The next day was Passion Day, and no work is done-save that strictly necessary for the maintenance of the abbey and its inhabitants. Most of us renewed our tonsure, so to be clean-shaven for the Sabbath, or Resurrection Day.
The tonsure of the Cele De is distinctive; the front of the head is shaved from ear to ear, save for a thin line that forms a circlet, called the corona-symbol of the crown we hope one day to receive from our Lord's hand. This must be refreshed from time to time, of course, as the hair grows back in short, prickly bristles. Renewing the tonsure is a service we perform often for one another. Thus, we are all accomplished barbers.
As the day was warm, Dugal and I took it in turn to sit on a milking stool in the yard while the other performed the rite of the razor. Our brothers were likewise occupied, and we filled the yard with pleasant, if idle, chatter. I was just drying my new-shaven head with a cloth when Cellach summoned me.
"They are calling for you," he said, and I heard the weary resignation in his voice.
"Forgive me, master, I thought we were finished."
"So did I," he sighed. "But there will be no peace until they are happy. Go to them, son. See what you can do."
Well, our part of the book was completed. Nevertheless, Libir and Brocmal, still labouring over their long-finished leaves, insisted on reviewing all the work one last time. They beseeched Master Cellach with such zeal that he gave in just to silence them, and I was obliged to help.
I arrived to find that the two scribes had carefully laid out all the leaves, placing two or three on each empty table in the scriptorium. Then, beginning at the top, they moved from table to table, inspecting the leaves, heads down, noses almost touching the vellum, sharp eyes scanning the texts and pictures for invisible flaws. I followed, hands behind back, gazing at the wonderful work and stifling little cries of delight. Truly, it is a blessed book!
Not far into their inspection, however, the two demanding scribes found a blemish. "Aidan!" Brocmal cried, turning on me so fiercely that my first thought was that the mistake, whatever it was, had been mine. "Ink is needed!"
"This can be saved," Libir intoned solemnly, his face nearly pressed to the table. "A line or two…See? Here…and here."
"Christ be thanked," Brocmal agreed with exaggerated relief, bending over the suspect leaf. "I will prepare a pen." He turned and, seeing me looking on, shouted, "What is this, Aidan? The bishop arrives at any moment. We need ink! Why are you standing there like a post?"
"You did not say what colour is required."
"Red, of course!" he snapped.
"And blue," added Libir.
"Blue and red," Brocmal commanded. "Away with you, sluggard!"
We worked through most of the day this way, for having repaired one fault, they soon found others requiring instant attention-though I saw none of the supposed errors they so cheerfully discerned. We removed ourselves from the daily round, and from the midday table as well, in order to mend the damage.
It was just after none, and I was standing at the mixing table, pounding red lead and ochre in a mortar, when the bell sounded. Laying aside my tools, I quickly pulled on my mantle, gathered my cloak, and hurried into the scriptorium. "The bishop has arrived!" Brocmal announced, although Libir and I were already racing to the door. Out into the yard we joined the throng making for the gate.
Ranging ourselves in ranks to the right and left of the gate, we began singing a hymn to welcome our guests. Bishop Cadoc led the party, striding forth boldly for all he was a very old man. Yet, his step was strong and his eye keen as the eagle on the cambutta in his hand. This sacred symbol, fashioned in yellow gold atop his bishop's staff, gleamed with a holy light in the midday sun, scattering the shadows as he passed.
There were many monks with him-thirty altogether. I watched each one as he passed through the gate, and wondered which among them were The Chosen. I wondered also who carried the book. For, though I saw more than one bulga dangling from shoulder straps, I did not see any which I thought grand enough for the Book of Colum Cille.
Abbot Fraoch met our visitors inside the gate and welcomed the bishop with a kiss. He hailed the company warmly, saying, "Greetings, brothers! In the name of our Blessed Lord and Saviour, Jesu, we welcome you to Cenannus na Rig. May God grant you peace and joy while you are with us. Rest now and take your ease while we extend to you every comfort we possess."
To this the bishop replied, "You are kind, Brother Fraoch, but we are fellow labourers in fields of the Lord. Thus, we expect to receive nothing which you would deny yourselves." Casting his gaze around him, he spread wide his arms. "The peace of our Lord be with you, my dear children," he called in a fine strong voice.
We answered: "And with your spirit also!"
"As many as have come to you, that many more would have gladly accompanied me," the bishop continued. "I bring greetings from your brothers at Hy and Lindisfarne." He paused, smiling with pleasure. "I also bring a treasure."
