by Jayne Castel
Lora nodded, and Osana saw the relief in her friend’s eyes. Self-recrimination stabbed at her. Upon coming here to live, she had only focused on herself. She had not stopped to consider what Lora wanted.
That would have to change.
Chapter Nineteen
Earthly Cares
THE WINTER PASSED quickly, and Sōlmōnath slid into Hrēðmonath—the third moon cycle of the year. The first spring bulbs started to appear on the meadows below Bebbanburg: snowdrops with their delicate white bonnets, and tiny crocuses and jonquils.
The days lengthened, and warmth returned to the sun. Osana found herself spending more and more time outdoors. She would often take her distaff or sewing outside, and sit working alone in the orchard. The bare branches of the fruit trees were developing buds now, promising a sea of delicate cream and white blossom to come. It gave Osana hope to see them; she always felt as if she was reborn in spring. The long bitter season weighed heavily upon her, and this year had been harder than most.
After that one lesson, and the stolen kiss, Osana had avoided Aldfrith. She tried not to think about that incident—or of him—but it was difficult when she caught glimpses of the king most days.
They were nearing the end of Hrēðmonath when news arrived from Lindisfarena that Cuthbert was dead.
It came as a shock, yet Osana remembered how frail and weary the prior have looked upon his visit. Even so, the tidings sent waves of upset through the Great Hall. There were few in Bebbanburg now that followed the old gods. Most, Osana herself included, worshipped Christ. Cuthbert, and all the miracles attributed to him over the years, had become a local legend. The folk here had been proud to have such a holy man live so close. They had been proud of Lindisfarena and the work Cuthbert had done. The prior was one-of-a-kind; no other could replace him.
The heavy iron bell of Oswald’s church, just off the market square, rang for an entire morning after word arrived, its mournful song echoing out over the thatched rooftops of the fort.
Osana, who was picking up some items at the market, noted the despair on the faces around her. Two older women wept before the steps of the church, their sobs forming a discordant music with the ringing bell. Even the vendors were distracted this morning, some muttering under their breath and fingering the wooden crucifixes they wore about their necks. A heavyset woman, selling bread and cakes where Osana had stopped to buy some treats to share with Lora, looked troubled.
“It will bode ill for Northumbria, this death.”
Osana frowned. “What do you mean?”
The woman's gaze met hers. “Many of us believe that Cuthbert laid a charm over this place. In the war against the Picts, no fighting or bloodshed reached Bebbanburg. He protected us.”
Osana held her gaze a moment, but did not reply. She believed in Cuthbert's work, and in the good he had done, yet she could not bring herself to believe he was the protector of this land. Even so, the melancholy in the air this morning affected her.
Buying two buns crammed full of dried plums—to share with Lora later—Osana placed them in her basket and began the walk up the King’s Way toward the high gate. It had become a morning ritual that every few days either she or Lora would provide a treat to share together in the evening while they sat mending clothes.
Osana entered the Great Hall to find an excited crowd was gathering around the high seat. Lora, her blond curls bouncing as she bobbed up and down trying to catch the conversation in the midst, was at the back of the group. Upon the dais a few yards away, the king and the bishop were discussing something intently.
Bishop Wilfrid had timed his latest visit to Bebbanburg well, for he had arrived from Inhrypum the night before—just in time to receive the news of Cuthbert’s passing.
At this distance Osana thought it looked as if the conversation between the king and the bishop teetered on the verge of descending into an argument.
“What is it?” Osana reached Lora’s side, nudging her with her basket.
Lora glanced back, smiling when she saw Osana had returned. “It appears that the monks on Lindisfarena plan to bury Cuthbert today. The bishop wants him and Aldfrith to go alone to the burial, but the king has decided to organize a mourning party to travel to the isle to pay their respects.”
“Do you wish to go?” Osana asked, incredulous. As far as she was aware, her friend, although not vocal about it, was still a follower of the old ways. She had seen the amulet of Freya that Lora kept by her furs, and the small carven figure of Woden that had once belonged to her husband.
