Chapter 6
Jarrow, Friday, 10th January 688
Well, my dear Reader, where do I start again? It’s over a year since I last handled the thin pile of manuscript on which I must now again set to work. My writing table has an unfamiliar feel about it. The chair seems to be at the wrong height. The candle smells fatty. Do I overlook all that has happened this year, and go back to the comfortable, if not always creditable, certainties of my youth? Or do I set out on what may be the still open issues of the present?
But come now – put in these terms, what choice is there? Interesting as it is, the story of heresy and perhaps ghostly blood-drinking in the Athens of my youth can wait. In its place, let us have the reasons why what, last year, were my most familiar things have become strangers to me. And so, let me close my eyes and wait for the quarter opium pill I’ve taken to have its effect. When I open them again, let me guide my pen over the wondrously smooth papyrus, boxes of which fill this room; and let me put aside the little matter of the oath of silence that all concerned have been required to swear on the Gospels.
I begin around noon on the day that follows my last entry. My first recollection is of lying slumped over my writing table. My pen, still clamped between chilled fingers, had poked a hole in the papyrus.
‘Brother Aelric!’ came the soft yet urgent voice in my bad ear. ‘Brother Aelric, please wake up.’
It was Benedict. I tried to look up at him with bleary eyes, but I was too stiff with the cold to move. One of the novices with him gently pulled me into a seated position. Another set a cup of warmed barley wine to my lips. As I drank in its welcome goodness, I stared in Benedict’s direction and waited for my eyes to focus.
‘Have I missed prayers again?’ I asked. I glanced at the chink of bright sunshine coming through the shutters.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said flatly.
Now I could focus, I looked at the pale, sweaty face. I felt the faint stirrings of alarm.
‘Are you able to stand up and come with me?’ he asked.
Good question. I’d answer it when I felt ready. I took up the cup the novice had set down on the table and finished its contents. I kicked at the floor to push my chair back and was helped to my feet.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked. Monasteries hardly ever bustle with activity. Everything but our own voices, though, was unnaturally silent. I looked again at the hard, cold sunlight that was making a pattern of colours on the contents of my inkpot and waited as my shawl was tied about me. Benedict’s mouth twitched as if he were about to speak. But his jaw set again, and he said nothing.
Going into the great hall, I was at first blinded by the mass of sunlight that poured in through the now open gate. A couple of big men stood just outside. But all else about them other than their size was lost in the blaze. Looking back into the unwindowed dimness of the hall, I could see virtually nothing. One thing I did see, though, was the body. It lay face up, about six feet inside the gate. I let go of Benedict’s arm and moved towards it.
‘He had his reward for opening the gate,’ Benedict said as he moved beside me.
I looked steadily down at the calmest expression I’d ever seen on Cuthbert’s face. The absence of malevolence, or of any other passion, had made me wonder for a moment who it might be. But it was Cuthbert. For all death might have purged it of unpleasantness, that body had once, beyond any doubt, contained Cuthbert. He’d had his throat cut, and had landed on his back before dying. Blood had sprayed everywhere as if from a fountain. Those white flagstones Benedict always fussed over would need a day of scraping to get the stains out.
‘You’re telling me he opened the gate and was killed as the northerners rushed in?’ I asked.
Benedict nodded, but looked inclined to move to other business. Plainly, the monastery had fallen. But since the northerners hadn’t so far run wild, whatever business needed to be discussed could wait a while longer. Now my eyes had adjusted, I could see everything else in the hall. The villagers were nowhere to be seen. But the entire company of monks was sitting silent and terrified around the table. Sprawled on the ground or leaning against walls or on convenient furniture, the northerners had surely increased in number. There were more here than I’d ever counted from the tower. And there were still some outside. I looked at the weapons they had on show. As it had been outside, they mostly had small battle-axes. Otherwise, there were a few clubs and some largish knives. I saw nothing that might have been useful for cutting a throat as neatly and quickly as Cuthbert’s had been.
