“You ask what befalls a man when he leaves the light and safety of his lord’s hall and goes into the dark. Those who reject the summons of my God, the rightful king and ruler of all, go down into the dark and there remain, in torment, prey to the evil one and his thegns. But those who accept his summons ascend to eternal life, however they die, whether it be in battle or illness or age, for while your gods care only how you die, my God cares how we live.”
Paulinus fell silent. The hall was still. Even the slaves had stopped to listen to his words. The priest looked around. “Any questions?” he asked.
Bassus, near the end of the hall, stood, hitching his belt up over his broad belly. “You say you know when this god of yours lived, and where. Very well, tell us.”
“He was born in the reign of the emperor Tiberius, and died and rose again in the reign of the emperor Augustus. As a man he lived in a land called Palestine, which lies on the south-eastern shores of the Middle Sea.”
“Never heard of them, nor that place – what do you call it? Plestine?”
“How many emperors can you name?”
Bassus stuck out his lower lip, but no names came from it initially. “Well, there was him – what’s his name? – the one who started off here as emperor. Con – Con something...”
“Constantine.”
“Yes, him and…and…it will come to me…”
“In short, you know the name of one emperor, and him imperfectly. But let me assure you, the names of all the emperors are known, and preserved, in Rome, where the pope now has his seat, the spiritual successor to their earthly power. For where men once claimed dominion over the whole earth as emperor, and were thrown down in their pride, now the bishop of Rome, their spiritual successor, has been given authority as you yourself were given authority over the men and land of Anglesey by our king, Edwin, to exercise on his behalf. Therefore I, the representative of the pope to whom God has entrusted the care and salvation of this world, call upon you and everyone here today to accept eternal life, and salvation, through professing your belief in this man, this God.” Paulinus looked around the hall, seeking to engage all the watching men. “Even your own priest admits your gods brought him no benefit, but my God gives life, life eternal. Is the decision so difficult?”
But the men Paulinus looked at avoided his eyes, staring down into their cups or up into the rafters rather than meeting his gaze. It seemed no one was prepared to say publicly what was in their hearts.
That was when Coifi began to laugh. It was a laugh tinged with madness and grief, the sound men made in battle when the blood madness took them. The priest unwound himself from where he squatted by the fire, shaking out his raven-feather cloak.
“You are all cowards,” Coifi said, his tongue flecking foam over his chin. “Cowards! Hiding behind one another, hoping someone else will speak first and attract the eye of the fate singers. But if you who are warriors are too scared to speak lest the gods hear you, then this old priest will do it for you! You asked for knowledge and truth and life, and here it is! All my life I have sought these things in the old ways, pouring out blood and prayers to the gods. But the more blood I offered them and the more prayers I uttered, the less I understood, until everywhere I looked was confusion and despair. Pah!” Coifi spat in the fire and a plume of orange smoke billowed up into the rafters. Then he took up his bone rattle, the symbol of his office and the rod by which he divined the will of the gods and the workings of wyrd, and broke it, sending dry, white knobs of bone scuttering across table and floor.
“I abjure the gods! Let them strike me down if they have power, for if they do not I swear to cast down their idols and burn their sacred groves.”
“Wait, Coifi, wait.” Edwin held up his hand and the priest fell silent. “It is the part of the great council to decide what we shall do. Does anyone else wish to speak?” The king looked around the gathering. “Very well. Then I call upon all those who wish to follow the new god to stand. Those who wish to retain the gods of old shall remain seated.” Edwin paused, then continued. “The time has come to make our decision. May it be the right one.”
Beside him at the high table, Guthlaf rose to his feet, shortly followed by Osfrith and Eadfrith. Around the hall, one by one and then in groups, men slowly stood, then smiled in encouragement and offered words of cheer to those who followed. Soon, all but a handful were standing. Then finally Edwin too rose to his feet.
There was no cheering. Normally a decision of the great council was met by shouts and acclamation, but this was too grave a matter. The decision was received in murmuring silence, the whispers revealing the underlying dread at the temerity of their decision. But Coifi strode from his place by the fire, moving with a certainty of purpose and smoothness of motion no one had seen in him for many years. Standing before the high table, Coifi struck his chest.
“Lord, give me spear and stallion, and I will prove to the fainthearts and fearers here that there is nothing to fear from gods of wood and stone.”
“But it is against law and custom for priests to bear weapons or ride stallions,” said Edwin.
“I am a priest of the old gods no more,” said Coifi. “Show me the favour the gods denied me: give me a fine horse and rich weapons, and I will ride from here and strike down the idols and fire the sacred groves. Let the gods stop me if they have the power. If they do not, if I return here unharmed and with wealth beyond anything the gods provided for me when I served them, then I will have proved that there is nothing to fear from them and this council has chosen rightly.”
“Very well.” Edwin turned to Guthlaf. “Give Coifi a stallion and weapons, and let him do as he intends. We will wait upon his return.”
