Book 1

St. Cuthwin commences the telling of his early life, including his place of birth, and the circumstances of how he came to Peterborough Abby; his youthful education and subsequent departure from Peterborough to commence his early wanderings.

 

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, a simple child subject no more nor less to the baser nature of all men, begin the story of my long travels. I do so on this year of the tragic death of King William Rufus of England and the accession of his brother Henry.¹ I was born a freedman on the Nativity of Saint Mary², and thanks to a generous Creator have thus far seen eighty-nine winters. Possessing clear memory and present mind, after long urging from my more learned and reverend brethren, I proceed with the story of my humble but wide-ranging life.

At the beginning of King Cnut’s long reign,³ God keep his soul, I was born to a house scull belonging to the Manor of Pilson-of-Withern-sea, then an under-tenant to a thane of a Great Lord. There is nothing known of my father, save he was one of many pitiless Danes who ravaged Withernsea. The woman violated was Sarah, keen for the joys of fellowship and good ale, and much less for the hard work of kitchen and hearth. For these trespasses, I was told later, she was oft punished. Because of her ill-balanced humors, I had many brothers and sisters, for I was the eleventh of fourteen. Most of my siblings were rescued in early infancy from this troubled world by merciful God.

It was aired even in my person that my father, the Dane, violated territory oft yielded voluntarily or secured trespass in less-than-bad spirited circumstances. It was some weeks after being delivered of her fourteenth child that my mother departed this earth. I was told she died shriven, for her ways oft had been contrary to one of steady faith. I have only vague memory of this poor woman, my mother, but to this day pray for her soul as any true son would.

I was raised at commonality in the Manor of Pilson-of-Withernsea until not yet a stripling. I do remember the Lord of the Manor as a largish Saxon with great strands of red hair. He often drank to excess, falling off his horse onto whatever earthly circumstances lay beneath.

Working at livery, I would greet the animal as it arrived without its besotted rider. Joined by the Master of Horse’s boy and others, we would search in all directions until we found our Lord. The lad finding him was rewarded with a ha’pence, after which we struggled at litter returning Pilson-of-Withernsea to the Manor proper. This Manor was meager, unlike Norman manors current, though boards always were sufficient of necessity for keeping body and spirit served.

At about the time a lad begins finding his staff, I and several serfs were transacted to Gilbert-of-Wharram Percy by our previous master to satisfy debt.

Wharram Percy was several leagues⁴ from my birthplace and upon soks much different. The Manor House of Gilbert was larger, and I was put in service to one of his trusted housecarls named Alwystle, He was a harsh master for any lad, of loutish nature, quick with cruel hand and foot, a man of colic temper. Thankfully he was slow of wit and easily hooded even by young boys.

Furthermore, he was plagued with badly portioned humors, and given to base excesses common to those not thoroughly of Christian virtue, which he was not. Alwystle was not of Saxon blood or natural tongue, and what little Christian goodness he practiced or espoused was different than most. He mocked the local clerics, refusing them entry upon his lands, and claimed it was because they celebrated Roman Easter rather than of the True Faith. Lastly, he claimed it was because of these Roman blasphemies that beasts and gorgons plagued the country.

Alwystle’s household was both of village and field. I was given to the fields, and saw little of the village. Mostly I stayed in a cottage distant and labored for various bondsmen long in Alwystle’s service. These all despised him, cheating his offices whenever possible to increase their lot, but if caught were whipped severely at post, summer or winter.

Being of the field, I grew into young manhood with little guidance but what nature and my fellows devised. Hence young and raw boys, as they will, allowed ourselves pleasures as we might follow. For little was at hand that offered respite from hard work, the brutish kick, or the whipping piece.

From older men we were told the ways of pleasure in stable and paddock. We did not question their views, and indeed observed our diverse overseers in such acts. As boys do when learning from men, we followed their example. But when one of Alwystle’s head men observed us in such an act, he became angry.

Not understanding the strange contradiction of saying one thing and doing another, we waxed truthful of what we’d seen and heard others do. Both our ill-timed behavior plus revealing what we should not against our elders promised us horrible punishment. Rather than face this, I along with a lad named Pyster ran off. This itself was a grievous offense—then as now—for lads under guardianship or bond were tethered by law to our manorial Lords.

We feared the consequences of our acts. At the very least, Pyster guessed, we would be relieved of those body parts most responsible for bringing the Evil One into the fold of Alwystle Manor.

It was late spring; we were young of body and spirit, as suited to field and copse as young hares, with little more sense than such lame-witted creatures. We spent the days venturing down the River Humber, living by our wits and avoiding people. Any soul seeing such boys at leisure, even the simplest cottar, would have deduced our ill-stood status. By catching us and informing Master Alwystle, they would gain considerable reward. Therefore, elusive as young hinds, we made our way down the great river.

After much idle travel, on the morning of the fourth day we observed great amounts of smoke seaward. Since we were far distant from Wharram Percy we became more confident. The smoke caused a vast haze everywhere and smelled of autumn when fields were burned, yet it was not yet summer.

A crone happened by in a wagon drawn by a largish cottar—looking more beast than human. We knew that neither of them could catch us so risked asking her what the meaning of the fire was. She took rest, and said several dragons were loosed in the valley below and had set everything afire, being in great temper after suffering one indignity or another by haughty villagers.

My companion and I were struck with fear and were about to flee inland. She stopped us and said in thoughtful manner that she was knowledgeable about such monsters and was taking a road around the troubles on her way to a copse where she had cottage and croft. She looked us up and down, and said she had need for two lads. Her old bones made work in croft difficult, and gesturing to the lout who pulled her cart, told us, “The dumb beast you see before you is good for nothing but burden, being deficient of mind. So,” she allowed, “. . . you decide as you must. I must resume before the worms advance this way.”

Prodding the poor lout onward, she continued on her way, passing downhill into a copse of great trees where flowed a stream. We in fact had spent the night there. Pyster and I were shy of her offer, yet knew she could not catch us, so he opined that we could follow along, for smoke was thickening, making eyes smart. Pyster had heard much about dragons and knew them to be clever in pursuing and catching folk. The crone would surely know how to avoid such monsters; otherwise how might she enjoy such a long life?

We caught up with her and she was not surprised. While pulled along, she told us of diverse wonders. She was merry and true to her word, and soon the fires were more behind us and we moved uphill, along more of a path than road, so progress was slow but of good spirit.

At midday we reached the border of a thick forest and aged stone bridge traversing a considerable stream. She ordered the lout to stop and had us help her down from the wagon where she made repast. She shared bread and a kipper with us. Having fed for days on wild fare, we fell on her victuals keenly.

We began to sup when four men appeared from the woods, and the lout for the first time became aware of events, allowed outcry, and ran into the woods like the beast he was. They made no move to pursue but closed in. Seeing his chance Pyster ran, at once pursued by two of the men—but he was so fleet he evaded them and, like the lout, was swallowed up by the thick, shadowy forest. The pursuers returned at once. I never saw Pyster nor lout again.

Two of those remaining—one seemingly in charge—were so near me I knew I would not have the success Pyster had. The crone immediately visited foul words on them, then suddenly all switched to a tongue I could not understand, though I discerned the words were wholly unpleasant.

Drawing a knife, two of the four seized the crone, lifted her up, and despite outcry and protest, threw her kicking off the bridge and into the stream, in the last moment slitting her throat. They murdered her as if doing any minor, bothersome chore.

The cart, however, drew immediate and keen inspection.

These wretches’ headman, seeing I had befouled myself in abject fright, laughed and informed me the crone was transporting the two of us to the Danes who were presently harrying. They were part of the host that was burning and looting the countryside for nearly a week.

“Two young men sold into serfdom would have brought a month of high living for the old sow if she knew her trading. Well, one will do us. Demons and fiends will consume the other.”

They sat and partook the ill-begotten victuals, offering me none though in truth I could not have eaten. They talked in the foreign tongue and seemed cheered by their new possession, the cart.

“Who was that great gorgon of hers who ran off?” The headman asked, and I told him he drew her cart.

One of them eyed me while they talked, and since I was bound to the cart was at the mercy of the scum. Seeing what they did to the crone and how the lout had fled, I was sorrowful of my future. Though considerable daylight remained, each of them fell asleep, having consumed most the bread, ale, and all the kipper; hence, like stoats filled with ill-begotten food, they slept richly satisfied.

Though I’d been tethered skillfully to the cart, they had used the crone’s old, worn lines, which were rotted. With youthful teeth sharp as a hayrake, I soon gnawed my way free and fled into the wood and away from the trail. As night approached, I was afraid and whistled for Pyster until my lips were chaffed. This was the first night I spent in my own company. The creatures that roamed in darkness, their calls and moans, caused me to tremble. This was a long night.

In the morning I awoke with a violent shaking and stout yank by my britches, and I found myself elevated and looking into the eyes of two different brutish cottars.⁵ They wrested me about, secured my elbows together and dragged me along as they might a sack of wool. When I cried out, one smote me—knocking me mute and foggy-headed.

My brainpan was just clearing when I found myself half-standing before a towering black horse. From atop this grand mount, the likes of which I had never seen, its imposing rider looked down—a man in black habit, and with his hood back, I saw he was tonsured and despite my youthful ignorance knew him to be a holy man.

My two captors presented me proudly to him, like dogs with a joint of mutton.

But there was no time to think further on this, for I was knocked down by one of them with the other brute shouting, “On your belly when you’re before His Reverence, you little toad!”

One informed how they had found me in the woods having cleverly tracked me there. With this information, the Reverend thought some time, then asked, “What do they call you—who do you belong to? Now, if you lie to me, I’ll know and have your tongue cut out and fed to the rooks.”

I believed him and told him everything save the reason for my fleeing Alwystle’s manor. Even at this early age, craft of mind was my guardian, though later it also became my demon. But at this moment I sensed this cleric’s authority, and kept mute regards reasons for running off.

This sent him into another rumination, and when my captors spoke, he ordered them silent, still considering me. Finally, “And why did you abandon rightful board which was God’s place for you?”

“I unwittingly saw acts there, ungodly; also yesterday witnessed the murder of an old woman, Your Reverence, and was afraid for life and soul.”

He maintained his gaze. Finally taking a great draught of air he shook his head. “So it seems your running away led to witnessing the murder of a hag—so you have not improved your lot.”

From behind, a pair of horsemen approached. They too rode fine animals and, unlike the pair who caught me these were housecarls,⁶ so armed and dressed.

One cast a glance back, then looked with weariness to me. “Shall we hang this creature too, Your Reverence? The other four are quite cold now,” he laughed and added, “. . . but will be warmer soon enough.”

Subcellarer⁷ Eadsige—for indeed this was that holy man who later arose to great success and fame—was then young but already sure of office. In the following half-dozen years, I was to learn much indirectly from his words and ways.

Without paying any notice to his attendants’ suggestion, he held up his hand—for the others had laughed. They ceased at once.

“He’s young and strong, and our Gardener has work on the fens. Take him back with us. Feed him, but watch he doesn’t escape.”

So began my first long journey. In truth I’d never been more than twenty leagues from my birthplace at Withernsea, or indeed south of the Humbria. During our way south, I was kept tethered and watched by that brace of vultures who’d captured me; I was fed and treated tolerably, as I recall. During the second day I was told I was now in Bond of Default to the Abbey at Peterborough.

So this is how I first heard of such monastic offices. Furthermore, I only had vague knowledge of the great center at Peterborough, and nothing of abbeys save they were the havens of great men.

From the sun and stars, I reckoned we continued directly south. We were a large party all the time on the alert. Mammoth carts under burden were each towed by four braces of mighty burgundy oxen, the finest and strongest I ever saw.

All were in rich, bold array: The housecarls, a dozen of them, and several additional monks like Eadsige. These latter reverences stayed apart from the rest, but without doubt in overall command was Eadsige who devised and directed business each day.

In the party was one named Gilbert, a stableman, who was a good person. He attended the many horses and mules of our procession. On the third or fourth day he was kind enough to attend to wounds developed in my bindings—and the one upon my head where I had been smitten. Gilbert so attended despite mocking words from the cottars: “He’ll make fine sport for our Lord Gardener.”

This and many other taunts they visited on me. Yet my youthful mind was nimble—equal to the task of perceiving ‘which fowl pecked who,’ as they said in the farmyard. These cottars were of the lowest sort—not armed, and of rough garb. They hoped for great profit for my capture when they reached Peterborough.

Gilbert used few words, for he was a Welshman and not comfortable in our language, though skilled enough. Finally while attending my head wound, he said to them, “You two cotsets⁸ strike him any harder, and Father Abbot will have nothing but a corpse.”

Words were visited on Gilbert, the two taking exception to being called cotsets. But Gilbert ignored them. They did not press the matter further, and remained quiet if sullen.

This was the first night I spent in some peace, for Gilbert moved me to the makeshift animal shelter. He slept near his animals, and as if I were one, kept a keen eye on my head wound, which took an ill turn. While freshening a thick, pasty unguent upon the wound, he asked, “Do you know where you are being taken?”

“Peterborough.”

“Yes. But do you know what such a place is and what they do?”

“It is an abbey. They pray?”

He smiled in a manner which I learned was about the droll man’s most extreme of humor.

“No. Prayer is not all of it. So, Young Cuthwin, speak when spoken to, volunteer nothing, and know well to keep your place.”

That evening was warm for spring, and listening to the wild creatures at their songs and cries, I considered Gilbert’s words. They confused and kept me musing during the warm, strange night.

It is only frail memory and God’s grace after the passage of fourscore circuits that informs me of that time so long ago. I came to the great Abbey of Peterborough; if not precise, only a little short of Abbot Elsin’s twenty-fifth year in that high office.

As our now-considerable procession trailed out upon the East Anglia fenland, our number had increased to many carts and animals destined for the Abbey at Peterborough. We had converged with other provisioning parties, and Subcellarer Eadsige rode before them on his grand animal, both as black as a raven’s mantle.

With us was a substantial group of housecarls who guarded, all owing service to the Abbey. These traveled with His Reverence Eadsige. My wounds were better thanks to Gilbert and the vigor of youth. Distant from familiar land, to attempt my escape would be folly; also, when re-captured, the result would be even more painful than the first. The same cottars who had caught me still followed closely, for I was of considerable worth to them. They bragged about their accomplishment to any who might listen.

“A healthy, well-fed boy with so much hard work in him! He would have been the very devil to ferret from wood and hollow without the likes of us.”

When the time for their reward drew closer, they became friendlier with he who represented their increase in life. And since we traveled exclusively through hundreds or sokes⁹ belonging to the Abbey, foresters in our procession took wild game, so all ate well.

I applied Gilbert’s advice, and despite growing familiarity, answered only when asked. In fresh possession of youthful wit and cunning, I listened and measured each weave of my circumstances. At Peterborough, instruction and advice were rarely offered and never repeated.

As we approached the walls of Peterborough, it seemed to me that we were entering a county and town from great sagas—the Monastery and Cathedral in the center and surrounding houses inside and outside the walls were imposing to me. In the days when the hosts frequently plagued common folk, walls were a balm, for it was better to be walled in than out.

Upon our arrival within the sanctuary of Peterborough Abbey, I stood enthralled at the sight of all the activity. For the major provisions and supplies we had carried involved all non-tonsured and tonsured in the Abbey to unload, and distribute.

I knew we would not see Cellarer Dagobert, for I learned he was grievously indisposed and not expected to survive long. His great office and all our procession’s efforts and material were ultimately subject to Father Abbot Elsin’s of Peterborough Abbey, the greatest man in all the country.

When Cellarer Dagobert fell deathly sick, his office was filled by Eadsige. It was assumed that Abbot Elsin would select Eadsige as the new Cellarer upon his return. Like so many great personages, the Reverend Abbot often traveled to far places on important holy missions.

So it was this day that began my almost eight years of residence at Peterborough Abbey and its adjoining manors. I was to learn much between my eighth and seventeenth year that would benefit me in the travels this account will bring forth. To learn monastic ways and the Rule of St. Benedict benefited me for the entirety of my life by providing knowledge and skills. May God forgive me for applying some of that for purposes that met the afflictions of the immediate, though ignoring the consequences of the eternal.

Though my story is not of cloister, details of monastic life I should describe, however modestly. The Monastery was an ordered yet secure place as of which I had not benefit earlier. As the sages observe, you learn by what you do not have in contrast to that you come by.

A youth born and raised in meager holdings saw much to gape at in Peterborough and adjacent manors. Just the numbers of souls astounded, for I never saw so many in one place any time. On this first morning I saw over a hundred people at the Monastery within the walls and without—the two gates were maws belching people in and out. It was spring and much business was being conducted and haying was growing close. The arrival of our train carrying a bounty of feorms¹⁰ beholden to the Abbey resulted much bustle by the diverse responsibilities receiving cartage.

My anxious captors ignored this work, intent on my person, though they did offer—for the first time—an opinion of our Superior’s proven skills: “When this Subcellarer Eadsige goes afield, he milks the very trees of pith for his beloved Abbot.”

These two creatures remained at my elbows until their audience was finally at hand. I was pushed before them—presented for the second time to Eadsige and another tonsured cleric, Gardener Dundage, a Saxon of a dour nature. He looked me over, and opined aloud that I would run off at first opportunity, seeing I was a “Godless runaway born and likely bred.”

As one might barter horse or ox, the greedy cottars began to reckon the years at labor my youthful person would offer Father Abbot. Gardener Dundage cut them short with a surprising curse, causing Eadsige to hold out his hand for peace.

“See the Bursar for your coin, then leave this place.”

They frowned—the price not up to their expectations. But with a swinish glance at one another, and under the terrible eyes of Gardener Dundage, they left without further word.

“Think you, Brother, would not this lad be good for the weirs at the lake. An eel fisher?” And he offered a smile at Dundage who I was to learn never smiled.

“Perhaps. But one ill-step and the others will crack him open like a clam, even if he has cost Father Abbot coin.”

“Good!” Eadsige gestured for me to go, adding, “Wait outside for Gardener Dundage. And oh, young Cuthwin, add Father Abbot in your prayers, for you owe him your life.”

As I backed out, Gardener Dundage traced me with those baleful eyes, surmounted by vast black eyebrows, like clumps of tarry moss. The door closed behind me. For the first time since my capture, I was alone.

It was indeed a stout building; I was to learn that it served as the Cellarer’s residence. Monastery officers did not live cloistered but without for their business was with common folk. The smells of the cellar were such I never encountered: wines, cheeses, smoked and salted meats and fishes—and so many other things mixed in that my stomach growled with hunger.

