by Rebecca Tope
‘Is their monastery close by?’
‘It has fallen on evil times. Many years ago, it was a large and thriving place, but there was a sickness and the monks died, so they left it empty. These men are from a further place. They knew of the Jack in the Green festival, and came to keep watch. But they were promised that no harm would be done, so they gathered for a good mid-day meal, and left the people alone. But when I told them how the witch had foretold our coming, they woke up, and decided they might be needed after all. It took them a long time.’ He sighed, I suppose remembering the well fed monks’ reluctance to make the long walk back to the field.
I shuddered when I thought of my poor lad, being burned alive. Already, only the next day, I could scarcely believe what had happened - or nearly happened. The Beltane festival was an ancient practice, and I had my own fond memories of it. It struck me as wilfully mischievous of these people to make it an occasion for murder. Sacrificing a living man for their own wellbeing in time to come was not a thing I regarded as justifiable in any way.
‘They are wicked, these people,’ Hal stated, with conviction. ‘The monks said so. And Cuthman must feel it so, now. They need to hear the word of God.’
‘Aye,’ I agreed, absently. My back was sore, and the morning was drizzly and cold. I understood nothing; knew no-one but these two boys; had no image of my own future. To say my spirits were low would be a shadow of the truth. Talk of wickedness and God failed utterly to stimulate me.
When Cuthman reappeared, he evidently had quite another view of the day, and the days to come. Smiling broadly, he jogged along behind the poor battered old cart, bumping it over the tussocks and making it swing. ‘What makes him so jolly?’ I grumbled.
‘I dare say he’s glad to be alive,’ Hal murmured, a remark so wise and dry I found a smile twitching at my own lips. Hal was a very dear child, his eyes clear and blue, and his heart braver than we knew. He never allowed loneliness to trouble him, but formed friendships where he could, and made sure to understand all that transpired.
‘Did you see anybody?’ Hal asked.
Cuthman shook his head. ‘Hiding, I reckon. Ashamed to show their faces.’
I said nothing, but had difficulty imagining that imperious woman ever feeling shame. Anger, more likely, at the thwarting of her festival. And perhaps a headache from the ale she drank, and the long day of dancing and proclaiming. ‘Your prayers were my salvation, Mother,’ Cuthman told me, as he lifted me gently into the cart. ‘I should have burned, if you had not cried to the Saviour as you did.’
‘Not so,’ I protested. The thought of such power horrified me. ‘You are the holy one, my son. Surely you prayed, too?’
‘Prayers of childish fear,’ he admitted, his cheeks flushing. ‘I had no thought but for my own rescue.’
‘Yet you never screamed, or cried out at all. I imagined you in prayer, certain that all would be well.’
‘It was you, Mother. You called for me to be saved, and I was.’
I remembered my rune, then. Radical disruption. Hail. I had disrupted the progress of the ceremony, and perhaps the lives of the people here, if Cuthman’s words were true. Yet I did not fully believe him. God had saved him for a purpose. His destiny was the ground we stood on, the breath we took. All three of us trusted completely that Cuthman was marked out by God. My pleas for his life would only have echoed God’s own intention. No, I told myself, I had done nothing. The rune was false. A silly toy.
‘We must give thanks, now,’ Cuthman went on, his tone growing more serious. The drizzle had flattened his strong brown hair and made his shoulders damp. I had seen the reddened skin, chafed by the straps he wore, rubbed into ridges by this time. His body was changing in this penitential journey we were making. Perhaps he would never lose the marks or the strains. He stood back from setting me in the cart and looked at Hal. ‘I think we must leave something of ourselves here, so that this place can learn Godliness.’
Fear struck through me, and I caught Hal’s eye. He understood already what was to come, but said nothing.
Cuthman was not slow to clarify his meaning. ‘Hal should remain here, with the monks.’
‘Oh, no,’ I gasped. ‘He is like my own child now.’
‘He will go to Chidham, and he will be a great man,’ Cuthman insisted. ‘We cannot interrupt his destiny.’
‘Chidham?’
