The Making of the Lamb (19 page)

Slowly but surely they carried the cross up the cellar steps, down the hallway, and out of the front door. The lead man carrying the base suddenly lost his footing, and the bottom of the cross fell to the pavement with a thundering crash. His scream rang out.

“Are you all right?” asked Father Walke.

“It only just missed my foot. What’s this?” The man reached down and pulled out a loose chunk of the stonework. “I’m afraid my clumsiness broke the statue, Father.”

“At least you still have your foot. I hate the thought of you being laid up and unable to work. Are you sure you are unhurt?”

The man nodded.

“In that case, can you chaps turn it over? Let’s have a look at it…It’s not so bad. The stone must have cracked over a period of time. We can cover the hollow in the base with the plaque when we cement it on.”

The men took up the cross once more and carried it to a cart to be pulled by a donkey to the churchyard. The usually docile creature chose this day to be ornery. It made quite a sight and entertained the women watching as they hung out their laundry, to see the men try to cajole the beast along. Not even Father Walke’s prayers seemed to help. It took a little girl running up and holding out a carrot to entice the beast forward.

It was the middle of the afternoon before they reached the churchyard. The men laid the cross on the ground face up and started mixing the cement. They were about to start applying it when Father Walke stopped them. “Can you men come back to finish up after you get off work Saturday? I’ve just remembered something I must do, before I…before I consecrate this cross, and I need to pray about it.”

The men exchanged glances. They seemed to take the request as something strange at first, but they agreed to come back and finish the job.

On Saturday they returned as promised. They did not seem to notice that someone had already cemented the new polished stone plaque over the lower front side of the base. They planted the cross upright in the ground and poured fresh cement around the base to keep it stable.

Father Walke thanked the men. Once they were gone he looked over the monument. The new plaque bore the words from the old broken gravestone:
“F. T. O’Donoghue, Priest, died March 18, 1881.”
The tunic cross itself, with its poignant image of the Christ child, looked beautiful, even after so many centuries.

Alone with the relic, Father Walke knelt and felt around the edge of Father O’Donoghue’s plaque. The seal had to be airtight, and it was. Months before, he had come across an ancient paper that one of the parishioners had found in a sealed bottle, in a box, in the cellar at the bottom of the old thirteenth-century tower. The writing was faded but still legible.
The Secret of the Lord,
it read in an antique script. Below that, a rubbing showed five horizontal lines intersected by dozens of cross marks. He had vaguely remembered seeing something like it, years ago, in an Irish museum—an old Celtic script called Ogham that dated from the time of Saint Patrick.

He had tried to track down a scholar to translate the writing, but with St. Hilary’s being such an out-of-the-way place, he’d had no luck. And now, with the news his doctor had brought him the evening before the men hauled the cross to the churchyard, he was rapidly running out of time. Tuberculosis, the doctor had told him. The diagnosis meant that within a few days Father Walke would be in the sanitarium, forced to retire.

I pray I made the right decision. I felt the Spirit guide me to keep the secret safe again.
Whatever the secret was, concealed in that ancient writing, he felt that it belonged with the carving. The hollow was just big enough to form the receptacle. Folded now into a small stoppered bottle and covered under the plaque and cement, the paper was safely ensconced within.

The fading light of dusk still illuminated the stone figure of the boy with his outstretched arms. Father Walke felt as if the boy, newly entrusted with the Lord’s secret, now yearned to share it.

The Holy Spirit knows best. The secret will be revealed when the world is ready for it, even if I do not live to know it.

Near the Celtic village of Carn Roz, A.D. 9, during the reign of Augustus, first Emperor of Rome

K
endrick guided his ship slowly westward along the southern coast of Britain. Fair winds had taken them swiftly past the hostile shore inhabited by the Durotriges, and they had finally reached the land of the friendly Dumnonii tribe, who inhabited the long peninsula known as Belerium that stretched westerly from the south side of Albion. It was still a long sail to Ictus, which lay close to Belerium’s very western tip, and the prevailing wind had turned. Now it was from the west. The lug sail rig allowed for some progress to be made into the wind, but the ship sailed much more across the wind than into it, tacking from one direction to the other.

With a friendly shore to the north, it was no longer necessary to stay several miles out to sea. They caught a few glimpses of the shy natives when the boat stopped briefly for water at the mouth of the River Plym.

They proceeded slowly westward until midmorning of the sixth day from their launching across the
Oceanus Britannicus
. As he brought the boat around onto the other tack, Kendrick noted with satisfaction that he would be able to make the entrance of the River Fal.

Pirro came over to join Kendrick at his station on the steering oar. “It is a foul business sailing a ship into the wind, forever going this way and that.”

“Aye,” growled Kendrick. “It’s like crawling up a slippery slope. And now we battle the tide, too. If I did not play the wind shifts to the best advantage, we would not make any progress at all.”

“How far to Ictus? Can we get there by sundown?”

Kendrick pointed to the right where the coastline curved off into a distant mist. “You can almost see Lizard Head from here. It is about ten miles ahead, all of it upwind and against the tide. From there we will turn more to the northwest, but it will be another twelve miles to Ictus. If the wind veers to the left, we may be able to sail in directly on one tack once we pass Lizard, and make it to Ictus…oh, sometime tonight at the earliest.”

Joseph had approached, listening. “That will not do,” he grumbled. “The Sabbath begins tonight at sundown. I cannot conduct any trade until sundown on the morrow.”

“It would be best not to arrive while my partner is indisposed,” said Pirro. “The native merchants will not understand his devotion and will take it for rudeness. Besides, we are all weary of the sea and long to spend a day on dry land.”

