I looked around at the gathered men. Caspar had come, though he did not glower so since our little adventure with the whip. I did not trust him fully, but I know I was less harsh with him.
Master Gregory of the workshop was there, waiting in silence and showing no sign of the cold that made younger men shiver. The ancient brother John sat at his side and Guido of the boat took a place on the high benches. I had ordered them built in the manner of a Greek theatre, or the Roman senate house, so that each bench rose in curving lines, with steps in between. I have no doubt it was my pride again, but I clasped my hands behind my back and hoped for wisdom as I let my gaze pass over some forty others. Not all of them were known to me even then, to my regret. I had been too busy with the bridge and my forge to spend time with each one, learning his strengths. The abbey needed time and gold and youthful labour to be born. I had no qualms about using the men before me to achieve that end.
I paused in my slow turn before them, as my gaze snagged on one I had not expected. Master Justin was on the benches with them. He’d been long accepted as one who heaved in the same furrow as the rest of us. He and Master Gregory of the workshop were like old friends. I was pleased he had stayed. I had no doubt the king’s courtiers would be asking about him, but if he chose to look within for vocation, there was nothing they could do about it. Even Æthelstan might not order a man to other work if he felt God’s call. Better still, if the master mason became a monk, he’d take a vow of poverty and I would no longer have to pay him. I smiled at Justin. He blushed like a boy and looked around the room, anywhere but back at me.
I began by leading a prayer together, as was our custom. In the end, though, I had to put my purpose to them.
‘My friends, I have asked you here for the most sordid of reasons,’ I began, clearing my throat noisily. More than one looked worriedly at those around them and I hurried on before their imaginations could do too much damage. ‘To ask you to help raise the silver and gold we need to build this abbey.’
‘God will provide,’ a young fellow said.
I had to bow my head in response, though I’d rather have kicked him.
‘Of course, but we must not be idle. We have taken down the poor place that stood here. We must build a far greater abbey, or we have done harm to a house of God. Did not St Patrick come here to die?’
Someone certainly had. I’d seen the bones. I’d heard he’d died in Ireland as well, which is impressive, even for a saint. Still, it had them nodding.
‘I have asked the king for land to be granted to the abbey,’ I said.
A murmur of excitement went through those gathered to hear. I had a strong suspicion my request would go unanswered, that the land would not be coming. Æthelstan suspected me of dark practices, which simply meant practices he did not understand. Kings are often simple fellows. They must be led by the Church or they are likely to break their necks getting out of bed.
‘I have asked also for great sums from Lady Elflaed, his niece, though she has already given enough for a dozen families of high estate. We must do more in our need. Our lives are dedicated to God, and this abbey will be a hymn of praise on the land. Anything we can make or grow to be sold will go into the coffers.’
They became quite rowdy for a time as they discussed it. I let the ideas come thick and fast, though most of them were impossible. Monks, too, need to be led.
After a time, I counted off the best suggestions on my fingers, though they were the ones I’d wanted from the beginning. They had not been able to hear one another in the arguments and laughter.
‘English embroidery is perhaps our greatest asset. There is our first. It brings in gold, but takes an age to make. I wonder if we might employ and train more young fellows from the villages around us. Who knows, but some of them might feel the call when they have lived here for a time.’
They smiled at that, led by those who knew the skills of close stitching. I could teach those who did not.
‘Silverwork and gilding is our second – though we will have to find markets far beyond Wessex for those to buy such things – and we must purchase the metals before we make a single penny. It will still be vital, I do not doubt, but it will take some planning.’
‘Stonework,’ Master Justin said. He seemed to suspect I would not have listed it on my own and he was right to. For all my pretence of echoing their suggestions, I had not heard that one. I looked at him in silence, considering. He took it as an invitation to speak.
‘I can teach a few bright lads how to dress stone. Or carve it with iron chisels, if a supply of those can be made and sharpened in the forges here. Every church in England and France needs fine stonework. Every guildhouse, every earl. If you can find the young men to learn, I’ll make them masters.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, releasing a third finger. It was a handsome offer. God would provide indeed.
‘My fourth, brothers, was to be simple ironwork – the old “pots and pokers” of a good smith, perhaps also the shoeing of horses, though we are not well placed when all men must come to us. I see better now that we need more to donate their labour. Men we cannot pay, who must come for the glory of God, for the great work of their lives that will earn them a place in heaven.’
I paused for a moment as that last thought blossomed within me. Master Justin would never have given up his evening to hear a mere guild of merchants talk. We were there to make a mark greater than our own selves. Whether he sensed it or not, Master Justin had come because he too heard the call. There would be many more. There had to be.
I made my voice ring to the rafters as I addressed them all.
‘Building a church is a labour to forgive sins, my brothers. We must tell them that in the towns and villages this winter. We must go out from here and take word of a new, great abbey rising at Glastonbury, where all Christian men will be welcome.’
‘And their wives,’ one of them said.
My vision broke apart and I realised I’d been staring upwards, filled with excitement. I scowled instead at the interruption.
