Anlaf, of course, we would see again. He licked his wounds for a while, but still dreamed of coming back. He had learned he could not face Æthelstan, but no man lives for ever, not even a king. Especially a king.
17
When we returned to Winchester, I made it my concern to learn more of the wolf and crow men I’d seen on the battlefield of Brunanburh. I could not quite forget the way that young man’s face had changed when his wolfskin cloak had been taken from him. It was as if he’d woken from sleep and had barely time to blink and look around in wonder before I’d smashed the life out of him. He came to me in dreams for some months after that, sometimes to claw at me and smear me with blood, but as often as not, just to speak and tell me of his life. In part, my new field of study was to protect myself against those visions. They were not an aid to restful sleep.
Æthelstan and his brother Edmund enjoyed that summer. Not only had they fought and won, but there were no other contenders for the throne of Britain then, not one. It would be a long time before Anlaf had the strength and gold to find more men.
Great feasts were held and Edmund made sure I had a place at them. Æthelstan had neither seen nor heard of my courage, more was the pity. Yet a battle of just a single day creates thousands of stories: moments of courage and shame, turnarounds, vengeances by the dozen, desperate escapes and wild luck of all kinds. War is the great engine of storytelling, from the Latin ingenium for ‘device’, keeping bards in wine and silver by the thousand.
On every holy day and celebration for months, Æthelstan would summon men of high estate and low to the front, when ale and wine had flowed as rivers and all stomachs were full. Whether they were earls, churls or thralls, if they had a story, up they went. They described parts of the day I had not seen, nor even known about.
From the king’s bard, I heard that Constantin’s son had called for Æthelstan’s champion to face him – and that Egill had crossed half the battlefield to answer that challenge. I laughed with the rest as the bard showed us the changes in expression as the enemy watched Egill get bigger and bigger before him.
I heard too how Edmund had dismissed a senior thane on the left wing, asserting his authority over him. That man had left the battlefield and had been found hanging from a tree, dead by his own hand. Edmund told that as a sombre moment, but I knew from more private conversation that the fool had frozen on the battlefield, giving no orders for great stretches while our warriors were killed. Some men break, is all.
I heard about the king’s great charge from many voices. They smiled as they spoke and looked to Æthelstan in shared memory and pride. I could see they would never forget that day. Eyes gleamed in the telling – and it was not grief, or even triumph, but just echoes of strong emotion, of having lived through it.
The country was at peace as the seasons turned and turned again. I became well known at the king’s archives, so that no one minded my being there late at night, with just a shuttered lamp, gleaming dimly. Candles and bare flames were not allowed in those stacks and shelves, as you may imagine.
Æthelstan had always loved books and learning – but he took no pleasure from them, not as I did. He devoured works of faith and morals and read constantly from books translated by his grandfather or that were the result of his own scholarship. With different forebears, he could certainly have been a fine scribe or copyist. His personal prayerbook was as much his tiny black notes as the original text. What good it did him, what grace or peace it brought, I do not know.
If he had been some blockheaded lout of a king, without his fascinations, perhaps there would have been no royal library. Yet a month would not go by at that court without some book trader’s cart appearing at our gates. It was a rare event to see one turned away without a full purse, even when we had every copy already and merely bought duplicates.
It was not long before I was paying a couple of Elflaed’s silver pennies to the servants to tell me first when such a trader arrived. I’d been appalled to see one book destroyed, torn page from page, with all the binding threads showing like sparrow-bones. I knew there were things written no Christian king could permit. ‘Suffer not a witch to live’ applies also to their dark magics. Yet I did not see another book broken or burned in my time at Winchester, you may be sure. For the best part of two years, whenever I had first warning, I would gallop down to add the trader’s wares to the catalogue, to settle a price and to stack them on a little wheeled cart I had made, like the ones we used at the abbey to carry bricks or heavy pots.
