Dunstan

by Conn Iggulden

  I imagine Edwy’s body was beginning to turn, by the end. The solution was a hard-nosed Wessex compromise, of course. He was a king, after all. No one mentioned the manner of his death and we chose not to recall it, or make note of it in the parish record.

  King Edwy was buried in hallowed ground, rather than outside the churchyard wall as perhaps he should have been. The rules are not the same for kings as for ordinary men. I might add that his brother Edgar made huge donations to the Church. It is not the first time such a thing has gone on. It will not be the last. Suicide is a mortal sin, but judgement lies beyond, not in this world.

  When the funeral Mass had been said and the ‘smells and bells’ were at an end, I came out into the sunshine and just breathed. I filled my lungs with air my ancestors had known for as long as the world had lived.

  ‘That was a fine service, father,’ came a voice.

  I jumped a little, so lost in thought had I been. King Edgar had come out and I tried to look surprised, as though I had not waited for the right moment and done my very best to be seen as he left. He was sixteen or seventeen then, as blond as his father had been, with broadening shoulders. His eyes were clear, his breath sweet. He looked more at peace than I remembered.

  ‘I will pass that on to Archbishop Oda,’ I said with a smile. ‘I hope you are not offended I am here, Your Highness? I wanted to show your brother’s soul I had forgiven any slight, any injury against the Church. I wanted it to be seen that I did not scorn him in the end.’

  It was fine, high-minded commentary and he seemed pleased by it.

  ‘I will have the Witan rescind your banishment, when we meet tomorrow. I would have sent for you, Dunstan, before the month was out. I know what my brother did. Believe me, I have heard every detail of his cruelty – and that of his wife. Well, they have their answer.’

  I began to protest and he held up a hand to speak over me.

  ‘I know, father, I should not say such things. God judges at the gates, not before. Yet there is a part of me that thinks he would not look kindly on those who bruise his bishop, his abbot. My brother … was a cruel boy.’ A shadow came across his face and I wondered what he recalled to make him frown so. ‘He barely lived long enough to become a cruel man. I should pretend I am bereft, but the truth is I feel only relief.’

  There were tears in his eyes and I did not know whether I believed him. The ties of blood run deep, as I know only too well. In my desire to witness the funeral, I had not yet gone to see Wulfric. Yet I knew London lay in my path and I almost feared what I would find there, what our schemes had done to him.

  It is odd, is it not? When victory is absolute, it brings a sense almost of dread. Great fortune only makes us more afraid of the reverse. I will say that prayer is the balm in such a case. God does not like pride, but prayer will ease the wound.

  ‘I wish I could have been here, Your Highness. I spoke for you first in the Witan. I knew even then that you would be a great king, just like your father Edmund before you.’

  ‘I … do not remember him,’ Edgar said. ‘Not more than a few moments.’

  He looked at me in sudden thought, tilting his head. His guards had come out and the congregation milled around on the street, unwilling to go home while the king stood there. Yet it was just the two of us.

  ‘Walk with me, father, would you? I would like to hear the stories you used to tell about him. You were about the same age, were you not?’

  He walked alongside and the crowd parted before us as we walked down the hill to the river. I had done the same with his father Edmund and I described that day, which seemed to bring some small pleasure.

  While the capital rushed and hurried around us all afternoon, I told that young man everything I could remember about his father and his uncles Eadred and Æthelstan. It seemed to ease some tension in him – and the strange result was that I became calm myself in the retelling. I kept my secrets, of course, but it served to remind me of all the things I had made and created in the world. Glastonbury Abbey was just the finest of them. I made a point of describing the labour and the personal fortune I had inherited and then spent on that site, only to see it given away to Caspar.

  Edgar stopped by the river, staring out at the barges and small boats bobbing, all laden with goods. I was thirty-seven years old and he was twenty years younger, but I did not smile when he rested a hand on my shoulder. He had grown tall and he was, in that moment, the king unchallenged. We all knew the realm was his, from coast to coast. The Witan had endured three years of his brother for their foolishness. They had the chance to put it right.

