Becoming St. Patrick: His Mission

By Eric Foster

Patrick’s ten-man mission arrives by boat in the Irish kingdom of Brega, and they are immediately expelled by the king’s warriors. Rowing north, they find refuge with a group of outlaws, and from these humble beginnings create their first church.

When Patrick lights an Easter fire and falls foul of druid custom, at the time of a national gathering of kings, near to Tara, Matho, the Arch-druid of Ireland arranges that Patrick should answer to the High King. But Matho is trapped by his own lies, enabling Patrick to turn the hearing to his advantage, winning the High King’s acceptance of his mission whilst the arch-druid is stripped of his seniority – ensuring Matho’s lifelong antagonism towards Patrick.

Patrick loses a champion on the death of High King Niall, suffering further when the succeeding king restores Matho to power. The Arch-druid cunningly plots a spectacular atrocity, to ruin Patrick’s thriving church, culminating in the burning of Patrick at the stake. As flames lick at the hem of Patrick’s robes, ‘Where is your god now?’ Matho taunts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Feb 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781805147800

Eric Foster

After learning that historical Patrick’s story was more amazing than the legend, Eric Foster decided to pen a biographical novel on the saint. He studied the craft of writing at Arvon, followed by a more advanced course at Bloomsbury, London, and whilst writing sought developmental editing of the book from Tracey Iceton, PhD, author of The Celtic Colours Trilogy.

Book preview

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Eric Foster is the author of two historical novels on St. Patrick, The first title is Becoming St. Patrick – His Slavery and the sequel, Becoming St. Patrick – His Mission.

Becoming Saint Patrick – His Slavery truly is a revelation – digging deep to illuminate the person Patrick was and who he became.

This unique perspective turns this novel into a page turning curiosity journey, where every incident leads one along the path of establishing what made Patrick who he became.

These days, we turn up at Parades on March 17th the world over, where rivers are dyed green and lights flash green on famous buildings: but this book dares to bring us into his very life, asking the question, who was the man, who became the Saint?

Never before has anyone taken this unique perspective about Patrick and what he likely experienced on his path to becoming Ireland’s very own Saint.

An intriguing read from start to finish, delving into the formation of Patrick’s character -making one think of the challenges Patrick faced and his capacity to evaluate and overcome them.

Foster gives a great insight into the young man we all know of, but will never truly understand. This book goes some way, into triggering our imagination, as to who Saint Patrick was and what greatness can be born of a challenging life, at an early age. Having finished the first book, I am looking forward to reading how Patrick’s life develops in the sequel.

Review by Richenda – for North Mayo and

West Sligo Heritage Group, Ireland.

September 2023

A Reflection on Becoming St. Patrick – His Slavery

A wonderfully written and researched book that enables the reader to walk in the fifth century footsteps of St. Patrick – bringing the era alive that he lived in, and the places he left his influence, real and vibrant on today’s landscape.

Jim Henry – founder member of North Mayo

and West Sligo Heritage Group.

August 2023

I walked with Patrick, thoroughly enjoying the story; written with quality and depth. I couldn’t wait to see what happened next and how things finished, but didn’t want the book to end either. I look forward to the sequel.

Terry McQuillan, B.A – Head of English

March 2023

A well-written, profound and serious historical novel – taking the reader to people and places new to us. I enjoyed every minute of Becoming St. Patrick – His Slavery.

Andreas Groesch M.A. English and German, Bremen

June 2023

Becoming St. Patrick – His Mission

"Our return to Ireland with Patrick is as powerful as our first journey there with him. The place, people and period are brilliantly evoked through skilful writing underpinned by thorough research. An engaging and dramatic conclusion to the story of Patrick’s sainthood.

Tracey Iceton, PhD, author of the Celtic Colours Trilogy"

Reading this most interesting St. Patrick’s Life Story was a good experience. I hope this book will be appreciated and valued, and especially by Irish men and women.

Fr. Harry O’Reilly – Balleyjamesduff, retired PP Co. Durham

A gripping and enjoyable story. I walked with Patrick on his spiritual journey, and along the way, the scenes in the Lough Conn area brought memories of the place of my upbringing.

