Columba

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Written by the author of The Bruce Trilogy, The Captive Crown, and Margaret the Queen, this is the story of a very human, fallible but courageous and indomitable man, born an Irish prince in the troubled and pagan sixth century, who rejected the high kingship of all Ireland to be an abbot.

Release date: June 1, 1987

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 432

Sample

The tall, yellow-haired man with the vitally grey eyes stared at the younger man, flushed and dishevelled, as he panted out his all but incoherent account. Then the elder held up a quite imperious hand to halt the jerky spate of words.

“You killed this man? This player at the hurley? He is dead? At a game!”

“Dead, yes – so they declared. But – I did not mean to kill him. He hit me first. With his stick. A foul blow. Here, at my knee. See – it is swollen. In anger I hit him back. Any man would have done the same, Colum. As he saw my blow coming, he leapt back. Stumbled. All but fell. To save himself, he sank on one knee. My hurley-stick, aimed at his body, struck the side of the neck. Here. He went down like a felled ox. They said that he died at once. Neck broken . . .”

“God have mercy on you both! You, and him. To kill a man at sport!”

“I tell you, it was not intended. I raised my stick in a flash of anger. And this, this happened! Now, now I need sanctuary, Columcille.”

The tall man, stroking his shaven chin, said nothing.

“Colum – you must give me sanctuary! They will be after me. He was of the Southern O’Neill – the High King’s clan. Diarmid hates us of the Northern clan, you know well. He was there, watching, Diarmid the Ard Righ. He will have me if he can! I must have the sanctuary of Holy Church. Or I am a dead man this day! I am innocent, but Diarmid mac Cerball will have my life . . .”

“That sanctuary Christ’s Church cannot deny you, Curnan. But, dear God – your moment of anger is like to cost us all dear, I fear. You will have to stand trial. And pay the blood-price. But until then you shall have sanctuary here, at Kells . . .”

“Then quickly, Colum! For they will guess that I have come to you. To your monastery here . . .”

“You came at once?”

“Yes. I had to. To horse from the playing-field. Riding my hardest. The ten miles from Teltown and the festival.” Prince Curnan gestured towards his foam-flecked, quivering horse. “They will be after me . . .”

“So be it. Come with me, to the church . . .”

Colum mac Felim O’Neill, Abbot of Kells and Derry, led the way through the gardens and monastic buildings within the rath or outer ramparts, to the sizeable but simply-designed church. He walked long-strided – but then he always moved thus, vehement and energetic yet without seeming to hurry, a man giving the impression of authority, assurance, decision, even though at times he possessed a deal less than that. The prince hurried to keep up with him. At the church-door, the older man pointed.

“Go – and pray!” he said simply.

The other all but ran into the sacred building.

The abbot strode back, thoughtful indeed – as he had cause to be. He did not require the second-sight, the prevision, with which he was often credited, to foresee dire consequences arising from his kinsman’s act. And not only for Curnan. The present High King of All Ireland, Diarmid mac Cerball, would be gravely offended – and he was a violent and difficult man. As chief of the Southern branch of the great clan of O’Neill, he was conditioned to dislike those of the Northern branch, the Hy-Neill, although they were all descendants of the mighty Niall of the Nine Hostages, the most famous warrior-king of Ireland. But particularly he did not love Aed, King of Connaught, Curnan’s father. Today’s folly would be a stick with which to beat Aed. Moreover, Diarmid had no affection for Colum himself; for, some years before, he had been offered the position of Ard Righ, or High King, himself, by the electing sub-kings, but had courteously but firmly refused it, electing the Lord Christ’s way, as he said, rather than the monarchial way which was his birthright; and Diarmid had been chosen, as second-best, to sit on the throne at Tara.

Back at the monastery gatehouse, he ordered a student monk to see to Curnan’s sweating horse, himself stroking its velvety quivering nostrils – for he had a great fondness for animals and all living things. Then he went outside, to peer down the road to Teltown, from which the trouble could be expected. He was turning over in his mind how best to seek to deal with the High King’s men, if they did come chasing after the fugitive, when he bethought himself of prayer. He had told his kinsman to pray – he himself ought to be praying. Colum was a great believer in the power of prayer – although he was all too apt to act first and remember to pray afterwards.

