Moyra Caldecott (19 page)

Did it really matter so much on which date the festival of Easter was celebrated? It was surely the spirit of the Word that mattered, not the letter. But Oswy had called the Synod together, the greatest gathering of people powerful in church and state Britain had ever known, to settle once and for all this apparently trivial matter. For years it had been an irritation to him that he and his wife had different dates for Easter, he following the tradition of Columba on Iona, his wife, having grown up in Kent, following the Roman way. This meant that one of them was still suffering the privations of Lent while the other was celebrating with feasting the joyous Resurrection.

Etheldreda suspected that it was Wilfrid’s agitation about spreading the neat orderliness of Rome that had made of this inconvenience a major issue, and that the Synod was by no means only about the date of Easter, but the wider question of whether the Roman way should prevail over the Celtic.

She found herself torn uncomfortably between the two.

Bishop Felix had been of Roman persuasion, Fursey of Celtic. Both men had influenced her as a girl. She did not see why the best of both ways could not be taken. Why must there always be confrontation and choice?

The men in the Synod were quoting authorities in support of their separate points of view and it looked as though Wilfrid’s authorities would win. There was no arguing that the Lord
had
given the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven to Saint Peter and that Saint Peter was the founder of the Church in Rome.

The early missionaries who had come to Britain soon after the death of Christ (some said Joseph of Arimathea himself had founded a church at Glastonbury) had been strong men, inspired men, men who needed space to be alone with their God. In isolated communities they had preached the Word, no one to give them rules on how to do it. They told the Lord’s story as they saw it.

When Gregory sent Augustine’s mission to the heathen Anglo Saxons in 596 he found some of the conquered British population already Christian, holding to their independence jealously. Since then the two, the new wave and the old, had grown further and further apart. It was Alfrid’s desire now to bring them together under the one authority. Wilfrid and he had spent many a long night in discussion on how it was to be done, both believing it was for the good of all that the Roman way should win.

Etheldreda could see that there was a certain sense in which it was important that Easter should be on exactly the same day throughout the Christian world. Many people concentrating their energies on a particular prayer at one and the same time would give that prayer greater effectiveness. If all the world were to appeal for renewal and for spiritual growth at the same moment, who knows what miracle of peace and transcendent love might not prevail?

But no one had mentioned this argument. This had not been made the issue.

She sighed. Was she wrong? Should she bend her way of thinking to authority in every instance? Sometimes she feared that she would be branded a heretic. There were so many things that she secretly thought that she suspected would not meet the Church’s official approval.

She remembered the time when the angry talk had been of Jerusalem and everyone was trying to think of violent ways to wrest it from the Arabs who had seized it when she was a child of eight, and were now, under the guise of their new aggressive religion, conquering half the world. She had caught herself thinking then that it did not matter who held Jerusalem in the worldly sense. The Lord was no longer there. He and his holy city were in the hearts of anyone who invited Him in.

A small boat sailed out from the harbour far below her. She could see the tiny figures of the fishermen going about their business unconcerned whether the heated and acrimonious arguments going on in the great abbey that overlooked their peaceful little town went one way or the other.

She took a deep breath of fine, clear air.

To the north as far as she could see were rocky cliffs and shadowy inlets. The green land came to the edge and stopped short.

Where she stood were the remains of a Roman lighthouse. The place was called ‘the Bay of the Beacon’. Would this prove prophetic – or ironic?

Suddenly she heard a sound behind her. The decision must have been reached. The doors of the abbey hall had been opened and people were pouring out into the sunshine. The decision may have been reached, but there were obviously many who did not agree with it. Angry voices were still raised. By the ones who looked satisfied and the ones who looked dismayed Etheldreda could see that the eloquent priest Wilfrid had triumphed. He had been a favourite at court before; there would be no holding him now.

She caught sight of the Abbess Hilda who had been presiding over the Synod. She looked tired and discouraged.

Etheldreda pushed her way through the crowds to her side, lightly disengaging her friend from a group of argumentative monks, and drawing her away to a quiet spot.

‘What do you think, my friend? Will you change to the Roman Easter?’ she asked.

