Cædmon: The Lord's Poet

By John Deaconson

"Here, my friend, take the harp. I am sure you can entertain us with a fine lay!"
For Cædda, a slave on the estates of the monastery t Whitby ruled by St Hild, no words could be more terrible. Escaping to the solitude of a byre, the slave reviews his privileged past before trying to come to terms with the danger that he finds himself in. Where can he find refuge when he has already hidden in the most obscure way that he could?
Can the Lord’s Poet avoid retribution again or is it time to rise to the challenge and embrace his destiny?

The Lord's Poet is set in a number of localities across Britain, most notably Gwynedd, Shropshire, Tamworth and Whitby in North Yorkshire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Deaconson
• Release date: Dec 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310806650

John Deaconson

John Kevin Deaconson (known to all as Kevin) was born in Dundee in Scotland in 1968 but moved to England as a child. He was educated at Sunderland Polytechnic, where he gained a drinker's degree in Environmental Studies, and Newcastle University, where he achieved a Master's in Anglo-Saxon Studies. He lives with his wife, family and lurchers in Tynedale, Northumberland. His writing reflects his interests in history and the landscapes of Britain.

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Cædmon:

The Lord’s Poet

John K. Deaconson

First published in the United Kingdom in 2013

Second edition copyright © 2018

All rights reserved – John Kevin Deaconson

ISBN: 9781310806650

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, from the publisher.

Cover photograph: Cwm Nantcol © Dave Newbould (Origins Gwreiddiau)

Handboc Publications

Newcastle upon Tyne

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To Owain, Stephen, Martin and Elanor

Contents

Map

Prologue: The Feast 1

Part 1: Bardd y Arglwydd (Cadfan’s Tale)

1: Saisnaeg

2: Panta

3: Maes Cogwy

4: Pengwern

5: Hyledd

6: Cat Gai

7: Taimwrth

8: The Dark Winter

9: Stafell Cynddylan

10: Songs of Exile

11: Sanctuary

12: Bae Tremadoc

Part 2: Đæs Drihtnes Scop (Cædmon’s Tale)

1: Darkness in the Hall

2: Visitors in the night

3: Discourse before Dawn

4: The Song of Creation

5: Heortesheld

6: Streneshal

7: Confirmation

Epilogue: The Wayfarer

Appendix

About the author

Map

Central Britain in the mid 7th century

Welsh names have been used unless only the Old English name is known.

Prologue: The Feast

Winterfilleð AD 665, Berewic, Dere

Will you be coming to the feast tonight Cædda?

The elderly slave looked up at the impudent young man leaning on his goad. The smirk that was written on his broad face could only mean that it was going to be yet another difficult evening. Lall was the youngest of the knot of slaves ushering the cattle into their byre. His given job was to look after the oxen whether in their pasture or yoked to the plough. Lall’s mess of dirty blond hair was hidden under a much-repaired greyish woollen hood and his eyes twinkled with anticipation of the mirth that would follow the jest he was performing for the others.

Up to this point, Cædda’s day had been both peaceful and pleasant, filled with watching the kine in the late autumn sunshine. There were few easier tasks in his life and he had made the most of his day by foraging the fields and hedges for mushrooms and berries.

Solitude suited his taciturn mood; the cows were not interested in disturbing their guardian. Evening had brought his companions to help gather in the kine; Bana with the ruddy face and the hook nose, faithful old Cynna and his current tormentor, Lall. The beasts in their care were to be kept over the winter, selected and separated from the rest. This breeding herd was given the best of the hay and were sheltered overnight in a byre on the ridge to the east of the dale, where they could gratefully huddle together in their stalls, out of the worst that the northern winter could offer. The four ðeows had all heard Cynna’s stories; how when he was a young man, this hall had been in the centre of the estate, but now it was largely ignored as it lay

across the dale from the new hall, Heorteseld. The few good milk cows were kept at Heorteseld with the horses, while the bull was housed nearer to Berewic, the settlement up the dale where they all lived.

