Death on Lindisfarne

by Fay Sampson

  It was early enough on an April morning for there to be an edge on the breeze. But the clear sunshine was warming the sandstone to a rosier red. Melangell ran across to one of the pillars. She let her hand caress the chevron pattern incised in the stone. Then she turned, and Aidan was rewarded by her gasp as she saw the high rock of Lindisfarne Castle perfectly framed by the slender arch that had once spanned the chancel. Between the priory and the castle, boats were drawn up on a curve of pale sand.

  It was as perfect as he remembered it. As perfect as it had been when it had captured Jenny and Aidan’s hearts.

  His finger stilled on the shutter.

  He was near enough now to see the group of people around Lucy in her blue trousers and anorak. To his surprise, Rachel was there. Yet even now, she seemed poised to flee, like a bird that might take flight at the slightest alarm. Aidan was less happy to see the pastor James and his companion Sue. Last evening, James had made disparaging remarks about Lucy’s use of the Northumbrian Community’s liturgy. But the cadences of the threefold Celtic prayers had fitted perfectly with their setting.

  Valerie was there, slim and elegant in heathery tweeds and a violet anorak. Not surprisingly, the non-believing Elspeth was absent from this morning service. Or was she? Just for a moment, Aidan caught a movement in the open space beyond the ruined church. No doubt the history don was seizing this opportunity to explore the site before the place was overrun with visitors.

  Aidan and Melangell joined the group. He felt it difficult to meet the others’ eyes after his display of temper last night. He was conscious that they were looking at him warily. Lucy caught his shifting gaze and gave him a brief smile of encouragement. A slight frown creased her forehead. He thought she looked nervous.

  His eyes went back to Rachel. The teenager’s hands were thrust into the pockets of her black jacket. She seemed unable to look at anyone directly. She shifted uneasily, still not seeming certain to stay.

  “Hello,” he said. “How’s things?”

  “’Lo,” she returned curtly. She did not answer his question.

  Aidan looked around again. There were still people missing, weren’t there? It took a moment to place the absentees. David and Fran Cavendish. Even as he remembered their undistinguished presence yesterday, he saw them coming through the gate. Peter followed behind like a shepherding collie.

  David was looking ahead with a smile on his face. He increased his pace as he realized they were the last. But Frances had her head turned to him as she picked her way in heeled shoes across the still wet grass. Her voice came clearly on the breeze.

  “I hope she doesn’t expect me to sit down on this. And I’m not standing all the way through a church service. Beats me why we can’t go to a proper church with chairs.”

  Lucy must have heard this, but she greeted the pair with a bright smile.

  “Hello. You made it. Good. We’re just about ready to start. No chairs, I’m afraid. But you’re welcome to sit on the remains of the walls. I promise not to keep you too long. I thought we might manage a hymn to begin with.”

  Peter came forward and passed around sheets of paper. The little congregation broke valiantly into “Guide me, O thou great Jehovah”.

  As the words died away, Aidan heard a stifled cry. He turned in time to see Peter put a protective arm around a trembling Rachel. He looked round quickly to see what might have caused it. But the rest of the group were looking expectantly at Lucy. Only Elspeth strode between two far-off pillars and disappeared.

  Lucy kept her service short. The rhythms of Celtic liturgy lapped around them like waves on the shore. But she brought things sharply into the present day when she reminded them of Urien’s murder on the sands by someone on his own side.

  “And all the time we fight each other, Jesus is calling us to go out into the world, as he did. Not to give people a theological examination, but to live the gospel where they are: male or female, black or white, churchgoers or secularists, Protestant or Catholic, straight or gay.”

  Aidan glanced around. The faces of the Cavendishes were impassive. He would not have been surprised if Lucy had touched on at least one of their prejudices.

  James’s indignation was more evident. Aidan saw Sue gripping his wrist, restraining him from jumping to his feet to protest. Just what in that list had upset him? Several things, probably.

  He suspected that Lucy might know this. She stood firmly erect, like the pillar of red sandstone behind her. The dog collar showed as a flash of white at the neck of her sapphire-blue fleece. The breeze teased her short hair.