So he went to the elaborately carved Celtic stone cross which stood on a plinth in the centre of the monastic courtyard, and there knelt, monks and students watching from doorways and corners, intrigued no doubt. Not that there was anything unusual about their abbot doing the like at any time of day or night; but a monastic establishment is by its nature a notable place for rumours, tales and gossip, and Prince Curnan’s sudden and agitated arrival had not gone unnoticed.

On his knees, Colum sought to marshal his thoughts and petitions in suitable order and humble fashion to put before his Maker. But he had not got far in the process before the drumming of hooves, many hooves, resounded, indeed all but caused the ground to tremble beneath his knees. Hastily apologising to his Creator, he started up, recollected the courtesies sufficiently to add “Thy will be done!” and then turned back towards the gateway.

A large mounted company was thundering up the dusty road, banners flying; and amongst these last, one twice the size of any other. Colum’s strong but pleasing features set grimly as he recognised that flag.

The majority of the horsemen reined up as they neared the turf-and-stone ramparts of the rath, but the leaders rode on into the gatehouse entrance. In the forefront, magnificently mounted, was a thick-set, bearded man of about Colum’s own age, some forty years, richly clad, with a purple riding-cloak flung back from wide shoulders and a golden circlet around his brows and sandy-grey hair. Those heavy brows were dark-frowning. He pulled up his white, arch-necked stallion savagely, so that it reared, forefeet pawing the air, in front of the dark-cowled, white-robed abbot.

“Is Curnan mac Aed here?” he demanded harshly, without other greeting and remaining in the saddle.

“Welcome to this poor house of God, Highness,” the other returned, inclining his head, although not very deeply. “Prince Curnan is here, yes. He is in the church, at prayer. Seeking God’s mercy.”

“Have him out, then.”

Colum raised his own eyebrows in the broad forehead, tonsured, but slightly, in the Celtic Church fashion. “Did I mishear, Highness? Pardon me if I did.”

“You heard, Colum mac Felim. Have Curnan out. I want him. He has a debt to pay.”

The abbot shook his head. “No, Highness. That is not possible. Curnan is in sanctuary.”

“Not possible? By the gods – you refuse me? The High King!”

“Until trial and judgement, he is in the care of a higher king than you, Diarmid mac Cerball!”

For moments these two princely descendants of Niall of the Nine Hostages stared each other in the eye. Then the monarch angrily jerked his beast’s head aside and spurred on past the other, towards the church. His immediate companions rode after him.

Colum clenched fists and bit his lip – for he also was a hot-tempered man – seeking to control himself. Then he strode in the wake of the horsemen.

It did not take him long to reach the church, but long enough for the mounted men to have got there, dismounted and disappeared inside the building. Not all of them, for the High King still sat on a horse outside. Even as Colum came up, the three of the royal bodyguard emerged, part-dragging, part-carrying the protesting Prince Curnan, to manhandle him right up to the monarch’s mount.

Diarmid wasted no words. He jabbed a pointing finger at the prisoner, and then made a plunging gesture with his clenched fist.

Obediently, and grinning, two of his henchmen snatched out dirks from their belts, and without hesitation plunged them deep into their wide-eyed victim, one into his throat, the other between his shoulder-blades.

Prince Curnan mac Aed of Connaught sank to the ground, choking in a flood of blood. His corpse was only twitching as Colum came up.

Horrified, appalled, the abbot stared from the body to his killers and then up at the High King, for the moment speechless.

“He has his deserts!” the monarch said flatly, and pulled his horse around.

“Wait, Diarmid mac Cerball!” That was commandingly authoritative enough for even the High King to draw rein – after all, Colum mac Felim was of as royal blood and breeding as was he, and could on occasion show it. “How dare you! How dare you! You . . . savage. You, you have done the unforgivable! Assassin! For this deed, I say, you are accursed . . .!”

“You name this justice? You, the High King. I name it murder. And in cold blood.”

“What you name it matters nothing to me, Colum mac Felim.”

“He slew a man – my own servant, thus he is slain. Justice is done.”

“You think that? Perhaps that is true. What I may deem it is unimportant. But what Almighty God deems it should concern you. And God is not to be mocked, even by you! For, as well as murder, you have committed the sin of deliberate sacrilege. You have broken God’s sanctuary.”