The other kine had been herded down to the bottom leah where the burn ran into the river Esk. The time was nearly come for them to be slaughtered, for after Winterfilleð came Blodmonað; the month of blood. This was no longer a time for sacrifice but still a time to thin the herds and store meat against the worst of the winter. The cull would have begun in a small way today in preparation for the Winterfilleð Feast tonight.

Will you be coming to the feast tonight Cædda? asked Lall again. Cædda scowled at the impudent youth, who clearly sensed the opportunity to plague the older ðeow.

No, lad, I need some sleep before it’s my turn to watch the kine tonight. It has been a long day and the night’s task will not make that any easier.

A long day! laughed Lall. You’ve already dozed most of it away in the sunshine, you old fraud! Come to the feast! Just look at you, all skin and bones. You could do with something decent inside you. There’ll be meat - lots of it. When else can you just reach out and take meat - cooked by another’s hand at that - and not be punished for it? You can’t miss this!

Cædda threw back his hood and scratched his scalp through his thinning hair, which clung to his head in sweat-dampened curls. He had once boasted a fine head of thick brown curls, but his hands told him that there was little now to cover his pate. His one consolation was that, unlike Cynna, he still showed more brown than grey. He scratched again at the back of his head. He wished he had his comb with him, for he was being tormented by either fleas, lice or some other irritation of the scalp.

The thought of meat may be tempting, but you don’t want me with you at the feast. I’ll only spoil it for the rest of you. I’m not much of a drinker and I haven’t my youth to catch the eyes of young women like you do Lall. I’ll just keep Cynna company until it’s my turn. We’ll have a pleasant enough evening watching the kine.

Cynna, who was Cædda’s near contemporary, grinned wolfishly. "When my watch is up I’ll be away, Cædda. It’s the season’s end and I for one am not going to wait until Giule for another chance to really fill my belly. Go to the feast Cædda! I don’t mind missing the early evening. Be sure to be back by midnight, mind you, or I’ll not forgive you!" Cædda shot a look at his friend as if to communicate the need to end this. He saw immediately that he would get no support from Cynna, who seemed to be delighting in the game of Cædda-baiting as much as the two younger men. Cædda however was not going to give up the fight. He still had a few excuses left.

I have no good tunic to wear for such an occasion. I can’t go to a feast among freemen covered in dung! What would they think?

What would they care? asked Bana. Most of the freemen are as filthy as you and those who aren’t wouldn’t so much as notice you. Just brush the worst of it out and in the darkness you’ll be fine. Anyway, you do have another tunic. I know you try to hide it, but we’ve all seen it. Why not wear that?

I keep that for holy days. That’s another reason not to go. You may be sprinkled and yet still say your heathen charms, but I was born a Christian and will not go to a heathen feast. What would the Holy Lady think of this?

Heortesheld was chief among the ten estates that were included in the founding grant of the double monastery of Streneshal, perhaps the most royally favoured place of learning in Britain, if you put aside Lindisfarne and Cantwareburig. The Abbess was a well-loved figure, revered for her wisdom and kindness even among those who were resistant to the message of Christ. Bana was not deterred.

She is sending one of her priests to make everything right, retorted Bana. "He will say prayers to chase out any ylfes, deofuls or orcneas and leave the night hallowed and without fear. Come on! You can enjoy one night with us, get the best meal you’ll taste until the year’s end and still get back to relieve Cynna by midnight."

They all laughed, even Cædda, who knew he was beaten. He would go to Heortesheld. He would see the priest and listen to his holy message. He would drink ale. He would enjoy the feast, the excess of a single night and return to his daily porridge until Giule.

No-one mentioned singing. Not even in jest. They did not want to put the old man off now that he was willing to go with them.



