Saint Cuthbert Trilogy - The Complete Series

Excerpt from Saint Cuthbert Trilogy

Bamburgh, Northumbria, March 867 AD

Unfortunately, we cannot choose when or where we are born. My misfortune was to come to the light in the darkest days of our kingdom. The Northumbrians had violently expelled the rightful king from the land, Osbert by name, and placed on the throne a tyrant, Aella. When the pagan Vikings descended upon the land, the dissension was allayed by Church counsellors with the aid of the nobles. King Osbert and Aella, having united their forces and formed an army, came to the city of York.

When the savage shipmen joined in a wall before us, battering their weapons on their gaudily-painted round shields, I ordered my men to secure the horses at our rear so that we could engage on foot. The enemy fought as ferociously as half-starved wolves; nonetheless, we broke their shield-wall and drove them back in a rout. We Christians, perceiving their flight and terror, found that we were the stronger. That is when I seized glory, leading the horses in pursuit, and I swear that more of the enemy died, hacked from behind by our mill-sharp blades, than those we dispatched to their Valhalla face to face. We forced our way through the ill-repaired walls of the city but with each side fighting with unrestrained ferocity, both our kings and eight ealdormen fell. Without a recognised leader, our nobles bought peace.

I am Cynn Edwysson, horse thegn, descended from four generations of officials holding this prestigious rank. The first, my father’s grandsire, whose name he bore, was granted his position by King Aldfrith of great renown. Edwy’s father, Aella, who bred steeds in Ireland began the family tradition of rearing horses; but I digress.

Although I wished to drive home our slight advantage, the sheer might of the Viking fleet anchored off our coast under Halfdan Ragnarsson, intimidated our surviving ealdormen. That is why I find myself horse thegn to a tributary king, Egbert by name, who is forced to raise taxes and enforce the will of the ravenous Danes. When I think of his feeble subservience my blood boils, and I am not the only warrior to harbour this sentiment.

Yesterday, my younger brother, Galan, born while I was watching the snowfall wide-eyed with wonder in my second winter, crossed the causeway from Lindisfarne to seek me out and say his farewells. Galan is a monk, more precisely a scribe, just like our famous forebear, Aella—the friend of our beloved saint, Cuthbert. The reason for Galan’s departure was motivated by our deep love for the saint, and Bishop Eardwulf, in consultation with Abbot Eadred of Carlisle, made a crucial decision in this regard. These prominent churchmen, aware of Halfdan’s fleet anchored in the mouth of the River Team, remembered what had happened more than four-score winters past when, in January 793, the Norsemen sacked Lindisfarne Abbey, slaying or enslaving the monks and plundering the monastery treasures. Miraculously, the grave of the sainted Cuthbert remained unharmed. The two dignitaries were not prepared to take the risk of desecration on this occasion, with the Vikings lurking offshore and preparing to descend on Northumbria like wolves on a sheep pen.

The high-ranking clergymen ordered the digging up of the saint’s body, incorrupt—the Lord be praised! —his ceremonial vestments still covering him. With awe and care, his remains were placed in a coffin with the head of Saint Oswald, martyr, and the bones of Saint Alban and other saints. Just seven monks were allocated the task of transporting the coffin to safety, away from the coast, and among these, was my brother.

Having bid me farewell, he departed with his companions taking the old Roman road towards Corbridge, bearing the box on their shoulders. What a long and arduous journey lay before them, they who had to preserve their precious burden at all costs and who could travel little more than a league-and-a-half a day.

I found myself in a difficulty. What were my choices? Should I remain faithful to an unworthy king or follow my brother and seek to protect the relics of the most venerated servant of God to have ever trodden the ground of our beloved Northumbria? Given the inevitable slowness of the monks’ procession, I resolved to wait and see what the Danes would decide.

At this point, I should explain that such was the general devotion to Saint Cuthbert in Northumbria that the people of this land became known as the haliwerfolc or ‘people of the saint’. I share this reverence, not least for family reasons, as I mentioned previously, our great-great-great grandsire was a close friend and, later, chronicler of Cuthbert. There was a belief among us descendants that Aella made the binding of the volume known as Cuthbert’s Gospel and that the book was buried with his body. I forgot to ask Galan if it had been found when they dug up the remains. When we meet again, I’ll be sure to enquire.

Having installed a puppet to do their will in Northumbria, the Danes felt confident enough to move south for the richer pickings offered by the kingdom of Mercia. News reached Bamburgh that the Vikings had taken Nottingham and that they were organising overwintering there.

As the royal horse thegn, I was a member of the king’s council. This was an unhappy function in those dark days. One of the least powerful of the assembly, I mostly remained silent because it would have been easy to be expelled, or worse if I voiced my headstrong opinions.

I had to countenance the excessive taxation mooted which the spineless Egbert duly poured into the Norse coffers regardless of the suffering of our people. Were the rigours of the winter not a sufficient burden for the ceorls to bear without such an imposition? As a silent onlooker, I identified the minority of ealdormen who shared my opinions. Chief among them was a powerful and outspoken man of royal blood, Ricsige. It was too early to openly support him, but I bore him in mind as a potential ally should the situation deteriorate further.

Months had elapsed since the departure of the seven monks with Cuthbert’s remains, and with the harsh months looming, I worried about their progress and health. Having already supervised the stockpiling of winter fodder for the horses, given instructions to manage breeding and sent traders to Frankia for the purchase of five war steeds of Spanish bloodline for the brood mares, there was no reason for me to linger in Bamburgh. I could not leave without Egbert’s permission, but likely he saw me as of little value owing to my silence in the moot. Bishop Eardwulf, upon hearing that I intended to assure the safety of the Cuthbert bearers lent his considerable weight to my plea. The king conceded five horsemen to accompany me and I, of course, chose them from among my friends.

We discovered their trail with little difficulty because I knew they had made for Corbridge. Enquiries in that town gave us a surprise because instead of proceeding west as originally planned, the monks decided to cross the Tyne and head for Norham. We rode to that town and the people remembered the strange procession well, for they had received them with open hearts. Everyone we spoke to told us of the great honour felt to have the saint among them, however briefly. Well-wishers offered food, shelter and even precious gifts to the weary travellers. Some wished to shoulder the burden but this was not permitted as only the seven bearers were allowed to touch the coffin.

For reasons we could not discover, the monks did not cross the River Tweed, perhaps fearing the Picts, who can say? Instead, they veered southwest to Tillmouth, whence they proceeded to a place named Cornhill. In both places, we found the same awed response to the passing of Cuthbert. Thence they trudged along by the course of the Tweed and, I, on horseback, devouring the leagues, felt my heart ache for their poor weary bodies, which somehow, they had dragged as far as Wark. It was there that we learnt of the monks’ intention to plod on to Melrose Abbey because among the bones in the coffin were those of Saint Aidan, who had appeared in a dream, begging the sleeping monk to take him to the monastery that he had founded many lifetimes before. In the same dream, the saint instructed them to spend the winter in the abbey, where they would be well received and might recover their strength.