20

I did not go racing off into the night, though part of me wanted to do just that. Dawn and the Lauds service were some way off when I rang a hand bell and summoned our community to the refectory. As a show of goodwill, and because I did not have the patience for another argument, I made a point of allowing the wives and yawning children in, though they made a terrible noise, darting about like kittens, with no sense of dignity at all.

They settled down when I told them the news. It was a shock and a blow to all of us. Æthelstan was the first king I’d met. I’d watched him charge in with his horsemen like a spear. I admired him, certainly, but he had made no friend in me.

Perhaps because of that, I was surprised to see tears on the faces of many there. Master Justin crooked his head in his elbow and truly sobbed, red-faced. Honestly, I had not expected such a torrent of grief. It set the children off to see their fathers and mothers weeping. They began to wail until I thought I might have to wait outside, or just put the bar across the door and ride to Winchester while they bawled and keened endlessly.

I strode back and forth before them, then stood waiting, tapping my foot on the floor as they passed cloths to one another and embraced in family groups. After a time, after a veritable age, they settled down once more. I told them then what they must do in my absence.

That had them blinking red-eyed at me, you may be sure! Like sheep hearing the shepherd was going away for a time. I told them I would leave to see the new king crowned – and to repeat my request for lands for the abbey. I had far more hope of it that day than the one before and I felt the thrill of it in my veins.

I saw my brother Wulfric had come to listen, standing tall and ruddy with health, if not for his missing arm. How I wished then that I might leave him in charge of the abbey in my absence! I could not. Not only had he not taken vows, or holy orders, but his work and his family were his concern. He had neglected it all for me, but his heart was not in Glastonbury.

I saw Brother Caspar’s gaze was on me and I nodded to him, making the decision without more than a moment’s hesitation. I had been appointed abbot in extraordinary circumstances, it was true, with Simeon gone mad in the post. Such events were rare, and no matter who ruled in Winchester, I would remain as father to them.

It fell to me then to make a grand gesture, the last proof of my forgiveness of them all.

‘I will be back and forth in the months to come,’ I told them. ‘In my absence, I appoint Brother Caspar as prior. When I am not present, he will be my voice, my proxy.’

Caspar went such a pale shade, I thought he might faint. I have seen that once or twice on long services at Easter, where a monk suddenly falls as if dead, not even putting out his hands. The injuries can be extraordinary. Yet Caspar remained on his feet, disappointingly. He bowed to me, clearly too overcome to speak.

‘There must be no respite in our labours,’ I went on. ‘The abbey . . .’

‘Thank you, Abbot Dunstan,’ Caspar managed, his voice thick with emotion, or possibly phlegm.

‘ . . . will rise.’ I went on. ‘You know these people as well as anyone here. You know the tasks that lie before us, the hard years. Do not sell yourself at short weight, prior. You will do God’s work and do it well.’

I raised my head once more to address them all.

‘I will plead our case for land and funds, you may be sure, but there will be a hundred others asking to dip their hands into the royal treasury, before Æthelstan is even cold.’ I saw some of them wince at that, as if I had somehow struck a bad note. ‘Though my uncle Athelm will . . .’

‘You do me a great honour,’ Caspar croaked as I tried to continue. I am afraid I lost my temper then. It had been a long day.

‘And if you interrupt me again, I will take that honour back!’ I roared at him. The room was really silent, the children huge-eyed and trembling. As they began to blubber and screech, I raised my eyes to heaven.

‘O Lord, bless this flock, even unto the lambs. Keep them safe as we build in your name. Bring us the coins we need, Lord, to complete your work. Bring us, too, the strong backs and arms, the men who will raise our walls for us without complaint. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen.’

I swept out as they echoed me and crossed themselves. Caspar stood to address the crowd, but some of them were already leaving in my wake, streaming out into the night. Though it was petty, that pleased me.

