The Exile

1202 AD, The Sea of the Hebrides

Like the glass in the windows of the cathedral. So smooth, not a ripple. After the fierce seas of recent days, this was unreal. Fishes could be seen swimming below. Above the mists hovered, clouding out the islands on either side, turning the scene from one of this world, into something unreal. It was as if this life had ended, and I was sailing across the River Styx which the ancient philosophers believed would take you to the land of the dead. My life now over, only the abyss remained. I glanced at the boatman, my modern-day Charon. He was an unremarkable chap, not suited for such an awesome task. Yet his task was awesome, for real world or other, truly he was piloting me to my death.

For without my students, was this not a living death? Without the chance to educate, to debate, the cut and thrust of academic life, what was worth living for?

And without the city, was this also not a living death? Without the cuisine, the architecture, the glory of the abbey church’s stained-glass and vaulted chancel, the busyness of the river with its boats carrying good and people to and fro, the strangers from far-off lands, the nobility in their gorgeous gowns, the king himself when he rode in on his horse followed by his retainers… without all that, what was worth living for?

And without her, was this surely not a living death? My love, my life, the very reason for my existence. My darling, perfect, incredible Joanne, whose smile lights up my days and whose eyes sparkle in the darkness. Without her, nothing on this earth could be worth living for!

I thought of her in that church, as they cut her hair and she pronounced those vows, and a tear escaped from my eye. Yet even there, even then, she displayed her spirit, that wonderful, indomitable, spirit that conquered all others.

O noble husband, too great for me to wed, was my fate to bend that lofty head?

Why did I marry you and bring about your fall?

Now accept the penalty and see me gladly pay.

Lucan. I recognised the quote immediately and, even though it was barbed in a fashion, I felt proud of her. She was declaring to the world that she wasn’t being forced to do all this, that they had not won. It was her choice, and she chose to do so purely because her husband had commanded it. Her husband. Me.

Alas, what a pitiful spouse I had proven to be!

Yet even now she loved me.

And in one simple ceremony buried herself for all eternity, only to be resurrected as Sister Catherine.

And without Joanne on this earth, how could I, her devoted spouse, ever live?

“Up ahead brother, there she is: Hinba!” cried Charon.

The boatman shook me out of my reveries, and I saw the dark mass of rocks emerge from the mist. Hinba. The isle on the edge of the world, St. Columolaug’s retreat from humanity. My exile and prison until the day when death should take me.

I shuddered and uttered a silent prayer.

---

He introduced himself with a smile and a handshake. “I’m Father Cuthbert,” he said, and I’m the abbot here, although I suspect that you will find how we do things here at St. Columolaug’s to be somewhat different to the monasteries that you are accustomed to.”

“In truth, I am unaccustomed to all monasteries, Father,” I replied. “I have been a monk only for a few short weeks.”

“Yes, I heard. The bishop wrote to me with a summary of your misfortunes. He tells me that you were a teacher in the cathedral school, engaged in expounding philosophy and theology to your students, but that you came into contact with a pretty but impressionable young lady, seduced her vilely and then, when her father discovered your disgusting behaviour, forced her into an unwanted marriage, before then fleeing with her. Thankfully, his men found you both, brought you to justice, and she begged to be freed from wedlock and so joined the Augustinian sisters whilst you entered the church as the only alternative offered to you was death, and, upon the instructions of the young lady’s father who is, I am told, one of the most influential noblemen in the kingdom, were sent here to this desert place, so as to be, ‘As far away from civilisation and my daughter as is humanly possible’. Am I right?”

“That is one way of telling the tale, Father Abbot.”

“But not, I suspect, a way that you concur with.”

“No, Father Abbot.”

“It matters not. Whatever your past activities, sinful or otherwise, I am glad to have you here. I do not judge a man’s actions and nor will any of your brothers in this place. What is past is past and here we all have a clean slate. What I do care about however, is that the bishop informs me that you are a skilled copyist, and a skilled copyist is what I need more than aught else. These are perilous times, Brother Jerome, make no mistake about it. This monastery was founded over five hundred years ago by our blessed St. Columolaug and never before, not when the Pagans threatened us or the Vikings raided us, slaying brethren, and burning down our buildings, were we ever under such threat as today. Which is why I need you desperately: to preserve what can be preserved before all is lost.”