Leaving the brood cows secure within the barn for the time being, the land-ðeows returned to Berewic to ready themselves for the feast. After some consideration of the alternatives, Cædda left his better tunic at home and did his best to clean the day’s soil from his clothing. There was no time to wash it and dry it and the night would be too cold to stand in wet garments, steaming by the bone-fire and stinking like a wet dog. The freemen would be sure to notice him then and even on a night of feasting and goodwill there could be some unpleasantness. Ðeows learned quickly that it was best not to be noticed by their superiors and it was in Cædda’s best interests to remain as undistinguished as possible.

The evening sky remained clear as the sun sank towards the dusky hills to the south west, the cold spreading swiftly as the last sunset of Fall approached. The men and women from the dispersed village of Berewic were in a holy day mood already, talking, laughing and singing. The ceorls who lived on the poorer south side of the dale led the way, followed at an interval by the ðeows. The two groups kept apart as much by preference for their own company as by social convention. Of all the freemen in the area, these were the most likely to resent the slaves; their own free lives being only marginally better than theirs. They set off along the trail that clung to the place where the valley bottom met the steep sides which climbed to the hillsides and moors above. This same zone was the favoured place for building dwellings as well, sheltered and yet out of the reach of floods while also allowing the population to make the most of the poor farmland of the valley floor.

At length the path entered a band of pollarded forest that was left for the supply of wood staves and withies for the village and for the grazing of pigs. This woodland lay on land that was too steep for other uses or too wet for growing crops in the valley bottom. Higher up, the ridge levelled out and there could be found the common land: the high pasture for the kine. It had been here that Cædda had spent his day.

About a mile from Berewic, Cædda’s friend Cynna said farewell to them and turned to follow the path that led up to the cow byre they had left earlier in the day. The path was a useful short cut, for the cattle road led up from the river meadows, mirrored on the west side of the dale by another which climbed up to Heorteseld. Few people bothered walking the extra miles to Heortesheld that would entail unless they were driving cattle.

A dozen paces up the path, Cynna turned and called after them.I will see you all later. Don’t forget to send Cædda back before midnight. Don’t let him stay up all night singing! Cynna’s laughter floated down the path, echoed instantly by his companions, but Cædda stiffened, instantly regretting agreeing to go to the feast. It was now too late to bow out without losing face. He had forgotten about the singing.



Heorteseld was much larger than any hall in Berewic; indeed one or two of the other buildings close by could make the same boast. The hill upon which it sat looked north over the river valley, which turned east here towards the sea. It was a settlement in its own right, one dedicated to the needs of the reeve, his family and his fighting men. It also served the needs of Streneshal, the monastery which could be seen on a clear day perched on the coast. When King Oswig had endowed Streneshal he had included the lands of a retired ðegn of his called Ælhere. In order to prevent discontent he had made Ælhere the gesið for the monastery, responsible for ensuring that food rents and other renders were gathered and delivered in due season. When Ælhere died, his eldest son was also ready to retire from the war band of Alhfrið, the king’s son. Alhfrið persuaded his father that he should renew the gift of land to the dead man’s son and so the reeve of Streneshal was now Ælger son of Ælhere.



Within the enclosed yard around Heorteseld a great stack of wood interspersed with cattle bones stood ready for the torch. The little party of ðeows and ceorls from Berewic had joined a large crowd of men and women from other places serving the monastery; noble, free and slave alike. This was a good time for renewing acquaintances, for the freemen and their children to meet and for marriages to be discussed. During the early part of the evening the ðeows were more restrained, largely keeping to their familiar groups and the fringes of the crowd. Unlike the freemen, they could not move from settlement to settlement, and though some may later find lovers in the darkness, they had no hope of choosing a spouse from another farm.

The smell of cooking fires already filled the air. The great bonefire was not to be used for cooking; it was for warmth and comfort in the chill of the night. For many it was also for protection from the uncertainties of the night, for according to the traditions of the land it was one of the nights of the year when the gates of the underworld were not enough to keep the shades of men from walking the green earth for a time. Even those who followed the Christ with true purpose felt the uncertainty of that night.

