Page 45 of Bound By Honor
Angus did not remain long in the chapel. He and his companions crossed themselves and turned to leave, inclining their heads to the monks whose chanting continued unbroken.
The dinner that night became a tribute to Sir Angus Mor Macdonald, his mighty deeds remembered along with his courage and his character. Tormod Macleod told stories of their battles together for both had fought at the Battle of Largs in 1263. Angus’ uncle, Alasdair Macdonald, recounted his older brother’s exploits in Ireland where the Irish praised Angus Mor’s graceful galleys, dubbing him “the scion of Tara”, a reference to his royal Irish roots. Malise, the aging Maclean chief, whose predecessors were buried on Iona, told of the times he and Angus Mor had hunted the red deer together on the Isle of Jura. Angus had not heard some of the stories before and it warmed his heart to know of them. Like small unexpected treasures, he would keep them to savor later.
Angus sat between his two brothers, encouraged that they would face the future together. “Whatever you need,” he told Alex, “however I can help, I am your man.”
“Thank you, Angus. Your loyalty means much. Already I feel the weight of the burden Father carried but rarely spoke of.”
“I wish I could have been with him when he died,” said Angus. “But at least you and Mother were there. Some chiefs die in battle with no one to comfort them save the angels who bear their souls to Heaven.”
A wistful expression crossed Alex’s face. “At the end,” he said, “he spoke of you and John. He said he was leaving the lordship in good hands.”
Angus looked long at his elder brother, his dark hair and eyes so like their mother’s and his noble face showing the marks of his grief. “I believe he did.”
The next days passed as the burial preparations were accomplished by the monks. More chiefs arrived. Many remained unsmiling, their faces like stone, as they respectfully greeted the family.
On the morning of the eighth day, Angus awoke to see the isle covered in snow, the sun reflecting off the frozen ground. It seemed fitting somehow that the ground should be hidden beneath a mantle of white like the pall draped over his father’s body.
Quiet surrounded them. Even the wind, which had been unrelenting, dwindled to a mere breeze and the sky above was a clear blue. Fortuitous signs to Angus as the burial was to be today.
Leaving their footprints in the new snow, Angus, Alex, John and Duncan carried Angus Mor’s body on a bier from the chapel to the abbey church and placed it on a table in the sanctuary while the monks’ choir chanted.
The Requiem Mass for Angus Mor was presided over by the abbot and the bishop before the grand marble altar with the tall arched window behind them. The walls of the church were painted with scenes from the Scriptures. The arches on the side of the main sanctuary were decorated with brightly colored tiles, some with colored glass. It was a fitting place to celebrate the life of so great a leader who was now with God in Heaven.
After the Mass, the bier was carried back to the chapel in preparation for the burial.
Garbed in his finest tunic he had saved for this day and his fur-lined woolen cloak, Angus set off toward the chapel with his brother, John. Their boots crushed the snow beneath their feet.
The lofty church tower pulsated with the ringing of the large bells his father had commissioned as they crossed the rock path that formed part of the Street of the Dead. The stones were now covered with a layer of snow but Angus remembered his father telling him the large smooth rocks, pressed into the ground, had been there for centuries.
Squinting against the sun, Angus glimpsed the bishop ahead of them in his mitre and vestments of white and crimson walking beside the black-robed abbot. They were followed by Alex and Juliana with Angus Mor’s widow between them. Helen Macdonald was tearful but her countenance resolute. It was clear she had summoned all her courage to face this day.
Behind Angus, John and the rest of the family and the chiefs and their wives walked, wrapped in warm cloaks against the chill of the morning.
The mourners, who had come to honor Angus Mor in death, pressed into the small chapel. When there was no more room inside, those left outside gathered at the arched stone doorway to watch the solemn proceedings.
Two long narrow windows, one on either side of the altar, facing north and south, allowed winter’s light into the chapel. Candles set on the altar, now covered in a white cloth, added a warm glow to the cold chamber. More candles had been placed on the wooden frame suspended above the body, symbolizing the upward ascent of the offered prayers for Angus Mor’s soul.
The monks, who had been chanting, fell silent. The only sound remaining was the women weeping.
Abbot Fionnlagh took his position beside Mark, the Bishop of the Isles, who held the crucifix before the body as he spoke of Angus Mor Macdonald and led them in prayer.
Angus experienced a great emptiness inside. Life was short, fragile and uncertain. None knew how long they had on this earth. Death was the only certainty. But, with the bishop’s words that spoke of the afterlife, Angus consoled himself that there was hope for all who believed in the risen Christ. Heaven awaited beyond this life and he would see his father again one day.
Hearing the prayers in his mind, Angus stared at the long grave slabs of his ancestors, Ranald and Donald, that covered the shallow tombs set into the paved floor. Each was carved with a long-shafted Celtic ringed cross and an aristocrat’s sword. Ranald’s also had a pilgrim’s staff and Donald’s an intertwining Celtic plant scroll.
Somerled’s older, more substantial monument sat heavily on top of his tomb, the large block of sandstone from Mull was shaped to resemble the chapel with its high-pitched, coped roof. Carved into the stone were the words Angus had read on his first visit to the chapel:
ór don anmain
somhairle giolla bride
rig innsi gall
A PRAYER FOR THE SOUL OF
SOMERLED [mac] GILLIBRIDE
KING OF THE ISLES
