The View From the Cart

by Rebecca Tope

  With a sigh, Frith patted my arm and got up from where he sat close to me, and moved to join Cuthman. No-one else stirred. Cuthman looked hard at Fippa’s sons, Garth and Welf, who he counted as his friends. ‘Will you not come?’ he asked them.

  Nervously they glanced at their mother, who sat against the wall, as was her custom. Her seat was in a small space between a large table and the rough surface of the wall, and she made a habit of leaning back, resting her head, and staring around the Hall, watching all that took place. She stared straight at the two men, giving them no obvious indication of what they should do.

  ‘You will come to no harm,’ Cuthman added, with a forced laugh. ‘My God is a loving God.’

  Fippa spat onto the ground at that, though in a way to suggest that she needed to clear her mouth in any case.

  I had some sympathy for the dilemma of the two men. They wished to assert their independence from their mother, but they, more than anyone, must have known the power she possessed. And they believed in the Stone, as protector and guardian of the settlement. They believed in their own gods, and saw no need for a new one.

  But Cuthman had power, too. He made one more attempt. ‘Friends,’ he said softly, ‘have no fear. I can show you the future, if you permit me. The future of the world, united under the one true God, and the future for you yourselves, enjoying everlasting bliss in Heaven, on God’s right hand. It is a glorious future, which you may have so simply. You only need to believe, to have faith, and to be baptised. Come, try me. Listen to me for just this one evening, and if you find nothing that speaks to your deepest hopes and fears, then I will not press you to come again. Can you not trust me that far?’

  Garth and Welf looked at each other. ‘He does work miracles,’ Welf said, in a low voice, frowning at the decision required of him.

  ‘And he means us no harm,’ said Garth. In unison, they nodded, and stood up.

  Cuthman opened his arms to them, a rare smile on his face. Then he raised his head and scanned the Hall. ‘Two more?’ he demanded. ‘Have I two more to share the wisdom of the Lord?’

  A rustling and much whispering went round the tables. In a few moments, a couple stood forward. Husband and wife, they were. I had worked alongside the woman many times and found her to be unusually thoughtful. She had asked me many questions about my life and Cuthman’s doctrine. Her name was Canti, and she was childless, although of mature years. Her husband was a white-skinned fellow, weakened by some childhood sickness. He was regarded with a degree of scorn by the village people, but his wife was clearly fond of him.

  And so Cuthman had his little school, which flourished and prospered, according to Frith’s reports. I was glad of it, in the main, though bothered by a wish that I could witness the discussions. I did my best to extract from Frith a full account of all that was said, but he was always weary afterwards, and excused himself.

  A month and a half after Christ’s Mass, a horseman came over the hill, with an escort of four swordsmen, and rode down into the centre of the village. Such a thing had evidently never happened before, and the people crowded together fearfully. The stranger was grandly dressed, his horse’s harness decorated with bronze medallions. There was an alien force to him, an arrogance that intimidated us all.

  ‘Who is leader here?’ he demanded, staring first at the shining black Stone and then up at the almost-finished church on the knoll. ‘Might this be a Christian settlement, or not?’

  Nobody answered him at first. I searched the crowd for Cuthman, who would surely wish to step forward and make his claim on behalf of his God. But he was most likely on the hilltop, out of earshot, praying or fashioning the interior of his church. His absence seemed like a betrayal at that moment.

  Fippa took her cue. ‘I will speak for these people,’ she said. The man glared down, trying to see who had spoken. When he found her, he gave a mocking salute.

  ‘Well, Mother, then I will address myself to you. I am come as the King’s representative, to order that you pay a tribute to the Crown, now and at regular periods from henceforth. The South Saxon lands have been too long neglected. We wish to gather you into the great Kingdom of England now. Your tribute will mark that you are included. There will be many advantages to you in this, of course.’

  Fippa raised her hands, in a gesture of comical helplessness. ‘Such a grand offer,’ she said. A few people chuckled, but the tension remained. Some were muttering ‘Tribute? What does that mean?’ and suchlike.