Bishop Seamus Cunningham, Emeritus Hexham and Newcastle

Author Website

www.ericfoster101.co.uk

Copyright © 2024 Eric Foster

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

Troubador Publishing Ltd

Unit E2 Airfield Business Park,

Harrison Road, Market Harborough,

Leicestershire. LE16 7UL

Tel: [phone]

Email: [e-mail]

Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

ISBN 9781805147800

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

This book is dedicated to

my wife Kathleen

Contents

Author’s Note

Glossary

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Wouldn’t it be useful if St. Patrick had lived to see the birth of St. Brighid? Better still, what if he gave Brighid her first Communion from his deathbed? Such thoughts crossed the minds and guided the writings of sixth and seventh century chroniclers and biographers.

Historians suspect that lesser-known kings have been erased from the lists of dynasties, and sons of kings have been invented, to suit whimsical purposes. Add to this the general shortage of known facts from the Dark Ages and the difficulties facing historians trying to piece together a true account of anyone’s life in ancient Ireland, can be appreciated.

This book charts a course through the inaccurate and sometimes unreliable recording of events and times, to plausibly present Patrick’s lived experience. To achieve this, I have relied on the works of historians who have based their research and writings on primary sources; particularly Patrick’s own words in his Confession and his Letter to Coroticus.

Patrick’s own writings are thin on times, dates and background, but are rich with his feelings and attitudes, from which I have developed his fictional character.

The result is this research-based, biographical novel about a man of action; set in North-West Britain, Ireland and Gaul, which offers a realistic, though creative account of the fascinating life of St. Patrick. Told from Patrick’s point of view, the reader is taken on a fifth century journey, seeing through Patrick’s eyes how he lived, what he achieved and how he did it.

Glossary

Chapter One

Home and Seminary

Patrick rose at dawn, donned a gown and knelt beside his bed to say his prayers. As he finished, there was a gentle knock on his door. He opened it to see a grown-up version of the Simon he remembered.

‘Good morning, Master, and welcome home,’ Simon greeted.

‘Good morning, Simon. I’m pleased to see you. The last time we met, you were assisting in the kitchen.’

‘Yes, Master, I still do, but I also look after the bath rooms, which is why I am here. Do you wish me to bring hot water to your room, or will you be using the bath rooms?’

‘You can bring me the jug and basin,’ Patrick answered, not wishing to over-indulge.

‘Thank you, Master. Would you like me to warm your room?’

‘Not now, Simon.’

Patrick was happy with his unheated room. Accustomed to living outside in all weathers, this sheltered and comfortable room required no enhancement.

Simon bowed out, returning quickly with the necessities for Patrick’s ablutions.

‘Simon, do you know where we will break-fast today?’

‘Yes, Master. You may remember the rest room?’ Patrick nodded. ‘When the bath house was built, it became the break-fast room.’

‘Thank you, Simon.’

Patrick washed, dressed and made his way to the break-fast room. His parents, already there, had waited for him. The room was small, containing a tall central table, made for eating whilst standing. A central and raised circular plinth displayed a selection of breads and cheeses and some small jugs of cow’s milk and fruit juice.

‘Morning, Patricius. Have you slept well?’ his father asked.

‘Like a dog by a fire,’ Patrick answered.

His father smiled.

‘Has Simon warmed your room, Patricius?’ his mother asked.

‘I declined, Mother. I like to be warm, but after sleeping outside for so long, I don’t need the hot plate.’ Patrick held back, waiting to be invited to eat.

‘Feel free, Patricius,’ his father said, gesturing to the food.

‘Thank you,’ Patrick replied, and partook of the fare.

‘Let’s discuss some practicalities, Patricius. We think initially you should live with us. The villa is occupied by a hired farm manager and his family. What do you think about that suggestion?’ His father took a drink of his milk.

Patricius noticed they both watched his reaction closely.

‘I’m happy to live here, though I’m not sure how to fit in with your arrangements.’

Patrick saw relief spread across their faces, indicating they’d expected an awkward response. But I’m older now, and I’m Patrick, he said to himself, as he enjoyed his bread and cheese.

‘We think you should take things slowly. There is no rush to decide your future,’ his mother said.

‘I think so too, but I would like to be busy. Is there a way I can be useful to you?’

‘Yes, Patricius, there are options, which we can discuss later,’ his father said, ‘but let me explain what I have in mind for today. Your friend Hermanus is a deacon, working his pastoral year. He assists the priest at Banna Venta Church. If you would like, I could take you to meet him?’

‘I’d like to meet him,’ Patrick enthused. ‘I expected he would have completed his Classics and be a first- or second-year seminarian?’

‘He changed courses when his father found a new seminary in Luguvalium, which included the Classics and Ecclesiastical Latin. He’s in the final year of an eight-year course. However, he will be a deacon until he’s thirty, the minimum age for priestly ordination,’ his father said.

