Patrick (35 page)

M
Y RESCUER WAS
a member of a small farming clan that scratched out a slender living in a nearby valley. Sheltering in the wind shadow of a massive rocky crag, the holding occupied a narrow strip of land between the lower stone-covered slopes of the towering hill and a clear-water lake. In this settlement, home to twenty or more hardy souls, the farmers grew rye and oats, fished the lakes, and made hunting forays into the forest, where, as it happened, they also scavenged wood for the hearth when stocks ran low.

Four high-peaked, half-sunken houses served the clan, which was made up of two principal families. The houses were built of sturdy timber with beaten-earth floors; wattle partitions offered a modicum of privacy in the large single room—half of which the oxen shared; sleeping places on raised platforms ran along either side of the house. A large central hearth served for cooking and warmth, and it was here they gathered during the long winter nights.

My arrival threw the clan into commotion. They saw from my robe that I was a druid, and though they deemed my presence a rare honor, they were more than a little frightened of my supposed powers.

Nevertheless they welcomed me with simple sincerity. With slightly frantic ceremony I was lifted up and carried into the largest house in the cluster of buildings which made up the settlement.

Two women were tending a large iron caldron when the
company of four strong men bore me in. They jumped up and, shouting instructions to a gaggle of children, quickly prepared a place for me by the hearth using rushes, pelts, and fleeces which the children quickly fetched. Amid much gabbling discussion, I was placed on this bed while one of the men ran to inform the rest of the clan of my arrival.

I guess this is what happened, for the house was soon filled with people—all of them roughly similar in appearance: broad and stocky with short, muscular limbs, thick waists, and heavy shoulders. All the men had long dark hair and beards; the women's hair, likewise long and dark, was worn loose. Their clothing was made of sheepskin and coarse-woven wool. None of them wore any ornament or bauble that I could see, although several had a dark blue mark on their cheeks and upper arms—a curved line in the shape of a fish.

While they assembled to look at me, I slumped beside the hearth, too weak to move, my face to the shimmering flames as the delicious, lifesaving warmth seeped into my frozen bones. Truly, never was a man more grateful for fire than I was that night.

The children, stiff-legged with excitement, gawked at this odd-looking stranger and whispered loudly to one another. Presently an old man emerged from the hushed consultation just inside the doorway. Nodding, smiling, he approached, the very image of aged humility, as he settled himself beside me on the bare dirt floor. “Welcome, Father,” I said, trying Latin first, and I thanked him for taking me in. When that produced no result, I tried Irish and British, too.

He regarded me with a puzzled look and at last made a reply in a tongue I did not recognize. Certainly it was no language I had ever heard before.

“I am sorry,” I said. “I do not understand you—and I can see you do not understand me either.”

Still smiling, he rose and called to one of the men. The two held close conversation for a moment, and the younger man left the house, returning a moment later with
an old, white-haired woman. Although she seemed the most venerable of all present, they did not appear to hold her in any great regard but shoved her roughly forward to inspect me.

“Filidh? Filidh?” she asked, her toothless mouth slurring the words.

“Yes, filidh,” I confirmed.

She nodded and began patting me here and there. She brushed my side, which brought a wince from me, whereupon she tugged on my clothes. I surmised she wanted to see my injury. Moving carefully, I slowly, painfully, opened my robe and lifted my tunic so she could see my side, which was now an inflamed and puffy mass of discolored flesh.

Frowning, she gazed a moment at the livid wound, the breath whistling over her gums. She muttered to herself, then addressed me; when I made no reply, she bent her white head over me, sniffing the wound and fingering it gently with cool fingertips.

After a moment she replaced my robe and stood. She said something to the two women standing at the caldron, and both hurried away, returning quickly—one with a small iron pot and the other with a small leather drinking bag and a wooden bowl. The old woman took the pot and set it in the embers beside the fire; the bowl she filled from the leather bag and brought to me. She put it to my lips, indicating that I should drink. I raised my head and took some of the liquid into my mouth; it was sweet and warming and slid down my throat easily. I tasted honey and heather on my tongue, and other herbs—but it left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Mead, I decided, but with something added.

