The girl on his lap was getting too old for this, he had regretfully decided. Small, budding breasts were beginning to be so noticeable that even a bishop of unchallenged probity would find it difficult to ignore them for much longer. Truth to tell he liked Luned very much. When he had been appointed as Glasgow’s first bishop (considerably against his wishes and over his public protests that he was far too young and unworthy for such an honour), he was enthroned in his rough-hewn chair. At once a small girl-child ran to him and curled up in his lap. She had been no more than four at the time, and everyone had laughed and praised her wisdom in placing her trust so unhesitatingly in their holy man. She had been doing it ever since, and no-one had complained. Not even her father. Bened the smith knew only too well into what rare beauty the girl was blossoming, and as far as he was concerned the more time she spent with the bishop, the less time she would be spending getting into trouble with boys. Luned was alert, intelligent, inquisitive, charming, and utterly trusting. She coiled her young body in his lap and looked up with her deep brown eyes into the rugged face of her protector.
‘I believe your father wants you,’ he told her with a smile. He and the smith exchanged knowing glances. No words were needed. It was a feast day and many of his congregation were gathered in Prince Rhydderch’s hall. The great log fire burned high, and serving women ran to and fro with wooden dishes piled high with fruit, roast boar and fish. The prince sat on his throne and grinned complacently. A large drinking horn was in his hand, and he and the bishop watched indulgently as the girl lightly stepped past the laden tables down the hall, her long, nut-brown hair trailing like a small waterfall behind her homespun green gown. But of a sudden there was a disturbance. Rhydderch’s mouth turned downwards at the corners, and he tugged angrily at his beard. From his chair beside the prince, Mungo listened with dismay. Because the strange foreign priest who had arrived the day before was shouting and pointing at the girl. She turned in bewilderment and hid behind her father, who stood up and folded his hands in front of his massive chest. The man went on shouting. In Latin, which few in the hall could speak with any fluency. Mungo slowly rose to his feet, realizing that he would have to do something. He lifted his episcopal staff with his right hand and thumped it on the low wooden dais three times.
Everyone was looking at him now, and even the strange priest had stopped his tirade. But Mungo took his time, looking down at the man with the coldest stare he could summon. The wretch had arrived with a slouching servant, speaking atrocious British and demanding shelter from the stormy autumn weather. Mungo could hardly refuse him, but the man was a shriveled, angry little morsel: cold-hearted, arrogant and demanding. He claimed to be from Rome, though that seemed very unlikely at the time. Mungo had insisted on having the man say some Offices yesterday afternoon and evening. Hospitality was one thing, but he would not suffer imposture on his doorstep. Unfortunately the man knew the liturgy only too well, and insisted that it be done in the Roman fashion. And Mungo had let him have his way, and had sighed, and pondered how very different this creature was from the wandering Irish monks and priests who would visit from time to time. Sturdy, barefoot scholars with bare legs and leather bags holding priceless holy books from the monastic cells of Cill Dara and elsewhere. They were welcome everywhere in Christian lands, for their kindness in delivering the North from pagan darkness would never be forgotten. One day, Mungo feared, there was going to be bad trouble with these Roman priests.
‘The occasion of sin is the snare of Satan, not the woman,’ he intoned with frost in his voice. ‘Here is no sin at all, and guests would do well to hold their tongues in other men’s lands. You speak errantly, Father Servicius, and I must correct you; since you have spoken this thing in a Prince’s hall before everyone. There is no curse of Eve, Father. Not since the Annunciation of the Archangel Gabriel to the Blessed Mary. Know you not that Ave is Eva in reverse; and that the one cancels out the other?’ He paused, while the echoes of his Latin polysyllables resounded against the stone walls. The man blinked at him with his watery blue eyes and said not a word. ‘Therefore resume your seat, Father. Later, if you wish, I will instruct you further. It would seem that you may require it.’
Finally, the man found his nasal, querulous voice again. He looked towards the girl with a denouncing finger held aloft – and it was a most unattractive, broken-nailed, discoloured finger at that – but found his line of sight still barred by the imperturbable smith, whose huge hands had, Mungo noticed, curled into fists. Though entirely ignorant of Latin, Bened’s black eyes glowered nonetheless. ‘It is not fitting that you, a man of God, should allow a woman to fondle you. This is a mortal sin!’ screeched the stranger. Now an answering murmur arose here and there, and shaggy heads began to gossip in low voices. This must be ended now, or an unforgiveable outrage might happen. Mungo pitched his voice higher, and spoke in tones of thunder.
