The Oblate's Confession (23 page)

I didn’t remember the spring. I remembered a warm place with blankets. I remembered a woman.

“Well it doesn’t matter, it’s there. It’s still there. Can you see the track—the break in the trees that marks the track—can you see that from your building, from the place where you sleep?”

I thought about it. I should be able to see it from the dortoir, especially if I stood on the bed and leaned out. I nodded. I probably would be able to see it even better from the crag.

“Good, that’s good, because I want you to do that from time to time. I mean I want you to look at that place and think about me, think about your brother and sisters, the buildings we’ve put up, the fields we’ve.... What? What is it?”

I was stunned.

“Your sisters? I haven’t mentioned your sisters?”

Sisters. I had sisters.

“Æbbe and Hildegyth.” Ceolwulf smiled. He looked back at the forest. He shook his head. “They’re a handful. Well, Æbbe is. Climbing trees, hiding food, you know what I’m talking about. But Hildegyth’s different, more like her mother.” Ceolwulf looked at the back of his hand. He rubbed it like a man smoothing something into place. “Sometimes I don’t even know she’s there and then she hands me something, a beaker of milk, a bowl of pudding, I don’t know. It’s nice. Looks like Gytha too, the hair, the way she tips her head like that.” Ceolwulf thought about it. “I’m going to give her the brooches. I am. Next year. I’m going to give her your mother’s brooches.”

Gytha. My mother’s name was Gytha. And her daughter looked like her. Hildegyth.

“Of course I’m going to have to be putting things away for her soon. Won’t be long now.” Ceolwulf looked at me. “You know what I’m talking about don’t you? I want to give her everything, pots, woolens, you know, everything. Maybe even a new loom. I don’t know, I want to see her smiling. When they carry her out I mean, I want to see her smiling, hair up for the first time, draped in linens and beads. That’s the way it should be. All of Deira will know she’s my daughter, my daughter and she can have anything she wants. And she’ll be quiet and she’ll smile that smile of hers and....” Ceolwulf looked back toward the wood for a moment so I could only see part of his face. The side of his throat was moving as if he were trying to swallow something. “When she does that, when she smiles like that, well...I don’t know. I’ll probably think about your mother.” He shook his head. “I never thought about it before but I guess that’s what’ll happen, I’ll think about your mother.” He looked at me. “You ever do that? You ever think about your mother, remember her?”

I nodded, the face, the smell.

Ceolwulf looked back toward the wood. “She was beautiful you know. She was the most beautiful woman in the world and I built that place for her. Built it up from what Beornwine gave me. And now I will hand it on to her, to her daughters and her son.

That’s what she’d want, don’t you think?” Ceolwulf looked at me. “Don’t you think she’d want that? Would want your brother and sisters to carry on there in the home she made for them, the place where she nursed them, tended them?”

It was a nice thought. I smiled. Yes. Yes, the lady whose face I recalled (who had loved me), her children, her daughter who was like her, would live on, lived on even now, in the place she had made for them, in the place that had been my home. Yes. Yes, I liked that. I liked the idea of that.

Ceolwulf knelt down in front of me. He looked at me and, for a moment, two dim reflections of my own face stared back at me from his eyes. “Good,” he said. “That’s good, because that’s why I came here. That’s what I came for, to stop him. To try to stop Wilfrid from stealing your mother’s home.”

I shook my head.

Ceolwulf held my shoulders. “No. No, you have to listen, it’s your duty. You have to listen. You have to be very brave now. You have to be a warrior. You have to stand up for us. For all of us. For your mother and me.”

My mother. For my mother.

“That’s my boy!” He squeezed my shoulders. “That’s my boy, that’s my boy!” He stood up. He glanced toward the door then back at me again. “We have to hurry now,” he said. “Is there anyone here who can teach you to pray better, someone you can trust? You know what I’m talking about, is there anyone here who can teach you how to do it better, to pray better?”

I looked at Ceolwulf.

“Better I mean. You know what I mean, better than you pray now. Is there someone here who could do that, someone, I don’t know, a priest, an adept, whatever they call them nowadays, someone whose prayers really work.”

“There’s a hermit. He lives up on the mountain.”

“Gwynedd?”

My father knew everything.