Patrick thought for a moment about his own options and noticed his mother watching him intently.

His father continued, ‘After that, we could tour the estate. I can explain how things have changed. Shadow is stabled here. I’m sure you’d enjoy the ride.’

‘The plan is most agreeable, Father. I could return Elijah’s cape too.’ Patrick felt how easily he slipped into his former way of speaking. ‘Shadow recognised my voice last night as I spoke to Wynnstan, so I went to him. When did you bring him to the vicus?’

‘Shortly after the raid, when we hired a farm manager. We didn’t replace Janus. Oh. You don’t know...’

‘I do. Mary told me. It’s a terrible thing. I hope he’s alright, wherever he landed.’

‘We do too. We brought Mary and Shadow here, to the safety of the vicus, after the raid. The town and its walls have never been attacked. We don’t run the stables or the kitchen and bath house at the villa, now. The luxury was for you. However, the provision of the villa itself is a desirable part of the manager’s pay, and he’s a good employee,’ his father said.

Patrick saw his father watch his face as he mentioned a manager in residence at the villa.

You don’t need to worry, Father, he thought. I’m Patrick now and I’ll cut my own notches.

‘You need a cape,’ his mother suggested, slicing through the moment. ‘I think you should visit the tailor and buy some clothes of your own choosing.’ As Patrick nodded, his mother looked at Calpurnius. ‘Why don’t you take Patricius into the library and show him the shrine? I’ll ask Wynnstan to saddle the horses.’

‘Indeed,’ Calpurnius answered.

They left the break-fast room, Patrick wondering what the shrine was about.

Stepping into the library, his father said, ‘I’m sorry to tell you, your grandfather died last year.’ Patrick stopped abruptly. The image of his grandfather’s smile, his white hair and bald pate forming a natural tonsure, came to mind.

‘I’m sorry to hear this,’ Patrick said, watching his father’s reaction.

‘He was seventy-two and passed away peacefully in his sleep,’ Patrick’s father said matter-of-factly. ‘We kept a collection of his special possessions for you.’

He took Patrick to the far wall of the library where a small wooden crucifix lay in the centre of the table, surrounded by a collection of scrolls containing psalms, stylishly written in Latin and presented on polished hardwood spools. A large, leather-bound codex, with The Vulgate etched and inked in India black, lay closed on the table amid a number of leaves of vellum containing individual psalms. At this point, Patrick’s mind was taken to the Cassian School Library, where he first read similar scriptures, then to the scriptorium at the monastery in Autricum, where he witnessed codices being produced and copied from originals.

‘May I touch them?’ Patrick asked.

‘Of course. Potitus used these items daily.’ Patrick exhaled, whistling by accident; he was knocked over by his parent’s belief that their son would return. Continuing with his interest in the codex, he opened the Vulgate carefully where it lay, recognising the high quality, the unscraped vellum. It was a working book, absent of colour and paragraph flourishes. He observed the titles in the middle and at the end and turned to his father.

‘It’s a complete Bible, Father, written on new vellum,’ Patrick commented.

‘I’m surprised...’ his father hesitated, ‘but impressed, that you know, Patricius.’

Patrick saw his father’s efforts to be less critical. The words but impressed would not have been used before his capture.

Diverting his attention to the scrolls, he rotated the spindles to Psalm 23 and read the words, pleased to see he’d remembered most of them correctly when he was in the hills of Mayo.

Turning to his father with bright eyes, he said, ‘This collection is treasure.’

‘Your grandfather would be pleased with your appreciation.’

Patrick’s eye moved across to his grandfather’s writing set. As he opened it, he gave a commentary:

‘I remember Grandfather’s writing set and the small one he gave me on my twelfth birthday. The gift was magical. I liked the look and smell of the leather. The vellum and quills and India black ink. To this day, I’m fascinated by the power of the written word. Through writing, people in the past still speak to us. We can speak to people who are yet to be born.’

He saw his father shaking his head, probably in disbelief.

‘I know, Father; I wasn’t a willing student then.’

Calpurnius smiled. ‘Take a look in the letter pouch.’

Patrick took a folded note from the pouch and cried when he read it.

‘Dear Patricius, to you I leave my writing set. I hope you enjoy its use as I did myself. God bless you. Your Grandfather.’ It was signed Potitus.

Patrick tried hard to stifle his emotions. ‘Father, I’d like to hug you.’

