by Peter Fox
‘Bishop Eahlstan,’ Heremund said, turning from his assistant and greeting the other cleric warmly. ‘How can we help you on this fine spring morning?’
The Bishop, a tall, thin man with intelligent, dark eyes, smiled back. ‘My dear Lord Heremund, I am hoping you can help my librarian, Father Donagh. We were preparing for the Easter service only to find that one of our manuscripts is damaged.’
‘Ah,’ said Heremund, ‘let us take a look. Oh, and I should introduce my new assistant, Saeric of Ashford. Um, where was it near again?’ Heremund asked, clearly embarrassed that he had already forgotten the name.
‘Tonetun,’ Saeric lied, eyeing the Bishop suspiciously.
Heremund motioned for Saeric to come forward. The Briton did so, cautiously, aware of the close attention that the Bishop paid to him. The Bishop thrust out his hand, which Saeric took, dropped down on his knee and kissed the ring.
‘Your grace,’ he said automatically, then stood up.
The Bishop raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Instead, he turned to Father Donagh. ‘Bring it into the light,’ he instructed.
‘Just a moment,’ Heremund said. ‘We’ll move the table. Saeric, give me a hand please.’
Heremund and his assistant carried the larger of the workbenches out of the smithy and put it where the sunlight shone onto it. Carwyn arrived carrying a small wooden box of her own. She indicated to Saeric to brush the table, then she opened her box and laid out a clean linen cloth that was weighted down by river pebbles sewn into the hems. She offered her greeting to the clerics. ‘Would either of you like some refreshment?’ she asked.
Bishop Eahlstan smiled. ‘That would be most welcome, my lady,’ he said.
Carwyn turned to Heremund. ‘Some fresh cakes are cooling by the oven, and you’ll need to put more mead on to warm.’
‘Of course, my dear,’ Heremund said, tilting his head in mock supplication.
Saeric smiled as the smith hurried off to see to his hosting duties. The Briton had been surprised on the first occasion that someone had arrived at the smithy with a broken piece of jewelry, and it had been Carwyn who had undertaken the repairs. ‘He does the heavy work, I do the fine,’ she had explained. ‘I have sharper eyes and steadier hands.’
Father Donagh placed the box on the table and removed the lid. It contained an illuminated manuscript, and as Donagh lifted it out, the sun flashed on the weighty golden covers. The many gems that studded the book flared with a multitude of colours; red, amber, green, and blue. It was more splendid than any book Saeric had ever seen, even in the mynster of Caer Uisc. He immediately spotted what was wrong with it: one of the gilt hinges on the front cover had broken loose.
Under the watchful eyes of the cathedral’s librarian, Carwyn took some tools from her box, then set about carefully removing all the pins that held the book together. Saeric was much impressed both by Carwyn’s care and skill, and the ingenious construction of the covers. Heremund appeared with a wooden tray, followed by the two boys, who, Saeric noticed, were now attired in matching dress tunics and their hair had been neatly brushed. Each boy carried an elegant gilt carafe, which they placed carefully on the table in the smithy where Saeric and Heremund took their meals. Heremund set down the tray and poured a goblet each for the clerics, then muttered instructions to the boys. They took one each and offered them to the Bishop and Father Donagh. The clerics took their goblets and gave their thanks, and then the boys scampered back to their father, who had placed some snacks on a sizeable gilt plate. Beornwald and Beornoth then bickered about who would have the honour of bearing the plate, but it was Beornwald who Heremund chose. ‘Don’t drop it,’ Heremund warned.
Saeric saw Beornoth deviously stick out his foot to trip his brother, but Beornwald anticipated it and deftly stepped over the obstacle, poking his tongue out at the other twin. He strode down to the table and offered the clerics a selection of snacks, which both graciously accepted. As Beornwald passed by him, Saeric noticed that the platter bore a crest; not one he recognised, but which was a clear indication that Heremund was no ordinary smith. And never mind that he has a gold dinner set, Saeric thought.
