Cuthbert met his gaze, sure now of his decision.
“If you will have me,” he said. “I would join you at None, if I may, and then, perhaps we can speak of my future.”
“All followers of Christ are, of course, welcome here, my son,” replied Boisil. “But we recite the prayers of the offices in Latin. This is a minster and we are monks. Holy servants of Christ.”
“I know the liturgy, good Boisil,” Cuthbert replied, to the old monk’s evident surprise. “It was taught to me by Coenred of Lindisfarena. And with God’s grace and your guidance, I too would take the tonsure and become a servant of the Lord.”
Boisil stared into his eyes and a silent communication flowed between them. The bell had stopped tolling, but the men around the gate had not yet moved.
Nodding, and with a welcoming smile, Boisil finally gestured for Cuthbert to make his way through the gates.
“Behold,” Boisil said to the other monks, “the servant of the Lord.”
Passing through the gates, Cuthbert felt again the warming peace that had enveloped him during his solitary ride while he had prayed and communed with the Almighty and His creation.
“Thank you,” he said to Boisil, who led the small group over the vallum and towards the shingle-roofed church.
“You are well come,” replied the prior.
As the voices of the faithful drifted out of the open door of the timber church, the words of the liturgy wafting about them like gossamer threads on a light breeze, Cuthbert felt an overwhelming sense of belonging that he had never before encountered in his short life, and he knew the prior’s words to be true.
Chapter 49
Cynan followed Beobrand across the gardens towards the great hall. Without conscious thought, he scanned the hedges, stone columns and statues that dotted the open area, for any sign of danger. But he was not expecting trouble. Surely no harm would befall his hlaford here, surrounded by King Eorcenberht’s door wards and hearth-warriors. Here in Cantwareburh they were far from the skirmishes and strife of the frontier lands of Northumbria and Mercia. Besides, in the unlikely event something untoward occurred, Cynan carried no blade. They had left their weapons at the entrance of the royal enclosure, so acting as Beobrand’s bodyguard was more for show than anything else. And yet the Waelisc warrior remained close by his lord’s shoulder, unspeaking, his face stern, his eyes flicking as he took in their surroundings.
Cynan still resented that the lord of Ubbanford had not allowed him to return to Stagga. He yearned for Eadgyth and now the gods alone knew when he would be able to speak to her again.
Back in Bebbanburg, when he had asked Beobrand for permission to return home, leaving the other warriors to accompany him south, Beobrand had smiled. There had been no humour in his eyes.
“Oh no, Cynan, my friend, I am sorry,” he said, shaking his head, mock sorrow on his face. “You are coming with me. You have often told me that it is your duty to protect me.” Cynan frowned, thinking of how he had fought off the giant brute Brunwine so that Beobrand could go to Octa’s aid. He recalled hacking Halga’s head from his shoulders as Beobrand lay defenceless beneath the massive Mercian. Perhaps his expression gave away his thoughts for Beobrand held up a hand to fend off any protests. “And you have saved me more than once, I cannot deny it. But you yourself have said that to properly act as my protector, you must be my shadow. And so, you will go where I go. Besides,” he added with a grin and a slap on the back, “if I can see you, Cynan, I know where you are.”
Cynan hurried to keep up with Beobrand as he strode towards the doors of the great hall. They had left the other Black Shields in the same small hall they’d occupied when they had last visited Cantware. Cynan knew he could have stayed with them. In truth, he did not need to accompany Beobrand to the king’s hall. But if the man said he wanted a shadow, by the gods, he would have one.
The sun was low in the sky and Cynan glanced over at the statues of long-dead men of Roma that lined the edges of the ornately kept gardens. The dark shadows and golden light picked out their features. He marvelled at the exquisite skill that had gone into carving such life-like figures. It seemed like witchcraft to him that stone could be fashioned into smooth skin, locks of tumbling hair and soft folds of silk.
As they had ridden into the city, with its crumbling walls and the towering majesty of the great amphitheatre, the memories of their last visit had flooded back like the waves of the cold Whale Road that had almost claimed their lives more than once.
