Free The Black Rood by Stephen R. Lawhead Page A

then, and he hurried off to the abbey.
    â€œWhen?” I called after him.
    â€œSoon,” he answered. “Leave it with me.”
    That night at supper, Eirik came to the table, dour-facedand grim of aspect. He said little and stared at his food as if he suspected poison. When anyone spoke to him, all they received was a cheerless nod, or a halfhearted grunt. His doleful humor so permeated the meal that conversation ceased halfway through and people began to speak in furtive whispers so as not to disturb the melancholy cleric.
    Murdo, as host of the meal, at first tried to ignore his son’s gloomy demeanor. When at last that became impossible, he finally gave in and asked, “Is it ill you are? You seem to have the weight of the world around your neck.”
    Eirik raised his eyes slowly, as if contemplating at the cause of all human misery. “Take no thought for me, Father,” he intoned solemnly. “The weight I bear is mine alone.”
    â€œIs there nothing we can do for you, my son?” asked Lady Ragna.
    â€œI fear not,” he said with a heavy sigh. “The vision was given to me, and it sickens inside me ere I discern its meaning. This I will do, though I fear the effort will drive me to madness.”
    He rose from the bench and made to depart. “I am sorry. I should not have come to table tonight. I have spoiled a good meal, and beg your forgiveness, my lord.” He made a bow toward mother. “My lady. I wish you a good night.”
    A glance passed between the lady and lord. Ragna urged her husband with her eyes. “Wait,” said Murdo, calling Eirik back. “There may be a remedy for your ills. Come back and sit down. Eat something. I will summon the abbot and we will talk when you are feeling better.”
    â€œMy lord,” said Eirik resuming his place once more, “dare I hope that you know something to help put my mind at rest?”
    â€œPerhaps,” allowed Murdo. “Perhaps. But this is not the place to discuss it. Eat something, son, recover your appetite if you can, and the abbot will be here shortly.”
    Murdo dispatched one of the serving-boys to fetch the abbot, and the meal continued in a more convivial spirit than before. Eirik, I noticed, recovered his appetite wonderfully well. By the time Abbot Emlyn arrived, my brother was well into his third barley loaf and second bowl of stew.
    The ample abbot settled at the board, declining an offering of meat, but accepting a bowl of brown ale. The other guests, eager to learn the outcome of the curious affair, fell silent and all eyes turned toward the head of the table.
    â€œGood abb,” began Murdo, somewhat uncomfortably, “it seems our bishop has been suffering for the sake of his extraordinary vision.”
    â€œIndeed?” replied Emlyn, turning sympathetic eyes on the young churchman. “I would that you had come to me, my friend. What is the matter?”
    Eirik explained briefly, whereupon Emlyn turned to Murdo. “If this is not a sign from our Lord and Savior, I do not know what it can be.”
    â€œIt was my thought, too,” replied Murdo. He stood and called to the serving-boy. “Bring a jar of ale to my treasure room.” Turning to his other guests, “I beg you forgive our absence, friends. This matter is best discussed in private. Please, linger as long as you like. My lady wife will see the jars remain filled.”
    With that the three of them rose from the board and started from the hall. Those left at table were suddenly stricken with the knowledge that they were to be left out of the discussion and never discover the mystery’s resolution. I include myself in that number, for I was not invited to share their private deliberations. I watched them walk away, and felt a mighty disappointment pinch me hard.
    The meal ended and the guests drifted away. I sat for a time with my mother, glumly watching the fire on the hearth, and