Book 7
Saint Cuthwin in company with others travels to the south from the tragedy and violence at York. Despite Cuthwin’s struggles, all he loves is swept away by the demonic actions of savage Normans and Saxon turncoats. He then deals with the anguish of this loss and its earthly necessities. Resuming travel to the south he joins with devout Eadwig and survivors of his holy station. After seeing his most blessed son off to Rome, St. Cuthwin travels west to the wilds of Kernowec. He maroons himself on a rocky islet off the coast with modest belongings. There he meditates in prayer with God, His Savior, and the diverse Saints. He works for the purity of his body and soul, and thusly becomes Cuthwin the Fence Builder. He is consulted by various faithful as he grows to great age and wisdom; therefore, by his ninth decade of life, becomes known throughout Pydar as Saint Cuthwin, the Fence Builder. During this time, he begins and completes the telling of his august life to the Brothers of St. Kea Monastery.
Here through hard work and contemplation of all his travels, he lives on to advanced age and wisdom.
In the months following the bloody scene before the Minster, the question was not if one should flee but to where. Thorkald’s assurance of the grimmest retribution by the Normans never diminished, despite the ongoing series of Saxon resistance in the north.
Still, what concerned myself—and Cwenburh—was always where to flee?
A hodgepodge of news, rumors, and actual fact mixed a demon’s brew. As a scribe myself, and former master to York’s best known scribe and shop, I was privy to events north and south. The business of copying and letter writing became so hectic that once again I was called in several times a week to help with the overload. Oslaf was wearing his hand out.
In addition to these sweeping concerns, there was disruption in his shop and house. When Gunnhilda gave birth to a daughter, Oslaf’s overbearing parents rejected a child birthed by a mute. They convinced extended families on both sides to shun the child and mother.
Oslaf’s home became an isolated place.
Cwenburh got involved. She was blessedly having luck in finding freeborn positions for her girls, three being apprenticed to local, responsible fullers. But she and I differed on the situation in Oslaf’s household.
“Is not there enough strife in our everyday life not to take on more, Cwenburh?”
She was irrepressible when it came to right and wrong and showing compassion according to Our Savior’s teachings.
Somewhat diminishing his positive stature before the womenfolk, Thorkald had taken a homeless widow to bed on occasion. The poor thing, somewhat on the homely side, mistook the occasion for permanence.
Hence between armies being raised to the south, west, east, and north, I had to deal with domestic issues, plus those of proper craft at the shop. It seemed, as Oslaf said, “everyone wanted to write every soul in England and Northumbria.”
After Compline, Oslaf would come to the cooperage and, in private—from one scribe to another—we would share contents of missives, and it was not good.
Normans and their thralls would come north, only to encounter wellarmed and expertly commanded armies of Saxon or those hostile to Norman rule who prevailed each time.
Thorkald got word of these battles, and gave them little hope in the long run. “Duke William is not here; when he is, and has time, he will come north with great force, as sure as the Lord created all before us.”
Eventually, by the spring of the year, we decided on the opposite direction of the troubles—north, to Cumbria.
As if our plans were privy to demons, word arrived from Cumbria in the form of refugees: Several vicious dragons, they asserted, loosed themselves upon various villages and towns there, employing special venom and brimstone fires upon the kin and those loyal to King Malcom of Scotland, the feared Lord of Cumbria.
Clearly these worms were messengers of retribution for the many heathen violations perpetrated in the far north.
That put us back at the beginning, for nobody sane would venture into a nest of dragons awakened from long slumbers due to one outrage or another. Cumbria was eliminated, which disappointed me badly, for seeking safety in the opposite direction of the troubles and violence struck me as best.
Now it was summer, this one hot and dry. Most of this time, the whereabouts of King William was not known with any sureness: Some said Normandy, some said Mercia. Then, typical of base evil-doers—the greediest and most opportune of them—appeared to fish in sullied water.
Once more, ships and men came from Denmark under princes there; in fact, the first of them had arrived. So with Danes coming from the east with hundreds of ships and William and his army eventually coming from the south, there was no more hope. It was time to leave.
In the midst of these troubles, despite all, Oslaf, paying a greedy priest coin, was united to Gunnhilda in Holy Matrimony. At the cooperage, we had a fine wedding feast for them, making a wedding briar in an alcove for them.
As a morning gift, before all of us, Oslaf gave Gunnhilda an arm ring of pure silver, set with a single, marvelous pearl in the middle. About that time, his father, very much in his cups, burst in and made a scene. Thorkald—also in his cups—tossed the father onto the street, and Cwenburh did what she could to comfort the bride and groom from this outrage.
Matilda mistook it all for a mime, and laughed and pounded on the boards. I knew this was the death knell of peace and domesticity for Oslaf, and it was a grand exit at that.
Surely it was at this time that God’s Grace fell upon us: We received a letter from Eadwig, now Abbot at Eynsham Abbey. He urged us to venture there, where Abbey lands could be rented to all or any of us, joking that he had good rumor the landlord was just and fair.
He assured us that the troubles between King William and Saxon Monasteries had been well resolved by His Eminence, the new Archbishop of Canterbury. In fact, Abbot Eadwig’s letter was hand-delivered by Prior Walter of Hempstead, who with two other brothers from Eynsham Abbey, represented Abbot Eadwig at the funeral mass for Archbishop Aldred.
To us, with our family being together again, this was an overwhelming temptation, though Thorkald took a cautious view of it.
In fact, Thorkald and myself had repaired our health as well as old men can. One true and God-given gift was that we had become as a family: Ours consisted of myself, Cwenburh, Matilda, Thorkald, and the now-fifteen girls; also a young boy named Alf who had pretended to be a girl and was found out.
Alf, at eight years of age, was an imp and tested Cwenburh and Gunnhilda’s patience and Christian forgiveness.
Thorkald demonstrated that turning Alf over and spanking his bottom did far more with him than any other appeals. Soon Alf wanted to be a soldier like Thorkald and stuck to him constantly, asking about his adventures in diverse armies. Additionally, the hapless Sara—devoted to Thorkald—was now swelling.
Cwenburh and I, having good silver coin, knew this was the key benefit that made this trek of fifty leagues possible. We had learned much about traveling being on the begang for over a dozen years.
In the end, Eynsham and Eadwig it was.
We purchased wagons and animals—with an extra rouncey50 for scouting ahead and replacement in the case of loss. Taking main roads would be dangerous, so calling on our experience and Thorkald’s knowledge, we would ply the lesser ways with terrain inhospitable to a large army, mounted or otherwise. Though this would add distance, safety was the highest consideration.
It was several days after Lammas when we set out. Oslaf and Gunnhilda—now with an infant daughter—I knew would be hardest for us to bid goodbye on that morning. We were surprised—to say the least—when they both arrived with a foot-drawn wagon, Oslaf announcing, “We would like to go with you? I could set up shop close to the Abbey—the closest town? Would Father Eadwig mind, do you think?”
We of course—in fact, joyfully—welcomed them, but I felt responsible to ask after his shop—his investment, his parents.
“I told them they could have it. I would no longer tolerate their cruelty to Gunnhilda and my daughter. Anyway, I was the shop; without it, it is but a place to buy writing materials. I take my craft with me, and I thank you, God, and Our Savior for that, and for my wife and child. They are my world now, God be praised.”
This was a bold step. We all gathered in a circle that day and knelt in common prayer for God’s protection en route. I will always prize the friendship of good Oslaf as one of my crowning achievements over the ninety-odd years, and if my influence was such that he came with us that morning, I pray to God for forgiveness.
When we left York I looked back—stopping in my track and gazing at what had been my home for seven years. I would never see it again—nor within a year would anyone else—not like it was. That moment became etched vividly in my mind. I turned and caught up with the others, a sadness in each step.
We directed west, away from all old established roads.
The heat is what I remember most. It was difficult for the animals; the children rode during the heat of day; also, they rode in the early mornings before sunup, children’s blood being thick early.
The girls were over seven or eight years of age by now, but not yet women, and they walked well enough when content. However, growing weary, they would often fight among themselves, and in temper they would sit—obstinately vowing never to walk again in company of the other—in fact, they would swear to die before moving.
Not a few times, Cwenburh—or now even meek Sara—just grabbed a recalcitrant ward by the leg, and dragged her along, saying, “Then, in God’s faith, we will drag you, rather than leave you for the wolves or gargoyles.”
Being three-hands taller and thicker than most men, Thorkald was a powerful hiker, even with the imp Alf atop his shoulders serving as ‘lookout,’ as he put it. He would always precede us by many furlongs, coming back to alert us to one thing or another.
Thorkald had a diffident relationship with Sara. He and Cwenburh, who had become like sister and brother, were always on the margins of arguing about Sara, for Cwenburh took her part absolutely. I avoided talking directly—even indirectly—about the entire situation; I thank God for such practical wisdom.