“Sanctuary! A device of priests to shelter rogues!”

“Holy Church says otherwise. The Church, in God’s name, offers sanctuary to those who seek it, until such time as they may be brought to judgement, men’s judgement. You have defiled it, in direst shame.”

“Curnan has had his judgement. Mine!”

“And now you face God’s judgement! For the double sin of sacrilege and murder. You are accursed, Diarmid mac Cerball!”

“You curse me? You dare! Me, the Ard Righ!”

“God will – that I promise you!”

The monarch hooted a harsh laugh, turning to his watching bodyguard. “You hear this insolent priest? He thinks to curse the High King of all Ireland! In the name of his Christian god. A fool, as well as insolent!”

The others looked away, uncomfortable. Hard, tough men, they were less sure of being impervious to the abbot’s curses than was their master; also Colum mac Felim was a prince of the blood even more highly descended than was Diarmid.

The king shrugged, spat at Colum’s feet, kicked heels into his beast’s flank, and without another word rode off. Glancing at neither the abbot nor the corpse, his people mounted and spurred after him.

Colum stood for a few moments, trembling with emotion. Then he went to kneel beside his fallen kinsman. Clearly Cuman had died almost instantly, one of the expertly wielded daggers having reached the heart. Head bowed and shaking, he stared. Then he rose and stooping, grasped the dead man’s shoulders at the armpits, and started to drag the body back into the church. He was a well-made and physically strong man in the prime of life. No doubt some of his monks and lay-brothers watched from windows and corners, but none came to help – for they knew their abbot.

In the church, plain, simple to the point of austerity, Colum dragged the corpse up the single step to before the altar. There, beside it, he sank down on his knees, to pray. At first prayer would not come, only passion, anger, hatred. Fiercely he sought to discipline his all too vehement emotions, thoughts, will, as not infrequently he had to do – but seldom indeed so desperately as now he did. At length he schooled himself to address his Maker in some sort of fashion that he felt might be reasonably acceptable.

Colum prayed for Curnan’s soul, for the soul of his victim on the hurley-field, and for his own, that he might learn God’s will in this harrowing matter. He even tried to pray for Diarmid mac Cerball also, but failed; but he did ask, beseech forgiveness, if his angry condemnation, his cursing, was wrong. He well recognised that his anger should be against the sin committed rather than the sinner, but found it difficult on this occasion to convince himself.

Eventually he rose and went for his people to attend to the body, prepare it for the burial service and interment. He must send a messenger to King Aed of Connaught, Curnan’s father – a message which inevitably would be the beginning of troubles, major and dire troubles, God help them all.

It requires no divine gift of prophecy to visualise some of the troubles which did erupt in Ireland thereafter. The Northern and Southern branches of the great clan of O’Neill, the descendants of the semi-legendary hero, Conn of the Hundred Battles and the later Niall of the Nine Hostages, had long been in a state of mutual antipathy and rivalry, not to say outright hostility. The Northern, or Hy-Neill, to which Colum and the dead Curnan belonged, was the senior and generally more influential, and was more apt to provide the High Kings; but after Colum’s refusal of that honour, Diarmid of the Southern branch, a noted warrior, was offered it, and this had given a major lift to his clan – a circumstance for which by no means all the Northern O’Neills had forgiven the abbot. It did not take a great deal to spark off enmity, and this murder of a Connaught prince, in sanctuary or none, was a recipe for conflict.

But as well as this, and totally unexpected by Colum, was a move by Diarmid to strengthen his own hand and at the same time exacerbate the situation by seeking to divide the rival clan. He made a declaration that Colum mac Felim, as well as publicly insulting himself and the office of High King, and harbouring a killer fleeing from justice, had shamefully digressed against his own new Christian faith, in which he arrogantly claimed leadership. The man was a traitor and a danger to both the old faith and the new.

