“This year,” Aelfwald reminded them, “our lord Alfred at last forced the Viking heathens, those wasters and destroyers, to leave our land. Not only that: their fleet was smashed and sunk off our coast. And for these events we must now thank God.” All around the table, those seated bowed their heads, while Aelfwald repeated the little prayer of which he was especially fond:
Greater than Thunor,
Greater than Woden,
Who for our sins
Hung bleeding and died:
To you we give thanks,
Lord Christ on the rood.
And suddenly moved himself, the thane went on:
“Our life on earth is short.” He glanced up at the rest of the great hall. High in the beams were several birds’ nests, and at each end through a small square ventilation hole, the birds were accustomed to go in and out. “It is like a sparrow that flies through the hall. It comes from outside, and flies away again, no one knows where. And so, friends, we travel, from darkness to darkness. For the few years of our life we live in the great hall.” He paused, unable to find more words to express the transitory nature of life. “But there is a greater hall,” he went on, “where life is eternal.”
Port nodded slowly at the thane’s words. They expressed exactly his own feelings, though he could never had spoken them himself.
“Today I have an important announcement,” the thane continued. “For when my mother died, I swore an oath to her, that I would give generously to God’s Church.” He looked about the room. “Four years ago I established the religious house on my estate at Twyneham, where my son Aelfwine is a monk.” There was a murmur of approval. “Today, I decided that Osric the carpenter’s son shall go at my expense to the school at Canterbury to learn the art of illumination.” At this there was applause. “But this is not enough,” the thane cried. “And so, to redeem the oath I swore to my mother, I am making a new endowment.” Port wondered what this could be. A gift to the nunnery perhaps? “In the field beside this place, where the cross now stands,” Aelfwald proclaimed, “I will build a church. It will be made not of wood, like this hall, but of stone. And I will give land to support a priest who will minister there.”
There was an awed silence. Such churches, the first of the parish churches of England, were still a rarity; and a church of stone still more so. There had only been one other in the area, just south of the place where the five rivers met, at the little hamlet of Britford, where a former king had endowed a small structure on his estate there, using stones from the ruins of Roman Sorviodunum; but no one else in the area had done such an ambitious thing in a generation. The cost of such a building, even a modest structure, would be formidable and represented a major sacrifice even to a wealthy man like Aelfwald.
Port stared down at the table. His mind was in a whirl. As he thought of his own unwillingness to redeem his own vow to his sister he felt his face go scarlet with shame.
“I am unworthy to be a thane,” he moaned softly to himself.
And then, as Aelfwald sat down and the toasts were drunk again, he knew what he must do.
His face still flushed, his head spinning slightly, he rose a little unsteadily to his feet. As the hubbub around him died down, and the faces of the feasters turned towards him in surprise, he cried out, so that his thin voice echoed round the hall:
“I, Port, to redeem the pledge I gave my sister Edith, give to the nunnery of Wilton a fine gold cross, for the glory of God.”
He sank down. It was done. The people applauded. His honour was satisfied. And the money was gone.
He would never be a thane now.
He sat by his wife, hardly knowing what to think. He trembled with pride: yet, though he tried to disregard it, in the pit of his stomach, he felt a terrible coldness at the great opportunity he had lost. His face now burning, he stared down into his lap, and when from the head of the table Aelfwald gave him a warm smile of encouragement, he did not see it.
In the darkness outside the hall, a light snow had begun to fall over Sarum: a token, it seemed that this winter at least, there would be peace.
It was an hour after dawn. In the little wooden chapel where the six monks performed their simple devotions, Osric rose stiffly from his knees. There was a cold, hard January frost on the ground.
It was time to begin the day, and like all his days at the monastic cell, the boy was dreading it. For nearly half an hour he had been praying alone; but his prayers had brought him no comfort. One thought, and only one kept him going: “Six months more,” he whispered, “and then I’ll be sent to Canterbury.” If he could just work out how to get through them.