I was surprised. I had not been given any hint that, despite its isolated location, the monastery on Hinba was anything but flourishing. I told the Father Abbot as much.

“And indeed, you are correct, Brother Jerome,” he replied, “or at least, you are correct in the eyes of people such as the bishop and the abbot of your last establishment. But the threat today does not come from outside, from the heathens and non-believers but instead, shamefully, from those who call themselves Christian. When this monastery was founded by the Blessed Columolaug, like all such establishments in this land at that time, it was modelled on what is called the Celtic or eremitic model. Our brothers do not live together, but in separate cells, like the original desert fathers did; they do not stifle their spirituality with a strict routine and ceaseless manual labour so as to dull the mind and senses, but instead they engaged in prayer and practices pleasing to God. Indeed, for four centuries, they were joined in their devotions by a community of sisters – yes, men and women together in one establishment, devoted to prayer and learning – but that proved to be too controversial for our narrow-minded betters, and so, alas, the sisters were banished to the temporal world a century ago. And, as for the monasteries, they too began to change, under the influence of Canterbury and Rome. The first Benedictine house in Scotland was Dunfermline in 1089, then came Urquhart, then Coldingham and so on. Now there are dozens of Benedictine houses, not to mention those of the Cluniacs, Augustinians and the currently fashionable and sheep-like Cistercians – may God forgive them for their errors – whilst we are the only Celtic monastery to survive, protected by our isolated location and pious local lord. But the pressures are coming to bear here too, and it will not be long before they manage to overrule Lord MacLeod and oust me and then, sadly, St. Columolaug’s will become yet another dreary factory of routine and labour dedicated to the Blessed Virgin who is doubtless weeping in heaven over what they do in her name.

All of which explains why I am glad to have you here and why I do not care what infamies they level at you. In short Brother Jerome, you are among friends here on St. Columolaug’s: I hate the vipers as much as you do!”

---

And so, much to my surprise, my prison became a refuge. Abbot Cuthbert was a remarkable man and I owe him much. He was, in my humble opinion, what a churchman should be. He was a million miles away from the hypocrites who cling to the cloisters like barnacles on a boat’s hull.

My task, as he said on that first meeting, was to copy. To copy the writings of the holy man who founded that desert monastery on an isolated isle and then, the writings of the other Celtic saints whose legacies, Cuthbert feared, were being neglected and overlooked in favour of superstar saints from closer to Rome who fitted in better with the current orthodoxy than a man dressed in rough clothes who chose to retreat to the fringes of civilisation in order to contemplate things which they thought should simply be accepted without question.

The work was not arduous, indeed, I rather enjoyed it. Due to my academic background, I was skilled and experienced in writing and so could produce copies both quicker than the other copyist and of a much higher standard. And because Abbot Cuthbert was a fair man, he did not load me down with meaningless labour in-between. Instead, like those early founders of the institution, I would wander the island until I found a lonely spot and there sit in prayer and meditation. But I must confess, that those prayers were not always what they should have been. On my windswept clifftop, looking out towards the wild Atlantic whilst the rains lashed my cheeks, even as I strived to concentration on pure thoughts, lewd visions of the pleasures we once engaged in would take hold of my mind, and wantonness took the place of piety. When I should have been groaning over the sins I committed with Joanne, I could only sigh and lament my loss. So too in the mass. I would try to focus my attentions upon the crucifix and direct my mind towards Our Lord’s Passion, but instead I was only reminded of the similar crucifix in the abbey’s refectory where once we sinned and of other places too which we sullied with our depravity and, again, sanctity stood no chance.