  ‘You have been ill-used, father,’ Edgar said at last. ‘So I give you my oath, as king: I will make amends. If I return your abbey to you, will you run wild?’

  ‘No, Your Highness. I have learned peace.’

  ‘Then I will put my seal to an order making you abbot this day. My father’s tomb needs its guardian, father. You will be restored to your old offices, such as lie within my power. There will be another Witan in October. Come to that, as my guest. I will make further amends then for your cruel treatment.’

  His hand fell from me. I knelt and rejoiced.

  My years in Ghent seemed another life as autumn came. It has been my curse that I must remember all, so I cannot say they faded. Yet I was able to put them aside, as a door closed on the past. I made mistakes. All men sin, of course. The difference between us is that I worked for years afterwards to make restitution.

  Trees flamed red, gold and brown across the country. For once, there was no news of an invasion. It was cold very early that year and the frosts spread quickly, snatching the old and the young in their beds. Still, we knew the Vikings would come in the spring. They always did.

  King Edgar was busy grinding ploughshares into swords in London, establishing his presence there after three years of his brother. It was Edgar’s decision to assemble the Witan in Bradford the next month, in the territories of York. He was happiest in the north, with people he knew and understood. It is not a small thing to know a man is yours, to know how he thinks.

  I attended the Witan as Edgar had asked. He honoured me in front of men who would have been kings in a previous generation, but were his great lords instead. They applauded when Edgar confirmed me as abbot. More, they voted me a bishopric, though there was not one ready. My old place as bishop of Worcester had been taken up by an elderly fellow. There was a suggestion he would never last another winter, that he was on his last legs. It was an exciting time.

  Of course, Archbishop Oda would have to confirm any appointment, but he and I were old friends. Edgar went out of his way to raise me in front of thanes and earls, to undo the hurt his brother Edwy had caused. As the trees flamed brightest and leaves began to fall, I felt a great knot of worry uncoil in my chest. I had come through dark years and I was home, among my people. I was honoured where I had been despised, praised where I had been scorned. Such things should not matter to a man of God, but I confess they did to me.

  After the Witan had proclaimed him king of all England, Edgar’s first task was to be seen all across the south, to show the people of Wessex and London that they had another son of Edmund to rule them. At the same time, he was learning about a realm he hardly remembered from his childhood. He was the king of the north. He knew Vikings better than his own people, some said of him.

  While that went on, I made my peace with Wulfric and persuaded him to come with me to Glastonbury, in memory of our childhood. I found him bruised of eye, morose and afraid of nameless punishment. I saw his hand trembled and his head ached most days, causing him to groan and curse. He was always the weaker of us. I told his wife Alice a month or so in the old abbey would be a holiday for him, almost, a break from his labours. Wulfric had not been able to put the events of those grim years behind him, perhaps because he’d been closer than I had.

  I saw my mother there, in the rooms above the shop, up above that creaking old staircase. So much was the same; so much was not.
She looked at me with great sadness, until I felt anger for her. While she mopped at tears and tried to take my hands, I refused to talk about my exile. I would not dwell on what we had done and threatened to leave when she tried. I was home, that was what mattered! I was once more an abbot and a bishop, though I’d heard nothing about royal treasurer. I could continue my work and I would find a way to absolve myself from sins committed. I only hoped it would not take as great a work as the abbey of Glastonbury.

  She could not remain angry with me and I did mutter that I was sorry to have disappointed her. I was not sorry, not really, but I remember my last sight of my father and my regret that I did not say more. It had influenced me in dealing with my mother since then. I thought each time might be the last and so I comforted her and promised her whatever she needed to hear. I mention it because one time was the last. I held her hands and kissed her cheek. She died the following night, passing peacefully in her sleep. I read the eulogy, though the bishop of London conducted the service. I miss her still.