This was a tardy reopening of an old sore, not so very dire and long since healed and forgotten by most converts to Christianity. As a student monk in his twenties, at the monastery of Dromin, Colum had translated, from Latin into the Gaelic, St Martin of Tours’ version of the Psalms, and this without the authority of his mentor, tutor and superior, Bishop Finnian. The bishop had been offended, for he had intended to perform this important task himself, copies of the Vulgate Gospels and Psalms being in short supply indeed, and the providing of them, in translation, a distinction much admired. Finnian was scarcely to be blamed, for he himself had earlier brought the Latin copy to Ireland, for safety, from Candida Casa in Strathclyde, when the pagans overwhelmed that mission – and, moreover, it was he who had taught Colum his Latin. So the younger man had been less than tactful, however enthusiastic. But ardent, and seeing the need for the Scriptures as vital for the spread of Christianity, he had refused to halt his work. He had long been forgiven by Finnian. But the bishop had been of the Southern O’Neill, and the old controversy was now remembered and used.

Conditions in Ireland, as in all the northern lands, had changed since Finnian’s day. Now, in 561, the Christian faith was endangered, and paganism was reasserting itself almost everywhere. Diarmid was pagan, and the Druid priests were strong and influenced him greatly. He, and they, saw this present trouble as an excellent opportunity to advance their cause by seeking to create division amongst the Christians, by accusing the Abbot of Kells and Derry of schism, heresy and ambition, as well as rebellion against the high kingship. The objective was not only to pit Southern O’Neill against Northern, but Christian against Christian.

At first Colum was scarcely aware of all this; and even when rumours began to reach him at Kells, scarcely believed it, or the scale of it. However, when a friend came secretly to the monastery, from Tara, to warn him that a group under the Arch Druid, including some Christian priests, were planning to come and arrest him, with the High King’s agreement, as an offender against both Church and State, to stand trial at Tara before a joint court of the religious and secular authorities, he recognised that it would be wise to be elsewhere meantime. That sort of wisdom did not come naturally to Colum mac Felim, for his was a nature apt to meet challenge head on, too much so, many held; but he realised that he had responsibilities other than personal here, to this monastery and others which he had founded, and which could suffer if he made resistance. Also to the Northern O’Neill clan itself, which might well feel impelled to take to arms to rescue or avenge one of its princes and so precipitate war.

That very night, leaving Kells monastery in the care of its saintly sub-Abbot Liban – whom even the most accusatory would find difficulty in accusing of anything combative – Colum slipped quietly away, on horseback, with only the student-monk and personal attendant Lugbe as companion, both dressed inconspicuously, and headed northwards. Kells was altogether too near to Tara, seat of the High Kings, for comfort in present circumstances, even though that was why he had founded his monastery there.

All night they rode through the sleeping land of Meath, ever northwards, without seeing a soul, although dogs barked at them from sundry villages and farmsteads, seeking to avoid the habitations of men as they did. Lugbe, at only twenty years, had never done anything like this in his life, and was excited and just a little fearful, even his beloved master’s presence and spiritual authority not entirely insulating him from dread of the alleged terrors which stalked by night. Colum, to be sure, had travelled thus many a time – not always unpursued, his Christianity being of the sort which had tended to arouse passions of opposition as well as of adherence.

Kells was a long way south of their ultimate destination, Derry in Donegal, over one hundred and fifty miles, where stood the first monastery Colum had founded. He had indeed been instrumental in setting up more than these, for he was a man who did not do things by halves; but Derry and Kells were under his own abbacy, the others not. And one hundred and fifty miles would not be too far to be away from the clutches of the High King and Arch Druid.

In the early hours of the morning they followed the Blackwater River valley out of Meath and into Monaghan, into hilly country now, although the mountains loomed only dimly in the September night. On well into the forenoon they continued, with the young man all but asleep in the saddle, before Colum halted at a lonely hill-farm where they obtained oaten porridge, honey and milk before moving further into the privacy of a birch-wood where they could tether their beasts and sleep unseen. But only for a few hours. If young Lugbe did not already know it, he was learning that life with Colum mac Felim was not apt to be easy, ever.

Across the narrows of Monaghan they took their hilly way, and by now had ceased any looking backwards for fear of pursuit, eventually to ford another Blackwater River, into Tyrone of the lakes and the bogs. They were into Ulster now, Northern O’Neill territory. Colum felt safer here, but only somewhat, for the High King of All Ireland could go where he would, his writ running the length and breadth of the land, in theory, even though one of the Southern O’Neill would be apt to be more cautious in the Northern territory. Colum’s concern was not only with his own safety; knowing Diarmid, he recognised that any giving known shelter and comfort to himself, as fugitive, might well suffer for it.