My work, however, did provide some distraction. As I copied them out, I became engrossed, involved in the stories that my quill was repeating. As I wrote about how the Blessed Columolaug set sail from Ireland in a simple leather craft with but twelve brothers as his companions, I felt myself there with them, in the boat, feeling the swell of the waves and the tang of salt upon my cheeks. And when he landed upon this most lonely isle, I was present during his meeting with the Pagan druid, the last of a long line of men who had found this place sacred since time immemorial. I heard him try to convince that bearded and wizened heathen of his errors and invited him to baptism, and I felt his dismay as the old man shook his head in refusal, took to his coracle and sailed west into the sun where, he said, there was an isle blessed by the gods where he would live out his earthly days. And as I stood there, observing it all, I thought of how like my own dear Cuthbert the druid was, powerless in the face of progress, yet still resolutely adhering to the Old Ways, and I wondered what the reformer who would one day pull his boat up on Hinba would look and sound like and whether I would stand by in mute observance then.

I accompanied Columolaug too as he built the first cells with his monks using their bare hands, as they celebrated the mass in the driving rain, and as they cured the pilgrims who came to these shores. And, finally, I accompanied him when, weighed down by the numbers of faithful who flocked to Hinba for blessings, unable to pray and meditate, he took to his own little leather boat, and sailed west as the druid had once done, to that blessed isle where, finally, he could be alone with his God.

“What can you tell me about the Isle of St. Columolaug?” I asked Abbot Cuthbert one evening.

“Nothing at all. It probably does not even exist. All we have to suggest it is real are his writings. None of the local fishermen know of it and no one else has ever been there. My belief is that he was not speaking literally. Unable to pray effectively on Hinba due to the intrusions of the world, Holy Columolaug used his immense spiritual powers to transport himself to another place, a desert isle, where prayer could come easily.”

“You mean to physically be transported there?”

“No, a journey of the mind. His body remained here but his mind flew to that blessed place. That is what I think at any rate. How else can one account for an island that no one else has ever seen?”

The following day, after copying out more of the manuscript, I walked around Hinba and there, in the harbour, I noticed a small leather boat that was surely not dissimilar at all to the one the holy man had once sailed in.

---

I had been at Hinba for almost two years when it arrived. I was called to Abbot Cuthbert’s cell, and he handed me a scroll. It was short and written in a shaky but unmistakable hand. My heart leapt.

To Jerome, her dearly beloved brother in Christ, Catherine his sister in Christ.

Not long ago, my master, by chance someone brought me a copy of the Life of St. Columolaug which had recently been completed at that blessed saint’s monastery on the isle of Hinba and sent to our priory by the waters of the River Thames which we contemplated many times in our more carefree days. Due to my skill in reading, I was called upon by the prioress to read the document aloud to the sisters in the refectory during mealtimes and, straight upon seeing it, I recognised the hand, that hand which I had seen so many times before during my studies, the hand of you, my husband and master.

Some months later, the abbess of the priory at Littlemore called me to her office and informed me that a new establishment for sisters had been built on the desert isle of Iona far away to the north, off the shores of the Kingdom of Scotland. She wished to know whether I, being learned and of a noble background, would be willing to accept the position of abbess there and, I am ashamed to say that, knowing you had been sent to that land by my father as part of the cruel but necessary exile needed to deliver us both from our wantonness and sinfulness, I accepted. Husband, I may not be able to share your bed these days, but knowing that we could be closer, warmed my heart. And so, I made the long and treacherous journey to these parts and established the nunnery of Our Lady here on the very island where once St. Columcille preached.

Always I keep my ears alert for mention of the goings-on at the monastery on Hinba for I long to drink in your name uttered by others who may be unaware of our past connections. This may sound strange to one who has doubtless forgotten this misguided soul and who still trembles at the thought of the sins that we committed, but my breast feels gladdened to know that you are near. I believe that you have gained something of a reputation for piety and excellent copying. I am so pleased to hear that you have managed to put our troubled and sinful past behind you and to find succour and devotion in Our Lord Jesus Christ.