I looked again at the flagstones. They were blotched or spotted with blood right up to the stone threshold. Though light and shining in the sun, this was unstained. It was the same with the darker stones of the porch. The gate wasn’t pushed entirely back against the wall, but had a clearance of about three feet. I walked over and looked at the inner side of the gate. It was bad light again, but I could feel the congealed mess on one of the drawn crossbars.
‘Since poor dear Cuthbert didn’t open the gate,’ I said, turning back to face the monks, ‘is anyone able to tell me who did?’ I turned again to Benedict, who was looking confused now as well as worried. ‘But do pardon me – old habits of enquiry die hard.’ And I had to admit that I’d not been dragged out of my slumber to explain the death of the worst logic teacher England might ever have produced or might ever produce. I nodded at one of the northerners who’d come over to get a closer look at the body. He stood beside me, his face like leather where the beard didn’t cover, his hair rancid with butter.
‘A more relevant question might be why everyone else is still alive?’ I looked round yet again. This time, I noticed Joseph. As before in Benedict’s chair, he was now bound and gagged. His kitchen knife lay perhaps a yard from his feet. I could see where blood had dripped from it on to the floor. Rather big for cutting a throat, I imagined it was bloody from some attempted resistance. He looked back at me, rage and bafflement streaming from his face. Yet, if his clothes were torn, and if a bruise seemed to cover his entire forehead, even he was still alive. ‘What is going on?’ I asked Benedict.
I felt someone tugging at my sleeve, and I was helped on to a little stool that had been brought forward. I carefully stretched my legs and waited for the blood to rearrange itself. I twisted round and saw a jug of something on the table. I pointed at it and waited for the cup to be brought over. Bad luck – it was only water. I rubbed my head and tried to think. But Benedict was now staring down at me.
‘Brother Aelric,’ he said, then looked suddenly away. ‘Brother Aelric, how the gate was opened is a matter I am not able to explain. But these men tell me that their natural inclination is to strip the monastery of anything valuable and then to burn it with all of us still inside it. However, they have said that they will leave us in peace if we give up what they have come to take.’ He paused and swallowed. He began and his voice failed him. He began again: ‘Brother Aelric, I am told that they want you to go with them.’
I heard one of the monks burst into a stream of incoherent prayer. Someone else let up a wail of terror. From somewhere in the gloom over on my left, there was quiet sobbing. I closed my eyes and tried once more to think. With the evidence available, I’d not have got very far at my best. Now, it was just a matter of suspicions I could barely articulate even to myself. I grabbed at the monk who stood beside me and got to my feet. I looked round at the gathered company.
‘Are there any of you savages,’ I asked as loudly as I could manage, ‘who know Latin?’ I stopped and then laughed. ‘Anyone who knows Greek?’
‘They speak through me,’ Edward replied slowly in Latin. He came from where he’d been leaning against a chair and stood before me. The ragged shirt and trousers that had been growing increasingly too small for him had been put aside. In their place, he wore a suit of travelling clothes that were just a little too big. ‘I understand their language, and they have made me their interpreter.’
I gave him my best look of disgust and poi
nted at the corpse. ‘And I suppose,’ I said with heavy irony, ‘that you can rejoice in having been Cuthbert’s “appointed end”. I only hope the poor bugger died with his balls well-drained.’
The boy’s smooth, unblemished face tightened for a moment. Then he shrugged and barked a few words at one of the northerners. The man laughed and said something to the others that set them all off. He got up and left the hall. Benedict pressed shaking hands to his chest and prayed softly.
‘Brother Aelric,’ he said at length, ‘I cannot force you to anything. You are a free agent. But I ask you to consider that there are forty-three other people in my present care. There is no reason why these men should not have killed us all at once and then taken you by force. If they are asking you to leave of your own free will, there is reason to suppose that they will keep to their word. As an individual man of God, I hardly need assure you that I would suffer any martyrdom before doing or counselling evil. But I am responsible for the safety of everyone here – and for all the work we have done and may yet do…’ He trailed off and looked towards the chapel.