Then, passing his staff of office to his secnab, Bishop Cadoc gestured for one of the monks to step forward. As the monk came near, he drew the strap of his bulga over his head and offered it to his superior. Cadoc received it, pulled the peg, lifted the flap and withdrew the book to cries of amazement and wonder all around.
Oh, it was magnificent! Even at a distance, I thought it a marvel; for the cumtach was not leather-not even the dyed calfskin used for very special books. The cover of Colum Cille's book was sheet silver worked into fantastic figures: spirals, keys, and triscs. At each corner of the cover was a knotwork panel, and in the centre of each panel a different gem had been mounted. These surrounded a knotwork cross, beset with rubies. In the play of sunlight the silver cumtach seemed a living thing, dancing, dazzling, moving with the rhythm of the King of Glory's creation.
Abbot Fraoch took the book into his hands, raised it to his lips and kissed it. Then he held it above his head and turned this way and that so everyone could catch a glimpse. Two years in preparation, the Book of Colum Cille was a treasure rare and fine-a gift worthy of an emperor. My heart swelled with pride at the sight.
Replacing the book in its humble bag once more, the abbot and bishop walked together arm in arm up the hill to the oratory where they held close conversation until vespers. Many of the monks among us, having formerly lived in either Hy or Lindisfarne, enjoyed close friendships with many of our brother visitors; some were kinsmen. They fell on one another's necks and gripped each other's arms in greeting. Everyone began talking at once. After a while Brother Paulinus, our porter, shouted for the visitors to accompany him, whereupon he conducted them to the guest lodge.
Brocmal, Libir, and I returned to the scriptorium where we worked until supper when the two scribes, failing to discover any other jot to alter, pronounced the work completed at last.
"It is finished," Libir said. "We have done our part. Lord Jesu have mercy."
"Pray God it meets with the bishop's approval." Brocmal finally allowed himself a satisfied grin as his gaze played over all the finished leaves on the tables. "Truly, it meets with my approval."
"You are very bards of vellum," I told them. "Though my part was small, I am proud to have been of service to you."
Both monks regarded me curiously, and I thought they might mention my contribution in their rejoicing at the completion of their labours, but they turned away, saying nothing. We then joined our brothers for the beginning of the Easter celebration-but not before securing the precious leaves.
Bishop Cadoc, as honoured guest, read the Beati and prayed. I listened with utmost attention, trying to determine what manner of man he might be for, though I had seen him once before, I was little more than a boy at the time and remembered almost nothing of that occasion.
Cadoc, like my old teacher Cybi, was a Briton. It was said that as a boy he had studied at Bangor-ys-Coed under the renowned Elffod, and as a young man he had travelled all throughout Gaul, teaching and preaching, before returning to Britain to lead the community at Candida Casa where he often held discourse with the most learned Eruigena. The excellent Sedulius-or Saidhuil, as he was known to us-had once written a poem in commemoration of a fine debate held between them.
Looking at the little bishop, it seemed to me appropriate that illustrious men should seek to celebrate his friendship. Small of stature and well filled with years, he nevertheless possessed the grace and dignity of a king, and exuded the health of a man still in the flush of youth. If, despite his vigour, any uncertainty still lingered, Cadoc had only to speak and doubt would vanish, for his voice was a powerful instrument, rich and full and loud, and prone to burst into song at any moment. This trait, as I have it, he shared with his kinsmen; trueborn Cymry loved nothing better than hearing their own voices soaring in song. Now, I had never heard a trumpet before, but if anyone had told me that it sounded like the Bishop of Hy singing a hymn I would have believed it.
After the meal, Brocmal, Libir and myself were presented to Cadoc. The abbot called us to his lodge where he and the bishop were sitting together with their secnabs, enjoying a cup of Easter mead. Now that the feast was begun, such luxuries were allowed.
"Welcome, brothers. Come in and sit with us." The abbot motioned us to places on the floor between their chairs. Three additional cups had been poured in anticipation of our arrival, and when the abbot had distributed these, he said, his broken voice a thin whisper, "I have been telling Bishop Cadoc about our contribution to the book. He is most desirous of seeing what you have achieved."
The bishop then asked us to describe our work. Brocmal began a lengthy account of the undertaking and how the labours had been divided among the various members of the scriptorium; Libir added observations from time to time, and Bishop Cadoc asked many questions of them both. I listened, awaiting my turn to speak, but it did not come.