Lora shook her head. “No … but I'm curious to see who they will let go.” Lora paused a moment, her gaze narrowing. “Will you join them?”
Osana shrugged. “I suppose I would … if they permitted women.”
Truthfully, she did want to go. She had always wanted to visit that rocky, windswept isle, to see where the great Cuthbert had lived and prayed.
Lora huffed a moment. “Why should women be excluded? You worship the same God as men.” A wicked light illuminated in her friend’s blue eyes. “Well then … make sure you get to the front and put your hand up.” With that, Lora placed her hand between Osana’s shoulder blades and shoved. Osana stumbled forward into the crowd, almost tripping. Righting herself, she then steered herself forward using her basket as a battering ram. One or two folk cast dark looks over their shoulders at her, but still moved aside to let her through.
A moment later Osana was standing at the foot of the high seat.
Still clutching her basket grimly, Osana silently cursed Lora.
Wicked vixen. This wasn't what I had in mind.
Of course, after such an entrance, the king noticed her. He glanced up from where he had been talking with Wilfrid, his eyes narrowing.
“Lady Osana,” he greeted her formally. Those had been his first words to her in many days. They were little more than strangers to each other now. Osana could almost believe that their earlier friendship had never happened, that it belonged to another life.
“Lord Aldfrith,” she replied, dipping her head and curtseying. “I hear you are organizing a group to go to Lindisfarena … I’d like to join you.”
Her own boldness shocked her.
Aldfrith’s gaze widened a moment before he nodded. “Aye … I don’t see why not.”
“Sire,” Wilfrid choked. “When you suggested a group of mourners follow us, I did not think you meant her.”
The derision in his voice made Osana’s spine stiffen. She squared her shoulders and met the bishop’s eye. “Why not? My faith is as real as yours.” She shifted her attention to Aldfrith who was watching her, a quizzical expression on his face. “I would not be any trouble, sire.”
“The woman has a forked tongue,” Wilfrid cut in. “She should stay behind.”
Aldfrith ignored the bishop, his attention remaining upon Osana. “The Lady has as much right as the rest of us to pay her last respects to Cuthbert,” he replied. His gaze then swept across the waiting, breathless crowd. “As does anyone here who wishes to join us. Go and gather your cloaks—we leave now.”
The tide was out, leaving behind an expanse of glistening sand. The group from Bebbanburg did not take boats across to the isle, like Cuthbert had during the winter. Instead, they walked.
A narrow path, The Pilgrim’s Way, was the only safe path during low tide to the island. The travelers walked two or three abreast, following the king; the bishop; the priest; and the king’s men, who rode on horseback. The rest of the group were on foot.
The red and gold of the Northumbrian pennants fluttered in the breeze as they crossed.
Osana walked at the back of the group, next to Mildryth.
Inhaling the cold, salty air, Osana gazed around her as she traveled, marveling at the openness of the surrounding landscape. It felt magical to walk out across a stretch of sand that was usually covered by water: strangely exciting and frightening at the same time.
Once they arrived upon the isle, they would have to wait
for the next low tide—which would come that evening—before they could return home. It would give them plenty of time upon Lindisfarena. The monks would host them, give them a tour of the monastery after the burial, and feed them before they took their leave.
Ahead, Osana spied the low profile of Lindisfarena draw ever closer. It really was a barren spot. There were few trees, and what vegetation there was had a stunted look, sculpted by the prevailing winds. There were few signs of spring here, unlike on the mainland. Upon the Farne Isles, winter still resided. Lindisfarena was the largest of the group of islands. Until his health failed him, Cuthbert had lived as a hermit upon one of the smaller isles. Osana had heard that some of the islands were completely covered by puffins and other seabirds.
As they approached the shore, Osana’s gaze shifted south to where a complex of low wooden buildings, including one with a high pitched roof, rose against the windy sky. The faint peels of an iron bell reached them, calling the mourners to Cuthbert’s burial.
