by H A CULLEY
Wilfrid’s heart sank. If Hild was his enemy, so was Bosa. With Eata and Bosa as bishops any influence he could exert through Trumbert whilst he was away would be negated.
~~~
Far from being away for a short time, a year later Wilfrid was still kicking his heels in Rome waiting for an audience with the Pope. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that Donus had died before he’d even set out and the new Pope, Agatho, hadn’t been elected until after he’d arrived. Everyone wanted an audience with Agatho but he’d been ill for a while after he took office. He’d recovered six months ago but Wilfrid still hadn’t been summoned to see him.
Finally the Holy Father sent for him but, far from the private audience that Wilfrid had expected, he found himself confronted by Pope Agatho sitting amongst the priests and deacons that formed his personal entourage. Originally intended to help the Pope with his liturgical duties as Bishop of Rome, they had slowly transformed into an inner council to assist him to manage the Western Church.
It was the first time that Wilfrid had seen Agatho the Sicilian and he was struck by how old he was. Wilfrid was in his mid-forties but Agatho appeared to over twice as old.
‘Welcome my son, I have read your petition to be reinstated as Bishop of All Northumbria but, for the benefit of my advisors, could you briefly summarise the main points in your submission?’
Agatho’s voice was frail and quavered a little but it didn’t stop him from emphasising the word briefly.
‘Holy Father, I was appointed as Bishop of Northumbria by one of your predecessors, the blessed Saint Vitalian. Now Theodore of Tarsus seeks to divide my diocese into four parts and King Ecgfrith has placed another, a monk called Bosa, in my place as Bishop of Eoforwīc. Furthermore, he has appointed three others for these so called new dioceses.
‘It was Pope Vitalian’s intention that I should be Metropolitan of the North and I am therefore independent of the Archbishop of Cantwareburg,’ he continued. ‘I seek redress and your edict that I and I alone am Bishop of Northumbria.’
‘Thank you Bishop Wilfrid, that was indeed commendably brief. Would you kindly retire for a moment so that I might consult my advisors?’
Wilfrid was left to pace the floor of the ante-chamber impatiently for over an hour before he was recalled to the Pope’s presence.
‘Bishop Wilfrid, this is too weighty a matter to be decided quickly, especially as you seem to be challenging Archbishop Theodore’s position as Metropolitan of All England. ‘I have therefore decided to call a synod of all available bishops to be held here in the Lateran Palace in one month’s time.’
Wilfrid stood in front of the dais on which Agatho’s throne sat, stunned by what the Pope had said. To his mind the matter was straightforward. The authority of a previous pope was being challenged and he had expected Agatho to uphold the original decision without having to think too hard about it. When he just stood there Pope Agatho frowned.
‘That will be all for now, Wilfrid. You may withdraw.’
‘Yes, Holy Father. Of course. Er, thank you,’ he muttered, bowed low and fumed quietly as he left the audience chamber.
~~~
Osfrid had been surprised at how good a Master of the Novices his brother was. It is said that familiarity breeds contempt but Osfrid, who had mocked Alaric for his piety and studiousness when he was growing up, soon came to a grudging respect for him.
He never seemed to lose his patience with even the most dim-witted or obstreperous of his students and explained the gospels in a way that everyone could comprehend. He didn’t teach by rote, as so many monks did, but got every boy to learn at his own pace.
Alaric never gave Osfrid any special attention or showed him any favouritism but his brother felt that he was special nevertheless. To his amazement every other novice felt the same. He would never admit it, but he actually enjoyed the two years he spent under Alaric’s tutelage and learnt far more than he had expected.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t wait to escape the boring life, as he saw it, on Lindisfarne and travel down to join the other boys being trained to be members of Ruaidhrí’s mounted warband. At last the day dawned and he discarded the itchy brown habit he’d worn for the past two years. After a thorough wash in the sea he dressed in fine blue woollen trousers and a red tunic, knee-length yellow socks with red garters and leather shoes to replace the open toed sandals that monks wore in all weathers.