His father moved towards his son, and they hugged. Patrick’s tears welled. For a while he didn’t speak as he infused his father’s strength, then he blurted, ‘I can’t take it; there is too much love here. Tragedy is easier to bear.’

‘You’ve had a long, tough time, Patricius, surviving with the love of God. But you’ve missed the love of family. You’re in the right place now.’

Patrick separated from his father and wiped away his tears.

‘I think a ride on Shadow will do me well,’ Patrick said, and, to lighten the moment, added, ‘if I don’t fall off.’

His father wasn’t ready for moving on. ‘I am to blame for distance between us, son, which I realise now. Don’t ask me for hugs again, just take them; they are yours.’

Patrick’s lengthy abduction had taken them both on a journey; he and his father were changing their ways. And for the better, Patrick mused.

‘Take the writing set to your room, Patricius, then we’ll go to the horses.’

‘It’s a biting cold,’ his father said, with a shake of his body as they crossed the forecourt to the stables.

‘It’s cold, Father, but there’s no bite in this for me.’

Wynnstan, with two dressed horses, was waiting outside the stables.

‘Good morning, Wynnstan,’ Patrick greeted, beating his father to the courtesy.

‘Morning Master, morning Patricius,’ Wynnstan responded.

Patrick’s father flashed his eyes to Patrick upon hearing Wynnstan’s informal greeting.

‘I believe you met last night,’ Patrick’s father said to Wynnstan.

‘We did, and Shadow met Patricius too.’

Patrick went to his mount. ‘We’re going for a ride, Shadow,’ he said, and was nuzzled fondly by the horse.

‘Mount him, Patricius; I’ll adjust the stirrups.’ Wynnstan said.

Patrick placed Elijah’s cape in the pouch and sprang into the saddle.

Shadow looked smaller. ‘I wasn’t even sixteen when I last rode you.’ He smoothed the horse’s mane. It was shiny black, as before, but a small amount of white hair that had appeared around his eyes gave the horse an older appearance. Wynnstan finished his adjustments for Patrick before tending to Calpurnius, who was riding a larger, dark brown mare.

His father led the way from their domus, heading beyond the town’s walls and towards Alauna Fort. Allowed in on sight owing to Calpurnius’s position, they entered the fort through the guarded gate. Both remained mounted for the tour his father gave. Patrick saw a fort that was filled with workshops, warehouses, shops and services. In addition, there was housing aplenty on the upper levels.

Leaving the fort, they made their way to Banna Venta. Patrick thought of the last time he rode Shadow down this road: it was the day before his capture. He found the horror of the event had receded. Even his years of captivity seemed, now, to have passed quickly.

‘See the borders,’ his father pointed. ‘If we plant more intensively, we cannot sell all the grain.’

They stopped, overlooking the villa that was Patrick’s previous home. Surprisingly, he felt detached from the house; it was in his past. They trotted for a half-mile and came to a small church and presbytery; a place Patrick didn’t remember.

‘We’ll find Hermanus here,’ his father said. They dismounted and tied their horses to a bar. Calpurnius rapped with the large cast iron knocker and Patrick stood around the corner. The door opened.

‘Good day, Calpurnius. And what brings you at this time?’ Hermanus asked.

‘I bring a visitor. You might say a stranger.’

‘Hello, Hermanus.’ Patrick stepped in front of his friend.

‘Patricius? I scarcely recognise you. You’re covered in hair. Your voice sounds the same, though. Are you well?’ Hermanus extended his arm, and they shook hands warmly.

‘I am well. Congratulations on becoming a deacon,’ Patrick offered.

‘Thank you, Patricius. I made it in the end. Will you stay for a conversation?’

They agreed and went inside.

‘What happened to you? Where have you been? Hermanus asked.

‘I’ve been a hill shepherd in Ireland. The raiders sold me to a king.’

‘It’s been such a long time, Patricius.’

‘I know. It isn’t easy to escape from slavery in Ireland, especially if you are a foreigner. Anyway, how is the religious life?’

‘I’m enjoying the work, but the training was challenging. You should come to Mass,’ Hermanus suggested.

‘I will,’ Patrick enthused. After learning the Mass times, he and his father departed and toured the land and the coast.

The beach was of particular interest to Patrick, and his father was keen to show the progress they’d made since the slave raid. They visited a boathouse, which contained two fire-bale boats with mounted catapults, and met the men. Patrick was impressed by the pursuit boats, armed with spears, bows and arrows for flaming. The crew consisted of separate teams of warriors and rowers.

