‘What do you want?’ demanded the abbess, regarding him in distaste. ‘Why do you cause such a commotion in this house of contemplation?’
‘Want?’ The beggar repeated the word slowly. Then he broke into another language, a staccato of sound so fast that the abbess bent her head slightly forward as she tried to follow him.
‘Do you speak my language, the language of the children of Éireann?’
She nodded as she translated his words in her mind. For thirty years now the kingdom of Northumbria had been taught Christianity, learning and literacy by the Irish monks from the Holy Island of Iona.
‘I speak your language well enough,’ she conceded.
The beggar paused and bobbed his head several times in quick succession as if nodding agreement.
‘Are you the Abbess Hilda of Streoneshalh?’
The abbess sniffed impatiently.
‘I am Hilda.’
‘Then hear me, Hilda of Streoneshalh! There is doom in the air. Blood will flow at Streoneshalh before this week is over.’
Abbess Hilda stared at the beggar in surprise. It took her a moment or two to recover from the shock of his statement, delivered in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. His agitation had departed from him. He stood calmly, staring at her with eyes like the opaque grey of a muggy winter’s sky.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded, recovering herself. ‘And how do you dare prophesy in this house of God?’
The beggar’s thin lips cracked into a smile.
‘I am Canna, the son of Canna, and I have read these things in the skies at night. There will soon descend on this abbey many of the great and learned, from Ireland in the west, Dál Riada in the north, Canterbury to the south and Rome in the east. Each will come to debate on the merits of their respective paths to an understanding of the One True God.’
Abbess Hilda made an impatient gesture with a thin hand.
‘This much even a house-churl would know, soothsayer,’ she responded in annoyance. ‘Everyone knows that Oswy, the king, has summoned the leading scholars of the Church to debate whether the teachings of Rome or those of Columba of Iona should be followed in this kingdom. Why bother us with this kitchen prattle?’
The begger grinned viciously. ‘But what they do not know is that there is death in the air. Mark me, Abbess Hilda, before the week is out blood will flow under the roof of this great abbey. Blood will stain the cold stone of its floor.’
Abbess Hilda allowed herself to sneer.
‘And I suppose, for a price, you will avert the course of this evil?’
To her surprise, the beggar shook his head.
‘You must know, daughter of Hereri of Deira, that there is no averting the course of the stars in the sky. There is no way, once their path is discerned, that the path can be altered. On the day the sun is blotted from the sky, blood will flow! I came to warn you, that is all. I have fulfilled my obligation to the Son of God. Take heed of my warning.’
Abbess Hilda stared at the beggar as he closed his mouth firmly and thrust his chin out in defiance. She bit her lip for a moment, disturbed by the man’s manner as much as by his message, but then her features re-formed in an expression of annoyance. She glanced towards the sister who had disturbed her.
‘Take this insolent churl and have him whipped,’ she said curtly.
The two brothers tightened their hold on the beggar’s arms and dragged him, struggling, from the chamber.
As the sister turned to leave, Abbess Hilda raised a hand as if to stay her. The sister turned expectantly. The abbess bent forward and lowered her voice.
‘Tell them not to whip him too hard and, when they have done, give him a piece of bread from the kitchens, then let him depart in peace.’
The sister raised her eyebrows, hesitated as if to dispute her orders and then nodded hurriedly and withdrew without another word.
From behind the closed doors, the Abbess Hilda could hear the strident voice of the son of Canna still crying:
‘Beware, Abbess! On the day the sun is blotted from the sky, blood shall flow in your abbey!’
The man strained forward into the cutting wind, leaning against the dark oak of the ship’s high prow, his narrowed eyes searching the distant coastline. The wind moaned softly as it ruffled his dark hair, causing his cheeks to redden and tugging at his brown, homespun woollen habit. The man clutched at the rail with both hands, even though the rise and fall of the deck beneath his feet was gentle over waves made restless by the wailing coastal wind. The seas were choppy, with little white feathers seeming to dance across the grey seascape.