The strain of a long trek always tired the children and Matilda first, and then Sara and Gunnhilda, though despite her years, Cwenburh retained the strength in being able to walk forever. Because of this all, we often set camp before sunset. We had so much daylight remaining, Thorkald, myself, or both would get astride Mouse. This was the name that for some unfathomable reason the children gave ‘their’ rouncey. We would ride a long way to serve as van for the next day.
From the first day, there was an uneasy silence upon the land. There was no clear reason that we could see: It was summer, and save for the heat of the day, a favorable time for travelers. The roads, though smaller and ill-kept, were nothing an experienced traveler could not deal with. Yet we would encounter no one, not one traveler. Neither I nor Thorkald liked this, and he was uneasy but would voice it only with me.
“Since my sixteenth spring, I spent the following thirty in hostile land, Master Cuthwin, and quiet is never good, God help us.”
Each evening camp Thorkald remained on the highest scrutiny, and it took little convincing from Thorkald for myself and Oslaf to stand night watch from Matins through Prime.
Throughout the first week—entirely uneventful—we had almost perfect traveling conditions.
Thorkald informed all adults about the answer to the mystery of seeing few people when the children slept and would not hear: “It is as I suspected, we pass by people who have hidden from us, probably hearing us furlongs before the seeing. There is fear everywhere we travel south. I think I might nose some of these out coming from the south and ask them what is ahead.”
The next day, well before Sext, Thorkald walked in pushing three frightened cottars before him, two women and a man. Seeing that we had children and women with us, they became at once easier about being marched in by strength of arms. They were indeed fleeing north.
To the southeast, the man spoke of great trouble with sacking and mayhem everywhere. Mounted thanes, housecarls and lower forms swept down taking everything edible, then burned all remaining while the occupants watched from hiding.
“They laughed and made sport of it, God curse them.”
“Normans?”
“We could not tell. I have never seen one.”
They had known nothing of the royal troubles; in fact they thought Edward was still King. What was significant to them—as all who live by their hand—everything was being looted and burned by men of power.
The man had enough of it all. “My wife has kin north.”
We gave them bread and some flour, and they proceeded north. Thorkald was uneasy about them—or indeed anyone we might meet.
“With all those girls in view, we carry a small fortune, even if we had not a pence with us. No one on the road keeps a cautious tongue. To inform someone of our human bounty would warrant a few coins, surely. We are too open, and must employ more craft. We might consider making hidden camp and keep a surer watch.”
Cwenburh began to be saddled with guilt. She feared the girls might be swept up in any one of many troublesome situations. In the night she and I talked of all the events and fears of the day past and coming.
“I might have settled the girls early with fullers or millers; anything. Especially the boy.”
“Oh? And everything that was happening by the week? No, Cwenburh, we barely had time ourselves; it seems that every Godless army under heaven invaded us within sixty days’ time.”
I had, by her example, become somewhat reconciled with the compassionate teaching of Our Savior, and at the end of each evening, we would pray together—and always included many prayers for safe passage. We did everything we could; now we were in God’s hands.
To Thorkald’s dismay we did not travel on Sabbath during the month of August, unless forced by lay of the land. On the day before, the old soldier would face off with Cwenburh who maintained that to break God’s law would be to invite more trouble. They would quarrel, standing close like mismatched jackdaws.
Sara would try to mollify events, but too often she just drew mean comment from Thorkald, and it all went around and around.
Oslaf and I kept our silence. In my view, our party needed the rest of body equal to the rest of spirit and soul, and Sabbath contributed to the mix.
Like most of Christendom we rested on Sabbaths.
It was not yet Sext the day before Sabbath, and by Thorkald and my reckoning, we had come about twenty-five leagues from York. This is the first time we encountered a settlement of more than a few cottages. It was a frightful sight; with God’s grace and fortune we had come across the disaster before all others.
Thorkald and I had scent of it before sight, for the wind carried the carnage to us.
It was days since the event, and the stench overpowered. Hundreds of rooks gathered; wolves scattered the bodies, consuming most. It was smaller but equally gruesome to the butchery I saw in Oakheath Manor.
“Let us get back at once.”
Thorkald’s voice was crisp with urgency. We turned back striding quickly—so fast, Thorkald would have left me had he not intermittently waited for me to catch up.
At camp, he said nothing. Unhitching Mouse, he removed the rest of his arms from the wagon. By chance, since Alf had been making times miserable for girls, the boy was confined to the wagon—yet in fact escaping. He was then tethered by a line around his ankle to a barrel with the girls minding the imp didn’t undo it and run off. If not for this business, surely he would have seen the carnage from atop Thorkald’s shoulders.
Mounted upon Mouse, Thorkald warned us all to make camp early—a cold camp well hidden. Then stay put until he returned. He went back in the direction of the carnage at a trot—armed with sword and lance and stout Danish helmet. He was private with his plans or intentions.
It was difficult to answer all questions at the same moment, but with Cwenburh, the full weight of what we saw was conveyed when I likened it to Oakheath. She at once followed Thorkald’s instructions.
Even though our camp was a league distant, occasionally the wind would carry whiffs of death with it. A few of the children became ill; overhead, more rooks flocked in that direction—black demons intent on bounty.
Cwenburh directed the making of the hidden camp. Though only a hundred paces off the narrow roadway, it was virtually invisible.
Oslaf and I were shifty, worried—why should we not go forward; we had stout cudgels by this time? What happens if Thorkald is overpowered by whatever worried him?
By now Thorkald and I were fast friends, yet he never talked about his soul to me; but piecing together what he said variously, I understood that he felt fatherly guilt over his deceased son.
“He was too young, Master Cuthwin, and I should have opposed it.”
Never a word about his soul, or God’s punishment for his profession as soldier, but few souls prayed more fervently.
Every hour he was gone, our anxiety rose. Cwenburh and I sat next to each other, for the burden of losing our friend and his wise counsel was forbidding.
Then, late in the day, he returned; Mouse was spattered with gore, as was Thorkald. So weary was he, we thought him wounded. He slid from the rouncey, removed his helmet, looked around, and offered apologetically, “I washed my weapons, but I was too tired for the rest, God forgive me.”
Then he collapsed by the hearth, no fire yet burning.
“We can have a fire; they are all dead now.”
I sensed another dreadful fatigue, this of mind and heart.
“God forbid, how many were there?
“Dozens, Master Cuthwin.”
We stood around him in a circle; he allowed Sara to help him off with his sullied outers. When the fire began, he sat heavily next to it, looked into the flames with eyes heavy and sadder than any I ever saw. He managed to gain his feet, then crawled under the closest cart and fell into a deep trance-like sleep.
Sara joined him there with a cape; she put it over him, Thorkald rolling over towards her. Then both slept.
We prayed together until the Sabbath arrived, and then—me taking the first watch—our group rested as best we might.
It was a warm, humid night, and the creatures were quiet, unlike those creatures on a late summer night. I looked hard, listened harder, but heard nothing. I never knew the life of a soldier and wondered if all the killing and violence is forgiven by God—or if such killing can be forgiven by God?
Cwenburh crept up behind. She sat next to me. Being always fey, she read well my musings. “Cuthwin, I think God’s forgiveness is boundless. I feel sad for poor Thorkald who thinks himself doomed.”
“He has said this to you?”
“He has.”
We leaned against each other. I was having problems with my own faith, so had special empathy for others who too had misgivings about the heart of God. Cwenburh became even heavier against me and I saw she had fallen asleep.
I offered up a prayer, thanking God for bringing my wife back; she had done considerable to repair my torn spirit.
Silence spread from under the canopy of elms and oaks—their branches reaching almost to the ground giving sanctuary to everything underneath. I listened and watched, gently wrapped my arm around Cwenburh, and felt the night pass us by in the form of a frail breeze from the north. But though cooling, it did not carry feelings of optimism. In this foreboding moment, the strangeness of memories intruded. My mind wandered back a half century: There was the round face of my mother, Sarah-of-Alnwick. She tells one of her great stories, though I cannot tell which. She smiles grandly upon me, her son, always to be Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, indubitably her son. In these memories I slept.
No one spoke much upon rising; we made a very small fire with the driest of wood, and the smoke barely rose above the branches, and then in the tiniest of threads, disappeared.
As usual, the girls were cranky when we resumed. Thorkald walked ahead a few furlongs, and seeing he still was in a somber mood I overtook him walking alongside. Even at a stroll his strides quickly consumed the rods.
He knew my concerns about the events. He explained that housecarls, thanes, and such on the business of harrying and looting had human jackals called ‘drudges’ following in the wake of the horsemen and squires.
“These drudges fight from an unspoken agreement: After the town or fort is lost, they are given leave to scavenge for anything remaining, Drudges know their business, are ruthless, and follow their ways for years. It was them I saw. They saw us, too, and were following, of course.”