I was not alone for long, for two cellar doors pivoted open, pushed by one worker in time to greet two others burdened with recently arrived goods. They descended, legs bent, carrying goods into capacious cellars beneath.

But that was not all.

Abruptly, to the opposing side of the hall, a great harangue of invective and outcry burst from within—not in the cellars, nor in the room where subcellarer Eadsige and Gardener Dundage still conferred, but yet another room. And despite the closed door of this room, the outcries grew louder, until the door burst open violently and allowed me view of a sight still vivid and shocking this three-quarter century later: By the outcry I expected a scene of torture, but instead a massive enormity of a man—tonsured, wearing a vastness of ill-stained habit—was being held from the front by two bordars. From the rear, another unfortunate held up his robe, exposing a wide vista of bare buttocks, yet a fourth and fifth manned a stave tub into which this great leviathan of a monk was defecating.

“If you two dogs drop me again, I swear upon our Savior that it’ll be the whipping house for you!!”

The two that held their tormentor in a position to best empty his bowels struggled to support his massive bulk, and yet there was a sixth man—this sad self having thrown the door open—bent over at the waist and then standing upright, he took in a vast draught of air. He looked out and to no one in particular cried, “Oh, by Saint Oswald, this stench is the devil’s work.”

“Get back in here, you pile of turds, and help hold me. And by Saint Cuthbert, close the goddamned door.”

And this he did—the thick, wood door closing, pushing out some of the fetid air of which the man had so recently complained. I was not unused to the smells of nature’s call, yet was taken unsuspecting how horridly foul a creature’s innards might become close to a time of death. I braced my arm against the wall, but at the moment caught sight of a tall heron of a man, who to the left and right of him was escorted by two monks.

This stern, stiff-necked man saw what I did within. He gazed at me, his lips curled—his two escorts covered their noses against the diminishing stench. With a gesture towards the closed door he said with a grim, almost satisfied, smile, “See you Cellarer Dagobert—and how pride and gluttony brings low the sinner. Now, who are you?”

And this was my first sight of Prior Denewulf who in absence of Father Abbot commanded all Peterborough, its demesne and soks. His two escorts were Whipmen, his enforcers. They saw I was new and didn’t know how to respond, so one strode forward and kicked me.

“Down, you mooncalf, show respect before Prior Denewulf!”

“He is Cuthwin, Brother Prior, and with us just arrived from the north.”

Subcellarer Eadsige and Gardener Dundage had opened the door and stood, bowing momentarily to Prior Denewulf. As we stood there the ruckus within not only did not cease, but increased—following a loud report of something very large meeting the floor—which I assumed was the unfortunate Cellarer Dagobert.

Reverend Eadsige described the most subtle of head motions towards Gardener Dundage who at once beckoned me to follow. We left there, me rubbing hard the place recently kicked. Frankly, despite my fright and the strangeness of everything, I was a sturdy lad used to hard goings, and had the urge to kick the blackguard back.

In a dirt-covered quadrangle yard, carts were still being unloaded—in this case, the very largest with wheels taller than a man. It carried massive barrels being so handled that I knew them empty. Gardener Dundage stopped, pointing to them.

“We will be filling those with fat, salted eels soon enough. Which will be your work, and you will serve under the master eelman Ordgar who will instruct you in the craft.”

“I’ll do my best, but if he kicks me, I’ll kick him back.”

He looked me up and down; a hand, gnarled by arthritis and rough use, pointed at me, its forefinger a warped branch.

“You will address me by my office, or I’ll kick you. Those two hounds traveling with Lord Prior are henchmen whose job it is to kick. Anyway, where you’re going, no need to worry about the likes of Brother Prior or his hounds.”

Then we turned and left the yard, and in fact the Monastery gate. Down a narrow cart road, I followed. Beyond everywhere stretched the fens, to the rim of the sky, they extended. Being spring, great flocks of ducks and geese rose and fell from the watery land in all directions.

This limitless expanse and the creatures above and on the fens became my benign taskmaster. This was a new land, one that still lives fondly within me to the time of this telling.

Whatever was to stay dry and above the spring-flooded fens either was built upon a natural sand and pebble rise in the otherwise soggy plain or had been by labor and craft elevated on same material. Some buildings and outbuildings were even raised on wooden piles. Pathways led in several directions, and we followed along one of those that led off from the wider, more substantial cart road.

We soon came to a tiny fishing settlement, an island of houses and other such structures. It was made mostly of materials gleaned from the fens—reed houses, with thick, thatched roof—clever designs where considerable skills went into their making.

Outside the largest of these, a woman emptied a basket of leavings for pigs. They nosed them up with deep grunting, the greedy creatures begrudging nearby barn fowl food, yet who darted in stealing bits for themselves. Seeing Gardener Dundage, she bowed low—a flaxen-haired woman of some age who spoke our language with the accent of a foreigner. After her greeting Gardener Dundage directed her to speak with her husband Ordgar, explaining I was a new bondsman intended to learn the fisherman’s trade.

“I’m sorry, Master Gardener, Ordgar is within and very ill this day with the fen ague.”

There was a moment of thought, and Gardener Dundage looked back at me, giving me over to the eelman’s wife and admonished to do what she bid. Saying he would speak to Ordgar at a better time, he was gone. It was a sudden turn of circumstances from the day before.

“I am Esa, wife of Ordgar, who is your new master. You will sleep there.”

She pointed to a long, narrow building on piles, separate from our present isle. I was impressed, seeing goats upon its roof. The animals, I later learned, grazed upon grasses sprouting from the thatch. For the moment they had settled upon their hocks with full bellies.

“In fact, Ordgar is within with the apprentices and other sorts. Have you eaten?”

I was to learn good Esa’s ways, for they always hewed to the simpler things of life, for as the wife of Ordgar, hers was not easy. Inside their house I took bread and ale, then ventured to the building where Esa earlier pointed.

Entering I saw scattered in disarray nearly a dozen fellows, most snoring or grunting to besotted sleep. Propped against the wall sprawled Eelmaster Ordgar. Though his eyes were open, he looked blankly at the floor. Mistress Esa had not gone in. I looked from Ordgar to the others—all fishermen, watermen, or eelmen—his wards. There was not a soul of them in steady mind nor awake.

The stench of spilled and sour ale prevailed, and though just a boy, I knew well the sight of men suffering the murky wake of heavy cupping. The ‘fen ague’ this day was the sturdy brand of barley ale favored upon the fens—stronger than most.

So, here were my master and new fellows.

I was as I stood—owning and carrying nothing, close to a hundred leagues from my birthplace, in possession of my life by the grace of God. Finding voice, I announced myself Cuthwin-of-Withernsea, but no one took note—least of all my new master.

Hearing a great gnashing of teeth against bone, I looked over—and in the far corner was a hound chewing a bone, the size of which looked to be from a late but great ox. Seeing me staring at his fare, the hound showed teeth, offered a low growl and continued—clearly meaning not to share his windfall.

Slipping into the opposite corner—stepping over sleeping cottars—I lowered myself to the floor. What sort of place had I come to? Outside the fens stretched towards land and sea. To run off from here was a different matter than running off from Alwystle’s croft at Wharram Percy. No copse or field offered substance here, and even the water was slow and dark.

I recall the hollowness I felt—how dark my future appeared in this new, watery land. Life at least had been providing me dry land and warm shelter. Now, I feared, I would follow the ways of stoats and water rats.

I spent a half-dozen change-of-seasons, close to two years, on the fens with Eelman Ordgar, learning the way of fisher folk. It was a life reckoned in seasons and rains, then, seaward on the River Nene, the ebbs and flows of tides. Ordgar was fair enough with his bondsmen, being himself a coilbert.¹¹ He had spent his life on the fens, mostly along the River Nene as a fisherman. Now he was Father Abbot’s master eelman, the eel being a prized trade good to the Abbey then as now. But all fisher folk being his wards fell into Master Ordgar’s duties.

Dwelling in Ordgar’s house, I lived and worked outside the walls of the Abbey except for visits on holy days and such. Yet by listening, much asking, and remembering better, I learned about Peterborough Abbey and monastery ways.

Despite being a simple eelman, I began to learn the troubled ways of great men.

Soon after my arrival at the Abbey, Cellarer Dagobert joined the souls in heaven, his excesses of food and drink hopefully forgiven. And true to prediction, Subcellarer Eadsige became Cellarer, yet Gardener Dundage declined to become Subcellarer, which caused talk.

The two fellows whom I worked with most, Efen and Siegluf, were uncomplicated eelmen of good humor and, praise God, slow to curse or kick.

Since they were keen on their ale and this loosed their tongues, I learned more than just the ways of fish and fishing. And even this early, I was curious about the ways of cloister.

I learned tonsured holders of offices of Peterborough Monastery commanded the everyday functions of the Monastery and stood in high authority over their designated domain. Father Abbot looked to these officers to oversee concerns in Monastery business. He was often questing in far lands for sainted bones and other holy remains for which the Abbey was famed everywhere.

Most held that save for the Prior, the Cellarer was the most important office. He enjoyed his own residence outside cloister, and responsibility for sub-officers under him, including Gardener Dundage who in turn was holy overseer of fishing. Fisher folk licensed by Father Abbot were ordinary bordars or coilberts and owed a portion of their catch to Father Abbot, that share subject to his whim. If, however, fisher folk plied waters and marshes in sok strictly for Father Abbot, they fell under the protective cover of the Monastery proper. This was Master Ordgar’s lot.

Still living in cloister yet overseeing all and with the real power was Prior Denewulf, almost always accompanied by his brace of Whipmen. Both my fellows, even in front of Ordgar, freely opined these two souls were excessive in seeing to their duty: “Those two tonsured gut-piles aren’t shy with whips, nor is Lord Prior light in seeing to its use.”

So the Prior was feared, though even Ordgar, and especially wife Esa, would call for silence if any of his wards, free or bonded, waxed averse regards Reverend Prior. Doing this was poor business.

Because of my first meeting with Reverend Prior—remembering his Whipman’s kick sending me to the floor—I made a special effort to stay clear of him and them.

Going afoot and using bog craft, I was learning enough to check the traps each summer evening alone. Days of great heat and low water saw few fish in the traps, and Ordgar and the others fell early to their cups and saw little gain in leaving.

So one such evening I was returning with a few skinny pike in my basket. I had tied my bog craft secure and was walking the road leading to a treadway that branched off to Ordgar’s. On the road I overtook a tiny, elderly man who limped along with an old donkey loaded to its maximum behind—and the obstinate beast was tired, so sat and refused to go on.

The elderly man was a monk, tonsured, and was lecturing the animal in a tongue I recognized as that of the Church. The beast wasn’t interested and remained sitting. I asked for His Reverence’s blessing; he gave it and then said in clear, unaccented Saxon, “This creature has given up. Her name is Waddles,” and smiling widely, he turned to his companion and ordered, “Waddles, I beseech you in the name of God to get up!”

Getting behind Waddles, I put down my basket and got my back under the donkey’s rear while His Reverence pulled from the front, and with outlandish complaints, the creature rose. But move, she would not.

I pointed out to his Reverence my basket was light, almost empty, and that if I took some of the load, Waddles might decide a night in the stable was an improvement to being here on the fens. It being the beginning of summer, the biting flies swarmed about her.

I did this with his help; he was careful what I took from the animal, helping me putting it in my basket.

“You fish for Ordgar?”

“Yes, Your Reverence, I do.”

So we secured things—even His Reverence taking some of the load, so much I protested in view of his age and small size. Then Waddles decided to continue—to the stern admonishment of His Reverence in yet another language.

As we moved towards the Abbey, he asked my name and how fishing went, then looked about him—pointing with his wooden staff. “Living on the fens under the rule of Saint Benedict is the joy of my life, young Cuthwin. I have missed these six months. Have you thought of such a life yourself?”

I said it seemed too grand a design for me, but he replied indeed it was not. At this point, I wondered what purpose he served at the Monastery, but knew it too bold to ask. With such an inferior animal and plain garb, I knew it must be some unknown sub-office, for he was not in cloister as an ordinary monk must be.

By the time we reached the walls of Peterborough, the night watch was closing the doors, and swallows and swifts had roosted for the night. But when the pair of watchman saw us, they gave out a shout, which at once was relayed throughout. The evening peace ended with the Monastery bell ringing loud and often. From within, I heard the cry, “Look to it. It is Father Abbot. Our Father Abbot has returned at last!”

They fell down before him; he blessed them, and I felt a mixture of confusion and youthful awe. I’d never seen an Abbot nor any such great personage. He looked at me and sighed, “Well, seems our visit is over, young Cuthwin. I thank you for your help. Now rise.”

And he helped me up, for I’d gone to my knees, basket and all. Waddles, not caring about the formalities of greetings, just continued past everyone towards the stable. For her, the journey was over and, if her cargo was needed, we could come fetch it. She was pursued by two monks, one hanging onto her tail, the other her lead, causing great braying.

When others, plus myself, unloaded Father Abbot’s freight from my basket, many tonsured monks busied themselves about his person; mostly they spoke in the Church language. Their words were of bountiful cheer; several wept, and many went to their knees for a blessing. Taking my basket, and assuming I had leave, I had just turned when I saw Prior Denewulf and his two Whipmen coming at fast pace.

I received baleful stares from them, perceived by myself at that last moment when I turned back to Ordgar’s stead. The Prior’s eyes closed blade-narrow and his fine, parchment-like skin that clung tightly to his large head gave further meanness to an already ill-omened gaze.

My feet carried me and my two pike home, more than nimbly.

My lateness was noticed by Esa, for the others were in the eelhouse and time was passing them by in good fellowship.

“Where have you been? The fish might have spoiled you’ve been so long.”

I at once described my encounter with Father Abbot; Esa slapped hand to her mouth then rushed out instructing me to stay where I was.

She returned at once, Ordgar staggering behind, rubbing his face, clearly alarmed and struggling against the ale. Esa pointed at me.

“Now tell your master what you told me.”

While I did so, Esa boiled water with some spices, a brew to put sense back in Ordgar.

Ordgar’s anger was a mixture—but in it was fear.

“Fool boy, did you not know it was Father Abbot? The whole sok knows of that stupid donkey and how Father Abbot goes about like a cottar or such.”

“Too late for that, Husband. He did not. He must go. At once.”

While Esa hastily packed things in a basket, Ordgar went to the door. By now it was dark. Since even this late he was fearing who might approach, I knew this threat must be grim. Darkness on the fens is the blackest of nights, so only those who could afford torches—on the grandest errands—did travel.

Husband and wife exchanged a look, and when he reported that no one approached, Esa whispered, “Praise Lord Jesus, we have time.”

“I must be here to answer. Take him to the traps on the flats; I’ll say he’s there repairing weirs prior to season. Go!”

While she did thus, pushing me before her, Ordgar saw my confusion and managed to say, “Father Abbot is one who sees good in everyone and bad in none. By Prior Dundage’s sternest rule, if ordinary folk see Father Abbot, you must drop all, and run to the Abbey with the news. The Prior fears what by chance might be mentioned before Father Abbot without his presence. So you are in peril, young Cuthwin.”

I had no time; I was beckoned to follow Esa’s stout figure down the pathway, and just before reaching the cart road, we saw a lantern in the distance.

“Lord Jesus! There come the Whipmen. Hurry. God help us, I fear for Ordgar.”

At the River Nene we stopped at a dock where diverse fishing craft were tied. Hurrying me into one, Esa cast a look back; she was torn between two responsibilities.

“You have been to the weirs on the flats?”

“I have.”

“Can you get downriver and find them or your own?”

Though only there a few times, I felt I could navigate to them and told her so; though at night, I had great fear. She quickly gave me directions to the Weirman’s cottage in the flats.

“I believe you, but not at dark. Pole downriver, then into the weeds, wrap yourself in the blanket I’ve put in the basket, pass the night until first light. Understand me?”

At that point, eager to apologize for the wrong I did, I pled her forgiveness for trespass by helping Father Abbot with his donkey. Since my eyes had adjusted to the light of the stars on this moonless night, I made out her wide forehead, straw-colored hair and the wrinkles from the hard work and years on the fens.

“Young Cuthwin, there is much you don’t know about the Abbey, and I have no time. Enough to remember that when the cat is away the mice will play. Now, hurry. Remember, go downriver and hide in the rushes and sleep until light.”

And she turned and was gone, only the vaguest suggestion of her becoming smaller under the flimsy light of the heavens. Then I was alone. I pushed off and poled my way down the River Nene that ran slowly through the fens. Its channels and sloughs were clogged with the summer growth of rushes and lush water plants.

Pushing my way into a tall island of them, they closed around me until my craft was enclosed like a weaver bird in his basket. I tried to make sense out of events. It was easy to understand that my master, his wife, and myself were in danger; however, the extreme of this situation seemed confusing in view of how simple and kindly Father Abbot was.

Though a warm evening, I took up the blanket and recognized the strange smell it emitted from the previous summer, my first on the fens. It was characteristic of an ointment applied to give relief from the hordes of biting flies that abounded. I understood a blanket so treated would repel at least some of the demons, for swarms had already found me.

I bedded in the bottom of the boat—perhaps even dosed—when I heard an uproar of a single voice from the landing, for I was still close. Then several voices joined the one—perhaps as many as three or four exchanging harsh words.

Then, one great angry shout—understandable even from where I hid: “YOU SONS-OF-WHORES. GO SCREW A PIG AND LEAVE ME BE!”

This was repeated—and other strong invective. In fact, whoever’s fierce soul launched such language I could discern was coming closer, which meant they traveled by boat.

Then I heard pole against boat as its pilot maneuvered the Nene adjacent to my lair. If possible I would have stilled my heart, for though hearing nothing more, I knew someone was near. Then, I heard rushes, gathered together to make fast a line.

I did not breathe.

“You! Within! The turds are gone. It is good for you that Lord Prior’s minions are stupid, or they would have seen there’s a boat short.”

Throughout the fens, the creatures became silent, for such a clatter had disturbed the night. But now, group by group, they resumed, and soon all plied their unordered conversations. But I knew well that whoever spoke was less than two boat-lengths distant. Only, thought I, could a wizard or demon know I’m within. For the reeds absolutely conceal.

Then I heard someone make water—a gasp, followed by, “Ah, Jesu! God pity me! Hell itself could burn my vitals no hotter. A great curse on that slattern!” Then, after a moment to regain breath, “You fool! I know you are hidden within! Only a blind man, even in this light, could not see the vast path you’ve furrowed. So pole you out and tell me why I was besieged with the Prior’s dogs who should be at Matins, the fucks.”

