Whitby was a double monastery, with the nunnery extending from one side of the chapel and the monks buildings and lands to the other. It was run in accordance with the Irish rule, although with less emphasis on solitude and hermitry; there were no beehive cells at Whitby. The two sexes lived and slept separately and any commingling was watched over carefully by Abbess Hilda. They made up a community engaged with the world, trading with it, building up a quasi-religious outer settlement similar to Melrose; outside the monastery proper and evangelising the neighbouring countryside.
We were greeted warmly by our brother monks and some elderly nuns and shown where to stable the horses. After attending to our mounts’ needs we were in the process of preparing sleeping areas within the stables when one of the resident monks came and interrupted us. We weren’t to stay with the animals, he informed us, as sleeping quarters had been prepared in the monastery proper.
There then followed an exchange, which became a debate, which became an argument and was fast becoming heated in the typical Irish way when a tall and imposing woman entered the building, attended by a monk and two of the elderly nuns who had greeted us. She clapped her hands for attention and the babble ceased immediately.
“What is going on here?” Abbess Hilda asked. The babble broke out again straight away as everyone tried to put their points at once: she raised her hands for silence again and it followed just as fast. There was an air of authority about her that even Colman respected.
“Cerdic,” she said to the resident monk, “I sent you to settle our guests in the area prepared for them - a simple enough task, I would have thought. Now I find you in the middle of a bear-pit and in need of my intervention. My time is short and would be better spent elsewhere. Explain yourself.”
“They wouldn’t do as I told them,” he said resentfully. “I came to take them over to the sleeping quarters and they won’t come.” Hilda nodded.
“Abbott Colman,” she said and nodded briefly in acknowledgement. “We have prepared accommodation for you and would like you to use it. Why do you refuse?” She spoke to him with courtesy but there was no deference at all. As Abbess, she was his equal in rank and, while he may possibly have a higher reputation as a religious leader, Hilda was not about to have a mere monk dictate to her. Colman replied to her enquiry with a degree of indignant self-righteousness.
“Abbess Hilda, it is good to see you again.” The courtesies out of the way he got straight to the point. “We thank you for the efforts you’ve gone to on our behalf but it wasn’t necessary. We would not displace anyone for our own convenience. We will be pleased to sleep in the stables and will rejoice that we can share Our Lord’s Estate, for it was in such a place that He was born. We have no need for more.”
“Firstly,” Hilda replied crisply, “you would not be displacing anyone. We have planned for your accommodation. Indeed, I see that there are fewer in your company than I had been led to expect. Second, you have no need to remind me that Our Lord was born in a stable. However, there was no Synod going on, with monks, nuns, Abbots, Priors, Bishops and Kings coming from all over the country, not to mention the idle and curious. A great deal of organisation has gone into providing for all who will attend here. Your humility, and that of your brothers from Lindisfarne and Iona, is legendary but we will not open proceedings with a contest to see who has the dirtiest bed. You will find that the arrangements we have made are humble enough. You will have nothing to complain of and no opportunity to pamper the flesh, I can assure you. Brother Cerdic will show you to your quarters.” Colman opened his mouth to protest but Hilda cut him off before he could get started.
“I don’t suppose you have brought food or anything useful with you, have you?” Colman’s mouth shut like a trap and he shook his head. We’d travelled with the minimum, as usual. “I thought not. No consideration of Earthly realities. Half a cartload of turnips would have been more welcome than you, as well as displaying a degree of thought.” She turned to leave but Colman called her back.
“Sister Hilda,” he said contritely, and she half-turned in the doorway. “I apologise for my thoughtlessness. We all stand rightly chastised. I’ll dispatch fruit, vegetables, honey and some livestock to replenish your stores as soon as it can be arranged.”
“Thank you,” Hilda nodded, “but if you send too much I will send it all back - all of it, mind - and your penance will be worthless. A moderate amount from your surplus will be sufficient. I will not allow you to starve yourselves in self-righteous repentance. Cerdic, show them to their quarters.” and then she was gone, leaving no time for further debate or protest.
An audible sigh went round the room. We had all been unconsciously holding our breath while the Abbess had been present.
“A great lady, your Abbess,” Colman remarked to Cerdic, who snorted.
“Very impressive. Please don’t cross her again, our lives have been miserable enough for the last few weeks without anyone else irritating her.” Colman bowed his apology.
“Please show us to our beds, brother Cerdic. And after, perhaps you would be kind enough to show us where we may make our Sabbath devotions?”
“I think I can manage that,” he replied, and he led us across to a new, wooden framed building, which had been erected against the resident monks’ sleeping quarters. There were signs of haste but all the gaps in the wooden slatted walls had been effectively sealed with moss and mortar. The earth floor had been swept clean and was almost completely dry. New wooden pallets with straw-filled mattresses were arranged in two neat rows, against either wall. “Abbess Hilda asks that you keep the straw in the mattresses as it makes it easier to clean up afterwards. She also asks those of you who wish to sleep on the floor to remember that our laundering facilities are under great pressure for the period of the Synod.”
