“To bring down this evil thing,” I said, but I could not hide my reluctance. “To protect the people from being harmed by it – and that may be more than just those in Strathclyde. But I’m frightened for my mind. I remember my madness; I have no desire to go there again.”
“We will be with you at all times and in all circumstances,” Colman replied, “in spirit if not in person. And you will be in my prayers constantly from now on. Come on in and eat now. Let the condemned man have a hearty breakfast.” He smiled and put his arm around my shoulders as we went in to the refectory.
The reconvened Synod looked similar to the day before but the feeling was different. The Irish were arranged to Oswy’s right, the Romans to his left. The entry of Agilbert was much more subdued, while the Irish were much more cheerful. Even a couple of laughs escaped from pious mouths. The Romans entered in procession, as previously, but the servers and all their clerics wore simple black soutanes. The choir didn’t sing this time and the servers made themselves scarce as soon as their Bishop was seated. He alone wore ceremonial robes, and they were not the rich vestments of the previous day. He wore purple as it was Lent and therefore fitting, with white chasuble and surplice under. He was dignified on Tuesday, where he had been gaudy on Monday.
Oswy was just the same: imperious, impatient, and coiled like a spring.
The day’s discussions proceeded on more technical lines than before and, while they were important, they bored the King. Talk of transmigration of the soul, predestination against free will, all of them left him cold and he was inclined neither one way nor the other. The only thing that got to him at all was the Romans’ claim of the origin of Original Sin, in sexual congress. He rather liked Colman’s rebuttal that, if God so disapproved of sexual relations, why did He invent it and order Abraham to be fruitful and multiply? So the King remained favourable towards Lindisfarne but by mid-afternoon he’d had enough. He called an end to the debate and went off to attend to matters that he regarded as more pressing, such as restocking of armouries and tribute from vassals.
Agilbert had had a better day - he’d lost no more ground, but neither had he gained any. Not, at least, in the sight of the King. Unbeknown to him, he had shaken the certainty of more than one of the Irish.
“But what if he is right? How can we know for sure? If he is right, then we’ve been doing our people a great disservice. Can we afford to be wrong?” This was Cedd who was speaking, and some of the monks were stunned into silence. Not his brother Abbott Colman, however, who took him to task with a stout defence of a core of their belief, strongly but courteously delivered. Reincarnation was something that many in the Irish Church, with its Druidic legacy, held fast to. The traditional defence was to ask how a merciful god could give humanity only one chance of salvation.
“But is not every day a new chance, as the Frank said? A new dawn, a new hope, a new opportunity to change our lives, once and for all? To hear God’s Word and heed it from then on? Wiping away our past life?”
The debate moved to considering those who had died before Christ came to Earth. What of them? Were they doomed to everlasting death because of an accident of timing?
“According to our opponents and taking their argument to its logical conclusion, chance and accident is the true determinant of our fate,” the opposing side said. “We can have no power over it. That leads us to a chaotic universe and an unfeeling, heartless god who allows millions to be condemned without opportunity for the redemption that He gave His only Son to offer!”
Cedd was unconvinced, and he wasn’t alone: the point had got to others, and the argument swung to and fro. I made an early contribution, at Colman’s request.
“I can confirm,” I said, “that I have smelt the Apples of Avalon. On a close friend or colleague’s passing. The most recent was less than a fortnight ago: I haven’t had confirmation of his death, but I know that Padhraig, my friend and counsellor, has departed this life. I believe he will be back, after he has rested from his labours awhile in the Orchard.”
This evidence, from a known and respected Seer, heartened some and quieted others. It was as good as proof to those who believed it, food for thought for those who wavered. But there were other disagreements.
“They make a valid case, however, that our way is slow.” Cedd again. “We have had less urgency in our missionary work. Look at what they have achieved, in such a short time! We held the torch of the faith in these islands for half a millennium and have barely penetrated the Frankish lands, across the Narrow Sea. They’ve been evangelising for less than half that time and have reached to the extent of the old Empire and beyond!”
