A Series Of Historical Novels Set In Medieval Times
Wyrd Of The Wolf by John Broughton
Series Excerpt
The rhythmic striking of an iron mallet against a soft-tempered chisel came to an abrupt halt. Humbert, the mason, laid down his tools, reached for the leather bottle and poured water over his head washing away the sandstone dust gathered at eyebrows and moustache. The fine powder caused a sore throat and itching skin. All told, a trifling price in exchange for the ten-and-six-foot masterpiece emerging from the engrossment of a year and a half, lying longwise on the ground. The sculpting nigh on ended, he glanced at Erbin, his underling, and nodded in silent approbation. The last leaf in the vine scroll framing the bottom panel on the west side of the cross was taking shape under the youngster's blows. Wiping his brow with his forearm, Humbert selected a tool from several at his belt. He proceeded to punch a pupil in the eye of a basilisk — ugly beast — positioned under the foot of Christ.
His workmate coughed. Nothing untoward, given these particles in the air, except Humbert knew a warning when he heard one and sure enough, from under his bowed forehead, he spied his master approaching: the bishop who had set him to this task on the same day the quarrymen had trundled the huge stone block to the abbey gates.
The mason straightened up, only to bow at once in reverence to the newcomer.
The prelate spread his hands in wonder at the malign basilisk staring back at him.
“The Heavens be praised, Humbert!”
The cleric ran his hand over the flowing mane of the lion, carved between a dragon and an asp, companions of the reptile trodden under the feet of the Son of God.
“What art! Our Father has guided your hand.”
“Nay Lord,” Humbert scooped up a handful of sandstone dust and let it trickle through his fingers, “here be the art, not yon,” he gestured toward the sculpture with his other hand.
The long, thin countenance of Wilfrith seamed with furrows, his mouth also defined at each edge by deep lines, lit up at the remark.
“I take your meaning, Master Humbert. Bless the day I chanced upon you whittling wood! But, it is not what the eye sees, rather that which makes the eye see, that is the Holy Spirit.”
The mason looked at the exiled Bishop of York with fondness. The prelate wore a long, adorned cloak of sumptuous purple, held below the neck by a gem-studded clasp, over a white linen robe. A leather cord bound it at the waist. The richness of his dress belied the disarming blend of powerful intelligence and sweetness and — above all — unchallengeable authority.
The mason gathered his courage, “Lord, may I ask a question?”
The broad brow of the clergyman wrinkled and he nodded.
“Beggin' your pardon, Lord, them runes you had me copy and hollow out on this side,” Humbert pointed with his punch, “what do they say, what meaning have they?”
The bishop sauntered to the top end of the stone cross and ran his finger in the groove of the first rune and began to read: “This slender pillar,” his hand moved with his words, “Wilfrith set up at the behest of Aethelwalh, King, and his queen, Eafe.” He had reached the mason and the figure of Christ on the skyward side of the pillar, “Pray for their sins, their souls.” His forefinger traced the last rune at the end of the shaft.
“The King, Aethelwalh?”
“Ay, Humbert. The King: he who gave us these eighty-seven hides of land at Selsea to build the abbey to the glory of God.”
“Bless the king, eh Erbin? We'd still be slaves along with the others if it weren't for his gift and the goodness of our Lord Bishop. Them were hard times.”
The countenance of the mason took on a faraway and pained expression, “Three years of drought and the yellow sickness. You remember, Erbin?” He ignored the Briton's shrug and went on, “I'll never rid it from my memory. At least fifty of them, men, women and children, so starved and desperate they flung themselves off the point yonder and drowned.”
Wilfrith frowned, “Despair is a sin.”
“Ay, but back then we worshipped the false gods. Then you came, Lord, and began to baptise the men you freed — twelve score and more…remember…? On that day…the first day, it rained! Rain, for the first time in three years — a miracle! God sent you to save us, body and soul.”
The bishop smiled, “The soul is the prime concern. But hark, when will the cross be ready?”
“Ay, the soul, it's true, but the body has its needs too.” Imperturbable, the mason continued, “It wasn't the rain alone, you taught us how to make nets and how to fish. We've never lacked for aught since you came, Lord.”
“Remember to pray and thank our Heavenly Father for his blessings. Now, tell me, when will the cross be ready?”
“Not like 'em monks over at Boseam —”
“Humbert!”
The mason looked sheepish, “Beg pardon, Lord. Erbin here has only to finish this vine scroll and I got to put scales on this here lizard —”
“Basilisk.”
“Eh?”
“It's a basilisk, hatched a serpent by a cockerel from a snake's egg. Kills with a glance. Psalm Ninety-One, 'The asp and the basilisk you will trample underfoot.' See, there's Our Saviour treading on the beasts.”
“'Orrible. Kill with a glance, eh?”
“The power of the Evil One. Now, you were saying,” the bishop directed a sour glance of his own in the direction of the mason, “once you've finished the scales…”
“Ay, some men will come and paint the scenes here,” he screwed up his eyes into an inquisitive expression. He paused as if wishing to ask a question, thought better of it and added, “when the paint's dry, we'll roll it on logs to the base yonder and lever it into the hole. It's exact yon is, twenty-two by twenty-two inches. Measured it myself a dozen times. Three days, no more.”
“Green, most likely.”
“Eh?”
The bishop turned and began to stroll away, “The basilisk, you wished to know its colour,” he called over his shoulder.
The mason's jaw dropped and he turned to Erbin, “How by Thunor's —”
“Hush!” the Briton hissed, “Don't let him hear yon name or you'll be for it!”