Patrick, pleased to see the well-organised defences, wondered what might have been, had this been in place before the raid. His father explained that few employees had ever seen action, including the Roman soldiers at the raid. To tackle this, some runaway Roman Legionnaires and Centurions with fighting experience were recruited. Local defence employees were sent to districts where frequent attacks were being experienced. Pictish leaders were employed to instil aggression in the British, to reverse the domestication that resulted from the Romans forbidding the British to form their own defences.

‘It took a massive and successful raid to happen before these defences were developed,’ Patrick said.

‘That’s not entirely true, Patricius. If Rome had not been under attack in their own territories, we would not have received any concessions. Even so, it’s only since we stopped paying taxes to the Romans that we have been able to finance these defences ourselves. We are one of a few exceptions, but our coastline still isn’t entirely secure.’

On they ventured, visiting Elijah and returning his cape. Elijah took Patrick’s measurements for a new pair of boots. They listened to Elijah talking about the trade businesses needing development to prosper. Patrick thought of Elijah’s son, Joshua, on the chained slave walk to the west of Ireland; at fourteen years of age, Joshua had shown an ability to see the crux of things.

They continued further east, over territory Patrick had never travelled. It was wild, non-arable land, with no housing or anything of worth.

‘Where are we going?’ Patrick asked.

‘I’m showing you the extent of our land,’ his father answered.

‘I never knew you owned this land.’

‘I didn’t know myself, Patricius, until my father left it to me. I’m not sure if it is an asset or a hindrance. However, a much larger problem is lurking. If the Roman withdrawal becomes official, Britons will fight Britons for land ownership. Our enemies will take advantage and fight us. Some, like the Jutes, will settle in our lands. Some provinces will develop armies; mercenaries will take territory by force. We haven’t the strength to repel this kind of attack.’

Patrick took in the details. ‘I see the coastal defences are necessary and well managed, but it seems the problem has moved on.’

‘That’s life. The best we can do is to manage our corner well. The situation nationally is unmanageable.’ Calpurnius raised his arms and tilted his head; then, returning from his worries, added, ‘I have said it now. I have updated you with the locality and the politics. Let’s not worry, but return home, eat well and drink wine,’ his father laughed. ‘Do you want a race?’

They both spurred their horses on and enjoyed a friendly, fun mixture of trotting, cantering and galloping. Father won.

Mary served a sweet porridge followed by a main dish of poultry, which they ate with an accompaniment of white wine. Patrick continued his slavery story, including his fights and scrapes with sheep raiders. He told them of the kingdom battles in which he’d been involved; of Bride, a girlfriend from his slavery years, and his reason for their break-up. His mother shuddered, but his father appeared to be following Patrick’s journey avidly.

Mary entered and cleared away the empty dishes, refilled the wine glasses and left quietly.

Patrick went on to explain the dream; how he heard a voice at the campfire, and how God inspired his escape from Irish slavery. His mother shook her head, as though worried about her son’s state of mind. His father, more accepting, appeared to be thinking deeply. Continuing his tale after dinner, Patrick apprised his parents of his escape journey and then the second slavery, the Cassian sisters and the monks.

‘Mother, your cousin Martin assisted John Cassian in founding two abbeys in Marsalla, one for women and one for men. Hearing I was related to Martin of Tours, I gained acceptance and help from the Cassian sisters and the monks in the Cassian monasteries. They helped me with work, travel and accommodation, and gave me funds to get home.’ Patrick’s mother found her smile on hearing this family connection had been useful.

‘I never met him, though my mother kept a correspondence with his parents,’ she said.

His father joined in. ‘You felt forsaken on your second slavery. Did that change when you escaped into the care of the Cassian sisters?’

‘It changed completely. I felt I had doubted too readily,’ Patrick replied.

His father nodded sagely.

‘Patricius, we should celebrate your return,’ his mother enthused. ‘What do you think to a party?’

Patrick hesitated, working out how to politely decline. ‘My return is a cause for celebration, I agree, but it is enough for me to simply be with you. I’ve already caught up with Elijah and Hermanus. Conversation as I meet people is sufficient.’

His mother raised both eyebrows good-naturedly and accepted his answer.

Patrick laughed. His ordeal was already just a story. His laughter brought the realisation that the Cassians had been helpful for his rehabilitation. His ordeal didn’t weigh him down; the unusual route home had been a valuable transition for him.