At the place where the two rivers, the Avon and the Stour, ran into the sheltered harbour by the sea, there was now a modest settlement of some two dozen houses protected by a palisade, which had acquired the name Twyneham. It meant the place by two rivers, and like Wilton, it was set in the angle between them. Opposite lay the long spit of land with its low hill that protected the shallow harbour from the turbulence of the English Channel; and along the northern side of the harbour, to the east of Twyneham, lay the broad, flat marshland that gradually turned into woods as one went further inland. It was here that Aelfwald owned a large hunting estate, and it was on the edge of the wood that he had carved a spacious, dry clearing on which the modest buildings of the little monastery stood.
The thane’s endowment of a monastic cell was a rarity. In the last generation there had been fewer monks in Wessex, despite the fine old monasteries it possessed. Those that continued had often degenerated into communities where the rules were lax or almost non-existent. And though the king was constantly urging his nobles to improve the situation, few of the young men of his kingdom had been volunteering to enter monastic orders. In this respect, Aelfwine was unusual, and Alfred had warmly congratulated the thane on his modest initiative. Though the cell consisted of only a dormitory, a refectory with its kitchen, and a Chapel, in effect three enlarged huts, it did boast a fine psalter and a pair of magnificent jewelled candlesticks given by the thane’s wife.
There, under the vague and somewhat informal leadership of Aelfwine, the six monks led an approximate version of the life prescribed under the great and wise Rule of St Benedict.
Osric turned to leave the chapel. At dawn the six monks had sung the first of the day’s seven offices in the chapel. Before the next, Prime, he must sweep the little courtyard outside the chapel clean; and before the third service, Tierce, he must work in the kitchens, preparing the modest meal, prandium, that would be eaten at noon. But between Tierce and noon, when the little bell would be rung for the midday meal, he had some two hours of free time. As always, that time he would spend out in the marshes, away from the monks. And this was for a very good reason.
Now as he left the chapel, he spoke aloud a final prayer:
“Please God, do not let Aelfwine touch me again.”
Why had the thane’s son chosen to be a monk? It was believed by some at Sarum that it was because he had not been able to live up to the strength and prowess of his brothers.
“Even Aelfgifu could break him with her little finger,” it was said; and indeed, it was well known that when she was a girl of twelve, she had humiliated him in a wrestling match before a crowd of children, and that he had never got over it. It was not that Aelfwine was weak: in any other family he would have been normal: but by the standards of his brothers and sister, he was inadequate.
Whatever his reasons were, at the age of fifteen Aelfwine had told his family that he wanted to become a monk, and since then he had never altered his mind. He was twenty-five now – a fair, sparely built young man, usually rather reserved in his manner, but whose pale blue eyes seemed to shine sometimes with an intensity that was not quite natural. To Osric it seemed that he smiled too much.
At first it was nothing: the young man had been kind to the boy his father had sent: each week he had given him religious instruction, and he had sent back good reports of him to Avons
ford from time to time. The other monks, too, were kind, instructing him in his daily tasks, which were certainly not onerous. Indeed, on the land which his family leased from the thane, the work was much harder. Occasionally, during their lessons, Aelfwine used to walk about the room, and once or twice paused and rested his hand on the boy’s head – a gesture which Osric had hardly even noticed at the time.
Nor had young Osric thought much about it when one day Aelfwine sat next to him, and at one point had allowed his hand to rest lightly on his leg. It had not seemed so remarkable. Osric looked up to the thane’s son, even if instinctively he liked him less than Aelfgifu or his brothers. If Aelfwine showed him a small sign of affection, he felt honoured.