“Do I take it that Abbess Hilda is suggesting that we will not be welcomed enthusiastically if we arrive at the hall anything less than clean and shiny?” Colman asked sardonically.
“I wouldn’t seek her censure, Brother Abbott, she believes that outer cleanliness is a reflection of inner purity,” Cerdic smiled. “You’ve seen only the smallest touch of her disapproval. I know you know her of old and would be prepared for her anger but some of your brothers may find the experience harrowing.”
“I understand. Thank you brother Cerdic. I trust that the mattresses are not too soft, however?”
“We used the coarsest straw we could find,” Cerdic’s smile split into a gap-toothed grin, “and should any require them then I’m sure that the boys in the village could be encouraged to collect a herd of hungry fleas.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. We shall be pleased to sacrifice our familiar homely comforts in a greater cause.” Colman’s natural good humour could not stay buttoned up for long and he smiled in his turn, then ordered his companions to deposit their belongings or otherwise indicate where they would be sleeping.
After this, we followed Cerdic back across the central yard on our way to the chapel. Before we made it there, a commotion and wave of excitement swept through the monastery: a great troop of riders was approaching and the declining sun was catching and reflecting off metal.
“Oswy, do you think?” Cedd asked.
“Let’s wait and see,” Colman replied. I looked keenly down the hillside, thinking of the message I had to deliver on Owain’s behalf. I knew even before the dustcloud cleared that this was not the Northumbrian king.
The troop was preceded by a double line of twenty armed and armoured horsemen whose bronze and brass embellishments chinked merrily against each other and the studded leather waistcoats they wore. Their swords and shields glittered in the sunlight as they swung round and formed two protective lines to receive those they were escorting. They were as disciplined as the best-drilled army of the English, possibly better armed, and certainly better dressed.
Next there was a double line of twenty-four young boys, holding their hands together in prayer and singing sweetly
- between coughs brought on by the horses’ dust - a hymn of praise to God and to His Church.
“They can’t have walked like this the whole day, can they?” - “No. Just from that last line of trees yonder.” - “How can you be sure?” - “Their habits are barely dirtied, look.”
Next, six priests in line astern, intoning bass and baritone harmonies to the young choir’s melody, swinging censors from which sweet-smelling incense rose. They sported the short hair and round tonsure of the Roman church.
Behind them came a man on horseback, sumptuously attired in a red cloak with a thick border in gold. He wore a broad-brimmed hat to shade him from the sun but his features were still visible. This was Wilfrid, Prior of Ripon, formerly a young novice of the monastery of Lindisfarne. He regarded the group of monks by the chapel door from the height of his great chestnut horse and his face registered recognition, but there was no acknowledgement.
“He’s risen far and seems so magnificent, doesn’t he?” Colman whispered to Cedd.
“Aye. And he seeks the Bishop’s robe before he’s much older,” he replied.
Behind Wilfrid came another striking horse, which was led at the bridle by a well-dressed squire. It was covered with a scarlet cloth and a magnificently attired figure was seated on it. The rider was older and wore the Roman church’s ceremonial vestments, which caught the sun and seemed to glow and reflect back its rays in even greater glory, shimmering in purple with the design of the cross picked out in cloth-of-gold and edged with pearls. On his head was a bishop’s mitre, in one hand was his crook and the other gave out the Sign of the Cross in blessing to all and sundry. His face was thin and foreign-looking, with a prominent nose that gave him the profile of an eagle. His eyes swept this way and that, taking in everything. They paused as they lighted on Colman and the rest of us, then continued their quartering of the monastery which had seemed so large and so well organised but which now appeared shrunken and dull, too small to contain the splendour that had deigned to visit it.
“Agilbert the Frank, Bishop of Dorchester,” I said in answer to Cedd’s raised eyebrows.
“Apparently a very holy man with Grace to spare if he can dispense it as freely as that,” Cedd responded.
“Behold the Whore of Babylon, arrayed in purple and gold, seated on a beast of scarlet,” came an angry voice from the group of Lindisfarne monks.
“Enough of that,” Colman said sharply, and he looked around into his little flock. The speaker stayed silent and he wasn’t identified by the Abbott. “There will be time for arguments soon enough but I will not tolerate open insult. We will maintain our dignity and purity. We will not seek to imitate or respond to any provocation.”
He looked back at the Roman party, who didn’t seem to have heard either the comment or Colman’s reaction. The jingling of the horses’ bridles and the excited hubbub that stirred the monastery yard had probably obscured both.
“Come, the sun will soon be below the horizon. Let us go into the House of God and make our thanks for safe delivery after our journey. And some of us should pray especially hard for grace and wisdom.” With that he herded his flock into the chapel.
As I was about to turn I caught an interesting tableau: Hilda had arrived to welcome her latest group of guests and stood at the door of the convent, which was raised three steps above the level of the yard. She was tall and erect, queenly even, a few wisps of greying yellow hair finding their way out from under her loose veil. Her hands were spread open in a gesture of welcome although her face was serious. She was approaching fifty and had been Abbess at Whitby since its foundation. Another may well have glanced straight over her grey habit and her dark dress and been drawn to Wilfrid and Agilbert’s magnificence. But I saw a woman composed of quiet and restrained dignity, while before her a group of garishly dressed barbarians made vulgar obeisance.