And more, about predestination, for which I was called as a witness – on the wrong side, to my mind.
“It is written in Scripture that the names of the Elect have been recorded in the Book of Life since the foundation of the world and only they whose names have been registered in it shall be saved. If the names were written before time began, then all is mapped out, every detail? Doesn’t Anselm’s Sight show that the future is already settled? Do we have free will at all?”
I rose to protest that this was the counsel of despair, not of hope: if all was predetermined then nothing I, or Colman, or Agilbert, or anyone did made any difference. I explained that my Sight actually helped me make a difference: not everything I Saw came to pass. Not least, because I had been warned and could do something about it; the worst revealed to me could be prevented. Chad supported me.
“You’re confused, Cedd,” said his brother. “If all things are preordained, then why didn’t God stop Adam from disobeying Him? Isn’t the freedom to disobey evidence of free will? Christ could have disobeyed Him, but he chose obedience, for the sake of us all! Knowing that he was in for torture and agonising death! Why bother, if all was preordained anyway? Why give your life for what is, in effect, nothing more than a mummers’ play, speaking lines that have been written for you by someone else?”
The arguments got more and more esoteric and the monks gradually drifted off to their own private thoughts. I went to walk the peaceful hillside of the bees again and passed Mungo and one of his friends as he left. I noticed that the pair of them - the most zealous of all the zealots, I felt - were looking daggers at Abbott Cedd.
“Remember we are brothers in Christ,” I said to them quietly, “we’re free to speak our minds as friends among friends, and to seek help or clarification as is necessary. If Cedd or anyone has doubts or uncertainties, they should voice them, not keep them hidden. That goes for all of us.” Mungo looked resentful, his companion looked embarrassed.
Through it all, Cuthbert had said not a word.
*
In his chamber, Agilbert was thinking again, very deeply. He had prayed long and hard and his meal had gone cold, lying uneaten by his side. He had done better that day but not well enough. He rose and went to open the door.
“Erebert,” he said to the priest who waited there, “go and fetch Prior Wilfrid of Ripon. Tell him I would like to speak to him.” Erebert went to do as he was ordered.
*
I’d wandered over the hilltop as before, but there were no bees to offer comfort and inspiration, not on this occasion. The day was cooler, there were clouds overhead, and a breeze whipped the wave tops into white foam. It was too windy even for the resilient bumblebees. My thoughts were swinging from the details of the Synod to the problem of my Visions and back again. I was troubled and confused and felt that the arguments were slipping away from the Irish, even though Oswy wasn’t impressed - so far. The division in our ranks, reaching to the highest levels, was not good. I doubted if the Romans were suffering the same problems. And I wasn’t sure if I should be here at all, but should rather be scouring Strathclyde for whichever disciple of Lucius had escaped and was spreading such evil. I looked up just as Wilfrid approached, smiling and confident.
“You look troubled, Anselm,” he called.
“Thoughtful, Wilfrid, thoughtful.” It was a lie
of omission rather than commission, but must still be atoned for. The Prior of Ripon arrived at my side.
“Not such a bright day as when we last met. Confused and perturbed, would you say?”
“All things have their season. You should know that, of all people,” and I wondered if he had heard of the disagreements within the Lindisfarne camp. He merely smiled, and didn’t rise to the bait.
“Your party has done well. So far,” he responded, “but it will not continue. We still have three days until the weekend. We shall win, and you will come to the bosom and comfort of our Holy Mother Church. We will welcome you warmly, as a mother welcomes her lost children back to the family, and you will be consoled and happy as your errors are ended.”
“What makes you so certain? Were he to pronounce now, Oswy would come down on our side, I think.”
“Possibly,” Wilfrid conceded, then he smiled again, “all right, almost certainly - at this time. But we have those three days, and don’t think we will ever again do as badly as we did yesterday.”