He offered no more. I knew he would pick up the pace now, and get farther ahead, but about that time Alf caught up—having awakened fully. He was too young to perceive Thorkald’s mood, and the poor little waif asked to follow him on watch.
“Boy, how might I refuse a fellow soldier?”
He slung him like a wallet up on his shoulder, and off they went—Thorkald’s strides twice mine.
I let the carts catch up, and by mid-morning the girls were over their crankiness and bounding about like hares. Sara and Cwenburh chased them around making something of a game of it. Matilda tried to intercept one of them, but though she had become far more mobile, would have more luck catching squirrels.
Coming up last were Gunnhilda and Oslaf, him carrying the infant, while he was being hand-fed last bits of bread by Gunnhilda. I had momentary regret about Cwenburh and I never having had that experience—to carry our child, passing it one to the other, and looking down upon it, surely one of God’s greatest gifts.
But this was envy, and I struggled to sweep it away. Beneath the canopy of aged, towering oak branches, we traveled the road which paralleled a small stream, but a trickle in summer.
I walked along, for all of us had fallen into our usual formation and pace.
My first warning was feeling the fall of heavy horse in the ground, then the sound of them from my rear. I looked back to see with unbridled fear a dozen horsemen trotting up slowly from behind us; the litter-strewn path muffled the palfreys’ hoof-falls.
Olsaf had fallen back to act as rear observer; and this duty hastened his tragic end. I turned towards the arrivals—for at the moment, none of the others had seen them yet.
Seeing fear in my eyes, Cwenburh turned and saw them, and then all the others. The lead horseman dumped a dead Oslaf on the ground. The half-dozen other horsemen came on slowly, threading their way between and around the wagons keenly appraising them.
Gunnhilda ran, and fell upon Oslaf, and Sara only had a moment to take the infant, her face a mask of dread.
I made them to be Norman and Saxon, a grisly assortment. I stopped, bending down to attend Oslaf to see if he lived. Cwenburh managed to warn: “Here come more, Cuthwin.”
Indeed another dozen approached from the south—they joined their fellows, they too appraising their windfall. Two of their horses had dead men draped across them. The second in line tossed Alf on the ground, his leg twisted and broken, and bleeding badly.
Two of them—Normans—were arrayed with better tackle and armor than the others, and their palfreys were fully fleshed with the sheen resulting from expert grooming. The one removed his helmet, and looked back momentarily at the bodies slung across their horses. I understood the Norman only with difficulty, but I understood and saw enough.“That lout of yours fought like the very devil, and killed two of my housecarls, the old bastard.” Then he took a breath and asked, “So what have we here?”
“His name was Thorkald. Is he dead?”
“Dead? Of course he is dead. That boy there will soon follow him. He was handled a bit roughly by one of my dumb Saxon shits. He fled but tumbled into a gorge. We wasted time retrieving him. He is worthless now.”
He switched to a plain, matter-of-fact Saxon, the type used for the routine business of arranging for a sale of cattle or sheep.
“Now listen carefully, Saxon: The adults will live if they give me no trouble, like that damned giant on your van. We will take all else worth more than a pence, especially those price-worthy as slaves. I am Baron Hervey de Bourges, liegeman to Hugo of Bourges—your new Lord in this demesne and soks. Address me as Master.”
At this one of his men tore off the covers from the wagons, and all the girls who had hid there were found, and our true human composition was revealed. There was immediate jubilation; the fellow next to the leader shouted, “By St. Martin, we have made a fortune. Where did you get all the young quim, you old kipper? Are you some sort of whoremonger—husbander of whores? Praise the Lord, but we are well set here.”
Cwenburh got at once between him and the closest of the girls—a group of three huddled against a wagon wheel. Her Norman was more fluent than mine: “Mind you, these are free-born girls, all of them on their way to Eynsham Abbey, wards of the Abbot and Abbess of St. Mary’s in York.”
Oh, the horror of that moment: She had forgotten how worthless our lives were to brutes like these—greedy beyond description.
I stepped forward to pull Cwenburh back to me, but had a lance put smack in my gut, almost cutting. Master Hugo looked down at Cwenburh while drawing, “I told you not to make trouble. Are you all deaf?”
And he murdered dear Cwenburh with a single back swing of his sword. An instant base act by this foul sort of creature erased all that was so rich and meaningful to every soul she touched.
I knocked the lance aside, and fell next to her bleeding body.
“My God! What have you done?!”
Matilda dashed in next to me, also slipping beneath the lance and falling on her mother. In her anguish, as at any time she became over-wrought—her speech departed, and instead her tongue formed only a mishmash. Our poor girl had aged prematurely of late: her hair was grey, and most had fallen out, making her wound and the shape of her head even more apparent. Worse, Gunnhilda joined her at Cwenburh’s fallen body, and true to Oslaf’s word, she did make voice—a strange wobbling screech. At once, another horseman to my rear warned, “My God, demon women, look at the one and listen to the other babble.”
And reached down, wrenched first Matilda upwards; drawing her close he unsheathed a knife and slit her throat. He then tossed her aside quickly, seized Gunnhilda and began to cut. I yelled—rather bellowed, “Mercy, for God’s sakes. She is a deaf mute.”
He completed the act and tossed her atop Matilda; their blood joined.
“Avoid their blood, brothers; it is the stuff of demons. It has venom in it.”
I went senseless with shock and dumbness—a sort of grief perhaps experienced by helpless cattle at slaughter.
Some of the murderers dismounted and began to look through our belongings. They already argued over the division of coin to be gleaned for this grand find of many young girls, whom they all referred to as virgins. Pulling Gunnhilda’s daughter from Sara’s arms, they quarreled over whether an infant would draw any money at all, some saying it would, others not.
Master Hugo shouted at them to shut up. “Let the slave dealer decide, you greedy, ignorant turds!”
All the while Sara remonstrated for the girls’ and infant’s well-being as best she could, until finally she was struck hard in mid-protestations, sending her to the ground. Their master’s voice was weary, dealing with his victims’ repeated stupidities.
“Careful there. She is swelling with child, cannot you even see a pregnant Saxon, you dumb shit? She will draw extra price, plus we will need help with this many young virgins, God be Praised. And mind you they stay virgins, you worthless lot of pig fornicators.”
Master Hugo’s fellow pulled me off Cwenburh, and pushed me before his master, who had dismounted and sat on the tongue of a cart taking a hasty repast of meat and bread; a squire brought him a cup of fresh water: “You know old fellow, your lout killed a cousin of Baron Hervey de Bourges. I was supposed to be looking after him. Now I have much to explain.”
“Tell his Lordship he will burn in hell as will you all.”
Another sat close by, also taking refreshment. He laughed around a mouthful of food. Master Hugo squinted at me, squelched a smile, then shrugged the matter away. “He is in France and will be absent some time or I would tell him. Otherwise I might keep you around. Skinning Saxon pissants alive and tossing tanning salt on them amuses His Lordship and all of us.” He thought a moment, handed off his cup to the squire, and rose, “...but I said any who would not give me trouble would live. From the looks of it, you’re worse off alive anyway.”
He ordered all to mount up—some led riderless horses whose owners had duties driving the wagons. They rode off with everything, leaving behind only those whom they murdered. All had encountered a calamitous end. For the living, there was only a procession of young girls—a swelling Sara carrying Oslaf and Gunnhilda’s daughter—a slave train headed for a pit of serfdom perhaps even in a foreign land.
All this loss—the taking of my dearest at heart—within the brief span of a few minutes by the hand of a wretch who would probably forget his deed a week later.
For the moment, I thought I was the only one who lived, until I heard a moan from Alf. Going to him, I saw his legs twisted and broken, the bones protruding, and he had lost so much blood his face was white as a mushroom.
I was smitten: The dying boy and the slain bodies—and wherever they left poor Thorkald—would be dragged off by wolves. I had to do something and quickly. It was ghastly—all of it. The boy groaned; I looked about gaping—helpless as a fish.
The boy Alf breathed very slowly and I recovered enough where-withall to make the poor boy comfortable as possible. He never knew a home or any comfort beyond that short time with us.
I knew it was not yet Sext, and decided I must first deal with the living and attend the dead when I might. So much devastation was visited on all so matter of factly, I was stupefied. There was no horror in my heart nor instinct to lament—or urge to cry out to heaven. For the hours following this disaster I lifted limb like a puppet, and I thought simply. I could—in my mind—realize the infamy that had befallen, yet I cannot ponder that God saw fit to spare me.
I made a fire—or somehow there was a fire; it could have been just as readily made by the murdering scum. I did put pine boughs on it over dry wood. There was little wind and the smoke lay thick over the bodies, keeping the flies and vermin off. I prayed over Alf, but well before sunset he passed into the arms of Our Savior, Jesus Christ, protector of all innocents.
Suddenly I heard the jingle of metal against metal, and loud talking, then the stomp of hooves.
I darted into the stream, crossed it, and ducked under overgrowth of water celery and such that lolled over the bank.
