When the two screws were steady, I stood back. My hands were shaking so badly by then that I could not go on. It fell to Encarius to take hold of the black iron and ease the bone up, working it a fraction back and forth until it had been raised to the level of the rest. It was Encarius who pierced the scalp and settled it back into place, leaving the nails standing out. It was he who fixed knots to them in good cord, so that they could not slip back.
Aphra stepped in to stitch the scalp together once again, then wrap Wulfric’s head in new bandages. When she was finished, I swear there was a little more colour to his cheeks. Encarius and I looked in awe at each other, and Abbot Simeon called for us all to pray to the glory of God.
After that excitement, the monastery settled back into its routine of services: Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, Compline and sleep. Wulfric did not wake, but neither did he die. As I said he would, he fought.
That small room off the infirmary saw the same scene repeated every day. Alice and Aphra and Encarius and I would visit for the hours of daylight. We changed dressings and sheets and bathed his body as it became foul. We sniffed the oozing stump of his arm. Encarius ran his knife in a flame and dug about in Wulfric’s flesh until a great wash of green pus poured down his ribs. I had to leave the room then, the smell was so terrible.
After that, the wound seemed cleaner. The swellings reduced day by day, until he looked almost normal except for the black nails and the red line running in a great ‘T’ across his forehead and scalp. I went to all the abbey services and redoubled my prayers and promises. I made my bargains, as men do. Lord, if you can find it in your heart, I will raise a great house in your name. I will make you a cathedral. Some men promise the world and cannot deliver it. Yet my word was good, I think. I have broken some oaths, but not that one.
The days became weeks and then months. I took out the nail screws and they bled cleanly. Wulfric’s skin grew yellow and stretched like canvas over his bones. I could see the hollows of his skull when I looked at him, but still he did not wake. One of the boys broke a leg around the same time. He caught his foot in a hole and went down badly, so that something snapped or twisted. He was back to running and jumping after two months – and Wulfric still lay limp and loose, weaker as the seasons passed.
Alice and I fed him each morning – we became skilled at it, as any other craft, after I had fashioned a funnel to take the broth past the juncture to his lungs. It was a small thing made from boiled cow horn and polished to a golden glow. Alice called it a miracle, and it was true Wulfric’s colour began to improve.
I did not mind the way Alice looked on me. Ever since she heard what I had done to save my brother, she had softened in her glances. I was surprised when she placed her hand on mine, then blushed. We sat at Wulfric’s side and I only shook my head at her as if I disapproved, though I felt such desire that I could only stare.
That summer was one of the best I remember, yet I saw it as pitiless. Blue skies and heat brought flies and sweat and made the daylight hours a torment and a misery. Encarius and I resumed our normal duties. Once more I helped him grind herbs and minerals, both for the medical supplies and for the kitchens. When I was not needed in that work, I spent my hours at the forge or working planes and chisels and files to make a harp. I shaped and prepared beams with Master Gregory, or made stirrups and learned saddlery. I was always under the eye of one of the brothers and almost never alone in that small community.
At the first touch of rust on the trees, Godwin came into the forge. I’d hardly exchanged a word with him in months, as if I had no interest in him at all. He did not announce himself that day, but just appeared and slouched against the door frame to watch me. When I noticed him at last, it was with a jolt. I almost dropped the bright iron I held in my tongs, hot enough to burn moisture from the air.
‘My father is calling for you,’ Godwin said.
I could see he was pleased at the discomfort he had caused me. In the first days and weeks after Wulfric was hurt, Godwin had worn a hunted expression as he waited for some vengeance from me. Little by little, I’d seen him come to believe I truly did not know. His confidence had returned, though I wondered if he feared Wulfric waking to name him. If he ever woke, of course.
‘What does Abbot Simeon want from me?’ I asked. I used the man’s name, always. I didn’t like the way Godwin brought up the relationship, wanting us all to be reminded.