Your Wife in Christ

Sister Catherine

Upon reading those words, I felt as if a deep wound in my breast, still healing after all this time, had been torn open viciously and I ached with the need to see, my beloved Joanne. To think that she was so near to me geographically and yet so far, that she still thought of me enough to write such an epistle and yet foolishly believed that I was wholly happy with my new status in life, caused me unimaginable anguish. Despite the fact that the day was stormy, winds tore across the island and the rains lashed down, I exited my cell and strode to the top of the high cliff and there, facing out into the endless and cruel ocean, I bellowed out my woes, harangued Christ, shouting vile accusations towards all of those who kept us apart. I damned her father, that base and mean man for whom, even our secret marriage would not suffice, who promised to slay both his own daughter and her beloved if we were not separated forever, using all his immense power and influence with the king and Church to achieve his mean ends, forcing us both into the cloisters and a life so utterly alone and bereft of all happiness. For hour after hour, I yelled into that howling wind whilst the waves crashed against the jagged teeth of basalt below me until, unable to rale against the world any longer, I sank to my knees and wept before passing out.

The kind brothers found me there hours later and I was perilously ill for weeks afterwards.

When I emerged from my sickbed however, I requested permission from Abbot Cuthbert to pen a reply to her missive and he, in his Christian love and kindness, assented, stating simply that the love between Christ and His Church is best reflected in the Song of Solomon.

---

I had been living on Hinba, immersed in my copying, for over a year after that when, one rainy September day, a sail on the horizon marked the change that Abbot Cuthbert so feared.

The coming of the new Columolaug came in the form of a presumptuous young monk in woollen robes who went by the name of Bernard. Like our founding saint, he was fired by the zeal of a blind and simple faith. For him and all like him, things were clear. There was black and white, right and wrong, pious devotion and heresy. I would have loved to have debated him in the college, to pull apart his childish arguments piece by piece and make him contradict himself in front of the entire audience, reducing his pious pride to humiliation and shame. But Bernard had not come to debate or even confer. He had come to order. The old lord had passed away and the new one was on the side of the reformers. Hinba was to become a Cistercian House and he was to oversee the process. The current buildings – various cells and chapels scattered around the enclosure with the main church at the centre, like small boats around a mother ship – was unsuited to this new age where rules and order were to become the new golden calf. In his boat were timbers, workmen and masons. The following day two more craft arrived, similarly loaded. Cuthbert knew that, with his protector gone, he was now powerless. Christ might rule supreme in the heavens, but here on earth, one needs a nobleman, and his had gone to his rest, and the title of abbot was but an empty echo. So, he busied himself with saying masses for the late lord and ensuring that all the most important documents were copied and preserved. Brother Bernard did not disturb him: he knew that Cuthbert was beaten.

Daily I watched as the walls of the new monastery grew higher and higher. Cells were demolished to be replaced by long dormitories where a man’s sacred privacy could never again be exercised, where the distrustful warders could keep a watchful eye day and night on their prisoners.

Prisoners who were forced into strict straitjackets of hard manual labour which left them exhausted and without the energy to even think dissenting thoughts, let alone explore and enact them. The new day would be centred around the Rule, each hour accounted for, each blissful night’s sleep disturbed, each day filled with menial, mindless tasks guaranteed to turn a spiritual explorer into a blind automaton. Us monks were not expected at that stage to adhere; we, like our abbot, were an irrelevance. When the time came, we would have to either accept or be banished and, since Hinba was the last true monastery in the kingdom, then there was to be no other refuge for us.

I spoke with my abbot and friend. I asked him what he would do, and he told me, with defeat in his voice, that he would be leaving Hinba completely. “It would hurt too much to see this oasis of Christian faith and living transformed into a factory of obedience like all the other establishments of the old saint. Nay, I shall leave Hinba and the monkish vocation. I have applied to become a parish priest in an out-of-the-way and unimportant location. The bishop was only too happy to accept.”

“I too cannot stay,” I told him, “but I do not feel any priestly vocation in my bones.”

“You never felt a monkish one either, if I recall correctly,” he countered, wryly.

“Indeed, but your loving kindness and guidance have made life bearable here. It will not be the same under Bernard.”