  ‘Woman, this is a serious business,’ the man rebuked her. ‘Read the tribute list,’ he ordered one of the men with him. The man produced a parchment, which he unrolled and read, haltingly.

  ‘Five sheep, five goats, a bushel of best corn, a dozen laying fowl, three barrels of ale and five lengths of woollen worsted.’

  Incomprehension filled every face. The list comprised a substantial portion of the village’s goods.

  ‘What does this mean?’ Fippa queried, her voice shaking a little.

  ‘Simply that we wish you to make a tribute of the items on the list, in return for taking your place under the King’s protection. We will allow you time, of course, to supply them all.’

  ‘We should starve if you took so much,’ called a man.

  ‘That is the truth,’ Fippa confirmed. ‘We cannot let so much be taken.’

  ‘We have calculated it with care. The settlement is of a good size, and there is every sign of prosperity. It is the price you pay for peace, which is surely beyond any riches. If war came, you would lose a good deal more than some beasts and ale.’

  ‘Why should war come?’ Fippa demanded. ‘What cause might there be to fight?’

  The man guffawed loudly. ‘Woman, you are as innocent as a lamb. There will always be invaders from across the sea, and this sheltered harbour might be a favoured spot for their landings. Under the King’s protection, you could send a runner or fire a beacon, and his army would come to give battle on your behalf. But the King has a large court, and many men and horses to sustain. Your tribute will be put to good use, believe me. Now, no more to be said. You will gather together the items on the list, for collection in one month’s time.’

  ‘What might worsted be?’ enquired Welf, who had moved to stand beside his mother. It was evident that nobody present knew what that meant at all. The man shook his head impatiently.

  ‘Cloth,’ he answered shortly. ‘Woven woollen cloth.’

  ‘We have no such thing,’ Fippa proclaimed. ‘We felt the fleece, and use that for our cloth.’

  ‘Felted cloth is acceptable,’ snapped the man, impatiently. ‘It is all the same. But no short measures. The King must have his full entitlement, if you are to benefit from his care and protection.’

  ‘We have no need of your King’s protection,’ came a ringing voice. ‘We are children of God and He will watch over His own.’

  The horseman swung round to face the newcomer. Cuthman stood alone, his long woollen cloak wrapped round him, his own beloved crucifix in his hand. They examined each other for a long moment.

  ‘Aha! A young saint, I see,’ the man said. ‘This is a strange place indeed. But God or Stone, heathen or not, makes no difference. The land of Sussex has its own ways, which we are content to respect for the time being. We are not so earnest to force the Lord Jesus upon these southern tribes, as they are in the north. Though Kent is strongly of the Christian faith, of course.’

  Cuthman said nothing, but stood defiant. I knew nothing of Kent, or where it might be, and I did not believe that Cuthman was any wiser than I was on the subject. The King’s messenger seemed a wonderful creature to me, and to the other people of the village. Wonderful and intimidating in his knowledge of the world and his assumed power to impoverish us.

  ‘But whatever gods may prevail, the tribute must be paid,’ he repeated. He tone softened a little. ‘It seems harsh, I know. We live in times of great change, after so much conflict and death – which perhaps you have not known of, hidden away on your fe
rtile little plain. I can see that my coming is a great surprise to you. It has been the same across this area. I have been to Goring and Lancing, Sompting and Offing – so many little tribes living in peace across these seaward slopes. It is an idyll, which we do not wish to molest. But it is of great importance that we unite together, under the one King, so that our lives may continue to be peaceful and prosperous. You must believe me in this. You have no choice but to do so, but I very much hope that you will give the tribute willingly. The King has planned a summer tour of the South Saxon shores, and will be here to speak to you himself at that time.’

  ‘We have no wish to meet your thieving King,’ Fippa called, her voice deep with anger. ‘We have all that we need, and your talk of war means nothing. No-one here has known war and we can see no cause to expect it now.’

  ‘We will pay your tribute.’ Cuthman spoke calmly, though a light shone in his eyes.

  ‘No!’ Fippa screamed. ‘No, we will not. We have not so much as that to give away.’