  “Lindisfarne’s story is sown with dissension. We like to think of it as Holy Island, a place of peace. And so it can be. But it has known a violent history, and the discord hasn’t always come from enemies outside.”

  Her blue eyes challenged them.

  James stayed where he was, perched on the ruined wall of the church. A lingering fury scored lines in his face.

  When the brief service was over, Lucy led them through the cloisters, past the statue of St Cuthbert with his knees calloused by prayer, to the outer court. Lindisfarne Castle loomed nearer on its pinnacle of rock. Across the water, the larger fortress of Bamburgh reared mistily on the far clifftop. Clouds were beginning to form. The sunshine was more fitful now.

  This time, Elspeth joined them as Lucy settled her group around her again. She loomed bulkier than before in tweed trousers. She thrust a shooting-stick into the turf and settled her voluminous hips on the folding seat.

  “They might have told us to bring a cushion,” Fran Cavendish protested. “My bottom’s getting sore, sitting on all these old stones.”

  Further behind, Aidan heard James’s voice approaching. He looked round. He already suspected what he would see. James was walking close beside Rachel, talking to her with a savage intensity. “It means the difference between life and death. Your death.”

  She tried to break away, but he caught her arm.

  The Celtic earring flashed into Aidan’s mind. The blood on Rachel’s ear where it had been torn away. A shudder of distrust ran through him.

  He jumped down from his perch on the wall.

  “Hi, Rachel. I meant to say earlier. I think Melangell may have something of yours. Is it back at the house, Mel?”

  His daughter gave a grin and fished in the pocket of her yellow and pink anorak.

  “No. It’s right here.”

  The little mythical beast from the Lindisfarne Gospels lay in the palm of her hand. Sunlight winked on the red and gold enamel.

  Rachel reached out her hand with more animation than Aidan had seen her show before.

  “I thought I’d lost it!” Her fist closed round it, possessively.

  “It was in the sand.” Melangell’s eyes turned up to the older girl’s face. “But you won’t be able to wear it, will you? Your ear’s hurt.”

  The shutters came down over the teenager’s face. Her head drooped, and the curtain of hair fell over her eyes.

  Aidan looked past her and met the fury in James’s face. Beyond him, plump, plain Sue looked bewildered.

  He felt the undercurrent of dissension that ran through even this small group.

  As he settled himself on the wall again, he feared for Rachel. Peter was watching her with concern.

  James had talked about a struggle between life and death.

  A metaphor, of course, but the words rang chill on the strengthening breeze in the scream of the gulls.

  Lucy lifted her fair head. Aidan thought she looked more confident, now that she was back to storytelling.

  “Yesterday, we left the heathen Angles triumphant on Lindisfarne. After Urien’s murder, the Christian army fell apart. Northumbria was in the hands of the invaders.

  “But they had blood feuds of their own. The young Anglo-Saxon Prince Edwin was the last of his family left alive. He fled before his uncle Aethelfrith the Ferocious. Astonishingly, he found sanctuary in the Christian west, with a Welsh king on Anglesey. And there
he was baptized into the Christian faith. But Aethelfrith came striding west and slaughtered the British army at Chester. Edwin was on the run for his life again.”

  Aidan let the familiar story wash over him. Edwin’s wandering through the heathen Anglo-Saxon courts, abandoning his new faith for the old gods Woden and Thunor. The mysterious stranger who promised the return of his kingdom. Storming back to Northumbria to slay his murdering uncle and reclaim the crown.

  Then his marriage to a Christian princess of Kent, who brought her bishop, Paulinus. How they tried for months to convert Edwin. Then that fatal night. The attempted assassination of Edwin in which the king was wounded. The queen going into labour and the birth of a baby daughter. With all three saved from death, Edwin gave in, and was baptized for the second time. Thousands followed him into baptism in the rivers of Northumbria.

  “But easy come, easy go. When Penda, the heathen king of neighbouring Mercia, swept into Northumbria and killed Edwin, his Christian queen fled back to Kent with her children. Bishop Paulinus fled too. The light of the Christian faith went out in all but a few places.

