Edwin

by Edoardo Albert

“I will pay,” added the questioner. Silver flashed, catching the low angle of the April sun and scattering it into the stevedore’s eyes.

  “You should have said so first.” The stevedore held out his hand, and was helped over the side into the boat. Most of the cargo of dried pulses shipped from places over the grey sea had already been unshipped. The stevedore looked the questioner up and down while he ran his hands down his tunic to dry them.

  The question had been asked in a lilting accent, suggesting a native language that moved easily over the tongue and palate, rather than the explosive sounds of English. The questioner was a dark-haired man with the pale skin typical of a Briton, although whether he came from north, west or south the stevedore could not tell. “Right, what do you want to know?”

  The boatmaster pointed up the muddy slope towards the remains of York. People were processing through the normally empty streets, while a crowd gathered around a newly built building. “I have never seen so many men here before. What is happening?”

  “Why do you think all the merchants in these parts and beyond are here? It’s ’cause the king called a great council, so all the nobles and warriors and thegns turned up, and they need feeding and watering. Keeps me busy.”

  “But what is happening now? That is no council meeting – all those people gathered there.” And the boatmaster pointed to the crowds waiting outside the little wood and wattle church.

  The stevedore wiped his mouth. “That’ll be a longer story there.” The boatmaster silently handed him an aleskin and the stevedore took a long and appreciative draw. “Good ale here, master. All this humping sacks around is hard, thirsty work.”

  “So is waiting for an answer from you.”

  The stevedore laughed, but he took another draw from the skin before handing it back. “That was good,” he said, with some regret.

  The boatmaster took the skin but held it loosely, in such a way as to suggest that it might be returned. The stevedore, taking the hint, pointed up the slope.

  “That there is new. I don’t rightly know what they call it – I heard someone say a ‘curk’ or something like that, but it’s got to do with the new religion. You know how the queen is from Kent? Well, she came here with a priest and he came all the way from someplace called Rome, which I hear tell is where the emperors of old were from, and they both follow this new religion. Don’t know much about it myself, though I’ve heard tell it’s got something to do with eating flesh and drinking blood. I’m as keen on meat as the next man when I can get it, but blood should be made into a pudding, not drunk, don’t you think? Anyway, it turns out this big council here was all about whether the king and the rest of them, the nobles and thegns, the ones with swords, should follow this new religion. Personally, I can’t see why they should want to change; after all, the old gods have been good to us and you don’t want to start getting the gods cross, do you? But the king don’t listen to me, and from what I heard, the council decided they should follow this new religion.”

  “What – everyone?” asked the boatmaster.

  “No, of course not,” said the stevedore. “But the king and his family, they’re all going to follow the new religion. I mean, did you hear what Coifi did?”

  “Who is Coifi?”

  “The priest. I couldn’t believe it when I heard, but my cousin lives near Goodmanham and he swears it’s true. Apparently, Coifi rode up to Woden’s grove and put a spear straight into the god’s eye (and he’s only got one eye, so that must have hurt), before setting fire to everything else there. It was like he’d gone mad. Mind, from what I hear the gods haven’t punished him for it; he’s strutting around in these rich new clothes, waving swords around and showing off his horse like he’s the only man who’s ever ridden one.”

  “What is going on now?”

  The stevedore scratched his cheek, the nails parting the thick beard. “I don’t rightly know what they call it, but from what I hear tell, the king and his sons are joining the new religion. I saw them, walking from the great hall, dressed just in woollen shifts like they were ordinary people and not kings and princes, and they went into the ‘curch’ or whatever it is. Apparently, they’re going to come out all new after they’ve been dipped in water.” The stevedore gazed over the side of the boat at the turbid water of the Ouse. “It don’t seem to work for me. I even heard someone say that they will live forever.” The stevedore shook his head. “I don’t get it myself. My dad got wet every day, and he’s been dead since three years past, but that’s what people have been saying. Make of that what you will.” The stevedore looked down at the boatmaster. “Anything else you want to know?”

  The boatmaster looked up at where the stevedore had been pointing, his eyes narrowing. The crowd was still waiting outside the building, but through the conversations there came the sound of chant and the trickle of tiny bells ringing. Then, cutting through everything else, a chant, exultant and piercing and enveloping all at once. Even the men unloading boats stopped their work to see what was going on.

  The stevedore looked at the boatmaster. “What’s that all about, master?”

  “From the sound of it, your king has been received into the church.”

  “Does that mean the king will live forever, master?”

  The boatmaster turned to the stevedore. His lips were pressed tight together and his eyes, the narrow eyes of a man used to staring into sea distances, were cold. “No man lives forever,” he said.

  “True enough, master. Is there anything else you want to know?”

  “Not for now,” the boatmaster said. “But if you hear more, do tell me.” He twizzled a small piece of hack silver between his knuckles, then dropped it into the stevedore’s creased hand.

  The stevedore tested the silver with his teeth, then secreted it in the leather pouch on his belt. “Your ale and your silver are good, master, and so’s my word.” He stuck out his hand and the boatmaster grasped it. “My name is Hutha, master.”