I had left Glastonbury once before with nothing. At least the second time I had the horse I’d ridden at Brunanburh. I’d trained Scoundrel rather better than he deserved after my safe return, riding him regularly and accepting the advice of those who understood the strange animals. Scoundrel certainly knew me as a purveyor of carrots and turnip slices. He raised his ears like a dog when he saw me arrive at the stables in town, immediately kicking the door of his stall to come out. I cannot say I liked him – I have never liked a horse. Yet he was undeniably useful to me, especially with days of hard roads between Glastonbury and Winchester.

The old saying has it that lords ride and the poor walk, but an abbot cannot be expected to risk wolves and thieves in the service of the Church. I must have ridden Scoundrel a thousand miles back and forth over the years. He learned the route so well I found I could sit and read upon his back, letting the hours and the miles pass underfoot without my noticing. In that way, the wilful old nag was a marvel.

As I set off, the high king of Britain was being laid to rest at Malmesbury, the town whose men he had ordered free for all time after their service at Brunanburh. He and they shared a love of that rare and fragile state, it seemed, though I favour the yoke myself. Freedom is too much for most men. It frightens them and makes them anxious. Better by far to be calm and safe in harness, I have always said. Not for me, you understand, but for most men. I would always prefer the king’s freedom, to freeze or starve, yes, by my own hand and by my own will. Yet I am a rare bird, a rare bee.

I am told the funeral was a great outpouring of grief, with thousands come to witness his passing. I doubt it was any more moving than those I have seen – particularly the services I have given myself for kings since. King Æthelstan was a great man, but he failed to see the worth in me. It follows that he was not without flaw then.

I came back to Winchester at the end of darkest January, with a fall of snow on the ground and more in thick white clouds above. It began to drift down even as I trotted Scoundrel through the western gate, so that it smothered sound like a held throat.

The city light was being hidden beneath a bushel in its mourning, with the drinking houses shuttered and the street criers all silenced. It seems the world will stop for a king’s funeral, even one to which I had not been invited. That was the other reason for Winchester to be so quiet, of course. There was hardly anyone there.

I arrived at Lady Elflaed’s home, a few streets away from the royal estate. I’d begun to worry I might have to find an inn for the night, but she’d left a rather wizened creature to answer my knock, constantly bowing or hunchbacked, I never did find out. There was also a stable boy to tend Scoundrel, who was steaming and mud-spattered after carrying me over stile and bracken. I found a room prepared for me and a dish of cold meat, salt cod and bitter beans in brine, all laid out. My lady Elflaed was always a fine hostess. I retired that night to vivid dreams, but they were silly things and no true visions, so I will not relate them here.

I have heard tales of men who dreamed a place not unlike the world they knew. They would see their own homes and towns, but either no soul was there, or the traveller moved like a ghost through places they knew well – not being recognised even by their own. I felt that sense of strangeness when I went to sleep in perfect silence, then awoke to hear the noise and bustle of the city around me once more. The royal funeral procession had returned from Malmesbury, on better roads than I’d found. The clean snow turned to brown slush by noon and the streets were filled once again with the smell and muck and noise of people. I felt upset by it somehow, though it may have been the form of my grief, it is hard to say. It strikes us all differently. I thought I felt only a vague sense of dismay at the king’s passing, but maybe it meant more to me than I even knew myself.

Lady Elflaed returned to her home wearing drab clothes of dark brown and red, like an autumn leaf in her rustling layers. She told me every detail of the ceremony, once more conducted by Uncle Athelm, which actually was a pleasure to hear. An uncle called to both crown and bury kings is a power in the land – and mine held me in high esteem.

I was less pleased to hear of the extraordinary beauty of the abbey at Malmesbury. I felt as one man might on hearing another describe the virtues of his wife. What cared I for Malmesbury’s heights and pillars? Its famous windows and tombs? My own creation would make it seem a shepherd’s hut in time. Yet I endured, because the lady was my patron and I needed her.

They had brought the crown home, for Edmund to wear. That ceremony was still being planned and, yes, I saw my chance there, the fruit of the friendship I had formed before. No longer would I be scratching away at the door while the king feasted. Edmund was my friend, and I tell you true: he was a good man and a good king.

It all turned to ash after him, as youth and courage vanish – as virginity is sold cheap, as good wine sours, as towers fall.