The archivist then was an old fellow by the name of Geraint. He seemed to know a great deal of what had once been in the royal collection, but his eyes were almost useless and the burden of keeping the catalogue fell on my shoulders. I welcomed the freedom it brought me and those years were among the happiest of my life. Yet all things perish. Rose petals fall and summers end. Lent becomes Advent, as we used to say. That is just the way of it. We are not here to enjoy ourselves, after all. The beauty of a morning is just another form of temptation, more subtle than a soft red lip, or the desire for vengeance.
I had not seen a great deal of King Æthelstan for what must have been a year. With Edmund as my patron, I had become a known figure in the king’s court, though not once had I been asked to witness a Witan document, not even the minor ones where being a witness was more chore than honour. I confess I wondered why every other man and his mate seemed to be called at intervals, but never me.
I learned the reason after my third Christmas at Winchester, when I had just turned eighteen and grown a whisker shy of two yards tall. The king had his own yardstick and scales then. There was even a call to make such things the prime measures of the whole country. As if a pound of bacon in London will ever balance the scales of a pound in York. There is infinite variety in us, as it should be. Some people would put the whole world in chains.
I should have known something was up from the guard sent to fetch me. I never learned his name, but he was a pock-faced, ill-made fellow. He had certainly never been one of those who greeted me jovially when we met, whether in respect for my robe and tonsure or just good cheer, I never knew. A monk’s shaven crown is something of a trial for the way it has to be scraped each morning, always by another – it is almost impossible to do neatly oneself. Yet it serves as a sign of piety and vocation, visible to all. Most men bowed to me as I walked the corridors and gardens with armfuls of my books. They did so that day as I followed the king’s man, wondering idly what Æthelstan could possibly want with me.
I knew I was in some sort of trouble when I saw my uncle and Lady Elflaed in the outer chambers. Both of them rose to greet me and they looked as if they were about to witness my execution. Elflaed squirmed her hands together and yet I was ushered past them before they could say a single word, through another door that shut behind me while I was still gaping like a country boy at his first market.
Æthelstan was there, behind a great table of oak, sanded and waxed so well it seemed almost to glow with its own light. As my hands had made it, I can say it took weeks to achieve that lustre.
We were not alone in the room, of course. A king is almost never alone. Whether it is to record his words and promises, or to protect him from mad monks who might leap across a table at him, there are always men close to their master, very much like an ox in harness, straining to be let go.
I glanced behind me as I came in, fixing the position of two such oxen in my mind. I swallowed to see Egill Skiallgrimmson was also there in the corner. Though the Icelander appeared to be relaxing on a wide chair with his legs crossed and his hands behind his head, I knew by then how fast he could move. Egill could cross the room and drive me into the ground with one blow while the other two were still pulling out their swords. He raised his chin to me as our eyes met and I swallowed, turning back to the king who stood at a window and looked over the city. The shutters had been pinned back and he could watch the scurryings of his people below without actually having to touch or greet or smell
them. I rather envied the arrangement and wished I could have spent an afternoon in silence on that spot.
Æthelstan turned to me and I took a sharp breath at the change in him. His right hand had darkened to a very unhealthy colour. His face had been all planes and bone under his blond beard. At that moment, it had grown softer in aspect, yet it looked to my eye to be the swelling of sickness rather than too much food or wine.
‘Your Highness, my lord, I should have been called earlier than this!’ I said. ‘If there is some foul humour in your blood, it must be let out and balanced. It cannot be ignored.’
To my surprise, Æthelstan waved his swollen hand in irritation, as if to brush away my speech.
‘I have not called you here to tend my tainted hand, Brother Dunstan. My own physician bleeds me each morning and has given much ease. It is no more than a scratch gone sour in the flesh. I will recover. No, that is not your concern.’
I blinked, waiting to be told what else it might be. The sense of relief I’d felt on seeing the ill colour in his arm and face drained away, leaving me feeling cold and shivery.
‘Seat yourself, Dunstan.’