Food was brought around on great wooden boards and passed into the hands of all who wanted to eat. For the most part it was boiled or roasted meat from the beasts who had given their bones for the fire, but bread and broth were also brought around. Against all that he had said earlier, Cædda entered into the spirit of the occasion, eating more than he could normally manage and sharing several horns of thick malty ale with his comrades; enough to set his limbs free for the dancing and his lips for talking and laughing. But not for singing.



As the sun sank towards the horizon Cædda shivered in the first chill of evening. As the day had been clear and bright, so the night promised to be clear and cold, perhaps frosty. From the hall emerged a tall man of noble bearing, a lit torch in his right hand. Immediately behind him came a woman who stood perhaps as high as the man’s breast. She too bore a lit torch and they walked together up to the prepared beacon. This was Hlaford Ælger and his wife Eadgifu, who traditionally led the night’s festivities. They were followed out immediately by two warriors and five monks. A cheer arose as the flame was carried up to the fire. Ælger and Eadgifu paused for a few moments, then thrust the torches among the bundles of kindling within the base of the fire. They then handed the torches to waiting monks, who walked around the heap to another bundle of kindling and ensured that the fire was lit equally well all around. The people watched as the fire spread throughout the pile, the welcome warmth of it on their faces delighting them in the cold of early evening. Above them the first stars were visible in the east as the sun finally slipped below the horizon.



The sunset seemed to be the cue for the monks to begin with their rites. They were led by a young English monk, a man called Ætla who had recently been made a priest. In obedience to the will of king and bishop, he followed the rites introduced by the followers of Agilbert of Paris, but it was well known that like many others he loved the old ways of Iona that had been taught to him in the monastery. He was one of many who still observed those elements of the old ways that found no fault with the Catholic party. These traditions had been handed down from Bishop Aidan himself to the Abbess when she was living on an island of the River Wira far to the north.

Ætla was very eager that the evening should be seen as a night devoted to the Church, for a large wooden cross had been erected beside the hall, placed where it would be well lit by the fire. The priest and his attendants processed about the meeting space blessing everything in it. First they blessed the cross and the hall, then the fire. They blessed Ælger and Eadgifu in a special ceremony and then they blessed the mass of people gathered there. A hush fell as he climbed onto a tree stump left for such purposes outside the hall and began to preach to the people, using the English tongue. Those who could do so slipped away into the darkness; this was not what most had come for. However a good crowd remained, whether out of piety or propriety.



Ætla taught a simple lesson, beginning with the Creation of the World and the shaping of the first man and woman. He spoke of the fall of that first couple and the necessity that caused the Christ to die for the salvation of all mankind. He then spoke of the souls of those damned and those saved, how the first were made to suffer torments and the second were allowed into the battle company of the Christ. He told the people that they had nothing to fear from the legions of the dead, for a better army contended with them and that even on such a night they would prevail over evil.

Cædda listened in awe to the voice of the priest through the entire lesson. The cowherd had a gift for language and understood the English tongue as well as his own. He had heard sermons in English before, for there was no other language appropriate in the lands of the English, among whom Latin had never taken hold and only the older ones of the poor folk knew the language of the Welsh. Ætla’s words however were different to those of any priest that Cædda had ever heard, for his message seemed to flow out, at times rising into the rhythm of music, but spoken rather than sung and lacking all ornament and alliteration. Cædda felt that it was a great pity that the priest did not even seem to realise his gift, for if he could have focused on the better parts he might have created songs of such power and beauty that they would inspire men far beyond the capacity of words from the lips of clumsier men.



Cædda’s enjoyment of the sermon was broken by the awareness that someone was watching him closely. It took him some time, furtively glancing around the faces lit up in the firelight, to locate the man, but at last he saw him. Their eyes met for the briefest of awkward moments before both men glanced sharply away. It was no one that he recognised, but by his dress and adornment he was a freeman. He was not tall and his clothes were not fine, but he carried himself like a warrior and wore a long knife at his belt. When Cædda looked again he found that the stranger was looking back at him quite calmly, his face dispassionate, making no attempt to hide his watchfulness. Cædda moved slightly among his friends, placing them between himself and the stranger’s unwelcome attention. Ætla was now finishing his sermon.