From cover I saw three men afoot leading a mule piled almost to overflow with diverse booty, a virtual shopkeeper’s animal being led to a fair.
As they came, the trio argued, but spotting the smoke and bodies, one called out the alert and went over to each lifeless being, coughing because of the thickening layer of smoke.
“Norman assholes left little. Oh, God curse this wretched smoke! They took the whole lot of it—probably pried the very wheel tracks out of the mud, the bastards. Not much here. Clothes.”
“Clothes. Balls! We have all sorts of clothes. Look sharp: purses, wallets?”
“What?! These are gone, or they never had them. Kick that fucking fire out. Jesus save us!”
They did so while looking greedily around.
They were the lowest sorts. I saw slung over the mule, Thorkald’s turnshoes, his tunic, and even his linen underclothing. I reached down into the stream and removed four fine smooth throwing rocks just somewhat larger than a hen’s egg. Only one of the three men had a cudgel, the others staffs, and all had knives in waistbands.
I would not stand here and watch them take the clothes from my murdered wife’s body, so I made some room for a good throw, dug my feet in and waited.
Better, I knew, was for them to move on, but they were the sorts who—like after the carnage at Oakheath—utilized the dead for their advantage. As Thorkald called them, drudges.
They decided Oslaf’s clothes were best—absolutely clear of blood. The man with a cudgel—closest to the mule—left the others to attend Oslaf and instead turned Cwenburh over, appraising her shoes; then he started to remove them.
His head was uncovered, and smaller than a large melon—within two wagons lengths of me. I took aim, was almost ready to throw when a great exclamation aired from the two drudges who worried poor Oslaf’s body: “Ayyyye! We are in luck. They missed it. Jesus bless us!”
His companion dropped Cwenburh’s leg, and moved next to his two sordid colleagues. Kicking one aside, he reached down and snatched away what I recognized was Gunnhilda’s morning gift. Like all newly wedded Saxon husbands, it was given by the proud Oslaf on the first morning after the holy words graced their union.
It was a beautiful silver arm ring—designed and wrought by the finest silversmith in York. That morning Gunnhilda had sat flat on the floor, stuck out her leg and tried to slide it over her foot. She was an odd girl; she struggled to reach her foot—her belly being so large with their daughter—she bit her lip, fighting to slide an arm ring over her foot.
At that moment, this unlikely scene strained even my sense of protocol versus the almost unstoppable urge to laugh.
Oslaf stopped her and put it on her arm; she sprang up—showed it to everyone, then took it off and put it on Oslaf’s arm. He had said, “No, no! It is for the bride—for you!” And he put it back on her arm, and she laughed—and it went back and forth.
Odd girl, such an odd girl.
Afterwards you never knew whose arm it might be on, for it became a jest between them—but perhaps more than that: Cwenburh was sure Gunnhilda understood it as their symbol of linkage.
And that morning it had been on Oslaf’s arm, and his long woolen tunic had hidden it from the Normans.
But not from these three.
They whooped and capered—the one holding it aloft. It was worth more than three mules piled with sundry equipment from croft and stable and they knew it. Abruptly, they became members of the worried rich.
“What if they come back, the bastards?”
They stood stock still, looking up trail at once, like stoats trying to catch scent.
“Let’s get the hell out of here now and go back south.”
But like most mules burdened too heavily, their beast would not resume at their demand. Not only was it loaded with twice the weight it should, I saw at once it was strange to them.
“Oh, damn the beast. Piss on it. Easy come easy go.”
They cut lines, shoved everything off it, and quickly sorted through for what they judged the finest articles. Stuffing each of their traveling wallets full, they slung them over their shoulders.
They started back south at almost a trot.
Then I was alone.
I re-crossed the stream, fell upon my knees beside Cwenburh, and thanked God I had not become a murderer, like so many else that day.
With a fine stone—at such close range I still retained great accuracy. I had aimed for his long, ropy neck and it would have killed him at once. Then, leaping over and grabbing his cudgel, everything after that was a guess.
But, praise be to God it did not happen.
I dragged the bodies together, pushed aside the pile of junk the mule carried, and found a badly chipped adz, its handle broken. It was not portable enough for the cowardly bastards.
I remembered Thorkald up trail. I judged there to be enough light remaining to find and fetch him, return my dear friend here for burial with his family. I rebuilt the fire, put even more dry wood and green branches upon it, and left a vast developing fog of smoke behind me.
I proceeded south in search but could see no rooks gathering—a sure sign of a body. Finally, I knew I had gone too far. How far ahead had Thorkald gotten? So involved was I in searching, when I turned—a rod or so behind me—I saw the recalcitrant mule following dutifully, dragging its line behind, deciding on its own accord to join me.
Going up to it, I led it to a nearby oak stump, and stepped up on it. A massive-sized jackass, it looked back at me, and allowed me to slowly climb on. With its line the only sway I had, I surmised it was used to riders, or at least some.
Into the night I dug graves. My mind—its memory remained stilled. I moved uphill a ways to dig the six graves where the stream would not flood. I allowed a good high fire, working by its light though that night. Perhaps I needed its energy rather than light, for the fullest of late summer moons rose casting light across all—summoning the ghost world that live in all forests. I attempted unsuccessfully to hobble the mule, yet it grazed contentedly enough until it caught scent of wolves; it then became upset and began voluble braying. Its infernal complaint rattled the tree trunks, but served purpose of telling the wolves that with fire, man, and mule, this was no place for an easy meal.
I lamented my failure in finding Thorkald’s body, for the carrion beasts would certainly not. Only tiny wedges of the disaster began to peek through my mental shroud of misery.
I labored the best part of three days, and did a respectful job of interring my poor Cwenburh, daughter Matilda and friends, making stone markers with their names upon them, and holy sign atop each. During these hours a profound sadness and despair crept into me, and I would sit long periods in reveries, sometimes weeping.
Twice travelers passed, said prayers at the graves, gave me condolences, even bread, then moved on. An elderly couple returning to the village of their birth told me that north or south, it made no difference.
“There is nothing but mayhem now,” the ‘Frenchmen’—as the man termed the Normans—inflicting destruction on Saxons. “It is this new King William, Pilgrim. He is without mercy.”
I spent the fourth or fifth morning pacing before the graves praying—not wanting to leave. My family, save Eadrig, were here in this peaceful grove, their eternal resting place.
Matilda had such a poor life after her violent abduction from Oakheath—and the boy Alf, hardly no life at all.
The cruel and utterly thoughtless horror of Cwenburh’s murder had a dark, menacing hold on my soul. I resolved to forgive them in the name of our Savior, as she would have done, no matter how long it took. But in those initial days, I plumbed baser desires, even praying that immolation be meted out to her murderers in the eternal fires of the Archfiend.
I knew then, as I do now, that regardless how long I lived and where I might be bound after death, memories of wonderful and loving Cwenburh would go with me. Holy words written and spoken maintain there is a paradise in heaven. If so it will have a long, languid river flowing through. And Cwenburh would certainly be alongside it, young and stouthearted in faith and youth. She would be sitting on the low branch of an oak, legs swinging, waiting for me—praying for me.
For as it says in the Old Book, mortal souls before God have life spans that are a mere handbreadth to God, and wherever or whenever my end would arrive, it would only seem a breath and loving sigh to Cwenburh, who waited.
I had not gone two leagues when the mule and I—it had decided not to bear my weight yet followed me closely—scared off wild dogs from a gravesite a good half-furlong above the road which still followed the course of the stream.
They had dirt on their muzzles, and ran in terror from the mule who had come alive and given chase for a hundred paces or more, bucking, kicking, and braying. Like all its kind, it harbored lethal intent for wolves or wild dogs.
I came to the edge of the gravesite, and save where the dogs had been digging, it was so fresh that the dirt tamped down over it was smooth, wet with the dew. At its edge, the dirt was crumbly, so all work was recent.
Whoever did it drove a wooden cross at its head, and I could not help but conclude it was Thorkald, which would explain the absence of birds and such when I came looking for his remains.
Informal graves were dug the length of the deceased, and this grave was long indeed—giving me more assurance it was indeed my friend.
Surely that old couple had not done this; otherwise they would have mentioned such a considerable piece of work. I was never to find out what kindly soul or souls performed such a holy and considerate burial for Thorkald the Dane.
I felt sure enough it was my friend to remove and put aside the wooden cross, replacing it with a carefully stacked pyramid of stone as high as Thorkald had stood. Then I covered the grave itself with heavy stones, making repeated trips to and from the stream.
After carving his name into the wooden cross, I replaced it atop the pyramid.
I made prayer over poor Thorkald, who had given his life for us. I did not have the holy man’s insight into the ways of considering his rough, violent life. Yet if Thorkald could not be forgiven by Our Savior, what would it all mean?