Once the bible’s covers were off, Carwyn asked Saeric to move the book aside. He hesitated, wondering whether God would strike him down for touching the revered manuscript. Aware that he was being watched, Saeric carefully picked up the heavy vellum book, half expecting it to burn his sullied fingers. It didn’t, but he wasted no time putting it down at the other end of the table, just in case. He frowned at the magnificently illustrated title page, recognising the first letter of the text. The detail in the illustration was astounding in its artistry, and everywhere he saw dazzling ultramarine blue and gold leaf, marking this tome as exceptionally valuable.
His thoughts suddenly flew to a sun-filled building, where he sat with five other boys at a long table, each with a flat tablet of light grey stone in front of them, and each with a stick of waxed charcoal with which to write. Inscribed in black letters on the slate in front of him was a half-decent rendering of the words ‘In Principio’; the same words written on the page in the bible in front of him now. He felt a sudden surge of distress. They had been copying from a similar book that had sat open on a lectern in front of their table; although their version had been nowhere near as spectacular as this one. Saeric’s lips moved as he silently mouthed the Latin text. He turned the page, curious to see if he remembered any more of the words. So long ago, he thought. Much to his surprise, he recognised most of them.
‘You can make sense of all those squiggles?’ came Heremund’s voice, breaking Saeric’s concentration.
‘He’s just looking at the pretty pictures,’ the librarian said, his tone sympathetic. ‘They are indeed most beautiful, aren’t they, young man? But perhaps we had best not play with it. It wouldn’t do to soil the pages. This book is Scirburne’s most venerated scripture.’
Saeric gave the cleric a cold stare, but he let go of the page as requested. ‘It is the Gospel of John; Book of Glory,’ Saeric said. He walked back to the forge, angered by the cleric’s condescending attitude towards him.
Bishop Eahlstan frowned after Saeric, then he picked up the book and carried it up to the workshop. ‘I am very sorry, my son,’ he said. ‘This is a reminder to us that we should know better than to make assumptions about one of the Lord’s flock, just by his dress and circumstances. Can you truly read this?’ He indicated the book, opening to another page.
Saeric blinked at the Bishop, thinking it strange that the cleric had all but repeated Heremund’s earlier words about the judgement of character. The Bishop tapped the page to get Saeric’s attention. Saeric again saw the vaulted room in his mind’s eye, but it was a different clergyman asking a similar question of him. So long ago, Saeric thought again.
He looked down at the page and proceeded to read it aloud, stumbling over many of the words, but amazing himself that he could nevertheless make sense of the passage, despite fifteen years having passed since he had last read Latin.
‘Where did you learn to read so well?’ the Bishop asked. ‘There is a small monastic house in Tonetun?’
Saeric frowned, unsure how wise it would be to tell the Bishop. ‘I can’t remember,’ he lied, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in the face of this inquisition.
‘He is Dumnonian,’ Heremund said, throwing Saeric a strange look.
‘The mynster of Escanceaster then? Or Cridianton?’
‘Father Ceolburh of Caer Uisc,’ Saeric said automatically, then he cursed himself for his stupidity. Idiot! he thought. You’ll be telling him your name next.
‘Abbot Ceolburh,’ the Bishop corrected, then smiled kindly. ‘However, I doubt it was him.’ When he saw Saeric’s face darken, he nodded down at the book. ‘You learned well. Do you understand its meaning?’
‘“Forgive them, Father. They know not what they do. You have heard it said you shall love your neighbour and hate your enemy. But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for t
hose who persecute you.”’ Saeric glared at the cleric, then added, ‘I will never, ever forgive my family’s murderers, and if that means I’ll go to Hell, then so be it.’
Heremund stared back at his assistant, astonished.
The Bishop too had evidently not expected such eloquent delivery. ‘What did you say your name was?’ he asked.
‘Saeric.’
‘…of Ashford was it?’
Saeric felt a flash of panic. What if he checks up on me and starts asking people if they know me? he thought. He could lead Eanswith right here. Then he calmed himself. Ashford is made up. It could be anywhere, like Heremund says. Saeric is made up too.
Father Donagh squinted at Saeric, stepping uncomfortably close so that he could better inspect the Briton. ‘Are you sure it was Escanceaster?’ he asked in his frail, wavering voice. ‘Ceolburh is Abbot of the mynster of Sanctus Germanus. He succeeded Abbot Mewan after the first pagan raid.’
