by H A CULLEY
He got no further before two of the king’s gesith hauled him unceremoniously out of the hall. If he expected to be allowed to reside in comfort whilst awaiting his hearing before the Witan he was destined to be disappointed. He was held in a small stone built hut with an opening high up that let in a small amount of light and a stout door barred on the outside. The floor was of beaten earth covered in dirty rushes that didn’t look as if they’d been changed in a year or more and rats scurried hither and thither looking for any morsel of food that the last occupants might have dropped.
There was no bed, just a straw filled paillasse with so many bugs and lice on it that it seemed to be alive. When his eyes had adjusted to the dim light he espied a leather bucket in the corner. It was stained a dark brown that was almost black with use and stank. It was obviously where he was meant to relieve himself. He sat down in the corner opposite the bucket with his bottom on the floor and his back against the wall. He drew his knees up into his rotund belly and wept. His one hope was that the archbishop would hear of his plight and rescue him but he knew it was a vain hope.
In the morning the door opened and a young boy with a face covered in grime and wearing a muck stained tunic entered carrying a bucket similar to the one in the corner. Ignoring the bishop, who was still sitting the corner, he changed it with the one already in the hut and went to leave.
‘Stop! When do I break my fast?’
‘You mean when do you eat?’ the boy said, clearly puzzled by the question. ‘Mid- afternoon.’
He said it as if that’s when everyone ate and, for all Wilfrid knew, that might be true for him and his fellows.
The morning dragged on and he was glad when the door opened again. The air in the place was distinctly fetid and at least the through draft from the door to the small opening brought in some fresh air. The same boy appeared again, this time carrying a wooden bowl.
Wilfrid took it from him and looked suspiciously at the contents.
‘What’s this supposed to be?’
‘Supposed to be nothing. It’s vegetable stew. It’s good, go on try it.’
‘How, there’s no spoon.’
The boy put out his hands and made a movement as if tipping a bowl.
‘Drink from the bowl?’ Wifrid asked incredulously .
The boy nodded. ‘Drink the liquid and then scoop the rest out with your hands. How do you normally eat it?’
‘Well, I don’t eat this slop and, even if I did, I would need a spoon.’
The boy shrugged and left.
Wilfrid looked at the bowl of vegetables and barley stewed in water and tentatively tasted it. He hadn’t eaten for over a day and he was famished. It didn’t taste too bad and he quickly consumed it. The thought of having to wait another twenty four hours for his next meal depressed him.
The boy came in again half an hour later and took the bowl away, replacing it with a tankard of ale. Anglo-Saxons had a horror of drinking water, believing that it would make them ill and even children drank weak ale after they had got past the milk stage.
Wilfrid had little to occupy himself with so he prayed a great deal, mainly for release but also for revenge. He tried to recite passages of the Bible but surprised himself by how little he could remember.
On the fourth day he was brought a bowl of water and a towel so he could wash and a man came in to shave his face and his tonsure. He did his best to make himself look respectable but his fine robes were stained and soiled with dirt from the floor.
When he was taken outside he had never been so glad to breathe fresh air. It was raining but even that came as a relief. He felt it was washing him clean. Two warriors escorted him back to the king’s hall where Ecgfrith sat with his wife on a dais at the rear of the hall. In front of them was a table at which Bishop Eata, Bishop Bosa and a man he didn’t recognise sat together with a scribe. Along one wall of the hall sat twelve men who would presumably act as his adjudicators. As he was of noble blood they had to be at least thegns.
‘Wilfrid, you know everyone except Ealdorman Irwyn of Loidis I think?’ Bosa said, more as a statement than a question.
After his brother’s death Ecgfrith had decided not to appoint anyone as Eorl of Deira. He’d continued his father’s policy of creating ealdorman to look after shires. Like most kings, he found that having nobles who were too powerful reduced the king’s own authority. Now, with scores of ealdormen ruling smaller areas all real power lay in his hands. The only eorls left in Northumbria now were the Eorl of Lothian and the Eorl of Elmet. They would be the last.