‘The new monastery, two or three days’ walk east of here,’ Hal whispered. ‘They told me of it.’
‘And would you go there to live?’ The prospect of parting from the sweet child brought me an agony of sorrow. He had accepted my mothering so gladly, creeping into my arms and permitting me to wash and chide him. He looked at me with those full blue eyes, the light shining in them, and nodded. A rage against men and their foolishness gripped me. Their God was my enemy then, who made such cruel demands, who reigned over all we did, so all we knew was helplessness and misery. I had prayed for Cuthman’s life, only to be punished by losing my little helpmate. I clamped my teeth together, to hold in the tears and the raging words.
‘They will revere you,’ Cuthman assured the child. ‘In good time, you will be their Lord Abbot, with power beyond your imagining now. Thanks to you, they have witnessed a miracle. Keep my name before them and follow your heart. You have a splendid future, young Hal.’ To me, he turned with a very straight look. ‘It will not be immediate, Mother. We have the child with us a few days yet.’
We set off then, facing the rising sun, following the coast as best we could. There were swamps and inlets, great lakes covered with flocks of white seabirds. We became accustomed to the sight of the sea, glinting its blues and greys. Three times we crossed wooden bridges over rivers flowing down to the great sea. I was afraid, clinging tightly to my cart, fearing the boards would crack and pitch me helplessly into the rushing water. Cuthman and Hal laughed at me, although the timbers were old and mossy, and my fear seemed well enough founded to me.
It took us a sennight to find the monastery, asking of travellers now and then, skirting marshes and then on the last day finding ourselves too far to the east, on the threshhold of a great Roman palace inhabited by a large group of sad-eyed people who told us a tale of fierce fighting to the north which had forced them from their native lands. A shepherd turned us back the way we’d come, pointing southwards over flat windy plains to where a smoky cluster of woodland stood. ‘That’s your way,’ he said, blinking a little at the sight of me in my barrow.
Hal and I were sweet together in that last week, snuggling at night as before, and telling each other riddles as we travelled. I would not permit myself to think of our separation. Perhaps the monastery would be deserted, or they would refuse to take him. Perhaps we would never find it, or Cuthman would dislike the men there. I made what pleasure I could from the moment, and assured myself that I would see my little friend again, come what may.
Chidham was a modest cluster of buildings, when we finally reached it, with the central imposing church standing in a wide field. Gardens and orchards surrounded it, carefully drained by deep wide ditches. Seabirds flocked in great white drifts, between the monastery and the sea. Ancient thorn and holly were stunted by what must have been strong winter winds from the sea. There was a sense of neatness to the place, and a homeliness which perhaps arose from the whiff of cooking fires, with baking bread and roasting meat wafting their scents towards us. Nobody could fail to find the place attractive, and Hal’s expression was eager as we approached. The air of contented isolation, with ocean so close by, gave it the feel of a haven.
‘Ah, son,’ I breathed, ‘could we not all stay here? Might this not be the spot you are ordained to find? We could surely be happy and useful here, with these good brothers?’
‘The good brothers have no use for me,’ Cuthman replied, rather gruff. ‘I must build my own church, in a place where there is yet no godliness. This is God’s own garden, and I honour the men who discovered and claimed it. They have fish from the sea, b
irds in the air, a healthful breeze to blow away their pestilences. We must find our own place.’
‘And will it be as good as this?’
‘Better,’ he said firmly. ‘Far better, because it will be our own.’
But we stayed until the next new moon, and Cuthman never forgot our time at Chidham. Over the following years, he spoke of it frequently, sending messengers to Hal as he came to manhood there, and answering many of the lad’s questions on the ways of the Lord and the tasks before all true men of God. Chidham remembered Cuthman, too, thanks to Hal. The story of the miraculous rainstorm had arrived before us, along with other tales of Cuthman’s prowess, and we were treated royally from the start.