‘Christ chose no wife,’ I growled, though I was not ready to make the argument. A few of them began to object and I held up my hand. Bless St Benedict for his rule on obedience. They shut up and folded their arms at me.
‘That is a discussion for another evening, brothers. For now, we have three, no, four strands of gold and dark months of winter upon us. Let us put it all to good use.’
We opened up the doors of the school onto a night of frozen clarity, with the moon and stars hanging so clear and bright I could have snatched them down in my excitement. It is not every day a young man sees the path of his life. I would bring them together and raise the abbey stone by stone.
I attended Matins after midnight, though there was no bell and tower to summon the monks any longer. I was pleased to see the makeshift chapel packed full of yawning men – and women too, with Aphra glaring at me, just waiting to see me slip.
I was yawning myself as I left and trudged back to my little dormitory, the frost crackling under my sandals.
I looked up at footsteps coming fast on the icy path.
‘Who is it? Who’s that there?’ I demanded, suddenly afraid. In the moonlight, I could see a young fellow, reeking of horse and mud and sweat. As he came close enough to peer at me and take my arm, I could feel the heat coming off him.
‘Are you Abbot Dunstan?’ he said, looking doubtful. He was older than me, with a neatly tended beard that he may have thought lent him a semblance of authority. It did not.
Somehow, I knew it was bad news. I began to pray Lady Elflaed had not been taken. Without her, all my efforts for the abbey would surely be stillborn.
‘It is the king,’ the young man said. ‘King Æthelstan is dead.’
‘God rest his soul,’ I said instantly, my mouth falling open.
He dipped his own head in prayer.
‘Is Edmund king, then?’ I asked suddenly. ‘His brother?’
The young man had the
cheek to frown at me, as if the question would not come to every soul the instant after they heard.
‘The country is in mourning, father. But yes, the Witan has called his brother Edmund. He will be crowned three weeks after the feast of Christ’s baptism.’
‘By my uncle, Archbishop Athelm, presumably?’
The messenger realised he should perhaps have been a little less full of his own importance. On impulse, he decided to release my arm to kneel and bow his head, though it was a bit late.
‘I believe so, Father Abbot. Forgive my impertinence.’
I dismissed him with a wave of my hand, standing there in the dark and cold with my mind afire. I had been banished by Æthelstan, but Æthelstan was no longer king.
‘I must return to court,’ I said, in awe and wonder.
20
I did not go racing off into the night, though part of me wanted to do just that. Dawn and the Lauds service were some way off when I rang a hand bell and summoned our community to the refectory. As a show of goodwill, and because I did not have the patience for another argument, I made a point of allowing the wives and yawning children in, though they made a terrible noise, darting about like kittens, with no sense of dignity at all.
They settled down when I told them the news. It was a shock and a blow to all of us. Æthelstan was the first king I’d met. I’d watched him charge in with his horsemen like a spear. I admired him, certainly, but he had made no friend in me.
Perhaps because of that, I was surprised to see tears on the faces of many there. Master Justin crooked his head in his elbow and truly sobbed, red-faced. Honestly, I had not expected such a torrent of grief. It set the children off to see their fathers and mothers weeping. They began to wail until I thought I might have to wait outside, or just put the bar across the door and ride to Winchester while they bawled and keened endlessly.
I strode back and forth before them, then stood waiting, tapping my foot on the floor as they passed cloths to one another and embraced in family groups. After a time, after a veritable age, they settled down once more. I told them then what they must do in my absence.
That had them blinking red-eyed at me, you may be sure! Like sheep hearing the shepherd was going away for a time. I told them I would leave to see the new king crowned – and to repeat my request for lands for the abbey. I had far more hope of it that day than the one before and I felt the thrill of it in my veins.
I saw my brother Wulfric had come to listen, standing tall and ruddy with health, if not for his missing arm. How I wished then that I might leave him in charge of the abbey in my absence! I could not. Not only had he not taken vows, or holy orders, but his work and his family were his concern. He had neglected it all for me, but his heart was not in Glastonbury.
I saw Brother Caspar’s gaze was on me and I nodded to him, making the decision without more than a moment’s hesitation. I had been appointed abbot in extraordinary circumstances, it was true, with Simeon gone mad in the post. Such events were rare, and no matter who ruled in Winchester, I would remain as father to them.
It fell to me then to make a grand gesture, the last proof of my forgiveness of them all.
‘I will be back and forth in the months to come,’ I told them. ‘In my absence, I appoint Brother Caspar as prior. When I am not present, he will be my voice, my proxy.’
Caspar went such a pale shade, I thought he might faint. I have seen that once or twice on long services at Easter, where a monk suddenly falls as if dead, not even putting out his hands. The injuries can be extraordinary. Yet Caspar remained on his feet, disappointingly. He bowed to me, clearly too overcome to speak.
‘There must be no respite in our labours,’ I went on. ‘The abbey …’
‘Thank you, Abbot Dunstan,’ Caspar managed, his voice thick with emotion, or possibly phlegm.
