out of the mountains of Drumalban by tracks and tributaries to meet in the white rapids of the Fillan. A short distance upriver they converged in the icy depths of St Fillan’s Pool, the waters of which were said to cure sickness of the mind and the soul.
‘It is a wild beauty, is it not, my lord?’
Robert turned. Abbot Maurice was approaching, his black habit brushing the tall grasses. He shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun as he came, smiling in question. Behind him, the roof of St Fillan’s Chapel rose from a copse of birch trees. Above the foaming water, Robert caught music and laughter coming from beyond the trees. As the abbot came to stand beside him, he looked back across the river where waterlogged meadows, iridescent in the sunlight, ascended into hills carpeted with heather. Beyond, higher peaks climbed to the sky, their bare flanks darkened by the shadows of scudding clouds. The shrine of St Fillan’s, which lay in a remote valley, was imprisoned by mountains on virtually all sides.
‘Do you know the legends of our blessed saint?’
Robert glanced at the abbot. The old man was still smiling, but Robert sensed something else in his tone now. ‘My family is more familiar with the history of St Malachy of Armagh.’
Abbot Maurice nodded sagely. ‘Ah, yes. The curse.’
Robert thought of his grandfather’s obsession with atoning for the sins of their ancestor, cursed down the generations by the wrathful Irish saint. He wondered if Thomas and Alexander had now returned the Staff of Malachy, taken in his flight from Westminster Abbey, to its rightful keepers – the monks of Bangor Abbey.
‘When St Fillan first came to this valley it was haunted by savage creatures. Before he could build his place of worship he had to confront these beasts. First, he drove off a vicious boar. Next, he tamed a wolf, rendering the ferocious animal so obedient he was able to lash it to a cart to carry stones for his chapel. For hundreds of years his sanctuary has provided solace for pilgrims and his pool has cured the sick. It is a shame only a ruin now stands to mark such a legacy.’
Robert’s eyes narrowed at the none-too-subtle intimation, but he owed the abbot no less than a donation. Descending through the rain-swept mountains his company of five hundred men, weighed down by baggage and slowed by the women and children, had found welcome shelter in the Abbey of Inchaffray. Abbot Maurice, on learning of Robert’s intention to head west, had offered to escort him by the old pilgrim road to St Fillan’s, beyond which he could easily follow routes to the sea. ‘You have my word, when my reign is secured St Fillan will have a shrine worthy of his deeds.’
Abbot Maurice inclined his head. ‘Blessings upon you, my lord.’ He paused, his gaze lingering on Robert. ‘This valley has long been a place of healing. Not just of the body, but of the soul. Absolution can be found here, by those who seek it.’
Robert smiled coolly. ‘I thank you, Abbot, for officiating over the marriage of my sister. I should join in the celebrations while they last.’ He made his way back towards the copse of trees, his smile vanishing.
The sounds of merriment grew louder as he approached the camp, spread out across a meadow by St Fillan’s shrine. The small, ramshackle chapel, besieged by ivy and creeping moss, had been festooned with wildflowers for the wedding of his sister and Christopher Seton. Despite the bright sprays of colour, gathered by the children who had been set the task to keep them occupied while the army set up camp, the chapel’s musty interior remained full of gloom. Staring into its cobwebbed darkness, Robert felt a chill. He had barely set foot inside a church since Greyfriars. The abbot wasn’t the only one to have offered him absolution. Four months ago, his brother Alexander had urged him to give his confession. In response, Robert had sent him to Antrim. He had been defiant that the attack on John
‘It is a wild beauty, is it not, my lord?’
Robert turned. Abbot Maurice was approaching, his black habit brushing the tall grasses. He shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun as he came, smiling in question. Behind him, the roof of St Fillan’s Chapel rose from a copse of birch trees. Above the foaming water, Robert caught music and laughter coming from beyond the trees. As the abbot came to stand beside him, he looked back across the river where waterlogged meadows, iridescent in the sunlight, ascended into hills carpeted with heather. Beyond, higher peaks climbed to the sky, their bare flanks darkened by the shadows of scudding clouds. The shrine of St Fillan’s, which lay in a remote valley, was imprisoned by mountains on virtually all sides.
‘Do you know the legends of our blessed saint?’
Robert glanced at the abbot. The old man was still smiling, but Robert sensed something else in his tone now. ‘My family is more familiar with the history of St Malachy of Armagh.’
Abbot Maurice nodded sagely. ‘Ah, yes. The curse.’
Robert thought of his grandfather’s obsession with atoning for the sins of their ancestor, cursed down the generations by the wrathful Irish saint. He wondered if Thomas and Alexander had now returned the Staff of Malachy, taken in his flight from Westminster Abbey, to its rightful keepers – the monks of Bangor Abbey.
‘When St Fillan first came to this valley it was haunted by savage creatures. Before he could build his place of worship he had to confront these beasts. First, he drove off a vicious boar. Next, he tamed a wolf, rendering the ferocious animal so obedient he was able to lash it to a cart to carry stones for his chapel. For hundreds of years his sanctuary has provided solace for pilgrims and his pool has cured the sick. It is a shame only a ruin now stands to mark such a legacy.’
Robert’s eyes narrowed at the none-too-subtle intimation, but he owed the abbot no less than a donation. Descending through the rain-swept mountains his company of five hundred men, weighed down by baggage and slowed by the women and children, had found welcome shelter in the Abbey of Inchaffray. Abbot Maurice, on learning of Robert’s intention to head west, had offered to escort him by the old pilgrim road to St Fillan’s, beyond which he could easily follow routes to the sea. ‘You have my word, when my reign is secured St Fillan will have a shrine worthy of his deeds.’
Abbot Maurice inclined his head. ‘Blessings upon you, my lord.’ He paused, his gaze lingering on Robert. ‘This valley has long been a place of healing. Not just of the body, but of the soul. Absolution can be found here, by those who seek it.’
Robert smiled coolly. ‘I thank you, Abbot, for officiating over the marriage of my sister. I should join in the celebrations while they last.’ He made his way back towards the copse of trees, his smile vanishing.
The sounds of merriment grew louder as he approached the camp, spread out across a meadow by St Fillan’s shrine. The small, ramshackle chapel, besieged by ivy and creeping moss, had been festooned with wildflowers for the wedding of his sister and Christopher Seton. Despite the bright sprays of colour, gathered by the children who had been set the task to keep them occupied while the army set up camp, the chapel’s musty interior remained full of gloom. Staring into its cobwebbed darkness, Robert felt a chill. He had barely set foot inside a church since Greyfriars. The abbot wasn’t the only one to have offered him absolution. Four months ago, his brother Alexander had urged him to give his confession. In response, Robert had sent him to Antrim. He had been defiant that the attack on John
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