Seeing that hiding had failed, I did as beckoned, and this is how I met Frog, for such was his name, a name I had heard mentioned and never in good spirit. After introducing himself, he explained his naming: “I guess,” he said, “. . . it is because I catch them and sell or trade them, along with anything else that swims, flies or hops.”

He had me replace the boat at the landing, “. . . in the event someone thinks to count returns.”

He decided to guide me to the weir on the tidal flats. I thanked him, telling him of that day’s doings. He listened, standing up on a small box, and winding his way down the tortuous Nene. A somber half-moon rose, casting light over this plain of reed and water that was the fens. God could not have created a more wonderful sight.

Here and there Frog checked his traps, or in truth, someone else’s. With this transgression, he would leer saying he meant not to steal, but was simply satisfying his curiosity. Still, his curiosity several times overcame him, and he took the catch for later inspection. Instead of responding to my problems, Frog moved on to other matters.

“I venture Ordgar has talked of me?” Then he made an even wider smile, “. . . or maybe not?”

“No, he has not, but his wards have.”

“And how do the years treat Esa. She is a good woman, and such are rare.”

‘The Frog’ was never spoken of in Ordgar’s hearing. But my fellows, left to their own, often declared: “The Frog be a great thief, liar, fornicator, and heretic who is cursed in manor and cloister.” Even though a freedman, he would be hanged if they ever caught him at his work.

In the fast-rising moon, he followed the Nene onto the wide expanse of tidal flats where countless channels gleamed in the white glow, flaring in every direction. At once I wondered at my folly telling Esa I could find the weir cottage. Yet Frog came to it without a missed left or right.

“The tide is falling and I have work.”

He put me, my basket, and a half-stick¹² of frogs on an elevated landing platform. He instructed to make free with the frogs, and he would return with a few cockles on his way to market.

“I’m reckoning you’ll be here for several days, if not a week, young Cuthwin.”

Since he had not responded to the issue of my story, I finally asked, “Did I indeed create so much misery by helping Father Abbot?”

“Prior Denewulf is corrupt. So, even unwitting talk to his Lordship might set the bats free before dark.”

I learned it was Frog’s manner never to speak directly, and he left me to parse this, which I did quickly enough.

So a few weeks short of my fourteenth year, I stood on this unsteady platform, the tidal stretches seamless and infinite spreading in all directions, the moon climbing above me. And, once again, even if I wished to bolt, where would I go?

I looked to the hapless frogs wriggling on the stick. They were surely grand fare for the likes of a cottar. But I knew them purloined, each a sentence of approbation—each a transgression against God’s Commandments. In the gloaming I could still distinguish Frog, polling away towards the cockle beds. It was the first time I saw a soul free from care, and it set off sinful curiosity.

As my aged memory serves, it was months not weeks that necessity required me to stay on the fens, secure from punishment of great men. My companion and teacher remained mostly Frog, wise in the ways of fish and fowl, though shunned by all folk in sok and manor.

Ordgar I saw infrequently, yet Esa more, and my fellow eelmen, both old and young—for they would sometimes join me in tasks. Yet when any visited, Frog would absent himself. None asked after him, though all knew he was near. However, kind Esa did ask after Frog, and this only once, with the hesitancy understandable from such a Godly woman: “How fares Edbert, young Cuthwin?”

“Edbert?”

“‘Frog,’ they call him now. But he was born Edbert. How fares he, rogue that he is?”

“He is healthy and fit.”

She handed me a basket of victuals from their hearth and larder, a weekly favor towards Ordgar’s eelmen outposted on the fens. Looking off over the fens, she nodded. Work had made her body thick. Ordgar and she had many children, though most left earthly circumstances ascending early to better places.

Sometime later when Frog and I were repairing a weir (I was never fully informed about whose weir we worked on), I told him of Esa’s inquiry.

He never showed sign of how the water flowed within his breast, so he grunted a bit. While Frog and I were looking over our work, he said, “We often don’t get what we want, but I think more so what we deserve. Such is God’s way.”

I regularly recall his wisdom, and as were his knowledge of creatures, those words were indeed accurate. They made rising sense as I grew older.

Frog was not a soul without a sense of leisure. He was always sober—with keen senses—on the fens. However, he occasionally set off on great ruttings, and ventured to outer villages indulging in notable liberties with drink and such.

“That asshole Frog with a snoot full is not of good cheer.”

A visiting eelman offered this one evening. He sported a dressing across his gnarled old brainpan illustrating his declaration about Frog. He picked up a half dozen sticks of eels—bargained to him by Frog—and after rough talk towards my person, poled off.

Days later, when Frog made an appearance, he was also harnessed in dressings on limb and head. But he seemed unconcerned about such, and lived each day as the previous.

Such was Frog and his ways, yet I learned much from him, for God was generous in allowing us to meet.

One day a great change arrived simply and abruptly, as they mostly do. Ordgar poled to my watery hutch, instructing me to fetch my few carryings and come with him.

“Father Abbot wants you at the Monastery. In speaking privately with Father Abbot, you’ve either encountered good fortune or bad, depending on fate and God. Be careful inside Peterborough.”

As we approached the landing, I saw a single monk waiting, and knew—acutely well—that if I were to see my adopted fens again, I must be careful, especially if I wanted to return of sound body and limb.

The monk was Osfer, Father Abbot’s clerk—equal in years to Father Abbot himself, who was approaching the half-century mark. He greeted Ordgar with a silent bow, and beckoned me to follow. That luxuriant morning on the fens was unforgettable: The sun was gathering strength in the east, tossing nourishing light over the watery expanses. It was late summer, and all was life itself—the countless fowl took wing everywhere, heavy-bodied from their layer of belly fat—a life-giving result from this expanse of richness.

Osfer stopped, opened a small basket and took out bread and bottle, sat at a ditch intersect with its system of gates, and gazed out over this wonder.

“I tell you, God has blessed us. Eat. Drink. There is good issue in simple bread and beer.”

It was late summer and swallows were thick, their young having taken wing—they and their parents darted over the fens, taking their fill of the cursed biting flies. They would swirl, and it seemed to me that Osfer watched each, smiling a bit as he pushed bread into his near toothless mouth. He spoke around this: “Young Cuthwin, Father Abbot liked your sense of kindness and thoughtfulness for Waddles’ welfare. That animal is a curse to all of us, but God help him, Father Abbot is devoted to her.”

Osfer’s old grey eyes gleamed with presence of mind and not a little kindness. He looked me over and I kept silent—Master Odgar’s caution close in mind. To say nothing would befriend me best.

Osfer favored this silence, and me his, and we finished our repast in peace. Then we continued on to the walls of Peterborough. Behind those stout barriers were the only safety for folk when invading hosts harried. The village within again addled me with so many people. The fens did little to prepare me for its ways. From the village was a brief passing into the Monastery itself.

Osfer halted at its gate—not the main gate, I was to learn. He began to say something—an instruction—but thought better of whatever it was, and instead directed to me, “We are going to Father Abbot’s quarters. Speak when spoken to; answer what’s asked. And you will see this day through soundly.”

“Yes, Your Reverence.”

“‘Yes Brother Osfer!’ I was never ordained priest.”

He allowed a chuckle as we entered a separate large building. There I was confronted with the sight of vast rooms such I had never seen. Despite my inexperience, I judged the rooms inappropriately provided. Large rooms, even to an unwitting youth, presage grand contents. But this wasn’t their state.

Brother Osfer gave a look around, sniffed a bit, and sighed. “Father Abbot keeps rich furnishings and such stored unless grand men visit, forgetting he is a grand personage.”

I was startled by a snort! I looked quickly towards it, and saw a large hound—aged beyond belief. It lay sleeping, barely showing life save for that struggled utterance.

My eyes traced this and more emptiness, and when we entered another room, it was the same.

We stopped—for behind the next thick door, which was partially open, there was talking. I craned my neck towards a great brightness. Despite the emptiness, shutter boards were open. The light of the day shone to every corner—high and low—and the room was immaculate. I never saw such a clean yet unused room.

Osfer gently took my head, and straightened it—towards the door.

“Look thee! Prior is within. When he leaves, you bow low, Cuthwin, and hold until he gives you leave to straighten.”

And true to his word, Prior left—without his Whipmen. Seeing me—though I at once bowed low—I heard his leather-bound feet stop.

“And what may this creature’s purpose be within, Brother Osfer?”

“I know not, Reverend Prior. Save that Father Abbot bade me summon him.”

Under my chin I felt a hand take strong grip, lifting my head. I found myself staring into the angry eyes of Reverend Prior. He held—I tried to avert, but the hand gripped me hard.

Then he let go, at the moment pushing my head down. And he was gone—his stride long and purposeful. Then, without pause, Brother Osfer’s kinder voice, “Follow. And do as I do.”

We entered another room—once again, this as bare and plain as those previous. Behind a simple but wide table sat Father Abbot, but I only glimpsed this for the moment, when Osfer pushed me down beside him, and he knelt. Though his head was up, he held mine down—I eyed the plain, wooden floor. Its grain was outstanding in cleanliness; even at that strange moment, I marveled at its wear from hard scrubbing.

“Young Cuthwin is here, Father Abbot.”

“For the love of Jesus and St. Peter, get up! I’m beginning to think everyone pegs about on their knees.”

Doing so I saw an Abbot Elsin far different from the cheerful monk I’d seen on the fens struggling with Waddles. His features were worn, haggard. He looked years older, and though the smile was the same, I was too young to know what might cause such wear in just a few months.

Now on my feet, I moved my eyes down, not knowing what was proper. Brother Osfer’s voice hinted at the peevish.

“Have you eaten, Father Abbot?”

Osfer interrupted Abbot Elsin in mid-word; he looked annoyed in a mild way, shook his head and began again, but Osfer wouldn’t have it.

“Then you’ll perish. And then what shall we do, your children who love you? Let me at least fetch cold broth.”

He glared at Osfer—in good spirit—smiled and looked to me, shaking his head.

“Well, young Cuthwin, seems I must take broth, or we can’t get on with our visit,” and he nodded and Osfer went out, for the door was still open a crack, but only momentarily. Then another showed walking behind, carrying broth—evidently he had stood at ready with it. I didn’t know then that oblates stood by always for any possible wish or need of Father Abbot.

Father Abbot got to his feet—which did not elevate him much—he being a very short man. He rubbed the top of his tonsured head and made a face, “I have just gotten even with events and business herein, and now I must to France, perhaps even Rome, yet I have not forgotten you, young Cuthwin. Do you know—well of course you don’t—that I had a beloved brother also named Cuthwin. Oh, he was a great one for his traps.”

“And not necessarily his own,” Osfer offered.

Then both Father Abbot and Osfer shared a great laugh—breaking into a strange tongue which wasn’t of Rome, which brought increase to their laughter. The unfortunate young oblate stood balancing a cup of broth.

Instantly, Father Abbot became stern, and began quizzing the poor wretch in the language of Rome—while Osfer retrieved the broth before he spilt it.

At each fired question, the lad—who was several years younger than I—responded, while his fearful eyes looked floorward. Then Father Abbot laughed aloud and broke into what I immediately recognized as the Norman tongue, for even then I knew some of it. With great relief, the lad—evidently having responded successfully—thanked Father Abbot and scurried out.

Osfer wasn’t about to forget the object of the lad’s visit, and extended the cup.

“This is for you, Father Abbot. I broke my fast.”

He took it, sipped, then drank deeply, sitting back down. Unmonklike—or what I thought to be unmonklike—he smacked his lips and burped.

“Cuthwin! Have you thought of becoming one of us—living under the Rule. I avow, it is a life of many blessings and peace, as long as you avoid offices and keep to simplicity.”

“He is too old, Father Abbot. Plus, he is unschooled and wild as a hare.”

“True. But we’ve taken oblates his age before. And for all that—we were both once wild as hares, Osfer, make no doubt of that.”

They were about to argufy—like Ordgar so did over ale with his contrary eelmen. I learned even in those first minutes that Osfer and Father Abbot had been cronies—raised together in adjoined croft.

Father Abbot drank again—to pull himself from discussion—then, looking up, enjoyed another belch, and looked kindly at me.

“Well? You thought of that, Young Cuthwin?”

“It is too great for one like me, Father Abbot. But please, your Reverence, I do enjoy my lot as eelman, at learning so much, God be praised.”

He and Osfer exchanged looks—hints of smiles, perhaps. Osfer gestured towards the cup, now empty.

“And some bread, Father Abbot? That would round you for the day and allow your innards to function.”

Father Abbot sighed, and Osfer without pause for ‘yes’ or ‘no’ went to the door, and while briefly absent, His Reverence added, “Osfer worries about my innards, which God Himself protects.” Then he glanced hopefully into the cup, now empty; then quick as a swallow’s turn looked up at me, “And how be Frog? Have you seen Frog, one of God’s unruly creatures?”

Osfer re-entered at the moment, leaving me scrambling—for I didn’t want to inform on my teacher. I knew Frog to be outlawed by every soul—and especially Father Abbot who ruled all—water, lands, and people in every direction.

My tongue, nimbler then, managed, “I have seen one called Edbert, Father Abbot, but on the fens I work mostly alone.”

Osfer brought his foot back to kick me, while Father Abbot shook his head and intercepted the same oblate who carried in a trencher of bread. “Why, the young stoat has even learned to lie like Frog, and Father Abbot sounds him about living the blessed Rule!”

But Osfer lowered his foot, and they both enjoyed the confusion of the oblate who held the trencher—quaking a bit, thinking him to witness violence right in Father Abbot’s presence.

His Holy Reverence relieved him of the trencher, thought to quiz him again—but with nod, found the boy instead kneeling. And understanding his wish, Father Abbot gripped his shoulder and made the sign over him, giving blessing.

The boy left, content for blessing given by such a great man. Father Abbot broke off a piece of trencher and—his hunger having been primed—stuffed it in his mouth and chewed with pleasure. Osfer motioned to me.

“Let us dispose of this little rogue, Father Abbot. Turn him over to the Prior’s Whipmen for lying to you, of all people. Only through such a trial will God forgive him.”

Abbot Elsin sat down, but I now was aware enough to know the two were making sport with me. Instead, Father Abbot broke off another piece, offering me some, which I dared not take.

“I shall correct my course then, young Cuthwin: How be this Edbert you saw? I baptized him some thirty years ago.”

“He is very well, Father Abbot.”

“Good. It is well to hang only healthy souls.”

Osfer added this and taking my hand, opened it and put in the offered chuck of trencher—and I could smell its richness at the once, and he had no need to close my hand.

They both chortled a bit over this business about Frog. I saw that both—though aware of his ill-chosen ways—didn’t condemn, or at the least harbor ill-will.

“Now, to business: Recall me, Brother Osfer, how much we paid those cotsets for this lad?”

“It was all of ten shillings, Father Abbot.”

He shook his head sadly, said something in the language of Rome, then looked at me with grave concern.

“So, Young Cuthwin, your labor as eelman has not consumed much of your debt. Yet I have another route—a faster one for meeting this responsibility.”

“Yes, Father Abbot.”

“At livery. Our liveryman Gilbert thought well of you, and also our Scriptorium. Know this term—‘Scriptorium’?”

“A place of books, Father Abbot.”

“Correct. They have rats and other vermin that must be controlled, and our brothers need help.”

“Much of it, indeed, Father Abbot! God does not mean us to have learned vermin.”

“Mercy of Our Savior, are you sure, Osfer?!”

And once more they enjoyed hearty chortle, while I slid into despair. How might I—in my lifetime—ever compensate Father Abbot ten shillings? Twelve stick of eels weren’t worth a single shilling. And ten shillings! It seemed a fantastic sum.

“So! Osfer, show him to Liveryman Gilbert,” and he came around his plain but massive table, beckoning to us both, “...now come thee.”

And at that, following Osfer’s guiding hand, we knelt before Father Abbot, and he then placed his hand on our heads and made sign over us. I still, these nigh four generations gone, remember the compassion conveyed in that single, simple touch.

When we stood and extended our thanks, I saw sadly that at once Father Abbot returned to the worn, worried state of mind I had noticed upon entering.

Outside we entered a small closet at rear of which was a portal. Osfer gestured around—considering all directions.

“In good time, Cuthwin, you’ll learn this rabbit warren we call our cloister—follow.”

Exiting a rear entrance from Father Abbot’s single, massive residence, we entered a short covered archway leading to the main monastery. Along this, we turned into a narrow hallway spanned with dozens of wooden arches. I followed in Osfer’s rapid paces when suddenly he stopped and, palm outward, leaned against the stone wall.

He had gone white—and clapped a fist to his chest. Looking, he saw a low shelf near a tiny alcove and sat.

“I will fetch water, Brother Osfer.”

“Stay! It passes.”

His body was old, small; he shuddered once, and closed his eyes. The fist on his chest opened and its old, gnarled fingers outspread—each pressed into his frail chest, the pads pushing his habit down.

Though in pain, he opened his eyes—and in them gleamed the self-possession of before. And a smile.

“It passes. Now... sit on the floor here. This moment God has given for a purpose.”

At his feet I saw bare callouses through rents in his trods’ old leather. He lifted the hand away from his chest—at first doubtful—then gestured inward—towards cloister.

“Now observe these principals in these walls, even as one without tonsure or commitment. Understand me, Cuthwin?”

“Yes.”

“‘Yes, Brother Osfer’.”

“Yes, Brother Osfer.”

“That is firstly—be content with your place, and to know your place—and most importantly that of others, and to respect it always. Secondly, do not gossip—with anyone—about anyone. You see everything, know less, and say nothing. Follow me?”

“Yes, Brother Osfer.”

“And do all duties with obedience. Always be obedient. Lastly, keep to yourself, say your prayers, and eat what is given you with thanks to God.”

“Yes, Brother Osfer.”

He was silent—his words done. Standing, he took breath and continued; I followed and soon he encountered the smell of stables. We exited that building, and entered a long stable—built from ground up of stout plank and beam. Each paddock could be occupied by one or two animals.

But above all I heard the braying first.

Osfer shook his head as we moved into view of a larger paddock. The livery workplace held all sorts of strange tackle for horses and wagon. In there was Gilbert. But it was not livery occupying him; instead he held the head of a youngster under water in a stout bucket—but that moment pulled him clear. Pushing him, he sent the lad—far younger than myself—headlong followed with an authoritative kick to his buttocks.

“Now do as I told, you worthless suckling. No one cares about your wounds. Feed and groom her, damn you!”

Brother Osfer turned away—feigning not hearing such language in a holy place. The young boy—an oblate, whose garb was full sodden—scrambled away down the straw-strewn floor of the stables in the direction of his onerous noisy task.