It remains for me to say that my brethren and I will be celebrating the Mass by the cross in Berewic tomorrow at noon. We trust that we will see you there. He raised his hands for the final blessing. May the love of our Lord come down and rest upon you, that you may bear his light with you always.

There was a smattering of Amens from around the fire, some muttered, some boomed out boldly, others delivered a little late, as if the speaker only just realised what was required of them to say. Ætla stepped down from the stump and took time to talk for a while with the people there, oblivious of the impatience of the monks who awaited his departure. Lord Ælger himself climbed onto the stump and called out in a loud voice that stilled the rising hubbub of conversation.

"Come into the hall now, for there is fire in the hearth, bread upon the boards and mead in the cups. On this night ceorl, wealh and ðeow shall sit at my table as my guests with my gesiðs. Feast now and enjoy the night, for winter is upon us and the labour of slaughter lies ahead!"

There were cheers and a general movement began towards the door in the side of the hall. Cædda was swept along by the tide of his friends’ enthusiasm. He appreciated their presence, for he now felt sober and withdrawn, troubled to his core by the stranger’s stare.

Within the hall the benches had been set out around the great boards arranged around the great hearth. From the crowd already claiming their places on those benches, it seemed that many had taken their places there long before the lord had given his leave. Cædda’s friends found themselves shouldered and jostled to a place on one of the lower benches in the draught near the far door. Cædda was thankful that his friends were enjoying the evening too much to notice that their oldest companion was even more withdrawn than usual. Although he sipped from the horns that came around he did not refill his cup, nor would he quaff down great draughts as his friends did.

A middle-aged man with thinning blond hair stood forth in the space immediately before the high seat, holding a fine handheld harp, one that always stood to hand within the hall. This was Bieda, the reeve’s scop, who struck three rising chords on his lyre which stilled every voice. He then proceeded to play more musically upon this instrument as he sang a lengthy lay about some old sea rover known as Sea Fowl. This was a young prince who had been exiled from his native land before being washed ashore in Dere when it was ruled by the Welsh. After many adventures he defeated a monster of the coastlands and so won the kingship of Dere.

After he had finished his lay to great applause, a different harp of lesser workman-ship was brought forth and passed down the far side of the hall and songs of differing quality were sung by other guests, sometimes excerpts from the greater lays but as often or not a rude doggerel of poetry or suggestive riddling. Cædda listened to the music but did not react to it even when Bieda decided that some quality singing was needed and took up his harp again. Instead Cædda stared into space, his mind taken up with private thoughts of long ago and far away.



Here, my friend, take the harp. I am sure you can entertain us with a fine lay! said a voice with a thick Welsh accent. Cædda started, realising that he was being addressed. Lost in reverie, he had allowed his usual careful observance of the passage of the harp to slip. Across the board from him in the open space within the hall stood the stranger he had noticed earlier, holding the harp in his hand and smiling. Do you not know a song for us? Around him his friends laughed raucously, pleased to see that old Cædda had been caught up with at last. It was rare that a harp ever came within the grasp of his hands.

He flushed and instead of the harp, he filled his hands with the horn of ale which he took from from Dodda, who was sitting next to him.

I am sorry my friend, but I know no songs, nor how to strike a tune from the strings of the lyre. Of all the gifts of men, it is one that has been denied to me. Pass the harp to Cerdic there and he will cheer you with a lay about night-gangers and heroes from ancient times fitting for a night such as tonight. I must be gone, for I am expected. Good evening my friends.