“We should have ignored Eanflæd’s orders and gone to Hithe,” Beobrand had said, spitting into the mud as they’d passed in the shadow of the vaulted walls of the old semi-circular amphitheatre that was sometimes used to house markets where all manner of goods, from spices to silks to slaves, could be bought and sold. On such occasions the stone tiers of seating would echo with the hubbub of voices and the air would be heavy with the smell of roasting meat and other, less savoury scents. The amphitheatre was silent today and they rode on. They had paid good silver for the horses at Sandwic. Cynan was not impressed with the quality of the horseflesh, and had been prepared to walk away to find another seller. But Beobrand was in a hurry and had not allowed him to haggle as he should have. And so they rode on beasts he would have thought twice about harnessing to a cart, let alone riding.
Ever since he had met with the queen at Bebbanburg, Beobrand had been in a sour mood and rushed to do any task he set himself to. Cynan thought that Eanflæd would have allowed them to travel first to Ubbanford and their families, but Beobrand seemed almost desperate to be gone from Bernicia. They had given their mounts to Cuthbert and the gesithas lucky enough to return home, and travelled south on a merchant ship headed for Frankia. It was much slower than Saeslaga and it wallowed between the waves, making them all feel sick, but they had been fortunate with the weather, and had soon reached the coast of Cantware.
“I did not think you approved of warriors who ignored their hlaford’s commands, lord,” said Cynan.
Beobrand hawked and spat again.
“This was not my lord’s command. Besides, I am here, am I not? But it would have been good to see Alwin again. I would raise a cup with him and Ferenbald.”
“Perhaps we will be able to do that yet,” Cynan said. “After we are done here.”
Beobrand had looked at him askance.
“Perhaps,” he’d said.
Cynan was surprised when Beobrand did not halt at the doors of Eorcenberht’s great hall. Instead, he nodded at the door wards in their burnished byrnies and polished helms, and walked past. Cynan had been slowing and now was forced to hurry to catch up.
“Don’t worry, Cynan,” said Beobrand, “we’ll go back to eat and drink soon. But I must deliver this message first.” Beobrand was unsmiling and sombre, the muscles of his neck and jaw bunching and relaxing.
They reached another large building. Cynan looked up at the roof and saw the timber cross that was raised there, starkly bright in the golden glow of the lowering sun. Fleetingly, he thought of Scyldsung at Dacor. He hoped the priest they sought was more trustworthy. He knew nothing of the young man they had been sent for and, as Beobrand pushed the doors of the chapel open, Cynan found himself interested to see the object of Eanflæd’s order.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the shadows within the building, but Beobrand did not slow down. Now that they were here, he seemed eager to get this thing done and he moved quickly towards the altar, where a bejewelled rood and the golden bindings of a great book glimmered in the light from several candles. The church was redolent of incense and the fine beeswax of the candles.
A slender young man had been kneeling in prayer. On hearing their arrival and the clump of their boots on the floor, he rose, turning to meet them. His features were narrow, his chin angular, with deep, penetrating blue eyes that spoke of a keen intellect. He wore his hair in the unusual fashion of the priests who had come from Frankia across the Narrow Sea. The pate of his head was shaved, lea
ving a crown of hair all about the bald circle at the centre.
Cynan knew little of the man except that he had found favour with Eanflæd. He had studied at Lindisfarena, clearly showing an aptitude for learning, for when he had asked, the queen had sent him south to learn more from the wise and learned men of the church in Cantware.
“Wilfrid,” said Beobrand, halting before the young holy man.
Wilfrid’s eyes widened as he took in the two tall men who seemed to fill the church. His expression quickly changed to one of serenity. With careful strokes of his soft hands, Wilfrid smoothed his monkish habit where the fabric had creased from kneeling. Cynan noticed that one of his fingers bore a gold ring.
“Lord Beobrand,” he said, his voice displaying none of the surprise he had appeared to register moments before. “What are you doing here?”
Beobrand hesitated, then, seeming to gird himself for what was to come, he replied, “I have been sent to travel with you.”
Wilfrid frowned.
“Sent?” he asked. “By whom?”
“Eanflæd,” said Beobrand. “Our queen.”
Wilfrid gaped, the confusion evidently too much to hide, his facade of calm control shattered. Cynan almost laughed to see the young monk’s mouth open and shut like a beached fish.
