All around us, the city of Winchester prepared for war, with the clatter of running men outside keeping us on edge with thoughts of invasion. When I saw a servant in king’s livery coming down the street, I suddenly could not bear another moment of waiting. I told Wulfric it was a private matter and rushed out to the road, turning the messenger around and telling him I was the one he wanted. I hurried the fellow along as if I’d caught a thief, but we made good time and it was not long before I was passing through the bands of royal guards and into Edmund’s presence.
So great had the clamour of soldiers been that I was surprised not to see the king in mail, or armed with his sword and shield. Instead, Edmund wore a simple robe over a tunic, belted at his waist and with his calves bare. He did wear the crown, however, so that I could not help but stare at it as I halted and bowed.
‘Ah, Dunstan! My appointments steward has been muttering about you for half the day. What is it?’
‘I came to offer counsel, Your Highness. Would you like to give confession?’
He had not asked for the sacrament, but he remembered walking with me, not a month before. I saw him smile in memory, though once again it was touched with strain, as if he still carried weight too heavy to bear.
‘I cannot stroll down to the river now, my friend.’
‘Will you clear the room, then?’
He looked at me, more in confusion than anything. Yet I was not one of his lords looking for favour, nor was I his father or brother, for him to follow. In that moment, Edmund was quite alone. To my pleasure, he did not hesitate.
‘All of you, wait outside for me. I wish to speak in private with Father Dunstan.’
They filed out and drew the doors closed behind them. I endured the hard stares of royal guards as they tried to promise terrible retribution without saying a word, if I was to anger or hurt their master. Yet as the door closed, I saw some of the burden lift from Edmund. He blew air out in a long, slow breath.
‘I am in rare trouble, Dunstan. I don’t know what I am going to do.’
I chose to keep quiet, to let him speak.
‘This Anlaf has York – and half my court want me to go out like my brother before me. They rouse each other with talk of kicking them into the sea, of carrying the Wessex banners all the way to Ireland and setting Dublin on fire.’
Still, I said nothing, while Edmund paced back and forth by the fireplace, stopping only to warm his hands.
‘Yet I’ve had no word from the new king of Scotland – and I doubt he has much love for my family, not after Brunanburh. The latest king of Cumbria killed the messenger I sent to him. It seems they would prefer to have York in the hands of Vikings once again, rather than as part of our England. They turn away from me.’
‘Can you take it back? Do you not have the men?’
I knew we’d suffered losses at Brunanburh, but I had no real awareness of how armies were called. They seemed to me to come from the land somehow, rising almost like autumn mists. In truth, I’d meant to keep my silence. Yet the idea that I might be watching Æthelstan’s Britain break apart in front of me was enough for me to blurt out my fears.
To my dismay, Edmund shook his head.
‘The Witan says it can’t be done. They say some will not march this year, that they want to settle it by treaty rather than fight. I’m told I might expect ten thousand in the field now – and that Anlaf will have twice as many, especially if he is aided again by the Scots.’
He paused, looking away. I saw colour come to him as he forced himself to go on.
‘They do not believe I can lead, as my brother led. Who knows, Dunstan, perhaps they are right. I have called them, but the Witan says the mood is not for war.’
‘No! That’s not what I saw at Brunanburh! They weren’t there, those old men.’
Edmund smiled wanly at that and clapped me on the shoulder.
‘They want me to sign over York in exchange for peace, rather than begin a war that could see every town and city burn, from here to Scotland. They say even Æthelstan would not ride out against a host with so few, that my brother would not betray the hopes of those who just want to live in peace.’
‘It seems the Witan have said a great many things,’ I muttered, irritated with them. I had no idea if the fears of those men were justified, only that my friend and my king was in pain. I wanted to help him, but I had expected a young leopard readying himself for war, not a broken man, preparing to shoulder more shame than he could carry.
‘You know your men, your armies, better than anyone,’ I said. ‘Better than the Witan. I saw you on the field at Brunanburh, the way you bled the enemy, tearing into the flanks. Numbers did not seem to matter so much then. Can you not do it again?’
‘Would you?’ he said, in despair. ‘I never understood, you know, when my brother took us out. His life was at risk, but much more than that. His family, his honour, his line – everything. All of England was at stake.’
‘Wessex,’ I said softly, awed at the image of it. He sighed.
‘It would make any man hesitate, but not him. Æthelstan threw the dice into the air and let them fall. Now I wear the crown, still warm from his head. I am called upon to do the same, or to make a shameful accommodation with that same enemy!’
Edmund began to pace, furious and frustrated. When his foot clipped a bucket of logs, he kicked the thing so hard it scattered the contents all across the floor. He swore at it and looked to me for counsel. So I spoke, though I understood the stakes as well as anyone. This king was my friend and my star was rising with him. If Edmund was killed on the battlefield, all my ambitions would come to nothing. The Christian faith in England might also have been in peril, but I must admit, I thought first of my own concerns.
‘If you treat with this man, will he respect the oath he swears?’ I asked.
Edmund shrugged.
