Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [86]
“The druids.”
“You do not think that the God who made all things can protect your son?”
She was silent; but he did not seem offended. Then he turned to Morna.
“And so, young man.” He was staring keenly into Morna’s eyes. “You are the young man who this is all about. The kinsman of the High King.” He took a step back as though to survey the youthful chief. “You have been summoned to him, have you not?”
“It is true,” Morna answered respectfully.
Bishop Patrick appeared to be meditating. His eyes seemed to be half closed as he considered the subject before him. There was no question, she thought, he might have been some royal druid prince. Was he going to encourage Morna, or perhaps rebuke him? She had no idea.
“And you would like to go to the High King’s feis at Tara?”
“I should.” Morna wasn’t certain whether this was the correct response, but it was the truth.
“It would be a strange young man who did not,” said Bishop Patrick. “And you have quarrelled with your mother?”
“It is …” Morna was about to explain, but the bishop went on gently.
“Honour your mother, young man. She is the only one you possess. If it is God’s will that you should do a certain thing, she will be led to understand the rightness of it.” He considered for a moment. “You wish to serve the one true God. Is that correct?”
“I think so.”
“You think so.” Bishop Patrick paused. “His service, Morna, is not always easy. Those who follow the Christian path have to try to do God’s will, not their own. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices.” At the mention of sacrifices, Deirdre tensed; but if Bishop Patrick saw this, he took no notice. “Are you prepared to make sacrifices to serve the God who gave His only Son to save the world?”
“Yes.” He said it quietly, but he did not seem to hesitate.
“From those who follow me, Morna, I expect complete obedience. My followers have to trust me. These young men,” he indicated the princes standing nearby, “obey my commands, which are sometimes hard.”
Morna glanced at them. They looked a noble group, the sort of group to which any young chief would be proud to belong. But having told him this, the bishop did not seem to be expecting any reply. For turning round abruptly, he went over to where one of the priests was holding his staff. Taking it from him, he held it firmly in his hand and in a clear voice addressed them.
“This is the staff which gives me strength, for it is the staff of life, the staff of Jesus, the only Son of God the Father, who died for our sins. Jesus who sacrificed his life that each of us may live eternally. I, Patrick, bishop, humble priest, penitent sinner,” he continued solemnly, “I, Patrick, come here not on my own authority—for I have none—but at the command of God the Father, made known to me through His Holy Spirit, to bear witness for His Son and to bring you the good news, that you, too, if you believe in Him, may have eternal life in Heaven and not perish into nothingness or the terrible fires of Hell. I shall not try to impress you with great learning, for my own is modest. I shall not persuade you with eloquent words, for I have no eloquence unless it be that given to me by the Holy Spirit. But listen to my poor words carefully, for I have come to save your souls.”
It was strange: Deirdre could not afterwards remember exactly what he had said. Some of it she recognised from what Larine had told her; but when Patrick spoke, it was different. He told them the story of Christ, and how he had gone to sacrifice. He described the cruel old island gods and explained that they were not real. They were stories, he told them, to give pleasure or to frighten children. How much greater, he explained, was the single, all-powerful God, who created the whole world.
One part of the sermon she did recall in detail. He had made much of the fact that, like so many of the gods from the ancient days, this Supreme