Hilda shrugged and sighed.

‘I will change, but I do not like it.’

‘There was a great deal said today that I didn’t like,’ Etheldreda said sadly. ‘It became a general attack on the brothers of Iona and Lindisfarne in the guise of an attack on their Easter reckoning.’

‘Wilfrid is a man to be watched. He’s ambitious, I think, and not only for the Lord’s Kingdom.’

‘He has great skill with words. Saint Peter himself would find him difficult to outwit. Poor Colman. He didn’t stand a chance,’ said Etheldreda.

Hilda smiled ruefully.

‘Wilfrid accused Columba of “primitive simplicity” as though it were something to be ashamed of,’ Etheldreda complained. ‘In fact it is this very simplicity that is his great strength.’

‘It’s Wilfrid’s lack of it that will be his undoing,’ agreed Hilda.

‘What will be my undoing?’ a cheerful voice said behind them, and they turned to find the handsome monk, glowing with his recent victory, smiling at them.

The women laughed, slightly embarrassed.

‘I was saying your lack of simplicity would be your undoing in the end,’ said Hilda.

Wilfrid laughed. ‘That may well be, if simplicity is a virtue.’

‘Our Lord…’

‘I know our Lord spoke of it…’ he interrupted, ‘but times have changed. Our world is getting more and more complicated, populations are growing, enemies of our Church are thriving. We have to be strong and organised, presenting a unified front to the world. The old simplicity served its purpose. The new sophistication will serve its purpose too.’

A look passed between Etheldreda and Hilda.

‘You are wrong, brother Wilfrid,’ Etheldreda said, ‘but I can’t prove you so with words. Nothing has essentially changed. The challenge of the world has always been as it is now.’

He opened his mouth to continue the argument, but Hilda raised her hand.

‘I’m tired of talk. We have had too much of it this day. I’m going for a walk. You may both join me if you like, but if you do, you must keep silence.’

Hilda had such a natural talent for command even Wilfrid could not disobey her.

The three of them walked along the clifftop where Etheldreda had been before in silence, the fresh breeze tugging at their clothes.

The sea turned to gold and then to lead. When the first star appeared Etheldreda and Hilda turned back to the warm lights of the monastery, leaving Wilfrid alone on the headland. He knew the importance of the decision that had just been made in the council hall, and he knew that it had been made the way he wanted it because of his own personal power. He felt as though the world were at his feet and if he lifted his hand it would follow him anywhere he chose.

He took a deep breath. Success tasted good.

Above him the sky darkened and as it did so it seemed to grow vaster every moment. Depth opened upon depth, stars behind stars… His figure on the headland was very, very small.

Chapter 18

Death of Oswy AD 670

One day in the spring of the year 664 Etheldreda was out riding with Heregyth. The day was bright and warm, the woods full of bluebells, when suddenly a sense of icy foreboding caused her skin to prickle. At the same time her sight seemed to be growing dim. Just as a thrill of fear touched her own heart, the gentle mare she rode upon reared up and whinnied. For the next few moments she was so occupied in calming it down that she was not fully aware of what was happening. Then she noticed that the landscape was rapidly growing darker.

She looked over her shoulder to Heregyth and saw that she too was having trouble with her frightened steed. Behind her an immense, cold, black shadow seemed to be advancing across the land. Strings of birds were winging purposefully towards the forests as they did at nightfall.

The two women drew close together as the darkness grew more and more palpable around them. The horses moved restlessly, breathing heavily, all senses alerted to danger, but held in check by their human companions’ soothing words and caresses.

Heregyth crossed herself. Etheldreda did the same.

‘Is it the devil coming?’ Heregyth whispered. ‘Is it the end of the world?’

A few moments before, this very thought had crossed Etheldreda’s mind, but now she had another explanation and was no longer afraid.

‘Be comforted,’ she said gently. ‘It’s neither of those dread things. I’ve heard of this happening before.’

‘Is the sun leaving us forever?’ Heregyth’s voice rose in horror.