‘Some fancy woman from Winchester,’ he said. ‘Wants to see the liar who said he flew with angels.’
I took a step towards him, though he didn’t flinch. He wasn’t a coward, I’ll say that much for him.
‘I was carried down, Godwin,’ I whispered. ‘And I was burned at the touch of that angel. Like this.’
He had not understood that I wore my great forge gauntlets and my leather apron. When I took his hand in mine, I was still holding the yellow piece of iron that would have gone to make a horse’s bit.
I forgot myself, just for an instant. I forgot that I had promised my secret heart to make no accusation, to give no sign I held him accountable, so that when I turned on him at last, no one would suspect me.
He shrieked like a woman and flung it away, while the cat scrambled past his legs in panic at the sound. The darkening iron tumbled across the floor, making wisps of smoke rise from hay and mud. I took a moment to gather it up and chuck it into a quenching bucket. By the time I looked around again, Godwin had gone like the cat, no doubt sucking his hand and nursing a fresh grievance.
I dipped my hands into the water bucket and smoothed down my hair, stripping gauntlets and the apron to reveal my most patched shirt and a pair of woollen trews so old the crotch sagged almost to my knees. I did not inspire, but I had no way of knowing how long the abbot and his guest had already been waiting.
9
Abbot Simeon had made some changes to the little office and prayer room that had served his predecessor. Dried flowers hung at a narrow window to the outside, so that a breeze wafted scents of hops and lavender into the room.
A woman turned in her seat to face me as I made my obeisance to the abbot. No, I should not put her in the same bag as Aphra. Elflaed was as great a lady as I have ever known – and I have met so many queens I tire of the breed.
The widow Elflaed was not beautiful. Do not believe I was some lovesick shepherd, smitten as I laid eyes on her. The lady’s jaw and forehead were wide, her nose upturned at the end, granting a glimpse of more nostril than is usually expected. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and had thick lashes, so that they appeared darker and far larger than they actually were. It was a face of calm and strength, certainly, but not beauty.
‘Dunstan here is one of our most promising young gentlemen,’ Simeon said. ‘It is our hope to see him ordained as a priest, or perhaps to join the order here. He has a great gift with iron and silver, I am told. And the growing of green things. Nothing is beyond him, so his masters say. Well, one of his uncles is Archbishop Athelm, my lady. If such things are in the blood, who knows how far this one may travel in the service of our Lord?’
I blinked at Abbot Simeon in surprise. I did not recall ever mentioning my uncle to him. Perhaps my father Heorstan talked more of his family to the monks than he ever had to me. All I knew was that my father’s side was packed with clerics and men of power. It was not my father’s way to ever have them visit us, however.
Men like old Abbot Clement and even my father saw no great wisdom in discussing their world with mere boys. We were not real to them, I think. There have been too many times since then when I learned something of my childhood that no one bothered to tell me when it actually might have been useful.
‘Father Simeon tells me your brother is sore wounded,’ Lady Elflaed said, tilting her head at me. ‘I will include him in my prayers this very evening.’
I thought she was studying me and I bowed to her, in part to gather my thoughts. When I rose, I was smooth-faced and calm.
‘You are gracious, m
y lady. I’m afraid my brother has not woken now for months. None of us have much hope left, beyond a miracle.’
‘Then I will pray for one,’ she said. ‘For the brother of one carried by angels, perhaps it is not too much to ask.’
I bowed again, a little overwhelmed by that piercing eye. She was very still, I noticed, without a flutter of her hands as she talked. I thought it would be hard to lie to her.
‘Lady Elflaed has asked if you would be so kind as to show her the gardens here, Dunstan. Are you free of your duties this afternoon?’
The abbot turned a brittle smile on me, knowing I certainly was if he commanded it.
‘It would be my great honour, my lady,’ I said. ‘I would take your arm, but I fear I am too grimy from the forge.’
To my surprise, she stood up and held out her hand even so, wrapped to the first finger in some smooth white cloth I hardly dared to touch.