Osana glanced over at Mildryth then. The woman had been uncharacteristically silent during the walk. Her long face was solemn, her large eyes watery and red-rimmed. She had wept noisily upon hearing that Cuthbert had passed away, but had been insistent that she would join the group to farewell him.
“Are you well, Mildryth?” Osana asked gently.
“Aye … it’s just … this is such a sad day,” the woman sniffed.
It was, although sadness was an emotion that dogged Osana’s step most days. She had become part of life in the Great Hall, yet melancholy cast a shadow over everything. She felt lonely, especially after Aldfrith’s dismissal of her, but she knew she was lucky to have a roof over her head, to have a warm, dry place to sleep at night, and to have food in her belly.
She was grateful for a great many things, yet at unguarded moments sadness would still creep up on her like a thief.
Not for the first time that morning, she cursed Lora for pushing her forward. Life was easier at Bebbanburg when she was invisible. She was a woman with too much to say for herself; her tongue only got her into trouble. Not only that, but the other women in the hall had finally started to accept her; they would cease being friendly if she made a spectacle of herself.
Osana’s boots crunched upon pebbles as she followed the procession of mourners onto the shore. Here, they turned south, following a narrow path up to the highest point of the island, where the monastery stood.
“It looks shabbier than I expected,” Mildryth observed, disappointment in her voice.
Osana cast her a wry look. “I too expected something grander. Maybe this is better though … Cuthbert was not a man for earthly possessions. Gleaming walls and towers would not suit him.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Mildryth replied, although she sounded unconvinced.
The two women said no more as they approached the monastery.
Aldfrith stood before the bier and gazed down at the corpse upon it.
Cuthbert lay there dressed in a simple brown robe trimmed with a fur collar. His thinness shocked Aldfrith; he was painfully emaciated, his head nothing more than a skull with parchment skin pulled over it. His hollowed, sunken eyes were closed, his claw-like hands placed across his chest, where they clutched a small wooden crucifix.
“He looks at peace.”
Aldfrith glanced right, at where Wilfrid stood next to him. For once, he did not disagree with the bishop. They rarely saw eye-to-eye on anything these days. Beside Wilfrid, Oswald was silently weeping. The priest’s mouth trembled with grief as he stared down at the prior’s corpse.
Aldfrith glanced over at the cluster of monks opposite, their heads bowed, their bald pates gleaming in the morning sun. “How did it end?” he asked.
One of them, a slender man of around forty winters with graying blond hair, answered. “He was very weak of late, sire. Cuthbert eventually fell into a deep sleep and did not awake from it.”
“Good,” Aldfrith said, glancing back at the prior’s body. “He went gently then.”
They stood behind the church of Lindisfarena. The prior’s body had been laid out upon the wooden bier ready for burial. Behind him the monks had dug a deep grave. Unlike the heathens of the past, this would not be a fiery burial. The prior’s body would be interred so that one day he could be resurrected.
Wilfrid, his austere face composed, began the burial rite for Cuthbert.
Aldfrith had heard the words before, and yet they carried more weight today. Despite the fact he was not fond of Wilfrid, he had to admit the bishop was a powerful speaker.
Wilfrid spoke of Cuthbert’s kindness and patience. He spoke at length of all the miracles attributed to him, near and far: children who had been healed of deathly fevers, lepers whose skin had cleared of boils, barren women who had miraculously conceived. After that Wilfrid spoke of what the prior had done to make Lindisfarena a place of pilgrimage.
Soft sobs accompanied Wilfrid’s words. Oswald had covered his face with his hands now, his slender shoulders shaking. Most of the monks were weeping, and many in the surrounding crowd were struggling to keep their composure.
The bishop’s voice rang out loud and clear, his own cheeks wet with tears. “Fly free from the earthly cares of this world, Cuthbert. We will never forget you.”
Aldfrith listened to the bishop’s words, closing his eyes a moment as the wind pushed at him. It was a sad day, and yet his thoughts felt scattered. He found it difficult to focus on the burial, or on the rite.