  “But light was shining somewhere else. When Edwin killed Aethelfrith the Ferocious, the old king’s children had fled. As Edwin had done, the heathen princes found sanctuary among Christians. For them, it was the holy island of Iona, off the west of Scotland. There Prince Oswald fell in love with Christ.”

  “We’re getting to you, Daddy!” Melangell whispered to Aidan.

  “He recruited an army of Scots and Irish. They marched into his homeland, and the Northumbrians flocked to his standard, determined to throw the invading Mercians out. With his own hands, Oswald raised a cross on Hadrian’s Wall. Then he went into battle. Penda of Mercia and his allies were routed. For a second time that century, Northumbria had a Christian king.

  “And one of the first things Oswald did was to ask the chaplain he had brought from Iona to preach the gospel to his Northumbrian army.

  “But he picked the wrong man for the job. Corman was a bitter preacher. Instead of telling them about the love of God, he ranted at them for being wicked sinners.” Lucy’s eyes settled on James. “They wouldn’t listen to him. In disgust, he packed his bags and stormed back to Iona.

  “He told his story to the brothers in the abbey. ‘You’ll never convert those English heathens. They’ve hearts of stone. I was wasting my breath on them.’

  “A quiet voice came from the back of the room. ‘Maybe you were going about it the wrong way, brother. They’re like babies. And you were giving them tough meat. It would be better to feed them the bread and milk of the gospel, the love of God. When they’ve digested that, and grown a bit stronger, they’ll be ready for the harder stuff.’

  “All eyes swung round to the speaker. It was Aidan, a scholar from Ireland…”

  Melangell tugged her father’s arm in delight.

  “Well, you know what it’s like if you come up with a good suggestion in a meeting. Everybody jumped to the same conclusion. ‘That’s right, Aidan! And you’d be the best man for the job.’

  “So Aidan packed his satchel and came here to Northumbria. He was an Irishman who couldn’t speak the Anglo-Saxon language at first. The king himself stood beside him and translated his words to the troops. And this time, the Northumbrian soldiers saw that here was a man who loved them, just as they were.”

  In the few moments’ silence, Lucy’s eyes ranged round her troop.

  James stirred restively. “What about sin?” he said, aggressively enough for Lucy to hear.

  Elspeth snorted loudly. “I thought I’d skipped the sermon.”

  A smile teased Lucy’s lips. “I’m sorry. It’s difficult to talk about Celtic saints without bringing in Christianity. Anyway, the Roman bishop Paulinus fled before the Mercians. Corman went back to Iona in a huff. But Aidan stayed. He worked here until he died.

  “King Oswald had fallen in love with Iona, the island that had given him shelter and taught him the faith. He wanted to give Aidan the nearest thing in Northumbria to Iona. And this was Lindisfarne. Almost an island.” She let her eyes roam round this little sea-girt world. “Imagine it without the sand dunes. They came later.

  “And of course, Aidan’s abbey wasn’t the Norman priory you see today. Think wood and thatch. Paulinus had lived at court. Aidan kept a sacred distance. Look, you can see the fortress of Bamburgh from here. Aidan could visit the king, but he never stayed the night. And the king would come to this island, bringing only a small retinue, when he needed to get away from the cares of his kingdom and seek Aidan’s wisdom.

  “Aidan and his monks travelled far and wide, along the coast and into the hills, taking the gospel. They didn’t baptize people in thousands, but as month followed month the heathen Northumbrians came to love and trust him. They saw the monks rolling up their sleeves and helping with the harvest. They saw them giving away the treasure and money people gave them to feed the poor. They watched them living the gospel. And when times turned bitter again for Northumbria, they had a faith this time that lasted.”

  Now her eyes challenged James directly.

  He was on his feet. “Is that all you think the gospel is? Doing good and telling people that God loves them? What about the wrath of God? What about sin? You rubbished Paulinus because he baptized thousands. At my church, yes, we have people streaming through the doors. Because I tell them the truth about sin and hellfire.”

