Bernard Cornwell - Warriors of the Storm

Ceolnoth came to an abrupt halt. He had not seen me on the ramparts. He scowled. ‘Bishop Leofstan is coming!’

‘The gates stay closed,’ I said, then turned to look across the river. I could hear singing now.

Finan and my son joined me. The Irishman stared south, frowning. ‘Father Leofstan is coming,’ I explained the excitement. A crowd was gathering in the street, all of them watching the big closed gates.

‘So I heard,’ Finan said curtly. I hesitated. I wanted to say something comforting, but what do you say to a man who has killed his own kin? Finan must have sensed my gaze because he growled. ‘Stop your worrying about me, lord.’

‘Who said I was worried?’

He half smiled. ‘I’ll kill some of Ragnall’s men. Then I’ll kill Conall. That’ll cure whatever ails me. Sweet Jesus! What is that?’

His question was prompted by the appearance of children. They were on the road south of the bridge and, so far as I could tell, all were dressed in white robes. There must have been a score of them, and they were singing as they walked. Some of them were waving small branches in time to their song. Behind them was a group of dark-robed priests and, last of all, a shambling crowd.

Father Ceolnoth had been joined by his twin brother, and the pair had climbed to the ramparts from where they stared south with ecstatic looks on their ugly faces. ‘What a holy man!’ Ceolnoth said.

‘The gates must be open!’ Ceolberht insisted. ‘Why aren’t the gates open?’

‘Because I haven’t ordered them opened,’ I growled, ‘that’s why.’ The gates stayed closed.

The strange procession crossed the river and approached the walls. The children were waving ragged willow fronds in time to their singing, but the fronds drooped and the singing faltered when they reached the flooded ditch and realised they could go no further. Then the voices died away altogether as a young priest pushed his way through the white-robed choir and called up to us. ‘The gates! Open the gates!’

‘Who are you?’ I called back.

The priest looked outraged. ‘Father Leofstan has come!’

‘Praise God,’ Father Ceolnoth said, ‘he is come!’

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘Oh, dear Jesus!’ Ceolberht exclaimed behind me.

‘Father Leofstan!’ the young priest called. ‘Father Leofstan is your …’

‘Quiet! Hush!’ A skinny priest mounted on an ass called the command. He was so tall and the ass was so small that his feet almost dragged on the roadway. ‘The gates must be closed,’ he called to the angry young priest, ‘because there are heathens close by!’ He half fell off the ass, then limped across the ditch’s wooden bridge. He looked up at us, smiling. ‘Greetings in the name of the living God!’

‘Father Leofstan!’ Ceolnoth called and waved.

‘Who are you?’ I demanded.

‘I am Leofstan, a humble servant of God,’ the skinny priest answered, ‘and you must be the Lord Uhtred?’ I nodded for answer. ‘And I humbly ask your permission to enter the city, Lord Uhtred,’ Leofstan went on.

I looked at the grubby-robed choir, then at the shambolic crowd, and shuddered. Leofstan waited patiently. He was younger than I had expected, with a broad, pale face, thick lips, and dark eyes. He smiled. I had the impression that he always smiled. He waited patiently, still smiling, just staring at me. ‘Who are those people?’ I demanded, pointing to the shambles who followed him. They were a shambles too. I had never seen so many people in rags. There must have been almost a hundred of them; cripples, hunchbacks, the blind, and a group of evidently moon-crazed men and women who shook and gibbered and dribbled.

‘These little ones,’ Leofstan placed his hands on the heads of two of the children, ‘are orphans, Lord Uhtred, who have been placed under my humble care.’

‘And the others?’ I demanded, jerking my head at the gibbering crowd.

‘God’s children!’ Leofstan said happily. ‘They are the halt, the lame, and the blind! They are beggars and outcasts! They are the hungry, the naked and the friendless! They are all God’s children!’

‘And what are they doing here?’ I asked.

Leofstan chuckled as though my question was too easy to answer. ‘Our dear Lord commands us to look after the helpless, Lord Uhtred. What does the blessed Matthew tell us? That when I was hungry you gave me food! When I was thirsty you gave me drink, when I was a stranger, you gave me shelter, when I was naked you clothed me, and when I was sick you visited me! To clothe the naked and to give help to the poor, Lord Uhtred, is to obey God! These dear people,’ he swept an arm at the hopeless crowd, ‘are my family!’

‘Sweet suffering Jesus,’ Finan murmured, sounding amused for the first time in days.

‘Praise be to God,’ Ceolnoth said, though without much enthusiasm.

‘You do know,’ I called down to Leofstan, ‘that there’s an army of Northmen not a half-day’s march away?’

‘The heathen pursue us,’ he said, ‘they rage all about us! Yet God shall preserve us!’

‘And this city might be under siege soon,’ I persevered.

‘The Lord is my strength!’

‘And if we are besieged,’ I demanded angrily, ‘how am I supposed to feed your family?’

‘The Lord will provide!’

‘You’ll not win this one,’ Finan said softly.

‘And where do they live?’ I asked harshly.

‘The church has property here, I am told,’ Leofstan answered gently, ‘so the church will house them. They shall not come nigh thee!’

I growled, Finan grinned, and Leofstan still smiled. ‘Open the damned gates,’ I said, then went down the stone steps. I reached the street just as the new bishop limped through the long gate arch and, once inside, he dropped to his knees and kissed the roadway. ‘Blessed be this place,’ he intoned, ‘and blessed be the folk who live here.’ He struggled to his feet and smiled at me. ‘I am honoured to meet you, Lord Uhtred.’

I fingered the hammer hanging at my neck, but even that symbol of paganism could not wipe the smile from his face. ‘One of these priests,’ I gestured at the twins, ‘will show you where you live.’

‘There is a fine house waiting for you, father,’ Ceolnoth said.

‘I need no fine house!’ Leofstan exclaimed. ‘Our Lord dwelt in no mansion! The foxes have holes and the birds of the sky have their nests, but something humble will suffice for us.’

‘Us?’ I asked. ‘All of you? Your cripples as well?’

‘For my dear wife and I,’ Leofstan said, and gestured for a woman to step forward from among his accompanying priests. At least I assumed she was a woman, because she was so swathed in cloaks and robes that it was hard to tell what she was. Her face was invisible under the shadow of a deep hood. ‘This is my dear wife Gomer,’ he introduced her, and the bundle of robes nodded towards me.

‘Gomer?’ I thought I had misheard because it was a name I had never heard before.

‘A name from the scriptures!’ Leofstan said brightly. ‘And you should know, lord, that my dear wife and I have taken vows of poverty and chastity. A hovel will suffice us, isn’t that so, dearest?’

Dearest nodded, and there was the hint of a squeak from beneath the swathe of hoods, robes, and cloak.

‘I’ve taken neither vow,’ I said with too much vehemence. ‘You’re both welcome,’ I added those words grudgingly because they were not true, ‘but keep your damned family out of the way of my soldiers. We have work to do.’

‘We shall pray for you!’ He turned. ‘Sing, children, sing! Wave your fronds merrily! Make a joyful noise unto the Lord as we enter his city!’

And so Bishop Leofstan came to Ceaster.