*
Evening was drawing down as the priest walked into a hall making the most of the second half of the feast. But as Coifi advanced towards the king, men elbowed each other into silence. Guthlaf followed in the priest’s wake, for he had accompanied him on the ride to Goodmanham, where the greatest of the sacred groves in the district around York was to be found.
Coifi made the courtesy to the king.
“I see that you are not dead,” said Edwin.
“Lord, I pierced the idols with my spear and hacked them with my sword, and yet I stand before you, untouched and unharmed. The rooks rose up into the air, calling to the gods, but the gods made no answer to their calls. They have no power, lord!”
Edwin turned to Guthlaf. “Is this true?”
The warmaster stepped up alongside the priest. “It is true, lord. Mayhap the gods once had power, for when we approached the grove, there came a darkness over the land, and a cold and bitter wind blew out of the north, and in truth my blood ran thin. But Coifi did not hesitate, although the peasants of that area called curses upon him and screamed insults. He struck the idols through, and fired them, and the gods did not cast him down with lightning or storm. Therefore, it seems to me that the gods of old have no strength left to them, and if we would have the blessing of a god with the strength to give victory to his votaries, then we must adopt the god who brought us victory against Cwichelm.”
As the warmaster spoke, Coifi puffed up beside him, his face flushing with pleasure. Then, when Guthlaf stopped, the priest pointed to his chest.
“If I, a priest, have courage enough for this, then what of you, warriors and thegns? Will you be shamed by an old priest?”
One by one, then in groups and then all together, the men of the great council acclaimed Coifi, and the priest turned, arms outspread, to receive their praise, his face bright and his eyes gleaming.
Chapter 24
Edwin looked down at his arm. The flesh showed goosebumps. He was not sure if it was the chill of the wind blowing in across the moors from the north-east, or nerves at what was to come. He rubbed some warmth into his arm and looked around. Behind him, Osfrith and Eadfrith stood waiting. They, like him, were clad in simp
le, unadorned wool shifts. Their arms were bare of rings and their feet were bare. Edwin pushed his toes into the rushes strewn beneath his feet and nodded to his sons.
“Are you ready?”
Osfrith, his mouth dry, nodded. Eadfrith attempted a smile, but it was weak and watery. “This is worse than waiting for battle,” he said.
Although in truth Edwin felt the same, he attempted to smile encouragement to his sons.
“Ah, you too, father,” said Eadfrith.
Edwin smiled ruefully. They were waiting outside the newly built church of St Peter. It was so new that some of the timbers still oozed sap, leaving glistening trails down the freshly whitewashed exterior. The posts on either side of the door had been painted in interlaced gold figures of animals and plants, but the other timbers remained bare – there had not been time to adorn them. Behind the royal party, stretching in a long line towards the great hall, was a column of men and women, all dressed in similar woollen robes to those worn by the king and princes. Indeed, for maybe the first time since birth, there was no way for someone watching to tell, from clothing or jewellery, the rank of the men standing in line, nor who was king and who thegn. Watching with frank if puzzled interest, boatmen and farmers and servants and slaves lined the route from great hall to simple church. Many a maid stifled a grin at the sight of the great of the land shuffling along in woollen shifts and bare feet, skin mottling under the wind’s lash. But at least the people following left a respectful distance between themselves and the king, which meant Edwin could speak without being overheard. Even so, he looked around before leaning closer to his sons.
“This is worse than my first battle,” he whispered.
Osfrith snorted. “If you really want nerves, try being left at Rædwald’s court when you went off to fight Æthelfrith: that’s real nerves.”
Edwin nodded. “How old were you then?”
“Twelve. Old enough to know what was happening, but not old enough to go with you. You were only eight” Osfrith added for his brother’s sake. “You did not know what was going on.”
“I had to wait at other times,” said Eadfrith.
“None like that.”
“True enough – but this isn’t like waiting for a battle either. It’s different; more dangerous somehow.”
Edwin nodded. He felt it too. Battle was familiar territory for them all: they had been born into it; war was the business of kings. But this was new. He was leaving behind the familiar, the tried and trusted ways of doing things, and striking out upon paths unknown by his forefathers. Edwin felt in his blood and his bowels that everything would be different.
The wooden door of the church swung open and Paulinus emerged, wreathed in clouds of smoke, followed by James and other men, chanting in a strange, flowing tongue. From its sound, the king recognized the chant as Latin, the language of the emperors of old and the church of now. The watching crowd gasped at the strange sights and sounds and smells, gossip passing from lip to lip, and strange, mutated versions of the new religion were passed around in explanation of what was happening. Paulinus led the procession to the king and his sons.
Speaking in Latin, and then in English, the priest asked them, “Are you ready to enter into eternal life?”
“I am,” said Edwin, his voice pitched so that all around could hear.
“I am.”
“I am.”
The princes echoed the declaration of the king.
Paulinus pointed. “The door to eternal life stands open. Let us enter.”