‘Is that it, captain?’
He raised his voice to call to the muscular and elderly seaman who stood just behind him.
The man, bright eyed with gnarled features, his skin tanned almost mahogany by a lifetime of exposure to the sea winds, grimaced.
‘That it is, Brother Eadulf. That is your destination. The coast of the kingdom of Oswy.’
The young man addressed as Brother Eadulf turned back to examine the coastline with enthusiasm animating his features.
The vessel had been hugging the coastline now for two days, moving slowly northward and trying to avoid the more tempestuous waves of the North Sea plains. Its captain had been content to steer for the more sheltered bays and coves as he sought a safer haven in the calmer inshore waters. Now he had been forced to head seaward to circumvent a great headland whose long coastline faced out towards the north-east and the open blustery sea.
The captain of the vessel, Stuf by name, from the kingdom of the South Saxons, moved closer to the young monk and pointed.
‘Do you see those cliffs there?’
Brother Eadulf ran his curious eyes along the dark sandstone cliffs, which averaged three to four hundred feet in height and gave an impression of formidable steepness. They were guarded by a narrow belt of sand or a scar of rugged rock at their base.
‘I do.’
‘There now, do you see the black outline on the top of those cliffs? Well, that is the abbey of Hilda, the abbey called Streoneshalh.’
From this distance, Brother Eadulf could not make out much beyond the small black outline that the man had indicated. It stood just before what seemed a crevice in the cliff.
‘That is our harbour,’ the captain said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘That is the valley of a small river named the Esk which empties into the sea just below the abbey. A small township has arisen there in the last ten years and, because of the proximity of Mother Hilda’s abbey, the people are already calling it Witebia, “the town of the pure”.’
‘How soon before we reach it?’
The old captain shrugged. ‘Perhaps within the hour. It depends on this shoreward breeze and the running tide. There is a dangerous reef near the harbour entrance that cuts into the sea here for nearly a mile. Nothing dangerous – if one is a good sailor.’
He did not add ‘as I am’ but Eadulf interpreted the hidden meaning.
Brother Eadulf reluctantly drew his eyes away from the cliff-rimmed coastline.
‘I’d better inform His Grace.’
He staggered a little as he turned, then bit his lip to quell the curse that came unbidden to his tongue. He was coming to think of himself as a sailor. Had he not twice crossed the great sea between Britain and the land of Éireann and then only recently crossed the sea between Britain and Gaul, returning from a two-year pilgrimage to Rome itself? But he had discovered that he needed to adjust from land to sea on every voyage. During the three days they had now been sailing from the kingdom of Kent, Brother Eadulf had taken one full day to gain his sea legs. Indeed during the first day he had been sorely ill. He had lain on a straw palliasse, groaning and vomiting until he thought he would surely die of nausea and fatigue. Only on this the third day had he been able to stand without feeling bilious and let the pungent sea breezes clear his head and lungs, making him feel vaguely human again. But every now and then a capricious wave would still send him staggering, to the am
usement of Stuf and his crew.
Stuf reached out a strong brown calloused hand to steady the young monk as he nearly lost his footing.
Brother Eadulf sheepishly smiled his thanks before turning away.
Stuf watched him go with a grin at his awkward gait. Another week and maybe the young religieux would make a passable sailor, he thought. He would soon have his muscles toned up again by active work. They had obviously been made flaccid by too many years at prayer in darkened cloisters away from the sun. The young monk had the build of a warrior. Stuf shook his head disapprovingly. Christianity was turning Saxon warriors into women.
The old captain had sailed with many cargoes along these shores but this was the first time he had sailed with a party of Christians. A curious group of passengers, by the breath of Woden. Stuf made no secret of the fact that he preferred to worship the old gods, the gods of his fathers. Indeed, his own country of the South Saxons was only now reluctantly allowing those who taught of the God with no name, whose Son was called Christ, to enter their kingdom and preach. Stuf would have preferred the king of the South Saxons to continue to forbid them to teach there. He had no time for Christians or their teachings.