It is a sign of my prideful spirit, no doubt, that I began to feel slighted-and I was not the only one. Master Cellach, under whose skillful and painstaking direction the great labour was accomplished, never received a mention, nor did any of the other scribes-and there were many. Listening to Brocmal and Libir's account, one would have thought they had produced the entire book between the two of them alone. My own hand had copied out no less than thirty-eight separate passages, filling more than twenty leaves. And I was but one of a score of scribes working in three scriptoria on three separate islands. Indeed, the men who raised the cows that produced the calves that gave their skins to make the vellum, were certainly no less important in their way than the scribes who decorated those skins with such splendid art. Then again, I reflected, there were no herdsmen going to Byzantium.
Well, it was a small thing-an oversight, perhaps. But I could not help feeling in it the sting of an insult. Pride, I suppose, will be my ruin. But Brocmal and Libir, I reckoned, were reaping their reward at the expense of all the others who would never be recognized. I determined to remedy this injustice if I could. I must bide my time, however, and await the best opportunity.
So, I sat on the floor at Abbot Fraoch's feet, sipping the sweet mead and listening to Brocmal describe the book that I knew so well-but now seemed not to know at all-and thought about the journey, wondering what the other peregrini would be like. If they were anything like Brocmal and Libir, I concluded, it would be a very arduous campaign.
After a while, Brocmal finished and the bishop turned to the abbot. "You have chosen well, Fraoch," he said, smiling like a man who knows a valuable secret. "These men will serve us admirably in our endeavour."
His use of the strange word pricked my attention. Did he mean the journey…or, did he have another undertaking in mind? The sly expression suggested he meant something other than taking the book to the emperor.
But the abbot merely returned his smile. "Of that, Cadoc, I have not the slightest doubt." He raised the cup. "I drink to the success of our mission, brothers. May God bless you richly, and protect you always."
"Amen!" replied Cadoc, and we all raised our cups with the abbot.
The bell sounded compline then and we were dismissed to our prayers. "We will speak again," the bishop assured us. We bade the two good night and left the abbot's lodge, making our way to the chapel. Brocmal and Libir, in good spirits, sang as they walked up the hill. I followed behind with eyes downcast, feeling vexed with the two of them, and annoyed with myself for feeling so.
I entered the chapel and found a place along the north wall as far from Brocmal and Libir as possible. Dugal came and settled beside me, nudging me with an elbow to let me know he was there. I raised my head, but did not speak, lost as I was in my own thoughts. Why am I always like this? I wondered. What is it to me if the two of them receive the honour of the bishop's praise? They earned it, after all. It was not as if they had stolen the book, or claimed more for themselves than they deserved. What is wrong with me?
Prayers finished and I went to my cell and a disgruntled sleep. The next morning, after maiden prayers, we broke fast with our visitors and, since normal duties were suspended for the Eastertide celebration, everyone gathered in the yard to sing. The day had begun cool and bright, with a sky full of white clouds. As we sang, the clouds knit themselves together and closed in; a spit of rain began to fall, which eventually persuaded us back into the hall, where we settled in clumps to talk with our visiting brothers over the board.
Unlike most of Cenannus' brotherhood, I knew no one from Hy or Lindisfarne. Nevertheless, as Dugal and I moved among the tables, one of the strangers called out to me. "Aidan mac Cainnech!"
I turned to see a short, square-faced man with wiry brown hair and dark brown eyes, sitting with two other strangers. All three were watching me with evident interest.
"Go to them," urged Dugal. "They want to talk to you." He left me and went on to another table.
"I give you good greeting," I said as I approached.
"Sit you down with us," said the visitor. "We would speak with you, nothing preventing."
"I am at your service, brothers," I said taking my place at the board. "I would gladly give you my name, but it seems you have it from someone else."
"Do not think us over bold," said one of the others. "We are Cymry and curiosity is a very plague with us." The two with him laughed-clearly it was a cheerful plague. I liked them at once.
"I am Brynach," said the stranger who had called to me. "These are my brothers. No! My anamcari," he raised a hand to the two with him. "This long lanky reed is Gwilym." He indicated a tall spare man with thinning fair hair. "And this is Morien," he said, presenting a young man with thick black curly hair and blue eyes. "Although," he warned, "if you call him that he will never answer, for he is known to one and all as Ddewi."