Kendrick smiled. “We will make for Carn Roz, just inside the harbor ahead. It is the village of my cousin Bannoch. He will feed us handsomely and find us comfortable beds. I long to visit him and his family.” With his decision made, Kendrick beckoned one of his crew to take over the steering.

“Your cousin Bannoch sounds like a generous man,” Joseph said.

“He’s actually a very distant cousin. Bannoch’s great-grandfather was the brother of my own great-grandfather. When he settled his family among the Dumnonii, the hillfort king granted him several hillsides on the east side of the harbor. Others of our people joined him later. This was before that dark day when Julius Caesar crushed the Veneti.”

“Did they purchase the land?” asked Joseph.

“The Dumnonii are a simple people. They do not understand money. Their peninsula is even more isolated from the rest of Britain than Armorica is from Gaul. The community owns the land, and the people give a tithe from what they produce to the hillfort king in exchange for his protection. Farmers and herders barter with artisans for tools and goods. We will need to make a gift to Bannoch in exchange for his hospitality.”

“Perhaps a roll of Roman linen from Lugdunum,” suggested Joseph.

“Yes, that will do nicely,” answered Kendrick. “The natives here turn flax into linen too, but it is much coarser than what we have. They will appreciate the lightness of your fabric.”

The ship sailed between the headlands that lay astride the entrance to the River Fal. A magnificent harbor, it stretched four miles north and south and about a mile east and west. In most places, rocky cliffs fell to the shoreline, but here and there, flatter stretches, with beaches and tidal pools, offered an easier landing. Half a dozen creeks and rivers emptied into the harbor. Kendrick said that a network of navigable waterways reached miles further inland.

Looking to the west side of the harbor entrance, Kendrick pointed out to Joseph and Pirro a fortification atop the headland. Called Pen-Dinas, the headland was nearly an island, connected to the mainland by a narrow isthmus, protected by the steep slopes leading from the water’s edge. The slope was not so sheer as to render an attack by sea impossible, but more than steep enough to weaken attackers trying to make their way uphill against a hail of arrows. Earthen and stone ramparts guarded the isthmus. “The hillfort consists of three ramparts laid out in concentric circles,” said Kendrick. At the very top is a clear meadow, commanding a view far out to sea.”

“That would not hold out very long against the Romans,” observed Joseph.

“No, it would not,” agreed Kendrick. “Most of the cliff forts in this land lie atop much steeper cliffs that are impregnable from the sea. Compared to most Celtic tribes, the Dumnonii are a peaceful people, although they don’t shy away from fighting when circumstances call for it. The hillforts here are simpler structures than in the rest of Britain. If trouble threatens, the people bring themselves and their cattle to the hillfort. Most of the hillforts lack any supply of water or sufficient land inside to graze the cattle, so they provide protection only for a few days while the king summons help from his neighbors. Only a few of the elite warriors are in the king’s permanent armed retinue; the men of the villages would do most of the manning of the ramparts.”

“What about the people on the east side of the harbor?” asked Pirro. “In time of danger, surely they do not ferry their cattle across the water.”

“They have a more traditional hillfort inland, on a small rise of land. The king sends his retinue back and forth across the bay to support both forts in times of trouble,” Kendrick replied.

As the ship rounded the headland on the eastern side of the harbor, it turned north. This brought the wind to the beam, allowing the crew to break out the main square sail to good advantage. They sailed past the entrance of the Percuil River, which emptied into the east side of the harbor, and soon they heard shouts of greeting from the boys of Carn Roz, who recognized Kendrick’s ship.

Kendrick sailed his ship into a tidal pool halfway up the harbor on the east side and brought it alongside a massive rock that formed a convenient natural quay. By now, the villagers had gathered along the shore to greet them.

As the crew secured the ship, Kendrick spotted Bannoch, a sinewy, mustached man standing with his wife, son, and daughter. Aside from the deference paid by the other villagers, the intricate bronze torc around his neck, his silver belt buckle, and his wife’s silver earrings distinguished the family’s station in life. Their work clothes, made of sturdy linen and wool, were similar to those worn by the other villagers, except cleaner. They all wore simple laced leather shoes.

Kendrick embraced his cousin. “Bannoch! I trust the season finds you well and prosperous.”

“The gods be with you, my friend.” Bannoch wore a checkered, belted tunic over dark brownish-red leggings. “You bring passengers. What brings them to our land?”

Kendrick introduced Joseph and the others. “They’ve come from a country far to the east, by way of the ancient Atlantic trade route.”

Bannoch raised an eyebrow, but he said nothing other than to invite the party to his home to refresh themselves. Kendrick knew Bannoch was too shrewd to engage in a business discussion before he knew more.

Bannoch’s son did not share the same restraint. The eleven-year-old had been among the urchins greeting them from shore earlier. Fedwig was a freckled, fair-haired boy. Undistinguished by any ornaments in contrast to his father, he nonetheless seemed to be confident of his station in life. Kendrick lifted him in the air, saying “Ah, Fedwig, how you have grown over the winter! I can hardly lift you.”

“I am too big for that now,” Fedwig replied, trying to maintain his dignity—to the amusement of all. “That will cost you a present!” True to his word, as soon as his feet were back on the ground young Fedwig began searching the captain. Despite Kendrick’s protestations that he had forgotten to bring anything, Fedwig soon was grasping a fine new cowhide ball freshly picked from Kendrick’s pocket bag. With a shriek of delight, he ran off into the meadow, accompanied by other boys, to play with it.

“Now, something for you, my dear Golia,” said Kendrick to Bannoch’s daughter, who wore a green tightly patterned sleeveless dress that reached a few inches below her knees. Kendrick pulled out a polished comb carved from bone. The girl was taller and more reticent than her younger brother, but her broad smile still betrayed her delight with the gift.