning him about some part
of Patrick’s rage.
Lucky men, we were. Though not enough time had yet passed for our little thief to make his way to the castle, I scanned the area for any sign of our reinforcements. None. I took a deep breath
before drawing abreast of Arthur. We had but ourselves to defend against the roaring lion.
“My lord Arthur!” Patrick’s cry echoed off the wooden walls. He stood, without help, though he looked ready to topple over at any moment. That much, I knew, was an act.
Patrick, it was said, was stronger than any two men, but affected frailness as the situation suited him.
Arthur, tall and strong, bowed before the old man, using his shield with its red cross, to hold himself up. “I give homage to the great Patrick, defender of the Christ, and keeper of all
that’s holy.”
This took the old man aback. He had a mole on his right cheek and sharp, piercing black eyes. He recoiled, as if offended, but we all knew he wasn’t. “I am touched by the Lord
Arthur’s praise, and surprised by it. My feelings about such lords are well known.”
Another man would have hazarded a sharp sword with that remark, but Patrick was not an ordinary man. His rise from slavery among the Picts to his training as a
presbyter
to his return
to the land of his enslavement had made him more than a legend; he was a symbol to Christians from Rome to the far northern regions of our island.
Arthur rose to his full height and bowed his head. “You have not met me,
episcopus
. I defend the Christ with more than words. I defend him with action.”
I glanced at Coroticus; he was relieved that Patrick’s attention was focused on Arthur.
“Then you are different from your fellows. That much is certain. But do you speak only words, or do you speak with a sword?”
I watched as Arthur took the old man’s measure. “Which would bring me the
monachi,
which ran to the north, into the edge of the slope. From where we stood, we could look down slightly on the row of timber shops
that marked the village.
Coroticus fell in step with me, leaning in close to my ear. “Malgwyn, Rhiannon could not have killed Elafius.”
“Why?”
“She is a stout woman, I grant you, but she is not the murdering kind. Yes, she is strong in her beliefs, but she is gentle as a lamb.”
“People, even gentle people, can be roused to violence if their beliefs are challenged strongly enough.”
“Not she.”
His strong support for the woman made me question his relationship with her. In those days, though abbots and
monachi
were forbidden the pleasures of the flesh, many ignored the
prohibition.
With that he fell into a silence as Arthur glanced back at us.
“Coroticus,” he bellowed. “What temper is Patrick in?”
“He is in a foul mood, my lord. Though ancient he may be, he is stout as a bull. And just as loud.”
I chuckled quietly. Obviously, Patrick’s visit was as welcome to Coroticus as to Arthur. Patrick did not like leaders such as Arthur, Christian though they might be. He considered them all
false believers. His hopes for bringing our peoples together lay not with kings or lords, but through the Christ. Yet even in that single purpose, the fathers of the church seemed to have no
consistency and much controversy. It was no wonder I regarded them with a skeptical eye.
“And what brings the great man to such an anger?”
“He has heard there is Pelagianism among us. And once he arrived here, Gildas whispered in his ear about Rhiannon and her Gallic beliefs in the divine sacrifice.”
“Is it not enough, Coroticus, to worship the Christ and his Father? Must you always be fighting so fiercely over such nonsense?”
Shock and amazement rolled across the abbot’s face. “Malgwyn! ’Tis not nonsense. These are very important affairs.”
By then we were approaching the great hall, and Arthur was looking about for me. I saw Bedevere standing close by, whispering in the Rigotamos’s ear, probably warning him about some part
of Patrick’s rage.
Lucky men, we were. Though not enough time had yet passed for our little thief to make his way to the castle, I scanned the area for any sign of our reinforcements. None. I took a deep breath
before drawing abreast of Arthur. We had but ourselves to defend against the roaring lion.
“My lord Arthur!” Patrick’s cry echoed off the wooden walls. He stood, without help, though he looked ready to topple over at any moment. That much, I knew, was an act.
Patrick, it was said, was stronger than any two men, but affected frailness as the situation suited him.
Arthur, tall and strong, bowed before the old man, using his shield with its red cross, to hold himself up. “I give homage to the great Patrick, defender of the Christ, and keeper of all
that’s holy.”
This took the old man aback. He had a mole on his right cheek and sharp, piercing black eyes. He recoiled, as if offended, but we all knew he wasn’t. “I am touched by the Lord
Arthur’s praise, and surprised by it. My feelings about such lords are well known.”
Another man would have hazarded a sharp sword with that remark, but Patrick was not an ordinary man. His rise from slavery among the Picts to his training as a
presbyter
to his return
to the land of his enslavement had made him more than a legend; he was a symbol to Christians from Rome to the far northern regions of our island.
Arthur rose to his full height and bowed his head. “You have not met me,
episcopus
. I defend the Christ with more than words. I defend him with action.”
I glanced at Coroticus; he was relieved that Patrick’s attention was focused on Arthur.
“Then you are different from your fellows. That much is certain. But do you speak only words, or do you speak with a sword?”
I watched as Arthur took the old man’s measure. “Which would bring me the
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