‘I bade you be silent, Servicius. Now I command it. You speak nothing but folly and presumption. But since you have dared to question me, know this.’
Again the hall fell utterly silent. Mungo did not want to do this, but nothing else would serve now. He lifted his voice once more in Latin. ‘I declare to you that the sight or touch of the most beautiful girl affects me no more than if she were carved from stone. Even so did our Saviour succour the little ones; and while I, His unworthy servant, stand in His place, then so shall I. Now be silent, Father!’
Father Servicius’ frail body shook, and he glared at the bishop with loathing. Muttering angrily, he grabbed his scrip, a loaf of bread and his servant, and scuttled out of the hall. The smith’s hands dropped to his side and he laughed. ‘The man was raised by goatherds,’ he pronounced. Laughter filled the hall. Suddenly Luned appeared by her father’s side again. She looked shocked, and grabbed at her father’s sleeve.
‘Is that why he took the bread, father?’ she asked in her piping voice. ‘To feed to his goats?’
At that the Prince had laughed long and merrily, and the moment of crisis had passed.
* * * * * * * * * *
That was three years ago. Now lovely Luned was wed to Prince Rhydderch himself, and was grown tall and comely, dressed in fine robes and jewels. All was not well in the prince’s hall, however, and whispers came to the bishop’s ears. It was a fine spring morning, and he had taken his fishing rod down to the river Cluta. He trailed his line in the shallows and wondered why he was there. The past harvest had been good, and the next showed promise. Fields of barley and rye waved in the wind on both sides of the river bank. Dried fish there was still in abundance from the previous year, and dried fruit and herbs in plenty hanging in bunches in every hut. The Lord had blessed His people and there was no lack of anything. Yet Mungo had learned to trust the inner voice in his heart. For no apparent reason he was needed right here today. If not for fish, then for what? Doubtless the Lord would show him soon enough. Prince Rhydderch was a just and vigorous ruler, far better than his predecessor Morken, now remembered only as The Tyrant. He had been bad right though; and while it was Mungo’s duty to attempt to see good in everyone, he had struggled and failed to discern anything noble or praiseworthy in Morken.
There had been three poor harvests and Mungo’s flock were desperate. Yet Prince Morken had granaries filled with grain, and would not give any of it to his people. Mungo had pleaded with him, but the man was obdurate. So one dark winter night, Mungo and his congregation had made the granary guards drunk with heather beer and had taken his grain down-river to the villages where it was needed. Next morning Mungo presented himself before Prince Morken and declared that the river Cluta had risen and carried off his stores to where it was needed; and by the miracle of God not a grain of it had been touched nor spoiled by the flood water. Morken had gripped the arms of his chair so hard that they broke off in his fists, but had said nothing before his retainers. They knew what had happened and were all trying, and succeeding with much effort, not to laugh. He had died not long after in a hunting accident, and his folk were well content. Mungo smiled at the memory.
Mungo and his miracles! He had tried without success to deny them, yet the stories continued. That he and his mother Tanw had been turned adrift on the sea in a coracle by the King of Lothian and had washed up unharmed at the monastery of St Serf was true, yet where was the miracle in that? Tanw was skilled in boatcraft, and the sea had been calm. King’s daughters were not supposed to bear illegitimate children, and presumably the king had felt he had to mark his displeasure somehow; but he had chosen a fine, still day to do it. The miracle of the robin? Cruel boys had slain St Serf’s favourite robin and Mungo had taken the bird, prayed over it, and restored it to life. In truth Mungo had buried the poor little bundle of bones and feathers with full honours and sung hymns over the tiny grave. Another robin had flown down from a rowan tree and perched in his hand, and readily accompanied him to the abbot’s cell. Mungo thought that a far greater miracle, but St Serf had convinced him that the popular story would be a better tale to discourage any repetition. His miraculous escape from the monastery when pursued by the same jealous boys? Again true, but he had chosen his day when the melting snows would bar the river crossing after him. He had begun to understand that simple folk need miracles. He hoped he would not have to do any more, but that was with God. This day, the feeling remained with him that another might be needed.