“Surely…” Wilfrid managed, then faltered. Taking a long, steadying breath, he smoothed his right hand over his robes in a calming gesture, as if telling himself to breathe more slowly. “Surely the queen does not mean to call me back to Northumbria.” An edge of whining had entered his tone. It made Cynan think once again of Scyldsung. Wilfrid paused, perhaps hearing how his voice might sound to them. Again he drew in a deep breath. “I still have much to learn here.” His voice was now controlled and collected. He picked daintily at an invisible speck of dust on his sleeve. His gold ring glimmered in the candlelight. “I cannot travel north again.”
Beobrand sighed.
“I am not here to bear you northward.”
Wilfrid rocked back on his heels at these words. Staring up at Beobrand, he met his gaze, his twilight blue eyes fixed on Beobrand’s pallid ice-chip glare. Wilfrid did not blink or look away. Cynan was impressed. There were many warriors who could not hold Beobrand’s stare for long.
“Do you mean…?” Wilfrid’s words trailed off. Gone now was the whine, replaced by a suppressed excitement.
“Yes, Wilfrid,” said Beobrand, nodding ruefully. “Eanflæd has sent me to accompany you south. To Roma.”
Historical Note
Some characters keep calling to you long after you close the pages of the book in which they reside. This is the same for readers and writers, but when you have created that character, they just demand to have more of their tale told. Sulis, who first appears in Warrior of Woden, was one such character for me. I kept picturing her last moments in the story, as she walks forlornly into the west, and I wondered what happened to her next. As Cynan’s role grew in subsequent novels, it became clear that he should be the one to meet Sulis again. Their lives had been intertwined ever since Beobrand first bought her from Fordraed, and, like me, Cynan had pondered her fate in the intervening years.
This was the starting point for a large part of For Lord and Land, and whilst Sulis’ story, and Cynan’s quest to protect her family, is purely fictional, it has a firm grounding in what we know about the period.
Women were frequently bequeathed land and possessions in their husbands’ wills. And if a child was the sole heir, another family member would be given custody to oversee the inheritance until they came of age. One can imagine that if Cynan and company had not put an end to the plot to snatch ownership of the land and the mine, Ludeca might well have seen to it that Eadwig suffer an unfortunate illness or accident in the following years.
The lead mine is based on Odin Mine in Derbyshire, believed to be the oldest lead mine in Britain. While it is not clear if the Anglo-Saxons mined for lead there, the mine was active in Roman times and later in the medieval period, only halting lead production in 1869.
The thread of the novel that follows Beobrand’s exploits is, as in previous novels, based on historical events.
Around 645, King Cenwalh of Wessex renounced his wife, who happened to be Penda of Mercia’s sister. Penda, unimpressed with his sister’s treatment, fought Cenwalh, who fled into exile. King Anna of East Anglia took in Cenwalh, and the King of Wessex remained in Anna’s court for a few years, where he converted to Christianity before returning to his own kingdom.
Anna, a devout Christian, had endowed the monastery of Cnobheresburg with buildings and rich artefacts. And when Penda invaded in 651 and attacked the monastery, Anna went to the monks’ defence, holding back the Mercians and buying them enough time to flee by boat with their valuable books and relics. By this point Foillan was the abbot after his brother, Fursa (or Fursey), fed up with the frequent attacks on East Anglia, had decided to leave for good.
The exact location of Cnobheresburg is unknown. Some historians have placed it at Burgh Castle, a Roman fort that was part of what is known as the Saxon Shore – a string of coastal defences built in the third century to protect the northern Roman Empire from pirates. I have situated it at Caister Castle, another Saxon Shore fort a few miles to the north. It is important to note that the coastline of Britain was different in the seventh century, especially in the northern part of East Anglia, and Caister Castle would have been on the seashore and not a couple of miles inland.
Following Penda’s attack on Cnobheresburg, King Anna was forced into exile. Where he went is unknown, so I have chosen to have him transported north by Beobrand, thus possibly pushing things in Deira’s favour in the war with Bernicia when Peada, Penda’s son, sides with Oswine.