I no longer cared who I did or did not encounter; I had nothing left to rob and lived a mortal life I wanted no more part of. The immediate required me to find Eadrig, and tell him of the disaster, and I could not take thought or intent beyond that.
In fact, I headed directly east, taking up a main road. At once I encountered more people. They said they were Saxon, the same as the couple. There was havoc all over, they reported, and the land was being rooted up by virtual pigs—Normans as well as greedy evil-doers of my own kind.
Atop this mayhem, hunger stood worse—those driven from their land had little to eat, and twice the mule was foolishly taken from me by Saxon scavengers. It would return later—somehow fighting itself free, and having adopted some sort of ownership on my person.
One time, he had blood on its hind leg, and checking, I saw it wasn’t its own. Was it inhabited by some sort of demon? I wanted no traveling companion, my thoughts exceedingly heavy. I especially did not require this mule, a veritable four-legged feast for every hungry rogue or thief who saw it—and me with it.
Finally, the week preceding St. Crispin’s Day, I arrived at ancient Oxford. Many of the buildings and residences were burned. Seeing me approaching with a mule, survivors would duck out of view. Their fears need be extreme to fear an old man followed by a mule.
I called at a small church, struggling to prevent the mule from committing outrage by following me inside. I finally took its lead and tied it to a tree, resigning myself to endure its braying after entering the church.
The church was looted, the altar stripped of holy ware; all candle holders were gone, shards of candles lay on the floor. A back door was open, and pigeons had come inside—up on roofbeams they sat, cooing, looking down.
“I see you are Saxon.”
A young churchman—a subdeacon—came out from what remained of a side alcove; he carried a stave and came forward cautiously, looking me up and down.
“I am indeed. I am looking for the way to Eynsham, Friend.”
He poked at the corner of his mouth, still looking me up and down: “Old man, might you have anything to eat?”
“Nothing.”
He lowered his stave and shook his head, allowing a half-smile.
“You will find no alms at Eynsham Abbey, Friend. King William’s brutes have ransacked it and likely killed everyone, leaving nothing behind for anyone else. The Abbey was Saxon through and through and, worse, loyal to Harold, for his father chartered it. . . . Is that your mule making that infernal noise?”
I decided he was an untrue fellow and felt no compunction regarding the use of craft. I needed to find Eadwig, especially if what this person said were true.
“You give me direction to Eynsham, and you can have the mule.”
“Did you steal it?” he asked. Then he rubbed his hind end with his stave and shrugged, “. . . no matter.”
And then told me directions—reaffirming what I might have guessed.
He followed me out of what remained of the woe-begotten church. I untied the animal and gave it to the greedy fool.
At once several of his fellows emerged from under whatever fissures or burrows they occupied, all carrying cudgels. I walked towards Eynsham. I soon heard great violence to my rear. The mule was proving to be too wily; hence, seeing the cudgels, its fierce senses knew the roasting spit awaited. I was not clear of the walls and gate when it came trotting up behind me—the line dragging behind with one of the poor devils clinging to it, all skinned and raw. Despite his desperation, the maimed fellow let go, moaning, and rolled over on his back.
If it had not been for the distraction of the mule, they would have set on me for my clothes and shoes at the church. I was re-learning basic lessons.
It was but two leagues to Eynsham, and the lands I traveled by were half reaped, some not at all. Then just prior to Eynsham I encountered more burned structures and fields. As the ill-intended churchman said, the Abbey at Eynsham was no more. Its gate and walls had been made entirely of wood and all were burned—weeks before, evidently.
A few of the inner foundation walls and such had been of stone and lay there covered with ashes, sad sentinels to what was a small but chartered monastery.
Yet I still refused to believe that even Normans and renegade Saxons would kill monks, and especially their Abbot. Danish raiders, perhaps, but never the former, at least in my memory.
I had not gone far when I encountered fresh graves—several dozen. My body chilled, for proximate to the burned remains of the Abbey, it boded poorly. Elms and beech formed an archway above, and a tiny creek wove its way along the far side of the area. All the graves were recently made, with fresh-milled slats forming crosses on each. Whoever did this, though not identifying the remains, selected carefully the place where all these unfortunates’ eternal remains might rest.
Duties of my own, only too recently completed, enabled me to know caring work when I saw it.
The sun was growing low in the west, and the shadows from the copse gently embraced the newly dug graveyard across the creek. I went to the creek and saw the entire bed had been torn up—from dozens of horsemen using it for clear riding. The water now ran clear again.
No birds sang.
Turning, I saw with some relief that the mule had wandered away, as it might when it found graze or gave way to some whim. I threaded my way down the creek, then saw a path leading up into a thick oak woods.
I heard horsemen.
Without thought of age or decorum, up I went into an oak, my old bones yielding temporarily to necessity. Though thirty years before, I would have reached the topmost, at least I ascended far enough to be out of view.
What I heard was clear Saxon: “I tell you, we can look until our eyes grow hair. He and that mouthy Prior have gone.”
“They would find it difficult, Brother, one without a skin and the other without fingers.”
“Only on one hand.”
I eased around the tree so could see both: The speakers were two Saxon thanes, each with a dreng. Their mounts were thick with tatters of brush and such. They were picking it off and throwing it down while the one continued his complaint. They passed around a sack of ale.
“It is close to vespers and Himself cannot deny we did our best for that sodomite Gilbert de Ghent.”
There was laughter.
“A Norman sodomite is the taker; the giver is simply taking repast. So Himself bends over for de Ghent, and, friend Wulf, we bend over for Himself.” He looked to the two drengs. “As you two bend over for us.”
“Piss on you, Ceol.”
They all had another laugh, but the thane called Ceol drew a great breath, took a last draught of ale and shrugged.
“But, in the end, we have looked every goddamned place for that fucking Abbot and his Prior. Let’s get the hell gone, brothers. Tomorrow, we will bring hounds.”
So their great palfreys were reined sharply to the south and they were gone.
It relieved me enormously to hear Eadwig was yet alive, but gave me urgency to find out if he was injured and in need of attendance.
Returning to the ground, I gathered my senses, and realized that in survival Eadwig had the same teacher as I did—Frog. When Frog plied an area, he was always certain to first ascertain the best hiding places; and if there were not any, to simply make one.
His favorite was on the highest ground possible, and close to the troubled area, which in this case would be the burials. And invariably close to water.
Returning to the graves, I looked west and there was something of a rise—gentle and sure, more a dome. Darkness was approaching and in the northeast side of it, the shadows ran deep and concealing.
I ascended, and within a short time emerged into a clearing and was gazing down where the thanes and drengs had been. It was quiet; I had poor chances of finding them, but if near they would find me.
I made a fire and warmed a trencher, then another. I drained half my ale. Slowly, the smoke rose uphill, gliding between the ashes and beeches. I struggled against the temptation to call out, for anyone might come to a call.
Heavy with bread, I stared into the fire and nodded off with the ease of old men, the God-given gift to the advancing years.
I awoke to a gentle hand placed upon me.
“Be easy, Father.”
Eadwig held his hand to my mouth, then bent down and kissed me full on the head, for indeed I woke to a great discovery.
We embraced in the dark, and I knew the endless joy of holding my grown son, for whom I was so proud. It did not require an intellect like Eadwig’s to reckon why I was alone. He knew.
“Father, I have seen so much sudden death—murder. Know I am equal to it. Just tell me and then we both can lament.”
I did.
The senselessness of Cwenburh—of all their murders—came atop me like an ague. I once more showed selfishness, and shook myself back from my own lamentations to the teachings of Our Savior.
“Eadwig? You? Your Prior? You are injured.”
“They cut Brother Prior’s fingers off on one hand, and me, they scourged with whip; but I am—with the help of God—generating another skin. Do you have food, Father?”
I had dried eel and bread, and putting out the fire completely, I followed him through the bramble, entering their lair beneath a great fallen log. Behind it, he had dug an alcove.
Bother Prior—Eanbald-of-Norfolk—was in a painful condition. His wounds had festered initially, and Eadwig struggled to act as healer. Much violence locally was due to the calumny of the Saxon turncoat Lord Edwin, cousin of the slain King Harold. To Eadwig, such mortal treachery required no musings.
“Saxons are making their decisions, Father, and many make them in their best interest, and these days that is with King William. And King William is scourging many monasteries and rescinding holy charters. I have been ordered to Rome by our Holy Father, Pope Alexander. I leave tomorrow; it is a miracle we joined. You will of course go with me.”
“I am sorry to presume to add more, Father,” interceded Brother Prior, “but we are also under banishment by King William and his turncoat Saxon Lord, who both hold sway from the Holy Father Alexander.”
“Brother Prior! God help us. They almost cut out your tongue.”
“Forgive me Father, but is it not true?”
“We cannot deign to second guess the Holy Father, Brother.”
We retreated into silence on what was a painful topic between us. Eadwig looked at me with intensity.