Seeing Osfer, Gilbert drew himself up somewhat in the manner of regret. “My apologies, Brother Osfer. There is much trouble here. Waddles’ fiendish nature provided her with foreknowledge that Father Abbot will to France and leave her. And when she rouses, all beasts follow.” He looked towards the paddocks and held his hands outward. “Dumb beasts are like people—when one is disobedient, others so emboldened follow suit.”

Osfer nodded in understanding while taking hold of me and moving me before him. Gilbert was not done.

“Why Father Abbot loves that terrible creature.... It is like keeping a fire-breathing worm in stable.”

But raised voices were needed to be heard over the angry braying of Waddles. Being with animals of pasture and livery for my first dozen years, I experienced some exchanges with donkeys. I knew them as cross-tempered beasts. Further, a donkey was clever using tooth and hoof—more so than the most evil-intended stallion.

“Here is Cuthwin, who I understand you met on his journey here.”

“Yes. Months ago. How fare you, Cuthwin?”

“Well, Master Liveryman.”

The two exchanged satisfied looks and moved closer to a smoldering forge where a rough-dented pot heated water. Gilbert took down a basket and tossed a pinch of a special herbal essence into the pot, and without voice, invited Osfer to sit on nearby bench—rough made, lower on one end than the other.

“Ah surely, Gilbert, your Welshman’s good brew will bolster old bones and repair unbalanced humors.”

He pushed the pot closer to the fire’s heart, and it began to steam at once. Gilbert took a stick from a pocket on his ox-hide apron and gave the pot a stir, tapping it thoughtfully on its edge.

“How long will Father Abbot be gone?”

“Months.”

There was great thinking between the two during the process of straining out two wooden cups of this brew with a muslin cloth. Gilbert served Osfer—then, suddenly remembering me, fetched a third cup, and I too was served.

Its exotic aroma promised me, young and unstudied in such potions, little pleasure. An entire conversation took place without words. Gilbert’s brows raised—held—there was a single shake of his head as he prepared our cups.

Osfer stared into the forge, as if gazing into better times. He knocked on the lower end of the bench with bare knuckle, inviting me to sit.

They drank with deliberation and nods of their heads. I sipped cautiously, and its taste, though not bad, neither was good.

Through this all, Waddles’ awful braying continued—joined here and there by her fellow animals—an occasional whinny, another lowing of oxen. It seemed to me, that even the livery-yard cocks, ubiquitous fowl in all such places, crowed more frequently and louder. In all it was a grand bit of noise.

But the two old friends—for that’s what Gilbert and Osfer were—enjoyed their brew in contentment, ruminating over things I could not guess.

God had mercy on us, and Waddles’ braying stopped—Gilbert smiled, put his cup aside and nodded. “The soaking did its work. He has managed it. The awful creature is hungry. We have that advantage.”

“And now she will allow grooming?”

“Yes, but quickly while she eats. No time to spare either, for Father Abbot will look in on her soon. And she must look her best. God spare Father Abbot and all of us.”

Pigeons cooed overhead, rustled about as they prepared to roost from a day in the fields, for it was approaching Vespers.¹³ I noticed at once the birds’ sleekness and full flesh. Unmerciful thoughts crowded my mind when of a sudden Gilbert said with a sigh, “So, Cuthwin. You have traded the smell of the fens for horseshit?”

“And for that of ink and the infernal Italian miasmas of Brother Cassartorius in his beloved Scriptorium.” Osfer followed this with a chuckle while rising, handing the cup back to Gilbert with a nod of thanks, “...now I to Vespers, in advance of our cracked bell.”

He looked me up and over, nodded, and bade, “Do well, Cuthwin, and God will keep you.”

Though boys were not supposed to weep, I was close to that watching Osfer leave. My days on the free-living fens were done, and I was behind walls with those who practiced severe ways. Such persons as Whipmen and livery keepers who hold boys’ heads in buckets promised ill.

Worse, I owed a sum never repayable in my lifetime, and I did not want a life within monastic confines. Watching Osfer prepare to leave, and always of a practical mind, I knew I must run away at first opportunity and join those like Frog on the fens. A life of a rogue and outlaw seemed far better, despite the likelihood of a gibbet or hangman’s noose awaiting.

When the young oblate burdened with caring for Waddles rounded the stall, he met Gilbert. Hurriedly putting the bucket aside, bowing to the master liveryman, he rushed to Vespers, perhaps fearing another dunking.

“That was oblate Alswyn—this is his week in stables,” Gilbert told me as he stepped around the bucket and bade me to follow. He strode with the deliberate and steady way of a master craftsman. I saw most stalls were empty. Stables at Peterborough Monastery were the largest I’d seen, with accommodation for all sorts of animals.

“It is Summer so our beasts are on demesne leaving us the infirm and such.” And precisely then we came within range of Waddles’ stall—larger than most. She wheeled and faced off with Gilbert. They both stared for the shortest of pauses.

He walked on. “Waddles and I have borne each other these twenty-odd years, and neither of us the better, I would guess.”

I felt Waddles stare on my back, for being long resident she knew a newcomer was in stable. Only God could sound what she might be thinking, and I vowed not to try, for my plan had begun to unfurl.

He led me to a stall nearest the west-facing doorway; it was shielded off with blankets and a few boards, and within was a bedding area. In a strong beam of setting sun passing between boards, I saw fleas hopping about, and ruefully I knew this forlorn space was for me.

Then Gilbert made more speech than I had heard him use previous: “You sleep and do repast here. You are now Stableman. The post has been absented for months. But,” he extended a hand, dropping it suddenly to his side, “. . . such as it is. You get your food from the back of the refectory from Brother Ostand and eat it where you will. I have duties elsewhere now. You have watch from sunset to Matins when Alswyn will begin. Fire and sick animals are the watch’s burden. Napping or neglect of duty, and it’ll be the Whipmen for you, and those two will not leave an unflayed piece of hide on you.” He pointed to a strip of iron with a wooden striker hanging close by. “If there is fire, raise clatter with that, then attend. If there is a sick animal you cannot deal with, fetch me.”

Questions about where to fetch him, or when I might rest between my duties as stableman—plus catching rats in the Scriptorium—I held. Sunrise would not find me in Peterborough Monastery, so I had no need for such information.

He walked out the stall, taking off his apron while moving away. When he was out of sight, I sat on a low stool—the only furniture in the quarters. In a corner was a wooden cup, its rim worn down from use.

Between midnight and Lauds¹⁴ I knew would be the best time to get away—few would be about, and my watch—whatever that required—would be done.

I was a little older than when I bolted from Wharram with Pyster, and wiser. I resolved not to follow the word of a devious crone, or in fact anyone. I had begun to learn the ways and life on the fens. Upon them were God-given virtual plains of thick grasses and tall reeds over-growing and lining meandering sloughs fed by the River Nene, all swept by the inevitable flow of tides.

To a stripling this was plan enough.

I struck out to discover and claim my meal at the aforementioned back door. The future held uncertain days of nourishment, and it was wise to take present opportunity.

Like the vast stable, I had never seen a kitchen the size of the refectory at Peterborough Monastery. It bellowed heat and the smells of foods.

Brother Ostand was a smallish fellow, round of belly yet quick as an asp with kick and backhand. Oblates flew from the back door like bats from eaves while he filled the air with a brutish language unknown to me.

These hard-pressed souls fetched blocks of peat, fuel for the massive hearths.

In an open square behind the kitchen, working folk—bondsmen, or cottars like myself who worked inside the Monastery—stood or sat eating from wooden bowls.

An oblate half my age ladled soup and handed out pulls of bread at the rear step. We confronted each other—for I had no bowl. Pushing around him, Ostand looked down—then vented in his strange tongue. I struggled to make sense of it.

Seeing I was mystified of his meaning, he switched to Saxon, though making a terrible mash of it, worse than a Dane or Pict: “You bowl?! Where? Pour in his mouth maybe you want—what you bowl, you shit worm?”

Thankfully beyond foot range, I made explanation. In frustration he cuffed the oblate, who ducked most of its force.

“No bowl. No food! This refectory! Forbid me God to give fair bowl to every oink and snort pig.”

Brother Ostand stormed off inside to attend kitchen hustling, switching back to yelling in his language. The oblate then handed me a great handful of bread, took a bowl and broken spoon off a nearby shelf. “This was Myslyn’s who God took from us.”

Though an old vessel almost worn through, it held well enough. And at once was filled with a rich stew with lusty aroma of barley and spelt. At center was dropped a portion of cured eel.

It took my breath away, for I never ate such in all my fourteen years.

Meat of any beast was rare, but of eel never, unless we filched one on the fens, a terrible offence.

I sat with my stout meal, securing the bowl in my lap, and fell to it. The bread was Peterborough cheat bread, the sort usually seen not eaten, for cotsets usually ate coarser sorts. I had eyes for my food, yet ears heard soft voices. Next to me two women whispered; I was their intended audience.

“So they’ve given you Myslyn’s bowl and spoon. Poor soul, he was. Always fair.”

When I looked to them, one put fingers to her lips. “No talking at repast, so speak low. We are sisters who work for Reverend Sacrist at weave—I am Sara, she is Menda. Working our obligation due Father Abbot.”

Though not elderly, both were without teeth and chewed away at the soup and bread. Checking nervously the kitchen door for sign of Ostand, they offered, “In cloister, they eat well on ordinary days.”

I nodded, said my name—as softly as possible—and ate. I had a dozen questions but asked none, remembering Osfer’s warning and my coming intentions.

“Poor Myslyn died sudden when demons inhabited him.”

“Yes. Demons.”

I knew they expected questions, but I would not be drawn out. If there were demons in an unlikely place as Peterborough cloister, they weren’t in my bowl or bread.

“Demons are terri—”

They stopped inside a word, their toothless mouths gaped. The unfortunates might have actually seen the coming of said demons, judging by their eyes. Instead it was the Whipmen.

Their habits, unlike all other monks, had red sashes which secured their badge and implement of office—black, ugly things with the knotted tentacles of pig leather.

“So, you old bags of shit, eat and talk, do you?”

The heel of one’s hand went to the butt of his whip, and I recoiled against the wooden wall. The women sat, virtual stones—mouths still agape. Yet the weapon stayed in its place, and instead both turned towards me. “We’re looking for you, and have no time for these old squints. Cuthwin is your name?”

My bladder loosened, but I assented—watching the butt of his hairy paw on the whip-end. They both loomed—so close I knew they had no room to swing their weapons.

Their little round eyes were red from the smoke and fire of monastery life. They were not great- or young-aged if they were any age at all. By God and Our Savior, they made ready truth from the sisters’ words about demons.

“You went against Prior’s rules once and got away with it, but you won’t again, you little bastard. Understand you are in cloister now and we have rules, and those rules are our concern.”

“Our concern is The Rule, you fuck!” The second Whipman smiled reaffirming his fellow—for indeed, they were tonsured. Unlike monks in cloister, those with duties out of cloister, like themselves, went about as necessity bade, which meant on any business for Reverend Prior.

One was short and solidly stout—built like a smith; his fellow was tall, a snout like a fisher bird, with eyes set closer together like a lizard.

The two sisters, seeing I was center of unpleasantness, used the moment for getaway, but the leaner of the two Whipmen swiveled like a jackdaw, pointing. “And you two old slatterns will get apt treatment if we see you yakking again at repast.”

The terrified women’s move to seek safety was a mistake. Both Whipmen faced them. The burley muscled arm of the first removed his whip, its mean ends falling loose at his side.

“Sit down until you’re told otherwise!” And he looked up to the taller and muttered, “. . . we ought to give them a taste, Brother, for their great wagging tongues.”

The women clutched their bowl and cup to their aprons—attempted to speak, but I supposed, without leave, that too would be contrary.

Finally: “What transpires, dear Brothers?”

Both sisters reclined against the wall—eyes closing, as if an angel descended. Behind us approached a tall monk with a golden sash about his middle, rather than usual plain brown. Both Whipmen stopped their business; their huntsman features lightened.

“Reverend Sacrist, our intent was to convey rules of silence to these two hags. They incessantly gossip, as you know. Reverend Prior is adamant against such.”

The Sacrist replied in the Roman tongue, and they bowed, the one putting away his whip and then both going off without further word.

The grateful souls went down, kneeling before the Sacrist, allowing him to scowl first to one, then the other, shaking his head.

“Oh, thank you Reverend Sacrist, Brother Aethyl, that is. Oh, Lord Jesus bless you. We were only making a few words in Christian kindness as we are taught.”

“Ah! Even now you chatter like rooks. You left Father Abbot’s weave pending. Return to it until Compline.¹⁵ One day I’ll not come along and you will both feel the bite of their instruments. Go!”

They shuttled off like mud crabs fearing marooning on the outgoing tide. Brother Aethyl’s look became less stern; indeed, his eyes glowed in an unfamiliar way.

“And who are you, young man?”

“Cuthwin. I work in the stable.”

“Gilbert’s new fellow?”

“Yes.”

“A lucky stroke for Gilbert; I hope he applies you aptly.”

And with a smile, he turned and was gone. My food had gone cold—or rather I had. All events built a strong case for not letting the door strike my backsides at Peterborough Monastery.

Good had turned bad and was fast becoming built into worse. Unless God himself gave sign, I would hasten westward until many leagues were between me and Peterborough before the passing of another day.

I hid the portion of bread in my blouse; I would have keener need of it in hours to come.

This first watch after Compline, which would be my last, was a confusing time. No one explained further about watches, only Gilbert’s alerts of ‘fire and sick animal’ being guide. I strode about avoiding Waddles’ stall in fear she commence braying—but with the sun down, she rested, praise God.

Unnecessary attention brought to the stables was not good for me now. I avoided the stall assigned to me in fear of sleep. That day began early on the fens. The space in spirit and place my life covered since dawn was dizzying.

My travels had just begun, for I must put vast distance between me and my pursuers—angry for my abandoned debt.

Escape now would be far more prudently done for I knew the needs of travel. My modest sack of carryings contained everything God had conveyed to me since birth—an old knife, a sliver of flint and striker, a tiny cross made from bones of fowl—the only remaining I had of my mother. Then odds and ends of leather and cloth picked up here and there. These snippets were good for snares and such, including generous turns of reed twine used to choke the bag shut and to serve as spare lengths.

Then there were the clothes I wore, including the old sash at my middle. Also, there were the cracked, worn turnshoes usually kept in my sack instead of wearing. These carryings and the sense and guile God gave me were what I possessed. They seemed to promise saner escape. Furthermore, I had a few more preparations in mind.

When peace settled over the stables after Compline, I took a leather strip to fashion jesses. Agile as a stoat, I climbed into the overhang, sidled down an old beam, and confronted a row of roosting pigeons—those same plump fowl seen earlier.

The following day would be entirely taken with pursuit, and like all lads born in country I was expert at killing, plucking, and cooking small fowl in a nod and wink—ideal rations for a fleeing boy.

I selected two of the dumb birds—so amply fleshed both my hands barely spanned their midsections. Being in the torpor of roost, they hardly struggled—portable yet hearty fare, a vital cog of my plan.

And compounding wrong with such theft? I thought little of this—compared to owing Father Abbot an enormous sum, two plump monastery pigeons would add negligible sin to that already shouldered. Plus, how might they know? Did they count pigeons?

Adding the bread held back from mealtime, I tied off my sack, hid it within my paddock, and sat astride a post fence.

In the near-distance I saw the walls of Peterborough, the old gates shut and outer watches posted. Since the watches, such as they were, scrutinized out rather than in, and stealthy as I was—walls and watches would cast no problems to surmount without notice.

It was the last few weeks of summer, and I had two months of warm weather for flight. I considered the world ahead; great imaginings and adventures passed through my head, helping me while away hours.

Flitting right by me flew bats nabbing hordes of insects in stable. I didn’t fear the creatures, hardly believing the stories told about them. Darting about in their erratic way, they hunted the fens until dawn devouring biting flies and gnats with devotion; hence even these ugly little creatures I viewed as God’s gift to man.

The evening winds carried to me the aromas of field—and even with it, tinges of the fens. I saw a whitish streak of a passing owl before the stable, when a voice nearly made me fall headlong.

“It is time, Brother Cuthwin, God be praised.”

Behind me tiny Alswyn stared up, and I was momentarily out of temper.

“You but scared the shit out of me, little brother!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

He was a kindly tot, and for the moment—and I recall this well—I was of a mind to offer him to accompany me. Yet I suspected he had taken holy vow to God so he would be sworn to report my ill intentions.

I told him all was quiet, made my ‘good-night,’ then slipped over to my stall, secured my sack at my sash, and, seeing him sit and looking the other way, I made nimbly for the walls. I crept along the shadowy edges of the outer yard, passing near to the Refectory where hours before the Whipmen menaced.

There was a space needs covered by my last dash between the Refectory and the building—low, massive, yet of single story. This was Father Abbot’s residence and greeting hall. Checking well, I started across when—like a dash of cold water—words tumbled over me: “Young Cuthwin, out so late?”

There I was planted looking into the shadows at Father Abbot sitting on a low bench with that great, ancient hound a few feet away, his old nose to the ground, his partially bald tail flopping weakly right and left.

“It is Erthwin’s greatest joy in life and mine, his nightly outing. Poor brute served me well these fifteen years. Ah, he was a great hound in bone and flesh when young.”

So here was the most powerful and grand man in all the lands and waters—for dozens of hundreds in all directions. I owed him more money than I could imagine, and there he sat witnessing me fleeing responsible debt after his kindnesses.

I paused, waiting for him to call the watch, but he held the tether of his hound. He had unloosed Erthwin, so it hung loosely in his hand. It occurred to me it would give him a handy whipping strap, though I was a half dozen paces off.

Yet I reckoned to be fast enough to still escape, even if he gave the alarm, such was my cocksureness of youth.

There was a half-moon above. My eyes adjusted to what light there was, and I saw Father Abbot was leaning against the wall with a sad gaze as he looked at Erthwin nosing about.

The old animal was weak in the legs, but like all hounds, at peace with sniffing and being off leash or out of pen. He sidled up to a trough attempting to raise his leg, but instead nearly fell over. Father Abbot shook his head. “He can barely make water, and this will be the last night, I fear, we will share together. Tomorrow I’m gone, and God will claim old Erthwin before my return. God’s unstoppable will can be very difficult for those we love.”

At once I saw an absence of my situation in Father Abbot’s mind. He looked upon his old dog with sadness. As I had witnessed with Waddles, he loved the animal. I reckoned, knowing hounds—and frankly being fond of them—Erthwin had not been of practical use for years now.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen such an old hound, Father Abbot.”

