His eyes had widened at the telling of how I had fought, but he had not chastised me. He had shaken his head, scratching a hand against his shaved pate. It had been hard to read his expression. With each new revelation he had seemed to shrink into himself, becoming smaller, paler and somehow weaker. He said nothing more as we trudged towards the minster buildings, but I could feel the weight of his sadness and disapproval radiating from him like the last red light from the dying sun.
I mopped up the last of my stew, looking into my bowl. But I could feel Beonna’s reproachful gaze upon me. All about me was the riotous sound of conversations, laughter, riddles and the clatter of knives and platters on the boards, and I thought how strange it was that with our arrival, the minster’s refectory, normally so peaceful and tranquil, had become transformed into a mead hall full of debauchery.
The thought seemed to strike the abbot at the same moment, for he stood up and raised his hands in a gesture that all the brethren knew well. He was calling for silence, and obediently every monk in the refectory ceased speaking immediately. For a short time, Uhtric’s men continued to laugh and talk loudly, but the sudden hush from all the monks made them soon falter. Faces turned towards Beonna and a few heartbeats later, everybody was silent.
“Friends and brothers,” he said, his voice soft but carrying to everyone in the room. “It is fitting that we eat together and celebrate the rescue of the infant this afternoon. This is good and worthy of celebration. But we must not forget that a man was also killed today. A man driven mad by hunger and want. And many more have been horribly murdered just days ago by treacherous agents of Satan, heathens from the north who swept down upon the peaceful brethren on the holy island. So let us enjoy each other’s company, think about those who have gone to sit by the right hand of God, but let us not forget that this is a sombre place. A place of worship and contemplation.”
All around the room monks were nodding, faces grave and serious. Several of Uhtric’s men cast their gaze downward, chastened by the abbot’s words. Runolf saw me glancing about the hall and raised his cup in my direction. He smiled broadly before draining the contents. Beonna noticed the movement out of the corner of his vision. Turning, he saw the giant finishing his ale and then slamming the empty cup onto the rough oak timber of the board. Beonna’s face grew pale, with colour flushing high on his cheeks.
“This is not a place for buffoonery or japes,” Beonna continued. “Not somewhere to tell riddles or to drink to excess. You are our guests,” he nodded to Uhtric, “and you are, of course, welcome. But please remember that this is a place of God. I implore you all to remember that and to behave as though Christ Himself were beside you.” He indicated to the seated monks. “We will leave you now to pray for the immortal souls of the departed. May you rest well.”
He turned to lead the brethren from the refectory. The room was quiet save for the scrape of benches as they were pushed back and the shuffle of robed monks filing out after their abbot. I sat where I was and watched them.
“Not coming?” hissed Leofstan, who stood by my side. I looked up, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. I could see in his expression that he knew exactly what had occurred. For the briefest of times I had not seen myself as one of the monks of Werceworthe. I stood quickly, knocking over my half-filled cup in my haste. I cast a quick glance about the room and my eyes met Runolf’s. He was smiling at me. I did not acknowledge him or make a sound as I followed the rest of the monks from the hall.
While I walked out, there was but one thought playing in my mind. If I did not consider myself to be a monk, who did I think I was?
Fifteen
The prayers droned on and on. My mind wandered.
It was late and the chapel was dark, lit only by the thin flames from a smattering of candles. The singed-meat smell of the tallow was masked somewhat by the heady aroma of the incense that Beonna had ordered to be burnt in the large bronze censer that hung from the ceiling of the building from a lengthy iron chain. Clouds of rich, sweet-smelling smoke wafted over us as we intoned prayers and sang the psalms.
It had been a long and eventful day and my body yearned for sleep. I had only consumed a couple of cups of ale, but more than once I found myself swaying on the spot, unable to keep my balance. Glancing about the shadowed figures in the church I noticed a few others who looked as though they wished they had not imbibed so much of the strong drink.