“Now Father, you must go with me. They will kill you once they learn of our relationship. A faithful pilgrim has a boat waiting, and from there I will leave. I have many friends in Rome who are a joy in my life.”
“No, Eadwig. I will never leave England. I am old now, and will seek out solitude, for I must make amends with the Lord and our Savior. I have not the faith of Cwenburh, and certainly you. Rome is no place for me. It perhaps never has been.”
Brother Prior nodded—he heard what I meant with his mind and not his heart. Eadwig began to say something, but I held up my hand.
Eadwig took his lip between his teeth and struggled not to weep.
“When upon this earth will I see you again, God help us?”
Prior took loving opportunity to duck out of the alcove and go outside.
“Perhaps, Father Abbot, it will not be on this earth, God permitting.”
“I cannot abide this when such a place as Rome awaits. You would live an honored life rich under the Lord, as you should.”
I lifted my arms and placed them on each of his shoulders. “I am already honored: by Cwenburh, by yourself, and by the twins. I held you when an infant, and like Matilda, I always knew you were special. You cannot fail us all now, Eadwig.”
When the timely Brother Prior returned, he joined Eadwig and me who were already in prayer, and it was special for me to do such in this august companionship.
In the morning—like stoats emerging from burrow—we checked all directions, listening, looking down upon the landscape.
“Frog used good sense in selecting places, did he not, Eadwig?”
His smile shared that fact with me, and I saw from Brother Prior’s eyes that he had heard the story of Frog.
Below, in the most proximate opening, the mule grazed, waiting. I had told them about it, preventing one so astute as Eadwig to take it with them.
“Praise God, Father. That is a giant beast.”
We moved downhill, and within a short time joined the troublesome creature in that same opening; from here we must in opposite directions. This was a point I knew would be the most painful of all, though I was immensely grateful Eadwig would be safe, for he was all my family now.
“Father, other than to go west until you meet the sea, do you have other plans?”
“Well Eadwig, I will favor more northwest than west, but you have the best part of my plan, God be praised.”
“So, now we shall all pray.”
And we did. All of us were keeping up our mutual courage. Trading embraces, Eadwig gave me his final blessing, then picking up my arm, put a small bundle in my hand.
“This is for you, God be praised. I have kept it for you. Do not open it until I am quite gone.”
And we made our farewells.
I turned heading northwest. Hearing the mule’s heavy steps behind me, I smiled, recalling Brother Prior’s warning: “Beware of that beast, Master Cuthwin; he could be King William’s demon.”
After a respectful distance, I opened the tiny bundle.
In it was Cwenburh’s clasp.
It was my fatuous intention to have nothing further to do with my fellow man, and by heading west where it was alleged British land ended, I would find no people. I was wrong; all the way west, here and there God ordained people to maintain themselves on his given lands and waters.
I avoided the small crofts and villages, only occasionally partaking of a market on the day prior to Sabbath. Yet as Frog advised Eadwig when they traveled in strange country, when I left I reversed my path to see if I was followed.
Several times I was followed, for what reason I cannot know—whether it be for curiosity or ill motive. My continuing comrade was the mule. It was ever vigilant for any and all, and its massive ears would firstly twitch around, then if what it heard displeased it, deafening braying would follow. It began to make itself more useful: It would carry a pack, and this improved my progress over rough ground. I began to begrudgingly realize that it was a blessing of sorts, for at night I slept with the soundness of an infant for it never was unawares. Taking the Lord’s ways as a command, I finally named it Samson for its size and strength. God help me, it was my beast through God’s unknowable intervention.
The people I came across were a rough sort, the more west I ventured. They were given to a language vaguely recognizable as a sort of Welsh, of which I was not particularly at ease. But what I knew was enough.
I reached the vast, wild ocean coast on what I reckoned to be near the Day of the Dead, though by now I was not sure. I was to become increasingly removed from time of day and year, instead owing more to the sun and moon and how they moved through the heavens. On moonless nights there were the stars, mainly Polaris, that gift to any traveler on such times.
Paralleling the intricacies of the coast southwest, I made camps where providence allowed. I would gaze with sacred wonder upon the vastness of the wild ocean whose mysterious horizons were known only by the stoutest-shipped Norseman. The sun was setting more southwesterly and it was getting colder, but not with the meanness I was used to farther north.
A great bounty of animal life began, such as I never saw before, especially fat hares whose haunches wiggled with fat and fine flesh as they fled far too slowly.
About an hour after sunset, wolves would approach—large packs of them, and I by old habit kept a fire through the night. Each night, though, I was given great amusement: Samson would wheel about on first whiff, and if they were foolish enough to come within sight of him, he would give pursuit, making voice one could hear back to Oxford.
Each day, I would stop at small streams and load up with round, wonderfully smooth and ideally sized throwing rocks; Cwenburh, somewhat prideful of her throwing ability, was in constant consternation over my ability, better than hers, may God forgive my pride.
So may Jesus’s eternal Goodness forgive, I hunted the plentiful small game by the simple ways learned in my youth. In my heart I took pity on the creatures for I had seen too much innocent bloodshed. Something spoke to me that these small, vulnerable bodies were not without God’s protection.
I decided to cease eating the flesh of warm-blooded creatures, the sort saved by Noah in his ark; were they not the creatures that approached and loved our Savior and offered him great succor? From that time, I sustained this rule increasingly well each year.
The first winter I made permanent camp within the coastline of a deeply carved bay in a swale where a stream ran oceanward. It was a God-given place of shelter and plenty, and my prayers were lovingly answered. Had the evils of the Dark One finally left me in peace?
In the vicinity were arrayed wild grasses, mostly green through the winter. I even found wild spelt and other edible plants. And of course I fished and plied the rocky pools and sand spits. This way I began to learn about the edible things along the coast—in the pools formed by tides and higher in the rocks. In short, I survived easily, as did the Samson. We saw nobody, for which I thanked God.
I read one of my Bibles when light enough.
In fact, I became sure enough to make large night fires, for God provided fuel in massive abundance, both washed up along a wide sweep of beach below me, and up and down the draw followed downward by the stream.
So even by the fire I could read some if I wished, God’s will be praised.
More than anything, I wondered: After all the years that had preceded me, what sense I could make of them, and how did all the words and teachings of Our Savior and God fit in?
But other than reading the words, and thinking of general experiences, reflecting on the events of them, going deeper than that deranged my thinking. Eadwig had said that the act of knowing God’s ways was beyond us. It seemed so to me.
I never argued this with him. For I was a scribe, not a scholar, but Eadwig was both. So even if we had plumbed the depths of the matters, his breadth of knowledge would be much beyond mine. Yet my beloved Cwenburh was never far from my heart and soul.
My lack of knowledge and background for matters of serious thought were sorely demonstrated to me in the book he insisted I take. That night he offered me a half dozen from his cache in the alcove saying he could attain easy replacement in Rome. Frankly, it was the last I desired—the Consolation of Philosophy by the venerable Boethius. Eadwig, years before, had mentioned it in his letters, urging me to read it. I would try, but become bored by the difficulty of parsing the language of Rome, then the intricate, confusing matrix of its content.
Finally, in a return missive, I admitted, writing from my heart, “Well, son Eadwig, the work is little consolation to me, I am ashamed to admit.”
In truth its scholarship bounced off my hide like pebbles from the flank of an ox. But on that night before our parting, I had not heart to say I preferred another title, and took it, thinking I would try again.
But I found it still held the same problems for me.
My mind labored enough with other earthly paradoxes: Firstly was Our Savior’s teachings, and the Christian world I saw and lived. After all, that is all I ever knew. Also, that is all Cwenburh and the children, save Eadwig, knew. There were the good times and the bad, and as the Bible taught, God made both. But the loving teaching of Our Savior was at terrible odds with so much of what I had seen. Not the least of these paradoxes were the murders of those I loved, and even those who were strangers.
Then my contemplations became stymied. I reverted to looking out on the vastness of the wild seas, for this coast was as untamed before God as any I had ever seen. After the violent storms, the land would explode with the massive waves striking the dark, foreboding brows of the cliffs and rocky islets. They would, one after the other, assault the land with fury I never thought endurable.
God forgive me, I learned more by watching these, and thinking after them, than from anything else that first winter.
I did, however, find purpose in work. Sometime after the rising sun blessed the land with an increase in light, I commenced daily work on a small chapel and altar. I desired a place of peace to pray and contemplate. I did so with rock, placing them together with mortar, poor indeed because I had no knowledge or experience dealing with rock. Many times, it fell apart, and now nearly sixty, learning came slowly to me.
I could haul one large rock slung on my back, and the mule, if in the mood, could take two slung across its back. By and by, with patience, my tiny edifice came together. With my small adz and axe, I fashioned a cross of the old sort, and did work on this until I reckoned it to be close to my first Easter on this coast. The tiny alcove was my gift to Our Savior’s great passion.