When his time came, he wanted to go to the Hall of Heroes, sword in hand, shouting the sacred name of Woden, as countless generations of his ancestors had done before him, rather than whimper the name of some foreign god in the outlandish tongue of the Romans and expire peacefully in a bed. That was no way for a Saxon warrior to pass into the other life. Indeed, a Saxon was denied any form of afterlife unless he went sword in hand to the Heroes’ Hall.
So far as Stuf could make out, this Christ was supposed to be a God of peace, of slaves and old men and women.
Better a manly god, a warrior god, like Tiw or Woden, Thunor, Freyr and Seaxnat, who punished their enemies, welcomed warriors and slew the weak and feeble.
Yet he was a man of business. A ship’s master. And the gold of the Christians was as good as anyone’s, so it was none of his concern that his cargo was a group of Christian religious.
He turned, back against the wind, and spat over the side, raising his colourless yet bright eyes to the great sail above him. Now was the time to haul down the sail and set the thirty-eight slaves who manned the oars pulling towards the coast. He moved aft along the eighty-foot-long vessel, shouting orders as he went.
Brother Eadulf made his way to the stern to find his companions, a half-dozen men now stretched out on straw palliasses. He spoke to a rotund and jovial-looking man with greying hair.
‘We are within sight of Witebia, Brother Wighard,’ he said. ‘The captain says we should be landing within the hour. Should I tell His Grace?’
The rotund man shook his head.
‘His Grace continues to feel unwell,’ he replied mournfully.
Brother Eadulf looked concerned.
‘Better to get him to the bows where the air might restore him to health.’
Brother Wighard shook his head emphatically.
‘I know you have studied the art of the apothecary, Eadulf. But such cures can also kill, my brother. Let His Grace rest a while longer.’
Eadulf hesitated, torn between his own knowledge and belief and the fact that Wighard was not someone to be disregarded. Wighard was secretary to Deusdedit, Archbishop of Canterbury. And it was Deusdedit who was the subject of their conversation.
The archbishop was elderly and had been ordained by Eugenius I, Bishop of Rome and Father of the Universal Church, to be the head of Rome’s mission to the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms in Britain.
But no one could converse with Deusdedit without first obtaining Wighard’s approval. Wighard’s cherubic-like features hid a coldly calculating mind and an ambition that was keen as a sharpened sword. Thus much had Eadulf discovered during the few days he had been in proximity with the Kentish monk. Wighard was extremely jealous of his position as secretary and confidant of the archbishop.
Deusdedit himself had the honour of being the first Saxon ever to hold the office that Augustine of Rome had inaugurated at Canterbury when he had arrived to convert the pagan Saxons to Christ scarcely seventy years before. Only missionaries from Rome had held the office of chief of Rome’s missionaries to the Anglo-Saxons. But Deusdedit, a West Saxon whose original name had been Frithuwine, had proved himself learned, patient and zealous for the teachings of Rome. Frithuwine had been baptized in the new faith as he who had been given, deditus, to God, Deus. The Holy Father had no qualms in appointing him as his spokesman to the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and, for nine years now, Deusdedit had guided the fortunes of those Christians who looked to Rome for their spiritual authority.
But Deusdedit had not been in the best of health since the start of the voyage and had spent most of the time apart from the rest being attended only by his secretary Wighard.
Eadulf hesitated before Wighard, wondering whether he should be more forceful in applying his knowledge of medicine. Then he shrugged.
‘Will you then warn His Grace that we will be landing soon?’ he asked.
Wighard nodded reassuringly.
‘It shall be done. Let me know, Eadulf, if there is any sign of a welcoming reception on the foreshore.’
Brother Eadulf inclined his head. The great sail was already down and stowed and now the groaning oarsmen were heaving on the large wooden oars that propelled the sleek ship. For a few moments, Eadulf stood soaking in the activity on board as the vessel seemed to fairly skim over the waters towards the shoreline. He found himself thinking that it was in just such ships that his ancestors, hardly any time ago, must have crossed the limitless seas to raid and finally settle on this fruitful island of Britain.