When we paused between prayers, muffled sounds of raucous laughter and conversation drifted through the uncovered windows. It sounded to me as though Uhtric’s men were trying to be quiet, but too much drink had flowed for total silence. That would not come until the men were wrapped in their cloaks and snoring. Each time we heard the merrymaking, Beonna would tense almost imperceptibly and I wondered at how this day, with its shocks and revelations, must have affected him.
The prayers and homilies merged together into a purring constant noise, familiar and comforting. My exhaustion enveloped me like a cloud and I drifted into a state of almost-sleep; on my feet, but with my thoughts far away. Perhaps this was how God spoke to His own, I mused.
I saw again the horrors I had witnessed at Lindisfarnae, the splashes of blood and the pleading faces. I heard once more the screams of terror of the dying. And then I remembered what it was to allow my righteous rage to wash through me like a summer storm, shaking all in its path, destroying my fear and allowing me to fight back against our aggressors. I saw Runolf, his hair aglow in the early morning light, towering over the other Norsemen like an avenging angel, smiting them with the huge axe he wielded. The final vision that came to me in my weariness was that of Runolf stepping from the tanner’s house, the swaddled infant lying peacefully in the crook of his arm. Runolf walked out of the shadows and into the light of the setting sun, where the last rays shone on his tonsured scalp. My mind’s eye focused on his stubbled head and then I found my attention drawn down towards the child. On Runolf’s chest, dangling from its leather thong, was the simple wooden crucifix Leofstan had given him to complete his disguise as a monk.
“Brother Hunlaf,” someone said, penetrating my fogged senses. I recognised the speaker’s voice, but for a time I knew not where I was. I opened my eyes, blinking at the piercing glimmer of the candle flames in the gloom. Had I been sleeping on my feet? I shook my head and took in the faces of the men before me. Leofstan placed a hand upon my shoulder and peered at me, clearly concerned for my wellbeing.
“Brother Hunlaf,” came the voice again, and I saw it belonged to Beonna. With a start I realised that all of the other monks had left the chapel and only the three of us remained. “Are you quite well?”
“Sorry,” I stammered. “I was praying, but then…” I shook my head to clear it. “It was as if I slept… I am tired. Sorry.”
Beonna stared at me for what seemed a long while before eventually nodding.
“There is no need to apologise, young man,” he said. “It has been a trying few days for you. Did you see anything as you slept now?”
I felt foolish. Sure that he would not believe me, or that he would merely dismiss my visions as youthful imaginings. Sensing my reticence to speak, he said, “Do not fear. Perhaps we should retire to my chamber where the three of us can talk. Maybe you will tell us what you saw then.”
All I wanted was to sleep, but I obediently followed the two older men out into the night. We walked through the darkness and I noted that the sounds from the refectory had quietened now. The night felt still and strangely safe. As if the cloak of night could protect us from the vicious men I knew to exist. Leofstan had lifted one of the candles and placed it within a lantern made of thin horn. The dim glow of the flame through the horn walls of the lantern did little to light our path. But we knew the way well enough and soon we were in the room where Beonna slept and conducted the monastery’s business. It was a sparsely furnished room, with a simple writing desk beneath the window, a narrow sleeping pallet, a chair and a few stools. On one wall hung a depiction of
Christ on the cross. I gazed up at it, taking in the carving of the crown of thorns that had been cruelly pushed onto his head before he had been lifted onto the tree that would see him die. It was carved from a single piece of dark wood and the workmanship was astounding. Every detail was cunningly scratched into the wood and the sculptor had managed to capture a deep sadness in Jesu’s eyes.
“Sit,” said Beonna, waving a hand at the stools by the desk.
Leofstan pushed one towards me and seated himself on another. I sat, facing the abbot’s chair. The cross was behind me and I could imagine Christ looking down with those sorrowful eyes, judging me, weighing up my resolve and my faith. Would he find me wanting?
Beonna bustled over to a small chest. Opening it, he produced a flask and three small wooden cups. Returning to his chair, he unstoppered the flask and filled the cups, handing one each to Leofstan and me. He finally filled his own, rammed the stopper back into the neck of the vessel and placed the flask by his feet. He raised his cup to his face, closed his eyes and sniffed slowly.