“What makes you so certain that you’ll do well enough to change his mind?”
“Rome will triumph, here as it has everywhere else. In Antioch, against the Arians, in Egypt, over the Copts and Gnostics, in Greece over the Manichees, as we will triumph over this latest Meccan heresy in Arabia. Everywhere error and heresy have been overcome. Rome is the See of Peter, and will overcome all obstacles. It must be so.
“I know you find it hard to accept,” he continued, “but what can you know of the power and majesty of Rome - of Rome itself! The buildings! The people! All the people of God, going about His business! On one day - one day!” he emphasised, “- Rome has as many visitors as are numbered in the whole of your Irish Church. And the books! Scripture and teachings that go back to the foundation of the Church in the Holy Land! You can’t imagine!”
“Yes I can.”
“No, it’s not possible. No-one who hasn’t seen Rome with their own eyes can possibly imagine what it is like. It is magnificent! It is awe-inspiring! It is powerful, none can stand against it and survive!”
“I can imagine, because I have been to Rome,” I responded quietly. Wilfrid looked surprise and he looked me up and down, taking in the threadbare robe, its missing buttons and its travel stains, my wild hair and shaved forehead and, though he tried to suppress it, he couldn’t altogether conceal his contempt. I continued. “Yes, Wilfrid, I’ve been to Rome. I had a life before we met. I was older than you are now before I took Holy Orders. Before then I wandered far and wide, and I came to Rome. You talk of magnificence and learning, and give the impression that the sweet smell of incense rises from every fireplace and ascends in a cloud of holy smoke: but I’ve been there. If you were to build a Roman Basilica here in Britain, would you remember to cover the outside with peeling and flaking paint? Don’t forget the dirt and rubbish piled up in every corner. Make sure that the pavement outside your great church is well-stocked with prostitutes, parading their services openly and not in any way put off by clerical robes.”
I went through a litany of the tawdry reality behind Rome’s magnificent façade – and it was magnificent, even now, two centuries after its fall and after being sacked by every marauding invading war band on its way somewhere else. But it was a city of human beings, and human beings are riddled with faults. It was still a city of riches, and riches attract the greed, the unprincipled and those who will not let a paltry consideration like the value of human life stand between them and what they wanted. What I said was true but it made Wilfrid very, very angry. He believed such licentiousness was being controlled, suppressed and eradicated, its perpetrators dispatched to missions in the Balkans or to Arabia, to certain death.
“There will be none of this. You don’t understand. When I build an abbey church - “
“Oh, I do understand,” I interrupted. I, too, was angry and my voice was cold and determined. My anger with this turncoat got the better of my control. “I understand how mistaken I was to help you learn, to lend you power and show you skill so that you could accelerate your reading of teaching and the Scriptures. You read very fast, but you do not understand. I understand well what you have done with all that we gave you. You have picked it up and thrown it in our face! Tell me, Wilfred, when you build your great abbey - and I expect it will be the finest north of the Alps, nothing less will do, will it? - when you build it, will you be building for the greater glory of God, or for the glory of Wilfrid? Abbot Wilfrid? Bishop Wilfrid? Pope Wilfrid?”
Without waiting for a reply I left, but a reply came anyway, spoken firmly and coldly, in a voice that carried far enough to be heard clearly.
“We will win. You can’t stand against the power of Rome. We will win because you are too weak and decadent yourselves. Go to Coldingham, and see your Church in all its drunken, debauched purity! We will win, and you will submit to the authority of Rome. And to me!”
I knew I’d said enough. I could have gone on but what Wilfrid had said was also true. There was scandal, and not just among the prancing princesses and layabouts in the monastery at Coldingham, either. I’d lost my temper and said too much. Wilfrid was very intelligent and our argument would make him even more determined on our defeat. I cursed myself for behaving like a zealous fool.