“So, what is your plan?”

“I wish to keep the original ideal of Christian love alive. I wish to live as the early saints did. To follow the example of Holy Columolaug.”

“As do I, but it is not possible. We are at the very edge of the world here, and the vipers have reached even this place. There is nowhere left to run unless you flee to the lands of the Saracens, Moors and other heathens.”

“No, in that you are misguided, Father Abbot, for this is not the edge of the world. Columolaug knew that and so too did the druid that he displaced. I shall follow their example.”

“The blessed island?! But I have told you already, it is not real! It is but a myth! No fisherman knows of it, no mariner can tell you its coordinates.”

“I believe it is real and that, if one sails far enough – for the local fishermen don’t even lose sight of the shore – then it can be found. And I shall do so or die trying. I only ask for your blessing in the attempt.”

He sat in silence, his hands clasped in prayer, for over a minute. Then, he looked at me, his azure eyes piercing my soul, and said, “You shall need more than my blessing; you shall need a boat. Such as the one that I have at my disposal in the harbour. And you shall need both temporal and spiritual food in your exile. Before you leave, load the boat with provisions from the monastery stores and take with you the most important of our manuscripts. Preserve those accounts of the true Christian life in a new Eden and go with my blessing!”

A great celebratory mass was held on the night when the dreams, hopes and vision of St. Anthony and the Desert Fathers, St. Martin of Tours and all those Celtic Apostles was finally laid to rest. The bishop sailed across from the mainland, accompanied by the new lord and the new abbot, a Frenchman named Abelard (although Bernard remained as his deputy, the power behind the throne). New monks came too, young, and impressionable, the fire of simplistic faith burning in their eyes, blinding them to Christ and reality. Led by their Aaron, as they chanted, sang, melted down their metal to forge the new idol and offered burnt offerings. As the abbey bell tolled, I sneaked away down to the harbour and cast off in the boat that I had loaded up with provisions earlier that day. Alone and unwanted, I slipped out of the harbour and out into the ocean waves where the black of night swallowed me up.

Sitting there on that boat, setting my course for the same thin place that once called the druids and then Holy Columolaug himself, I reflected on what the future might hold. Would they follow me? It was unlikely. The missing boat would not be discovered until the morning and then Cuthbert would delay them. And even if I was noticed, why should they bother? No one else knew of the saint’s sacred isle, for I had removed the pages that spoke of it from the copy of his life that remained in the monastery and besides, who was I anyway? A runaway monk, unimportant, irrelevant.

Still, one could never be sure, and I knew that would sleep with one ear open for the next few nights.

Far more likely was the possibility that Cuthbert had been right and that the island did not exist. It was but a metaphor, a symbol of the lost Eden or perhaps the heaven that true believers go to when God calls them. And did one such as I, a carnal sinner and reluctant monk, deserve such an abode?

Those thoughts, those doubts, which multiplied as I sailed alone across that endless, dreary sea, bored into my brain like worms into wood, rotting it from the inside.

To counter them, I cried out in prayer. Yet my prayers were not directed to my Creator, to Him whom one should worship, but instead, when I voiced the words, she formed before me. Her eyes like the pools in Heshbon; lips like a thread of scarlet; plump, firm breasts like two fawns that are twins of a roe; her navel like a round goblet; her neck like tower of ivory. And in that boat, she would climb atop me, her long raven hair holding her king captive in its tresses, forming a screen which shielded me from the wind and rain, and there, adrift on a cruel ocean, we would repeat again and again the sins that once we had indulged in so pleasurably.

And when we finished, and I lay there panting on the sodden timbers, tears filled my eyes as I wondered how I would ever manage to live even further away from the loving balm of her presence.

I had been sailing for two days on choppy seas when, ahead on the horizon, an island appeared. At first a dull grey rocky outcrop, coming into focus as I drew near. Instinctively I knew that this was the place, that I had found the sacred isle of St. Columolaug, the island promised to him by God! My heart quickened and I pulled on the oars to hasten my arrival.