With a sigh, he took a sip and leaned back in his chair. Opening his eyes, he indicated for us to drink. I let some of the liquid trickle into my mouth and was surprised to find it was mead. Strong, sweet mead. I could feel its warmth wash down inside me.
“It has been a very difficult day,” said Beonna, “and I feel the Lord would forgive us this small indulgence.” Neither Leofstan nor I replied. We drank in silence for a while before Beonna continued. “So, why is it that the two of you are going to Eoforwic with Lord Uhtric?” he asked.
I did not know what to say, so was pleased when Leofstan answered.
“Uhtric is taking the Norseman to the king. Hunlaf can converse with Runolf and so he offered his services to both Uhtric and King Æthelred.”
“Do you truly believe that nobody in the great city of Eoforwic can act as interpreter for the heathen’s words? His language is not so different from our own in any case.” Beonna reached for the flask again and refilled his cup. He did not offer more to us.
“We cannot be certain,” said Leofstan, “and so we thought it best to accompany Lord Uhtric. It does us good to keep the lord of Bebbanburg content and in good standing with the king.”
Beonna fixed Leofstan with an unblinking gaze.
“There is nothing else?” he asked at last.
Leofstan hesitated.
“Well?” pressed Beonna.
“Hunlaf believes that Runolf has been sent to us.”
“Does he indeed? Sent by whom and to do what? Slaughter us? As his people did to those poor souls at Lindisfarnae?”
“No, father,” I said, finding my voice in a sudden rush of words. “You saw how he saved Aethelwulf today. And you heard how he saved two other children at Lindisfarnae. Runolf is a good man.”
“A good man?” Beonna frowned. “I saw him slay a defenceless wretch today!”
I felt my anger swelling within me.
“A wretch who was using an innocent babe to protect himself from punishment for his crimes,” I said, forcing myself to keep my tone even.
“To kill is wrong.” Beonna’s words were final, brooking no challenge.
“Can there never be a time when it is right to fight? Would you rather Runolf had done nothing today and allowed that child to die?”
“I would prefer for nobody to have died,” snapped the abbot. “We cannot know what might have happened if that pagan had not killed Framric.”
I let out a long breath, willing myself to calm, but I could feel my anger simmering within me.
“No,” I said, my words clipped and precise, “nobody but God can ever know what might have happened if we trod a path unseen. But I cannot believe that the Almighty has sent this man to us for no reason. I trust in God’s infinite wisdom.”
Beonna drank more mead and pondered my words.
“What has the foreigner told you?” he asked.
“The Norsemen will come again.” I took a sip of the mead to calm my nerves. My hand shook. “They will come here.”
The abbot frowned.
“He is sure of that? How?”
I recalled our long conversation beneath the stars in the prayer cell.
“Traders have told them of all the minsters along the coast. They plan to move southward, pillaging each one as they come. Runolf did not know the names of all of the places, but he spoke to me of the minster surrounded by the river’s bend, inland from the island we call Cocwaedesae.”
Beonna’s face was pale in the flickering glow of the single candle.
“But why?” he whispered. “Why profane these holy places? We are men of peace and prayer.”
“That is why they come,” I said, my voice harsh as a slap in the quiet room. “We are not warriors. We are weak. And yet we have riches here. The bones of saints in fine boxes. Think of the golden cross in the chapel. The jewels on the books.” I remembered the awe I had felt at seeing the dazzling bindings of The Treasure of Life. I glanced at Leofstan and thought I noted the slightest shake of his head. I hesitated, but Leofstan sipped his mead and did not meet my gaze. Perhaps I had been mistaken and the movement I had seen had been a trick of the candlelight. I turned back to the abbot.
“These things can be sold for silver. And more than that,” I said, the anger at what I had witnessed on Lindisfarnae colouring my voice, “there are many young men and women who would fetch a good price in the slave markets of far-off Roma or Byzantion.”