‘… will rise.’ I went on. ‘You know these people as well as anyone here. You know the tasks that lie before us, the hard years. Do not sell yourself at short weight, prior. You will do God’s work and do it well.’
I raised my head once more to address them all.
‘I will plead our case for land and funds, you may be sure, but there will be a hundred others asking to dip their hands into the royal treasury, before Æthelstan is even cold.’ I saw some of them wince at that, as if I had somehow struck a bad note. ‘Though my uncle Athelm will …’
‘You do me a great honour,’ Caspar croaked as I tried to continue. I am afraid I lost my temper then. It had been a long day.
‘And if you interrupt me again, I will take that honour back!’ I roared at him. The room was really silent, the children huge-eyed and trembling. As they began to blubber and screech, I raised my eyes to heaven.
‘O Lord, bless this flock, even unto the lambs. Keep them safe as we build in your name. Bring us the coins we need, Lord, to complete your work. Bring us, too, the strong backs and arms, the men who will raise our walls for us without complaint. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen.’
I swept out as they echoed me and crossed themselves. Caspar stood to address the crowd, but some of them were already leaving in my wake, streaming out into the night. Though it was petty, that pleased me.
I had left Glastonbury once before with nothing. At least the second time I had the horse I’d ridden at Brunanburh. I’d trained Scoundrel rather better than he deserved after my safe return, riding him regularly and accepting the advice of those who understood the strange animals. Scoundrel certainly knew me as a purveyor of carrots and turnip slices. He raised his ears like a dog when he saw me arrive at the stables in town, immediately kicking the door of his stall to come out. I cannot say I liked him – I have never liked a horse. Yet he was undeniably useful to me, especially with days of hard roads between Glastonbury and Winchester.
The old saying has it that lords ride and the poor walk, but an abbot cannot be expected to risk wolves and thieves in the service of the Church. I must have ridden Scoundrel a thousand miles back and forth over the years. He learned the route so well I found I could sit and read upon his back, letting the hours and the miles pass underfoot without my noticing. In that way, the wilful old nag was a marvel.
As I set off, the high king of Britain was being laid to rest at Malmesbury, the town whose men he had ordered free for all time after their service at Brunanburh. He and they shared a love of that rare and fragile state, it seemed, though I favour the yoke myself. Freedom is too much for most men. It frightens them and makes them anxious. Better by far to be calm and safe in harness, I have always said. Not for me, you understand, but for most men. I would always prefer the king’s freedom, to freeze or starve, yes, by my own hand and by my own will. Yet I am a rare bird, a rare bee.
I am told the funeral was a great outpouring of grief, with thousands come to witness his passing. I doubt it was any more moving than those I have seen – particularly the services I have given myself for kings since. King Æthelstan was a great man, but he failed to see the worth in me. It follows that he was not without flaw then.
I came back to Winchester at the end of darkest January, with a fall of snow on the ground and more in thick white clouds above. It began to drift down even as I trotted Scoundrel through the western gate, so that it smothered sound like a held throat.
The city light was being hidden beneath a bushel in its mourning, with the drinking houses shuttered and the street criers all silenced. It seems the world will stop for a king’s funeral, even one to which I had not been invited. That was the other reason for Winchester to be so quiet, of course. There was hardly anyone there.
I arrived at Lady Elflaed’s home, a few streets away from the royal estate. I’d begun to worry I might have to find an inn for the night, but she’d left a rather wizened creature to answer my knock, constantly bowing or hunchbacked, I never did find out. There was also a stable boy to tend Scoundrel, who was steaming and mud-spattered after carrying me over stile and bracken. I found a room prepared fo
r me and a dish of cold meat, salt cod and bitter beans in brine, all laid out. My lady Elflaed was always a fine hostess. I retired that night to vivid dreams, but they were silly things and no true visions, so I will not relate them here.
I have heard tales of men who dreamed a place not unlike the world they knew. They would see their own homes and towns, but either no soul was there, or the traveller moved like a ghost through places they knew well – not being recognised even by their own. I felt that sense of strangeness when I went to sleep in perfect silence, then awoke to hear the noise and bustle of the city around me once more. The royal funeral procession had returned from Malmesbury, on better roads than I’d found. The clean snow turned to brown slush by noon and the streets were filled once again with the smell and muck and noise of people. I felt upset by it somehow, though it may have been the form of my grief, it is hard to say. It strikes us all differently. I thought I felt only a vague sense of dismay at the king’s passing, but maybe it meant more to me than I even knew myself.
Lady Elflaed returned to her home wearing drab clothes of dark brown and red, like an autumn leaf in her rustling layers. She told me every detail of the ceremony, once more conducted by Uncle Athelm, which actually was a pleasure to hear. An uncle called to both crown and bury kings is a power in the land – and mine held me in high esteem.
I was less pleased to hear of the extraordinary beauty of the abbey at Malmesbury. I felt as one man might on hearing another describe the virtues of his wife. What cared I for Malmesbury’s heights and pillars? Its famous windows and tombs? My own creation would make it seem a shepherd’s hut in time. Yet I endured, because the lady was my patron and I needed her.
Dunstan Page 21
