Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [189]
“How do you know?” he asked.
“He sails with us tomorrow,” the mariner explained, “to Ireland. He’s going to join this fellow they call Patricius and his friends. And they’ll all be killed.”
Petrus had never heard of Patricius and asked the mariner who these people were. The man grunted impatiently. “Missionaries,” he said with scorn. “They’re going to convert the heathen Irish, who are mostly cut-throats and pirates, as anyone on this coastline can tell you.” It was true that in recent times, the raids of the Irish pirates on the west coast had been a constant source of trouble. “They’ll be butchered.” He paused before glancing at the traveller and adding: “Pity. He’s a nice young fellow.”
After the meal, the sailors gathered round the fire at one end of the room while the stranger quietly moved to the other fire where, drawing out a small roll of parchment, he began to read. Petrus sat with the sailors.
The evening passed pleasantly, with the sailors getting steadily but peaceably drunk while they chatted or sang an occasional chorus. As darkness fell, four of them retired to the sleeping quarters while two more dozed where they were by the fire. The stranger, who took no notice of them at all, was still reading quietly.
Petrus had drunk only a little and was still wide awake. Having nothing else to do, he found himself watching the stranger curiously. There was something in his manner that seemed modest, even retiring, yet self-possessed. After some time the other became aware of his gaze and turned towards him.
His face was indeed young, Petrus now saw: hardly older than himself; it was broad and square, with widely spaced brown eyes. His hands too, were large and strong. He might have been a pleasant young country farmer. The eyes flickered with amusement and then, to Petrus’s surprise, he gave him a boyish grin.
“Not asleep yet? Seems you didn’t drink enough.”
As he spoke the young man pulled back his hood and Petrus saw that the whole of the top of his head was shaved, leaving a circular fringe of hair around the edge; and although at this time monasteries were still almost unknown in Britain, Petrus was aware that this tonsure meant that his companion was a monk.
It seemed that he had finished his reading, for he motioned Petrus to join him.
“My name is Martinus,” he explained.
He had come, he said, from Gaul, to visit his family in Britain before making the voyage to Ireland. He asked Petrus about his own journey, and listened with interest as Petrus told him about his trip to Lydney and the visit he was planning to Flavia’s family the following day.
To his surprise the young monk showed no shock that he had been to the shrine of Nodens, and when he heard about Flavia he grinned and said:
“Let’s hope she’s pretty, then you can marry her with a good conscience!”
When Petrus had told his own story, he felt less embarrassment at asking Martinus about himself. Was the mariner’s report true? Was he going to Ireland to convert the heathen? Martinus nodded.
“Aren’t you afraid?”
The young man nodded again.
“Sometimes. But it soon passes. If you’re serving God, there’s nothing to be afraid of really.”
“But they may kill you.”
Martinus gave him a gentle but unaffected smile.
“Perhaps.”
Petrus was familiar with the blustering Christianity of his own father, but the young monk’s quiet confidence seemed very different.
“What made you choose to serve the Christian God?” he asked.
To him it seemed a natural question, but a look of genuine puzzlement crossed Martinus’s broad face.
“Oh, I didn’t,” he corrected. “It’s God who chooses.”
Petrus shrugged.
“Well, you want to go to Ireland anyway,” he remarked.
Now Martinus grimaced, a little ruefully.
“Actually, I don’t want to go at all.”
Petrus stared at him. Was the monk playing some kind of verbal game with him, like his old professor? He did not think so.
“You don’t want to go?