“No, Brother Godfrid. You may speak. In our monastery, everyone is equal,” Abbot Turold said. “I’m merely the one who implements whatever mutual decisions we reach.”
Murmurs arose around us, and suddenly it occurred to me that monks were sitting along both of the long sides of the hall, and I hadn’t noticed.
“You take our venerable Father Benedict’s rules too lightly in your monastery,” Edmund said, his voice trembling with indignant rage.
“In our monastery, we keep all three of our vows,” Godfrid intoned, and then despite Simon’s attempt to silence him with a hand gesture, he continued: “We remain inside the palisade wall, we live in chastity, and we obey the communal decisions.”
“You say you keep your promises,” Simon said, both scandalized and outraged, “but you don’t care about the sacred founders of our order.”
Godfrid leaned forward. He was a large man with a red tonsure that jutted out like a halo around his broad head. He made Simon, who stood across from him, look almost little by comparison.
“That’s because we don’t belong to your order,” Godfrid said condescendingly. “Listen up, you gnome, we are growing weary of repeating this message: Our monastery dates back to a letter from King Oswig himself, a letter that is every bit as old as the one that founded your monastery. We have no interest in whatever forgeries you’ve fabricated. Here in our monastery we live by age-old rules, as I’m sure you do in yours. Just go off and follow Saint Benedict, and let us live as we wish.”
Simon was practically hopping up and down with rage and indignation, but before he could open his mouth, Abbot Turold’s voice cut through the hall: “Silence, both of you! Our two monasteries have discussed this matter long enough. Now we must set it aside. To that end, Prior Edmund, I want to make this clear for the last time. My message for you to take back to Abbot Elsin is that we have never obeyed and never will obey any other monastery. And that is the final word on that matter. You may stay here as our guests, but do not try to come as our superiors.”
Prior Edmund, whose ruddy complexion was by now copper-colored with rage, opened his mouth but couldn’t manage to get a word out, he was so livid. Instead, Simon said, “Those might be your final words, Turold, but we know the Holy Father in Rome will see this matter differently.”
Godfrid could no longer restrain himself. He stepped forward, tossed his head in disgust, and hissed to Simon: “Complain to the pope, you little shit, and it’ll be the last thing you do.”
Chapter 10
The monastery’s hall was like a henhouse with a marten loose in it following Godfrid’s outburst. Simon seethed with indignation, and all he could do was make a spluttering sound. Prior Edmund, on the other hand, kept full possession of his faculties of speech and screamed at the top of his lungs that Godfrid was an impudent monk who would pay dearly for his blatant disdain of his superiors. Abbot Turold merely shook his head at this.
I could scarcely conceal my amusement at the whole scene. When my eyes met Winston’s, he rolled his and smiled scornfully, as he always did when conversation fell to monasteries or church leaders.
The monks seated along the walls stood up and started shouting menacing obscenities at the two visiting monks from Peterborough, while Thane Ælfgar looked from one monastic brother to the next, shaking his head.
I sensed movement at my side and glanced at Wulfgar, who looked like he couldn’t decide whether or not to get involved in someone else’s conflict. Then apparently he made his decision, and he took a step forward, his right hand clenched, toward the impudent Godfrid, who had maligned his superior. But he froze when Turold, now standing, demanded silence in a voice that was firm and resounding despite his advanced age.
No one but Wulfgar seemed to listen to him. Abbot Turold’s own monks continued to scream at the visitors. Simon spluttered like meat over a fire. Edmund continued chastising Godfrid, who listened with a sneer on his lips.
Winston exchanged looks with the thane; then they both shook their heads as if they had reached a joint decision that none of this had anything to do with them.
Wulfgar finally reached the same conclusion and remained casually at my side, apparently relaxed, although he was watching Godfrid. If Godfrid made the slightest sign that he was going to resort to physical violence against Simon, Wulfgar would be ready to hurl himself into the fray and separate the two.