“Has Oswy arrived yet?” I asked Cerdic.
“No, but he’s expected hourly. I doubt if he’ll put on such a show, though.”
“No, I doubt he will,” I replied. We went in to the cool dimness of the Chapel, where only a simple carved wooden Celtic Cross could be seen against the dying light behind the eastern window.
16
The Prior’s Pride
Oswy arrived after midnight in a commotion of hoofs, neighing, shouted orders and demands for admittance. He had ridden hard and long after a successful journey to Mercia and was in a good humour - which was not always a good thing for his hosts. He yelled for food and drink, for himself and his men, and it was fortunate that he’d sent the main body on to Bamburgh with the Mercian tribute so that it was a relatively small group that disturbed the monastery.
Hilda was a princess herself and wasn’t intimidated by the Northumbrian king or his entourage. She arranged for them to be fed and watered quickly and efficiently, refused him ale as it was the Sabbath, and had him and his men bedded down in the infirmary just over an hour after his arrival. The monastery and its outbuildings resumed their quiet slumber shortly afterwards.
I was obliged to deliver Owain’s message as soon as could be, so I went to the king’s chambers after the morning offices and breakfast. My way was barred by two tired and irritable guards.
“The king rests. He’s not to be disturbed.”
“When will he be about?”
“When it suits him. By midday if he feels like it. Later if he doesn’t. What do you want with him?”
“I have a message for him.”
“If it’s written you can give it to me. I won’t read it. If it’s from God, he’s probably got it in his dreams already.” The other guffawed.
“I’ll come back later,” I replied, and left.
The monks of Columba’s church took the Sabbath seriously: we would rest and do absolutely no work at all. There had even been heated debates as to whether we should read the Bible on the Lord’s Day: it had been decided this was acceptable, although even now there were some who grumbled that it was an indulgence. Rest and quiet contemplation was the case in normal circumstances but the Synod wasn’t normal circumstances. Colman wished to meet Hilda and discuss the likely course that the discussions would take and what inclination she expected Oswy to have, and for this my presence wasn’t necessary. I decided to go for a walk on the hills to the east of the monastery, the opposite direction from the village of Streanashalch. Cuthbert, who had become my constant shadow, prepared to follow but I dissuaded him.
“Cuthbert, don’t you think you’d be better staying here?”
“I don’t know,” he replied without emotion.
“I think Colman would like you to be with him when he sees Hilda, both you and Cedd, isn’t that so Colman?” He agreed, vigorously.
“Cuthbert, your knowledge and spirituality would be a blessing. Please stay with us.”
“Tell me what I should do,” he asked me.
“I think you should stay here with Colman and help him in his meeting with Abbess Hilda,” I replied. Without any display of either enthusiasm or reluctance Cuthbert walked the two steps to join his Abbott and stood there, loose limbed and with an unfathomable expression. Colman, Cedd and I exchanged looks: we were relying on Cuthbert’s intelligence and knowledge of the Scriptures as part of our strategy. He would need to be more alert than this if he was to be of any assistance at all.
“Go and take your walk, Anselm. See if your thoughts can add anything to our cause. We’ll send for you if we need you. But I would like to speak to you later in any case.” I nodded and went on my way.
I walked a mile or so up the next hill and looked back the way I’d come. The monastery was active, with nuns and monks clearly visible, bustling this way and that in the early sunshine on the business of the Synod, or that of the Abbess, or perhaps just looking busy in order to avoid the conscription into some task or other by their Superior. The neatly cultivated fields were empty today: even the Synod wouldn’t intrude on the Lord’s Day to that extent. I saw my three fellows emerge from their slee
ping quarters and make their way over to Hilda’s office. Agilbert and Wilfrid emerged from their quarters in the convent’s infirmary and proceed to Oswy’s chambers, bestowing blessings as they went. The guards barred their entrance as they had mine and they turned away after a few moments’ fruitless argument. I smiled. There was an air of tranquillity, holiness and Peace - I could almost discern the capital P - over the establishment but how long it would continue, once the arguments started was anyone’s guess. Oswy, Colman, Cuthbert, Cedd, Agilbert, Wilfrid and Hilda: all the principal players were in place. What role I may have would become apparent in good time.
One more to come.
The thought flashed into my mind and out again, but not before I had registered it. I wondered for a moment who it would be, then continued on up the hill and away from the monastery. There was no point in trying to rush anything.
Near the top of the hill I turned and looked back again. A slow-moving train of riders was climbing into view, up from the direction of Streanashalch. There were heavily-armed outriders ahead and behind was a wheeled litter drawn by two horses that was closely guarded by four armed soldiers on foot. A fifth figure was also in close attendance, leaning frequently toward the curtained carriage and even, on occasions, bending his head into the enclosure.
The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3) Page 21