  Lucy’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t rubbish Paulinus’s preaching. I just pointed out that when things went pear-shaped for Northumbria, and the Mercians invaded, Paulinus did a runner and his conversions melted away. Aidan’s was a gospel that put down roots. Like him, it stayed.”

  “And that’s what you’re telling Rachel here, is it? That it doesn’t matter what she’s done in the past? She’s not a sinner?”

  “James!” There was real outrage in Lucy’s protest. But her expression turned to dismay.

  Aidan, like everyone else, was turning round to look for the unfortunate girl who had become a battleground between these two.

  Rachel was not there. Nowhere on the wide expanse of green that was the priory’s outer court. No dark shadow flitting between the sandstone walls and pillars. No solitary figure on the slope down to the beach. Other visitors were beginning to arrive, spreading out among the ruins. Nowhere was there anyone who looked like Rachel.

  Chapter Ten

  LUCY LOOKED AROUND IN CONSTERNATION. How could she have been so wrapped up in her storytelling that she had not noticed Rachel’s absence for so long?

  She felt a rush of unchristian fury against James. Why was he always putting her on the defensive, challenging her? What had he said to Rachel? How much harm had he already done? Rachel was too often overwhelmed by the sense of her own worthlessness. Wasn’t that what had driven her into the arms of the drug dealers? Lucy had struggled so hard to convince the unhappy teenager that, underneath, she was better than that. That God loved her just as she was, whatever she had done, whatever had been done to her. Nothing could ever make her so soiled, so untouchable, that Christ would turn his back on her. Hope, like a tiny seed, was what Lucy had tried to sow.

  What could happen to Rachel if James smashed down that fragile growth?

  She was aware that Valerie was intervening, trying with her gentle voice to steer the session into calmer waters.

  “I expect that Rachel’s gone away to find some peace on her own. Didn’t I read somewhere that that’s what Aidan used to do? Even on Lindisfarne?”

  Lucy took her eyes away from the contempt on James’s face. She tried to bring her shaken thoughts under control.

  She threw Valerie a grateful smile. “Yes, you’re right. It’s something you read a lot about Celtic abbots. Columba on Iona, Kevin on Glendalough in Ireland, Aidan here. They needed a place where they could be alone with God and lay the cares of the monastery at his feet. To become a spiritual child again, seeking help from their Father.

  “For Aidan, in the great fas
t of Lent, it was one of the Farne Islands. Out there. You can hardly see them, they lie so flat against the sea. But you can make out the lighthouse, where Grace Darling and her father later rescued shipwrecked sailors in a rowing boat in a storm. We’ll talk more about Inner Farne when we get to St Cuthbert.

  “But Aidan had a little sanctuary closer than Farne. Hobthrush Island, or St Cuthbert’s. Just a pile of rocks, and a bit of grass, cut off from Lindisfarne at high tide, just as Lindisfarne itself is cut off from the mainland. I can show you, if you like. It’s not far.”

  She felt an urgent need to be moving. To do something. She sensed that many of the group, too, were glad to lift themselves from wherever they had found dry stones to sit on. But it made everything so much more real to tell these stories where they actually happened. To fill your eyes with the same meadows and waves and beaches they had seen. To feel the same wind sharp against your skin and the spatter of rain that had been part of their daily life.

  But she knew that Fran Cavendish, at least, would have preferred the comfort of an armchair in the lounge. And David was probably looking forward to Mrs Batley’s Sunday roast.

  Elspeth must have had something of the same feeling. She hoisted her bulk off the shooting stick. “Lead on, then. Might as well work up an appetite for lunch.”

  As they walked down over the grass to the narrow beach, Lucy’s eyes were flitting from side to side, longing for a sighting of the elusive Rachel. The tide was falling. Could anything have made her so desperate that she would try to leave the island when the causeway opened?

  Peter shambled alongside her. “Do you want me to go and look for her?”

  Lucy badly wanted to say yes. But she shook her head and smiled bravely. “Let’s not start panicking yet. If I’m right, and James has been getting at her, she may need some time on her own. I try to help, but she doesn’t always want to talk to me.”

  “Let’s face it, Rachel doesn’t often want to talk to anyone.” His hands were in his pockets, head thrust against the breeze.