Cadoc, like my old teacher Cybi, was a Briton. It was said that as a boy he had studied at Bangor-ys-Coed under the renowned Elffod, and as a young man he had travelled all throughout Gaul, teaching and preaching, before returning to Britain to lead the community at Candida Casa where he often held discourse with the most learned Eruigena. The excellent Sedulius-or Saidhuil, as he was known to us-had once written a poem in commemoration of a fine debate held between them.
Looking at the little bishop, it seemed to me appropriate that illustrious men should seek to celebrate his friendship. Small of stature and well filled with years, he nevertheless possessed the grace and dignity of a king, and exuded the health of a man still in the flush of youth. If, despite his vigour, any uncertainty still lingered, Cadoc had only to speak and doubt would vanish, for his voice was a powerful instrument, rich and full and loud, and prone to burst into song at any moment. This trait, as I have it, he shared with his kinsmen; trueborn Cymry loved nothing better than hearing their own voices soaring in song. Now, I had never heard a trumpet before, but if anyone had told me that it sounded like the Bishop of Hy singing a hymn I would have believed it.
After the meal, Brocmal, Libir and myself were presented to Cadoc. The abbot called us to his lodge where he and the bishop were sitting together with their secnabs, enjoying a cup of Easter mead. Now that the feast was begun, such luxuries were allowed.
"Welcome, brothers. Come in and sit with us." The abbot motioned us to places on the floor between their chairs. Three additional cups had been poured in anticipation of our arrival, and when the abbot had distributed these, he said, his broken voice a thin whisper, "I have been telling Bishop Cadoc about our contribution to the book. He is most desirous of seeing what you have achieved."
The bishop then asked us to describe our work. Brocmal began a lengthy account of the undertaking and how the labours had been divided among the various members of the scriptorium; Libir added observations from time to time, and Bishop Cadoc asked many questions of them both. I listened, awaiting my turn to speak, but it did not come.
It is a sign of my prideful spirit, no doubt, that I began to feel slighted-and I was not the only one. Master Cellach, under whose skillful and painstaking direction the great labour was accomplished, never received a mention, nor did any of the other scribes-and there were many. Listening to Brocmal and Libir's account, one would have thought they had produced the entire book between the two of them alone. My own hand had copied out no less than thirty-eight separate passages, filling more than twenty leaves. And I was but one of a score of scribes working in three scriptoria on three separate islands. Indeed, the men who raised the cows that produced the calves that gave their skins to make the vellum, were certainly no less important in their way than the scribes who decorated those skins with such splendid art. Then again, I reflected, there were no herdsmen going to Byzantium.
Well, it was a small thing-an oversight, perhaps. But I could not help feeling in it the sting of an insult. Pride, I suppose, will be my ruin. But Brocmal and Libir, I reckoned, were reaping their reward at the expense of all the others who would never be recognized. I determined to remedy this injustice if I could. I must bide my time, however, and await the best opportunity.
So, I sat on the floor at Abbot Fraoch's feet, sipping the sweet mead and listening to Brocmal describe the book that I knew so well-but now seemed not to know at all-and thought about the journey, wondering what the other peregrini would be like. If they were anything like Brocmal and Libir, I concluded, it would be a very arduous campaign.
After a while, Brocmal finished and the bishop turned to the abbot. "You have chosen well, Fraoch," he said, smiling like a man who knows a valuable secret. "These men will serve us admirably in our endeavour."
His use of the strange word pricked my attention. Did he mean the journey…or, did he have another undertaking in mind? The sly expression suggested he meant something other than taking the book to the emperor.
But the abbot merely returned his smile. "Of that, Cadoc, I have not the slightest doubt." He raised the cup. "I drink to the success of our mission, brothers. May God bless you richly, and protect you always."
"Amen!" replied Cadoc, and we all raised our cups with the abbot.
The bell sounded compline then and we were dismissed to our prayers. "We will speak again," the bishop assured us. We bade the two good night and left the abbot's lodge, making our way to the chapel. Brocmal and Libir, in good spirits, sang as they walked up the hill. I followed behind with eyes downcast, feeling vexed with the two of them, and annoyed with myself for feeling so.
I entered the chapel and found a place along the north wall as far from Brocmal and Libir as possible. Dugal came and settled beside me, nudging me with an elbow to let me know he was there. I raised my head, but did not speak, lost as I was in my own thoughts. Why am I always like this? I wondered. What is it to me if the two of them receive the honour of the bishop's praise? They earned it, after all. It was not as if they had stolen the book, or claimed more for themselves than they deserved. What is wrong with me?
Prayers finished and I went to my cell and a disgruntled sleep. The next morning, after maiden prayers, we broke fast with our visitors and, since normal duties were suspended for the Eastertide celebration, everyone gathered in the yard to sing. The day had begun cool and bright, with a sky full of white clouds. As we sang, the clouds knit themselves together and closed in; a spit of rain began to fall, which eventually persuaded us back into the hall, where we settled in clumps to talk with our visiting brothers over the board.
Unlike most of Cenannus' brotherhood, I knew no one from Hy or Lindisfarne. Nevertheless, as Dugal and I moved among the tables, one of the strangers called out to me. "Aidan mac Cainnech!"
I turned to see a short, square-faced man with wiry brown hair and dark brown eyes, sitting with two other strangers. All three were watching me with evident interest.
"Go to them," urged Dugal. "They want to talk to you." He left me and went on to another table.
"I give you good greeting," I said as I approached.
"Sit you down with us," said the visitor. "We would speak with you, nothing preventing."
"I am at your service, brothers," I said taking my place at the board. "I would gladly give you my name, but it seems you have it from someone else."
"Do not think us over bold," said one of the others. "We are Cymry and curiosity is a very plague with us." The two with him laughed-clearly it was a cheerful plague. I liked them at once.
"I am Brynach," said the stranger who had called to me. "These are my brothers. No! My anamcari," he raised a hand to the two with him. "This long lanky reed is Gwilym." He indicated a tall spare man with thinning fair hair. "And this is Morien," he said, presenting a young man with thick black curly hair and blue eyes. "Although," he warned, "if you call him that he will never answer, for he is known to one and all as Ddewi."
"Brothers," I said, envying their easy way with one another, "I am glad to meet you. I pray your Easter with us is meat and drink to your soul." I paused, feeling the awkwardness of the question before I spoke it, but I could not help myself. "Please do not think ill of me, but I have never visited Hy or Lindisfarne, and I would know which of those two fine places is home to you."
"Neither," replied Gwilym happily. "Our home is Ty Gwyn, but lately we have spent some years at Menevia and Bangor-ys-Coed."
"Indeed," I replied. "I did not know the book was also being readied there."