  The people looked from one to the other, like sheep between two wolves. Though I fancy Cuthman seemed to them then the more threatening of the two.

  ‘We owe respect to the King,’ said Cuthman. ‘He might do much for us here. And it would be folly to defy him, I see that now.’

  ‘You speak wisely, young Christian,’ approved the messenger. ‘I have no wish to make threats, but it is plainly the case that if he desired to do so, the King could bring a single cohort of his army and annihilate you all, in a brief morning’s work. You are entirely powerless. And perhaps you will also see that the same is true whoever seeks to attack you. You must take my word for the risks you run. There are peoples across the sea who would invade this lush land, and come armed in stout ships. You would be over-run and murdered in moments. But if you posted scouts to watch for the sails, and sent signals to the King’s camps, there would be time to save you. All loyal subjects may call upon the King to safeguard them.’

  ‘You repeat yourself,’ Fippa growled. ‘And still we see no danger.’

  The messenger ignored her and fixed his gaze on Cuthman. ‘There, I think, is the true leader of this tribe,’ he smiled. ‘A man of vision, who seems to glow with destiny. I have visited many such settlements as this, but in none did I see such a fellow. And nowhere is there a church of God. I foresee great changes for this village, and I shall advise the King to make it his first call. There are many interesting possibilities here.’ He turned to the sea inlet, frowning at the hills beyond the water, and then scanned the forest to the north. ‘A natural harbour,’ he murmured. ‘Well protected, well hidden, indeed.’ Then a little louder, ‘What is the name of this place?’

  ‘We are the Steyning,’ replied Fippa, surly but uncowed. ‘The people of the Stone.’

  ‘And your name, young sir?’ he enquired of my son.

  ‘Cuthman is my name.’

  The horseman turned to his companions. ‘Remember that, then. Cuthman of Steyning.’ They nodded, in all seriousness, and I felt a thump of excitement at the events of that morning. Talk of Kings and wars lifted us from our daily lives; talk of destiny and change made us feel we had some importance in the world. I understood that Cuthman had anticipated me – that he had seen the promise almost from the first, and resolved to make what he could of this visitation.

  ‘Eat with us,’ he invited the horsemen. ‘Rest a while.’

  They accepted his invitation and the villagers provided meat and bread and ale, though somewhat grudgingly. The messenger sat with Cuthman, and I found a seat close by, ignored by them both.

  ‘The church is almost built,’ the man remarked. ‘Have you a consecration arranged?’

  Cuthman stammered a little at that. ‘I – I know of no-one who might perform that service for me. I shall call on the Lord God Himself to consecrate it. It is built properly, facing the east, with a stone altar and shrines ready for adoption on either side.’

  The visitor smiled at the boyish earnestness of the words. ‘You have done well,’ he said kindly. ‘I shall certainly mention you and your works to the King.’

  There was nothing more said of the tribute until just before they rode away again, as the sun began to sink. The days were still short, and the light pale.

  ‘One month,’ said the messenger. ‘Mark it well, and have your beasts assembled here. We will not be late in making the collection.’ He signed to the man with the parchment, who unrolled it again and read the list through to remind us. It was curious how it seemed shorter and less impossible on the second hearing.

  ‘We make no promise,’ Fippa sustained her defiance. ‘We will discuss it amongst ourselves.’

  The man settled more comfortably on his saddle and smiled tolerantly. ‘I thank you for your hospitality,’ he said. ‘I will not forget Steyning, and its amusing contradictions.’

  When he had gone, Fippa rushed up to Cuthman, and began to snarl in his face like a mad dog. ‘I am the one to speak for these people. Who are you to give away our creatures and our provisions?’

  ‘I see the future more clearly than you do, crone,’ Cuthman spoke up strongly. ‘The King’s messenger is not a man to defy lightly. We would be wise to conform to his requests. We have sheep and goats and ale enough, as you know full well.’

  ‘And you seek his favour for your church, and yourself as priest. I see it only too well, my friend. I begin to wonder who offers us the greater danger – the King’s army or the newcomer with his ambitions to rule us.’

  ‘The two between them might offer you a great destiny.’