The liquid was wonderfully reviving, however, and as I sipped, I felt a delicious numbness spreading through my injured body. I drank some more of the painkilling concoction and lay back, offering her a smile for her efforts. She nodded and continued with her ministrations. A bowl of hot broth followed, and then dry bread that had been soaked in milk and meat drippings. The old woman patiently spooned
the food into my mouth, waiting between each spoonful for me to swallow until the bowl was empty.

Meanwhile the contents of the iron pot had begun to steam, infusing a sour scent into the air. When I finished, the old woman set the bowl aside and turned to the pot. Taking a stick, she fished a rag from the steaming liquid, felt it with her hand, and then, drawing aside my robe, placed the rag directly upon the wound on my side. The pungent stuff burned, but I, full of the drugged liquid, no longer cared about the pain. The old woman kept the hot rag on my side, returning it from time to time to the pot before replacing it on the wound.

The clan members gradually lost interest in the procedure and went about their business. They sat down for their supper and were served from the caldron, men first, then the women and children together. They ate noisily, talking incessantly in their thick speech; I listened but could make nothing of it.

Warmed by the food and fire and exhausted by the ordeal of the last many days, I closed my eyes and quickly sank into a deep and dreamless slumber. I slept through most of the next day, waking when the old woman roused me to drink a concoction she had made of bitter herbs, milk, and the bark of certain trees. I drank the stuff and felt better for it, as much as for my long sleep.

When I tried to rise, I found that I lacked the strength; the pain in my side was greater now, although the swelling had gone down somewhat—owing, no doubt, to the old woman's steaming poultice. My head ached, and the entire left side of my torso throbbed and burned. She fed me some broth-soaked bread, but even the effort to eat proved too much for me, and I could not take more than a few mouthfuls.

I lay drifting and dozing until the men returned from their various chores and gathered for their evening meal. The clan chief came and squatted down before me; he offered me a word of greeting and then spoke to the old woman, who,
frowning, shook her head, indicating, I supposed, that I was no better.

Nor was I better the next day. In fact, I could feel myself slipping. Despite the rest and food, my strength was diminishing and the pain in my side increasing in its pointed persistence and spreading down into my groin and leg.

When the old woman came to tend me, I looked her in the eye and said, “Bras Rhaidd.”

She frowned and shook her head, then turned to tend the iron pot on the coals. I reached out and took her arm, gripping it hard, so she would stop what she was doing and listen to me. “Bras Rhaidd,” I repeated, speaking as distinctly as I could, so she might catch the words and my meaning behind them. “Take me to Bras Rhaidd.”

She paused this time and regarded me shrewdly, but the words meant nothing to her. Still, she caught something of the importance of what I was trying to tell her. I repeated the words twice more, whereupon she rose and left the house. I had just closed my eyes again to sleep when she returned, this time with the old man and another, younger man. The old woman nodded to me, prompting me to say the words again.

“Bras Rhaidd,” I said. “Take me to Bras Rhaidd.”

The three of them looked at one another. The old man said something to me, and I repeated the words again. They talked among themselves then, but nothing came of it. In despair of making them understand, I blurted the next name I knew. “Candida Casa,” I said. “Do you know Candida Casa?”

The old man shook his head. No, he did not know what I was talking about. He said something to the old woman, who shook her head. As they were talking, the younger fellow leaned forward. “Casa?” he said hesitantly.

“Yes, Casa,” I repeated. “Candida Casa—do you know it?”

His eyes grew wide with excitement. “Candida Casa,” he said. The old man turned to the youth, who stretched out his
hand as if pointing out a direction. “
Gebort hurdanka,
Candida Casa,” he said insistently.

Understanding dawned on the old man then; he nodded enthusiastically, repeating the name to me. Lifting my hand, I tapped my chest and said the name, then pointed in the direction the young man had indicated, saying the name again.