  Wulfric and I took three days on horseback to reach Winchester, then two more until we stood by the bridge across the marsh, with mists lying thick and white. Three servants had come with us, laden down with all my tools. Apart from that, it could have been the day of our first visit. It was hard not to think of my father and the little boat, with Wulfric bounding off ahead.

  I looked at him, at the changes time and injury had made. He seemed more bowed down than I remembered. There were tears in his eyes as he looked out, perhaps in mine too.

  ‘Come on, Brother,’ I said, gripping his shoulders in a great hug.

  We walked together across the bridge, hearing it creak. Our servants brought the horses behind, the sound of hooves echoing strangely.

  At the far side, we entered the grounds of the abbey through a well-made gate of oak, still yellow. I could only stare at the changes that had been wrought in my absence. The gardens were stripped for winter, but the beds were once more laid out in perfect rows. A new wall of flint and brick stood twenty feet high and three thick, with alcoves for beehives, sheltered from the winter’s cold. Apple trees stood in stark rows, with barrows and sheds and tilled soil showing black and frost.

  There were monks in dark robes and one of them saw us open the gate and came over. I did not know him and I saw him take in my tonsure and black wool.

  ‘Are you expected, b-brother?’ he asked.

  I smiled at him.

  ‘Do you not give names now in greeting? Are we to be strangers?’

  The young man coloured and stammered in reply.

  ‘I’m sorry. I am P-Peter.’

  I decided not to give him my name.

  ‘Well, Brother Peter, perhaps you would fetch Abbot Caspar for me, would you? I am on the king’s business.’

  He looked dubious, but left us to do as I had bidden him. I cannot say exactly how my feelings ran then. I had entertained myself with fiery imaginings, of kicking Caspar all around the yard for taking my abbey. Yet I felt I had grown wiser in my exile, somehow, as all men will. It had matured me and I showed no great triumph as Caspar appeared at last, though he made me wait too long. His eyes widened in a very satisfying manner, however.

  ‘We have a new king,’ I said.

  ‘I see,’ he replied. His eyes flickered to Wulfric and the servants. He understood.

  It was a moment to be dignified, and for once, I saw it coming before it had passed.

  ‘Can you serve, brother?’ I asked him. ‘I am to be abbot once again, by royal appointment, though it does not sit well with me that our service of God can be given like a jewel.’

  To my pleasure, Caspar went down onto one knee and bowed his head.

  ‘God favours you, Father Abbot. I do not always comprehend his plans, but I bend before his will.’

  Perhaps there was a little spite in me, for the man who had not refused the abbey I had built.

  ‘And will you put aside your wife? I mean to follow the Rule of St Benedict here.’

  I saw his jaw clench.

  ‘I … cannot. You can’t ask me to just …’

  I shook my head. ‘Then I release you from your vows, Caspar of Glastonbury. Make your trade in the town, or work here, as a member of the laity. You cannot be monk and husband.’

  He was white with anger as he rose, but I took no pleasure in my victory. I could only regret the mistakes I had made before. I made the sign of the cross in the air and he sagged as if something had been drawn from him.

  I swept past Caspar, calling to the young monk who had met us.

  ‘Come along, Wulfric. Brother Peter. Show me the way to the abbot’s rooms. You will have to store the belongings of Abbot Caspar for him.’

  Brother Peter seemed to have lost the power of speech. He continued to stammer and I thought at first it was panic, until it went on too long. I rolled my eyes at that. I have known a few so afflicted. They require a patience I do not have.

  When Wulfric and I had overseen our goods and chattels being unpacked, we went to the church proper and knelt. I was home. I was back.

  The bishop of Worcester died that winter, which made me rejoice. I was appointed to the bishopric I had known before and I felt my coin had fully turned, that all my ill fate had been reversed. Yet before we saw spring, Archbishop Oda was taken with a great spasm, so that his face sagged and he could not breathe. He must have been sixty, so it was not a surprise. I am told it was not too hard, in the end. They found a dozen flasks of glass and pewter in his rooms, all filled with some strange aqua vitae. It seemed the old Dane had liked a drink more than I’d known.