It fascinated me to watch Cuthman with the brothers. It was as if he was filled from inside by some sweet wisdom and self-confidence, which made him stand taller, and hold his head up. The Abbot found him an appealing companion and they spent long hours in conversation. The weather was warm, and I spent my days in the gardens, lending my meagre help with shelling the early peas or plucking the fat geese which comprised a frequent centrepiece to the generous meals the kitchens produced. My son and the Abbot would stroll past me, perhaps pausing for a moment, to give me their kind attention.
‘Your mother is looking younger today,’ the Abbot observed, one fine morning. ‘She has caught the sun, after the long winter months.’
Cuthman threw me a brief glance. ‘Maybe so,’ he agreed.
‘How did you come to be crippled?’ he asked me, then, with only polite interest. Embarrassment stiffened my tongue and I said nothing at first.
‘In the birthing of me,’ Cuthman filled in for me, kicking a small stone. ‘Tis all my doing. My parents have cause to rue the day they got me.’
‘Oh, no! Not so!’ I protested.
My son cocked an eye at me, firm and reprimanding. ‘Tis so, Mother. You know it is.’
The Abbot watched, cool and curious. I think it was the first time he had regarded me as anything more than a bag of old bones with nothing in my head.
‘But I recovered from your birthing, only to suffer a further injury,’ I reminded my son. ‘Do you not recall? Tis not so long ago.’
‘That too was my doing,’ he spat back at me. ‘How can you think I need a reminder of that?’
‘Seems we have a tale in all this,’ the Abbot commented. ‘I cannot follow it, from what you say. Something further happened to injure you?’ He addressed himself to me, though standing away and keeping his glance mostly on Cuthman.
‘My man took a seizure, out in the barn, and I carried him on my back into the house. After that, I was crippled again, as bad as before - or worse.’ Again I returned to that foolish struggling crawl, the weight of Edd on my shoulders, heavier and heavier as we went on. The pain of it shot through me once more, stabbing me from neck to buttocks, wrenching at the sinews which had never quite recovered their strength from my earlier injury. I dared not look at Cuthman, fearful that he would be cast back to his tearing shame and self-reproach, and angry with me for recalling it.
‘I am responsible,’ Cuthman announced, but in a strong vibrant voice. When I did look at him, his head was thrown back, and a new light shone in his eyes. ‘It was God’s way of showing me what I must do. I see it now, clear as crystal. Without that wickedness, I should not have needed to find my peace with my Maker by doing penance. Lord Abbot, I have seen with my own eyes how wise and loving is the God we serve. His ways are strange for a time, but then, if we follow his Word, we are led into understanding and righteousness.’
Awed though I was by his certainty, and glad of the disappearance of his great burden of shame, it struck me, even then, that the great God might have spared my dear Edd and yet managed to convert Cuthman to his ways.
‘Your penance is done, then, my young friend?’ the Abbot gently questioned. ‘Will you not stay with us and lead us into greater heights of faith and good works? I have no doubt that you would succeed me as Father to all these good brethren, and have all you might wish for in time for study, and young acolytes to teach.’
The answer came ready, as it had when I asked him the same question. ‘Nay. This is not for me. I am to build a church, in a place where the True Faith has not yet taken root. I am hardened by my months of toil, ready for the labours to come. Hal is one day to be your new Abbot, my Lord, if you will accept him. There is more true goodness in that child than ever there was in me. He comes as a gift to us all, and he will be a lifelong link between us. My mother and he have grown close and I would not sever the bond completely.’
‘Then we must be grateful and abide by your convincement.’ The Abbot turned to go, nodding his grey head at me. I returned to my goose feathers, marvelling at the way my strange son had become a man, without my taking proper notice. It was as if something had happened at Chidham which allowed him to begin again, cleansed and newborn. As if he had gathered scraps and snippets of faith and purpose, as we travelled from the far-away moorlands, and now fashioned them into a finished garment, a mantle of true certainty, which he would wear with pride from this time on.
But there was yet a baptism to come. We left Hal one clear blue morning, with the cart once again employed as my vehicle. It had been brushed out, and one of the brothers had rubbed beeswax over it, in an effort to protect it from the rain. It had a new layer of rushes, covered with a good sheepskin, so that it was more comfortable than it had ever been. Cuthman and I both spoke as if there was little remaining of our journeying now. It was our way of bearing the parting from the child who had become my second son and Cuthman’s young brother.