‘I doubt it. Men like this Anlaf Godfreyson have no sense of honour. It seems to amuse them that we do. No, he’ll break his word if he sees a chance to take more land, in a heartbeat. Yet what does that matter if I cannot defeat him? Is my only choice a quick death or a slow one? Or should I do nothing and just wait as he creeps south, taking all of England?’
‘You beat him before, Edmund. You are being rushed into this, I think. You just need a season or two to raise armies, to send out a levy, to train more horsemen. Your brother lost York once to Anlaf’s cousin, did he not?’
‘He did.’
‘And did he not win it back? If I have learned anything, it’s that there are times to rush in – and times to stand clear and catch your breath.’
‘You think I should give up York?’ Edmund asked again, challenging me.
‘If you don’t have an army to crush this Anlaf in one season, then yes, you should treat with him! Give this little man the city he wants. Turn the other cheek, as Christ taught us.’ I stepped close to him. ‘Then build your armies ready for next year! Have faith, Edmund. This is a Christian country, not a Viking one. You will prevail.’
I was aware that Christ had not turned the other cheek just to give him time to get his dagger out. Yet I thought it was good advice then. Of course, fate would make a mockery of all our plans. It is strange how we keep thinking we can change the world, only to be revealed as smaller than the turning of the sun on a single day.
I went north later that year, with King Edmund and an honour guard of a thousand men. Anlaf came south with about the same number and we met at Leicester, in a host of tents by a stream. There was some bickering and wrestling between champions that became bloody and violent, as was common enough. There was little love shed between us. Edmund was tight-faced with his wounded pride, though he made himself smile and raise a cup in toast to a new friendship. Only those who knew him well saw how it hurt him.
I thought Anlaf too looked relieved, when Edmund sealed his Wessex ring to the treaty. Some tension went out of the Viking’s shoulders as copies were folded and placed inside leather wraps. Anlaf Godfreyso
n had always been a big man, but he was a little grey around the mouth as he shook Edmund’s hand.
I had seen it before in those whose hearts are labouring, a certain colour about them that suggests a weakness. Some of them last for years, which was why I did not remark on it. Some of them, like Anlaf Godfreyson, drop dead in the middle of a feast just a few months later, clutching their chest and falling face-first into a plate of grilled kidneys.
23
Every man’s life is two strands – a dog with two tales, if you like. The first is all the small victories and disasters that go on around him: the friends and loves and enemies and servants. Yet at the same time, that man might be privileged to see the rise and fall of crowns and nations – the greater threads. Some of those are kings worth telling, while others are mere names on a tomb, unmourned. Still others are kings who broke my heart for all that could have been.
I was not there when Edmund took ten thousand men to York and reclaimed it. He certainly did not need me to slaughter Viking lords and their followers. I do not know if we are meant to show Christian fellowship to those who have raped our people and invaded our homes. No forgiveness was shown and I felt that was right. Christ offers a hard path to follow and there are times when I would rather not follow it to destruction.
Edmund took his enemies in their disarray, one town, one lord, one banner at a time, rolling them up across the north where they had crept down for a hundred miles. They had spread themselves thin after we’d signed our peace with them. Edmund made himself red-handed in slaughter, and earned the approval of us all. I offered him confession on his return and he accepted the forgiveness of his sins. I saw the lines ease from his brow afterwards. It is a wonderful sacrament.
All that occurred while my lesser tale went on. I established Wulfric and his wife and daughter that year at Glastonbury, though it was in a house in the local town rather than at the abbey site. Wulfric insisted upon that as a condition of accepting the work. I could not dissuade him, though some part of me still hoped he would put aside his wife to a convent and join me as a brother Benedictine. A man who has a wife whispering at his pillow each night can never be as predictable as one who does not, I think.
My difficulties were not with the abbey, which proceeded apace now that we had rents coming in. Three hundred and sixty hides amounted to over eighteen thousand acres and covered a fair part of Wessex. Wulfric was rushed off his feet with the work. He employed a dozen young clerks and another dozen to visit our holdings, his own little empire. I saw men and women of the town bow their heads to the great employer as Wulfric passed – the man of London, so they saw him. I thought it all a little grand myself and I warned Wulfric against pretension. All the while, his wife tutted at me as she rocked their child in her arms, as if she knew better.
Still, it bore fruit from the first quarter day, when our collectors brought so much silver and goods across the bridge that I thought we’d have to deposit it with a moneylender, or risk starting a war. I asked Wulfric how he could be sure they’d handed over all they had collected, but he just looked grim and said he took their word. I believe he had some system of checks, but he relied on trust for fair accounting. Some of the men had come from the shop to join him, it was true, but I think he was still too innocent of wickedness.
I was so delighted with the new funds and so busily engaged in discussions with Master Justin and our new masons and builders and everyone else who worked with us that summer, I hardly stopped to think where the money might have come from. That was an error. I just assumed then that the king owned all – as he did, in a sense. In another sense, though, the king’s earls and thanes owned it on his behalf.