‘You are accused of disobedience to the king in that you returned to Northumbria without his permission.’ Bosa looked up from a scroll in front of him. ‘Do you have anything to say?’
‘I am the Bishop of Eoforwīc appointed by the Pope himself. This is not the king’s appointment and so he cannot prevent my return to my diocese and he has no jurisdiction over me.’
‘I think you’ll find that I have jurisdiction over everyone in my kingdom, Wilfrid. You were born here and you are my subject, whatever some Sicilian Bishop of Rome may say.’
Wilfrid was surprised that Ecgfrith knew that Pope Agatho was born in Sicily and wondered if he even knew where the Island was. The king had never struck him as a particularly well educated man.
‘Your father acknowledged the supremacy of Rome, Cyning. In doing so he accepted the authority of the Pope.’
‘No he didn’t, he accepted the Roman dating of Easter and its doctrine where it differed from that of the Celtic Church. The appointment of bishops is not a doctrinal or theological matter. Kings of Northumbria have always had the final say in the appointment of bishops and of abbots. Carry on Bosa.’
‘Do you have anything to add, Wilfrid?’
‘No, if you refuse to accept the Pope’s edict then you are all damned to Hell.’
Bosa turned to the jury and asked if they wished for time to discuss their verdict but the senior thegn shook his head.
‘Father Wilfrid wilfully disobeyed the king and he is therefore guilty.’
The description of him as a priest rather than as a bishop wasn’t lost on Wilfrid. He was about to protest when he thought better of it. What good would it do him?
Bosa and his fellow judges conferred briefly before he turned back to the dishevelled figure standing before them.
‘Wilfrid you are banished from Northumbria. If you return again you will be imprisoned for life. Do you understand?’
For a moment Wilfrid was speechless, then he grasped at one final straw of hope.
‘What about my monasteries at Hexham and Ripon? They have been granted to me by the Pope.’
‘Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said,’ Ecgfrith yelled at him, finally losing his temper. ‘The Pope’s writ does not run in Northumbria.’
‘Then you will all be damned to Hell for all eternity.’
‘Get out! Get out now or I’ll have you imprisoned until you starve to death.’
Wilfrid stalked out of the hall with as much dignity as he could muster. The urchin who had brought him his food and changed his soil bucket each day stood outside in the rain holding his horse by its reins. He must have been there for a little while because the water had almost washed his face clean and Wilfred saw that he had a scar running down his right cheek which made it look as if the boy was leering at him.
Wilfrid mounted and jerked the reins savagely out of the boy’s hands. He rode out of Eoforwīc and headed south. Perhaps Ecgfrith had written to his fellow kings because he found no welcome in Mercia or Wessex. After a month of travelling he eventually came to the minor Kingdom of Sussex. The South Saxons were pagans in the main but their king, Æthelwealh, was willing to listen to Wilfrid’s preaching.
Sussex had been experiencing a drought when Wilfrid arrived but the day he baptised the first converts it started to rain. The superstitious Saxons interpreted this as a miracle and arrived in droves to be baptised by Wilfrid. Two months later King Æthelwealh
made Wilfrid Bishop of Sussex and paid for a monastery to be built for him at Selsy.
When Ecgfrith was told of this he merely grunted that at least Selsy was about as far away from him as Wilfrid could get and still be in England. Provided he stayed there, he was content.
Chapter Eleven – The Invasion of Hibernia
684 AD
The muffled sound of the downpour outside hitting the roof and the ground could be heard in the silence of the church on Lindisfarne as Bishop Eata conducted Catinus’ funeral service. He had fallen ill at the end of March and had died with Alaric and Osfrid at his side. Conomultus and Eydth had set out as soon as they heard that he was ill, but the roads were like quagmires and they didn’t arrive until the day before the funeral.
Osfrid stood with his brother Alaric on one side of him and his wife, Godwyna of Jarrow, on the other. They had been married the previous year and she was now showing distinct signs of the baby growing within her. Conomultus and Eydth stood on the other side of Godwyna. Eydth’s son, Eochaid, had been left at Alnwic with his wet nurse.