Beonna took a long draught of his mead and then made the sign of the cross.
“And what is it that you think God has called you to do, young Hunlaf?”
“I believe we can stop them.”
“Who? You and this Runolf? You are but two. The foreigner is a killer, for sure, but even though you seem to have found an unholy love of killing, you are no fighter.”
I bit back the angry words that threatened to tumble from my lips.
“I do not love killing,” I said. My voice hitched as I thought of the corpses at Lindisfarnae. “But I would rather my enemies were dead than my friends; my family.”
“Your enemies?” Beonna asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Very well,” I spat. “Enemies of us all. Enemies of God.” Trembling with emotion, I drank the last of my mead. “You were not there,” I said at last, my voice hushed as if I was scared to hear my own words. “You did not see what they did to the brethren there.”
“If these raiders do come, Hunlaf,” Beonna said softly, “you cannot protect us. God will protect his own. He is good and mighty.”
My ire flashed into burning life.
“Well, He did not protect His faithful at Lindisfarnae!” I shouted. With a great effort I swallowed back my rage. “Forgive me. I am sure that God has provided us with the means to protect ourselves.”
For a time, Beonna was silent. I looked at Leofstan, but I could not discern from his expression what he thought of my outburst. I expected the abbot to send me away with a punishment for speaking to him in such a way and I sat in sullen silence awaiting his judgement.
“What did you see?” Beonna asked after a pause.
“When?”
“While we prayed in the chapel. You had a vision, didn’t you?”
“I do not know if it was a vision from God,” I said, uncertain and scared of being ridiculed.
“You are a follower of Christ,” Beonna said, not unkindly. “Who else would send a vision to you?”
I took a long calming breath.
“I saw the dead on the holy isle,” I said, shuddering at the vividness of the memory. “And I saw Runolf saving them. And then I saw him, tonsured and wearing the robes and crucifix, with the rescued infant in his arms.” I chose not to mention the sensation of my own surging wrath and the feeling of power that had filled me. “A white dove landed on his head,” I added, though I had seen no such vision. I could feel the graven eyes of the Christ on his cross behind me boring into my back.
Why I lied, I will nev
er know. I felt a sliver of excitement down my spine as I spoke the words and my face flushed. Beonna stared at me and I was certain that he was going to call me out on my untruth.
“You saw a white dove in your vision?” he asked. His eyes were wide. They glimmered in the candlelight.
“I did,” I replied, keeping my voice steady. “Its feathers were pure as snow,” I elaborated.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said, rubbing his hand against the greying stubble on his cheeks. “Mayhap God has sent you a sign. It is not for us to question His ways. I will pray on this for guidance. But you have already given your word that you will travel to the king and this was agreed with his Excellency, Bishop Hygebald, was it not?”
“Yes, father,” interjected Leofstan. “His Excellency said I should accompany the lad too.”
“Indeed. Yes.” Beonna seemed resigned to his decision now. “Then it must be so. Now, you must get some rest before leaving tomorrow. I give you dispensation to miss Compline.”
“Thank you, father,” Leofstan mumbled.
A sudden thought gripped me as we rose to leave.
“I will ask the king for men to come and guard us from the raiders.”
Beonna looked up from where he sat with tired, red-rimmed eyes. He held my gaze and I worried I had overstepped, that he would forbid me from petitioning the king. My father had always said to me, “it is better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission”. By mentioning my intentions, I had unwittingly asked the abbot for his approval.
I needn’t have worried, for after a moment, he merely nodded.
“I am sure you will, Hunlaf,” he said, his tone flat. “If the good king sees fit to fulfil your request of him, so be it. I will not turn away good Christian warriors. We are nestled within his dominion, after all. The lands of Werceworthe belong to the Church, gifted to us by King Ceolwulf nearly a century ago, but we are an island in a sea of Northumbria and it is right for the king to offer us protection from threats, as we pray to protect his soul and those of his people from spiritual attacks.”
A Time for Swords Page 12