During this time, I contemplated an offshore island which fascinated me beyond all else. I gazed out at it for hours. It was a half-league offshore, thus caught the brunt of the roughest seas, parting them as a soldier might a shield against the onslaught.
Its solitude spoke to me in wordless magic. I became increasingly fixed to go out there and live—to withdraw completely.
On the clearest days as spring approached, I saw that it had a flat southeastern end with grasses. In fact, the entire islet was treeless. As each day passed, the grasses became greener. They swayed in the almost continuous prevailing winds, these creating waves in the heavy growth, rippling with the flow of air.
Then legions of birds arrived to nest and make more of their kind. They swirled above it, riding vortexes of swelling winds—soaring then following them downwind, turning, rising, and holding, then going back and repeating this.
And all the time, each kind made more and more claims on nesting places. These claimants becoming so thick that most locales atop and on the sides of the islet were filled with each sort.
It was then a group of boatmen approached offshore—the first people I had seen. I withdrew into the vale and looked out. There were over a dozen of them in three small boats; all rowed, but two had sails not set. Each was filled to the rails with belongings. They turned into my deep bay, keeping to the lee of the point where they made a skilled, peaceful landing.
In fact, they made land near the stream mouth where I lived that emptied into the sea creating a network of small streamlets cutting through the sands, the sweet water returning to the salt.
There were both men and women, and they did not expect anyone to be in that bay, and I wondered how to announce my presence without alarming them. It was obvious they were fishermen come to make spring camp, for one of the boats was heavy with plugs of salt and loose staves from which to assemble barrels.
Samson destroyed all possibility of a gentle introduction. Catching scent and sound of this community, he brayed deafeningly. That immediately decided things: Three of the men immediately picked up cudgels looking up the stream in the direction of Samson’s racket.
I walked down the path I had worn over the winter, came within sight of them, raised my arm to greet them, and stood.
Samson came up behind me, and that decoded in my favor for the men: Certainly someone intending evil would not have such a ridiculous beast with him. Lowering their cudgels, they approached, two stopping and one handing off his cudgel to his comrades, and drawing close.
After several garbled tries in what I assumed was a kind of Welsh—both of us making great effort, I understood him to say, “God save you, Brother. What brings you here?”
I explained as best I could in Welsh that I was a wanderer, an old man come to live out my life in peace.
“A Saxon?”
“Yes.”
That seemed dark news to them. They nodded somberly to each other, but explained they were doing precisely what I had supposed, and would spend many days in this bay catching and salting fat codfish.
When I told them I was once an eelman, they seemed to recover good grace to my person, and invited me and Samson down to the beach.
And it was this way that I met Gyrth the Elder of Pider and his family, who were to become my first friends in the west. These people along the danger-strewn coast of northwest Kernowec proved through the severe test of time and their own endowed goodness to be my God-given blessing.
The chapel I made, despite its being my first primitive effort in rock, was a fortuitous decision, certainly driven by God. It was welcomed by the Kernow fishermen who plied the sea for the fat-bellied cod who inhabited a bank offshore. They depended on these fish for their survival each winter.
Being away from their village, they felt comforted to have a special place of devotion available enabling them to thank and pray to God for their sustenance as each week moved along. They could not remember but being anything other than Christian.
I enquired about the island directly offshore, its owner, if any, and who went there, and my intentions to go there. They to a man shook their head with long faces.
They strenuously advised me not to venture out to Ynys Penfras, as the island was known. It was inhabited by a pitiless Gwiddonod, which was a sort of witch, devouring people and animals who dared trespass.
In fact, according to those in Kernow, during the times of King Mark, a crofter, hungry for hideage free of geld fees, occupied the island with sheep. His son while tending them was eaten and all the sheep with them. When he transported more sheep and another son there, being of a greedy, careless nature with many sons to spare, the same misfortune struck.
Then even he gave up, despite being of Danish or Irish blood, notoriously ruthless. The villagers were filled with great stories peopled by all sorts of beings and creatures. Cwenburh would have been overjoyed by them and they her.
Since they fished around Ynys Penfras—which meant plainly Isle of Cod in Saxon—I asked if they had seen the Gwiddonod, and what figures she took, such dark spirits having a changeable nature. Indeed, did they know if there were more than just one living there?
They had not seen her, God forbid, for events they narrated occurred years before. However, they averted looking, for to set eyes on such a demonic being would risk losing your soul.
But I was to learn Kernow people were skillful and wove their old pagan beliefs into their present thinking. In fact, they preferred I stay on the mainland—seeing I wished to end my earthly wanderings here. The mainland they assured was far better than an offshore chunk of earth; furthermore, I could build many more things, like chapels. Equally, I would be available for diverse society and stories about far-off strange places which, during evenings, I told. These they thoroughly enjoyed.
And God help me, I enjoyed same, but it was contrary to my decision to seek solitude, and I knew I must not weaken—be drawn from my path. For they were wonderful simple souls who were surely at peace with Our Savior and his Father. Their society was the simple and honest sort I was used to. True, I found they still practiced reckoning Saint’s festivals and Easter by the old ways. Despite this they were God-respecting folk devoted to Our Savior’s teachings. Most admiringly, in my view, they were without desire to know or care about the ways of great men and their violent institutions by which I saw and witnessed so much odium.
They had not known King Edward of Mercia was deceased, and they did not consider him sovereign over Kernow anyhow, nor any violence-prone Saxon. Me, as Saxon, they viewed as a great exception to most.
Gyrth the Elder spoke it thusly: “In truth, Cuthwin, a hard-scrabble Kernowman’s greatest desire is that all great Saxons and Normans cut each others’ greedy throats. We mean no disrespect to you, Cuthwin, of course.”
Many Kernowmen were great seafarers and knew much about Normans and Norsemen, enough to harbor a healthy aversion to both their societies.
Yet I begged these new God-given friends not to tempt me with their joyful society, for I explained to them my vow of solitude—so I might understand God’s words and actions I had witnessed over nearly sixty years. During those first months of fishing, I told them of my family and events following. Most all, of good Cwenburh who I missed more than anything or anybody, and whose murder I refused to accept in the face of God.
Soon they accepted and understood my desires for solitude, understanding that I loved them very much, but my vows to God dominated all else.
Yet they remained adamant about the evil presence upon the Isle of Cod. When I insisted on going there anyway, they decided to ferry myself and even Samson out to the island.
“Samson,” I advised, “could swim or stay, at his own whim.”
But for some devilish unknown whim, Samson had inveigled himself into the hearts of the Kernowman’s children, allowing them to ride anywhere their mothers would allow. I warned everyone thoroughly after the beast’s disorderly ways, but the process went on anyway.
As they told me so often in Peterborough—God’s ways are mysterious.
Heeding the advice of Gyrth the Elder and especially his wife, Alma, I went out to Cod Island equipped with a stout wooden cross—to be held before me whenever the gorgons approached. “They dare not consume both you and it, so you will be safe,” I was assured.
Another identical cross was set into the bow of their boat; hence, we would be all protected. “Gwiddonods fear any sign of Our Savior, Cuthwin. It makes their eyes boil out.”
In the last day before going out, the children wept over Samson’s banishment. Worse, he would surely end his days as a meal to a Gwiddonod, for “poor Samson has no hands and could not carry a cross.”
God help me. Who cannot grow fond of children and become averse to sadness in Innocents? Will they not know that soon enough, God Forbid? Much to my later regret, I asked if they would transport the animal to their village. It could be useful there, and I assured the children I would not risk Samson’s gentle soul being sullied through consumption by a Gwiddonod.
But the mule was too large for transport by boat. “God forbid, Cuthwin. We are not Normans.” But two of the striplings and one young adult he allowed astride, and they would ride him back to the village, actually preceding the boat home—judging by Samson’s pace.
In the early autumn they transported me to the Isle of Cod. Two of the men—Old Gwyth and his son—piloted me out. They waited until the calmest day possible, for the coastline of the island was impossible in all places but two, and even those two required an ocean surge to be gentle for a difficult landing.
During the brief transport I recalled not being in a boat for many years and how I missed it. The majestic turquoise waves coming in from the vastness slowly lifted our boat. This strangeness I never experienced on the river or upon the fens. The swarms of birds had all but gone, but there were still many ink-black snake birds diving for their meal. As I drew close to the islet, it loomed larger, ever more imposing. We parted through the thick mats of olive-green vegetation that grew like a barrier around the island. All this swelled and subsided, as if the great ocean were a breathing being, sleeping in deep peaceful repose.
“We will have little time, Master Cuthwin. Be prepared.”
I had things for protracted living with me, more than I wanted, but those insisted upon by Old Gwyth and his people. They reminded me I was not a tonsured churchman; indeed I was a contrite and modest soul before God, like anyone.
“By Our Savior’s word, Cuthwin, there is nothing then to force you to withdraw and live like a savage, God forbid. So by God and ourselves, you will be provided for.”