"Brothers," I said, envying their easy way with one another, "I am glad to meet you. I pray your Easter with us is meat and drink to your soul." I paused, feeling the awkwardness of the question before I spoke it, but I could not help myself. "Please do not think ill of me, but I have never visited Hy or Lindisfarne, and I would know which of those two fine places is home to you."
"Neither," replied Gwilym happily. "Our home is Ty Gwyn, but lately we have spent some years at Menevia and Bangor-ys-Coed."
"Indeed," I replied. "I did not know the book was also being readied there."
"It was not," answered Brynach. "We learned of the book too late to be of material service in that part of the enterprise."
Again, my senses pricked to the suggestion of an alternate purpose for the journey-a purpose which many seemed to know. "You seem well apprised of these matters," I suggested. "Am I right in thinking that you are among those chosen for the travelling party?"
"We are, yes," Brynach affirmed.
"But you are not scribes," I blurted in surprise. "Forgive me, that did not sound as I meant it. I mean no disrespect."
"Be at ease, brother," tutted Gwilym. "Truth is a constant delight to those that love her; such beauty holds no power to offend."
"The truth is," Brynach confided, "we are not scribes. And yet, the Great King, in his infinite wisdom, has seen fit to include us in your exalted company. I hope you will accept us also." He made a little bow of his head, and put an amiable hand on the tall man's shoulder. "Gwilym, here, is an artisan for whom gold and precious stones were especially created." The monk inclined his head in easy acknowledgement of the compliment.
Brynach turned to the black-haired youth. "Ah, and this stripling you see before you is a leighean of rare and extraordinary gifts."
"My family have been physicians for seven generations," Ddewi explained, speaking for the first time. "And I am the seventh son of my father, who was also a seventh son." His voice and manner were quiet, hinting at unseen depths.
"Alas," said Brynach, "I myself claim no such talents or abilities enjoyed by my brothers here. My sole occupation has ever been study, and now I find I am no longer fit for anything else."
Although his modesty was genuine, I doubted that he would have been chosen if he were as humble as he professed. Before I could enquire of him further, however, he said, "Now then, Aidan, they tell me you are the finest scribe Kells can boast-"
"And not only scribe, but scholar too," put in Gwilym.
"Kells does indeed maintain many fine scribes," I allowed, "and it is true that I am one of them-albeit, the youngest and least experienced of all. My own contribution to the book is but small when compared to that of Brocmal and Libir and some others."
"But your pen has touched the blessed book," Gwilym said. "Your hands have laboured over it. I wish I could say as much."
Brynach nodded as if this were his life's highest ambition. All three glanced at one another; a sign must have passed between them, for the monk leaned near, as if to confide a secret. "May I tell you something?" he asked.
"Of course, Brother Brynach," I said.
"Those I choose to be my friends call me Bryn," he said, and motioned me nearer.
I put my head close to his, but before he could speak further, Brother Diarmot appeared. "I trust our brother has extended to you the abbey's welcome," he said stiffly. "I would not like to think he has been remiss in his duty to you, our long-awaited visitors."
Brynach pulled himself upright once more and the smile reappeared instantly. "Have no fear for our sake," he replied smoothly. "We have been made more than welcome."
"Indeed," put in Gwilym, "it is as if we had never left home."
"I am Brother Diarmot, and I am at your service. If you are hungry, it would be my pleasure to bring you something to eat."
"Thank you, brother," replied Brynach. "But no."
"Something to drink perhaps?" pressed Diarmot. He looked at me and smiled thinly. "I would have thought Aidan had offered, but I am happy to serve."
"Well," said Gwilym, "I might be tempted with some more of that excellent ale which we drank at last night's table."
"Of course," said Diarmot. "Aidan and I will bring the cups. It is the least we can do for our guests."
"Please, allow me to help you," said Gwilym rising quickly.
"No, no," replied Diarmot adamantly. "You are our guests. I could not possibly allow you to fetch your own drink. Aidan will help me."
The stubborn Diarmot loomed over me like a threat, so I rose and followed him to the kitchen to fill a jar while he found the cups. When we returned to the board, other monks had joined the three Britons, and I did not have another chance to speak to them alone. All the rest of the day I watched and waited for an opportunity, but events did not yield the desired result.
I retired to my cell that night aching with curiosity, frustrated, and resentful of Diarmot for his ill-chanced intrusion. Before sleeping, I prayed Christ's forgiveness for disliking Diarmot, and lay for a long time wondering what Brynach had been about to tell me.