I did so, sinking into a wooden chair with a padded seat. I could feel the rounded nailheads digging into my buttocks as I waited to discover what made the king of Britain so grim in my presence. I did not have long to wait.
‘I have had word from Glastonbury,’ Æthelstan said. ‘Some months ago, now. I don’t believe I ever heard such wild accusations as came out of that place. Blasphemy, lies, fits, murders, theft – all manner of strange goings-on.’
I felt myself grow very still and once more I became aware of Egill Skiallgrimmson at my back. I could feel him watching me, so I returned the king’s gaze, unblinking, unashamed. I gave them nothing.
Æthelstan was one of those who believed he could read a man. I’d heard him say it was perhaps his greatest talent – and the source of all the rest. Yet he could not read me. He frowned and began to pace as he went on.
‘I sent a man to investigate in my name, to see if I had welcomed a devil into my court. Or to discover whether a good man was being lied about, traduced and ruined out of spite and jealousy. I ordered only that my servant visited as a pilgrim, to observe and question.’
I felt an urge to swallow, as spit pooled in my mouth. It was odd how such an ordinary thing became hard to do, until I felt I had an apple lodged in my throat, or just a piece of it.
‘When my man returned to me, he brought reports of disarray, Dunstan. Of an abbot run wild, my own appointment, driven to fevers of the brain by grief at the death of his son. A tragedy, Dunstan, though we have all known loss – and seen those broken by it. Of course, a man of God … does not bear comparison with such pitiful creatures, keening after lost babes and such. Holy men like Abbot Simeon, ah … hermits and visionaries have concerns much greater than washing or eating.’
That interested me! I could only imagine how barking, frothing mad old Simeon must have gone to have the king clearing his throat and hesitating even to describe it! I hoped the skinny old fool ran naked round the abbey twice a day.
‘The community at Glastonbury has broken apart under … such strain. I am told no man trusts another. It seems they eat in their cells and rooms, rather than together, believing they will be poisoned. Even the regular services have had to be abandoned, with no one attending. This, in the abbey founded by St David. In the resting place of St Patrick! Where King Arthur went to die! It is not to be borne. There was even a murder after you left, when one of them stuck one of his fellow monks with a knife and ran away.’
‘Brother Caspar?’ I asked. I could not help myself.
‘No. Is he one who knew you well?’
The king may have thought that was a clever question, but if complaints and accusations had been made against me, I could not imagine a more likely source.
‘Oh my lord, it grieves me to answer. Brother Caspar was mine enemy. Ever since the moment with the angel, he was jealous. It ate at him, I think, corroded him. I knew him first as an honourable man, but he was one of those who came in the night and tried to kill me. He seemed to … hate me then.’
I looked away, suddenly afraid the king would truly have a gift to see to the heart of me. It took a great effort of will to remember that the eyes are shutters on the soul. I knew he would see guilt in tiny twitches and nervous trembling. So I returned his gaze like an innocent child – and it reassured him. He trusted his judgement of me. I saw much of the tension go out of the man and he exchanged a flickering glance with Egill, at my back. I did not turn, though my shoulder blades crawled for an instant as I imagined that great white-haired troll taking my head off.
‘I want to believe you, Dunstan. My niece speaks highly of you – and I have gone over and over her time at the abbey, everything she saw. She believes you were saved that day for a reason, though she does not yet know what that might be. And I trust her.’
He stared fondly at the wall for a beat – and for the first time, it occurred to me that Elflaed might not actually be the king’s niece, in the sense of being related to him by blood. I felt my eyes widen. Calling a younger woman ‘niece’ is a term used by some men. It does not matter. I found myself blushing and I coughed violently into my hand to cover the sudden heat in my face.
‘I can see you are a fellow of great promise, Dunstan, an artificer of rare ability. This very table is proof! All those who have taught or observed you say the same, that you have a mind and hands that are touched by the divine.’