In his excitement his farewells to his brother and his father were somewhat perfunctory before he mounted the horse that Drefan had brought for him. Together they rode back to Bebbanburg. Drefan had become Conomultus’ body servant when Catinus had become a monk and knew all the gossip that Osfrid had been starved of on Lindisfarne. Of course, rumours circulated but it was difficult to sift truth from fiction and little or none of it concerned things in which Osfrid was interested.
He listened eagerly to all that Drefan had to tell him as they rode across the sands and then along the dusty road that led around the bay to the fortress. It had been another dry period with no rain for over three weeks and everyone was concerned that the crops in the fields would die. Even the grass on which the livestock fed was becoming brown rather than green.
‘Ethelred isn’t like his brother Wulfhere was; your uncle says that he’s hot-heated and seems determined to recover Linsey from us, whatever the cost.’
‘We heard that King Wulfhere had been killed in battle against the West Saxons but I thought he had a son. Why’s Ethelred now on the throne of Mercia?’
‘Wulfhere didn’t die in battle. He was wounded and it wasn’t treated properly; it festered and he died of blood poisoning, or so your uncle says. He suspects that Ethelred was actually to blame for his death.’
‘Did he kill his son too?’
‘No, but Cenred is still far too young to rule. But all that is irrelevant, stories are beginning to circulate that Ethelred is prepared to go to war to recover Lindsey.’
Osfrid groaned. ‘If only I was two years older I could go and fight them.’
Drefan laughed. ‘I don’t suppose that this will be your last chance to fight in a battle.’
‘No, I don’t suppose so, besides,’ he said, brightening up, ‘I want to go and see Godwyna as soon as possible and I couldn’t do that if I was going to war.’
‘Do you think you’ll still love her when you see her again; a lot can happen in two years. Will she still be interested in you?’
Osfrid scowled at Drefan.
‘Of course she will. And mind your place, boy. You are still only a servant.’
‘Careful Osfrid, or your uncle might force us to wrestle again.’
Both grinned at the memory and were quiet for a few minutes.
‘You uncle says that he won’t need a personal servant when you return in two years’ time and he becomes chaplain again.’
‘Oh, what will happen to you?’
‘Well, I was rather hoping I might serve you.’
‘Definitely not, you’re far too impudent.’
‘Oh, yes. I see.’
Osfrid let Drefan ride on for a short while, his shoulders slumped in dejection, before he spoke again.
‘I’m sorry. That was cruel of me. I wouldn’t want anyone else to be my body servant.’
‘Really? I promise I’ll try to be less cheeky.’
‘Don’t you dare. It’s one of the things I like about you. But don’t ever embarrass me in public.’
‘Of course not; I’m not an idiot.’
The two grinned at each other again and then dug their heels in to race the last mile up to the gates of the fortress.
~~~
The synod met in the great hall of the Lateran Palace, an impressive stone building originally built by the Plautii Laterani family who served several emperors until Nero confiscated it. The Emperor Constantine, who made Christianity the primary religion of the Roman Empire, had given it to the Bishops of Rome for their use. Now it was both the Pope’s residence and the administr
ation offices of the Roman Catholic Church.
The floor was tiled with mosaics depicting various mythical beasts. An earlier pope had planned to replace these with ones depicting the twelve apostles until someone pointed out that it would be sacrilegious to walk on them. Mosaics also lined the walls. The background colour was gold with a number of niches along each wall containing the likenesses of various popes who had been canonised.
Along the side walls six archbishops, quite a few bishops and a score of abbots sat on benches facing inwards. The Pope sat at the far end on a throne raised above everyone on a dais. Below him four monks sat at two tables ready to transcribe the proceedings.
A single stool had been placed in the centre of the floor halfway down the room. Wilfrid assumed that this was for his use but he declined to sit on it. To do so would have made him look like a criminal on trial. He would stand and walk around as he spoke in order to fix each member of the synod with his eyes.
The synod started when one of the bishops stood and introduced Wilfrid and gave a brief résumé of his background. His letter of complaint was then read out in full. He realised that he should have made it more concise when he saw a few of the older bishops starting to nod off.