Before me, only sheer cliffs could be seen, with nowhere to come ashore. But I remembered the holy man’s words in his manuscript: on the far side of the isle, unbeknownst to any other, Christ showed me a narrow cleft between the cliffs which opened up into a great sea bag. I sailed into this body of water and, immediately, the winds and waves were quelled. At the head was a cave and I drew my craft up there. There was a sound of crashing water, for a river ran through the cave and, at the back, a torrent poured down. I pulled the boat up out of sight in case any should ever come to disturb me in my meditations and there, in that place of safety, I slept, words of thanks and praise to Christ on my lips.

I rowed around the isle which seemed to be perhaps a mile or more across, and, sure enough, on the very far side, where the winds tore into the sail, there was a cleft between the cliffs, easy to miss if one hadn’t been expecting it. I entered with care and trepidation and found myself in that “great sea bag”, a loch most placid, being protected from the worst of the elements by the high cliffs. I rowed down this loch, some half a mile in length, until I came to the cave that the pious saint had written about. True to his words, a rivulet flowed out of it and, when I entered, the thunder of a torrent at the back could be heard, caused by a waterfall that gushed through a hole in the rocky ceiling, slamming into the ground to create a deep pool.

Like St. Columolaug, I pulled my craft out of sight and there, safe and protected, I slept, a free man for the first time in many years.

---

The following morning, after I had eaten the last of the provisions that I had brought with me, I explored my new home. It was not a large place, perhaps a mile across and two in length. Much of it was steep and rocky, inhabited only by seabirds. In the sheltered dip between the hills in the centre, I came across ruins, the only sign that man had previously stepped upon those shores. It was long abandoned, but the original purpose was still clear: it was the remains of a circular monk’s cell like those found on Hinba. I had found the holy man’s home and place of prayer. Close by, as he wrote, was the spring. I spent the next four days rebuilding that rude dwelling with the stones that lay about, sleeping in the cave and subsisting on fish I caught in the loch by the cave and wild animals that I managed to trap. There were virtually no trees to be found, but the northern part of the island was rich in peat which I cut carefully and the dried so I could keep warm in the evenings. Then, when all was completed, on the seventh day, like the Lord, I rested.

---

And so, I came to St. Columolaug’s Blessed Isle, that New Eden across the ocean, that resurrection of the Desert Fathers’ ideal of the perfect Christian life.

Or at least, such was the theory.

Life there was both hard and easy at the same time. It was hard because the winds raged, and the rains lashed down; it was hard because I had to hunt for my food; it was hard because I was alone with no one to talk to and share my thoughts.

But it was easy because, after a few weeks, it was apparent that no one had followed me and, if anyone did wish to search for the runaway sinner Brother Jerome, no one had thought to look out in the Western Seas. It was easy too because, after I had caught my food, I had no tasks to complete. Life was carefree and relaxing. On the rare occasions when the sun shone, I would lie on the heather of the peak behind my hut, let the rays warm my bones and survey my entire domain.

That it was not a large isle perhaps added to my unquiet. The western shore was dominated by the “great sea bag” or loch where I fished whilst the eastern shore was all high cliffs. The centre had two peaks, between which my cell stood, sheltered on three sides. The entire island was virtually treeless, but there was a sheltered spot between my cell and the cave where some straggly specimens eked out an existence. I took clippings from these and planted them around my hut and, the following summer, they were chest-high. In my mind’s eye I saw a future where a miniature forest, protecting me from the elements, providing a habitat for wildlife that could be hunted and timber to be burnt, could be developed.

Even such dreams, however, were not enough. As the months passed, I realised that the satisfaction found here by St. Columolaug and the druids before him, was not going to be granted to me. What started as momentary memories of past pleasures, developed into lengthy delvings into former days and frenetic, heady dreams of carnal lust that filled my nights and caused me to awaken sweating and hungry. I began to realise that if I was to recreate the ideal of the first Christians, I needed an Eve to my Adam in this Eden.

And that my Eve waited patiently for me in the nunnery on Iona, only a few days’ sailing to the south-east.