Mewan. Sanctus Germanus! At the mention of the names, Saeric felt an inexplicable, overwhelming surge of terror. He let out a distraught cry, clenched his eyes shut and pressed his hands to his ears as he was swept back into the maelstrom of flames and destruction.
‘Saeric? What is it? Saeric?’ Carwyn was speaking in British. ‘Come back to me. Saeric?’
Saeric heard the woman’s voice over the roaring of the fire, but every turn he took led him into another wall of searing flames. He cried out to his saviour but could find him nowhere. Someone called his name again, and he turned to see a gigantic sea serpent lunging at him, golden eyes blazing and fangs bared for the kill. He threw his hands over his head and screamed.
✽ ✽ ✽
‘What in Christ’s name is the matter with him?’ Heremund said, not caring that he had blasphemed in the presence of the Bishop.
‘He is possessed!’ Father Donagh cried, stepping away from Saeric and making a warding sign.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Carwyn protested, clutching Saeric to her breast.
‘He spoke in tongues, Lady Carwyn,’ the Bishop said. ‘The Devil is within him.’
She shook her head. ‘He was speaking Dumnonian, your Grace.’
‘Then what was it all that about?’ Heremund demanded. ‘Did you understand any of what he said?’
Carwyn looked down at the young man she cradled in her arms. Tears streaked his cheeks, and he held her tightly, a terrified little boy again. As far as she could tell, he was conscious, but like the time she had washed him, he seemed to be somewhere else.
‘Most of it was just words of fear. He was calling a name in desperation, over and over. Bear, or something like that?’ She wrinkled her nose, frustrated with herself. She turned to the Bishop. ‘What happened at Sanctus Germanus?’
‘Terrible things,’ Heremund answered, wondering if that could be the source of the young man’s night terrors. Mention of the monastery had certainly set him off. Could he have been a novice there?
‘There was a horrendous attack by the heathens not long after the fall of Escanceaster,’ the Bishop explained. ‘The destruction was particularly extreme. The heathens killed many; man, youth and boy. They cut down our brethren monks, hacked off their limbs, and set fire to everything they could. A number of the boys were burned alive in the rectory. The devils ripped the covers off the manuscripts for their gold and gems, and trampled the pages into the blood and mud, caring nothing for the blasphemy or the wrath of God. They even nailed one of the clergymen to the cross in the forecourt in imitation of Christ. They left no one and nothing alive, and if Saeric experienced that slaughter first-hand, it is no wonder he suffers such terrible nightmares, poor child.’ The Bishop crossed himself.
‘Indeed,’ Heremund murmured, recalling with unnerving clarity the crucifixion of the poor monk, overseen by the man who had ordered it. But one thing he did know: that particular atrocity had not had anything to do with heathen raiders.
‘Well, your Saeric is clearly from a family of some note, if he was studying under Ceolburh at St Germanus,’ the Bishop said.
Heremund felt a chill tingle the hairs on his neck, as he came to another realisation. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘Not St Germanus.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Saeric is right. Ceolburh wasn’t the Abbot when heathens attacked that mynster. You said so yourself. Ceolburh served in Escanceaster back then. I remember now.’
‘Escanceaster?’ Carwyn said, surprised.
‘Well, was Saeric in Escanceaster or St Germanus?’ the Bishop said. ‘Surely he cannot have been in both places? I thought the attack on St Germanus occurred at the same time as the fall of Dumnonia’s capital.’
‘No,’ Heremund said, frowning at the Bishop. ‘It came a few days afterwards.’ The smith looked down at Saeric, his sense of unease rising as he began to contemplate the unthinkable, however impossible it might seem.
Could you have been in Escanceaster, then fled west to St Germanus when the city fell? But you’d have had barely enough time to get from one to the other. You couldn’t have done it on your own, especially since you were a child back then. You’d have needed serious help to get there so quickly. Well-connected help. The kind of help available to someone who mattered a great deal. Yet St Germanus had been utterly destroyed, first by the heathens, and then…
Heremund crouched behind his wife so that he could better look into the tormented face of his new assistant.
‘How in God’s name did you survive?’ he wondered aloud.