‘The char of the forge, or the whole world, is clean to me, Dunstan. Sin is the only mark that matters. Do you understand me?’
‘I believe so, my lady. And I agree.’
As I reached out and entwined my arm in hers, she squeezed her elbow closed, welcoming me. I liked her, despite the little pig face. She guided me to the door and then drew me up as a stranger appeared there.
He was dressed in a black Benedictine robe, knotted about such a narrow waist that I wondered how much man could possibly be held inside that small snare. I glared at the stranger and, in turn, he looked scornfully at me. I had seen he held a leg of chicken in his hand, a fine piece of fat capon. His lips shone with grease from nibbling at it. I took a moment to frown, as if I had caught him stealing. It was cheek, of course, but first impressions are strange things and not always in our control.
I heard the lady on my arm chuckle to herself at my side.
‘Dunstan, this is my dear companion and adviser, Father Keats. Keats, this is the young man I told you about, who was carried down by an angel in view of all the men here.’
This Keats raised his chin to me at that, though it was grudging.
‘And where are you off to now with him? I told you I wanted to see the relicts.’
‘Are you always so impertinent to your mistress?’ I demanded.
I stepped forward as I spoke, so that I came between them. Before the old man could react, I snatched the chicken leg from his grasp. I tossed it towards the window in my anger, but it snagged on the dried hops and hung there like a garnish. The old priest scowled at me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘It is no concern of yours how I speak to anyone, boy! It does concern me how you dare to speak to me!’
He had grown red in his temper, I noticed. With no great gentleness, I moved him aside with an arm laid across his chest, clearing the doorway for Lady Elflaed to pass through. The old fellow struggled a little, but had the sense to go still as his mistress squeezed by.
I took Lady Elflaed’s arm in the corridor, without meeting her astonished gaze. Nor did I look back to see the old sod retrieve his chicken leg. Instead, I directed the lady out past the infirmary, where Alice and Aphra curtsied and gazed in wonder on me, then into the abbey gardens, where the air was thick with herbs and the drone of bees on lavender.
I had not gone a dozen paces before Lady Elflaed drew me to a halt.
‘Why were you so … brash, so hard on Father Keats?’ she said.
‘I did not like his manner to you, my lady. It seems to me that a monk should be humble and show respect. The way he came strolling along, waving his capon leg … I thought him coarse. He had no right to press you with questions either.’
I broke off, aware that I actually was sounding like a lovesick shepherd. I admired her, I will say that much. I will also say that there are many other loves beyond the act of rutting. The love of man for God, say, or for his mother or sister. Plato described it perfectly. Love can be pure, especially if the face does not excite desire.
‘I see,’ she said. She had gone pink and was silent for a long time as I showed her the gardens and listed all the strange things that grew there. She stopped in wonder as I described the dangers of the poison bed and told her to avoid even touching the plants.
‘That ivy, my lady, if allowed to drift across your skin, will cause a blister that might take a year to heal and could tingle in the sunlight for a full year after that.’
‘Why, then, is it grown at all?’ she asked.
I was flattered to have a woman of great station and wealth looking to me as a tutor.
‘Almost all poisons have some use in medicine, my lady. In small doses, even something as deadly as monk’s hood, which we call aconite, has a use. It brings on sleep and calm in children, though the amount is no more than a thousandth of the killing drop. Or hemlock, there, which has killed more than one emperor of Rome. That will bring on a drowse where little pain is felt and less remembered.’
She pressed a hand to her mouth as she gazed around, then accepted my arm in hers once more as I moved on, over a strip of flagstoned ground to row upon row of runner beans, a September crop grown long and fat, with red flowers and our own bees sipping at them. She asked me about my time at the abbey and I drifted into the story of the angel carrying me down without really being aware of it, then of Wulfric’s injury and all I had done since then. The words poured out of me and she seemed fascinated. I wonder now how many other men Elflaed had listened to and learned from over the years. I feel a twinge of jealousy at the thought of others enjoying that intimacy! Yet it was new to me then. A woman in her prime, listening closely and responding to every word I said. It was a glamour of a sort, and I fell under her spell. I was not unaware of her touch, always to the arm where I had indicated the angel had scorched me.