And so, one summer’s day in the second year of my self-imposed exile on St. Columolaug’s Isle, I loaded up the boat once again and set sail for the civilisation that I had so willingly left behind.

---

The morning of June 9th was bright and sunny and the boat coming over from Mull to the sacred island of Iona was crammed full of pilgrims from all over Scotland and beyond. There was good reason for the throng, for June 9th is St. Columcille’s Day marking the day, a little over six centuries earlier when that famed holy man breathed his last earthly breath whilst lying in his cell there on Iona, in the monastery that he founded and from which the Light of Christ was brought to the pilgrims all around. As the pilgrims clamber off the boat, they make their way slowly to the famous monastery in time for mass and the blessings awarded by the abbot on this, the most auspicious of days.

A few pilgrims, however, do not head straight for the abbey, but instead halt at the nunnery of the Black Sisters, dedicated, appropriately, to St. Mary the Virgin. Among them is a cowled figure with a foreign accent and educated airs. He asks to speak with the prioress, telling the simple sister in the church that he is a monk come from Oxford who bears news of her family. Abbess Catherine agrees to receive him and, when in her office, the monk removes his cowl to reveal his visage to the world.

The abbess drops to her knees in shock and surprise.

Seeing my beloved like that, clad in a nun’s garb, after so very long, is an image that shall stay engrained within my heart forever. She retained all of her beauty and dignity, indeed, if anything, the years seemed to have magnified both. When she had recovered from his surprise, she approached me, touched my cheek with her hand and whispered softly, “My husband and master, they told me that you were dead! Is this a real man or a ghost that appears before me?”

I assured her that I was no spirit and told her my tale. Of how I had fled from Hinba when the reformers had ruined it and rediscovered the sacred isle of St. Columolaug. How I had lived there peacefully and alone, and of how I had thought constantly of my wife and yearned for her presence.

“Which is why,” I told her, “I have come to take you away from this place.”

Looking back, what had I expected? Tears of gratitude, arms flung around me in thanks for rescuing her from that goal of feminine sterility? Perhaps. What I had not anticipated was the reaction that I received:

“Take me away? But that is impossible! I am prioress here! I have made a promise, taken vows! I have sworn before God to dedicate my life to Christ, to be obedient to Him and fulfil the wishes of His Church. How can I leave here and break all of those promises?”

“But did you also not make a sacred vow to me, inside Christ’s house, to love, honour and obey until death us do part?”

“Aye, that I did, and it is because of that vow, and because I loved you with all of my heart that I obeyed your command and took my vows as a nun. You, my master, commanded, and I, your servant, obeyed.”

“You say ‘loved’ as if this were a thing of the past. Is that love still not in your heart?”

She looked at me as wretched as any soul on this earth, tears welling in her eyes. “I loved you, of course I did, both as a friend and more. And I would love you still in all senses if such were allowed, but the latter is forbidden to me now, forbidden because of the vows I took when following your commands!”

“Love conquers all vows if it still burns in the heart. Please tell me that its blessed flame still burns in yours!”

“Do not ask me that question, for you know that I cannot answer it for either of the possible replies can cause only woe and heartache!”

“You need not answer, for I know the truth already. For if you did not love me, why did you write to me during my exile on Hinba?”

“I wrote to you as a friend. To reassure that I still thought of you as a friend, that I was safe and well, and that I was happy in my new status.”

“Nay, nay, that was more than a letter of friendship, within those words I read far more.”

She did not reply, instead merely staring into space and shaking her head.

“I shall come this evening…”

“It is not possible, Jerome.”

“… following Nocturns. I shall be waiting at the rear of the nunnery…”

“’Tis not possible, not possible…”

“…and I have a boat ready on the far side of the island. Wear this cloak in order that no one may see you…”

“… not possible…”

“Farewell my beloved spouse until then. Your husband will be waiting for you.”

And then I left her, still weeping, and shaking her head.

But she did not let go of the cloak that I had thrust into her hands.