He smiled as the dog hobbled up, leaning against Father Abbot, and receiving a fond scratching of a tattered ear, evidence of past battles.

“Erthwin fought always, but God has forgiven him, dumb beast that he is. Yet even a hound should not give injury.” He looked keenly for the first time at me, nodded, and motioned to the edge of the trough, and I understood he wanted me to sit, and I did.

I could not help myself, but curiosity flows as rapidly and unpredictably in the young as does every other notion.

“Do such beasts go to heaven, Father Abbot?”

“Oh, yes. Though most thoughtful canons would decry me. I believe by the spirits of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost that Erthwin and I shall walk the fields honored with God’s love for eternity. And you, Cuthwin?”

His question jolted, for no one had asked me anything other than for some immediate item, and certainly never for anything I thought. I had reflected on many such things myself—but only to myself. But up to this moment, I was never questioned by another mortal, and never dreamed I might by a great personage as an Abbot.

My mouth dropped, but I kept my wits, and to this day, almost eight decades later, I remain proud of my honest response: “I never, I’m afraid, wondered about beasts, Father Abbot, but very often after my mother. Though I barely recall her.”

“Her name?”

“Sarah-of-Alnwick, Father Abbot.”

There was much to explain about my mother—the things I’d heard about her: Many were not altogether Christ’s desired praises. Through my rough rearing, when ill-behaved, I was told I risked joining her in hell if I maintained such behavior.

Yet I did remember my mother before the grand fire at Withernsea Manor: She had an infant at breast, for as memory serves—she always had an infant in one arm, and worked with the other.

She was a stout woman, of round Saxon stock, and good in every way of manner with glib tongue. My clearest memory was her stories of diverse beasts: “Great worms carouse countrysides devouring here and there, thrashing grand tails, sending sharp, leathery scales flying off in all direction—the size of flagstones,” she had told me.

And it was that moment, remembering her—and especially the mean words attached to such a good woman—that unaccountably I began weeping. For why couldn’t God allow me to know her better? I believed they lied about her and she was in heaven, not hell.

And indeed, if she owed such a sum as I, Sarah-of-Alnwick would not have flown to field and woods.

Father Abbot patted Erthwin then held up his hand, as if to pat me, though I was some distance away.

“During my trip, I shall say prayers daily for good Sarah-of-Alnwick. Know this, souls who say bad things about people sin and need absolve themselves of such. Only God can sit in judgment.”

I was embarrassed to have wept, and while gathering myself, Father Abbot pointed at my waist. “Whatever you do, Cuthwin, I would ask you to free those two innocent birds in sack. They are creatures of Peterborough Monastery, and deserve not to have blood shed through their protector’s inactivity. Promise me that.” And he stood and beckoned me once again forth. “Now come. Who knows if this might be the last blessing God will allow me to confer on you.”

And kneeling before him, I again felt him put that most peaceful and kindly hand on my head. His blessing done, he looped the tether around Erthwin’s old neck, but the dog had lain down, weary from his outing.

“Come, rise, old hound. We must retire.”

Erthwin steeled himself, uprighted with front legs, allowed a groan, then completed the labor with his rear legs. Alongside Father Abbot, he tottered off towards a tiny rear door to the Residence.

Feeling the fowl’s movement at my waist, I returned to the stables, untied the sack, and climbing back up, placed the dimwitted but fortunate birds on a beam.

Back on the floor of the stable, I looked briefly for Alswyn. I did not see him, and when I returned to my stall I discovered him curled up in the flea-infested sacking. He slept, thumb in mouth.

Sleep did not seem close, and I returned to the fence, climbed up and sat, watching and listening for things unknown.

And this, reckoning by the Venerable Bede’s measure, was how I, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick came to reside in Peterborough Monastery, beginning the late summer of the year of our Savior, 1029.

My half-dozen years at Peterborough Monastery serving Abbot Elsin are the most worthwhile education a youth could receive in preparation for a world harsh and fickle to those of us who labor for their keep.

I thank God, the Son, and the Holy Ghost—a poor cottar’s only protector—for guiding me to Peterborough and allowing me rare learning and privilege. Yet in truth I witnessed how even some of His own servants fall from earthly and even eternal grace.

And this was the keenest lesson learned at Peterborough and from Abbot Elsin, though I saw him so pitifully rare those six years. To wit, the world inside cloister and walls of a burh¹⁶ are no more cursed or blessed than the world outside.

Practical advantage was my work in stable and Scriptorium—for Gilbert was not a bad sort despite his moods. Also, Provisioner Cassartorius was peculiar, but his manners were the same with all, from myself to Father Abbot. Yet he was vastly learned though cautious in sharing it with lesser sorts.

So the two labors—one inside with books and their makings, the other outside with animals and their necessities—offered me respite from each other. However, I slept and kept watch in the stables, and time-wise I was more a part there than the Scriptorium.

Being expert in trapping and wise to ways of smaller creatures, I brought sudden decrease to vermin who gnawed and constructed safe warrens in the Scriptorium. Those furred trespassers of holy books incurred sad fate to skills learned in woods and pasture. My skills snaring and trapping creatures also offered a source and opportunity that supplemented refectory fare.

God forgive me, but I used my victims as fodder for trade and gift, for they were fat from easy living. I thought, since The Rule did not apply to those not taking tonsure and since the beasts were unwanted, that God and Father Abbot would give leave.

Truth was, many who worked required hours inside cloister enjoyed a roasted morsel. Most surely Gilbert was master at preparing them over the fire in forge, adding to restful times along with his dire Welsh brew. However, he urged caution: “Mind oblates do not see this fare, Cuthwin; the wretches will inform Prior Denewulf at once, desperate to gain his good office.”

He did not fear Prior Denewulf, for Prior would not cross Gilbert because he maintained peace in the stables and was unequalled master of his trade. Since most oblates were from great houses and families, we who worked outside tonsure, such as Gilbert, were of common cloth.

Gilbert harbored sparse love for oblates. He was harsh with them and was the poorer for it, I thought even then, may God forgive the good man.

In my hours at the Scriptorium, usually between nones and vespers, my other master—Brother Cassartorius—was not lacking at delivering kick or backhand, yet thank God, he was sparing with these skills.

Far worse dread for ordinary and tonsured souls were Prior Denewulf and his Whipmen, Reverend Prior above all. His severity was intensified by Father Abbott’s frequent absences. During them Prior Denewulf was head of cloister, demesne, and lands held under charter to Peterborough Monastery. Obedience without hesitation was required above all others under The Rule by those in cloister, and to violate it brought painful punishment. This Reverend Prior observed with keen scrutiny making no exceptions.

From Prior on down all the people in Peterborough Monastery and town had their own peculiar God-given traits, including being inhabited during evil times by demons and fiends. But through the six years, I faithfully observed Brother Osfer’s advice to ‘be content with your place, to not gossip, and to always be obedient.’

It served me well. I’m sure Brother Osfer had more such wisdom to impart, but he departed us not too long after I was taken in, God having sent his soul to a better place, surely.

“This is a drearier place without him,” Gilbert reflected, for Gilbert missed him almost equal to the absences of Father Abbott. Our kindly shepherd learned of Brother Osfer’s passing upon return after traveling, and was out of spirit for some days subsequent—speaking little, despite being gone so long, usually when he was at most conversant.

So numerous are the people and events that they fill my mind, urging me to impart here what I learned and saw at Peterborough Monastery. Sadly, if I did, there would be few surfaces made from plant or hide left to write upon anywhere. Instead, I needs hasten to the most significant event for me: Learning letters in my own Saxon tongue, and, to a lesser degree, in Latin, as the language of Rome is rightly called. Letters became my surest friend then and in years ahead.

Even now, I am grateful for God’s sure hand in guiding me to the Peterborough Scriptorium. While trapping rats, I needed to move and work through costly books—both whole and partial—and at once I saw they were beautiful indeed.

I was taught how to handle them—a process sped up when brothers delivered vigorous cuffings whenever oblates or myself were too rough in handling tomes which took uncountable hours to complete.

I learned faster than most—enough to receive few such blows, may God forgive my pride. At the same time, the letters—the words they formed—attracted my youthful eyes like a row of fatted doves. I would put my finger at their base, tracing them along, like one might intricacies of a spider’s web, woven overnight in solitary corner.

In the labyrinth of places where I trapped, only the leanest brothers could follow me, and I had much time. Like any youth, I would take my leisure, using the times to open the books and examine them in detail. Since I knew by heart many of the holy psalms in my own tongue, I was able to associate the spoken word with those written in Saxon Psalters. The written word in Saxon I would then associate in ear and tongue with those letters on the page.

Since the vermin were quick and easy to catch, I spent more and more time doing this, and soon was able to recognize the simplest words. Yet progress was too slow this way, and it annoyed me. But even at that earliest stage, I knew the Saxon tongue was more appropriate than Latin. Who had I ever heard speak Latin in field and village? Most spoke Saxon as their preferred tongue, as I did.

To write it was akin to learning a special secret, as indeed it virtually was for a cotset. Yet I know my learning would have continued very slowly if it hadn’t been for a most memorable incident. Through the providence of God, my life diverted into a direction unforeseen. It made both possible and necessary my life of travels which brought me many curiosities and places which offer me fodder for current telling.

After the passing of my second Christmastide, a somewhat warmer season than in my northern home, I was finding fewer vermin in the Scriptorium. So I busied myself aiming to keep out of the monks’ sight, yet necessity required I pass through the working area of the Scriptorium where dozens of manuscripts, writs, and other such works were arduously crafted. By now, I knew Brother Cassatorius was a severe taskmaster. I often noticed looks of anger and mockery exchanged behind his back by both brothers and oblates.

One day, emerging from one of two cavernous rooms where all great writings were kept, I heard a wicked commotion: Foremost was the sound of the whip, then painful outcry, and Prior Denewulf speaking calmly through it all, as if in sermon or lecture. His deep voice penetrated every corner: “Witness! To mock one’s superior violates The Rule.”

I was caught by my collar by the Whipman presently not involved, and pointed within: “Watch closely, Cuthwin. Clever or not, one day will be your time.”

Brother Cassatorius stood next to Prior with head down horrified as I—only occasionally glancing at the Brother—for it was no oblate being whipped, as was usually the case, but a Brother, no longer youthful. Worse, the rare whipping of a Brother was supposed done in a special place, but not on this occasion.

Held at Prior’s side was a large drawing—for most of the brother monks’ at work in the Scriptorium were wonderful draughtsman at catching likenesses. I’d learned this skill was thought to be sinful idleness, and forbidden. This transgressor sadly had a hand recognized by all. He had drawn an expert likeness of Brother Cassatorius, with the Saxon words, “God Curse This Lombard Devil,” beneath it. Recognizing a few of the words, I drew away in shock at its scandalous intent. I never thought such blasphemy would be attached to a tonsured brother in a holy place.

At that moment, since he had averted his eyes from the gore, Master Cassatorius saw me and understood at once I’d comprehended those words, or some of them. And when I looked back his gaze was fixed upon me.

At the same time, Prior held out his arm, stopping the Whipman in mid-stroke. The victim’s habit had been thrown over head and shoulder; his tattered undergarment had blood soaking through. It was beginning to run down his buttocks and onto his legs.

Prior held aloft the derisive drawing, turning it this way and that, making sure we all saw it: “See this blasphemy!” Then to the wretchedly maimed Brother, “And you will atone further, Brother Shawn, and may God forgive.”

All in Scriptorium were compelled to watch, and like me appalled at the sight of blood. I had seen a few whippings but none like this.

I returned to stable soon, seeking my place. But already Gilbert heard of events, for in the Monastery news traveled seemingly through the ether. I had first watch, and Gilbert informed I might well end up with all watches, for there would likely be a special chapter meeting and oblates’ routines could be affected.

“And Father Abbot is gone, God help Brother Shawn. It is outposting for him, surely.”

Peterborough Monastery had outlying priories; some were little more than nooks where living was rough. In fact, an oblate just tonsured into Brotherhood often spent their first years in such holy places.

These offered opportunity to Prior Denewulf for extending punishment. Brother Shawn’s skills in Scriptorium notwithstanding, his future appeared grim if the guilt remained upon him.

He would be examined in chapter and long outposted by the time of Father Abbot’s return. All knew if Father Abbot was present his punishment would be less severe and, in God’s name, fairer.

But God forgive me, on that eve my fate was my concern, not that of my fellow man. I knew Brother Cassatorius had seen me attempt to read, a serious violation of place.

At the serving door of the refectory untonsured workers were especially silent that night. We passed the winter solstice just weeks before; it was still dark at Vespers, and darkness swept over my inner spirit as well.

For Brother Osfer’s forewarnings on that first day was central to all others: In Monastery to always know one’s place. A mere cotset learning letters, I feared, upset that order almost more than crafting blasphemous drawings.

After meal time, this fear was confirmed when I returned to the stable and instead of finding only the watch-lantern lit, I saw two lanterns alight. This use of candle was a rare indulgence. Worse, sitting before them was Gilbert and—God help me—Brother Ithamar.

Gilbert’s eyes were sad, and seeing me, he pointed at a spot before them both—to stand, not sit.

“Brother Ithamar needs question you, and mind you be straight, Cuthwin. None of your sly word play.”

Brother Ithamar was Master Cassatorius’ assistant, with more than usual responsibilities. This was required because Brother Cassatorius was extreme of application of the Rule of Silence. Though silence was required of the tonsured during meals, many had leave outside that time. But never Brother Cassatorius, who practiced otherwise.

However, the other language of cloister—a hundred different signs, long held and understood—were practiced in rapid and nimble order by our silent Provisioner. Yet when speech was necessary, especially for dealing with those outside of the Scriptorium, it fell to Brother Ithamar to make office.

He was a massive, dark-countenanced Saxon, completely grey and without cheer, uncommonly skilled in all matters and crafts of the Scriptorium.

“Cuthwin, how did you come to know letters in your brutish tongue?”

When Ithamar spoke, it was assumed—unless he said otherwise—to be in the voice of Master Cassatorius, a strange situation.

For that disparaging view of things Saxon was Brother Cassatorius’ opinion. Being a Lombard, and common to them, he held longstanding arrogance towards what they viewed as savage tongues; this surely included Saxon.

Gilbert intervened, and, in his way, allowed me time or room to answer.

“He’s a clever lad, Brother. Good at things.”

“Allow Cuthwin to respond, good Gilbert. He has tongue.”

There was no good path. Answering truthful meant, at least, trouble. Unlike Brother Shawn, I was a freedman and deeply in debt. My lot seemed even uglier.

“I know only a few from working with books and such, Brother Ithamar.”

“And how might you have done that? Through your skin, as if you were a frog or a prune?”

Gilbert averted his eyes—finding need to adjust the frontpiece on the closest lantern. Familiar with his every move, I saw my response was less than good. But it was my experience that day that truth was unwise when speaking with a cloistered monk.

I simply stopped speaking and looked down—resigned to my lot. I was now fifteen, of fair size, still confident in my ability—if no other choice remained—to flee onto the fens. I would not allow myself to be whipped as a thick-headed drover might a beast; surely Our Savior did not condone such.

“It could be, young Cuthwin, that the letters have come to you by possession of a demon. If such, this grievous situation falls heavily to Reverend Prior’s offices, especially during absence of Father Abbot.”

To be possessed of a demon moved matters beyond whippings, or indeed debt. Being possessed was a plague. Demons infected all souls who chanced proximity to those so possessed.

There is nothing more harmful or evil than to be demon possessed, as demons do the bidding of the Archfiend Himself.

Brother Ithamar removed a small leather sack from under his sash, took out a smallish book—beautiful in binding and print. Opening it carefully, he turned it towards me and ordered, “Read me what you see writ there, otherwise I needs go direct to Prior Denewulf.”

Holding my arms behind me, I tilted forward and saw at once it was a few simple words of a morning prayer. Gilbert’s gaze met mine, and I knew I must reveal myself. So I read the passage, and in doing so forever changed my life. How strange such moments are in the lives of ordinary men and women.

“Now, tell me how you came by reading our Saxon letters.”

So I explained my process—and while I responded, he closed the tiny book, and returned it to sash. He and Gilbert shared lengthy reverie. I felt my bladder weakening and fear rising.

Ithamar stood, and nodding in something of resolve, said, “Enough of this. Tomorrow is Sabbath. Monday I am guessing events will return to center, including the Scriptorium.” He gave thanks to Gilbert and was gone.

Gilbert extinguished lamps and returned them to a shelf with his various ointments. He moved slowly, with deliberation. I knew he had much to say and possibly do. I brought trouble to him from the Scriptorium, besmirching the stables by forgetting my place.

True to his ways, possibly putting off the unpleasant, Gilbert said nothing, but left me to thoughts, as wild and hectic as they were.

While I stood first watch, I prayed God would forgive and intercede in what consequences might follow. Additionally, I prayed Gilbert and his stables would be spared whatever might be visited on me. In truth, despite his often morose ways, I was fond of Gilbert. Though already clever in all ways of animals, I was learning still more. He never laid hand to me as he did sometimes oblates, for we were both of common cloth, with a life of work ahead of us.

Contrary to what was later credited to me, I was never one for great amounts of prayer—no more or less than person of croft and craft. But that night, I indulged in prayer more than at any other time, not anticipating anything but a dismal outcome.

In the morning Gilbert woke me with a nudge of his foot, informed me without explanation—though none was needed—I would no more to the Scriptorium.

“Keep low, Cuthwin. I will design a task to outpost you soon, if there is time.”

This gave me hope, like the time of my escape when I was eelman and the Whipmen came looking. Master Ordgar found work for me at once upon the fens—distant from Monastery, and, even better, not accessible by path or road.

Now I lived moment to moment upon the chance Prior Denewulf would remain uninformed concerning my violation of place—helping myself to knowledge beyond God’s place and function.

Yet in the absolute order of obedience, Brother Cassartorius was required by The Rule to report my violation to his superior. However promptly might Brother Cassartorius’s sense of responsibility be realized? It was not yet Sext when Gilbert had only the briefest opportunity to round the corner of paddock and warn, “Cuthwin, brace yourself, trouble is near. Get up into the main beam, now.”

I threw down my work and sprang to the top of the paddock, then at next leap into the massive center rafter—the pride of support for the entire stable. Precisely then the Whipmen strode arrogantly in. Gilbert looked to them with feigned surprise. They gestured everywhere, the taller, grislier of the two was spokesman. He was puffed up with the dark nature of their mission.

“Where is Cuthwin? We call on Prior’s business.”