Two men had lost part of their estates when the king signed them over to my abbey. One of them, Earl Talien, lost almost half of his family’s holdings. He made some query with the king, I believe, but as soon as he understood it was for the Church, he asked only that we celebrate Mass in his name, as we have done on his feast day ever since, to the benefit of his soul. Not a whisper of protest did we hear beyond that, though the dear man lost a fortune.
The other was one I had met at Brunanburh – and thought little of, even then. Leofa of Kent had family lands along the south, many times as great as the small part the king had gifted to us. I imagine he had to be told he had lost those few acres, a couple of farms of poor hill grazing, no more. I believe the royal clerk included them only to grant us access to a river. On such small things, the sun grows dark. It seemed Leofa, king’s thane, begrudged the loss of his farms as if we had stolen his first-born.
He came first to the abbey to protest, and as abbot, I went out to meet this nobleman who rode onto Church land with half a dozen men and then sat his horse, shouting at my brother. Wulfric was cowed by the threat of violence, and right to be. Men like Leofa were quite capable of breaking his skull a second time in their righteous anger. The law was weak when it came to punishing such acts. Yet I knew he would not dare to touch me. I stood between them and greeted my old comrade-in-arms.
‘What an honour, my lord Leofa, for you to visit our home here.’
The Kentish thane was not pleased to see me. Perhaps he had not understood the monk he’d known at Brunanburh was abbot of Glastonbury. It must have made him think and consider how close I was to the king to have been given lands at all. I imagine it was not lost on him that I did not invite him to dismount or to take food and wine. He had sat his mount to intimidate my brother. Now he had to stay there.
‘These acres you claim are yours,’ I said. ‘Are they not then the king’s to disburse as Edmund sees fit? Do you not own them on behalf of the Crown?’
‘They are my family lands,’ Leofa replied, though he clenched his jaw and his voice sounded strained.
‘Oh, no, no, my lord. That is a common error. They were the king’s land,’ I said. I wanted to prick his arrogance. He had come to my home expecting us all to kneel in the mud for him. I would not. I could not, with the dignity of the Church resting on my shoulders!
‘Still, I do not understand your concern, my lord. They belong to me now, to this abbey, as it will be. The Holy Church now owns the land in question. Not the king. Certainly not your poor claim.’
‘You should return them to my family, those fields where I trained as a boy,’ he said. He had darkened in colour, I noticed. I was pleased to see it and I shook my head in sadness.
‘Perhaps you could purchase them from us. I would be willing to sell them for ten years of income. I believe that is fair.’
For an instant, I wondered if he might suffer an apoplexy on that yard. He grew quite swollen and his men became restless, though I smiled at them still, partly to infuriate their master. I was not surprised when Leofa turned and led them away without another word, leaving just dust rising in their wake.
Wulfric wiped sweat from his face.
‘He’ll make life hard on the farmers and villages there.’
‘Pay for armed guards then, if he does,’ I snapped. ‘This is your labour, Wulfric, not mine. I brought you in because I have other work. It is your concern! All I ask is that you make enough to pay the bills, as they arise. I do not care about the rest, nor how much you pay yourself. Live like a king, for all I care, as long as there is gold and silver for the abbey.’
‘What if he makes trouble for our people?’
‘We have the king’s ear, Wulfric. Our Kentish lord will not dare to interfere in Wessex business.’
Ah me, it hurts to recall some days. If we had raised a hand against Leofa in that yard, he would have been within his rights to defend himself. Wulfric and I would not have lived, and I don’t doubt his men would have rampaged then, looting and raping. For the life of me, I cannot see how I could have done anything differently with what I knew at the time. Yet my desire to see him humbled laid a seed of destruction that makes me want to weep in memory.
I spent a great deal of my time in Winchester and London over the next year, leaving the abbey to rise without
my constant supervision. Even with the incomes from new land, I needed to make bonds of friendship with rich lords and churchmen, like any other worthy beggar with his hat in his hand. It was a little more subtle than that, but at times, not very much so.
I missed two letters from Wulfric as they followed me around the country for months. I moved with a small group of servants, taking road or ship up into the north or west into Wales, to hills so beautiful they might well have been Eden. When wealthy families offered funds for my abbey, I would leave the actual coin with moneylenders in York, say, knowing I could redeem the sums in London or Winchester. That is a nation, there, in trust for our institutions.
King Edmund had redeemed and proven himself. Anlaf was dead. York was ours once more. The Witan council were very quiet in those days – abashed for their lack of support of him. He’d nearly lost the north, it was true, but because he had won it back, they would never refuse him again. We had Jews arrive from Flanders and France when they heard how peaceful our land was becoming. They have always been a weathercock worth watching, those fellows.
Edmund’s England began to thrive. I will not say the whole realm, as we heard nothing from Scotland – and no one wanted to poke the wasp nest by sending men so far north. Yet the new king’s reign looked to be a golden age. My abbey was rising from the foundations, built row upon row by hundreds of artisans, trained on the job by our masters and journeymen.
My good mood lasted as long as it took for my brother’s letter to reach my hand, a much-oiled packet by then, though still with his seal. I frowned at the Wessex wyvern, wondering if he was using our father’s old code for trouble.
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