I glanced up at Abbot Turold, who stood completely motionless, silent now that he’d realized no one was listening to him. Even so, he radiated authority. He seemed bigger and younger than he had when seated. His posture was straight, and he held his head high as he surveyed everyone.
His own monks were the first to settle down, their tongues quieting as his eyes lit on them, one by one.
Prior Edmund, still lobbing threats of churchly penalties at the insolent Godfrid, apparently realized that his voice was now the only one responsible for the noise. He stopped abruptly and glared at the abbot. The abbot gazed calmly at the indignant Simon, whose sputtering had dwindled to labored wheezing.
Only when the hall was totally quiet did Turold sit down and indicate with a nod of invitation that Ælfgar was welcome to sit next to him. But Edmund managed to pull himself together before Ælfgar reached the chair that one of the monks pushed into place for him.
“I summon Brother Godfrid to Peterborough for sentencing in accordance with the monastic disciplinary rules,” Edmund commanded.
The words triggered a rumbling, scornful snarl in Godfrid’s throat, but this was drowned out by Turold.
“Silence, Prior Edmund,” Turold demanded, no longer seeming like an old man at all. “I have once and for all put an end to your and your monastery’s silly claim of superiority over us. We are our own monastery. We make our own decisions, and if you try to claim otherwise one more time, you will lose the right to enjoy our hospitality.”
“This is a matter that must be determined between us,” Edmund countered, his head scarlet.
“Silence!” Turold ordered. He took a labored breath, then exhaled and turned toward Ælfgar. “Well, we seem to have gotten off topic. I believe I was bidding you welcome.”
If Turold thought he’d subdued Edmund, he was wrong.
“I demand that Brother Godfrid be punished,” Edmund said.
Turold’s lips tightened as he was yet again forced to turn his attention to Edmund.
“You’re right on that count,” Turold said. “It’s not appropriate to use that kind of language when speaking to a fellow monk.”
Turold looked across the hall at Godfrid, who hadn’t moved an inch. “You have displayed anger and spoken improperly to a fellow brother, though he does not belong to our order. Go to the church, where you will spend the night kneeling before the altar contemplating how a brother of the Lord should properly behave.”
Godfrid’s jaw tensed as he stared at Turold in disbelief. Turold calmly looked back at him.
“Go, Brother Godfrid. As your abbot, I request this,” Turold said. His voice was quiet, but had a bite to it that I couldn’t put my finger on.
Winston was also watching Godfrid attentively. I’m sure he, too, expected Godfrid to defy Turold to prove how deeply he despised the two visiting monks. But to my surprise and—I admit—relief, Godfrid suddenly bowed his head and turned on his heel. He walked to the doorway, where he appeared to change his mind: he stopped and turned to face Simon, who still hadn’t recovered his powers of speech. Then Godfrid raised his right hand and slowly traced an exaggerated cross in the air in front of Simon before calmly turning and proceeding on his way.
Once he’d exited, Turold turned his attention back to Ælfgar and asked, “And can I serve you or the jarl in any other way?”
By dinnertime, people’s tempers had more or less settled, but it had certainly taken awhile. A few monks still shot irritated glances at the two visiting brothers even after the bell summoned us and we all made our way back into the hall, which had now been transformed into
what the monks called their refectory.
Whereas the center of the room had been bare before—aside from the abbot’s chair and one for the thane—it was now occupied by six dining tables made of planks and supported on trestles. There were benches along one side of each table.
At the head of the room, where Turold’s chair had been earlier in the day, there sat a wide table covered with a cloth. The two visiting monks were seated there, one on either side of the abbot, thus demonstrating that the abbot did not harbor any grudge over their previous disagreements. Next to Edmund sat Ælfgar, followed by another local Brixworth brother. On the abbot’s other side were Simon, then Winston, followed by yet another of the local brothers. Maybe Ælfgar and Winston were there because Turold didn’t trust his brothers to keep the peace during the meal. In any case, Winston grimaced at me when he realized he would have to make polite conversation with the haughty Simon for the entire meal. I smiled widely in return.