“On errand outside the walls.”

“After what he did!?”

“I only know the stables, God have mercy. All else is gossip. Cuthwin will return by Compline, for his belly will be talking.”

“Where is he?! Reverend Prior orders him fetched directly.”

“En route to Wilfrid-of-Loe.”

And they turned and were gone, the shorter—the knottier of the two turning to instruct, “If he returns earlier, hold him. Reverend Prior must reckon him at once.”

Gilbert picked up the spade I had cast aside, for its careless placement might have betrayed my recent departure if the creatures had sense enough to so perceive.

While putting the tool carefully in its place—and knowing I gazed downward—he spoke to me without looking: “Stay up there until I tell you otherwise. Presently, events have me at odds.”

I understood that the worst happened. The best I could expect would be a whipping for violating the Scriptorium’s properties by prideful prying—and the worst clapped in confinement for holy trial for any one of a dozen demonic heresies.

The memory of this time aloft in the stable has lingered through the decades. Numberless thoughts of despair raced through my stripling’s mind.

Escape to the fens was ten times more difficult than the year before when summer was still at hand. But if suspected of being possessed, escape was impossible. Word of my possession would precede and even the humblest cottar or cotset would have mortal fear of me. Demons took one’s soul and must always be feared.

No door would be open nor croft available. Dogs would look ceaselessly until I was dug out of whatever nook I had availed myself.

Gilbert was taking grievous risk, for Wilfred-of-Loe was a dreng who held land far distant; however, the Whipmen would discover they were on a fool’s search. Then Gilbert, having lied, would be himself in trouble.

At fifteen years plus months, I was just old enough to be a soldier in dozens of conflicts I heard talk of daily. Other lads ran off to such military struggles. Such sagas of conflict, the ensuing booty and wanton activity, greatly attract foolish striplings. Though not of that mind, I believed such a sinful fate would be far better than being whipped fleshless. Yet even the most savage armies would not take one possessed unless I were successful enough to flee far away where word had not traveled.

In the midst of such dismal ruminations, the peace was fractured with raucous braying, then report of a violent kick visited against her paddock—and other outlandish disorder. Waddles had broke into her own demonic possession.

Now too old to accompany her beloved Father Abbot anywhere—even within country—she convinced all in Peterborough Monastery that she had uncommon sense about Father Abbot’s proximity. And whenever he stepped off the boat returning from oversea, even though still leagues distant, she knew at the second. And then she would make unholy demonstration to see him. Her simple mind informed that treats of fresh carrot or ones from cellar should commence at the precise moment of his return.

It was decreed by Father Abbot that such vegetables would be denied him in refectory, thereby freeing him to provide such choice fare to a simple donkey. Such was his love for that creature.

None could fathom how Waddles’ senses worked, but instead of fearing whatever demon enabled her, all utilized her alarm for advantage with early warning. Indeed, upon hearing her commotion, everyone began making preparation for the return of Father Abbot. From that moment on, all would be abustle in preparation for him.

So I knew, clinging to the beam like some furred or feathered creature, that within a day—at most—Father Abbot would arrive and at least I would get fair trial. I was not possessed of a demon, and trusted him to know that.

I did not trust Prior for anything but harshness and coldness of heart and soul. May God forgive me, yet even after so long I never budged in such opinion of him and those like him.

On that day God looked to me and made certain I would stand fair hearing before one of His finest. Waddles was harbinger of reprieve from harsh judgment, thereby requiring forgiveness for her many mean acts when cleaning her stall.

In the cloister of a Monastery, the return of any brother from a long trip, and especially foreign places, meant fresh infusion with news of the times. This itself made the ensuing days after return nearly equal that of holy days in feeling if not fact.

So upon commencement of Waddles’ outpourings, Gilbert called me down and I carried on in stable normally. The rough-hewn Saxon said nothing and seemed unworried at gulling the Whipmen.

I learned later Wilfred-of-Loe was Gilbert’s kinsman. So when someone was sent by Gilbert, Wilfred at once spun a series of deceptions. He was of boundless mischief, disdaining all holy men from Monastery.

The Whipmen were then sent even farther afield by Wilfred-of-Loe. In the end, they did not even know of Waddles’ antics—nor of Father Abbott’s arrival—until they returned.

I knew, however, that reckoning must be at hand for me, for violation of place and trust needs be addressed formally. When the waiting became too much, I asked Gilbert, and all he said was, “Be patient, and don’t yearn for bad. Know well Prior Denewulf has much sway with Father Abbot.”

When the hour came, I was attending Waddles’ paddock. The Whipmen loomed upon me. The taller of the duo had his whip out from sash, tapping it on his open palm, the weapon’s tendrils hanging down like spiders’ legs. “Now Cuthwin, come at once. Prior has need of your arrogant presence.”

My bowels loosened. Would there be no fair hearing? I was no oblate, but nearly a full-grown freedman due a rightful hearing. I looked—holding a shovel at my side.

“Are you moonstruck, Cuthwin?! Come at once!” It was the shorter, gnarlier of the two whose brows suddenly furrowed, all grave. “You think of using that shovel, and you’ll learn even tonsured brothers know where to shove a thing where it will hurt most, you whore’s fuck.”

I was not thinking such a thing. I never struck another human nor intended to. But I dropped it and followed. When one took me by the arm—hard—I do admit anger at hearing my mother so brutalized.

“Reverend Brothers, will I have fair hearing?”

“Shut up. That’s your hearing.”

And they walked faster, and perhaps my bowels would have indeed let go if the legged menaces did not turn at Refectory, and instead went directly into Father Abbot’s residence.

Passing through the same rooms again, this time I found them richly furnished, with tapestries finely woven everywhere in doorway and window. Brothers worked, though, taking these down, for Father Abbot would have no finery when resident but rather have it stored.

But when he was absent from Peterborough Monastery, hosting of great persons, including those from court, all—sometimes even the King—fell to Prior Denewulf. As was proper, great men would be received with full regalia adorning the Abbot’s residence. In these duties, Prior Denewulf was considered the wiser, for Father Abbot was notorious in plain living and being too extreme in devotion to The Rule. Even Gilbert would allow that “great parties need prideful cloying,” though I sensed in his heart he agreed with Father Abbot.

So brothers were busy taking down great weavings and moving stout, finely carved furniture away. The Whipmen walked me between and around this. Entering Father Abbot’s room, they pushed me to the floor before Prior Denewulf and Father Abbot. Prior Denewulf intoned, “In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, may God find justice in these proceedings with this wretched sinner.”

I was allowed to hear this first in Saxon, then it was repeated by all in Latin. Since the Whipmen held my head down, I heard all but saw nothing. Then I heard the voice of Father Abbot, and it was a vast balm: “Brothers, let him look up and attend us.”

Discussion began in Latin and remained that way, allowing me to look at Father Abbot not with a little concern. He was far thinner, his left eye swollen shut, and a dressing about wounds on his head. If he were not a man of endless peace, one might guess involvement in a brawl with him getting the worse of it. I had seen Frog so adorned more than once.

But Father Abbot, God knows, was not Frog. Finally, they settled what discussion they required. Prior Denewulf looked at me directly; his looks were always, it seemed, severe.

“What say you of this sin of pride, Cuthwin? To strive beyond your God-ordained place—that position God has seen fit to bless you with. It is a transgression requiring great penance in the eyes of the Creator.”

If this was a fair hearing, I was at a loss how to be heard. I knew little about the sin of pride, save it was always bad. I never intended to do such a thing. But this was one of the few occasions no timely words came to me.

Father Abbot saw this, and then I noticed his keen eyes move left and right—to each Whipman, hovering at my elbows like rooks at the leavings.

“Brothers, give leave to Prior and me, and withdraw momentarily.”

I drew breath easier when they obeyed. All the while Prior Denewulf didn’t remove his baleful eye lock from me.

“I asked a question, so what say you, Cuthwin?”

“I did not mean—did not intend anything prideful, Prior Denewulf.”

“That makes it almost worse, does it not, Father Abbot?”

“Indeed, Cuthwin. You must always be aware and knowledgeable about the sin of false pride, and how the Archfiend baits Innocents with his false attractions.”

A dullness drew over me. Even Father Abbot seemed to have turned; he put both his hands to his jaw, and tested it—pressing a bit left and right. Reassured, perhaps, that it still worked, he looked ceiling-ward and mused, “Oh, but Prior Denewulf! If only I had your education at Church Law in Boulogne—ah, what an honor. But allow me: Wasn’t it our blessed Saxon King Alfred, Shepherd of the English, who urged our tongue upon his people, both of church and lay?”

“It was, Father Abbot.”

“And didn’t Himself translate much Latin writing into that tongue and have it distributed? And he suggested school for all in our Saxon tongue. An extraordinary idea!”

“Yes, Father Abbot, but it went for naught.”

“So, Cuthwin, in the Latin language, what are your skills?”

“None, Father Abbot.”

“So: You see where my thoughts direct, do you not, Brother Denewulf?”

“Indeed. That it is his own tongue, not that of the Church, the former urged upon its people by King Alfred, by both his word and act.”

“Precisely. So, since the boy wasn’t striving to elevate his station by learning a language that was not his—not his place, like Latin—there is possible mitigation here. Perhaps our Lord knows he was not partaking in false pride. It might be construed that Cuthwin, though unwittingly, followed the wishes of our venerated King Alfred, the most Holy Shepherd of the English. It is, in the writs of holy scholars, the intent of an act, save in cases of possession, that intensifies a transgression against the order of Our Lord. And certainly, we know young Cuthwin is not possessed. What do you say, Brother?”

“Father Abbot is not himself at a loss in Canon Law, or indeed law in general. But there remains the matter of obedience. Permission or leave was needed to be asked of Brother Cassartorius, or at least Brother Ithamar.”

I never knew what true opinions existed between Father Abbot and Prior Denewulf. At this point, however, I felt renewal of hope.

“Excellent point. And for fairness sakes, I would in turn, Brother Prior, ask to speak to either, but there is much upset over blood being spilt in Scriptorium. Best to let them be. Especially Brother Cassartorius—he is not himself.”

At once, a darker issue settled over the room, one evidently ongoing in cloister. Prior Denewulf turned at the shoulders, noticing Father Abbot shoving irritatingly at his dressing which was coming loose.

“Father Abbot, for the sake of those who love you, allow me to call Brother Callow and have him properly dress those wounds again. He made hasty work of it, weeping as he was.”

Noticing me listening and looking on, Brother Prior swept his hand impatiently doorward. “Back to stable, Cuthwin! You will learn of your penance there. And hereafter mind your work and none but your work.”

I was intercepted outside by the Whipmen, who oozed chagrin since there was not call for their offices regards myself.

“I tell you Cuthwin, you little stoat, your day will arrive.”

I remembered the words they visited on my mother not an hour before. I had not heard such foulness bestowed on another soul by those tonsured—our Savior’s servants. Within me was sinful unforgiving anger towards them, may God forgive me.

I was escorted out at double speed. I swore that whatever God’s will deemed best for my fate would, by His Grace, be different than desolate corrupt souls like Whipmen.

It was after Vespers Gilbert called me, and going there I found Brother Ithamar sipping my master’s strange tea in his workshop. It was the first time I saw Brother Ithamar at rest, for he was a somber and reserved scholar greatly respected by all.

Gilbert looked me over more sternly than usual, and gestured to me with the hand that held his ancient, stained cup.

“On your knees, Cuthwin; Brother Ithamar has honored us with conveying Prior’s penance to both of us in his holy person.”

When Gilbert put his cup aside to follow suit, Ithamar stopped him by reaching out—and he was such a large man that putting hand to his shoulder stopped Gilbert shortly at once.

I, however, was on my knees when he began: “In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, this is your most forgiving and generous penance, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick.”

While he recited I held breath for mention of the whip. There was of course an elaboration of penitent prayer, duty, and enforced fasts, all of it endurable. But I was surprised when Brother Ithamar concluded with, “. . . and so your responsibilities in Brother Cassatorius’ Scriptorium are reduced from its former to that of twice weekly, during which you are required to attend lessons in writing and reading our mother tongue on top of your other duties. Further, Prior admonishes you to observe humility and Our Lord’s blessed order of things.”

He had put his cup aside, made the sign over me, and then looked to Gilbert and added, “And you, Master Stabler, Father Abbot specified your penance—you are to personally accompany our generous and forgiving Cellarer Eadsige to collect Wilfred-of-Loe’s rents, tardy as they be.”

Gilbert shifted on his stool uncomfortably. And though Ithamar was a cheerless soul, I thought to see movement at the corners of his mouth—the start of a smile, soon stifled.

Then he put a hand to my head, made gesture to Gilbert—and both of us recited our holy contrition. It was by receiving penance and forgiveness from him, I learned Brother Ithamar was ordained—most monks were not, but a few were.

After Brother retired, Gilbert stood—using unusual deliberation while removing his stout stableman’s apron. He eyed me—their light gray color always shrewd. He assigned me extra watch and was about to turn, but stopped and, in a rare abundance of words, added, “And you will precede me by several days to Wilfred-of-Loe’s, Cuthwin. You will give him alert. As a stableman, you have right to share in Father Abbot’s merciful mission of penance.”

I had heard of Wilfred-of-Loe so knew this part of my penance would be bad. It would not be pleasant to remind Wilfred-of-Loe his overdue rent to Father Abbot—for all fees of village and field were due under name of Father Abbot.

Yet even facing this tight-fisted Saxon was better than a whipping. And certainly I felt fortunate to still have duty in Scriptorium. But the addendum of having lessons in Saxon excited me, for I never had lessons in anything.

Who would teach such?

For a fast-growing youth, the most severe part of my penance though was fasting for a week from Prime through None, missing always the largest daily meal. I was fond of my bowl and meal. For an entire week to miss my victuals at Sext seemed almost harsher than the whip.

I heard a bit of scuffle come from the direction of Waddles’ confines. Attending this, I encountered Father Abbot and a Brother I did not know—the former actually in with Waddles, scratching the inside of one of her vast ears, Father Abbot’s attendant, however, kept several arms’ distant holding a sack of carrots.

At once I went to my knees, but was told to rise and attend.

“Cuthwin, relieve Brother here this task so he might return to duties for Matins.”

Though propriety meant a blessing before dismissal from Father Abbot’s presence, the poor soul dreaded being in range of tooth or hoof of Waddles. He swayed back and forth, like a head of wheat in country breeze.

Father Abbot had mercy—nodded, said the necessaries of leave, I supposed, in Latin—and the Brother ran off. So I took the sack and, not so fearful of Waddles, stood closer. Father Abbot spoke to Waddles in Norman—for such was her country of origin.

“She was a Norman-born foal left to die, which explains much. God forgive them for their severe ways with His creatures.”

I heard him say this often—perhaps explaining away her crossness. Regards Norman, it was as extreme an opinion he visited on any soul, typical of a man who loved our Savior’s creatures.

Watching her enjoyment at eating a carrot and getting an ear rub, I marveled at the love such a troubled animal had for a mortal man, even gentle Father Abbot. There Father Abbot sat, the beast as happy as such a whimsical creature might be.

On this evening—for it was nearly Matins—he explained the dressing applied to injuries about his head.

“Oversea evil men prey on travelers, no matter their business.”

“Father Abbot, don’t you travel with escort? I’ve heard a traveler might be slain, otherwise.”

“No,” he allotted Waddles another carrot, and looked me over. “Do you enjoy your lessons in our mother tongue?”

“Yes, Father Abbot.”

“And do well?”

“Yes, Father Abbot.”

He nodded in satisfaction, leaned back a bit on his stool and surprised me by chuckling. “You will experience how stingy and of ill nature a Saxon thane may be when you go to Wilfred-of-Loe’s informing of rent past due. I guess this will be your duty.”

“Yes, Father Abbot.”

“Cuthwin! Now hear me: Always be obedient, and learn well. It will not satisfy you to live out life in Peterborough Monastery, and one day you will move on. But no matter where or how, be obedient, kind and always remember the poor. . . . I will now spend time alone with my venerable friend, talking of our great travels of old. Now, come.”

And at his gesture, I didn’t fear Waddles enough to not kneel directly next to him, feeling his hand and to enjoy his Holy Blessing.

So it was within two meager weeks—long ago—out of all years God has given me, that my life’s fortune would be so surely directed. For within the very next week, my years would be further adorned with His blessing.

During all following years I kept close to heart the words of Father Abbot.

Gilbert was not slow in his resolve, for within a few days I trekked to Wilfred-of-Loe’s. I carried repaired tackle promised to his kinsman. Also, and most ill, information that the Cellarer would soon to call.

It was late January and plowing time was upon field. As I moved along I remember well the strong, honest smell of dank clay-bound soil stoutly tilled with the heavy blade. High-shouldered mottled oxen bent low, pulling mightily before the ploughman, and his fellow treading close alongside, coaxing the massive beasts with his guiding stick. These were the sights of late winter during those old times when only a Saxon’s plain tongue and free-born souls moved oxen and plough along.

Within Peterborough, and moreso inside the Monastery, I missed the feel of open country. So on that morning, despite the daunt of facing Wilfred-of-Loe, my heart rose with cheer by walking free, feeling cold air tingling my skin.

A morning wind recently warmed by a risen sun still cut smartly; furthermore, frosts were not rare, though the more frequent rains were cold and unfriendly. To a plainly clad traveler passing through fen and pasture, weather was harsh.

I promised that if I could complete my task at Loe early, I would divert to Ordgar’s and visit with the eelmen, catching fresh news of the fens, including Frog.

When I arrived at Wilfred-of-Loe’s, news of my business preceded, as is often the case—carried by elves or wood gnomes? I do not know. Hence the stout Saxon—who had fists and arms like oak limbs—was in temper.

“So, they come out to fleece a miserable coilbert, the holy-bound bastards. I would prefer dealing with a fiend than those swine.”

He stormed about, refusing to deal with me. He kicked things left and right, and two elderly women serfs, on guard in event of flying object, greeted me at the doorway. They relieved me of burden, inviting me into a residence built between the fashion of a manor and cottage.

It was a large central room—fire in the middle, the smoke rising through an outlet designed through inner and outer roof. In larger cottages this smoky narrow space was used to store goods and food items smoked and kept stored.

Outside, poultry exploded in cackles and quackings as if a storm moved through their midst; a young woman’s voice pierced the walls, as angry rejoinder to Wilfred: “Shut up, you old boar, and by Holy God don’t you touch me.”

Such was the outburst aimed at Master Wilfred. And there followed hotter and more bitter exchanges—avowing keen damage to one another. The young woman’s voice reflected no fear and less respect for Wilfred.