“Bad name but he’s good isn’t he? I mean he’s good, has the touch. But doesn’t he live up on the mountain? I mean I know you

just said that but I thought he never comes down. I mean I thought he never comes down, that that was where his power comes from, the mountain. He has to stay up there, doesn’t he? How could you get to him, learn anything from him up on the mountain?”

I straightened my shoulders. “I am Father’s servant. I visit him often.”

“Often?”

I swallowed.

Ceolwulf looked at me.

“I mean whenever Father Abbot wants. Sometimes I go twice a week, but most times just once. I bring him food and things, tabula.”

“You do.”

I nodded, a little more sure of myself now.

“Good. Well that’s good. But will this Gwynedd teach you? I mean it’s a secret thing isn’t it, that sort of prayer? I mean they don’t teach it to just anyone, do they?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know.

Ceolwulf nodded. “Well you work on him. You work on him, get him to teach you that. Because you’re not so good at it you know, I mean prayer. You’re not so good at this praying.”

I hadn’t died during the pestilence.

“You know what I’m talking about don’t you? Your prayer I mean?”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“The prayer I taught you? The one I had old Edgils compose. How did it go? ‘Give him a strong right arm. Make his animals fertile, his fields....’ I don’t know, ‘fertile’ or something.”

“Fecund.”

“What?”

“Fecund. ‘Make his animals fecund, his fields fertile.’” It had been a hard word for me too.

Ceolwulf frowned. “Oh. Fecund. So what happened? Did you quit saying it or what?”

Ceolwulf had taught me the prayer. All these years I had
thought it was Father Abbot and it was Ceolwulf instead.

“Because it didn’t work. I mean there was another part, wasn’t there, something about Oswiu, something about long life?”

I thought to myself,
Fill his hall with drink, good food, happiness; let the sounds of harp and laughter ring in that place. Give him long life....
“‘Give him long life, God’” I said, “‘for his followers would miss his voice as they do those of the great heroes long gone.’”

“Exactly. Exactly. And it didn’t work, did it? I mean your prayer didn’t work.”

I looked at my father.

“Oswiu’s dead, isn’t he? Wilfrid killed him, as good as killed him, last winter, didn’t he?”

“Sir?”

“Oswiu’s dead, don’t they tell you anything up here? Ecgfrith’s king now, been king over a year, though Wilfrid might as well be.” Oswiu was dead. The man I had prayed for at Mass this morning was dead.

Ceolwulf frowned. “You’re not going to faint again, are you?”

I held onto the windowsill. I wasn’t going to faint.

“Good, good boy. It’s not your fault, not really. I mean you can’t blame yourself, a powerful priest like that. Hell, Wilfrid’s got hundreds of people praying for him, thousands. What are the prayers of a single ab.... You know what I mean, a single boy against all that? I mean you didn’t stand much of a chance, did you?”

I didn’t?

“Oswiu died didn’t he? Perfectly healthy, not much older than I am, and he takes sick and dies. What does that tell you? I mean the man had been out to get him since the beginning.”

“Father Bishop?”

“He’s not your father! You’ve never even met him!”

I blinked.

“No, it’s all right.” Ceolwulf smiled. “I mean it’s all right. I know they teach you to call him that, but he’s not. I mean he’s not your father,
I'
m
your father. He’s a thief. I told you about
In-Hrypum, didn’t I?”

I nodded.

“Well, things got worse after In-Hrypum. Wilfrid wasn’t satisfied. Never is satisfied. He kept after them, the northerners, the hair, how they did everything wrong, how bad they were. Got to the point he refused to talk with them, eat food they’d prayed over, sing their songs, that sort of thing. It was embarrassing. But it worked. People began to worry, talk. Some said if you’d had water sprinkled on you by the wrong side, you hadn’t really been saved, and everyone knew what that meant. I mean it was the one thing both sides agreed on. So if priests with the wrong style of hair buried your father, where was he now? And if the wrong type blessed your bread at Mass, who had you eaten? I mean I know it’s all absurd but people really care about such things. Soon enough they were calling each other names, heathen, drawing lines, forming alliances. You can’t imagine how bad it was, the fear, the accusations. You could see how it was going to end. Poor Oswiu, everything he’d ever worked for, the unity, Northumbria, the peace, everything falling apart. There could have been a war you know. Can you believe that? I mean can you imagine people fighting over something like that?”