Spearmen and monks sat at the other tables. I sat with two of the thane’s men and four monks. The monk next to me, who introduced himself as Brother Edgar, was older and gray-bearded, with cheerful eyes and an unkempt tonsure.
A well-dressed spearman sat on my other side. He wore arm rings, which showed that he must be one of the highest-ranking soldiers, an assumption he confirmed when I asked. He was Alwyn, the thane’s second-in-command.
The food was plentiful, the ale strong. Leg of mutton, chine of pork, and a stew of what I thought must be hare were carried out along with large loaves of bread made of a blend of rye and wheat flour. Young brothers walked from table to table offering everyone butter and salt, but the ale was set out in big pitchers from which we could each help ourselves.
To begin with, I talked mostly with Alwyn, in hopes of learning information that the king could use, but either he was not as deeply in the thane’s confidence as he said, or he was as skillful at avoiding answers as I was at asking questions.
I learned limited information: the thane was riding on his jarl’s business, and they were on their way north yet again. That made me prick up my ears, but when I asked where exactly they were headed, he made a sweeping gesture with his arm and responded—while chewing his pork, possibly to obscure his response—that they had business at one of the jarl’s properties in the Danelaw.
After long enough that I felt compelled by politeness, I turned toward Brother Edgar, who had been digging into his food in silence, apparently uninterested in our conversation.
“You eat well here in the monastery,” I remarked.
“Better than the Benedictines,” he responded with a coy smile.
He was looking up toward the main table, where Edmund and Simon appeared not to have been served the same food as everyone else. Edmund poked at an eel stew while Simon bit into a piece of what looked like undercooked stockfish. They did not seem to be enjoying their meal.
“We really weren’t expecting visitors,” Edgar said, by way of a fake apology. “You know how dry preserved stockfish is. The fish had plenty of time to soak, but maybe not quite long enough to cook.”
Only then did it hit me that Edgar and all the rest of the local monks were not very ascetic about their meal. They had plenty of pork and hare stew and seemed to relish eating it. Were monks allowed to eat meat?
“So was Edmund right when he said you don’t follow Saint Benedict’s rules?” I asked.
“Well, give or take,” Edgar said, spitting a little gristle into his hand and setting it on the table in front of him. “We’re not Benedictines, and God willing, we never will be, either.”
“You won’t?” Even I was starting to find this interesting.
Edgar shook his head. “Our monastery—it used to be rich before the Vikings pillaged it—remains loyal to our founders, who wanted to start a place where men and women could live a life of work and prayer to the glory of God. And part of that entails enjoying his gifts, which are the riches of the fields and forests as well as the surpluses of the rivers and seas. Unlike the Benedictines, we enjoy the flesh of four-footed animals.”
“Did you say women?” I looked around out of curiosity. “Are there women here?”
“Not anymore,” Edgar said. “On that point we had to bend to a papal brief. In return we received the Holy Father’s word that on all other points we could live as our founders wished.”
“And Edmund doesn’t know this?”
Edgar snorted. “Of course he does. He just claims our papal brief is a forgery.”
I laughed. “And you claim that his is.”
“The difference is that we’re right,” Edgar said with a shrug.
I had learned enough from Winston to know that forging a document is very easy, but since I wasn’t here to take sides or decide which monastery possessed the authentic brief, I bit my tongue and instead asked: “Saint Winfrith? I’ve never heard of him.”
Edgar exhaled dismissively in response, implying that he doubted I was familiar with very many saints.
“But perhaps you’ve heard of Saint Boniface?” he asked.
I shook my head, conceding his assessment of my ignorance.