Inside the elderly women spoke in a Danish sort of tongue, laughing a bit, enjoying Wilfred’s upset. Still they maintained a modest eye to their work. Outside the great uproar continued: “You demon-child, what disrespect escapes your misshapen mouth. I’ll sell you to the salt pedlar for his sport, you cotset’s cunt.”

Then the women serfs laughed openly, but shut up at once when, as a storm might, the young combatant burst inward. She swept past the woven hanging threshold, wheeled, and responded—hurling her response through the still, swaying cloth: “I would be better off with him than you, who so willingly sired me, you great rutting prick.”

Both women implored her in their Danish language, I assumed, to cease. She wheeled again, and seeing me sitting, switched as cleverly as a rook to their Danish tongue, but I readily grasped she was also visiting wrath on me.

Desiring to spread her ire, she switched back to Saxon and gestured outside to Wilfred while holding her angry gaze on me: “So you are the one who brought this storm here. Why doesn’t he kick you instead of helpless women?”

And these were the first words aimed at me from Cwenburh-of-Loe’s sadly altered mouth—her burden-by-birth. Of a sudden, a third woman—tall and fine-boned—emerged regally from a hut adjoining into the manor-hall. At once all became somber. In calm and routine movement, this imposing Saxon woman fetched a narrow switch and delivered a loud whack across Cwenburh’s back who didn’t even flinch. This Mistress of the manor, for indeed that is who she was, then gestured to me, scolding mildly. “This is our visitor, Cwenburh, and you are rude. Now make amends or by the Creator I’ll give you more of these.”

She tossed her implement aside, and went to the tackle I’d brought, looking it over. Cwenburh made a face at her, then, mocking a tiny knee bend towards me, allowed, “Welcome to the hearth of Wilfred-of-Loe, and God Protect you, Traveler.”

And that moment, Wilfred himself pushed through the doorway, and was about to continue his demonstration, but came eye upon eye with the Saxon woman who I soon learned was Gytha-of-Loe, his mistress in all respects save Holy Matrimony.

She stood straighter as they braced off. He cast a challenging eye to everyone, then from behind one of the elderly women moved out a heavy bench. Without checking if it were there or not, he sat. He cooled—or at least became calmer, “The visitor will join us at meal.”

Gytha shook her head—a lament.

“By now, he thinks us savages, that we likely fly at our food like jackdaws.”

But at the order, the board was moved in from the side, set up, and a table prepared. Except for Wilfred, the others stood, sat on the floor, or accommodated at any place makeshift.

I knew no one here would have knowledge of my penance; when bowl and trencher were put before me, I began at once. Directly in center of the vegetable broth-filled bowl was a wondrous hunk of meat, an item completely absent in refectory fare.

It was a generous table, better than Monastery, and in fact better than most places I had eaten, save for the fens where fresh fish and fowl were had by our own hands.

A large pot was loaded with more fare, and covered by cloth. It was then taken out by one of the women for those working in field. Indeed, Wilfred had a dozen cottars and cotsets and families who minded his soke—a good two hides.¹⁷ He claimed it far smaller thereby owing less tax—sorely contested between Monastery and Wilfred.

Such matters were absent from mind as Cwenburh and I studied each other while at our fare. She possessed piercing grey eyes—pale and large; these foretold intelligence and cunning in all things around her. She was a diminutive girl, but mature in all visible ways of a woman.

Taking a massive bite from his trencher, Wilfred gestured to the ploughman’s tackle repaired by Gilbert—closing his eyes in wonder.

“I tell you, God Himself couldn’t do better repair of harness-work as Gilbert. That kinsman of mine is a wonder.”

To which Gytha responded, “You blasphemy as easily as a pig grunts.”

I shrunk down, fearful, yet he saw humor in what Gytha offered—and in fact both did—though his eyes moved severely to Cwenburh when she too laughed.

Silence returned. He aimed at me with his spoon then followed it with a gesture outside. “And they will all come—their holy hands out demanding chunks of my skin. When, did Gilbert say?”

“Directly after coming Sabbath Day, Master Wilfred.”

He sat up straighter, pleased—gestured to me more fervently, and to Gytha observed, “See how respectful this youth is? Unlike this creature of yours whose misshapen mouth is home to vileness and such.” His mistress held back comment, quickly raising hand for her daughter’s forbearance, though Cwenburh visited a hot glare towards him. Wilfred cared little about any look or thought beyond his own. “This deformed creature please you, Cuthwin? I see you have wit enough not to have cast in with that collection of greedy sodomites. So you’ll need a wife soon. And as plagued as Cwenburh is, she’ll come cheap enough on your end. Plus, strong of legs and middle. That’s the thing!”

I was taken fearfully embarrassed, for he’d dumbly struck close to my thoughts. Cwenburh put her bowl aside with a clatter and rushed out without saying anything.

Gytha-of-Loe looked sadly towards her exit and added, “Cuthwin, we often suffer at the remarks of Master Wilfred, who uses language unfairly.”

“I speak truth. God saw her birthed like that—for a sin? I don’t know. But it knocked the bride price quite ill, plus I have her merchet¹⁸ hanging about my neck.”

I remember asking excuse from table, and going outside looking about the croft that I might see Cwenburh, but did not. Her eyes had taken hold of me and her fearless spirit had drawn fascination and admiration. And in truth her tiny body opened awareness within. I wanted to see far more of Cwenburh-of-Loe.

On my return to Peterborough and the Monastery, I think I stopped by the eelmen, but on this day I marveled at the miracle God visited on my life inside of just those few days.

For in that short time, he rewarded me with the skill and knowledge that was to provide for me and those around me for the next four-fold decades. And even more providently, joined me with a woman who changed me for the better on every day he allotted.

The time elapsed between inadvertently revealing my knowledge of letters to Brother Cassatorius and my penitential errand to Wilfred-of-Loe’s was less than a fortnight. And within them, my path became forever diverted from the ordinary by God’s will and a working person’s choices of necessity.

The following changes of seasons spent at Peterborough Monastery blend as seamlessly as master weavers do in great tapestries. I cannot explain the threads, but can the patterns formed. I do recall the strength, drive, and wit of my youth, which, in God’s unknowable will, was in great supply.

My lessons in letters proceeded swiftly, for I possessed curiosity about the nature of the written Saxon tongue. Brother Ithamar became by far my most skilled teacher, though always stern.

But I kept a weather eye on market days. I was there every hour whenever possible. And on the second market day following my sight of her at Loe, Gytha and Cwenburh attended.

I offered to escort them, carrying large a basket and enjoying every move and inflection of the fierce Cwenburh. She bargained as severely as any Saxon woman might, yet remain honest in God’s eye.

When they left, and Cwenburh and her mother were putting shoulder to basket, she came close and said, “I go to Loe’s old mill next Sabbath to collect pigeon eggs and squabs.”

And so we began.

In the stable, Gilbert taught me his trade. He did caution me in his indirect manner about my widening activities, and especially matters pertaining to ways of ordinary folk.

One day he offered, “Know that little is confidential in Peterborough, Cuthwin,” and nothing further. For the master of stable and harness believed less said was enough, and too much was wasted on any mind that required it.

I needed no further warning.

I was foolish to think my growing connection and affections for Cwenburh-of-Loe might continue privately. They did not. Our increasing cleverness in meeting flattered our youthful pride. We thought our situation would itself work out a solution, winding a natural way through the complex lacings of property and earthly concerns.

I had not learned yet that in matters of great men, wealth takes precedence over the cares of ordinary people. This is a hard lesson for some and it was for me.

Even today when formerly great Saxon Lords lament over losing their lands to the Normans, one fact never changed: To Saxons, no more or less greedy than Normans, the value of coin and hideage was higher than the sinew and bone of those who toiled for a living.

So, Wilfred-of-Loe would rather suffer toothache than yield a silver penny. And since Cwenburh’s mother was a bonded serf to an adjoining soke—not in Father Abbott’s realm—the network of the owed, owing and onward, stupefied.

I raised Gilbert’s kindly alarm at our next meeting, but Cwenburh was always more brazen than I.

“My mother knows we meet. And that pig father of mine dare not rudely touch or treat Gytha, for she is equal to him in roughness. She once took a great pestle to Wilfred, beating the demon in him until it jumped out his hind end and wept.”

She and her mother were—as God and nature intended—bound in heart and soul. But unlike the somber Gytha-of-Loe, Cwenburh loved wordplay and hilarity, spoke diverse tongues with the readiness of a rook, and, God-help-her, used that gift to partake in the vanity of gossip.

“I will speak of whom I wish,” she said, when I cautioned against it. “I live in croft not cloister.”

At this time I learned I would be going on my first journey from Peterborough on the business of Father Abbott. I was excited about prospects of returning north, and this time with position. It promised future benefice for an ambitious young freedman clever in ways of reading and writing.

Hence I was filled with news about my upcoming mission at my next meeting with Cwenburh.

She had preceded me to the old haycroft we often used, and as was her loving practice, set out our meal of bread and fish. When I arrived bursting with news, Cwenburh deftly cut it short, informing of a far more vital item: She was with child.

I stood flatfooted, stunned. My silence gave her time to observe that my upcoming journey was indeed beneficial, adding, “I’m guessing the babe will be along in early winter. And you’ll be back well before then.”

When she noted my shock, I explained the ominous warren of complications her news surely promised. For this, she had no more concern than a young doe—pointing out, “Why Cuthwin, with great sport there are consequences. You work at livery!”

Yet she was not free, nor was she a creature-of-livery such as a mare or cow. Wilfred-of-Loe would own our child, or whoever the bond-holder of Gytha was. Information on Cwenburh’s standing was craftily couched by Wilfred. When I continued parsing these muddied issues—trying to convince her how cruel the outcome might be, an argument ensued. She flew into a great fury, saying, “I needs live with God’s will, but you it seems, will not!”

Then after raining profuse invective on me, she left.

That is how this memorable meeting ended. This news and our fight set a terrible damper over the weeks preceding my progress north. During this time, many preparations begged completion and my mind remained clouded.

During this journey I would be attached as liveryman to the train making up the accounts collections of Cellarer Eadsige and Subcellarer Edgar. These personages survey to distant sokes meant profuse income. They were chartered to Peterborough Abbey, hence Father Abbott’s undoubted dominion though not contiguous to Peterborough.

Over all these lands Cellarer Eadsige carried Father Abbott’s mantle of authority. Unlike the kindly Father Abbott, our Cellarer would extract the last ha’pence even if it meant bitter response before law.

Furthermore, since the sokes were scattered in so many directions, several of Cellarer Eadsige’s appointed factors would make smaller forays to less significant holdings—but not so insignificant that coin was not owed Peterborough Monastery.

Gilbert and I this year would both attend these activities. I would be attached to Subcellarer Edgar’s train almost exclusively.

This vital and lavish effort gave me opportunity to establish my worth.

A dozen housecarls under arms would guard these imposing processions. This included armed action when confronting landholders and debtors of various stripe who simply hid in copse or forest to avoid payment. Knowing our train was temporary, they sought the advantage of time to wait things out.

This was harmful thinking.

Cellarer Eadsige would send these housecarls and their caparisoned mounts through the severest of tangles to uproot those owing, if necessary, no matter the trouble involved.

“And there is good sport in this,” I overheard one knobby old dreng tell his son while equipping their mounts with repaired harness. “We fetch in some squealing like young pigs. Peeing and shitting themselves most grandly.”

Though my excitement should have been high, instead my heart was misery itself. Cwenburh would not meet with me. As the day for departure approached, I grew desperate to see her despite the press of diverse business.

The requirements of duties and the anxiety of Cwenburh’s absence rendered me less aware of inauspicious stirrings. If more alert I might have anticipated a gate of retribution closing behind me.

But I did not and within minutes my future changed.

On the evening prior to the departure I rounded the corner of Gilbert’s work quarters and found none other than Prior Denewulf, Wilfred-of-Loe, and Gilbert all waiting. At Prior’s back the Whipmen lurked, and there I was, stopped cold center. Wilfred pointed with his staff.

“There he is who has violated my trust, had sport with my daughter, and cost me much money.”

Prior Denewulf looked at me and, motioning for the Whipmen to back away, gestured to Wilfred with a single finger, then pointed to me. “And what say you, Cuthwin? If it is so, then you have besmirched the good trust of Peterborough Monastery. Is Cwenburh-of-Loe carrying your child?”

“Yes, Reverend Prior, she is.”

“By her consent, without profit?”

“Yes, Reverend Prior.”

“What has consent to do with the cost?” Wilfred croaked.

Prior Denewulf was not to be questioned. He looked down his nose at the greedy Wilfred as if hearing the bleating of a sheep. Treating him with an especially weary gaze, he looked to Gilbert. “Master Liveryman, this is all too proximate to the spring rounds of Peterborough Monastery. I want Cuthwin to fulfill his duties on this coming progress. During his absence I shall do more to illuminate matters, but time is too short now. Then, when he returns, we will address this in office proper.”

“And meanwhile, she pips and debt is owed!” Wilfred blurted out.

Reverend Prior, so harried, lost patience.

“Wilfred-of-Loe, are you questioning Father Abbott’s unending care and compassion for all his people, or his sense of justice and Holy Union with God’s Will?”

Though as godless as Wilfred-of-Loe was, he lacked courage to visit further outrage before Reverend Prior. He instead mumbled ‘no’ and left, but not without casting an ugly glance at me.

I knew matters at Loe would turn even uglier for Cwenburh, and possibly even Gytha.

Prior waited until Wilfred withdrew, then without word he too left—but the silence he left in his wake was as loud as the northeastern storms. Close behind him, both Whipmen straggled; one glanced back at me, and offered a smug pat on the butt of his whip.

Gilbert sat with a clear sense of resolve—or resignation. He had stood by at the ready, and now he reached for the old pot that sat on the edge of the forge.

My legs seemed filled with meal flour; Gilbert saw this, motioned me to sit, and brewed his pungent drink. During preparation of his beverage he enjoyed the silence. Indeed, it enabled my mind to steady. Taking the old broken cup offered, I sipped and steeled myself. Surely Gilbert might be my only friend, if indeed he still was.

“Gytha in wrath over my kinsman’s greed has taken Cwenburh and gone back to Tilton-of-Lynn Regis, to her original master. Wilfred has lopped off his nose despite his face, for he fancies Gytha in his doltish way. So he is faced with double deficit. I cannot see a good outcome, Cuthwin, for either you or Cwenburh.”

This struck me with exceeding despair: We both contemplated the nature of my plight. Eventually Gilbert left, telling me to stay put, assuring he would see to the evening rounds with the animals.

I realized Cwenburh and her grim situation, which was ours, was upon my shoulders for the next move. If I had acted, anticipated with keenness—anything, I should have at least been better prepared for this hour instead of impaled on this cruel gibbet.

I could not venture on the Cellarer’s progress in pursuit of my own ambitions abandoning the woman I loved and allowing her to drift towards uncertain fate. Cwenburh was my responsibility; she carried our child and lost her home, a loss due to our acts together. With her mother they fled to strange lands that might, for all I knew, not offer kind welcome.

The trueness of my path was painful but clear.

My time at Peterborough Monastery had come to an end.

There was little material difference between the night of my first intended escape when I arrived from the fens, to the evening of my last stealthy departure from Peterborough Monastery. On the first I was still a boy, had nothing other than a few items in a sack and plump pigeons taken from the livery eaves for provision.

Now I was of age to serve at arms with hosts anywhere and had skills. Fortunately, I owned a few more items than I did those years back. I procured honestly items needed to ply the liveryman’s trade, but not many more clothes and certainly no money.

As far as I knew, I still owed the Monastery for the sum to repay the reward for my capture, though I was not sure.

Lynn Regis was about fourteen leagues from Peterborough Monastery, to me a world distant. Further, I knew nothing of Tilton-of-Lynn Regis, the hides of land he might hold, indeed if the tenant was a man, for a man could be long dead and his widow manage all lands.

One item sure was Tilton-of-Lynn Regis was not owing to Father Abbot at Peterborough, but instead the Monastery at Ely. Ownership was not my concern on this evening. Speed and suddenness were now pressing necessity.

If I left after Matins and well before Lauds, even if pursuit began at the start of the work day, I would have good lead. No longer a stripling, I would reach Lynn Regis hours before pursuers. Afoot—over any tangle of obstacles—I would make rapid time opposed to mounted pursuers or a train of hounds and their handlers.

If anything Cwenburh, though tiny, was as agile as I if not moreso. If she wished, I might chase her through an entire day and not catch her, she laughing back at me at length or so ahead. She could cross field and stream, kirtle on or held aloft, with no more thought than a doe hare—under burden or not. Hence, our progress once joined would become no slower, God be praised.

Once together I planned to flee northwest, skirting the sokes of Peterborough and Ely, possibly even hastening towards the western marshes with Wales.

I felt awful guilt about abandoning my Monastery posts. The greatest towards Gilbert who trusted me and imparted skills and advice over my apprenticeship. But lastly, and more than all, Father Abbott, even though I saw and talked with him only a small fraction compared to Gilbert.

Whenever he returned—for he was at present long-absented on duty to the King—I knew Cwenburh and I would have his quiet blessings, forgiveness, and prayers for our child.

But it would show Godless ingratitude to skulk off without farewell and expressing lifelong gratitude to Gilbert. I knew he would not give out alarm and deprive my only advantage in retreat.

I knew no father, and he came closest to it.

I was stuffing diverse items into my leather wallet—things I did acquire during my time—trying to think of everything. At my back I heard Gilbert approach my quarter. He carried several items.

“I suppose you will to Lynn Regis. What do you know of it?”

“Nothing, except its direction.”

While telling me what he knew, which was much, he laid out things: An extra wallet to pack more things, some dried food, an ale sack, more tools for leather and harness, and most crucial, a small purse with twenty silver pennies, a sum unimagined.

“In the morning, when all convene, you will of course be missed. So, strike a fast pace.”

I stood before him, to whom I owed so much, and found no words, only thickly managing a simple ‘thank you,’ for I held back considerable tears. He nodded, said he must return to his ‘Old Woman,’ and they would both pray for me. This was the first time he mentioned his wife other than in most indirect manner, and certainly the only time he mentioned prayer.

He clasped me powerfully in farewell, turned and was gone. I never saw Gilbert again, but know I will in the unknown but peaceful precincts of heaven, God willing. Even to this day, sixty-five years later, I pray regularly for kindly rest of Gilbert’s soul.