I tried to imagine Bishop Wilfrid in a shield and helmet, the little man I had pictured building our bridge.

Ceolwulf shook his head. “So Oswiu did it. I mean he had to, Alcfrith left him no room. Of course he thought Streoneshalh was going to work for him, because of Hilda, because she was abbess at Streoneshalh. But it didn’t, couldn’t really when you think about it. Called the northerners stupid. Can you imagine that? Wilfrid I mean. Stands up there in front of the entire assembly and calls the northerners stupid. His hostess was northern, his king!” Ceolwulf looked at me. “Is that what you call courteous? Is that what you call proper?”

Waldhere had been made to kneel before Faults for calling Ealhmund stupid.

Ceolwulf made a face and the whiskers between his lip and chin stuck out at an angle. “They should have strung him up,
that’s what they should have done. I mean that’s what I would have done, from the nearest drying rack. But I guess they couldn’t anymore. I mean all the Colmans and Hildas in the world couldn’t make any difference now, could they? Not against Rome. Someone tells you the Empire’s dead, you ask them about the Church, what they think the Church is they think the Empire’s dead. All Wilfrid had to do was point south, remind everyone who was behind him, that all the lands from Rome to Mercia followed his rule, and that was that. Mercia was a nice touch, don’t you think, mentioning Mercia? So what could Oswiu do? St. Peter holds the key, doesn’t he? Everyone knows that. So Rome wins. The great assembly at Streoneshalh is adjourned, Colman sent into exile, and the upstart Wilfrid made bishop in his place.”

Ceolwulf looked down at something on his hand, brushed it off. “Of course after that, everything went to hell. Wilfrid begins interfering with the monasteries, insulting monks, throwing them off their land. Bishops weren’t supposed to do that in those days. I mean monasteries were special places then, safe, respected. Even the king had to ask permission to enter a monastery. But not Wilfrid. What did he care if an abbot’s hat was the same as his? If one of them didn’t abide by Streoneshalh, follow the Roman ways, he was out on his ear. And of course Folian wouldn’t, crazy old man. He loved Redestone.” Ceolwulf looked at me. “You know what he used to say? He’d pour some water out on the ground and, well, you know how the earth around here turns color when you do that, pour water on it? Well Folian loved that! He’d preach about it, said the place was suffused with God’s blood.
Suffused.
Used to use words like that,
suffused!
Crazy old man. But not Wilfrid. I mean it certainly wasn’t the blood of Christ he saw. First thing he did, he kicked Folian out and built himself a furnace.”

Ceolwulf paused, looked at me as if expecting me to say something. When I didn’t, he shook his head. “The people were outraged of course. The idea of a holy man touching iron...well it wasn’t done. ‘Neither sword nor scythe.’ And the northern priests had always respected that, except for tools of course. But not Wilfrid. No, his hands were never so clean he couldn’t grab a little
metal. And they missed the monks too. The people I mean. I mean they missed the northern monks. Monasteries weren’t monasteries anymore. A pestilence comes now, famine, first thing the monasteries do is close their gates. Redestone didn’t even have gates in Folian’s day. Hell, didn’t even have buildings except for the church!”

I looked out at the Far Wood, remembered the beggars.

“Of course Oswiu tried to fix things. When he saw how bad it’d gotten, how upset people were, he tried to reverse his decision, make Northumbria part of the northern Church again. Wilfrid must have been out of the country, a pilgrimage or something, because I remember for a while it worked. I don’t know whether Oswiu actually forswore Streoneshalh but he might as well have done. Named Chad bishop, didn’t he? Acted as if he’d never heard of anyone named Wilfrid, reverted to the old ways, the original feast days. Not that it worked. Couldn’t really I suppose. Like trying to push back the sea, fighting Rome. Wherever Wilfrid was, he came back. Joined forces with the Mercians and before you know it, Roman monks are showing up all over the place crying out against Oswiu, calling his bishop a fraud. You just can’t beat him. Cut off an arm and Wilfrid sprouts two more. So Chad’s sent off in disgrace, the country’s in an uproar, and Wilfrid is a power to contend with, Rome and Mercia at his back. Poor Oswiu, all he’d ever worked for, all he’d tried to accomplish, undone by a man doesn’t even carry a sword.”