I stood in the Oronsay Chapel, that next day, as they chanted the funeral mass of my father. The scent of frankincense almost covered the odor of decay emanating from the linen shrouded corpse, covered with an embroidered pall, which sat on a bier before the altar. Beeswax candles flickered in the chapel, their scent adding to the perfume in the air, the light from the flames glinting on the chased silver of the sacramental vessels.My father’s funeral. What was I feeling then, as the visiting bishop from Iona consigned my father to the earth?I told myself I felt little grief, and concentrated instead on my problem. Who among these people had wished my father dead? Or, I thought, remembering Columbanus’s mutterings, who had not?I stood in the crowded chapel, Seamus next to me, and watched the other mourners. Gillecristus, at the altar, assisted the Abbot of the Isles, who had come from Iona to officiate, with the Mass. His head lowered, he looked suitably pious and had I not disliked the sub-prior so much I would have said he looked grief-stricken.The Lord of the Isles stood in the front of the new chapel that he himself had endowed, and I thought I saw some satisfaction on his features as he surveyed the fruits of his generosity.His Lordship had dressed finely, in a garment of silk, although the cut of it mimicked a man’s linen great-shirt.
