Page 44 of Bound By Honor
Again, there were many tears for their lord was well loved. Some expressed fear for the future of the lordship. Angus assured them there was no cause for concern, that Alex was prepared to assume the role of chief. Though the other chiefs had to confirm this, Angus had no doubt Alex would be their choice.
On the morrow, the rain gave way to a brilliant rainbow as they sailed north through the Sound of Islay, past Colonsay to the tiny but significant Isle of Iona off the east coast of Mull. The cold wind blew hard as they neared their destination. The ocean spray made Angus shiver beneath his cloak.
The crew pulled the galley onto the beach at Martyr’s Bay, named for a Viking attack centuries ago. Angus gazed at the wide stretch of sand, already lined with many galleys set close together in a long row like sleek greyhounds eager for the hunt. Angus recognized the pennons of the chiefs he had visited the year before. The burial of the Lord of the Isles would draw many to this hallowed place.
He had known from his boyhood that Iona was sacred to the Macdonalds. Dedicated to God, it was the place where they buried their lords since Somerled’s time. Michael Dominici, his tutor, had taught him that the isle’s spiritual history began even earlier. The Irish prince, Columba, exiled from Tirconnell in the sixth century, came to Iona to found a monastery, following the steps of Oran, the Apostle of Colonsay.
From Iona, Columba had sent missionaries to the Picts and the Gaels of Dalriada. These monks brought the good news of the gospel of Christ to the land that would one day be Scotland.
Angus’ tutor had told him it was Somerled’s son, Ranald, theRex Insularum, King of the Isles, who founded the great Benedictine abbey on Iona, providing land, building materials and funds for construction. Later Lords of the Isles and their master masons completed the project. It was the abbey where Angus and his family and the chiefs and their families would stay while awaiting the burial. Had it been summer, many would have set up tents but, with the bitter cold, the monks would shelter some in the abbey. The women who came alone could be housed in the Augustinian nunnery on the isle. Bethoc, Somerled’s daughter and Ranald’s sister, had been the first prioress.
Angus, his aunt and uncle and cousin left the shore and, bent into the wind, proceeded over the stone path that was part ofSràid nam Marbh,the Street of the Dead. It was the path leading from the bay across the windswept grass to the abbey. Their servants and Angus’ crew followed, carrying the baggage, wine and cheese.
Passing the nunnery, they came to a small building made of red granite with a steeply pitched roof covered in stone tiles. Angus knew it to be St. Oran’s Chapel, the burial chamber of the Lords of the Isles built by Somerled nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.
The chapel stood within the ancient graveyard ofReilig Odhrain, where isle chieftains were buried along with Norse, Scottish and Irish kings.
Illuminated by the low northern light was a magnificent carved stone cross, taller than the height of two men. Angus recalled the words of his father’s chaplain one Sunday after his message encouraging them to live for Christ. “On St. Oran’s cross is carved the image of Daniel in the lion’s den, which reminds us that God will save those faithful to Him.”
Angus had not been born when his grandfather, Donald, died, but he had once been to Iona with his father, who had explained that St. Oran’s Chapel and the graveyard comprised the most sacred place on Iona.
Casting a glance at the stone chapel, he said to Duncan, “My father’s body lies in state there. I will go to him after I have seen your parents to the abbey and paid my respects to the abbot and my mother.”
“If you will allow it, I will go with you,” said Duncan, the cold wind blowing his honey-colored hair across his face. An earnest look shone from his green eyes.
Angus returned his cousin a grateful nod. It was a comfort to know that he and Duncan were walking through this time of grief together.
Until the funeral service in the abbey church, his father’s body would remain inside the chapel where, for eight days, the monks would continually chant psalms and prayers. Because of the gusting wind, Angus could not hear the monks’ voices but he was certain they were singing as they stood vigil.
Angus’ party proceeded on until the magnificent red granite abbey loomed before them. In front of the great edifice stood St. Martin’s cross, as tall as the one dedicated to St. Oran. There were other crosses there as well that were dedicated to St. John and St. Matthew. All were carved with Celtic designs and scenes from the Scriptures.
To his right, Angus glimpsed the blue-gray waters of the Sound of Iona and, beyond them, to the Isle of Mull. The winter sun had dropped low in the sky but the remnants of its red and gold light were reflected in the water. It was the end of a day and the end of a life. As he walked on, heaviness hovered about him like an unwanted cloak.
The gaunt, black-robed Abbot Fionnlagh welcomed them at the abbey door, greeting first Angus’ uncle and aunt. Behind the abbot, Angus heard voices echoing off the abbey’s stone walls. “Others have arrived,” said the abbot, looking over his shoulder, “including the Bishop of the Isles. Lord Alexander, Lady Juliana and Lady Helen are with them now.” Then, gesturing to a table to one side, he said, “You may set your things here and they will be placed in the chambers we have readied for you.”
Angus’ uncle thanked the abbot and took his wife’s elbow to escort her inside while their servant placed the baggage as instructed.
“We brought wine and some food,” offered Angus, gesturing to the casks and large rounds of cheese his crew had hefted to their shoulders.
“Most thoughtful,” said the abbot. “Your men can set them here as well and we will take them to the kitchens where the evening meal is being prepared. There will be many to feed this next sennight. With God’s grace, we will see it done.”
Angus entered the abbey, relieved to be out of the wind. He went to his mother, whose tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes spoke loudly of her loss, and embraced her. “Father is with God and the angels now.”
Her sad eyes looked into his. “I know, my son, but life is hard without him.”
He acknowledged the truth of her words. “Aye, his loss is a great one.” Others came to console her and, blinking back tears, Angus spotted his brothers and moved toward them, knowing his mother was cared for in her grief.
He spoke briefly with his brothers, seeing in their eyes what he had glimpsed in his mother’s. “I knew this day would come but I did not think it would come so soon.”
“None of us did,” said Alex. “But he would expect us to go on for the sake of the lordship.”
“Aye, he would.” Telling his brothers he would see them later, he found Duncan and, together, they went to the chiefs and thanked them for coming. When this was done, he, John and Duncan went to the chapel to pay their respects to Angus Mor, a man larger than life in many ways, the first of the name Macdonald.
The black-robed monks did not cease their chanting as Angus and his companions entered but acknowledged them with their eyes. Candles burned on the altar and flickered along the rails of the wooden frame suspended over the body, the heat of the flames lifting the air above the body.
Covering the earthly remains of Angus Mor was an ivory silk pall with a long-shafted Celtic ringed cross appliquéd in golden fabric. Beneath the pall, his father’s body would be wrapped in a white winding cloth.
His father had been so vibrant in life, Angus could not picture him in death. He could only conjure images of him as he lived: the kindhearted high chief of the clan, speaking wise advice, smiling at his sons, laughing with the chiefs, angry at injustice, and proud to the last. There had been times when his father had left his other duties to spend time with his young sons. It was not often but it had been enough.