Mary refilled the glasses and, as the family enjoyed light-hearted conversation, Patrick pulled a flute from his pocket.

‘Let me show you how I called the sheep.’ Patrick played a tune that his parents sang along to.

They retired to bed with The Lord is My Shepherd ringing in their ears.

Patrick settled into life with his parents easily; all enjoyed a heightened respect for each other. He became a useful worker, contracting new emptors and customers for the grain farms. As the Roman demand for grain departed with them, grain farms struggled to keep busy, and when grain suppliers changed course or ceased business, Patrick was ready to catch their customers. Buyers and emptors could purchase from suppliers of their choosing, but many dealt with Patrick because he came across as likeable and trustworthy.

The months went by and, after open conversations with his parents, Patrick decided to train for the priesthood. For this, he needed the support of his father as a referee, and financial parental support. He enrolled for tuition in Eboracum, involving three months in residence and a month at home, repeated three times a year. The course would take six years to complete, followed by a year working in a parish under the guidance of a priest. Patrick looked forward to starting the training, but Hermanus’s words about the difficulty of the studies worried him.

Will I be up to it? I missed my senior education with the rhetor. Hermanus didn’t and still found the course challenging. But that was a worry for the autumn.

Patrick’s daily life included business visits to purchasers and purveyors, Mass with Hermanus whenever possible and Bible study, with guidance from his father, using the Vulgate left by his grandfather.

Patrick thought about the security risks for their region, concluding that the main issue was money. Their businesses needed to thrive in order to pay for better defences. The contracts he was winning helped, but Patrick believed a much larger stimulus was needed for every business, across the whole of the area. He had an idea; one evening, talking with his father in the library, he raised the subject.

‘Father, I’d like to put an idea to you that will help the development of the businesses in our council area. They will grow by gaining more contracts. They will profit by finding new suppliers with better quality and better prices.’

‘Are you suggesting an exhibition?’ his father asked.

‘In essence, yes.’

‘But councils have tried these before. They haven’t been successful,’ his father countered.

Patrick expected objections and his father was well placed to know the facts.

‘Do you know the reason for their failure?’ he asked.

‘Not enough businesses take stalls; too few visitors attend. The events rarely pay their way.’ His father trotted out the answer, demolishing Patrick’s suggestion.

‘How has success or failure been measured?’

‘The council compares the cost of putting on the event with the receipts from stallholder payments and visitor entrance fees. They wish to cover their costs.’

‘How do the stallholders judge the success?

‘They want new customers and don’t get enough to make it worth their effort.’

Patrick’s father thought he’d killed the idea, but his son hadn’t even started.

‘The stallholders were right, but you could not get two people to think alike on the measure of success. Take my efforts for our own grain businesses. Measured after one month, I had no success. I won two emptors in the second month. Do we measure one month’s sales, or do we count two? If a new contract runs all year, do we consider the annual value? There isn’t one correct answer. A success can be measured a failure if the judge wishes it that way, just as a failure can be measured a success.’

‘Do you have a point to make?’ his father asked.

‘I do. The council is exposed on land defences, you have told me. They cannot afford to do what is right, so they live in hope.’

‘Yes…’ his father replied, stretching the word.

‘Let the council start out by setting an objective to raise the local economy to a level that can maintain its own defences. Achieving this objective then becomes the measure of success. Announce an intention to hold a fayre every two years. Set targets for the number and type of stallholders that suit the development needs of the district. Learn details of improvements our businesses need from their suppliers and help them achieve the progress by offering stalls to suitable providers.’

Patrick saw his father was listening.

‘The idea of the fayre is to help our local businesses to sell more and buy better. To achieve this, let the council finance and build the fayre. There should be no fee for the stallholders and no entrance fee for visitors. Put on food stalls without charge. Build large roundhouse accommodation for visitors, without charge.’

‘Well, that is new, I must say. The spending in particular sounds reckless,’ his father said, dismissively.

‘People will attend if they know about it. With free food and free stalls, everybody who knows about the fayre will talk about it.’

‘I dare say they will, but what will it cost the council?’ his father asked.

‘The free food will be soup and bread. For a grain-farming community, this should not be an overwhelming burden. Sell ale in the evenings.’

‘Patricius, you should put the writing set to action. Organise these ideas into a report that I will put to the council. You should accompany me to the meeting, to fight for the plan.’

‘Thank you, Father. Let’s hope they will listen, as you have.’