He didn’t need to go on. Even with cold water in my cup, I’d got there first. Silly of me, really, ever to have thought that Jarrow was far enough to run. If I’d managed to get here at my age, it was plainly not far enough to deter others. Certainly, Bishop Alexius and the three senators had managed the journey. They’d turned up one Easter in clothes that I could see were spoiled by travelling, but that everyone else had thought ravishingly magnificent. And they’d stayed the better part of a month, variously whining and nagging. If I’d sent them back with a flea in their collective ear, I should have realised that wouldn’t be the end of the matter. You don’t say no to an emperor. You certainly don’t to an emperor like Constantine.
I looked once more about the hall. This time, I saw the leader of the northerners. Not the big Chieftain from outside – I’d not seen him yet – he hadn’t been one of the low creatures who’d made a spectacle of themselves during the siege. Most likely, he’d been the one who arrived the night before. Smaller than the others, and dressed with more concern for the niceties, he sat quietly a few yards along from Joseph and was looking at me with close attention.
‘Do you speak Latin?’ I asked.
He shook his head. I tried him in English. He nodded towards Edward. I pulled myself straight and looked down at Edward. He wasn’t yet fully grown, and I was still a tall man when I took the trouble not to stoop.
‘Do these savages not realise,’ I asked, ‘that even ten miles in this weather would kill me? If they expect to get me on to their open rowing ship, they must be either mad or desperate.’
‘That has been considered,’ he said, now giving up on Latin for English, ‘considered and answered. We have decided that Wilfred should accompany us.’ The man he’d spoken to now reappeared. He was holding a pale, silent Wilfred by the scruff of his neck. ‘Wilfred will come with us. We will do all we can to make your journey safe and easy. If you manage to die, however, he will be killed as Tatfrid was. This time, there will be no Brother Joseph to speed his death.’
You little shit! I wanted to snarl. If you expect either of us to last long outside this monastery, you haven’t thought very hard. But I could see there was no point in arguing. With Bede away, there was no one else here who meant enough to bend me to another’s will. So instead: ‘I suppose you think pretty well of yourself,’ I sneered. And, to be fair, it seemed Edward had every reason so to think. He’d got himself admitted here. He’d put up with months of my snarly abuse at his lack of progress in Latin and God knows what from Cuthbert. All this time, he’d bitten his tongue and waited for a prearranged time – or perhaps for an opportunity that might never come. I’d run networks of professionals in my time – against the Persians, and then against the Saracens. I can tell you the hardest thing with tradecraft is keeping your embedded agents from going native. If Edward was now mightily pleased with himself, he had every reason. I’d underestimated the boy. Such a pity. At the very least, if he was up to this, I could surely have found a better way than I had to get Cicero into his head.
And he had got rid of Cuthbert! Of course, where he and his thirty pieces of silver came in was beyond me. Plainly, he hadn’t known of Edward’s involvement. Perhaps he’d been some kind of dupe. But why kill him? Questions, questions, so many questions – and not much chance here and now of an answer. But Edward had been a very clever lad. That much was clear. I smiled and sat down again.
‘When are we supposed to leave?’ I asked.
Edward looked out into the sunlight. ‘The King and his men are already on their way over,’ he said. ‘We must leave at once.’ He pointed at a couple of bags that had appeared. ‘This will be enough for your journey.’ The leader got up and gave a short command. I heard the crack of a whip outside and the neighing of a horse. ‘The carriage is heated,’ Edward told me. ‘I will sit with you on the journey to the coast. Wilfred travels with the others.’
The horses made hard work of pulling the carriage through the mud of the track that led from the monastery. I had plenty of time for looking back through the open flap. It was one of those chill, cloudless days you sometimes get in a Northumbrian winter. Everything was lit with a bright intensity that allowed even my eyes to take it in. I pretended to ignore the body of the Chieftain and the two other bodies that lay a few yards from his. As before, since I’d get no answers, there was no point letting on that I had any questions. I chose likewise to overlook Edward’s mention of ‘the coast’. Once over the hundred yards of the track, we’d set out to the south-east on the old military road – in the opposite direction to Yellow Tooth Creek.