The next stage came as a surprise. Two more letters were read out, one from Archbishop Theodore explaining far more succinctly why the See of Northumbria should be sub-divided and one from King Ecgfrith setting out the meeting at which Wilfrid had refused to accept the new arrangement. Both submissions portrayed Wilfrid as greedy, self-interested, lazy and a glutton.
Looking around at the sumptuous surroundings and the fine robes worn by many of those present he didn’t think such complaints would find much of a sympathetic ear in this company.
‘What have you to add to the letter setting out your case?’ the bishop who had introduced him asked.
Wilfrid looked around the room and saw several faces he recognised included the bishop who had consecrated him and the abbots of two monasteries where he had studied in Frankia. He nodded to them and they nodded back.
‘Holy Father, fellow bishops and abbots, Saint Vitalian approved my appointment as Bishop of Northumbria and he attached such importance to the post that he made me Metropolitan Bishop of the North of Britain.’
At this point the Pope held up his hand.
‘Do you have proof that Pope Vitalian appointed you as a metropolitan bishop? It would be most unusual; metropolitans are normally archbishops.’
‘I’m sorry Holy Father. The appointment was verbal.’
‘I see. Very well, please carry on.’
‘A moment please, Holy Father. Bishop Wilfrid, why was it necessary to make you the metropolitan for the north of Britain if you were the only bishop?’
‘Because there were other bishops in the Land of the Picts where King Oswiu of Northumbria was Bretwalda.’
‘Bretwalda?’
‘Overlord or high king.’
‘Thank you. And did these bishops acknowledge you as their superior?’
‘It was difficult. They were appointed by the Celtic Church and didn’t recognize my authority.’
‘But Bishop Conomultus of Abernethy had accepted King Oswiu’s decision at the Synod of Whitby had he not?’
Wilfrid cursed under his breath. Where had this man got such detailed information from? The he realised that it must be from Ecgfrith. He would know all about Conomultus as he’d appointed him as the administrator of Bebbanburg.
‘Yes, but the Picts are a law unto themselves. Their king has expelled Conomultus in any case.’
‘Thank you. I understand now. I think, Holy Father, that we can exclude any consideration of a separate metropolitan for Northumbria prior to today as it would seem that, whatever Saint Vitalian intended, there was only ever one Roman Catholic bishop in Northumbria until Archbishop Theodore decided to divide it into several dioceses. So I propose that we start with a clean slate when we consider whether there should be one or two metropolitans for the various kingdoms that comprise what is referred to as England.’
‘Thank you, that is helpful. I agree,’ the Pope said. ‘Now we must turn to the question of who should be the Bishop of Eoforwīc: Wilfrid or Bosa.’
‘Indeed, Your Holiness. It’s a sensitive matter as it seems that Archbishop Theodore has appointed Bosa, Eata and Trumbert to the three new, smaller dioceses. I think we can discount Lindsey as that is the subject of dispute between King Ecgfrith and the King of Mercia. It means that there is no vacancy for Bishop Wilfrid, unless one of the other three is cast aside.’
‘You Holiness, I must protest. I am the Bishop of Northumbria and, even if you were to accept the division that Theodore of Tarsus proposes, I would still remain as the consecrated Bishop of Eoforwīc,’ Wilfrid interrupted the other bishop before he could say anything more which damaged his case.
‘Yes, thank you. That is one of the matters we are here to decide,’ Agatho said with some asperity. ‘Unless you have anything more to add I think you may retire and leave us to our deliberations.’
It was late the next day when he was sent for again. This time he was shown into a small office where several priests and monks sat busily writing out various documents.
‘Ah, Bishop Wilfrid. I have here the edict from the Holy Father which informs King Ecgfrith of the synod’s ruling.’
He handed a sealed leather cylinder to the bemused man.
‘But am I not to be told the contents? What did the Pope decide?’
‘Have you not been told? Oh dear. Well, it’s not my place to say, but you should have been informed.’