✽ ✽ ✽
Saeric opened his eyes and looked straight into the brawny Saxon’s worried face. He blinked, realising he was clutching Carwyn tightly. He pulled away, confused. He saw that the Bishop and Librarian were also looking down at him, their expressions showing equal concern.
‘Wha–? What just happened? Why are you all looking at me like that?’
‘You don’t remember?’ the Bishop asked.
Saeric shook his head, his thoughts muddled.
‘You had another turn,’ Heremund said, still crouched and frowning at his assistant.
‘Turn?’ Saeric asked, swallowing. What did I say?
Heremund kept his gaze fixed on Saeric. ‘Where did you learn to read?’
Saeric looked at the smith, his sense of panic rising.
Afraid, are you?
Yes!
‘Saeric?’
Saeric pulled himself from Carwyn and stood up. ‘It was a long time ago. I can’t remember.’
The Bishop and Heremund exchanged glances. ‘You’re lying, Saeric,’ Heremund said. ‘You know damn well where you were educated, and you must have been top of your class at that.’
‘Husband!’ Carwyn scolded.
The Bishop drew Heremund aside, and they became engaged in a heated discussion, obviously about Saeric.
Saeric turned to Carwyn. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s alright, Saeric,’ Carwyn said, trying to calm him, but he heard the edge of fear in her voice.
Something else must have happened – he knew it from the way the others were behaving – but what? Did I speak my birth name? ‘Tell me what’s going on!’ he said.
Carwyn put her hand on Saeric’s arm, but he pulled away. ‘Saeric,’ she began hesitantly, ‘when the Bishop arrived, you greeted and addressed him formally without hesitation. Then when I removed the cover from that scripture, you started reading it. The Bishop asked you to read a different passage aloud, which you did. You know and understand Latin, Saeric, and to a high level of ability. You are more than you admit.’
‘I come from a poor family. I’m a peasant farmer’s slave.’
Carwyn shook her head. ‘No, I think you were a novice at Escanceaster,’ she said, then hesitated again. ‘Or another mynster.’
‘Stop calling it that,’ Saeric growled. ‘Our capital’s name is Caer Uisc, and what do you mean “another mynster?” What mynster?’
Carwyn let out a long breath. ‘Just before, when we said the name of the mynster, you
got… very upset. I think that when you were young, you witnessed something so terrible that you have put it out of your mind because it is too painful to bear. So many children experienced such dreadful horrors and many more were left orphaned by the atrocities wrought by the Traitor…’
Mael. Our enemy.
‘Our enemy,’ Saeric repeated aloud, his voice cold.
‘Saeric?’ Carwyn asked.
Mael slaughtered our family. That is why we seek vengeance.
‘Vengeance.’ Saeric said, his face twisting into a grimace as he spoke.
‘We must all try to forgive,’ came the Bishop’s voice, but Saeric cut him off.
‘I will never forgive him for what he did to my family and me,’ Saeric snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. ‘He is the devil’s work, and he will rot in Hell for his sins, as will you Saxons for your part in it.’
The cleric began to protest, but Heremund stepped in, eyeing his assistant warily. ‘Carwyn, come away from him,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Vengeance.
‘Vengeance,’ Saeric repeated.
Carwyn backed away, seeing the crazed look in Saeric’s eyes.
She is a witch. Like the Traitor, she has betrayed us. Kill her.
‘Kill her,’ Saeric growled, rising to his feet and turning to Carwyn.
That was as far as he got because at that moment, Heremund stepped in Saeric’s way and punched his assistant in the side of the head, dropping him like a stone. The smith turned to Carwyn and the Bishop. ‘For the time being, there will be no more mention of Escanceaster, St Germanus or King Mael; or reading and writing for that matter.’
Father Donagh made the sign of the cross over the unconscious Briton. ‘He is most definitely possessed. We must exorcise the demon.’
‘One thing at a time, Father,’ Heremund said.
‘Has he done this before?’ the Bishop asked.
‘Not to this extreme,’ Heremund said thoughtfully, ‘but he does suffer quite violent nightmares, where, I suspect, he sees similar visions.’ He paused in thought. ‘In this case, however, it was as though the mention of St Germanus awoke something in him.’