“Saint Winfrith was a Saxon from southwestern Wessex,” Edgar explained. “After his nomination, he became a missionary in Frisia and Germania. He suffered a martyr’s death and was buried abroad under his new name, Boniface. Since this is a Saxon monastery, we call him by his true name. They,” he nodded disdainfully toward the main table, “who’ve adopted Benedict’s rules and laws call him by his Latin name and have threatened that as soon as they force us to accept their dominance over us, our monastery will have to change its name. I hope that day will never come.” Edgar spat on the floor.
“Do you mean to say,” I asked in astonishment, “that all that fuss earlier was a disagreement over a saint’s name?”
Edgar’s response was tolerant. “Of course not. And yet… well, it wasn’t about whether we follow the old rules either. It was about something else entirely.”
I waited for him to continue, and then the answer dawned on me.
“Money,” I said.
“Exactly.” He nodded approvingly. “We are a rich monastery.”
“You don’t look like one.”
He laughed. “We don’t spend our money on towering buildings, opulent furnishings, or lavishly appointed chambers for our superiors. Unlike certain other monks we know.” He winked. “No, here we all share the beds of poverty on the floor and make our decisions as a community—which is a thorn in the side of the Benedictines—and aside from staying true to our founder’s wishes and enjoying God’s gifts, our wealth goes to alleviate need and suffering.
“I,” Edgar said, sitting up straighter, “am trained in the medical arts. I have the best herbs and remedies anyone could wish for at my disposal. If you like, I’ll show you my apothecary stall tomorrow. Brother Hubert over there,” he pointed to a strong, blotchy-faced monk, “is the best nurse you can imagine. We are a house of healing, a monastery that uses its means to reduce the suffering in the world.”
Now I understood. “So that large building out there?”
“That’s our hospital, where we tend the sick.”
Strange to think that Simon’s views were really more aligned with these monks than with his own order.
Because we were sharing our room with several spearmen, Winston and I didn’t get to talk much before we went to sleep. From the few whispered words we exchanged, I learned that he hadn’t had any more success at coaxing information out of Thane Ælfgar than I had from his second-in-command, Alwyn.
Luckily the monks didn’t require their guests to sleep on the floor. We lay on fresh-smelling hay mattresses, and I slept the sleep of the just.
For as long as it lasted.
Chapter 11
I was sound asleep until my bladder woke me. I went outside and made sure to walk all the way over to the palisade. I pissed and then stood there for a moment, yawning and shivering in the cold night, staring up at
the starry sky. There were no clouds, and the Tears of Saint Lawrence showered down where the light of the waning moon did not illuminate.
I noticed something move over by the gate. Two guards checked to see what had attracted my attention, but when I raised a hand to put them at ease, they waved back.
Back in the bedchamber, I crawled under my blanket, wrapped it snugly around my shoulders, and fell back asleep, not as deeply as before, but into the comfortable dozing state you sometimes fall into after having been awake, where you glide back and forth between dreams and oblivion.
It was still dark when he stepped in. I had heard the door open and assumed one of the other men in the room must have left to pee, but when I realized I hadn’t heard anyone pushing their blanket aside or putting their feet on the floor, I was suddenly alert.
With my eyelids half-raised, I watched the dark figure approach my bed, hesitate, and look around. I silently cursed my weaponless state and carefully rolled over onto my left side, laying my right hand on the mattress, ready to push off and jump the intruder, when the person startled me by whispering my name.
Did I recognize that voice?
Until I was sure, I remained quiet, still ready to pounce. Then the whispered voice grew firmer: “Halfdan!”
“Alwyn?” I got up.
“My master requests that you two come to the church,” Alwyn said, stepping all the way over to my bed.
I heard my bunkmates muttering and saw Winston get up from his bed.
“You two?” I asked.
“You and Winston the Illuminator, yes.”
Obviously Thane Ælfgar wouldn’t have us brought to the church in the middle of the night like this so we could participate in communal prayers. Winston must have surmised the same thing, because he was already at the door, watching us through the darkness.
Oathbreaker (The King's Hounds series) Page 8