On into another night they rode, the weather kind at least, choosing byways and avoiding towns and villages where possible, even though this involved much fording of difficult streams and bogs. Eventually they had to halt, for their horses’ sakes if not their own. But they were now halfway to Derry, and surely they might take it more easily hereafter. That Diarmid and Bec mac De, the Arch Druid, would learn of their flight quickly, Colum was in no doubt; someone would find it worth his while to inform on them without delay. But even so, any pursuit must be far behind, guess as they would that he would almost certainly head for Derry.

It took them three more days, at a more relaxed pace, to reach that far northern oak-wood on the River Foyle, the gift of Curnan’s father, King Aed, where Colum had built his first monastery sixteen years before, as a young enthusiast for the faith, after turning down the high-kingship, impatient to spread the Gospel, almost to force it upon his fellow-clansmen and compatriots. He had learned, in the years that followed, a little of the follies of impatience and the need for forbearance, the acceptance of God’s will and timing rather than his own, and so had moderated his pace and all too princely ambitions in the field of religion – even though at times he had wondered whether, after all, he ought to have accepted the high kingship and so been able to impose Christianity on druidical, sun-worshipping Ireland. He had learned too, as the years went by, that Derry, in farthest Donegal; was too isolated to make much impact on mid and southern Ireland; and while there were numerous other monasteries and churches scattered over the land, and had been since St Patrick’s time a century before, none of these, in his urgent opinion, was in fact making sufficient efforts to stem the rising tide of paganism. So he had founded those other establishments, aided by his princely revenues, in strategic situations, first Durrow, then the one at Kells, near to Tara, the most vitally important; and there, in due course, he had based himself as a missionary soldier of Christ.

They came to Derry on that fifth afternoon, tired but thankful, a lovely place in its woodland setting on an eminence by the riverside, only three miles from the mouth of the Foyle and the great sea-lough. The abbot’s unexpected arrival created a great excitement amongst the monks and lay-brethren. Word of Curnan’s death, and possible repercussions, had reached even this remote community, but no least notion of personal threat to Abbot Colum. He did not dwell on this, but changed back into his white monastic robe and black abbot’s hood, and led thanks for his safe home-coming, for he looked on Derry as his true home still. This small church, his very first building, had been erected largely with his own hands and was the only one in all Ireland facing north-and-south instead of east-and-west. This was on account of a magnificent old oak tree sharing the mound, and which he had refused to have cut down to make room for the church, asserting that it was God’s creation as distinct from man’s. Now he made the obligatory quick tour of the establishment, commending all and schooling himself to make his sundry criticisms later. Then he set off again, alone, to stride the mile or so along the riverside to another house, not a religious one this time, quite large, indeed more imposing than anything at the monastery where simplicity was the rule. Amidst a flurry of barking dogs and bowing servants, where he was addressed as Prince Colum rather than Abbot, he asked if the Princess Eithne was at home, and was conducted to the orchard, where a number of women were picking apples from the trees for the cider-making. Some of the younger ones were up ladders and one or two even perched on the branches, to reach the topmost fruit; and more than one of these found opportunity to make a great outcry of pretended modesty at a man’s appearance, with so much feminine leg on view, Colum waving appreciatively.

One older woman, bidding them to be quiet, came to greet her son, almost as long-strided as was he, with open arms. “Colum, my dear, my dear!” she cried. “Heaven be praised that I see you here! I thank God that you are come. Safe! Safe!” Her strong although melodious voice all but broke – which it seldom did.

They embraced with great warmth, for they were very close, these two. Then Colum held her from him, to eye her fondly, proudly, shaking his head.

“Mother – I swear that you grow but the younger every year! And the more beautiful! How do you do it?” he exclaimed. “Soon your son will look older than you – if he does not already! For my failures and follies but add to my years. Do you have none?”

“Shame on you! Is flattery not a sin? Like hypocrisy? You, a man of God!”

“A man of God seeks – but does not always find!” he amended, in changed, deepened, voice.