Following at a slow, steady pace, Edwin, Osfrith and Eadfrith processed into the small baptistery. First of all Edwin saw the queen, sitting to one side, her face turned to him and bright with joy. Upon her lap Æthelburh held their daughter, and the baby gurgled with pleasure at seeing her father. Edwin acknowledged the queen but he did not smile. This was too solemn an occasion. Instead, as he waited for Paulinus and James to make all ready, Edwin looked around, for he had not seen the inside of the building before. There was a small stone altar at the western end of the church, but the largest feature in the building was a font, large enough for two or even three men to stand in. It was filled with water enough to reach a man’s chest.
Paulinus turned to Edwin and raised his hands in prayer. As he chanted, the sonorous Latin phrases washed around the king and he felt the sound pass through him, as if he were water shot through with sunlight. Although the language was unknown to him and the meaning of the words opaque, yet their music conveyed a keen beauty, as sharp as sorrow. Although the wind did not blow within the church, the king trembled, for he was in the presence of profound mystery.
Then Paulinus, standing in front of the king, anointed him with oil, marking out a cross upon his brow and his breast. The oil trickled down the side of Edwin’s face and he blinked it from his eyes. Then, putting the oil aside, the priest addressed the king.
“Do you reject Satan?”
Edwin, his throat suddenly dry, tried to answer, but no sound emerged from his throat. Paulinus waited, staring at him, eyes fierce and concentrated.
“Do you reject Satan?”
Edwin struggled, his throat working, but all he could produce were small choking noises.
“Do you reject Satan?” Paulinus repeated. But this time he leaned closer to the king. “Make a sign if you cannot speak.”
Edwin forced himself to lower his head. And as he did so, the power to speak returned to him.
“I do renounce him,” he whispered.
“And all his works?”
“I do renounce them.”
“And all his attractions?”
Edwin slowly raised his head so that he was staring directly into Paulinus’s face. “I do renounce them.” His voice came clearer now, and louder, so that it was possible for his sons to hear him speak.
“Do you believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth?”
“I do believe.”
“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was born into this world and suffered for us?”
“I do believe.” Edwin’s voice grew stronger with each affirmation.
“Do you believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting?”
Edwin stared into Paulinus’s face.
“I do believe,” he said.
Paulinus placed his hands upon the king’s shoulder and blew softly onto his brow.
“Depart from him, unclean spirit, and give place to the Holy Spirit.”
And although the priest’s breath was no more than a sigh, Edwin felt as if a spring wind, clean and wholesome and rich with the promise of summer, had blown up from the south as the first portent of the ending of winter.
Then James stepped forward and lifted the vestments from Paulinus’s shoulders until he stood in front of the king in a simple tunic. Taking the king by the hand, Paulinus climbed the few steps to the lip of the font and then lowered himself into the water, the tightening of his face the only signal of its chill.
Edwin stood upon the edge of the font and looked down into the water. The ripples of the priest’s entry died away and he saw himself reflected, as if from far away. The king stepped down into the water. The cold shocked him, but he made no sound.
Paulinus placed one hand in the small of Edwin’s back and the other upon his brow. Water dripped from his hand and trickled down Edwin’s face.
“Ego te baptizo…”
Paulinus pulled Edwin’s head back and pushed at the base of his spine, and the king fell backwards and the water closed over his head.
“… in nomine Patris…”
Paulinus pushed the king, gasping, up into the air. Edwin took a breath and then felt the pull back beneath the water. There, his eyes open and staring upwards, he heard t
he words as if they came from far away and yet were being uttered by the very water which covered him.
“… et Filii…”
For the second time Edwin broke the surface, his gasps like the rattle of a man dying. But breath taken, the king let himself freely fall back beneath the water. He watched it close over him, the light catching upon the bubbles made by his submersion. As happened in battle, time itself seemed to slow and every moment became clear and precise. Sound, physical and intimate, surrounded and enfolded him.
“…et Spiritus Sancti.”
Edwin lay beneath the water, unmoving, the breath still in him, his eyes and ears open. Then Paulinus pulled him forth and the water streamed from his face and his hair and his beard. James leaned over the side of the font and held out his hand. Wiping his eyes, Edwin took the hand and climbed from the font. James removed the sodden woollen shift and, in its place, covered the king with a pure white cloak.
Edwin shivered. Paulinus, emerging from the font, turned to the two young men who stood nervously behind the king. Edwin pulled the cloak tight around his shoulders, and James led him to the further part of the church, where the queen awaited him. Æthelburh smiled at him. Edwin nodded his acknowledgement, but did not return the smile. Standing there dripping, the king began to tremble, but it was not the cold that made him shiver. There, beneath the water, he had felt as if he were suddenly able to breathe again; as if a tight metal band that had been slowly constricting his chest as he grew older, tightening so slowly that he never even realized it was there, had been released. He had been a slave and he had never even known it.
Chapter 25
“What is going on?”
The stevedore, up to his thighs in water still cold from snow melt, paused for a moment in his unloading of the cargo from the flat-bottomed river boat half pulled up on the strand while he decided where to tell his questioner to put his question.
Edwin Page 28