Often, when he was working at his tasks. Aelfwine came and spoke a few friendly words to him, or chatted with him easily about his life. When he rang the little bell attached to the side of the wooden chapel as the monks went in to their devotions, the young man usually gave him a pleasant smile. All these were small attentions which Osric was grateful for. And if Aelfwine sometimes let him walk with him and the other monks across the flat open ground to the river, or by the harbour shore, he would return more cheerful than before. But once, when Aelfwine had walked with him alone and put his arm round him, the boy for some reason felt uncomfortable. He felt his body freeze, uncertain what to do; and he had been glad when, after a time, Aelfwine disengaged his arm, to point at a heron, scudding over the harbour water.
It was one evening in the late autumn that the awful thing happened. He was alone in the kitchen, preparing the monks’ food. In the corner was a roaring fire, and because of the noise of the wood crackling in the grate, he did not hear Aelfwine come into the room. When he turned, he found the young man close beside him. They had spoken a few words, he could hardly remember what, and then suddenly Aelfwine had come much closer. His face was flushed – he supposed it was because of the fire; on his forehead he noticed little beads of sweat. And the young man’s eyes were shining, staring down at him meaningfully, but conveying a message he did not understand. Then, before the boy knew what had happeneed. Aelfwine’s arms were round him, pressing him closely; and as he turned up his face, his mouth open, his large eyes wide with shock, the thane’s son had kissed him.
He did not know what was happening; he was terrified. He struggled, but against the strength of Aelfwine, it was useless.
At last, the thane’s son let him go.
“Remember, Osric, I am your friend.”
And moments later, scarlet and panting, the boy found he was alone again.
What did it mean? Were such things done? He did not know what to think, but he felt as if he had been defiled.
From that evening, his life had been miserable. It seemed to him that wherever he went, Aelfwine was watching him, looking for a chance to come close to him. In the chapel, about his work, in the kitchen, or even in his lonely walks, he would suddenly and unexpectedly find him there, always smiling, putting his arm round him, stroking his arm or running his hand through his brown hair. His life became a series of calculations on how he could avoid him. And although Aelfwine had not tried to kiss him again, Osric knew that he was powerless to stop him if he did.
He had been afraid to say anything; and there was no one whose advice he could ask. The other monks, he knew, were a little afraid of Aelfwine and unlikely to say anything to offend him. Aelfwine was in charge of the monastery, the son of a great thane. What could he do – he was only a poor carpenter’s son? And on his visit to Avonsford, when the thane and his father questioned him, he had been reluctant to speak: with the thane he had felt embarrassment, and with his father, a sense of shame.
Then the unbelievable had happened: Aelfwald had said he would send him to Canterbury. Which was why, each morning now, he whispered to himself: “Six months. Only six more months.”
There was a mist that morning. It lay in wreaths over the marsh and hid the settlement of Twyneham from sight. But Osric knew the ground so well that in the mid-morning interval, he did not hesitate to move swiftly away from the clearing and make his way across the marsh towards the harbour. Every patch of shrub, every clump of rushes was a friend to him now as he walked over the ground – half stiff with frost and half boggy underfoot. The mist swirled around him.
At least he won’t try and follow me today, the boy thought, and for a while he felt his spirits lift. But half way across the marsh he stopped. It seemed to him that he could hear something. Was it breathing? Was it some other sound? And was it behind or in front of him? He listened, then shook his head and went forward. A few moments later he paused again. Had he heard footsteps? Carefully, still listening, he proceeded to the water’s edge. He thought he heard a heron’s call.
And then he saw it.
The ship was forty yards in front of him; it was moving towards Twyneham slowly and furtively through the mist. Its eighteen pairs of oars were stroking the surface gently, its high prow slipped through the water, silent as a swan. The round, black and yellow shields that hung on the longboat’s sides told him what it must be.
“Vikings,” he breathed.
He turned and ran. The mist now seemed like a cloud, enveloping him. The rustle of his feet on the ground seemed like a pounding drum; he ran across the empty marsh, almost blind with fear. And in the middle of the marsh, with a gasp of terror, he ran into a tall figure, who held him in his arms. They fell to the ground together.
