In the year of our Lord, 1139
CHAPTER 1
Dover
The grayish-white cliffs of Dove, enormous as they rose over the waters of the Channel, presented a beautiful view to Malachy and Christian as they gazed at them from the deck of the small boat that had taken them on as passengers. It had involved the exchange of silver pieces to arrange for the crossing of the Channel to France, but it was worth it.
Several families with children were on board as well, and though some were French, the majority were English. The elders of their numbers celebrated the presence of the two priests as signs of good luck on the voyage.
They sailed out with a soft breeze on a rather calm sea, but the fog was thickening even as the shoreline slipped from view. Malachy knew, though, that his was not unusual at these latitudes. Here, the daily drizzle contributed to the intense green of the whole English country, but it also obscured it into fog.
As the wind that had carried them out to sea intensified, the fog thickened. The waves swelled, and the sound of them crashing against the wood of the ship frightened the passengers. Children cried and men and women alike could be heard praying.
Malachy had crossed the channel several times, and he had never found it to be calm from beginning to end. He had prepared himself for any sudden change in weather, though that did little to calm his stomach as the ship rolled again. The passengers gathered outside tried in vain to see beyond the fog that encircled them.
Just as suddenly as the fog had sprung up, however, it dissipated. As the misty wisps fled on a shifted wind, it revealed a sky totally obscured by dark, gray clouds.
Lightning lit up the skies. The sailors scrambled to secure the ropes and knots that held the sails aloft. There was a violent upsurge of water. It splashed across the deck, sending passengers scuttling to the ship’s hold.
In their monks’ robes, Malachy and Christian were the focal point of the passengers. Unaccustomed to sea voyages, they sought God’s protection. Any god, Malachy thought, as he suspected that none of them had ever seen a Christian altar, but rather a mixture of pagan rituals and Catholic liturgy.
He and Christian did what they could to comfort the terrified passengers as the ship roiled beneath them, bringing moral support and reassurance to those who approached them — in itself a difficult task as it was almost impossible to walk the short distance between the tables and the benches firmly secured to the floor boards without zigzagging from one side of the ship to the other.
The waves lifted and dropped the ship with the force of the wind. The water gushed continuously under the door cascading freely down the simple wooden ladder. The racket of the wind and the waves and the crackling of the ship’s boards, together with the dry knocking sound of the sails, muffled the cries of fear and hurried prayers of the passengers.
After what felt like and endless hour, the wind calmed and a blue sky, washed clean by the rain, shown through. White clouds circled lazily above the sea, as detached from the storm as a dream for reality. With the calming of the sea, the fear of death fled. The monks found only a few faithful Catholics interested in their presence.
Slowly, the passengers once again climbed the ricket ladder to the deck, lulled into a curious calm by the now-gentle rocking of the ship and the soft, white crests of the waves. Malachy and Christian went with them, watching from the sunlit deack, washed clean as well by the storm, as the dark mass of the French coast rose up from the Channel. Calais
The wooden harbor of Calais was alive with activity. A number of small ships and fishing nets in different stages of repair were dotted the coast. Amongst them were the decaying skeletons of other, long forgotten boats.
The usual beggars, mendicants that plyed their trade in the busy port, flocked the wharf as the ship was tied in, their arms outstretched as they asked for copper coins. Some, willing to work, would carry the luggage, but others would make coin pouches disappear with the adroitness of a magician.
Christian and Malachy waited until the women and most of the men descended the gangplank, mixing in with the crowd. Some went into rented coaches, or into those of family or friends that waited on the busy street. Others, the poorest of the group, took simple, flat-bedded wagons, more apt for taking animals to market than for human travel but were used to earn a few badly needed coins.
The two monks stood out in the crowd, and they had no wish to be caught in the group overlong. Their long brown vestments with their rope belts tied around their waists and conspicuous hood to protect them from the elements were out of place here. So were the leather sandals. It was a religious uniform, but despite the fact that they were immediately recognized as clerics, they were still hounded by children in search of something to take home to ease their poverty and hunger.
The convent to which they were headed was only one league away, far too short a distance to justify the expense of transportation. They asked a port worker for directions, and that obtained, they swung the leather pouches that held their few belongings from their strong shoulders and started down the road.
The two men had been walking for almost one hour on the trail made by the few carriages and animals that roamed it, the heat of the day increasing with every step. Undulating hills rose up on either side of the road, and estates dotted the landscape. They were separated from the barrown path and each other by carefully aligned stones fences, removed from the fields to ease plowing and planting of the land. At the same time, they established, for the lord of the estate, his claim to the land, land that had been granted by the crown, inherited through feudal rights, or rented to farmers as fiefdoms.
Malachy and Christian caught their breath as they reached the top of a particularly high hill, silently taking in the magnificent view of the fields and few dwellings in the valley below.
Far below them, a woman with two children strode firmly up the path. Her long blonde hair cascaded freely past her waist, and she wore a long, blue-gray dress which, although loose, revealed her shapely figure.
The children, a boy and a girl of no more than twelve or thirteen, walked happily beside her. The boy wore gray pants cut under his knees, a dirty, beige shirt and a worn leather jerkin. Their blonde hair was proof enough that the woman they accomapanied was their mother, but as they came closer, the monks could see that all three shared violet-blue eyes and beautiful features.
The trio walked, hand-in-hand, singing a song whose lyrics immediately caught the monks’ attention. They were the poems of the old Gaelic, though a French peasant seemed to be singing them:
Tania sam slan soer The summer comes with Health Dia mbi cloen caill chiar And it reveres the dark wood Fingid ag seng sneid The slender deer jumps Dia mbi reid ron rian Sealing the gentle roads
The two men waited until the trio reached the top of the hill, watching as they walked forward, apparently unconcerned by their presence.