  The boatmaster squeezed the hand in return. The stevedore’s eyes widened in surprise; for a slight man, the boatmaster’s grip was strong.

  “I will remember you well. What you have told me is of great interest.”

  “Who should I ask for, master, if I have more to tell?”

  The boatmaster pursed his lips.

  “My name is Dial,” he said.

  Part 3

  Imperium

  Chapter 1

  “This is Ad Gefrin.” Edwin pointed to the great hall standing in the valley between smooth-bowed hills. “Although my heart lies in Deira, this is the place I love best in Bernicia.” He turned to Paulinus, sitting uncomfortably upon the horse that the king had insisted he ride out upon, ahead of the royal caravan, to see the palace. “I built this place. Is it not magnificent?”

  Paulinus, grateful for the chance to stop riding and ease his aching legs, agreed. The hall was magnificent.

  “How does it compare to the great halls in Rome?” asked Edwin

  “Well… well,” muttered Paulinus, trying to massage some feeling back into his thighs.

  “Really?” said Edwin, a broad smile breaking across his face. “In what way? Is it as large as the buildings in Rome, as beautiful, as rich?”

  “Ah, well.” Paulinus peered across the expanse of grassland peppered with sheep and small highland cattle, at the gleaming pillars of the palace. It was certainly big, although of course nothing on this island matched St Peter’s Basilica in Rome, or the Pantheon and Circus of the emperors. “It’s very good,” he said.

  Edwin looked at the priest, his eyes narrowing. “How is it good?” he asked.

  “The – the decorations,” said Paulinus. “We have nothing like it in Rome.”

  “You mean they’re barbarian,” said Edwin.

  “Yes – no! I just mean they are different.”

  “You told me that a barbarian is
a man who is not Roman. These decorations are not Roman. Therefore they are barbarian.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose they are. But that does not mean they are bad.”

  “You also told me that barbarians bring only death and destruction.”

  “I did? When did I say that?”

  “Five days past, when we took ship from York to Bamburgh, and I asked you to tell me the history of the emperors.”

  “Those were different barbarians – German barbarians.”

  “My forefathers were Germans.”

  “Ah, those must have been the good German barbarians. I was talking about the bad German barbarians.”

  “What is the difference?”

  “Oh, that is easy,” said Paulinus. “The good German barbarians fought for the empire; the bad ones fought against it.”

  “My forefathers came to this country to fight for the emperors.”

  “There. I knew you were from good barbarian stock.”

  “But then the emperors left, and my forefathers took the rule of the country for themselves.”

  “Ah, but your ancestors never fought against the empire itself, did they?”

  Edwin smiled. “Only because the emperors had gone. My forefathers fought anything and anyone.”

  Paulinus shrugged. “So did the emperors. That was how they became emperors and it was how they stayed emperors. But St Augustine says that the empire was providential, for it provided a world where the word of God could be preached. I believe the coming of the Angles and the Saxons to these islands at the end of the world was also providential.”

  Edwin nodded. “That is what I have come to believe. Follow me – I want to show you something.” The king urged his horse on and, suppressing a groan, Paulinus followed. Edwin rode his horse up to the foot of the twin-peaked hill that overlooked his palace. Its flanks were studded with grazing sheep, and from the sheepfolds the boys who had been assigned to guard the animals during the daytime peeked out in awe at the two men. Edwin gestured the nearest boy over and dismounted.

  “Here,” he said, handing the shepherd boy the reins. “Look after him until I return.”

  The boy stared at Edwin in gap-toothed wonder.

  “You don’t understand, do you?” said Edwin.

  The boy’s expression did not change.

  “Bring your horse here,” Edwin said to Paulinus. “There is something I wish to show you.”

  A grateful priest dismounted while Edwin made his wishes clear to the boy through a mixture of gestures and phrases. When at last the boy had understood, signifying so by such vigorous nodding that Paulinus feared for his well-being, Edwin started up the hill, and the priest followed.

  “Why did the boy not understand what you were saying?” asked Paulinus, panting to keep up with the king.

  “He is of the hill people. The men of the mountain passes speak a strange tongue; it is like unto the language of the Britons, but many words are different, and I am not familiar with it. They come down from the hills in winter, but mix little with the people of the coast.”

  “Yet you are his king.”

  “In truth, I think these people little care who rules over them. They bring their tribute each year to my palace, then retire to the hills. They were here before the emperors came from over the sea. They were here when my forefathers came from over the sea. I have heard that their own tales say they walked, dryshod, to this land.”

  “Like the Israelites passing through the Red Sea?”

  “I do not know. I think no, for I believe the hill men say that in those days there was no sea, but land only, rich in game and lakes. Then came the flood, and covered all.”

  Paulinus paused to draw breath. They had already climbed a long way up the hill and he could feel the sweat running down his back. At the bottom of the valley, beyond the palace, the priest saw the silver thread of the River Glen glittering between the silver green of willow trees. He looked ahead and saw the king steadily climbing. Sighing, the priest followed, the blood singing in his head.