When I turned up missing it would take little sense to assume I was headed to wherever Cwenburh was. Prior Denewulf certainly would know to where she and Gytha had withdrawn. Mounted housecarls knowledgeable of roads and byways could readily intercept me—cut me short.

I had to take these certainties into consideration.

Through God’s good graces, the late spring night was clear, and casting my glance overhead and using the sound knowledge of a countryman, I struck course upon kind Polaris’s aspect. Around me, land and water were littered with thousands of glowworms casting their uncanny light. They were one of many reasons to avoid walking in country at night. These were sure familiars of pixies and water spirits who inhabited the ceaseless tangles of reeds and grasses on the nighttime fens. Together with the din of frog and diverse night creatures, all cast an imposing strangeness.

These however, frightened me less than being caught, whipped, and no longer able to help Cwenburh. I took heart and kept on.

Young and in perfect flesh, I continued at a steady trot—keeping up through matins and prime. Sometime towards first light, the sun was preceded by a fragile sliver of the waning moon. It cast so much light, compared to the bare heavens and surrounding fens, I increased pace, so once again God struck on our sides. By the time the sun broached the eastern horizon, I had so much road to my back I could not possibly be intercepted.

In fact, I had made eight full leagues.

Thirsty, hungry, and my entire body begging for respite, I stopped behind a dikework and looked out over the River Ouse while partaking of ale and a portion of trencher.

The swallows and swifts had returned to the fens sometimes around the Festival of St. Patrick. In full numbers, they winged every which way at dawn, hunting the wealth of bugs who swarmed with the strengthening sun.

I took God-given peace by sight of this new life: the Mighty Ouse draining the spreading fens, and the flatness of the land; the sea joining along the shore of The Wash, that basin where all rivers pour.

I cast eye on the River Ouse on just a few occasions; however, on this morning, it was a special view. I knew that somehow both Cwenburh-of-Loe and I would be free upon it. Casting a look around at land, sea, and the skies—especially now with the rising sun for precise reference—I knew that Lynn Regis was close and appreciated the good progress made.

Every hour was gold for Cwenburh and me. No one at Lynn Regis would know facts pertaining to my presence. Setting out at a trot, I laced back and forth across courses of dike works and narrow paths. Within an hour I came across an elderly Saxon towing a cart with two fine milk goats bedded in rich straw. These two gazed out at the passing of land and water as might an Empress or Queen in sedan chair.

“God speed, Uncle! Your milk goats are fine creatures, but surely you spoil them. Do you have knowledge of the whereabouts of Tilton-of-Lynn Regis? I am from Peterborough and carry good tidings for them.”

He set down the wooden traces, stretched, and cast his remaining good eye on his animals. His face, neck, and shoulders were deeply scarred—one eye completely closed. Indeed, his old wounds testified to a youth occupied at arms. Arrayed along the bottom of the cart on pegs were containers into which he milked his animals. Like so many elders, hard work had twisted him about like a knot of thick beech. He gestured an outstretched hand towards them, proud.

“These two are my finest, God bless them. You cannot indulge too much what brings you a living, and both these creatures know it.” He pondered my question, and when I offered him a strip of dried eels, he motioned northeast.

“Tilton-of-Lynn Regis has salt pans. It is run by that old squint Marvis-of-Tilton, a widow whose husband by the Grace of God escaped her through death.”

Over ale and dried eel, he provided a bounty of gossip. I learned Tilton-of-Lynn Regis was a fortunate place for a young Gytha to have escaped by sale. Work in salt pans is unforgiving labor—out upon the open shore, swept of wind and sun. Upon these, serfs labored harvesting salt or doing one of a hundred duties required. Then the salt would be crafted into plugs for sale to wandering pedlars.

Furthermore, Marvis-of-Tilton was tighter than Wilfred-of-Loe. I surmised without doubt the two were ideally suited to cheat each other negotiating over serfs, and the contracts therein.

Having the lead on searchers from Peterborough, and with this wealth of information, I offered labor of towing the cart for the ancient. He chatted on about Lynn Regis with even more detail regards Marvis-of-Tilton.

“Tilton be actually where the manor stand. There it squats, perched, with the pans all about it, like a kirtle on a fat woman. The old bag Marvis consumes serfs faster than the weasel does rats. Buries them unshriven on those tufts of soil by the dozen, but she can afford such. Ah, she’s a rich old patch of leather, she is.”

He knew the smallest of items about Lynn Regis. In fact, he was the equal of Cwenburh—herself devoted to gossip about diverse sins and follies everywhere, God forgive. Meeting this milk pedlar was indeed Our Savior’s blessing.

Reaching a single pathway extending towards the pans, he pointed the way and warned, “Unless your good tidings have silver attached, you’ll not be given anything for repast there. And who are you? I am Syth-of-Lynn Regis.”

“And I Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, Liveryman. My thanks to you.”

It had not occurred to lie about my name, for dissembling was not my natural way. Later necessity altered this.

The directed path met the shallow, tide-worn shore of The Wash, and along it salt pans formed a checkerboard. There were dozens, and in the morning progress I saw many workers laboring.

Some looked landward at me as I trekked past; others worked on, bent from the work. Finally, one came into view who was a mounted overseer, his steed, a donkey. Whipping the hapless animal, he led it trotting over to me. The fellow pointed a worn thornwood switch at me.

“State your business, Stranger. You are upon my Mistress’s soke.”

I at once disdained this devil; his bristled countenance, gap-toothed leer, and watery eyes repulsed. At the moment it occurred I had no plan whatsoever—so operated on the spur.

“I am from Peterborough, and carry profitable tidings for your Mistress.”

“And who are you?”

“Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, messenger and factor.”

“She is ill abed. Tell your tidings to me, and I shall carry them to her.”

“I cannot. My sworn duty is to deal with Good Mistress directly. With God’s grace, I hope she is not too ill.”

He turned his switch inward, giving himself a good scratching on his buttocks. I thought he might offer to show me to the croft or manor where this creature maintained her lair. Instead he directed me to wait so he might ride for proper instruction. But just when he set off, he turned about, asking, “You say you’re Cuthwin-of-Peterborough?”

“No, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick. I am messenger and factor from Peterborough.”

Whatever crude trick that bespoke, or if he was simply brain-worn through imbibing vastnesses of ale and beer, I did not know. But the time waiting gave me opportunity to finish crafting a precise weave of a plan.

As experience in life taught, wit was my surer ally rather than a strong arm. And thanks to my gossipy acquaintance, my foreknowledge yielded more than enough material to manufacture ‘good tidings.’

While my thoughts so stirred, two serfs passed, back-borne hoppers laden with dearly priced salt. The Unfortunates struggled but managed to look up from under their burdens. I raised a greeting.

“God’s tidings to you.”

Yet the wretched souls threaded on only managing to respond with toneless murmur. So harshly were they used by work that save for their wearing tattered kirtles, I could not have distinguished man from woman. Their plight raised even uglier fears, for did this life await Cwenburh and Gytha and indeed our child?

This despondent portrait at once raised desperation, even boldness, to access immediate ingenuity of story. I became absolute in my urgency to free Cwenburh—and indeed Gytha—any way short of violence.

When the doltish overseer returned, he brought a pair of house-carls of a sort, along with his mistresses’ response. Each housecarl was mounted on a horse with ribs and hide prominent and worn, themselves four-legged victims of the pans. A trot would be all they might manage.

One of these gnarled squints carried a massive cudgel, and I supposed him to be headman. The Saxon he managed was broken and rasped by some foreign tongue.

“Mistress Marvis bid you follow us in peace.”

“In God’s truth, brothers, peace is what I bear.”

One fell behind, the headman preceded, and we followed the wide rim of The Wash. It began to angle northerly when we encountered what my chatty milkman termed ‘the tuft of dry land.’

And upon it was a hodgepodge composing burh and manor. As we passed through the stout wall, I saw all the inner structures. Those attached to manor and those outside were built of matter and beam of the type I had never seen. Instead of board and diverse thatch, and other common stuff of construct, all instead appeared to have been pushed and stacked together by giants or massive gnomes.

Their aspect was singular because their origins were apparently diverse sorts of wood drifted in from the sea—grounded over the years along vast tidal flats of The Wash, the larger and more substantial, the better.

But on second glance, all the structures were not of drift. Everywhere apparent were included pieces of ship and cart in the construct. For The Wash was a grand place for arrival and retreat of invading hosts of Danes, and indeed anyone landing on this coast.

All wall and buildings were put together piecemeal—like wasps would a nest.

The gate was left open during these times of comparative peace. But at any hint of trouble, it would be clapped shut and the Archfiend Himself would be challenged to break into the Manor. Likewise it could trap a mere mortal inside.

From within carried on a seat mounted on a carrying platform entered Marvis-of-Tilton. Each end was carried by a stout serf. These two had light burden, for their mistress was an ancient, shrunken to a knot of skin and sinew. If not for a pair of burning, dark eyes that shone like those of a pitiless dragon, their burden might be mistaken for a corpse.

As a wand of office, she carried a stout stick that I guessed rightly was not ceremonial. Dressed in old tatters, these contrasted vastly to a brilliant Norman mantle, a singular sign of wealth. The sight of her struck in me fear—yet desperation and love for Cwenburh rendered me stouthearted.

“I bring you greetings from Wilfred-of-Loe, Mistress. I am Cuthwin-of-Alnwick.”

“Fuck him and his greetings. I expected as much seeing his serf mistress with her whelp recently returned to me because of some outrage. Well, she still is my serf. He is owing me remainder and has for years, which has accrued interest.”

“Indeed, as hired factor I am here to negotiate that debt and bring fair settlement to this old proceeding. He misses daughter and mother greatly.”

She looked me over, raised her switch and swatted a girl who approached with a cup.

“Not now, stupid bitch!” Then shifted to one side adding, “You are young for a factor.”

“Thank you, Mistress. I have been factor with my father and uncle these two years now.”

“Well, Cuthwin-of-Wherever, Wilfred-of-Loe will require two pound fifteen shillings King’s silver for each to clear debt. You see I have what he wants, the stupid shit.”

I nearly collapsed at mention of such a sum, but plowed on.

“I cannot negotiate price yet, Mistress. First, I’m under strict instruction to make sure the souls are in same health as when they ran off from Master Wilfred.”

At a sudden she spat, and by gesture with the same talon that clung to her switch, beckoned. In a moment, a brutish cottar pushed Gytha from one of the out-huts, but not without words from her, in fact making him jump away when she raised an arm: “Keep your hands from me, you whoreson.”

“This be Gytha-of-Loe. And you can see she is of healthy limb and voice.”

Her presence of mind was such that Gytha gave not a wink of recognition or disconcertion at my presence.

“And her daughter? My commission for both is clear.”

When Cwenburh came into view, my heart leapt wildly. She indeed looked fuller, and if anything more beautiful to my eyes. So possessed was I by her, my legs weakened. Unlike Gytha, she eyed me such I feared the old fiend might perceive a connection. At once Cwenburh returned to a countenance equal to her mother. They stood together.

“There they are. Two-pound fifteen and you can have them. Only silver is acceptable.”

“Wilfred-of-Loe could purchase three-hide more of land for so great a price, Mistress. With such news, I doubt he would even pay me my fee. Surely, I cannot, as his factor, make contract thusly. No factor would.”

“He can purchase what he may. But for these two he compensates with merchet and interest for his wife and her daughter. That is what the price is. I don’t bargain save with salt pedlars who are lowborn shitheads to a cursed man of them.”

“Then, with the price set so, and not wishing to return all the way, especially in view you charge interest, I’ve been instructed by Wilfred to seek appeal from the Hundred or Father Abbot of Ely himself. There is much complication here of previous agreement.”

All matters from Peterborough were easily dismissed by this ancient menace; however, an appeal instead at the local Hundred for justice, or worse, the Monastery at Ely, was another. As landholder, she must have favor and permit from Father Abbot of Ely to operate her pans, and to sell their produce, and to pay geld on each. But her last claim, that of charging interest was usury—a sin.

I guessed—on the fly—that such a troubled crone would have made enemies there by such practices, and in fact before the Hundred.

She bristled—drew back her head a notch, and described a circle in the air with her, wand of authority, as it were: “So it is. Now get off my lands, return to that fornicator Wilfred and tell him Marvis-of-Tilton tells him to get himself to hell.” She then looked to her bearers and up she was hefted, and made to return within.

“You old worm! What is going on here!?”

A youngish man—or years younger than Mistress—astride a towering mule trotted in. The rider was rotund of belly, and a servant slid up a platform enabling him to dismount. Afoot he confronted Mistress Marvis. The moment between them gave me opportunity to cast a desperate look at Cwenburh who at once shook her head briskly and mouthed, I thought, ‘Go!’

I stood my ground while this new arrival confronted the Mistress; he broke off with her, glanced to me, then back.

“Who is this? And Aunt, what foulness are you up to? I have a big enough mass of enemies when you die, let alone you adding to it daily without my knowledge.”

“And until I die, Nephew, you possess shit!”

They squared off like rams—the nephew, a stout thane with bald pate. He came closer, circling her by half. Mistress Marvis’ bearers lowered her to the ground, clearly preparing to fly for cover in the event of a great clash.

Gytha took Cwenburh by her hand and drew her closer. It was strange that I noted a smile upon Gytha, but it was this that gave me momentary heart. I struggled to continue weaving my false story.

Finally he desisted the eye-to-eye battle and looked to me: “I am Alric, nephew to Mistress and manager here. Who are you, and what is your business that has caused my Aunt’s uproar?”

I told him, and he at once pieced everything together—for he appeared sly—not of mind that allowed greed for immediate money to cloud a longer, more profitable direction.

“It is late in Gytha’s life to agree to merchet, Factor Cuthwin.”

“My commissions are frequently made late; nonetheless, Wilfred-of-Loe desires to make fair merchet, and then wedding contract. And price is two-pound fifteen!”

With a deep breath of patience, Alric thought a moment.

“My Aunt and I must speak of this within.” He motioned to a servant woman. “Fetch a repast for this factor. Our bread and beer is less apt to sour in your gut opposed to what you would buy in Lynn, and here at no price.”

And while Mistress Marvis squalled and argued, they both withdrew; from inside manor, I heard Alaric’s voice rise.

I was shown to a side-yard where I sat on remnants of a broken-down cart. I hoped to avail a private moment with Gytha and hopefully Cwenburh.

My nerves ate at me—virtual granary rats—for every hour taken with my risky dissembling, thanes from Peterborough were closing league by league.

There was the sweetest joy possible by a foolish youth to see Cwenburh. At the same moment I feared I was entangled in a situation to which I was not equal. I had no further plan at the ready on how to continue.

Under orders to prevent talk between this stubborn Peterborough factor and the two souls under negotiation, the two housecarls—still mounted on their dilapidated steeds—kept a weather eye on Gytha and Cwenburh. I was served by an elderly serf. When she bent low, carrying watery beer, she said in careful voice, “I bring these words from Gytha: Watch George the great mule, and be at ready with wallets and yourself. You have little time. God’s grace and speed to you both, Cuthwin, and do not worry about Gytha but only Cwenburh and the child.”

When my eyes moved to the great mule, I saw Gytha let go of Cwenburh who walked towards the out-hut from where she emerged. The brute who carried the cudgel motioned her back.

“You stay put! If Mistress wanted you to return inside, she would have directed.”

“I must pee.”

“What!? Pee here.”

But in a style so aptly hers, Cwenburh ignored him and went inside. He and his assistant—faced with her disobedience, and she being new to them—knotted their stupid brows. Another servant, this one also young and fetching, emerged with ale for both the housecarls.

“Here, you two. This is good stout ale rather than watery beer.”

They eyed both her and the capacious wooden cups with pleasure. The one with cudgel laid it before him, reached down, and relayed the first draught to his companion, then took the second in both paws. And this was the moment evidently awaited.

Cwenburh emerged—walking rapidly, carrying a small sack, and now shod rather than barefoot, putting me on alert at once. With cups to their maws, eyes hidden, the two were still in mid-draught. Indeed, Cwenburh not only kept swiftly on, but after exchanging the briefest of touch with her mother, burst forth—hopped as brazenly as a robin up to the wooden step, and in a wink upon George the Mule.

“Cuthwin! Hurry!”

Realizing their outlandish plan in a rush, I charged across the yard, then with a half-step leaped astride George behind Cwenburh. The animal bolted off sending clods of dirt flying behind him—out the gate—in such a gallop that I clung to its diminutive rider to keep astride. Cwenburh shouted out words. Her legs were hooked into the girth line: “The King’s mount himself couldn’t catch George!”

It was a ride whose memory would last a lifetime, the act launching us on our new life. The salt-pans whipped by, George charged by everyone—most unstooped themselves to watch us so grandly proceed. None of the hacks mounted by the housecarls would ever catch George unless God himself gave them wings.

And may God strike me lifeless if I tell a lie, but atop George, Cwenburh laughed and found great adventure in this. Like all her actions and whims, it never occurred to the elf that stealing the Mistresses’ mule would get us hanged, then impaled upon gibbets or otherwise mortally outraged.

It was all of two or three leagues of such retreat when anything pursuing had long since been left behind. After several vain attempts, I managed to wrestle controls from her, and stop the madness.

“God help us, Cwenburh! Astride such an expensive beast, two such as we stand out like a pair of oxen wearing monks’ habits. We must free this animal to return, and for us continue afoot cross country.”

“You would think of freeing a mule, but what about me and your child? And I have abandoned my mother, poor soul. This escape was her idea. We planned it ages before your belated arrival.”

She thus beset me with various admonishments while I allowed George to go free; instead he just looked at us, offering a nibble or such at nearby tufts of spring growth.

“You see, not even a beast desires to return there.”

She removed her shoes, as was her custom—saving them, she maintained, for more important occasions. We walked in line—she ahead, ignoring me. I reminded her—in truth insisted—we direct west, away from The Wash, Ely, and all we knew, towards the western hill country, keeping to thickets and marshes or forests.

“I am indeed going west, Cuthwin. Or do you think an illiterate woman does not know where the sun sets?”

At a loss to touch her, she would pull away at my reach, keeping ahead. And we did proceed west, setting out by as complicated a way across the fens as possible. She, throughout that singular day, refused my touch. Also, she did not offer simple compliment for my wit or resource, instead visiting curtness and sharp word. As I recall, there were several arguments over changes of direction and which distant points to aim for.

But with all young people in love, there was affection, always the strong center of God’s blessing that brings them together. For I have come to believe over the subsequent years that coin and station are a curse to man and woman. When riches and manners intrude, the chances to enjoy the wisdom God intended—given in that original wilderness between Adam and Eve—go forever.