by Mark Coakley
16: TETTA WRITES TO ALCUIN *
January 4, Year of Our Lord 793
To the most venerable pontiff, Alcuin of York, shining lover of Christ:
Tetta, a humble sinner, sends greetings of enduring affection.
I have no words to express my thanks for the abundant affection you have shown in the letter brought by your messenger from beyond the sea.
As the Israelites followed the Commandments of Moses, so shall I follow your wise advice regarding how to discipline that unruly Leoba. I have disposed with her as you suggested, in a small separate building which will provide her with complete solitude and darkness, and in that cell shall she remain, pondering on her errors, until her complete submission. She shall speak to no-one and no-one shall speak to her -- she shall be seen by no-one, and shall see no-one -- her eyes shall forget the light of sun, until she opens them to radiant Truth.
We shall only open her cell's door when we hear her call out through the walls, in a sincere tone of voice, her repentance and request to submit to my authority.
The only exception to the strict terms of her excommunication shall be Bishop Higbold's annual inspection; when, according to the ancient custom here, he insists on interviewing each and every person at the convent. I am sure that he will insist on speaking to Leoba too, and I have not the authority to refuse.
Dearest Alcuin, I regret to write that your promised shipment of olive oil for our Masses, and hunting-falcons for the King, has not yet arrived. I will continue to wait, in the hope that your generous gifts were not tragically intercepted, but merely delayed by some incident of sea-travel.
My best beloved, please pray for me. Let your prayers guide the frail and lost vessel of my soul, exhausted by the tempests of this unjust world, into safe harbour. I eagerly beg, dearest confidant, to be sheltered by your prayers from the poisonous darts of the treacherous enemy of souls. Remember in your inspired prayers the friendship you promised me so long ago in York; a promise you have kept to date, to your eternal credit. If it is not itself sinful, to remember a past sin with nostalgia, then let us not -- now in the winter of our lives -- regret anything about that time in York; not even the mistakes we made in that spring garden. So long ago, my Alcuin; so long ago.
May I confess to you the deepest-hidden yearning of my heart? I fear your disapproval of worldly sentiment, but I must share with you a secret wish, known to none but Our Father: after our passings, I wish for you and I to be buried in the same grave. I confess, to my fear of your refusal, that I yearn for our remains to become dust together -- blended by the labours of blind worms -- sleeping side-by-side under a single Scripture-carved stone. O my spirit-husband Alcuin, do I dare dream of our spent bodies at rest together, until we wake to trumpet-blasts on Judgment Day?
Tetta