  I waited, recalling that King Edgar had said he would put right all the wrongs against me, that he would make amends. I did not know whether to hope or not. I concerned myself with the abbey and the services, yet I waited each day of winter silence to hear news of the greater kingdom and my own star risen.

  I was to be disappointed that year. Perhaps Edgar thought me too young, or perhaps he had other favours to return as well as the one to me, who had given him his kingdom. I had done more than anyone to unite England once more, but in fairness, that was not an argument I could make.

  I had to be patient, and when Aelfsige, bishop of Winchester, was chosen, I took heart from the fact that he was not a young man either. I did not grow resentful I had been passed over. I knew I enjoyed the clear and public favour of a very young king. My turn would come.

  An archbishop raises priests to be bishops, but in turn, he is raised by the pope himself in Rome. A pallium is placed upon his shoulders as a mark of favour – a great cloak of extraordinary beauty. I confess I looked forward to seeing it. I waved goodbye to Bishop Aelfsige somewhat enviously. He would see Rome before me.

  I was wrong about that, as it happens. He froze to death in the Alps. It was spring before his poor servants made it home again, and by then, Edgar was busy with the north, though having more success than most of us had expected. There was no Viking invasion that year, perhaps because the lords of the north did not call them in, though they always denied such whispers. Edgar went to York to charm them and remind them he was as much Mercian as he was Wessex, as much York as London. It seemed to have an effect. He had a gentle manner, but he always managed to get his way even so. It was a rare ability, as he was a rare king.

  I found myself almost disappointed as no news came of an attack. I’d grown used to the raids on the north, the Olafs, the Anlafs and Sweins. It seemed strange to hear tales of peace. Edgar was the high king and perhaps the northern lords had glimpsed chaos when he’d ruled alongside his brother. Perhaps they saw at last that England might survive us all, not just as a motley collection of small kingdoms, but as a great realm, from sea to sea.

  Edgar returned to Winchester by the end of summer. He had been burnished by the sun and a life of hunts and feasts. He looked even more like his father. When I asked to see the king, I was not left to wait and chafe for a week. He made it easy, another sign of his regard for me t
hat year.

  I came to what was for Edgar almost a private meal, with just four other lords and a small table. They all stood to greet me and Edgar raised a cup in my honour, letting all there know I was in his favour still. A great fire crackled away and wine flowed without restraint. I tried not to beam too obviously, but if you’d recently spent three years in Ghent, you would have been delighted as well.

  ‘I was telling my lord Immin here about the last Witan at York, father. If those men keep their word, perhaps we won’t be called to ride out this year.’

  ‘I pray for peace, Your Highness,’ I said, applying myself to a roast chicken.

  ‘Yet I should be crowned, father. There is that. The lords of the north may call me king today, but if I go too long without a crown, they will squabble and fall out, I know it. I wanted it to be Oda, who crowned my father, I really did.’

  I put the chicken down, my stomach tightening in anticipation.

  ‘Now that Archbishop Oda has gone from us,’ he went on, ‘and poor Aelfsige was overcome by the winter blast, I have another choice in mind.’

  I tried not to smile, which was fortunate.

  ‘Father Dunstan, I wanted to ask you about Bishop Byrthelm. He is most senior bishop now that Aelfsige has died. What do you know of him? Would you give your blessing to Byrthelm as archbishop of Canterbury?’

  I took a drink of wine to give me time to think. I barely knew the man, even by reputation. I’d heard of him as an amiable sort and struggled to find a way to turn that against him.

  ‘I know him, Your Highness, of course. Byrthelm is much loved in the Church. He is said to be a kind and decent man, generous with his time and unstinting in his devotion.’ I had it. ‘It is said of him, Your Highness, that he forgives almost before a sinner can repent. He gives and gives of himself to the point of exhaustion, shaming his priests by his charity and good works.’

  I had judged it finely, I thought. The king’s open expression had developed a line on his brow as he considered my words.