The overseers moved down the rows of slaves as they grunted and strained against their oars, encouraging them to greater efforts with cracking whips and oath-filled screams. Now and then there came a sharp cry of pain, as the tongue of a whip made contact with unprotected flesh. Eadulf watched the sailors running hither and thither on their unaccountable tasks with an ill-concealed feeling of envy. He suddenly shook himself as he registered the thought.
He should envy no one, for he had turned his back on his inheritance as hereditary gerefa, or magistrate, of the lands of the thane of Seaxmund’s Ham when he had reached his twentieth birthday. He had forsworn the old gods of the South Folk, in the kingdom of the East Angles, and followed the new God whose teachings had been brought to them from Ireland. He had been young and enthusiastic when he had fallen in with an Irishman who spoke terrible Saxon but had succeeded in making his purpose known. The Irishman, Fursa by name, had not only taught Eadulf how to read and write his native Saxon, a language which Eadulf had never seen written before, but Fursa imparted to him a knowledge of Irish and Latin in addition to converting him to the knowledge of Christ, the Son of the God with no name.
So apt a pupil had Eadulf become that Fursa had sent him with letters of introduction to his own land of Ireland, firstly to a monastery at Durrow, where students from all four corners of the world were educated and trained. For a year Eadulf had studied in Durrow among the pious brethren there but, finding an interest in the cures and healing powers of the Irish apothecaries, he had gone on to study four years more at the famous college of medicine at Tuaim Brecain, where he had learnt of the legendary Midach, son of Diancecht, who had been slain and from whose three hundred and sixty-five joints and sinews and members of the body three hundred and sixty-five herbs had grown, each herb with the virtue to cure that part of the body from which it had grown.
That learning had awakened in him a thirst for knowledge and a discovery that he also had the ability to solve riddles; puzzles that were like an unknown language to some became an easy conundrum for solution to him. He supposed that the ability had something to do with his having acquired through his family, which held the position of hereditary gerefa, an oral knowledge of the law of the Saxons. Sometimes, though not very often, he would regret that, had he not forsworn Woden and Seaxnat, he too wo
uld have become gerefa to the thane of Seaxmund’s Ham.
Like many another Saxon monk he had followed the teachings of his Irish mentors on the liturgical usages of their church, the dating of the Easter celebration, so central to the Christian faith, and even the style of their tonsure, the shaving of the head to denote that their lives were dedicated unquestioningly to Christ. Only on his return from Ireland had Eadulf encountered those religious who looked to the Archbishop of Canterbury for authority which came from Rome. And he had discovered that Rome’s ways were not those of the Irish nor, indeed, of the Britons. Their liturgy was different, the dating of Easter and even the style of their tonsure differed sharply from Rome.
Eadulf had decided to resolve this mystery and so undertook a pilgrimage to Rome where he had stayed two years studying under the masters in that Eternal City. He had returned to the kingdom of Kent bearing the corona spinea, a Roman tonsure, on his crown and eager to offer his services to Deusdedit, dedicated to the principles of the Roman teaching.
And now the years of argument between the teachings of the Irish monks and those of Rome were soon to be resolved.
Oswy, the powerful king of Northumbria, whose kingdom had been converted by the Irish monks from the monastery of Columba on the Holy Island of Iona, had decided to summon a great meeting at Streoneshalh abbey where advocates of both the Irish and Roman practices were to argue their cause and Oswy was to sit in judgment and decide, once and for all, whether his kingdom would follow the Irish or whether it would follow Rome. And everyone knew that where Northumbria led, the other Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, from Mercia and East Anglia to Wessex and Sussex, would follow.
Churchmen were gathering on Witebia from the four corners of the earth and soon they would be locked in debate in the hall of the abbey of Streoneshalh, overlooking the tiny harbour.
Absolution by Murder Page 2