No fish rose to Mungo’s line all morning, but since his hook was not baited this did not surprise him. He sat by the bank in a certain place and trailed his fingers in the water, and his tame trout rose and nibbled experimentally. Mungo had once caught the creature, marveled at its glorious colouring, and carefully set it free again, naming it Fearchar (Beloved One) in the northern tongue. Sometimes it returned to nibble at his fingers. Doubtless the fish remembered Mungo’s earlier kindness. Presently Fearchar twitched its tail again and set off downstream. It was pleasant merely to sit and meditate on the glory of God and His Creation. He laid down his rod and cocked his head to one side. A swan flew past overhead, and there was the sound of a raven somewhere behind him. Dogs were barking, and he could hear horses’ hooves. Mungo rose, wrapped his brown habit close about him, rolled up his line around his rod and withdrew into the shade of a hawthorn tree in a secluded dell near the river-bank. Hunters were coming this way, and he did not wish to show himself as yet. Six riders and their hounds rode onto the grass bank nearby and dismounted. These soon disclosed themselves as the Prince himself and five of his hearth-companions. They laughed and joked as young men will and lay down on their cloaks resting, while their dogs lay down with them, greedily eyeing off the deer carcase draped over one of the spare horses. The youngest of the men Mungo recognized through the leaves. His name was Owain, and he was silently attending to the beasts: tying their saddles around tree-stumps, and brushing them down with cloths.
The others were drinking from leather flasks, eating bread and cheese and making young men’s talk at their ease. Only Owain was silent. The boy was young: no more than seventeen, and his fair face was flushed with red. Mungo watched him closely, until he slapped the horses’ rumps, threw handfuls of meat to the dogs and went to join the others. Then Prince Rhydderch looked narrowly at him for a long moment. The six young men ate, drank and talked more slowly now, and one by one dropped off to sleep. They would have risen well before dawn and were tired after their hunt, no doubt. He watched them, curled up in their cloaks companionably side by side on the soft grass by the water, and uttered a small prayer heavenwards. He was about to rise and walk past them when he stopped short. For Prince Rhydderch had risen on his elbow and was staring hard at Owain.
Mungo strained his eyes, but from where he was he could not see what had caught the Prince’s attention. While the others slept, Rhydderch stood up and stared, arms hanging by his sides. The Prince was clad head to foot in hunting leather: jerkin, trews, hat and gloves. His long, lank, black hair flowed out from under his cap and fluttered in the wind. He was standing side-on from Mungo’s secluded view, and his right hand moved towards his broad leather belt. The long hunting knife hung there, and his hand gripped the haft. Mungo prepared to intervene. This could not be permitted. But as he stood up to break cover, he saw the Prince shake his head and lift both hands to his face. Rhydderch knelt down and reached over the sleeping Owain, took something from the boy’s hand and walked to the edge of the river. His arm bent and he threw whatever it was into the shallows. Then he returned to the others and lay down with them as before. Mungo bent his head in prayer. Long before dusk fell the Prince and his companions had left; but Mungo lingered by the river-bank, praying, walking, searching, and sometimes swimming.
It was long after dark and Mungo was preparing for sleep in his simple cell. The people all said that he slept with a stone as a pillow. This was partly true, like so many of the tales his simple life had attracted. His bed was of dried bracken covered with a sheepskin, and his stone pillow was wrapped in another piece of the same skin. He liked the stone because it gave support to his neck, while the fleece gave enough comfort to allow sleep. The wattle-and-daub walls were enough to keep out the cold winds. He had heard that some bishops lived in stone castles and ate from golden platters, but what was the point of that? How could he deal justly with his flock unless he shared their humble life? He bowed to the rough-hewn wooden cross hung on the wall and prepared his mind for sleep. Of a sudden there was a low, urgent knock on the wooden door, three times repeated. ‘Who is there?’ he called softly.
‘Father, it is I. Please let me in!’ The voice was Luned’s, low and frightened half to death. He bowed his head for a moment, opened the door wide, and she rushed in and knelt before him on the beaten earth floor. He reached out and took her slender hand in his.
‘Luned, you should only kneel before God,’ he said gently. ‘Sit beside me on my bed and tell me what is wrong.’
She was dressed only in her shift, and the front of it was stained with tears, as was her lovely face. It was perfectly heart-shaped, he realized. But tonight, it looked like the heart had broken. Her skin, normally so perfectly white and smooth, was marked with dirt and mud. Her body had filled out alarmingly to perfect curves of breast, thigh and hip. He looked at her sadly as she began. The tale of woe rolled over him and he sighed. Very little was new to him, and he looked on her with infinite sorrow. ‘And my husband says that there is to be a feast tomorrow night and I must wear the ring he gave me. On pain of his great displeasure!’
