“My dear queen,” he said sweetly the minute he arrived, “I feel rather chilly and could do with getting into a sweat. Come and lie with me. I beg you.”
Though she’d just walked away from a loving tryst with a noble who lived round the corner, the queen had no choice but to obey and follow him. In those days people rarely stripped off, and, consequently, everything was more functional than it is today. However, that isn’t the real issue; as historians of antiquity and the Middle Ages point out, the real issue was that the wives of absolute monarchs had only limited powers. And if we mention that it’s not because we want to ensure that people feel sympathy for these ladies but simply to affirm what was a fact. On that day, moreover, she had to give him a thousand caresses and repeatedly touch and tweak his red beard, which is what the king most liked. The monarch acted his part very cleverly and beseeched her, almost cloyingly, to show him all the rings and jewels he had given her. More dead than alive, the queen was able to show him the lot except for one: the ring the king had thrown into the river.
“I lent the missing ring,” she said in a quivering voice, “to my first lady-in-waiting. It’s her son’s wedding tomorrow, and I wanted to give her a token of my friendship by contributing with this small detail to make that proper occasion even more solemn. As soon as the celebrations are over, you will see the ring untouched.”
The king grinned benignly and listened to her explanation and then excused her of any further duties. When he was by himself, he uttered in that whimpering voice of his a sentence that was to become renowned: “Beheading the queen will be a piece of cake.”
As soon as the queen reached her chambers, she had a prolonged fainting fit. When she came to, she was clear about one thing: only a miracle could save her. The fame of Ketingern or Mungo as a miracle maker had reached as far as the chambers of the Royal Palace. However, the prolific nature of his wondrous deeds meant the aristocracy paid them little attention. More attuned to real, penetrating acts than the stuff of dreams, the queen’s character predisposed her against the holy male. She didn’t doubt his powers but felt he wasn’t sufficiently skilful to come to her rescue. “How can one compare,” exclaimed the tearful queen, “resurrecting little birds and setting fire to wet branches to the difficulties of my present plight?” She summoned him, even though she harbored no great expectations.
“Secretary, bring me that good man!” ordered the queen majestically. “Bring him to me via the back door. If you bring him straight away, I’ll give you one of your favorite presents.”
The secretary she had addressed was over seventy years old, but had preserved an enviable spontaneity of feeling and loyalty towards the royal family. He rushed off to seek Mungo out. He visited every church in the city but didn’t find him. Then he began to run around the monasteries, and this being such an onerous task that requires lots of courage, he entered a tavern for a second to take some refreshment. Imagine his surprise when he saw Mungo deep in that den, holding a dram, by a table strewn with bottles and glasses. The holy man was surrounded by a ruddy-faced, impoverished crowd that was in turn woeful and jolly. The secretary had no time to reflect on the futility of human aspirations or finish his drink. He summoned Mungo over to tell him what it was all about.
“Yes, sir!” said the saint merrily. “In my view, this is such a trivial matter it would be better to send a disciple of mine who started not long ago and is broken in …”
“You’re completely mistaken!” replied the secretary solemnly. “The queen wants to speak to you personally, and you cannot opt out.”
The holy person went through the back door with a degree of relish. He made what was an excellent bow in the presence of the queen because he felt so excited. The queen ordered everyone to leave and was thus alone with the venerable fellow. Weeping and simpering, half fainting, half serene, alternating pledges of penitence with allusions to her regrettable affair, she fully confessed the actions of her life. Then she asked the saint to help her to save it.
“If I have understood you aright,” said the venerable fellow, “it’s what we poor people call adultery when we’re calling a spade a spade. The Church teaches us that adultery is a mortal sin. I have given you confession, and that’s never a bad thing. Before God, you are completely forgiven. But before humanity can one say the same? You are asking me to be an accomplice to your situation by throwing human justice off course with an unheard of intervention. This would be an undeniably monstrous step to take, from a theological point of view. When you married, you promised to remain faithful to your husband. Why did you break your pledge? You now want a supernatural act to restore a faithfulness you’ve not upheld … Madam, theology is implacable. It’s a risky proposal.”
“I broke my pledge because the king is …”
“That goes without saying!” said the saint, burying his face in his hands. “But what difference does that make? You are a married woman and the law demands that you repress your passions and abide by the demands of human decency. Your situation is very serious. I would like to help but this is a very delicate matter. My heart and patriotic spirit are with you, but some things are sacred. The only thing that can save us all, my queen, is for hearts to melt and the impulse for forgiveness to be genuine.”
“Holy man! What does the Church want at this moment in time?”
“The Church wants your soul to be saved together with the greatness and prosperity of Scotland.”
“That’s right: exactly what I want too.”
They went their separate ways.
Early next morning this curious character walked along the banks of the Clyde, looking deeply worried. He stared into the water and his senses were so concentrated he seemed to be going mad. He made strange shapes with his hands and scraps of prayer hung on his lips. Then he stopped dead and saw a large bubble appear in mid-stream. When the bubble popped, he saw the gills of a salmon stick out in the very same place. St Mungo immediately nodded to it to swim over, and smiled, probably hoping to win the fish’s trust. The fish began to swim to the mud of the bank, head out of water, eyes alert, and came gently to rest by the feet of the saint. It was a handsome salmon that weighed more than sixteen pounds. The holy man grasped the fish as if it were a babe in diapers and cradled it in his arms. If we’d been in that place at that time with a smattering of Gaelic, we’d have understood this peculiar exchange: “Salmon, we’re suffering from a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Are you willing to help me save our bacon?”