In Bede’s History of the English Church and People, he writes of how Oswine had amassed a great host at Wilfaresdun (Wilfar’s Hill), but seeing he was outnumbered, he decided to disband his troops and head to the hall of a nobleman he considered to be his closest ally, Hunwald. We don’t know the exact location of the hill where Oswine had amassed his force, but a possible location for Wilfaresdun has been postulated by Andrew Breeze as Diddersley Hill. It is near the convergence of two Roman roads, north-west of Catterick, as stipulated by Bede, and close enough to Gilling (Ingetlingum), where Oswine travels and is later assassinated.
I have chosen for there to be multiple reasons for Oswine, who was otherwise in a strong position, to disband his army and head off to Hunwald’s hall. First, Oswiu uses the promise of power and alliance, by offering Penda’s son his daughter, Alhflaed (they are later married in 653). The second lever applying force on Oswine is the arrival of the men of Rheged, led by Cynan and Sigehelm. And finally, it is King Oswiu, who dangles before the very Christian Oswine the chance of brokering a lasting peace and avoiding bloodshed. All this is supposition, guesswork and artistic licence on my part and differs from Bede’s account that says Oswine decided to wait for a more favourable moment to engage in battle with Oswiu.
We will never know what really happened at Hunwald’s hall, but Bede talks of a warrior called Tondhere who led him to hide at the hall. The assassin’s name is given as Ethelwin, Oswiu’s military commander. I have omitted Tondhere from the story, changing him for Wulfstan, who already had a troubled past with Beobrand. And instead of alone, I have Oswine and Wulfstan accompanied by a small band of trusted hearth-warriors, as it seemed unlikely that a king would travel alone.
It is true that after the assassination, Queen Eanflæd was furious with her husband and made him build a monastery at Gilling (the site of the murder) and pay for prayers to be said for both his soul and that of her murdered cousin. It is also the case that the queen was the patron of one young, brilliant and ambitious student of the church, Wilfrid. She sent him south to Cantware (Kent) with a letter of introduction for her cousin, King Eorcenberht. Later, Wilfrid would travel on to the continent, undertaking the first recorded pilgrimage to Rome by any English native.
Taking into co
nsideration Eanflæd’s dedication to the church and her enthusiastic assistance for bright young clergymen, I chose to have her also help Cuthbert with a gift of a Psalter (a book of Psalms) and a writing tablet. Cuthbert, of course, is also a real figure from history. He will later become the holiest man in Northumbria and be known posthumously as Saint Cuthbert. He is still venerated to this day, not only for his holiness, but also his love of, and protection of nature.
We don’t know much about Cuthbert’s early years, but in Bede’s Vita Sancti Cuthberti (The Life of Saint Cuthbert), based on an anonymous text of the same name, he tells of how Cuthbert was an energetic and competitive youth, who was naturally agile and usually won the games he played. There is also the tale of how a stranger, who Cuthbert was certain was an angel, tells him how to create a poultice that will cure his diseased knee. It wasn’t too much of a leap to have the leg injured in battle and the “angel” be Coenred with his healing skill.
The account of Cuthbert’s arrival at Magilros (Melrose) shortly after Bishop Aidan’s death is also based on the Vita. Cuthbert is said to have been carrying a spear and riding a horse, which speaks of a noble past, and perhaps even that he was a warrior. This was all I needed for Cuthbert to become one of Beobrand’s gesithas. Having been embroiled in the murder of King Oswine, one can easily imagine how the sensitive young man would turn away from a life of violence, and dedicate himself to prayer.
As far as I can tell, there is no known name for the Roman road that Cynan convinced Sigehelm to follow to Wilfaresdun, so I have chosen to call it Burh Stræt after the Roman fortress at Brougham Castle in Cumbria, near where the road originates in the west. The name Burh (an Old English word for stronghold) is reminiscent of the modern Brougham and also of the Roman name for the fort (Brocavum).
At the end of For Lord and Land, Beobrand is poised to travel to the continent, sent into a form of exile by Eanflæd. But what will happen in Albion while he is gone, and what new adventures await him and his gesithas across the Narrow Sea? Wherever Beobrand goes there is bound to be intrigue and action, but that is for another day, and another book.
For Lord and Land Page 42