After a time, we came to the part of abbey land where wooden crosses marked the burial of the brothers. Away from the abbey buildings, it was a peaceful place I came to when I was weary. The grass had been trimmed back and the graves were neatly tended. I told Elflaed about Abbot Clement and showed her the carved stone where he lay beneath the sod. Abbots get a better class of grave, though the hole is just the same. She prayed at his marker with her head bowed and I took a moment to close my eyes to the breeze.
‘Are you unwell, Dunstan?’ I heard her ask.
I opened my eyes and shook my head.
‘I’m sorry, my lady. I was a little overcome. I recalled a dream I had last night, that made no sense to me before I stood here today, with you.’
‘Dreams can be sent to us, Dunstan. Did you know? They can be messages from God.’
‘I have suffered visions before, my lady, as I said. They come upon me and I shake and go blind. It is an affliction to be so angel-touched.’
Her eyes widened at my words and I saw she dared not ask. I described it for her anyway.
‘I saw this graveyard, but at my back was a great abbey, as tall and broad as any in England. I have seen the vision before, but last night I cried out, asking how it could be true. I was shown the graveyard once more and told that there would be a fresh plot filled in three days, by one who showed no sickness. That would be my proof that the vision was true and from God.’
I looked down at her and saw she was close to tears.
‘Who will it be, Dunstan?’
I sought to reassure her then. The last thing I wanted was for her to run from that place in terror.
‘A man, my lady. The voice said “He” to me. That is all I know.’
I saw relief flood her and she leaned once more on my arm.
‘I would like to return to Abbot Simeon now,’ she said faintly. ‘You have shown me so much, told me so many things. My thoughts are in a whirl, a maelstrom.’
I worried she might faint, and then I would have to explain how her dress had crumpled and endure the suspicions of men like Brother Caspar. I hurried her back to the abbot, who glanced from her to me and looked delighted at what he saw. Father Keats stood up as his mistress entered, though she seemed
almost dazed and lost in thought. Perhaps it was the heat.
The abbot summoned servants to bring cool drinks for Elflaed and Keats. I was dismissed and I was surprised when Simeon came out into the corridor with me. He patted me on the back.
‘Well done, lad,’ he murmured, smiling.
I could only gaze at him in confusion.
‘Dunstan, Lady Elflaed is the king’s niece. It does not hurt us to have friends at court. Nor will it hurt our purse.’
His enthusiasm for raising funds and supporters was somehow vulgar. I frowned.
‘Jesus did not seek wealth, Abbot Simeon. I believe when asked about coins stamped with the likeness of Tiberius, he said, “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.” ’
Abbot Simeon’s expression soured, as you might expect.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I believe he did say that. Food for thought, boy, food for thought. Well, your part in this is at an end, at least. On your way then, Dunstan, with my thanks.’
His mood had turned completely as he went back in to his guests, which cheered me enormously. As he would discover, my part had only begun.
Father Keats died in the hour just after Matins, that is to say some little time after midnight. He retired to his bed after yawning through the Night Office, then was found cold and still when he did not appear for Lauds at dawn. Encarius examined his body, but there was no mark on him and it seemed he was taken by a chill. At his age, such things are a constant peril. We are all given such a brief season. I cannot say I liked him, but he was not without merit. After all, his ending aided me enormously.
It was Abbot Simeon who agreed he could be buried in our rather modest graveyard. As a Benedictine, it was not so unusual and far better than binding him up for travel while he rotted. Some towns still charged a toll for bodies, which gave rise to farcical stories of dead men and women sat high on carts and tied in place, even made to wave by their children as they rode through.
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