‘I wandered the countryside, teaching and learning the language of the Bretons and the Franks. But a year ago I went to serve in the abbey of the Blessed Gildas. At first, all was well, for the Abbot Maelcar said he supported the Rule of Benedict. Then I dared question an interpretation of scripture and the Abbot suggested that I come to serve the isolated community here to reflect and learn humbleness.’
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Why would you need to reflect and be humble, for questioning an interpretation of scripture?’
‘For questioning the interpretation of Abbot Maelcar,’ corrected Brother Metellus. ‘He is old-fashioned, the son of a noble family from the Brekilien Forest.’
‘I would venture that it was the Abbot who needed to learn humility,’ she commented. ‘One learns by asking questions, and both the questioner and the questioned can profit by the exchange.’
‘That is not how the Abbot thinks. Anyway, it is a pleasant enough place to be…for a while.’ Brother Metellus turned and pointed. ‘We have reminders, too, that people have been living here from the time beyond time.’
They found themselves staring at a strange standing stone, a tall menhir that stood almost three times Fidelma’s height.
‘Local people call it the Virgin’s Menhir, and a little way from here is a large cairn which marks the last resting-place of an important chieftain who died long before the Romans came to these lands. The islanders tell great tales of this champion.’
But even with these fascinating sights and stories, it was not long before the couple realised they had traversed the complete island and seen everything.
Fidelma was confirmed in her frustration that she was a prisoner on this small rock of an island. However, the keening wind, the gusting little white billows on the sea, with the heavy grey clouds and a mist that seemed to hang like a shroud above the waters, were evidence that there was nothing else to do. So they walked slowly back to the shelter of the homesteads.
A few people were outside tending the small patches where fruit and vegetables grew, but not many. Most people were inside, for this was a fishing community and in such weather, no one could put out to sea. The boats were bobbing up and down, tied together, in the comparative shelter of the harbour.
Fidelma looked longingly towards the shrouded mainland.
‘So who was this founder of the abbey to which you belong?’ asked Eadulf of Brother Metellus by way of distraction.
‘Gildas was his name. He was one of the Britons who fled from the Saxon invasions of his land, as did many of the ancestors of these people here,’ replied Brother Metellus.
‘I am aware that the ancestors of my people are but recently settled on that island,’ Eadulf acknowledged.
‘Let us go out of the wind and have a cider to keep the chill at bay,’ Brother Metellus suggested tactfully.
Seated before the smouldering fire inside of Brother Metellus’ cabin, with cider to drink, Eadulf prompted him: ‘You were telling us of this man Gildas who founded the abbey you served in.’
‘His story is set against the settlement of your ancestors on the island of Britain, and I would not wish to say anything you might take amiss,’ Brother Metellus replied frankly.
‘How can one take history amiss, unless it is contrary to truth?’ queried Eadulf. ‘You are a Roman. Surely, in your wandering through the lands that were once conquered and ruled by Roman armies, you have met with all sorts of stories. You will know that to shut your ears to people’s views of the history of your ancestors is to blind yourself to truth and progress.’
Often, Fidelma reflected to herself, Eadulf would surprise her by his deep insight into the nature of people. She glanced at Brother Metellus. ‘Tell us about this Gildas,’ she invited. ‘I think I might know of the man.’
Brother Metellus sat back, taking a sip of his drink first.
‘He was born in the year when the great general of the Britons called Arthur defeated the Saxons at Badon Hill, on whose slopes nearly a thousand Saxon princes were said to have been slaughtered.’
Eadulf stirred uncomfortably but he had often heard the stories from his own people of how they wrested control of the lands from the Britons and slaughtered them. He could not protest at hearing the story as seen from another viewpoint.
‘That was about a century and a half ago. Then there were two decades of peace between the two peoples before that black day at Camlann when Arthur was slain. After that, the Saxons began to move westward again and Gildas and many other refugees fled here. He took sanctuary on the sister island to this.’
‘The sister island?’ queried Fidelma, stirring herself from her thoughts about the sea raiders that had been occupying her all day. She tried to concentrate on the conversation.
‘The island of Houad. It means “the duck” and this island is called “little duck”. Houad is a slightly larger island than this, just to the north-west. Gildas lived and worked there until the Prince of Bro-Waroch invited him to cross to the mainland, to the Rhuis peninsula, and establish a community there. It was there he wrote his famous work on the ruin and conquest of Britain.’
‘
‘I also took the opportunity of reading that book while I was in the abbey,’ Brother Metellus responded. ‘It is obvious that you know the work, Fidelma of Cashel. It is true that after this general called Arthur was killed, there was no one strong enough to unite the Britons against the Saxons,’ he conceded. ‘They quarrelled among themselves. Gildas likened the Britons to the Israelites, God’s chosen people, who lost their faith and so were to be punished by God. He called on the prophecies of Jeremiah to foretell a bleak outlook for his people unless the Britons turned aside from their immoral course. He was a man of asceticism and fervour. Of course, there are other great works of Gildas, which they have at the abbey — like his letters on pastoral questions and the reform of the Church and his work on penance…Your own Columbanus admired his work and spoke of him as Gildas Sapiens — Gildas the Wise.’
‘So this Gildas founded an abbey here?’ prompted Eadulf.
‘On the peninsula called Rhuis.’
‘And that is where he died?’
‘No, he did not die there but decided, after a while, to return to Houad. It is there that he died about a century ago. His body was taken back to the abbey and he is buried behind the high altar.’
‘Is it a large abbey?’
‘There are about fifty souls in the community.’
‘Is it a
Brother Metellus shook his head, slightly scandalised. ‘I am told it used to be, but when Abbot Maelcar took over, he introduced the Rule of Benedict. When I joined the abbey, the community was all committed to a life of celibacy.’
‘And this Abbot…Abbot Maelcar, you said?’
‘Abbot Maelcar, indeed. He is a man of Bro-Waroch.’
‘I know little of this land of Bro-Waroch,’ Eadulf said, ‘yet I am confused. Some seem to call it Bro-Erech and some Bro-Waroch. Which is the correct name, and is it a large kingdom?’
‘From the time of King Alain’s father it has been called Bro-Waroch and it is, indeed, a large kingdom. I heard its history from people as I travelled through it. The earliest settlers from Britain had to regain some of the territory to drive the Frankish incursions back to the east. They say it was Caradog Freichfras of Gwent who founded the kingdom.’ Brother Metellus sniffed in disapproval before continuing. ‘The people, being frontiersmen continually fighting for their existence against the Franks, became a tough and vicious lot. Harsh lives make harsh morals. So it was for the first century of its existence as a kingdom. That left its mark on the lines of the kings. Canao, for example, killed three of his brothers to claim the kingdom. I am told that he died sixty years ago.’
‘What or who is this Waroch, then?’
‘He was an earlier King than Canao. After Canao died, his one surviving brother, Macliau, became King — and when
