I made to protest. "Dugal, no I-"
"He does!" Dugal insisted.
"The man I saw was no vision," I declared. "He was a man I met in Trebizond. I thought I saw him today in the marketplace-he called out to me. But it was crowded, and by the time I reached him, he had gone. Perhaps I did not see him at all."
Brynach frowned in disapproval of my explanation, but said no more and returned to his cooking. Dugal, breaking the twigs into smaller pieces, said, "What was it like, this Trebizond?"
At his mention of the word, something Brynach had said before squirmed uneasily in my head. Rather than answer Dugal's question, I asked one of my own. "You told me you were going to see the governor, why?"
"Cadoc desired his aid," Brynach answered.
"But not on behalf of the cumtach," I suggested. "You could have had a new cover made in Constantinople."
"That is true."
"Then why? What aid could Governor Honorius provide?"
Brynach stopped stirring. He looked from Dugal to me, and then down into the pot, as if trying to read a purpose in the bubbling liquid. "I suppose," he said, "it makes no difference now."
He gestured to Dugal to take his place at the fire, then came and settled himself on the ground facing me. "Cadoc is dead." The sadness in his voice went deeper, I thought, than grief for the beloved bishop. "He would have told you himself."
I remained silent, tingling with anticipation. Even so, his first words surprised me. "Governor Honorius was to be our advocate against Rome."
"Rome!" I wondered in amazement. "What has Rome to do with this? Why did-"
Brynach raised a hand to fend off any more questions. "It was, you might say, the true purpose for the pilgrimage." As he spoke, an image formed in my mind: men at a board-monks breaking bread and talking in quiet fellowship with one another. The image changed and I saw myself sitting with Brynach, and him beckoning me closer. "Those I choose to be my friends call me Bryn," he was saying. "May I tell you something?"
The memory struck me with the force of a blow. Gazing at him now, I cast my mind back to that night. "That is what you were going to tell me," I said. Brynach returned my gaze with a blank expression. "The night of our first meeting-you were going to tell me, but one of the monks intruded."
He nodded slightly. "Yes, I suppose I meant to…"
"We should have been told," I said, my tone growing harsh. "If there was a hidden purpose to our journey-"
Dugal, silent as a stone, stared at us, trying to take in the revelation he was hearing.
"Not a hidden purpose-" protested Brynach quickly. "Never that."
"We should have been told," I insisted. "Tell me now."
Brynach shook his head slowly; the sadness in his eyes was raw and deep. "Do you also remember," he said softly, "that we were to go first to Ty Gwyn?"
Again, I was assailed by a sudden recollection. "Ty Gwyn," I murmured. "The storm prevented us from putting to shore."
"You do remember," Brynach confirmed.
"I also remember we were never told why we were to go there," I remarked tartly.
"For years, I had been travelling from abbey to abbey, hearing the complaints of abbots and bishops, detailing the grievances, so to speak, writing them down. The Book of Sins, I called it." He smiled sadly. "Rome's sins against us."
"But we sailed on without it."
"Well," Brynach shrugged, "that could not be helped. When I finished my little red book, Bishop Cadoc had three copies made: one was kept at Ty Gwyn, one at Hy, and one at Nantes, in Gaul."
"That was where Cadoc and Honorius met," I said, recollecting our previous talk.
"Indeed," he confirmed. "Having laboured so long over our appeal, we thought to share the fruit, so to speak. The churches of Gaul are pressed as sorely as those of Britain and Eire. We hoped to enlist these brothers in our cause." He shook his head again. "We were making for Nantes when the Danes attacked us."
"But you reached Nantes," I said. "You must have retrieved your red book."
"We did, yes."
"And you brought it to Byzantium, did you not?" Brynach affirmed my question with a nod. "What happened to it?"
"We were to deliver it into the emperor's hands," Brynach replied simply, "but-" Frowning, he hesitated.
"But it was lost when your ship was attacked," I suggested, believing I had guessed the book's fate.
Brynach glanced up quickly. "By no means," he said. "The book is still in Byzantium. And that is cause for hope. Nikos, the very man you condemn out of hand-he has the book even now."
I stared in stupefaction at the senior monk, overwhelmed by the immensity of the catastrophe: the hopelessness of Bishop Cadoc's doomed trust, and Nikos's monumental treachery. I felt as if the weight of the world had shifted and rolled upon my chest.
"Nikos!" My hands balled to fists. "You gave it to Nikos! In God's name, man, why?"
Dugal, kneeling over the bubbling pot, stirdle in hand, looked from one to the other of us, a troubled expression on his face.
"Peace, brother," Brynach soothed. "We gave it to him, yes, for safe-keeping. And that is how I know he was trying to help us." Brynach's faith was as genuine as it was misplaced. "Nikos was much impressed by my thoroughness and particularity. 'Such a meticulous indictment,' he told us, 'could not fail to move the emperor.' Those were his very words."
The ache in my chest gave way to a hollow feeling. I felt as if I were a gourd, ripe to bursting, split down the middle and scooped out in a single, devastating swipe. Nevertheless, like murky sediment settling in a pool, the thing was gradually coming clear. I pressed on. "What of the governor? What was his place in this?"
"Cadoc knew him well; the two had been friends in Gaul. Cadoc, then a priest, baptized Honorius into the faith. In respect of this singular blessing, Honorius always held that if Cadoc ever required his aid, he would give it. So it was that the bishop hoped to claim that promise. Over the years, Honorius had risen to a position of considerable influence; he was to guide us to the prize we sought."
Almost fearfully, I said, "This prize-what was it?"
"A dispensation from the emperor," Brynach replied, his voice taking on strength once more, "for the free practice of our faith."
I could make no sense of this. "Have you lost your mind, brother? Whatever can you mean? We are free," I asserted, forgetting for the moment that I was done with such things and no longer cared one way or the other. "We owe allegiance to no earthly king."
"Not if Rome has its way," countered Brynach blackly. "Even now the Pope is raising the cry of heresy against us."
"Heresy!" I could not imagine what Brynach was talking about. "It is absurd."
"But true just the same," replied the monk. "The Pope would bring all who call themselves Christian beneath his sway. We have always vexed Rome, I think, with our different ways. The Pope would have us bow the knee to his authority."
"So you hoped to appeal to a higher authority," I mused, hopelessness settling over me once more.
"There is no higher authority on earth than the emperor himself," Brynach declared, growing earnest. "He can grant us the peace we seek. Once we reach Sebastea," he said quickly, "we can-"
His words, combined with his rekindled intensity, filled me with alarm. "The pilgrimage is ended," I said ruthlessly, my tone growing harsh. "We are returning to Trebizond, and then travelling on to Constantinople. It is finished," I stated flatly. "The pilgrimage ended in disaster long ago."