We had spent our time at Chidham preparing for this moment. Hal had been entrusted to the brothers’ care for the major part of each day. They had begun to assign tasks to him, such as climbing a tree to capture a swarm of bees and milking the goats. Another young boy had become his friend, and they had spent a whole day gathering gulls’ eggs along the seashore. There was no room for doubt that he would have a good life here. I trusted the wisdom of the Abbot to allow him to grow free and fearless before the rigours of the holy life closed down on him. They would cherish him as the legacy from Cuthman.
The youngster walked alongside us for a few final minutes, prattling about the miracle of the hailstorm on May Day. ‘They will spread the word to everyone they meet,’ he said. ‘People will come to listen to the story of the Jack who called to the Lord for help.’
‘Then be sure to tell them the truth,’ said Cuthman. ‘See to it, boy, that the words of God is always heeded. This will be a renowned Christian settlement before you see manhood.’
‘I shall build a shrine to ye, Cuthman. A shrine for a famous saint.’ Hal laughed, but his words came seriously. ‘I shall be forgotten, but you never will. Stories will grow and change, concerning you, but I shall do my best to keep it true. Chidham will become the special place where Cuthman was born as a saint.’
‘Beware, young friend. Saints are not of our making. Let it come from the rightful place.’
Hal skipped and laughed and nodded an easy accord. His light hair shone in the sunshine, and my own heart lifted to see him so contented. He had his life’s work ahead of him now, even more firmly than before, and I could only rejoice for him. I gave him a tight squeeze, savouring for the last time the delicacy of him, the sense of him as a gift from an unknown place, and then I relinquished him, with only a few tears.
As we walked away, Cuthman turned his head to the south. ‘We are to go that way,’ he said.
‘But there is nothing but sea,’ I protested. ‘Are we to find a ship, then?’
‘Tis possible,’ he laughed, light with the pleasure of moving on, following his destiny. ‘Whatever, I am sure we are to go this way.’
We walked a short while, Cuthman hefting the handles of the cart awkwardly, so I was bounced more than I was accustomed to. The strap seemed to chafe his shoulders, and I heard some sighs and grunts coming from him. Of course, he had become unused to the weight, his
hands had softened again, and it was more than possible that I was heavier yet than I had been throughout our journey, from the hearty meals I had consumed at the monastery.
Approaching midsummer, it was a time of great activity on the farmsteads. We passed a group of men mowing hay in a rich meadow beside a flowing stream. They had a coarseness to them that contrasted sharply with the gentle intelligence of the monks we had so recently left. They spoke together loudly, with bursts of throaty laughter which every woman knows is because one of their group has made a crude remark. I hoped they would not notice us as we trundled all too slowly along the boundary of their hayfield. They looked capable of worse than ribald jokes at our expense.
Willing Cuthman to make faster progress, I watched the ground ahead, anxious at the ruts and bumps before us. The dry spell had hardened the ground, and fixed the unevenness into an unyielding series of jolts. The interruptions and distractions of the past months since we found Hal had made me forget the hardships of such travelling. It seemed impossible to me then, that we had come so far and endured so much.
Encountering a particularly obstructive tussock, Cuthman shoved the cart violently forward, grunting as he did so. The wheel slewed sideways, and before I could help myself, I was tumbling over the side, as the handles wrenched themselves from Cuthman’s grasp. Skirts flying, and squawking in surprise, I rolled a little before coming to a stop in a shallow ditch. When I looked up, I could see that the strap which Cuthman wore around his shoulders had broken. He stood holding the torn ends, a comical expression of despair on his face.
Chapter Twenty
To come to grief so soon after leaving Chidham seemed to enrage my son. As I gathered myself together, scrambling out of the ditch and thanking Heaven that it had been dry, he began to express his fury. Ripping the leather away from the cart handles, he threw it far from him in disgust. Incoherently, I tried to protest. I knew he hadn’t the strength to hold the heavy cart in his hands without extra support.