It was Aelfwine.
The thane’s son smiled as he held Osric tightly. The mist was damp on the woollen habit he wore, and on his thick yellow hair.
“No one can see us,” he breathed.
“Vikings.” Osric struggled to get free but made no headway. “In the harbour. Let me go.”
Still it had no effect. Aelfwine grinned and shook his head. His face came closer.
There was only one thing to do. Osric let his body go limp. He let Aelfwine kiss him; and after a moment he felt the grip on him loosen.
Aelfwine drew back, smiling.
“That’s better,” he murmured, gazing at the boy affectionately.
Then Osric kicked, as hard as he could, and as Aelfwine doubled up in agony, he scrambled up and ran towards the monastery. Almost at once, he could hear Aelfwine following, cursing behind him. But Osric knew the tracks better; he sped through the frozen marshes. And in his mind there was a single thought: he must warn the people in the settlement.
Almost out of breath, he raced into the little courtyard, only to find it empty. In a state of near panic, he looked about. How could he warn those people across the river at Twyneham? He saw the bell.
A minute later all six monks were standing in the little courtyard gazing with astonishment as the boy Osric frantically rang the chapel bell: not with its normal, steady toll, but with a desperate clanging that echoed through the mist. And while this was going on, Aelfwine, white with anger, hobbled towards him.
“Vikings!” Osric was shouting. “Vikings!”
The monks looked at one another. What was the boy talking about? Everyone knew that the Vikings never appeared in the winter months. But when one of them tried to restrain him Osric shook him off furiously.
It was Aelfwine who first realised the truth. With a few quick steps he came to Osric’s side and seized his arms.
“Don’t touch me!” the boy screamed.
But Aelfwine, with a single wrench tore Osric away from the rope and clapped his hands over his mouth.
“Silence,” he ordered. He stared at Osric and the boy saw that his eyes had lost the shining look of lust that they had had minutes before and that now they were grave. “You saw Vikings? A boat?” Osric nodded. “Then you should not have rung the bell.” He let him go.
Now, as he looked about him, Osric understood what the thane’s son meant. For the mist was growing thicker. In their clearing at the edge of the wood, the monastery’s buildings were now invisible, not only from the river but even from twenty yards. And as he saw the t
errified faces of the monks, he realised with a terrible sense of shame what he had done: he had told the Vikings where they were.
They were all silent, listening intently. There was no sound. Then Aelfwine spoke, and his voice had a quiet command.
“It will be safer if we go into the woods.”
This was clearly right. They could keep moving inland; and if the Vikings found the little monastery empty, they might set fire to it, but they were not likely to bother to search for a few monks. Very quietly, the six men and the boy moved together past the chapel and out towards the cover of the trees.
Then they heard it: a deep cough, followed by a low call, some distance away on the left towards the river. The Vikings were already searching for the bell.
Quickly the little party moved forward. The edge of the woods was only twenty yards away.
There was a whistle. This time it came from in front of them. Aelfwine cursed. The Vikings were obviously in the woods as well. The first call was directly ahead of them; but seconds later there was another, this time to the right. How was it possible, Osric wondered, that they could have moved so fast? It was a question that neither the Saxons nor any of the other people who encountered them had ever been able to answer; but it was known that the Vikings moved more swiftly than ordinary men. The monks looked at Aelfwine, uncertain what to do. If the invaders had formed a line to sweep the woods, they would have to turn back.
“I know the marsh,” Osric whispered. “We could hide there.”
Aelfwine looked at him. His face was calm and thoughtful – it was as if the incident between them there had never taken place. He nodded. “It’s a chance.”
The little body of monks silently retraced their steps, past the cluster of wooden buildings and towards the harbour. But a hundred yards further they had to stop once more. For ahead of them from the direction of the water, they heard shouts in the mist; and this time Aelfwine shook his head. “No good,” he said. “Follow me.”
Sarum Page 48