  At last, Edwin stopped. Paulinus laboured up the final slope, then stopped beside the king.

  “What… what did you… bring me here… for?” The priest panted.

  “This place is called Yeavering Bell,” said Edwin. He pointed along the slope of the hill. “Of old, this was the stronghold of a king.”

  And following the king’s gesture, Paulinus looked and saw that what he had taken to be a fall of rocks was, in fact, laid out around the crown of the hill as a defence, now tumbledown but in places still rising to the height of a man. The rocks were rough and uneven, but where the palisade survived most intact it was clear that the exterior had once been filled to make it as smooth as possible.

  “Before my forefathers, before the emperors, there were kings in this land and they made their palace here. I have walked upon the heights of this hill and seen where their houses were. They have left their mark upon this hill and many others, for if you look, it is possible to see that many hilltops are ringed with rocks, the remains of ramparts that once surrounded them.” Edwin pointed to the nearby, lower hill. Its summit too was ringed with stone. “But the kings are gone and their names are forgotten, though their works remain. Not even the hill men remember them now.” The king pointed down into the valley. “Ad Gefrin is made of wood. When I am dead and others rule, it will decay and one day there will be nothing in this valley but grass, and my palace will be as lost as the names of the kings of old.” He turned to the priest. “But you can keep my name alive. Write of me to the pope, make writing of my works and deeds, and though my palace disappears beneath the waving grass, my name will live.”

  Paulinus turned to Edwin. “I will do that, lord,” he said.

  “Good.” The king breathed out. “Thank you.” From the north-east, the wind cut in and he drew his cloak about his shoulders.

  Paulinus, the sweat drying rapidly under his tunic, shivered. “We might not know their names, but those kings of old must have been hardy men,” he said.

  Edwin smiled. “Yes, they must have been.”

  “Indeed.” Paulinus pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders. “I have a suggestion, lord. These men built in stone, and we see around us how long the works of their hands have survived, though they themselves have departed. I will see that the church keeps your name alive in writing, but why not write your name in stone as well? That way it will long survive, in glory and majesty.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The church you have built in York – it is a fine building, and I am grateful for it. But would it not bring greater glory, to God and to yourself, to raise up a great church in stone, such as has not been built in these lands since the days of the emperors? Then truly people would say that Edwin is like unto the emperors of old.”

  “But my people have not the necessary skill in stone.”

  “My people do have those skills. I can send for stonemasons, master builders, men who know where to quarry stone and how to dress it and build with it, and together we will make the finest church in these islands, the greatest building since the days of the emperors, and your name will be made immortal in stone and in words. What do you say, lord?”

  Edwin looked down at his wooden palace, its gold-painted roof timbers catching the sunlight, and he thought of the old broken stone buildings in York and the ramparts of the kings of old that yet stood on the hills in Bernicia. And he shivered at the weight of years and the dread of time, but he turned to the priest and said, “Yes. Let us build a church of stone.” Then he pointed to the palace in the valley below. “But first you must preach to my people here. Tell them the news of life. Let them know what they must do to enter into God’s kingdom. Bring them in, Paulinus, bring them all in…”

  *

  Standing up to his waist in the River Glen, his legs numb, his body shaking, his
fingers almost entirely without feeling, Paulinus remembered, in his weariness, the king’s command on top of Yeavering Bell. Looking up to the hill, he could clearly see the ring of stone around the summit. Since that day, a month or more ago, he had preached and exhorted and baptized, leading the people – quiet, uncomplaining people – from the royal enclosure around Ad Gefrin down to the River Glen, and there baptizing them, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, until the blood turned to water in his veins and his voice chattered against his teeth. The fever, the cold fever, finally brought his baptizing to an end, but through the week he lay sweating and turning in bed, the faces, the many, many faces he had brought up from the living waters of baptism, played through his memory, the river washing away their sins as it drained away from their faces and they emerged, gasping, laughing, new.

  Paulinus woke, clear eyed and weak, the fever finally broken from his body, to see James sitting quietly by his bed. The deacon, seeing his eyes open, leaned over, and Paulinus, the memory of all those people still distinct in his fever-clear memory, whispered to him, “The kingdom of God is here, James; it is here.” Then the priest closed his eyes and slipped back into deep, healing sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Edwin looked at the marks scratched upon the tile and felt his head aching in the way it did after three days of feasting. The great hall at Leeds was quiet, with desultory conversation, but at the high table the king sat bent over a tile, copying out the marks on the parchment Paulinus had laid out in front of him.

  “The years have dulled my wits,” Edwin said to the priest. “It would take a hammer to knock this new knowledge into my head. My sons, however… How are their lessons going?”

  “When I can make them sit and attend to me, well. But that is rare. Eadfrith always has some reason that requires his absence whenever he sees me approach, and Osfrith simply turns around and walks away. It would not, I think, be seemly to be seen running after a fleeing prince, waving a slate in my hand.” A rare smile cracked the priest’s thin face.