Instead, he was acutely aware of the dark-haired woman, dressed in a fur-lined mantle, who stood at the edge of the crowd to his right.
Osana.
He glanced her way now, taking in her solemn expression as she listened to the bishop. Her gaze, like that of many others in the crowd, was focused upon Wilfrid. The past months had been torture. How often had he yearned to seek her out, to speak to her? He had often caught glimpses of her in the hall, but he always had to be careful lest she, or someone else, catch him looking her way.
Everyone’s attention lay elsewhere now though, and so his gaze drank her in, committing every inch of that lovely face to memory. Long moments passed, before Aldfrith forced himself to look away, focusing instead upon Cuthbert.
An ache of loss that had nothing to do with the prior’s death fisted in the center of his chest, squeezing hard.
Chapter Twenty
Meeting in the Scriptorium
OSANA STOOD AT the edge of the mourners. Hands clasped before her, she listened to the rise and fall of Bishop Wilfrid's voice. The king stood next to the bishop, his gaze upon Cuthbert’s corpse.
Osana took in the king’s profile. He looked deep in concentration.
She would never tire of looking at him. His blond hair had grown a little longer over the past couple of months, and it ruffled slightly in the sea breeze. He had turned his fur collar up against the chill, its silvery tones highlighting Aldfrith’s pale skin and dark blue eyes.
Aye, she still wanted him. It hurt to look at him, but she could not stop herself.
A hollow sensation settled in the pit of her belly. She missed Aldfrith; each encounter with him made her feel alive. Even a brief exchange of words with him made her feel understood. It felt unnatural to live under the same roof as him and not spend time talking together, sharing ideas and beliefs.
Perhaps I offended him deeply that day.
She had been blunt with her opinion of his writing, but she had not meant to give offense. She had only wanted to know what he thought.
Osana dropped her gaze, closing her eyes to shut out the world for a moment. Spring was coming; soon she would have to make a decision about her future. Her aunt would take her in, even if she did so in ill-grace. However, the thought of living with Hagona, her sister’s spinster sister, did not fill Osana with joy.
The only true joy she had known of late had been in Aldfrith’s arms, and that experience would not be repeated.
Bishop Wilfrid’s voice died away, brin
ging the burial rite to a close, and Osana opened her eyes once more. The monks lifted the bier and carried it the few feet to the open grave. Then, using ropes, they lowered the prior’s body into the ground.
A few of them were weeping, the muffled sound of sobs blending with the sigh of the wind. The shroud of grief lay so heavy upon the mourners that Osana could almost taste it.
Once Cuthbert’s body had been settled in the grave, the monks placed a layer of fresh rushes over him, before shoveling a few feet of dirt on top. Then, they started to lay rocks. Aldfrith and his men helped at this stage, before the blond monk stepped forward and placed a wooden crucifix on top.
The crowd drew back, leaving the lonely cairn of stones upon the windswept slope. It was done: Cuthbert of Lindisfarena, the holiest man who had ever lived in this corner of the world, was buried.
Bishop Wilfrid strode back to the priory, bringing Oswald and a flock of other mourners with him. The tide had now come in, and they would not be returning to the mainland until much later in the day. The bishop and the mourners would pray for Cuthbert’s soul.
Aldfrith went with them. He did not glance Osana’s way; it was as if she was invisible.
A handful of monks remained outside and took those who had not followed the bishop on a tour of the island and the monastery. “You’re welcome to explore our home,” one of the monks told the group that Osana now stood at the back of. “No doors are closed to you on this day.”
The monks led them into the monastery and began the tour at enclosures where goats lay chewing the cud and fowl pecked for grain in the dirt. They then led them to gardens, protected from the elements by high stone walls, where rows of neatly-tended cabbages, kale, onions, and turnips grew.
The monks started to explain their growing practices at length, and after a while Osana wandered off. She felt the need to be alone now, to discover Lindisfarena at her own pace.