I looked steadily back in silence. Benedict and the other monks stood outside for a long time, crossing themselves and praying as they watched our departure. At last, they went slowly back inside. Once I’d seen the heavy gate swing shut behind them, I slumped back on to the rough, charcoal-warmed cushions and breathed more easily. Whatever was to happen with me – whatever was to become of my little Wilfred – the monastery stood, and its precious work of civilisation could continue. It wasn’t work as I’d have arranged it. But it was the best that England was likely to get, and it hadn’t yet gone up in smoke.
I tried to ignore the smell of wet embers as we passed by what had been the village. I listened instead to the thin calls of the winter birds. Northumbria isn’t blessed with the kind of scenery that anyone would wish to look on before leaving for ever, so I turned my attention to the contents of the larger bag that had been dumped beside me.
‘Should I compliment you,’ I asked Edward, ‘on the appositeness of your packing the Acts of the Apostles in Greek? It does contain the best account I’ve ever seen of a shipwreck. Or was this a random selection?’
He gave me a thin smile. ‘You poked me hard with your stick when I suggested in class I might wish to learn Greek,’ he said. ‘You told me a scarecrow would sooner pass into your world of light than I could. Taking me there can now be the project that keeps you from more desperate thoughts.’
‘So you have a very long journey in mind?’ I asked with mock earnestness. Except for the hands, he was a pretty boy. One unbiased look at those regular features and the very blond hair, and it wasn’t hard to see why Cuthbert had fancied the arse off him. Twenty years – no, ten years – earlier, and I’d have been up to making a pass of my own.
‘How old were you when you got out of England?’ he asked.
‘I was eighteen,’ I answered, thinking back an age to King Ethelbert and his gelding knife, and good, kind Maximin who’d held him at bay by pure force of personality. ‘I was five years older than you are now.’ I smiled. He was no longer just pretty. The slow boy we’d all mocked and flogged through our various classes might have been stretched out as dead as worthless Cuthbert had been in the monastery. I was sitting now beside an entirely different young man. So far as I had any say in the matter, not dying on him might be interesting.
‘Did you ever intend coming back?’ he asked again.
‘No,’ I said. ‘As you will read of Saint Paul in Corinth, I shook the dust of England from my clothes and got on with the rest of my life. It has been a longer one than I think yours will be.’ I smiled. ‘But I suppose now is as good a time as any to begin your education.’
Chapter 7
‘You really must both get it out of your minds,’ I said, still in lecturing mode, ‘that the Empire “fell” in any meaningful sense. There is no doubt that, several hundred years ago, our own people and their cousins invaded the Western Provinces, and that these places – partly as a result – ceased to be administered from either of the Imperial capitals. The Eastern Provinces, however, passed unscathed through that long crisis; and the remaining Emperor in Constantinople continued as head of the richest and most powerful state in the world.’
‘But, surely, Master,’ Edward broke in, ‘the Saracens are completing the work of destruction. For the East, the fall has merely been delayed?’
I thought of correcting a misused deponent, but thought better of it. If the boy’s progress in Greek had been encouraging, his Latin had really blossomed. Even before we’d put in at our first Spanish port, he’d caught up with Wilfred. Now, none of us had used English in over a month. No loss there, to be sure – who’d speak a language like that from choice?
I shifted slightly in my daybed. The sun had moved, and the canopy above me no longer kept it from shining on me. Wilfred leaned over to rearrange the blanket that covered my legs. Another few inches, and it would be in the bowl of water where I was soaking my feet. I closed my eyes for a moment, and then tried to see across the two hundred yards that separated our ship at anchor from Cartenna. It was a useless effort. I looked back at the two boys who, waxed tablets in hand, stood before me. I noticed black stains on the thumb and two main fingers of Edward’s right hand. Practising his penmanship again, I thought approvingly.
The Sword of Damascus a-4 Page 4