---

That day I prayed in the great abbey of St. Columcille and then returned to Mull where I picked up the boat I had moored around the headland and piloted it around the small island of Iona to the western shore where I’d earlier spied a small beach suitable for my purpose. I pulled it up onto the sand after the sun had set and then waited until the bells sounded for Nocturns. And as those hours slowly passed, I recalled the first time that we had met.

I was employed as a Master in the town of Oxford where I became acquainted with many notable individuals. One such was Hubert de Burgh who, hearing of my learning in the fields of theology and philosophy, invited me to tutor his youngest daughter.

When I first set eyes upon that student, my heart was captured. two eyes like pools, her lips a crimson thread and skin the colour of milk. Yet whatever her outer beauty might have been, the inner was far greater. Sharp of wit, brighter than all my pupils in the college, she challenged and debated far better than any man. I was hopelessly enamoured and so courted her assiduously. It did not take long; my feelings were returned, and we soon indulged in sinful yet pleasurable caresses.

We made love secretly for around a year before we were discovered, a servant telling her master of our activities. Thankfully, we were pre-warned by a loyal retainer and so fled de Burgh’s wrath, hurrying to the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in the village of Iffley where I had a companion who was a priest. We sought sanctuary there and he married us. This, I foolishly thought, would satisfy de Burgh, but I was sadly mistaken. When we emerged from the church as man and wife, his men took us and separated us and, after a most severe beating, I was presented with two options: death or the cowl. Joanne too, was given a similar choice. She resisted the veil and vowed to be ready to die as a martyr to love. Unable to slay his own child, de Burgh came to me and asked me to convince her to enter the priory. To save her life, I did just that.

The image of her tear-streaked face as she accepted my command to take the veil haunts me still.

The question that night though, was whether she would prejudice those monastic vows over the marital ones she had made only days earlier.

When the Nocturns bell chimed, I made my way towards the nunnery and there, in the black of night I waited, praying continually that my beloved would heed my call and obey once again. I waited and I waited, each minute seeming like an hour, anxious that my desires should be fulfilled, that my love would join me. And just as I was almost giving up hope, the door opened, and a cloaked figure emerged.

Silently, we walked together across the island and onto that lonely beach. I helped her into the boat and then pushed it off the beach and back into the sea. And then, setting the sail, I began our voyage.

We sailed through the night, and she slept soundly. Onward we went, the winds fair, speeding us towards our goal. In the morning, she rose and pushed back the hood of the cloak to reveal her lovely face. “Where are we headed my husband?” she asked.

“You shall soon see,” I told her.

She nodded and leaned her head onto my shoulder.

By evening we reached the blessed Isle of St. Columolaug. I steered the craft to the far side, sailed into the loch and made landfall at the cave. By the light of a torch, we pulled the boat into the cavern and then I took her by the hand and guided her up the path to the cell that I had reconstructed. And there, kept warm by skins and furs, accompanied only by the island winds and the cries of the seabirds, we consummated our marriage legally.

That morning, when I awoke, Joanne was not lying beside me. I thought back warmly over the events of the night before. All I had longed for, all I had fought against, was now banished forever. They had tried to imprison me; I had escaped. They had tried to exile me; I had made a new home. They had tried to separate me from my beloved; I had found her and won her back.

I stood up and left the dark of the cell, entering into the brightness of the early morning. Joanne was not outside the cell, and I wondered where she could have got to. Then, there on the summit of the peak behind the hut, I spied a solitary figure, sitting. I made my way up to her. She was staring out to sea, her mouth hardened, a tear on her cheek. She did not move and did not seem to notice my approach. “My love,” I said, “what are you doing up here?”

Still staring out to sea, she replied slowly, “You can see it all from here. The bounds of our entire world, two miles across and one deep. Not a tree in sight and no other soul to converse to.”

I nodded and sat by her.

“So, what do we do now?” she asked me or the wind, I am unsure which.

And for the very first time, I realised that I had no idea whatsoever.

Written 01-04/11/21, Stoke-on-Trent to Birmingham New Street and return, & Smallthorne, UK

Copyright © 2021, Matthew E. Pointon