Bedevere hid a smile behind his gloved hand. That Elafius had been in secret correspondence with Patrick about problems at Ynys-witrin brought yet a new
element to the old
monachus’
s death. It gave me much to ponder. But if Patrick came to see Elafius, he should know that his correspondent and, it now appeared, old friend was dead by
someone’s hand.
“Is this true?” Patrick spun quickly, belying his age. Coroticus was red faced. Obviously this was the first he had heard about Elafius writing Patrick or of Elafius knowing
Patrick.
“It is true that Elafius is dead. Of Pelagianism at Ynyswitrin, I know nothing.”
Something in Coroticus’s face made me doubt his words. I had never seen him lie; at least I had never known that he was lying. He had withheld information from me before, and I knew he
could quibble, but this time, the timbre of his voice shuddered just a little. His eyes grew a bit too large. That he was lying, I was certain. About what he was lying, I had no idea. Too many
possibilities floated about the hall.
“With all respect to you,
episcopus,
but we are not in your care. Your lands are across the waters with the Scotti. Problems at Ynys-witrin belong to me and to our bishop at
Castellum Marcus. From whence springs your authority to hold sway over the
monachi
of Ynys-witrin?”
The question was bold. Although Coroticus was right in asking it, few men would have had the courage to question Patrick’s authority anywhere on any issue, such was his renown. Who among
us had sacrificed as much as Patrick, the son of a
decurion,
stolen by Scotti raiders and made a
servus
? Then, after he broke free, he devoted his life to the Christ, returning to
save those who had enslaved him. Such sacrifice comes not from a common man. And with those sacrifices he had purchased great power in the church, more power than all the coins of Honorius could
buy.
Which brought to mind the
denarius
in my pouch. I ceased listening to the argument between Coroticus and Patrick. It took no great wisdom to know that ultimately Patrick would win. Our
episcopus,
Dubricius, was a man of good family and little spine, except one for maintaining those things that his station afforded him. He enjoyed the finer things of life and kept his
hall near that of Mark’s in the far western lands. Wines, pottery, such luxury goods were still imported there and still relatively cheap.
No, Coroticus was fighting a desperate battle against overwhelming odds. I would counsel immediate surrender. Patrick would have his way.
The
denarius
in Elafius’s cell was another matter. I wished to draw it from my pouch and look at it, but knew that I could not. Now was not the time to tell Patrick that not only
was his boyhood friend dead, but that he had broken his vow of poverty. My mind was then drawn back to my growling belly until one voice rose above all others.
“ENOUGH!”
Arthur. The Rigotamos. Weighing in at last. He stomped between the feuding clerics and planted his
caligae
firmly on the floor. “Coroticus, you know that even though you have your
own bishop, should Patrick consult with him, the outcome would be the same. Patrick would be empowered to investigate the matter.”
“And,” I added, more to see the reaction than anything else, “the more you object, the more it appears you have something to hide.”
Then, something strange happened. A great relief seemed to come over Coroticus, as if he were unburdened of some heavy load. I watched as the lines on his face almost literally disappeared
before me. Coroticus had been protecting something or someone, and now he had been freed of that chore.
“I bow to the wisdom of the Rigotamos, and”—he turned and faced Patrick—“out of respect for all that you have gone through,
episcopus
. I will not obstruct
your investigation. I must advise you, however, there are certain questions I may not answer because I gave my word as abbot and as a man of God.”
Patrick
element to the old
monachus’
s death. It gave me much to ponder. But if Patrick came to see Elafius, he should know that his correspondent and, it now appeared, old friend was dead by
someone’s hand.
“Is this true?” Patrick spun quickly, belying his age. Coroticus was red faced. Obviously this was the first he had heard about Elafius writing Patrick or of Elafius knowing
Patrick.
“It is true that Elafius is dead. Of Pelagianism at Ynyswitrin, I know nothing.”
Something in Coroticus’s face made me doubt his words. I had never seen him lie; at least I had never known that he was lying. He had withheld information from me before, and I knew he
could quibble, but this time, the timbre of his voice shuddered just a little. His eyes grew a bit too large. That he was lying, I was certain. About what he was lying, I had no idea. Too many
possibilities floated about the hall.
“With all respect to you,
episcopus,
but we are not in your care. Your lands are across the waters with the Scotti. Problems at Ynys-witrin belong to me and to our bishop at
Castellum Marcus. From whence springs your authority to hold sway over the
monachi
of Ynys-witrin?”
The question was bold. Although Coroticus was right in asking it, few men would have had the courage to question Patrick’s authority anywhere on any issue, such was his renown. Who among
us had sacrificed as much as Patrick, the son of a
decurion,
stolen by Scotti raiders and made a
servus
? Then, after he broke free, he devoted his life to the Christ, returning to
save those who had enslaved him. Such sacrifice comes not from a common man. And with those sacrifices he had purchased great power in the church, more power than all the coins of Honorius could
buy.
Which brought to mind the
denarius
in my pouch. I ceased listening to the argument between Coroticus and Patrick. It took no great wisdom to know that ultimately Patrick would win. Our
episcopus,
Dubricius, was a man of good family and little spine, except one for maintaining those things that his station afforded him. He enjoyed the finer things of life and kept his
hall near that of Mark’s in the far western lands. Wines, pottery, such luxury goods were still imported there and still relatively cheap.
No, Coroticus was fighting a desperate battle against overwhelming odds. I would counsel immediate surrender. Patrick would have his way.
The
denarius
in Elafius’s cell was another matter. I wished to draw it from my pouch and look at it, but knew that I could not. Now was not the time to tell Patrick that not only
was his boyhood friend dead, but that he had broken his vow of poverty. My mind was then drawn back to my growling belly until one voice rose above all others.
“ENOUGH!”
Arthur. The Rigotamos. Weighing in at last. He stomped between the feuding clerics and planted his
caligae
firmly on the floor. “Coroticus, you know that even though you have your
own bishop, should Patrick consult with him, the outcome would be the same. Patrick would be empowered to investigate the matter.”
“And,” I added, more to see the reaction than anything else, “the more you object, the more it appears you have something to hide.”
Then, something strange happened. A great relief seemed to come over Coroticus, as if he were unburdened of some heavy load. I watched as the lines on his face almost literally disappeared
before me. Coroticus had been protecting something or someone, and now he had been freed of that chore.
“I bow to the wisdom of the Rigotamos, and”—he turned and faced Patrick—“out of respect for all that you have gone through,
episcopus
. I will not obstruct
your investigation. I must advise you, however, there are certain questions I may not answer because I gave my word as abbot and as a man of God.”
Patrick
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