  ‘Me? Might I know a great destiny?’ She squinted fiercely at him, her finger stabbing crookedly into his chest. ‘What can you see for me, my friend?’

  He swallowed once or twice, controlling his anger. ‘You are old, Fippa. You have known power and the people have respected and feared you. It seems to me that you time is almost done and there is no preventing the changes which are to come. And more – it seems to me that we do no good by hesitating. The time has come for your Stone to give way to my church. A man cannot truly serve two gods.’

  A vision came to me, hearing that, of the great white striding god we had seen on the hillside at Cerne Abbas, with the monastery thriving only a few paces distance away, and I doubted the truth of my son’s words. And I doubted their wisdom even more.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  In the following weeks, we were refreshed by a damp westerly wind, bringing the scents of spring, faint but hopeful. New growth showed green under the trees in the forest, leaves thrusting through, which would become bluebells and Lent lilies in due course. The cruel starkness of winter was over, although we would have cold days yet in plenty.

  Cuthman came down his hillside early on the day of the spring equinox, walking with a purpose which I recognised from earlier days. As if he had woken to find God at his bedside, I thought. I had woken early myself, with a stretching sensation in my belly which was not new, but which had a certain purpose of its own that I suspected was of some import. I knew already that it was to be a day of great moment. The balance of day and night, the unmistakable tipping into another warmer season, giving cause for hope and celebration.

  I saw from my hut that Cuthman had gone to the byre where the oxen belonging to Garth and Welf had their quarters. I recalled hearing Garth announce, the previous evening, that if dry, this day would be spent ploughing a piece of land close to the forest edge, for planting with corn seed. The demands of the King’s tribute required us to grow extra this year and there was no time to waste. There was thus an implied agreement that Cuthman could not use the oxen that day. Indeed, his need of them was almost done, with the church so nearly finished, and it had not seemed necessary to make the point overtly. He was now only waiting for the right season to gather rushes and dry them for his roof, before the entire edifice was complete. At nightfall there would be a ceremony around the Stone, to mark the equinox.

  I dozed again, distracted by the weight of my belly a
nd the warm pleasure of lying so close to Frith. If my child were to come soon, then so be it. I had expected another moon to pass before my time was on me, but the previous days had warned me that this might be a miscalculation.

  Women everywhere will testify to the all-consuming nature of childbirth. In the final stages, there could be earthquakes or wars and a labouring woman would pay no heed to any of it. The same is true of the early days afterwards. Events or stories from that time make no impression, when there is a new baby at the breast, a new little person to get acquainted with and to keep safe from harm. And so it was with me, in part. That long strange decisive day came to me in snatches, as my belly asserted itself over my attention. It is disjointed in my memory and some of it I can scarcely believe truly happened, but there are other witnesses than I, who will confirm that it did.

  And then came a surprise. Instead of Fippa’s sons leading the oxen to set to ploughing, I saw Cuthman emerge from the byre, the beasts plodding obediently behind him. I watched as he led them to the Stone, and hitched stout ropes, attached to their yoke, around the sacred object.. He was seen by one or two early risers, who raised the alarm. Before long, the whole village was standing in a circle, shouting their protests and horror, but making no move to prevent him. Only when Fippa marched out of her hut, her hair even wilder than usual and sleep blearing her eyes, did the conflict truly begin.

  And even then, she was for a time speechless with outrage. ‘These are my oxen!’ she began, and I could understand that this would be for her the final affront. ‘And you use them to tear down the thing that is held most sacred here? The gods will strike you if you do this deed. You will be cursed forever. I shall curse you. Stop now, and go back to your hilltop where you can do no harm.’

  Cuthman acted as if she were silent and invisible. He began to drive the oxen forward, the ropes growing taut between them and the Stone.

  ‘Does your God have so little power that he cannot permit us to keep our old ways?’ Fippa demanded. Her eyes were clearer now, and darted back and forth as she summoned her forces. No-one had expected the confrontation to come so quickly, least of all Fippa. She seemed to me like a rat, using all its courage and cunning to escape from a dangerous trap.