‘No. No. It’s nothing. It will pass. A shadow crosses the sun. Who knows what it is… the wing of a dark angel… a moment of despair in God’s heart as he looks at the world. It will pass. Learned men know of this. It happens from time to time.’

‘How long will it last?’ Heregyth was shivering with the sudden chill.

The darkness was almost complete. The air seemed thick and solid, the landscape insubstantial.

They looked up towards the sun and gasped. It was black, but around it a brilliant ring of light shone out, and suddenly at one side, in the split second their eyes could stand the strain, they thought they saw an immense jewel grow from the ring.

They clung together, their eyes burning and watering.

‘God has given us a sign,’ Etheldreda whispered.

‘What does it mean?’ sobbed Heregyth. ‘My lady, what does it mean?’

‘A warning… a reminder. He could snuff out this whole universe like we snuff out a candle if He wished. But the ring is His token, His gift of forgiveness and presage of glory.’

‘See, the light returns!’ cried Heregyth with relief. ‘The light returns!’

But whatever their God might have been trying to teach them was not finished. Within a very short time of this eclipse news came from the southern kingdoms that plague was with them again. It was said that so many people had died in the country of the East Saxons that there were scarce enough left to work the fields. All the priests were dead and the people were turning back to their old gods. Amulets and charms were being sought, many bartering them for what little food was available. Temples were even being hastily rebuilt and Christian churches burnt down.

Following close on these dark rumours came news of the death of Eorconbert, King of Kent.

Ovin, who was now apprenticed to the Herb Master of York, scarcely slept. He and his mentor, knowing that the plague would not be long in reaching their land, were preparing as best they could by laying in stocks of useful herbs. Sachets of garlic were prepared. Cauldrons of thyme and fennel, mugwort and plantain were boiled and set aside in buckets to administer when needed. They worked day and night, gathering and sorting, grinding some to powder, hanging others to dry, the old words of the Nine-Herbs Charm running through their heads…

‘Thou has strength against three and against thirty,
Thou has strength against poison and against infection,
Thou has strength against the foe who fares through the land!’

Ovin secretly adding a fervent ‘amen’ every time.

Although it was time-consuming they both tried to keep to the old herb-gathering rules, the wort-cunning of the ancients, for the Herb Master was not that much of a new man that he did not believe that the natural properties of herbs were only part of their efficacy. Plants were alive and with encouragement and right treatment would yield their hidden energies to man, earth energies only they knew how to transform. If they were not handled properly these hidden energies would run back into the earth and the plant would be useless for healing. The Master taught Ovin to speak to the herb before he gathered it, telling it for what purpose it was being gathered and asking it for its co-operation. He was to be barefooted so that he himself was in direct contact with the earth. He was to use no iron, for iron destroys all ancient magic. If he had to dig he must use bone or bronze, wood, stone or even gold like the ancient Druids.
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Once gathered he must never let the herb touch the ground again or its power might leak back into the earth. He must remember to reward the earth with a little gratitude, an offering of wine or honey, bread, or even a small coin. The stars must be considered, the position of the sun and moon, even the direction of the wind should be taken into account. There was a great deal to remember and with the pressure of the approaching pestilence Ovin was fully occupied.

By early summer the plague was in Northumbria and every day was a day of mourning. The king himself, Alfrid of Deira, was struck down, and died calling for Etheldreda. She came to him at once and strained to hear what his swollen lips were trying to say to her, but his throat was already closing and his eyes that gazed so desperately into hers one moment, the next were as sightless as stone. She thought of the night that he had come to her room, so strong, so confident. She thought of all that he had tried to do for the Church. ‘O Lord, Thine is the only permanence, the only refuge from the howling storm,’ she whispered. ‘Keep this man’s soul close to Thee.’

News came from Melrose that Cuthbert, loved by all who knew him, was ill.

For the first time since the plague began Etheldreda retired to her room and wept. She had long passed the point where weariness demanded sleep. She was living in a kind of no man’s land between sleep and waking, her heart raw and aching with pity for the victims of the disease that she and Ovin ministered to day and night, her soul still clinging fiercely to a belief that the Lord knew what He was doing and that in the long run it would prove to have been for the best.