Conomultus was only two years younger than his brother had been and he was now looking quite old. Osfrid worried that he too might die soon, which would leave Eydth without anyone to help her manage the shire. In that eventuality Ecgfrith could well go back on his promise and, instead of making Eochaid the ealdorman when he reached maturity at sixteen he might appoint someone else to take over. He needed to talk to the king at the next opportunity. He might even have to suggest that, in the event of Conomultus’ death, he could combine the two shires under his rule until his nephew was old enough.
After the service they trudged through the mud to the cemetery and saw Catinus laid to rest. His grave faced east but it had a good view of Bebbanburg across the bay. Osfrid smiled briefly at the thought that his father would have liked that.
Conomultus and Eydth stayed at Bebbanburg until the weather improved and set off on a sunny day in early April to ride back to Alnwic. Life at Bebbanburg then returned to normal and, although Osfrid was blissfully happy with Godwyna and looking forward to the birth of their first child, he was only twenty and craved a little more excitement in his life. He didn’t have long to wait. A month later he was summoned to a meeting of the king’s war council.
Ecgfrith sat at the head of the table in his hall at Loidis. He had been on a tour of his kingdom when news arrived which made him change his plans. Osfrid was the last to arrive and was just in time to hear Octa telling the council the reason for the meeting.
‘The attacks on the coast of Cumbria are increasing, Cyning, many of the Britons who fled from the region that used to be known as Rheged took service as mercenaries in Hibernia with the High King, Fínsnechta. He is now using them to raid their old homeland. They have already looted and burned three coastal settlements this year and it is only May.’
‘What do we know about this Fínsnechta?’
Octa looked at Stepan, the Ealdorman of Cumbria, and nodded to indicate that he should reply.
‘Fínsnechta is king of the southern branch of the Uí Néill , the most important of all the tribes in Hibernia. He became King of Brega in 675 after killing his cousin, Cenn Fáelad, who was his predecessor. He then crushed all those who opposed him to make himself high king. He is ruthless and he’s made himself very wealthy by raiding, both within Hibernia and now across the sea to the Isle of Man and Cumbria.’
‘Obviously this Fínsnechta needs to be taught a lesson,’ Ecgfrith said thoughtfully. ‘To launch a reprisal raid we will need ships. How many do you have in Cumbria, Stepan?’
‘Only five, Cyning: three birlinns and two pontos. But I also have half a dozen knarr which we use for trading; they could carry perhaps three hundred men or two hundred and, say, thirty horses.’
‘Not enough. You say that this Hibernian has also been raiding Man?’
‘Yes, Cyning. I know that King Alweo is very concerned about it.’
‘Good. I need someone to go and see if he will join us in a joint mission against Fínsnechta.’
‘My sister is Queen of Man, Cyning,’ Osfrid said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice at the prospect of being involved in the raid.
‘Hmm, I need you to ready your horsemen. Scouts will play a vital role in this expedition.’
‘I have a warband of thirty trained horsemen, Cyning; that’s in addition to my gesith of twenty who escorted me here.’
‘Very well, send for them. I want them to be at Caer Luel at the beginning of June. In the meantime you and Stepan can go to Man and see if Alweo will join us in this venture.’
~~~
It was years since Ecgfrith had been to Bebbanburg. With Osfrid away it fell to Godwyna to entertain the royal party. Thankfully the king had only brought his gesith, Bishop Bosa and a few servants with him. He only stayed one night and then continued on to Lindisfarne. He had decided to come himself because he knew that persuading Cuthbert to do as he wished wouldn’t be easy. Trumbert, Bishop of Hexham, had died and he wanted to appoint Cuthbert to replace him.
He was annoyed when he got to the entrance to the route across the sands to find that the tide was still in. Godwyna had offered him a boat to take him across the bay but one look at the sea convinced him to make the longer journey by land. Ecgfrith was not a good sailor at the best of times and the choppy waves with their crests blown into sprays of spume would make for a very uncomfortable crossing, short as it was.
