Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [128]
And indeed, wasn’t the book laid out like a celestial city? Four Gospels: four points of the compass, four arms of the holy cross. Hadn’t Ireland four provinces? Even the mighty Roman Empire, in the later days when it was Christian, had been divided into four parts. At the start of each of the Gospels came three magnificent full-page illuminations: first the winged symbol of the evangelist—Matthew the man, Mark the lion, Luke the calf, and John the eagle; second came a portrait page; third, the first words of the Gospel were worked up into a huge design. A trinity of pages to start each of the four Gospels. Three and four: the seven days of the week. Three times four: the twelve apostles.
There were other full-page illuminations at appropriate places, like the eight-circle double-cross design, the Virgin and Child, and the great Chi-Rho symbol that began Matthew’s account of the birth of Jesus.
The splendour of the pages was in their colour: deep, sumptuous reds and mauves, the purples, emerald greens, and sapphire blues; the pale tinctures of the saints’ faces, like old ivory; and everywhere the gleaming yellow that made them look like gold enamelled screens.
But their magnificence was in their construction. Trefoil spirals enclosed in discs, borders of interlacing ribbons and knots, and motifs from the island’s most ancient past were joined to Christian symbols—the eagle of John; the peacock, symbol of Christ’s incorruptibility; fish, snakes, lions, angels and their trumpets—all stylised into geometric patterns. There were human figures, too, grouped in spandrels in the corners, or round the bases of golden letters, men with arms and legs lengthened and interlaced so that human body and abstract design became one and the same in this Celtic cosmos. And these patterns were endless: repeating interlacings of such Oriental complexity that the eye could never unravel them; discs of spirals set in clusters like jewels, circle and stipple, snakelike forms and filigree—the rich riot of Celtic decoration seemed likely to run completely out of control were it not for the massive, monumental geometry of the composition.
Ah, that was the thing. That, Osgar thought, was the wonder of it. For whether it was the great cruciform image of the four evangelists, or the mighty sinuous curve of the Chi-Rho, the message of the illuminated pages was unmistakable. Just as, in its later days, the stolid empire of pagan Rome had tried with its numbered legions and massive walls to stem the tides of barbarians, so now the Roman Church, with the still greater power and authority of the true religion, was imposing its monumental order on the anarchy of the heathen, and building not just an imperial but a celestial city—timeless, eternal, comprehensive, and bathed in spiritual light. He would gaze at the pages by day and, sometimes, dream of them at night. Once he had even dreamed that he had come into the monastery church and found the book open. Two of its pages, having detached themselves, had grown huge: one a gold mosaic on the wall; the other, like a great Byzantine screen of gold and icons across the choir, barring his way towards the altar. And as he had approached it the golden screen had glowed, as though burnished by a dark and holy fire; and he had softly touched it and it had sounded, harshly, like an antique gong.
But now he had to leave with Morann and Sister Martha. He would accompany the nun to Kildare, then make his way into the mountains and back to Glendalough. And Morann would go to Dyflin and perhaps see Caoilinn. Well, he shouldn’t complain. This was the life he had chosen.
“The hand of Saint Colum Cille.”
Osgar started at the voice behind his shoulder. It was the old monk who