Their reaction was gratifying. The young man, unable to sit still, jumped up. “Candida Casa,
ya! Ya!
” he cried over and over again.

The old man sat back on his heels and rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. The old woman called a command to the younger fellow, who fled the house on the run.

It was decided just like that, and before midday had passed, all was ready. The men came in, gathered me up, bed and all, and carried me out to a waiting wagon which had been hastily provisioned. The old woman followed with another drink of the pain-numbing liquor, and I was taken up and laid on a mound of straw to soften the jolting of the wagon; pelts were heaped upon me to keep me warm, and, with a shout from the driver to the ox, the wagon lurched off. The entire settlement came to watch my departure. I raised my hand in farewell and determined that if I should reach Candida Casa alive, I would see these people well rewarded for their help.

Two men attended me—the young man and the one who had found me on the road. They set off at a stately pace and walked without stopping until dusk; they made a camp on the trail and moved on before dawn the next morning. I slept most of the time, never stirring from the wagon save once, when we paused at a stream to allow the ox to drink and I rose and, with the aid of my young helper, stood long enough to relieve myself before crawling back to my warm nest.

I remember little enough of the next days. We journeyed west in the cold and snow, coming at last to the windblown coast. The farmers followed the coastline until reaching the monastery at dusk on the fifth day. The stopping of the
wagon wakened me, and I raised my head to see three robed priests hurrying from the nearest house. “Julian…,” I said to the first who reached me. He peered into my face and bit his lip. “Bring Julian.”

“Get him inside,” someone called. “Thomas, run get Fychan! Hurry!”

The monks scattered, and others arriving just then pulled me from the wagon and began carrying me across the yard to the priest house. The farmers were forgotten in the uproar of my arrival. I saw them standing beside the wagon as I was hauled away. “Please,” I said, “bring them in, too.”

One of the monks called for the farmers to be conducted to the refectory, and I was borne away to a cell in the priest house where I was placed on a clean bed of rushes. The monk called Fychan soon appeared—a short, round man who fairly bounced into the room on his stubby legs. He took one look at me and cried,
“Deus Mei!”
Whirling to an unseen brother behind him, he shouted, “Bring hot water, Marcus! And dry cloths.”

He came to my bed and knelt to examine me. “It is my side,” I told him, my voice a low, dry croak in my throat.

“There, now,” he said. “Rest easy. Let me have a look.” With deft and gentle hands, he untied my belt, drew aside my robe and tunic, and began probing the wound. “Horse?” he said after a moment.

“Stepped on me,” I whispered.

“I thought so,” he replied. “You carry the mark of the hoof in your flesh.” He put his hand on the swollen lump below my ribs. “Broken ribs,” he said. “There has been bleeding inside. Did you vomit any blood?” I shook my head in reply. “That is good at least.”

“Is it bad, then?”

“Bad enough. You were right to have them bring you here. Another few days and…” He left the thought unfinished, concluding, “God is merciful, however; he has provided the best physician in all of Albion. He is even now at your service, and he will see you mended.”

“With God's helping hand to guide him,” amended the brother just entering the room with a steaming bowl between his hands.

“Ah, Marcus, there you are. What kept you? Bring me the bowl and then go fetch my instruments.”

“Of course, brother,” replied Marcus, handing over the bowl.

“I cannot tell,” offered Fychan when his helper had gone, “whether he is an especially adept student or whether
I
am merely the most brilliant of teachers.” He sighed. “Perhaps we shall never know.”

Together they worked on me, the brilliant physician and his able student, and I relaxed into their care. The last thing I remember, before succumbing to the tincture Fychan gave me to dull the pain, was asking after the two farmers. “Where are they?”

“They are enjoying a hearty supper, I should think,” replied Fychan.

“Tell Julian to reward them well. They saved my life. Whatever he gives them, I will gladly repay—anything.”

“I will tell him,” said Marcus. “You are fortunate,” he continued. “Most Picti would have killed you for your cloak.”