“Nor you only, Colum. But at least He has brought you safely here, to me, again. Heard my prayers, if not yours. I have been sorely worried for you, these many days. I have seen you in dire need and danger. Evil threatening you. Almost I thought to come to you myself, at Kells. Not that I could have achieved anything to your aid . . .”

Still gripping her shoulders, he eyed her. “Mother – you know! Or . . . did some tidings reach you?”

“I knew. I did have word from Aed of Connaught, yes. But before that, I knew . . .” If Colum sometimes had the second sight, as reputed, it was from his mother that he inherited it, a woman renowned for that strange and not always welcome gift.

The Princess Eithne of Leinster, now in her mid-sixties, was endowed with other qualities in plenty, a woman of beauty, intelligence and strength of character. Hers had been the dominant influence in her son’s upbringing, rather than that of his father, for Prince Felim, long dead, had been cast in a gentler mould, studious and retiring – although it was he who had embraced Christianity in his quiet way, leaving it to his wife to imbue their son with the burning zeal which came more naturally to them both.

Curious, he asked her. “What did you know, Mother?”

“Only that you were in danger. That evil men conspired against you. That some whom you would trust would betray you – as Judas betrayed his Lord. That you must flee – or die! So I prayed. And here you are . . .”

He nodded, and as they left the orchard for the house, he told her all that he knew himself, of his friend’s warning, of the murder of Curnan, the cursing of Diarmid, the resurrection of that old offence against Bishop Finnian over the Psalms, of the shameful alliance of some Christian priests and abbots with the pagan Druids and Diarmid.

“Diarmid mac Cerball is a barbarian! Quick with his sword but a fool, a witless oaf! Almost as great fools, and much to be blamed, were the kings who elected him High King when you refused, Colum.” The Princess Eithne was one of those who believed that her son ought to have accepted the Tara throne; although once he had made his decision she accepted it, supported him loyally and had not kept bringing up the matter. “But Bec mac De, the Arch Druid, is different,” she went on. “He is clever, and without scruple. And he can twist Diarmid to his evil will. He hates our Holy Church, and sees you, Colum, as its champion. That he should win over some Christians to his wicked plotting is despicable, utterly shameful.” His mother’s fine eyes blazed with her indignation and contempt.

“They are, no doubt, some of those hereditary abbots,” Colum asserted. “You know their sort. They can be the curse of our Church.” The Celtic Church, unlike the Romish, with which it had had no real links since St Patrick’s day, did not insist on celibacy in its priesthood; and heredity and clanship being so strong a principle and preoccupation amongst the Irish and the Celtic peoples generally, the notion that an abbot’s son could succeed his father had grown up, especially in the south, and there were now even third generation incumbents of monastic seats, some of whose Christian learning and observance was rudimentary to say the least. There were good men amongst them undoubtedly; but Colum, for one, was utterly opposed to the entire concept.

“Those wretches, yes. Their faith can be but skin-deep! So – what do you do now, Colum?”

“I must go see King Aed. Tell him how it was, with Curnan. The least that I can do. Seek to give him such comfort as I may, little as that must be.”

“Aed will not accept this murder lightly – nor should he! A proud man, Aed.”

“That is what I fear. Yet – the deed is done. Curnan has gone to a better place than Ireland, and nothing will bring him back . . .”

Colum asked after his family, for he had a brother and four sisters, all married and scattered over Ulster and Donegal. He stayed with his mother until late evening, sharing an excellent meal, such as he had not tasted for a long time; for the Princess Eithne lived in some style, with quite a court of women, mainly young – for young at heart herself, she preferred youthful company. Not that she did not enjoy male company also, but on this occasion her son was the only man present, apart from servitors, and he did not fail to derive full relish from the fact. Colum was fond of women, although he had never married, not out of any matter of principle, nor even, at times, lack of desire, but because he recognised all too clearly that the course he had set for himself could scarcely be run in harness with a wife, however patient and understanding. It was a deliberate decision and no easy option, for he was attractive to the other sex, and apt to be left in no doubt of it, and his warm, vehement nature was not slow in responding. So that evening, round the table, and later at the music and song, he played his part in the badinage and playful pleasantry, even mildly flirtatious repartee, giving as good as he got, and had his mother pretending to be censorious,