Malachy spoke, using the old Gaelic. “Good afternoon, child, what are you doing here so far from your home?” he asked. “I’m a Celt, Athair,” the woman said, calling Malachy “Father” when she answered. “The world is my home, and you Maelmhedhoc, you are also traveling far from your home.” “It is true,” said Malachy, startled. “I am far from home on a mission from God. How do you know my name?”
“It was said that a high lord of the Irish Church would come here and that his name would be Maelmhedhoc, or Malachy,” she said, smiling widely to reveal perfect teeth and laughing melodically. “What is your name child?” asked Malachy, smiling kindly. “My name is Galadriel, and my children,” she gestured at the boy and girl that watched the conversation with wide eyes, “are Alexander and Elizabeth.”
“Do you live near here, Galadriel?” Malachy asked. “I live where He who ordains everything sends me.” She removed a heavy book from a leather back the hung from her shoulder. “I was asked to give this to the monk named Maelmhedhoc. It is the life of Cothriche.
“Cothriche?” asked Malachy, his eyes widening. “You mean Saint Patrick?” “Is it not the same?” she asked, smiling. It is the same name that you call him in the old language. If today they want to call him differently, that would not change who he is or who he was.” “I suppose so, my dear child, but no one knew of my trip. How is it that you know?” “You knew, and that was enough for Him who sees everything to know of it also, Athair,” she said simply. “Your God knew it.” “Yes,” said Malachy patiently, but how did you know of it?” “You ask questions when the mystery of the future is revealed unto you,” she said. “Do you think that you are the only one who has a right to communicate with the Creator of all things?
Somewhat surprised by the young woman’s quick response, Malachy unthinkingly reached out and took the book. It was an exquisite edition of the Cothriche, detailed with magnificent drawings.
“You should not give me this,” he said, astonished. “It is of great value, and I cannot pay for it.” “Value,” asked Galadriel, shaking her head as she again laughed. “Knowledge is to be given, not charged for, and you need this knowledge.”
Astonished, Christian watched silently as the scene developed. He generally remained silent when he was with Malachy, but now, he could not help interrupting.
“Can you tell us who has given you this for the Bishop of Ireland?” he asked. “I can tell you this, future Abbot,” she said, turning her astonishing gaze to Christian, “last night I dreamt that at this time I should come on this road and I would find this pouch, and I should give it to Athair Maelmhaedohc and his companion. That is all I know.” “Your eminence,” said Christian, turning to Malachy, “this could be the work of the devil.”
Galadriel’s smile widened. “If you do not trust in God’s protection, nor have faith in yourself, then leave it where I found it. Surely, then, you are not the one for whom this book is intended, and my children and I will wait here for him to whom it is sent.
“You are going in the direction where it was placed,” she continued. “Leave it at the foot of the hill, next to the rocky mound that marks the division.”
She paused for a moment, her eyes searching between the two monks. “That is all. I will go on with my journey, as you should yours.”
She once again grasped each of her children’s hands. “Let’s go children. It is time.”
Christian and Malachy watched the three, with the same great joy with which they had climbed the hill, descend towards the village far below. Malachy looked at the book curiously, wandering what to do with it. “Do you really think that this could be the work of the devil?” he asked Christian. “It is an ancient book about the life of Saint Patrick. How can the devil even touch a holy book? No, we will take it to the convent and ask after it there. It might have been stolen,” he added thoughtfully.
Christian bowed his head. “As you say, your eminence.” Malachy hung the pouch containing the book from his shoulders and they continued their journey. When they passed the rocky mound that Galadriel had mentioned, they looked at it with curiosity. Nothing on it indicated anything of a supernatural or diabolical nature had occurred there. Indeed, all that the marker appeared to be was an indication of the corner of a plot of land.
They soon saw a small valley surrounded by luxuriant trees, the unremarkable delineation of the lands of a Cistercian monastery. A strong wall surrounded the buildings, equipped with lookouts and other defense installations. Within the enforcements, the church was square rather than elongated, one of the marks of Cistercian monasteries. A current of water, channeled from a nearby river, flowed into trenches that could be used to irrigate the farms and gardens and then into the wall itself, where it could be used for drinking, washing and cooking.
The massive doors slowly creaked open as they arrived, and several monks approached the travelers. Malachy and Christian identified themselves and expressed their wishes to see the Abbot.
After they were admitted, a monk led them to the Abbot’s office, and recognizing Malachy by name, Abbot Aclas immediately greeted him warmly, bowing and saying, “Your Eminence, welcome. It is an honor to have you in our humble home. Please be seated, and tell me how I can be of service to you.”
“We are on our way to Rome, Abbot Aclas.” Malachy said. “From here we plan to go to Clairvaux, where we will visit my dear friend, Abbot Bernard.”
“I am glad that you have stopped at our humble home to rest before beginning your journey to Clairvaux,” said Abbot Aclas. “Please give my best regards to Abbot Bernard. But, in the meantime, we will send him a message to advise him of your arrival.” “Please don’t bother,” said Malachy, smiling.
“It is no bother at all, your Eminence,” he said. “Every week, a messenger carries correspondence and news amongst our monasteries. Tomorrow, before sunrise, one of our monks will be leaving to Clairvaux. We can simply add a note announcing your arrival. In the mean time, I would like you to rest today and tomorrow, and we will have the carriage ready to carry you all the way to Rome at sunrise on the following morning.”