The fayre took place in August. With agreement for a few ancillary charges and a campaign for voluntary support, the sceptical councillors gave their vote. Patrick became a busy figure on the organising group and the community supported the initiative with pride. The event was exceptionally well attended. The council was happy to have recovered their costs entirely from the profits of the ale sales, and most of the businesses involved believed that benefits would ensue. Patrick thought the council was too easily pleased. Until prosperity ensued and higher taxes were collected, and expenditure on defences was undertaken, Patrick would be more sceptical than the councillors.

Shortly after the fayre, Patrick took up his course of religious studies with diligence. The seminary was a two storey Roman-style building with masonry walls and clay roof tiles, built around three sides of an open atrium. The atrium was paved around the perimeter and the central quad was grassed. One wing was a chapel and the other wings housed classrooms, a library, a separate reading room, a refectory and an adjacent kitchen and store. Half an upstairs wing was dedicated to washroom and toilet facilities, plus a laundry.

Upstairs were the dormitories, housing six beds each, along with a number of single bedrooms. Patrick opted for privacy. He wanted to study deeply and alone, knowing the benefits of isolation from his shepherding days. He’d also enjoyed a privileged insight into the thoughts of John Cassian and desired the increased clarity of thought that came from silence and a life of reduced talking.

Patrick found the accommodation comfortable and the atmosphere of the school conducive to serious study. He didn’t enjoy the mimicking of his Latin by a small number of novitiates; it was a painful reminder that he’d missed his Classical education. In educated company, Patrick became conscious of his vulgar Latin and the absence of Classical references in his sentences and speech. He felt as vulnerable as a fox with three legs.

In his first term, Patrick dreamt he heard words being spoken in a different language. He couldn’t tell if the words were directed at him or he was overhearing someone else’s conversation. He’d experienced God speaking to him in a dream before, and God had been clear. This dream was unclear, and he dismissed it as a jumble of his own thoughts.

He returned at the end of the first term to the warm welcome of his parents and many of the trade tenants. Never before had they received help, paid for by the council, which assisted their businesses so directly. Their incomes were benefitting and the gains, they believed, would continue.

Patrick came home to dinner one evening and found his mother in an excitable mood. She looked at her husband.

‘Calpurnius, tell Patricius what Miseryitus said today.’

Patrick knew who she meant and laughed at the nickname.

‘He passed on a compliment about the fayre. Coming from the councillor most opposed to the suggestion, that’s an achievement. We are familiar with opposition and insults but recently we’ve received compliments and encouragement. I am happy to have been proven wrong, he said.’

‘There is a spirit developing, Patricius, a feeling of identity. We need to keep this going; it will help us face future fights.’

‘Where did the idea come from, Patricius?’ his mother asked.

‘It came from you,’ he raised his hands slightly to indicate both of his parents, ‘and Potitus, and some ideas from Ireland.’

‘Tell us more,’ his mother said.

‘Potitus provided capital for his trade tenants to purchase up-to-date tools and implements, with a chance to buy the items when the business was succeeding. You said it transformed the area. Since the raid and the Roman retreat, you have assisted your tenants to survive, and in addition, you pay me to find new contracts for them, so I applied this principle to the fayre.’

Patrick’s recognition of their outlook was appreciated and showed in the satisfied smiles on their faces.

‘In Ireland, the kings provide fayres at their own expense, though they go further with the hospitality. Cows, pigs and chickens are put to the spits. Ale is provided. Entertainment is laid on, with field artists such as jugglers, jesters, musicians and singers. They also provide theatre to portray Irish legend.’ His father raised an eyebrow. ‘I stripped away what the councillors would see as extravagance. However, the benefits of King Miliucc’s fayres to his kingdom were clear to the onlooker. I believed the same approach would work here.’

‘I’m surprised, Patricius. You’ve opened my eyes,’ his father said.

‘But you listened and put the suggestion to the council.’

‘I listened because you are my son. If someone else had brought this idea to me at the town hall, I would have scuttled their boat.’

During the month at home, Patrick divided his time between study and bringing in new emptors. This month, though, he was visiting, by invitation, from fayre attendees, and his successes increased. He spent an agreeable Advent and Christmas at home with his parents and saw a more devout side in his father. A thought drifted across his mind. Am I seeing more of my father because I’ve changed? Is he showing more of himself to me, because he can? When I lived at home, I closed my mind to God. It took slavery in Ireland for me to find him, yet he was here all the time.

