I found no one who had any word of the Holy Land, but the harbour master said we might pay a call at one of the drinking halls fronting the quayside. This we did, but with no better result. No one knew anything. After our second hall and third bowl of ale, Sarn asked, 'Why do you want to know about the Holy Land?'
'Have you never been curious, Sarn?'
'I was once,' he replied thoughtfully. 'I wanted to know where the badger cub went.' He held out his hand and I saw that his middle finger was shorter than the others. 'I found out, and I was never curious after that.' He was quiet for a moment, then added, 'That is why the sea is better: no badgers.'
We finished our bowls, and walked around the town to clear our heads. I saw an old woman who was making shoes from lambskin and leather; she had a small pair made for a child and adorned with little birds of red and blue thread cleverly sewn. These I bought for my daughter. They kept you warm all winter, Gait, and I think you would be wearing them now if your feet had not grown too big.
There was a baker in the town also, who made little hollow loaves of bread filled with spiced meat and turnips; I bought two of these, and some black bread and sausage, for our supper. We fetched a jar of ale from the hall at the quay before retiring to the boat for the night.
Sarn and I ate our meal and listened to the talk of the sailors around us. Some of them got drunk and started to sing. After awhile, they left off singing and started fighting instead, and three of them ended up in the water. They were fished out by their shipmates and wandered off to find more to drink. Things grew more quiet after that, so Sarn and I rolled ourselves in our cloaks and went to sleep.
We left early the next morning, and were at sea as the sun was rising. On our return to Banvard, we beached the boat, and staked it down for the winter. Murdo was glad the masons had found swift passage home as it would make them all the more eager to return next year.
This comment, innocent as it undoubtedly was, cast me into a despondent humour. At first I thought I was merely disappointed that my efforts in Inbhir Ness had failed. Although it was not as if I had counted on learning anything of particular significance, still I had hoped. As the days darkened around me, so darkened my mood. I grew irritable, and grumbled when people spoke to me. I lashed out angrily at trifles, and made myself miserable holding grudges for imagined slights.
One night I dreamed of Rhona, and the dream reawakened the grief I imagined was finished. I began feeling her absence more acutely than ever. I spent whole days staring at the fire while the wind whined in the eaves. Other times I walked out along the shore in the snow and sleet until my feet froze and my face turned blue. I would start in my sleep, and awake with the feeling that I was being strangled. The queerness of it frightened me so that I refused to close my eyes when I lay down.
It was then I realized the source of my distress: my plan had come to maturity, but I was unwilling to face it. Having occupied myself with it from the Feast of Saint Brighid to Saint Thomas' Mass, it was time to begin doing something about it. Fearing the opposition my decision was certain to ignite, I hesitated, and this was the source of my misery.
My father would not welcome my decision, this I knew. Nevertheless, I resolved to announce my plan at the Yuletide festivities-imagining that any objection to my scheme would be muted by the general celebration. Having resolved myself, the clouds of gloom lifted for me and I undertook to help with the feast-day preparations, which pleased and gratified my mother greatly.
Yuletide found me in good spirits; some of the vassals remarked that I had finally ceased pining for the loss of my dear wife. Accordingly, I received the kindly attentions of certain daughters whose parents, no doubt, hoped for a noble match. While I enjoyed their blandishments, I did my best not to encourage their hopes. My mind and heart were set on other things, and I would not be dissuaded from my purpose. Still, I did not lack for female companionship, and passed a most pleasant Yule.
I might wish now, my darling Gait, that I had taken one of them to my heart for your sake. To have provided you with a mother ere I departed would have been a blessing. Alas, the notion occurred to me far too late.
I waited for my chance to reveal my plan. Finally, on the last night of the festivities, when the year had turned, we gathered for the Twelfth Night celebration. Murdo's hall was filled with vassals, monks, and friends from Orkneyjar; the vats were filled with spiced ale, the cauldrons with stewed beef and pork with brown beans, and steaming jars of mulled wine lined the long tables. At the lord's invitation, we took our places at the board and began to eat and drink.
Other dishes were brought and placed before us in their turn: sausages cooked with ale and apples, fish with fennel, and smoked ox-tongue roasted with sour cabbage. On each table were small mountains of special round loaves-the Twelfth Night bread baked specially for the feast. We ate and drank our fill of these delights, and when the first pangs of hunger had receded, Abbot Emlyn rose from his place and called the hall to silence.
'My friends!' said the cleric, lifting his voice above the cheerful rumble. 'On such glad occasions it is good to pause and give thanks to the true Lord of the Feast who has so bounteously provided for his people.' With that, he clasped his hands and bowed his head. His prayer of thanks was simple and sincere, and short-a quality which greatly endeared the abbot to his flock. For when Emlyn prayed, one never got the feeling he was trying to chastise or rebuke his congregation by another means. Nor did he use the opportunity to display his erudition to impress or humble those beneath him-a temptation far too many clerics do not resist. When Emlyn prayed, he merely spoke his mind to his Creator, the Gifting Giver, he so evidently loved.
When he finished, my Lord Murdo rose next. He instructed everyone to fill their cups and bowls, and said, 'We drink to the year now begun! May the God of Goodness and Light bless us richly, and may our realm prosper in every good and worthy thing.' We drank to that, and he said, 'If it shall please our Great Redeemer, this time next year we will gather to consecrate the new church.'
'Amen!' cried Abbot Emlyn. 'So be it.'
We raised our cups again, and then I was on my feet. Every face turned towards me in anticipation.
'Before God and this brave company,' I said, 'I pledge myself to undertake the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for the sake of my soul. If it should please God to reward my journey with success, I will pray for our realm and ask the Good Lord's blessing on us all.'
This unexpected declaration was met with astonishment; gasps and murmurs of surprise filled the hall. Emlyn stood quickly and came to my side. He looked at me inquiringly. 'Are you so resolved?' he asked.
'I am,' I replied.
He gathered me in a strong embrace, saying, 'God bless you, my son! It is the Saviour King himself who has put this into your heart.'
I thanked him, and was suddenly swarmed by others who thronged me to wish me well, and to add their pledges of support to my own. Several of the younger men offered to accompany me, and others to send gifts of provisions or gold to aid the journey. Everyone, it seemed, was delighted with the purpose of my pilgrimage.
Everyone, that is, except the one whose approval I valued the most: Murdo. My lord stood looking at me as if he had taken an arrow through the heart. Then, very slowly, he walked to where I stood. The hard expression on his face soured the mirth and all laughter ceased as an uneasy silence descended over the hall. I could hear the fire crackling in the hearth as he stepped before me, his eyes burning with rage.