The way her hands were clasped together in front of her breasts looked almost comic. But the grief, shame and fear were real. Adultery was a sin, and sins required repentance. Yet here was repentance by the bushel. The trouble with the girl was that she was so open, trusting and loving that she had never quite grasped the fact that sometimes opening your arms might be a bad idea. In this case it had been an awful mistake. Owain had promised to run away with her, but had changed his mind. After receiving the ring, naturally. Mungo rather suspected that Owain planned to run away with the ring and without the girl. Well, he would have a surprise of his own first thing in the morning. But for now, there was the tear-stained Princess of Strathclyde to deal with. He poured a little water into a wooden bowl by his bed, dipped his finger into it and made the sign of cross on her forehead. ‘Your sins are forgiven, Luned,’ he told her. ‘Now trust in the Lord your God, for He is merciful.’
She bowed her head, wept all over again, and stood up and hugged him passionately. ‘Thank you, Father!’ she sobbed, and left in a blaze of tears and penitence.
His interview with Owain at first light was short and to the point. The boy was gibbering with fear anyway. Reminded that he had family at the court of Rheged, and that it might be a very good idea to go there and fling himself upon Uncle Rhys’s mercy, he had packed a few belongings and all but run out of Dun Breatann castle. Mungo walked with him some of the way south and spoke constantly of God’s mercy in a way that did not seem to cheer the boy up at all. He then returned to his cell and gathered several of his attendants, for this was something which would need to be done in front of witnesses. They were surprised at being summoned to a fishing expedition, of all things; but they gathered rods, lines and baskets and went down to the river bank.
‘Cast your rods into the river, dear friends,’ he instructed them. ‘And presently we may see a great wonder.’
They did as he bade them, and for a time nobody spoke, and the waters were silent. Mungo was on the point of attempting to summon Fearchar, but he was reluctant to subject his small friend to what he had in mind. As he sat irresolute, young Nehtan gave a sudden cry. ‘I have a fish, Father, upon my hook.’
‘Then bring him to shore, my son.’ The fish was soon landed, and Nehtan looked expectantly at his bishop, expecting to be told to finish it off with his knife. Mungo shook his head and knelt down. The glittering salmon was two feet long and gasping for its life. He opened the fish’s mouth with his left hand and cried aloud: ‘Here is a great wonder indeed, my sons!’ he called. ‘Come and look!’ He held aloft a red-gold ring with two small amethysts set therein. ‘Something the Lady of Strathclyde has lost, and the Lord in His Mercy has returned to her.’
He handed the ring to Nehtan, who joyfully received it. All five of his attendants exclaimed in wonder and passed it from hand to hand. Mungo picked up the fish and laid it in the shallows. ‘Since you have been the bringer of glad tidings, you must go free this day,’ he said, making the sign of the cross over the salmon. With a flick of its tail it was gone. Nehtan placed the ring in Mungo’s hand, and everyone agreed that this was indeed a great miracle. Mungo stood among his flock and remembered his search last evening. He had mimicked the Prince’s throw with sticks and stones, and each time he had looked amid the hurrying shallows to see where his own cast had fallen. One of his stones was a many-coloured pebble which was easy to find again, and when he found it there was the ring, no more than a foot under the water, resting right beside his pebble. The mercy of God was indeed great and glorious; but sometimes needed a helping hand from His servants on earth.
* * * * * * * * * *
Mungo did not take note of what he ate or drank that evening. He could only look at the lovely princess proudly wearing her ring. And at her husband, who glared at the ring, the table, the carved roof-beams and the bishop, one after another. Finally Rhydderch could bear it no more and summoned Mungo to a quiet corner of the feasting hall.
‘Mungo,’ he said in a low voice, clasping both hands together. ‘I believe there is more in this than meets the eye.’
‘That may be so, Prince Rhydderch,’ he answered. ‘Yet who can doubt that today we have witnessed another miracle?’
‘You and your miracles!’ grated the Prince. Then he laughed: a short bark like that of a fox. ‘Where is Owain?’
‘Far from here. He will not trouble your house again.’
The Prince stared into Mungo’s sea-grey eyes. ‘It is in my mind that you found the ring yourself yesterday and palmed it into the salmon’s mouth,’ he murmured. ‘Yet the Lord works His Will in many ways. Is it really true that the sight or touch of the most beautiful girl touches you no more than if she were made of stone?’
‘It is not quite true, my Prince. I feel the glory of their bodies. Yet when I turn them away with kindness the hunger leaves me, and a warm radiance from heaven rains down through my heart and limbs. It is a most wonderful thing.’
‘Can you teach it to me?’
‘That, Prince Rhydderch, would indeed be a miracle.’
With that the prince laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and went back to his throne.
© David Greagg 2016