* * *
The Abbey of Selsea — three years later — February, 685 AD
Wilfrith stamped chilled feet on the iron-hard ground and stared at the grey sky extending as flat as beaten tin. Beyond the bare trees lay mudflats dotted with lagoons edged with desolate reed beds. The bishop drew his cloak tighter and sighed. Where was the sun? An absent friend, mourning for this world leached of colour? Bleakness in its severity offered its own beauty, he reflected. He shivered and crossed his arms over his chest for warmth.
“I've been staring at the scenery, unaware I'm a part of the landscape,” he murmured, “the cold morning distracts me.”
The sound of breaking waves spoke to him and he sought them out. Slate grey breakers marched like an invading host to dash on the pebble beach, a splash of silver in a world of pewter, exacting the hiss of tumbling shingle upon its ebb.
God gave me the ear that sees and the eye that hears. What happens outside occurs in me — they are one…
A sharp cry cut across the prelate's musings. A lad of no more than four and ten years hurtled toward him.
“My Lord! My Lord Bishop! A messenger's come — he be up at the abbey!”
The youngster halted before the clergyman, keen, nigh on bursting to blurt out the rest of his news but overawed by the presence of the personage before him.
Wilfrith looked at the shivering urchin, less concerned with the forthcoming communication than troubled by the child's threadbare tunic affording no protection from the icy teeth of the north-easterly wind. How must it be to stand barefoot on this frozen ground? Ashamed at the weakness of his own flesh, the bishop bent forward over the boy.”
“What is your name, little brother?”
Eyes wide, the stripling gaped at the exalted figure who deigned to speak with him.
“You do have a name?”
The tone was gentle.
“Beg pardon, my Lord, it be Osric.”
“Well, Osric, you run straight back to the abbey and go to Brother Byrnstan. He's the monk with white hair and the withered hand. Do you know where to find him?”
The tousled blond head nodded.
“Tell him the bishop beseeches a pair of leathern shoes and a woollen cloak be bestowed on you. Say I shall seek him out later.”
Disquieted, Wilfrith had no time to react as the boy dropped to his knees and kissed his shoe. Just as fast, the lad bounded to his feet and set off for the abbey at full tilt.
“Wait! The rest of your message?”
“Abbot Eappa says the news-bearer is with him and you've to come at once!” Osric shouted before turning and haring off along the trail, the words of his thin voice, snatched by the wind, hard for the prelate to distinguish.
Wilfrith smiled. No doubt he would have to soothe the almoner later. Indeed, a worse choice of alms-giver was difficult to imagine, the tightfistedness of Brother Byrnstan being famed well beyond the marshlands. The bishop hastened along the trail to the religious house he had founded.
What can be so urgent in this forlorn and uneventful season?
Once through the gate, he approached the colourful palm cross and, as ever, paused to marvel at the chequers and interlace knots surrounding the panel he liked best. The Virgin with the Child in her lap stared down at him. Wilfrith's gaze shifted to the sundial above the scene and he repressed a sigh. The shrouded sun lay like Christ at Golgotha — oh what joy he would feel at its resurrection!
Aware more pressing matters called for his presence, he strode beyond the stone church to the quarters of the abbot.
Abbot Eappa, too fond of his cup and therefore rubicund, wore a troubled expression that sat ill on his genial countenance. The aspect of the messenger came as the second surprise to the bishop. Whatever he expected, it did not resemble the man who towered over the rotund monk. From his bearing, a warrior — his visage revealed his unease in the company of an abbot and a bishop.
Wilfrith took charge, “Tell me, son, what brings you to this humble place of worship?” The efficient, authoritative tone of the prelate lacked any trace of the humility implicit in his words.
The messenger bowed, “Lord, I come from Boseam,” Wilfrith did not fail to catch the twang of West Seaxe speech, “or rather first from Kingsham…” said the man.
“Dire tidings!” Abbot Eappa intervened, “The King is dead! Aethelwalh is slain at the hands of Caedwalla.”
“Aethelwalh, dead?” The brow of the bishop furrowed.
“Ay Lord,” the warrior said, “we took Kingsham and the monk speaks true —”
“The 'monk' is an abbot, show respect, man!”
Wilfrith glared at the messenger.
“Beggin' pardon, Lord. Fact is, we know little of your ways and there's the problem. Our King, Caedwalla, sent us with the body of Aethelwalh to be brought to Selsea for burial. Not knowing the way, we sought directions to the monks' abode and they directed us to Boseam —”
“The Irishmen have the body!” the abbot interrupted. “Those wayfarers with their skew-shaven heads! We must act at once!”
Florid by nature, he grew ruddier and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Patience, Father!” Wilfrith turned to the warrior, “Why, once aware you had the wrong monks, did you not bring the body here?”
The messenger frowned, “Well, their leader, they call him Dicuill, said it was God's will the mortal remains of Aethelwalh had come to them. He wants to bury the King at Boseam.”
“And you let him?”
“Nay,” our commander, Ealdorman Guthred, delays. The monk threatened us with his God's wrath if we dared move the body thence. Guthred sent me here to fetch you, Lord. He says you Christians can sort it out among yourselves. He will not offend any god.”
“We shall come, anon. First, I must ask you to await us outdoors, for I must speak in confidence with my Abbot.”
As soon as the door closed behind the messenger, Wilfrith said, “The death of Aethelwalh is, of course, regrettable. Yet, it may benefit us. I have an understanding with Caedwalla —”
The troubled features of the abbot cleared a little. “With the warlord?”
“Ay, we met in the Andredes weald. The man is a pagan, but I have hopes the Spirit will move him to baptism. He is young with a yearning for power, but in him, I see a rare intelligence and determination. In his turn, he sees me not as a Man of Christ, but as a wise man who has seen much of the world…as one who possesses potent talismans and charms, a giver of sound advice…”
“But this understanding?”
“His fortune will be mine, and mine his.”
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