He therefore arrived at the monastery in a bad temper. It got worse when Cuthbert proved as obstinate as he feared.
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘No, Cyning, I do not wish to move to Hexham in order to become its bishop.’
‘Why not?’
‘Firstly, I have no desire to become a bishop or an abbot. I only became prior because Eata needed my support to introduce the Benedictine rule here. It’s far stricter than the monks were used to under the Celtic regime, especially the requirement to attend services eight times a day, including the middle of the night.’
‘Yes, yes, but you have done an excellent job as prior and there is no-one in Northumbria who is more devout or who is held in higher regard as a churchman; no disrespect to you Eata, but it’s true.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, Cyning. I am well aware of my limitations,’ Eata said with a smile.
‘As do I, know my limitations that is,’ Cuthbert stated forcefully. ‘Rather than have to cope with more responsibility, I would prefer to retire to one of the Inner Farne Islands and see out my days as an anchorite.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
‘Because God has called me to do my duty here as prior.’
‘Well, now I’m telling you that your duty is to become Bishop of Hexham.’
‘Cyning, if I may?’ Eata intervened.
The king nodded, feeling exasperated. It was no good ordering Cuthbert to move to Hexham, he would refuse and that would put the king in an impossible position. He couldn’t punish Cuthbert; the nobles and his people wouldn’t stand for it. Imprisoning Wilfrid and then banishing him was different. It had proved popular in many quarters and those that supported him had the sense to keep quiet.
‘Brother Cuthbert, am I correct in assuming that you would be content to stay here on Lindisfarne?’
‘Yes, I may be being selfish but I like the sea. I feel closer to God here, especially on the islands.’
‘Then why don’t you stay here as bishop and abbot? I’ll move back to Hexham if the king is happy with that solution; after all, I was prior there before I came here as abbot.’
Ecgfrith sighed with relief. It was an admirable solution.
‘Thank you, Bishop Eata, I am content with the arrangement if it’s acceptable to Cuthbert?’
‘If I must become a bishop, then I accept.’
Ecgfrith’s good humour returned. With the death of Trumbert and the appointment of Cuthbert as his replacement neither Wilfrid nor the Pope had any supporters left amongst the
churchmen on the Witan of Northumbria.
When he returned to Eoforwīc he found more good news awaiting him. Pope Agatho was dead and his successor, Leo II, hadn’t lasted more than a few months before he too had died. Benedict II had been elected to replace him but he was awaiting the approval of Constantine IV, the Holy Roman Emperor and for some reason that hadn’t been forthcoming. Consequently there was no current pope and the papacy was in a state of turmoil. In such conditions Wilfrid’s renewed petition for redress would be the least of Rome’s concerns.
~~~
It had been a dozen years since Alweo had become King of Man and Osfrid scarcely remembered his sister. He’d been a small boy when Hereswith had married Alweo and now she had five children, three boys and two girls. The eldest, Æthelbald, was thirteen years old and the youngest, Thringfrith, was a boy born the previous year.
Of course, they had never met their uncle and Æthelbald, in particular, seemed intrigued by a man who, at some half a dozen years older than him, was already an ealdorman and the Master of Horse, a new concept to him. Manxmen fought on foot and, although they used horses to get from one place to another, they found the concept of fighting on horseback strange.
‘Æthelbald isn’t being schooled in a monastery,’ Osfrid had remarked to Hereswith when they sat down to eat.
‘No, he divides his time between being taught by the king’s chaplain and his military training. The nearest monastery is at Heysham in Cumbria and Alweo and I worry about the raids by the Hibernians.’
‘That is what I’m here to discuss, but it can wait until tomorrow.’
‘I suppose you were educated at Lindisfarne?’
‘Yes, by our brother Alaric. If I thought I’d get special treatment he soon disabused me of that idea. If anything he was harder on me than on the other novices, just so no one could accuse him of favouritism.’
‘Of course, he was only nine and still at home when I left to marry Alweo. He was studious and devout even then.’