I risked a small smile and bowed my head, trying to look humble. Humility is something of a pain, of course, for any man. We all claim to despise pride, but honestly, must we pretend to be unaware of our talents, year after year? Goodness me, did I make something of extraordinary beauty yet again? Well, what luck to be so blessed! It is ludicrous.
I found myself the object of the king’s gaze once more as he stopped pacing.
‘I must confess I have not acted with honour, Dunstan. Can you forgive me?’
I felt my heart thumping. Was it some sort of trap?
‘Of … c-course, Your Highness, my lord. I am sure you …’
‘I ordered you watched. And followed. For months now, I have had eyes on you, wherever you went. Whatever you read. That is my concern here, Dunstan.’
My mind was whirling with a thousand thoughts of petty sin and errors. I doubt even the saints would enjoy the thought of being observed at all hours of a day. Had they watched me as I slept? It did not seem possible. The power of such a claim is that the accused will sometimes blurt out their own guilt with little or no further effort. I have used the device successfully myself once or twice, in the years since.
‘With one exception, you appear to live a blameless life, Dunstan. My men report no side deals in royal supplies, no gambling, no whores. You work and you read, Dunstan. One of my men has become quite incensed at such a simple life, which interested me. He is certain you spotted him somehow – and are hiding some great sin behind an innocent exterior.’
The king paused for a moment, to tap one of his fingernails on a tooth. I saw again how thick and dark his fingers had become. The habit clearly caused him pain, so that he looked at his own hand in surprise, wincing at the sight of it.
‘I wish now that I had brought Jonah in, for him to question you directly. Yet his suspicions go some way to explain the accusations from the abbey. You are a man who inspires spite, Dunstan. Some, like the archivist Geraint, speak of you with enormous affection, almost as a father to a son. Your uncle has tears in his eyes when he speaks of your troubles and suffering. Yet others hint at sorceries, of forbidden books, of strange rituals no one else can explain or understand.’
‘I am a seeker after truth,’ I said firmly. ‘A man of faith. That is all, my lord. I am a reflection of my maker and yet a broken thing. I am a sinner, of course. There is no perfection here. Shall I confess my sins to you? Command me and I shall.’
‘No, no
…’ He held up his palm. ‘I cannot absolve you, nor hear confession.’
I had him on the defensive, allowing me time to collect my thoughts.
The king knew a little. He did not know all. I suspected he was hinting at a great deal of knowledge, in the hope that I would admit more. Yet I was not a fool, nor a child.
‘You are a very young man, Dunstan, a young man of great promise, it is true. That is clear to me. I will not throw you to the fire. I am building a kingdom, after all. I need strong backs and fine minds. Give me your hands.’
I rose from my chair and held out my hands in a sort of trance. To my dismay, he did take them in his. We stood there like lovers, looking into each other’s eyes. I did not flinch. He could not see me.
‘In his last breath, a man can turn to another path, should he so choose. If you have sinned, Dunstan. If you have sought a diabolical cure perhaps for your fits, if you have had thoughts born from pride and anger rather than the goodness of God, there is still time to cast your old life into the flames. Do you understand?’
His hands were very warm, though it may have been the sickness in him.
‘Lady Elflaed has intervened on your behalf, asking for mercy. Your uncle too has begged me not to abandon you – to show compassion. I want to believe these hands were touched by angels, Dunstan. On that, even your enemies will not gainsay you. Now, tell me on your oath and on your immortal soul. Is it true? Were you carried down?’
I nodded at him, horrified at the stakes. The silence beat at me in great strokes, each more powerful than the one before, until I thought I might faint away. The king breathed again and I realised he had been perfectly still, weighing me, my hands against his.
‘God be praised, Dunstan. He has found a good servant in you. Very well. You are freed of your service here, your oaths to me. Glastonbury needs an abbot. Go and do God’s work in that place, far away from here. Far away from me.’
Dunstan Page 18