When we approached what was deemed the best spot, I saw at once it was the smallest of beaches. The tide was low—our time chosen for that phase—and we had an accessible shoreline two rods long and three rods deep, there meeting steep inclines towards the island’s crown.
My belongings were quickly run up to the highest spot, and while holding my cross, I embraced my friends who were tearful and begged me to relent: “I tell you, in our village, and those close by, there are many fine widows who would welcome such as you, Cuthwin, God help you.”
I heard often from Alma detailing each widow’s strong points. Yet I bade them gratitude and farewell. They vowed to look forward with great joy when they arrived at fish camp the following spring and saw I was uneaten by the monster.
And saying the Lord’s Prayer together, they got back in their sturdy craft and went off.
I had a heavy heart that moment, God forgive my lack of strength.
In dictating this portion of my life, it occurs that much can be made—and said—in the details of how an ordinary soul learns to become a proper hermit. But it is more correct to say that each man or woman must search within their own heart and soul what that best way might be.
One thing is true: In locales where it appears that survival itself is seemingly impossible, a person learns a soul and body with God’s protection needs little.
However the mind, at least mine, needs far more, and if the order of the mind is left unchecked, disaster awaits. I do not know what might have happened to the first hermit who occupied this forlorn Isle.
But the fact was there had been others before me.
Judging by the signs of age, the earliest arriving soul simply died in a tiny alcove he built. Some of his remains were intact, others scattered. All were heavy with signs they had been pecked and cleaned thoroughly by the birds. They were ancient—the lightest of touch and they crumbled to dust.
His alcove, assuming it was a man, was built exposed to the elements, facing the prevailing winds. I assumed he would curl up there at night and sleep. It is difficult to think he could have lived long with such exposure to the elements.
The other shelter, however, I found distant from the first. This person had built a large stone house, now fallen inside itself, and his remains were in what must have been a pallet. His bones were not as ancient as his brethren, not nearly as much. The remains were bound together fully, some of the ligature surviving. They too had been picked clean. Against the wall were a stone cross and a round stone that had held some sort of votive light. Before that were four flagstones—kneeling stones—worn to a polish by hundreds—thousands—of long sessions.
There were the thinnest remains of clothes, mere skins, and these the creatures had left alone. These were now a fine white and grey powder.
My eyes returned to the bones, and it occurred to me they were tiny, and it had to have been a boy, or at most a stripling, but that seemed wrong at once. My eyes returned to the bones again. Slowly I counted the ribs—each in an even row.
It had been a woman.
I did not know if the elements killed this second pilgrim, but she surely lived on in contemplation for quite some time. I did not know if either had made any contact with a Gwiddonod, or any other demonic creature, though that might explain the sorrowful demise of the first hermit.
But there was no question about the anchoress who constructed the substantial hut. I now drew close for a detailed inspection: In the remains of her frail hand, she clutched Our Savior’s cross, and no such creation of Satan such as a Gwiddonod would come near or harm her, God be praised.
It would have been sacrilege for me to occupy this hallowed ground, and I worked the following years, fashioning a chapel over and around it in stone and wood, celebrating the sacrifice this Holy Sister made. During that first circuit the moon took above me, I built my own modest stone hut a furlong or so distant from where she had prayed and died.
The Isle of Cod was not uninhabited. To my dismay, there were sheep surviving. They were scrawny woe-begotten creatures. The ewes had been tupped to skin and bones by the rams. They were a forlorn lot of rams, yet randy in their ways, and they would leave the ewes no peace. Regardless of season they carried on great struggles with one another.
The isolation and lack of a worthy shepherd rendered the males menaces indeed. Oddly, there were not many sheep there. For there was abundant year-round grass upon the island’s dome, probably a full hide, or nearly so. Yet there were barely a dozen ewes, and nearly as many rams.
My first stone fence in my approaching new career was to enclose the ewes, to protect them from the rams, who did their best to get at them. Stinky, obnoxious bastards—God forgive me for disdaining their natural ways—I drove them off. After the first several years, I allowed only two to remain, and they mended their ways with proper guidance.
It was painful generosity to have given up Samson. The narrow paths up from the two beaches were steep, but tenable for a sure-footed mule. Without an animal, I had to haul most rocks up from the beach upon a sling fashioned so, and I was kept sinew and muscle and little else with the labors.
During the first few springs, Gyrth the Elder would offer to return Samson, but I resisted. Finally, good Gyrth died of the ague, and Samson of plain old age. Thoughts of a beast to help me were forgotten.
In short, during those nearly ten years and five upon the Isle of Cod, I had no shortage of labors. In performing them, I had long, peaceful periods to contemplate all that had gone on before me. I did much with them.
My readings were modest. Eventually, well-doers provided me with a modest quantity of tapirs; I used them sparingly. I preferred natural light by which to read. Using old-style notched sticks, I kept the time of the week, and never worked on Sabbath. I practiced my contemplation, prayer, and readings in the fashion that God intended working folk to do.
Sometimes on Sabbaths during spring and summers, I perused the island, and I enjoyed looking upon the flock and feathered animals. Given shears and taught their use by fishermen knowledgeable, I was able to bundle what little wool my sheep yielded and give it as thanks for whatever materials they brought to fish camp for me.
These peaceful times on Cod Island were God’s gift.
I kept building fences and gaining skills at doing so. I crisscrossed Cod Island with them, if for no other reason than I enjoyed working to keep my head clear. The fishermen were impressed with my work and in truth it was sometime towards the twentieth year that I left Cod Island and began building fences on the mainland. I think it was at that time I heard myself referred to as the Cuthwin-the-Fencebuilder. This simplicity pleased me more than Scribe.
It was this time when I stopped looking to sea and instead was able to face the land once again. It came to me that my purpose and work upon the island was served.
It was somewhere around now people mistakenly understood from their own thoughts that I received a great vision from Our Savior, or one of the Holy Saints who told me to make fences upon the Kernowek mainland. This is not true and is mistakenly but lovingly maintained by working folk and now holy men who abide it to reaffirm any standing as a Saint.
But there is considerable distance between a God-given vision and the dreams of ordinary souls. On the contrary, I dictate here that the idea and picture of fences stretching across the peaceful fields of Kernowek came in a dream, the sort ordinary folk have every week of their life. Are they not a God-given balm whose content is fortuitous as the weather? This I believe is true.
I often explain this dream to those who visit me. They proclaim respect, even veneration, and always kindnesses because of my alleged holy standing, and I know they are disappointed when I inform of the contrary.
I believe that one’s decisions are one’s own, and that God’s greatest benefit is the free will of his children upon the earth. So, my resolve to depart my beloved, generous isle was made with love and good intentions. But above all, it was a decision I made myself.
But, thank God, I did not squander my gift there by forgetting my purpose, ever. My aim was not be become a crofter or shepherd—or fence builder, but to make sense of the incongruences my life festooned before me in confusing contrast with the teaching of Our Savior.
Without doubt, the foremost of these was the sorry, tragic, and cruel demise of Cwenburh and Matilda—both Matildas and Elesa. I discovered that I might ponder their memories best if I built a modest chapel to each on various locations upon the isle, actually in a semi-circle facing the rising sun.
But then came the lessons I must learn, and perhaps it was the years that it took to build those chapels that was part of it—part of the vast lengths of time unhindered to discover my finest teacher.
For it was the sea that was my greatest teacher, provided by God. This most spectacular creation he rendered from the dark abyss. “In what way did it teach you Cuthwin?”—many curious souls have asked. I can only respond that the lessons were slow, and being an ordinary soul, the learning was slower, but God showed patience to me on Cod Island.
After a half dozen years or thereabouts, I lived and heard the many moods of the sea. I began to know that the sea is so much mightier than mankind; yet it too, like men, is subject to sudden, inexplicable violence.
And like great men who struggle in battle, this changing sea sows death, famine, drought on all. My beloved villagers—providers and friends—were regularly swept away, deprived of food with all of the sense that the savage Norman sword did to Cwenburh and others.
“Cruelty is not my way, Cuthwin,” God seemed to say in each swell that broke steadily on Cod Island’s cragged-bound shores, “...and you must accept the presence of evil, how its very darkest nature is random and senseless.”
Yet these lessons I found impossible to present to other souls in a way to save them the time, discomfort, and effort it has taken me, God be praised. It is all I can do but say it now; the rest is for after I am gone.
I believe that those who have visited violence and gross unfairness upon my loved ones and friends are not assured of forgiveness in this life or next. I just hope that God might search his vast heart and forgive me.
But seamless forgiveness can no more be given to unrepentant men than might unthinking stone cliffs forgive the sea pounding upon them ceaselessly, unthinkingly.
In this end, I declare that I believe in the One and only God, and that I am a common man, blessed in many ways. My highest mortal service was as husband to Cwenburh-of-Loe, and this is how I want to be remembered by those who come after me, God be praised.