Wilfrid stormed out of the room and went in search of someone who could tell him what was going on. The first person he came across was the Pope’s personal chaplain.
‘I’m so sorry, bishop. It must have been an oversight not to let you know what the Holy Father has decided. I’m certain it was not his intention to keep you in the dark. Please wait here and I’ll go and find someone to put this right.’
Wilfrid waited, pacing up and down the flagged floor of the corridor until the bishop who had done most of the talking in the synod came and found him. Without saying a word he led him into a bare room with scrolls and leather bound books on the shelves along one wall. The large wooden table in the centre was also covered in books and papers. It was evidently the man’s office.
‘Do take a seat, Bishop Wilfrid.’
He went and sat behind the table whilst Wilfrid was left to perch on a low stool the other side of the desk. He wasn’t a short man but he was left looking up at the other bishop. If he was expecting an apology, he was about to be disappointed.
‘Right, the main import of the Pope’s decision is that you are to be restored to the Diocese of Eoforwīc and the monasteries of which you are abbot are to be returned to your control. However, the division of Northumbria into three dioceses is confirmed and, whilst you are not given metropolitan authority, His Holiness has also directed that you are to be given the right to replace any bishop in the new dioceses to whom you strongly object.
‘The Pope has also decreed that your monasteries of Ripon and Hexham are to be directly supervised by His Holiness, preventing any interference in their affairs by the new diocesan bishops.’
Wilfrid felt elated. It was more than he had dared to hope for. He might not have been given full metropolitan authority but he could now get rid of both Bosa and Eata; and the king could not deprive him of either his diocese or his monasteries.
Chapter Nine – The Battle of the Trent
679 to 680 AD
‘There is a messenger for you from the Eorl of Lindsey, Cyning. It’s not good news.’
Octa stood dripping water from his cloak onto the straw that covered the beaten earth floor of the King’s Hall at Eoforwīc. The dry summer had finally made way to incessant rain that threatened to wash away those crops which had survived so far.
The possibility of famine was a very real one and Ecgfrith was already trying to buy wh
eat and barley from the Continent, where the summer had been quite different; so much so that Northern Frankia and other kingdoms along the far coast of the German Ocean were enjoying a bumper harvest. Of course, Mercia, Wessex and the other Anglo-Saxon kingdoms were doing the same which pushed the price up and up.
The messenger was soaked through and, eager as he was to hear his news, Ecgfrith sent him to get changed whilst he broke the seal and took the letter from the waxed leather cylinder. He read it with growing dismay.
To Ecgfrith, King of Northumbria and of Lindsey, greetings,
I regret to have to inform you that Ethelred of Mercia has crossed the River Trent near Thorney and has invaded Lindsey. He has brought his warband and that of his eorls and ealdormen numbering over a thousand warriors and is besieging me at Lindocolina.
I entreat you to come to my aid before it’s too late. We are short of provisions and do not believe that we can hold out for more than three weeks, if the Mercians do not breech the palisade before then.
The letter concluded with the usual flowery phrases.
‘How long ago did you leave Lindocolina?’ Ecgfrith asked the messenger when he returned dressed in borrowed tunic and trousers.
‘Four days ago, Cyning. I rode to the coast and travelled the rest of the way by ship.’
‘Then there is no time to lose. Octa, send messengers to every eorl and ealdorman for them to muster with their war bands at Selby and call out the fyrds of Deira and Elmet. Then call a meeting of the Witan to meet there in three days’ time.’
‘Not every noble will be there at such short notice, Cyning.’
‘It can’t be helped. Enough will be present for us to decide our strategy.’
~~~
Instead of heading for the small settlement of Selby on the River Ouse, some twenty miles due south of Eoforwīc, Ælfwine rode to see his brother as soon as his message arrived. He had just turned eighteen and Ecgfrith had recently confirmed him as Sub-king in fact as well as in name. They had remained close whilst the boy was growing up, indeed his brother was Ecgfrith’s closest confidante and friend; consequently he was utterly confident of Ælfwine’s loyalty and support.