Patrick returned to the seminary, wrapped warm in God’s presence, and continued his habit of late night and early morning prayers in the chapel. Once in a while, around midnight, a priest wearing non-liturgical clothing came to pray. At this hour, no-one else was present. Once, as they left together, the priest engaged Patrick in conversation. On subsequent occasions, they would sit on a bench and talk about the stars, prayer, faith, the curriculum and other such subjects.

On exchanging names one night, the priest identified himself as the bishop of Eboracum and explained that he worked and resided a few days each month at the seminary, where he kept an office. Patrick was surprised, but the discovery explained the nature of their conversations.

Term three ended with examinations. On the first day of results, Patrick learned that he’d failed a compulsory subject. Patrick was tempted to pray for good results the following day but resisted. Next day, he failed another subject. One failure could be remedied, but two would question his suitability for continuing the course. His tutor asked Patrick to see the head teacher at twelve noon, and so began a nervous half-hour wait.

Patrick thought about the disappointment his parents would feel if he was asked to leave the course. He’d be letting them down again, as he had prior to his capture.

At noon, as Patrick raised his hand to knock, the door opened. There stood the bishop in plain, clerical clothing. Taken by surprise, Patrick gulped to catch his breath. Confused for a moment, he thought he’d knocked on the wrong door, until the head appeared from behind the bishop.

‘Just wait a moment,’ the head said, looking directly at Patrick.

Then the bishop boomed cheerfully, ‘Well, seminarian, I hope your results were good.’

Patrick, relieved the bishop had addressed him anonymously, said, ‘My lord, it was my hope as well, but I failed two tests; I think this is my dismissal meeting.’

‘Which subjects failed you?’ the bishop asked.

‘Philosophy was my downfall, in both cases, my lord.’

‘Philosophy?’ The bishop repeated, in surprise. The head averted his eyes from the bishop, but his discomfort was betrayed as his neck and face turned crimson.

After thinking for a moment, the bishop said to Patrick, ‘Please wait outside a little longer.’ The head’s look turned sour as the bishop closed the door.

Minutes passed. A bell rang in the office and a deacon came scurrying from the room next door. He knocked on the head’s door and was called in. In less than a minute, the deacon came out and rushed away, only to return quickly with a leather document case in hand. He knocked. This time the door opened slightly, a hand took the case and the door closed.

What’s being discussed behind that door? Why did philosophy surprise the bishop? They’re looking at my test papers and now the bishop will see my bad Latin.

The deacon looked at Patrick with deliberation as he passed. Patrick guessed he was putting a name, the one on the documents, to a face. Patrick anguished until the door opened; the head, with a turkey-red face, invited him in and gestured to an upright chair, which he took. Turkey-face sat behind his table and the bishop was at Patrick’s side of the table, but at an angle facing them both.

‘I scored your results in the philosophy section,’ the head announced, to Patrick, with no attempt at introducing either the subject, or the bishop. ‘My lord has read your answers without comment and wishes me to explain my assessment to you both.’

Patrick’s face burned.

The head, glowering, read out a line of Patrick’s work, and commented.

‘This is an incomplete sentence. You fail to express your meaning. If you cannot express your meaning, you cannot score the points. A priest has to be able to communicate.’ He pointed out two more examples.

‘Would you like to answer?’ the bishop asked Patrick.

The self-assured Patrick was absent. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all he managed.

‘Let me speak for you,’ the bishop said. ‘I could see every aspect of the answer in that incomplete sentence; couldn’t you, Father?’

‘I saw the content, but it wasn’t communicated,’ the head replied.

The bishop passed the script to Patrick and, choosing the priest’s first example of an incomplete sentence, said, ‘I would like you to repeat this answer in your usual spoken Latin.’

Patrick spoke the answer in his own words without any difficulty.

‘You understood that to be a passing answer, didn’t you?’ the bishop asked the head.

‘Yes, but my point is that priests must be educated men.’

The bishop, looking weary, responded once more, ‘They should indeed be well educated – in the contents of our curriculum. Please re-assess these two scripts on the basis that the Latin is not under scrutiny.’

The priest puffed his cheeks and said, ‘Yes, my lord,’ but defied the bishop with his demeanour.

‘Cheer up, Father; many of Christ’s disciples were fishermen. I doubt their grammar would have passed your scrutiny.’ The bishop made his way to the door and turned to Patrick. ‘Congratulations, we’ll see you in year two,’ he said, and let himself out.

Patrick returned home with a set of good results and an invitation to return to the seminary in September. His parents were