Peter Tremayne - Absolution by Murder

From this distance, Brother Eadulf could not make out much beyond the small black outline that the man had indicated. It stood just before what seemed a crevice in the cliff.

‘That is our harbour,’ the captain said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘That is the valley of a small river named the Esk which empties into the sea just below the abbey. A small township has arisen there in the last ten years and, because of the proximity of Mother Hilda’s abbey, the people are already calling it Witebia, “the town of the pure”.’

‘How soon before we reach it?’

The old captain shrugged. ‘Perhaps within the hour. It depends on this shoreward breeze and the running tide. There is a dangerous reef near the harbour entrance that cuts into the sea here for nearly a mile. Nothing dangerous – if one is a good sailor.’

He did not add ‘as I am’ but Eadulf interpreted the hidden meaning.

Brother Eadulf reluctantly drew his eyes away from the cliff-rimmed coastline.

‘I’d better inform His Grace.’

He staggered a little as he turned, then bit his lip to quell the curse that came unbidden to his tongue. He was coming to think of himself as a sailor. Had he not twice crossed the great sea between Britain and the land of Éireann and then only recently crossed the sea between Britain and Gaul, returning from a two-year pilgrimage to Rome itself? But he had discovered that he needed to adjust from land to sea on every voyage. During the three days they had now been sailing from the kingdom of Kent, Brother Eadulf had taken one full day to gain his sea legs. Indeed during the first day he had been sorely ill. He had lain on a straw palliasse, groaning and vomiting until he thought he would surely die of nausea and fatigue. Only on this the third day had he been able to stand without feeling bilious and let the pungent sea breezes clear his head and lungs, making him feel vaguely human again. But every now and then a capricious wave would still send him staggering, to the amusement of Stuf and his crew.

Stuf reached out a strong brown calloused hand to steady the young monk as he nearly lost his footing.

Brother Eadulf sheepishly smiled his thanks before turning away.

Stuf watched him go with a grin at his awkward gait. Another week and maybe the young religieux would make a passable sailor, he thought. He would soon have his muscles toned up again by active work. They had obviously been made flaccid by too many years at prayer in darkened cloisters away from the sun. The young monk had the build of a warrior. Stuf shook his head disapprovingly. Christianity was turning Saxon warriors into women.

The old captain had sailed with many cargoes along these shores but this was the first time he had sailed with a party of Christians. A curious group of passengers, by the breath of Woden. Stuf made no secret of the fact that he preferred to worship the old gods, the gods of his fathers. Indeed, his own country of the South Saxons was only now reluctantly allowing those who taught of the God with no name, whose Son was called Christ, to enter their kingdom and preach. Stuf would have preferred the king of the South Saxons to continue to forbid them to teach there. He had no time for Christians or their teachings.

When his time came, he wanted to go to the Hall of Heroes, sword in hand, shouting the sacred name of Woden, as countless generations of his ancestors had done before him, rather than whimper the name of some foreign god in the outlandish tongue of the Romans and expire peacefully in a bed. That was no way for a Saxon warrior to pass into the other life. Indeed, a Saxon was denied any form of afterlife unless he went sword in hand to the Heroes’ Hall.

So far as Stuf could make out, this Christ was supposed to be a God of peace, of slaves and old men and women.

Better a manly god, a warrior god, like Tiw or Woden, Thunor, Freyr and Seaxnat, who punished their enemies, welcomed warriors and slew the weak and feeble.

Yet he was a man of business. A ship’s master. And the gold of the Christians was as good as anyone’s, so it was none of his concern that his cargo was a group of Christian religious.

He turned, back against the wind, and spat over the side, raising his colourless yet bright eyes to the great sail above him. Now was the time to haul down the sail and set the thirty-eight slaves who manned the oars pulling towards the coast. He moved aft along the eighty-foot-long vessel, shouting orders as he went.

Brother Eadulf made his way to the stern to find his companions, a half-dozen men now stretched out on straw palliasses. He spoke to a rotund and jovial-looking man with greying hair.

‘We are within sight of Witebia, Brother Wighard,’ he said. ‘The captain says we should be landing within the hour. Should I tell His Grace?’

The rotund man shook his head.

‘His Grace continues to feel unwell,’ he replied mournfully.

Brother Eadulf looked concerned.

‘Better to get him to the bows where the air might restore him to health.’

Brother Wighard shook his head emphatically.

‘I know you have studied the art of the apothecary, Eadulf. But such cures can also kill, my brother. Let His Grace rest a while longer.’

Eadulf hesitated, torn between his own knowledge and belief and the fact that Wighard was not someone to be disregarded. Wighard was secretary to Deusdedit, Archbishop of Canterbury. And it was Deusdedit who was the subject of their conversation.

The archbishop was elderly and had been ordained by Eugenius I, Bishop of Rome and Father of the Universal Church, to be the head of Rome’s mission to the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms in Britain.

But no one could converse with Deusdedit without first obtaining Wighard’s approval. Wighard’s cherubic-like features hid a coldly calculating mind and an ambition that was keen as a sharpened sword. Thus much had Eadulf discovered during the few days he had been in proximity with the Kentish monk. Wighard was extremely jealous of his position as secretary and confidant of the archbishop.

Deusdedit himself had the honour of being the first Saxon ever to hold the office that Augustine of Rome had inaugurated at Canterbury when he had arrived to convert the pagan Saxons to Christ scarcely seventy years before. Only missionaries from Rome had held the office of chief of Rome’s missionaries to the Anglo-Saxons. But Deusdedit, a West Saxon whose original name had been Frithuwine, had proved himself learned, patient and zealous for the teachings of Rome. Frithuwine had been baptized in the new faith as he who had been given, deditus , to God, Deus . The Holy Father had no qualms in appointing him as his spokesman to the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and, for nine years now, Deusdedit had guided the fortunes of those Christians who looked to Rome for their spiritual authority.

But Deusdedit had not been in the best of health since the start of the voyage and had spent most of the time apart from the rest being attended only by his secretary Wighard.

Eadulf hesitated before Wighard, wondering whether he should be more forceful in applying his knowledge of medicine. Then he shrugged.

‘Will you then warn His Grace that we will be landing soon?’ he asked.

Wighard nodded reassuringly.

‘It shall be done. Let me know, Eadulf, if there is any sign of a welcoming reception on the foreshore.’

Brother Eadulf inclined his head. The great sail was already down and stowed and now the groaning oarsmen were heaving on the large wooden oars that propelled the sleek ship. For a few moments, Eadulf stood soaking in the activity on board as the vessel seemed to fairly skim over the waters towards the shoreline. He found himself thinking that it was in just such ships that his ancestors, hardly any time ago, must have crossed the limitless seas to raid and finally settle on this fruitful island of Britain.