I made my way quickly back to the sleeping quarters. The sun was touching the horizon and we would soon be ready for bed. I sought out Colman and confessed to my argument with the Prior. The Abbott sighed but said it would probably have no bearing. Oswy, at least, would be no more bothered by our disagreement than he was by transmigration of the soul. He was convinced he would be presented to God as a warrior-king anyway. But he told me to confine myself to the sleeping quarters and the chapel until the morning, and to avoid Wilfrid for the remainder of the Synod.
The arguments about the day’s debate still rumbled on and exploded into raised voices from time to time, but it all gradually petered out and I went to bed early. A good night’s sleep would cool most tempers.
23
A Poisoned Chalice
Despite his doubts, Cedd was in a good mood the following day, much happier and chatting cheerfully to all and sundry. He was good company at breakfast and smiled his thanks for the cup of sweetened water he was brought. He had complained of a dry mouth the day before and was further gratified that a cup of cordial had been put on his chair in the chapel. He asked who had done it but it was none of the main party. He smiled again and offered general thanks for the thought.
Oswy entered a few minutes later than previously but no-one enquired why. He slumped into his chair and prepared himself for another heavy day of hair-splitting. He was getting decidedly bored by the whole thing and wondered if taking another concubine would have been a better course. She would have to come from the Kentish royal house, naturally, for the sake of the alliance, and the Southerners could be awkward about such things. Whatever, it was too late to stop the Synod now and so he waved the clerics to continue. Agilbert stood to speak and so did Cedd. The translator stumbled slightly as he walked to the front but seemed to recover. He rubbed his leg vigorously for a moment and prepared himself to concentrate on Agilbert’s words.
“My lord King Oswy,” Agilbert began, and Cedd translated. “I have decided - with your permission - that our case would be better served if it was made by someone who was not inconvenienced by translation. Therefore, Prior Wilfrid will speak on our behalf for the remainder of this Synod.” Oswy waited for Cedd to finish his translation - the Abbott seemed to be distracted - and then nodded his agreement.
“As the Bishop wishes,” he said, and Cedd translated. The King looked down the line to Wilfrid, who stood up. Agilbert sat down and Cedd, with a puzzled yelp, crumpled to the floor.
There was a confused buzzing around the chapel. Those at the back hadn’t seen what had happened, while those at the front weren’t sure what they had actually seen. In the melee, Colman ordered his fellow monks to hold the crowd away from the prostra
te form of Cedd while I knelt to find out what was the matter. Oswy looked on and Wilfrid stood, ignored by all, wondering what sort of plot the Irish had hatched this time.
“Tell me what you feel, tell me everything,” I asked Cedd. “Are you in any pain?”
“No, no pain,” came the bewildered reply. “My legs. My legs just gave way. I can’t feel them below the knee.” I felt the Abbott’s feet: they were cold, as were his calves.
“Do you feel light-headed?”
“Not really, well, yes I do, actually, now you mention it.”
I looked at Cedd’s legs and feet with urgency, using the little power I had to divine illness.
There were threads of an evil green colour, following the course of his veins up his legs. I knew what had happened. Colman came and knelt on one knee beside me and asked the question. I glanced about to see how closely we were observed.
“Make no reaction, it’s important,” I whispered, Colman nodded. “He’s been poisoned.”
“Poi-” he started to exclaim, and turned it into “Poi-poor brother Cedd! What must we do?”
“He must be taken immediately - and very gently - over to our sleeping quarters. Or the infirmary, if there is space. It would be better, and he can be guarded,” I whispered. “Speak to Abbess Hilda and make the arrangements as soon as it can be done.” Colman nodded and drew away. “Chad,” I called, and Cedd’s brother came from holding back the crowd, deeply concerned. “Stay here a moment with your brother. I have some arrangements to make.” Chad nodded and knelt on the floor, taking his brother’s hand to comfort him.
I walked over and stood before the King, who was waiting patiently for an explanation. I went as close as I dared and spoke as quietly as I could.
The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3) Page 28