There was a chorus of merry disappointment from his friends and additional laughter as Cædda thrust the horn across the wide board into the stranger’s hand and slipped away. He left by the north door and passed around the hall to where the fire still burned brightly. He looked to see if there was anyone else around, looking especially at the near doorway, which thankfully was shut fast, holding in the sounds of merriment in the hall. Skirting around the far side of the fire, he found a torch and lit it. He looked around again, circled further around the fire and took the path that led to Berewic. The layout of the hall meant that if the stranger wished to follow him he would have had a difficult path to trace, and the thronging Winterfilleð crowd would slow him further. By escaping through the nearby door, Cædda had bought himself precious time – only minutes perhaps, but precious nonetheless.

The night was chill and the rimed moon riding high above promised frost. He wrapped his cloak as far about himself as possible, having to keep one hand free to hold the torch, which he carried low to light his footfalls. The path sloped steeply down from the hall, entering the woods near the foot of the hill. Arriving safely at the bottom, Cædda glanced back. Seeing nobody there, he snuffed out his torch in a drift of damp leaves. From here onward he could go in the dark, the way being smooth and familiar. He quietly slipped away from the path to a place of hiding, taking the smoking wand with him. Once at a good distance from the path, he cast the thing as far into the night as he could, for its tallow reek followed him. He wrapped his cloak all around him and hiding in the lee of a broad, smooth barked tree, he cast his hood as far over his face as he could. It was no easy matter to stand there in the darkness, for Christian or not, this was an unlucky night to be abroad, and even the light cast by the full disc of the moon was of little comfort.

He felt a little foolish, but knew that he also had a right to such foolish fears, not of any mythical shadow-gangers, but of his fellow men. He silently alternated prayers to the merciful Lord for protection with self-beration for folly.

The muted noise of the hall came down to torment him, the merry din of drunken enjoyment, of song and dance, of boasting and laughter. At that moment he could almost relate to the feeling of that orcnea that was infuriated by the hall joys in a song he had often heard. Closer to hand the world knew silence; nothing stirred on that last night of autumn. Time passed painfully for the old man, who, although spry, could not ignore the pain in his hips and his back. Crouching in a frosty wood on the first night of winter was not a thing he made a habit of doing. Very soon he began to regret his impulse. He was preoccupied with his reading of the stranger’s motives, and the longer he sat, the more it seemed that he had read some dire intent in the drunken actions of a complete stranger who neither knew nor cared about his past. Cædda was about to return to his journey when he heard footfalls on the path above him. Whoever it was that shared the way with him bore no light, a sure sign of mischief. Cædda froze, unable to straighten up as he had started to do; terrified that his cracking joints would betray his position to the stranger. The man passed slowly by, walking carefully so as not to raise the sound of his footfalls. As he came level, he glanced directly towards Cædda; his face suddenly picked out in the moonlight. He was a young man, not particularly tall, but with the broad frame of a warrior. He had no beard to speak of, but had dark moustaches and a patch of beard like a goat’s upon his chin. He did not even break his stride as he passed and his gaze swept right through the hidden slave. The man stumbled and cursed in Welsh; his attention was now fully in front of his feet.

Cædda allowed him to go on for some distance before he straightened up, rubbed his stiff limbs and followed. He knew this path well enough by day or night, and his eyes were now accustomed to the moonlight coming down to him through the leaves. Cædda progressed with utmost care, stopping to listen regularly, fearful that the man would stop or turn back, and that he would blunder into him. Cædda was pleased to hear that the stranger continued to stumble from time to time; it confirmed what he had suspected. The stranger was from far away, probably from Powys, Gwynedd or even Strað Cluid by the fact that he spoke Welsh first and English with an accent. He was certainly not just an infrequent visitor from another village.

Thankfully the turning to the cow byre was easily missed in the dark, so Cædda let it fall behind him for over a minute in order to convince himself that the stranger was really continuing on towards Berewic. Then he stood still for a moment, listening intently, before turning back to find his path.



No light shone from the former hall, which was shut fast against the night. Cædda knocked softly upon the door, still cautious of making too much noise. A muffled voice from within called out in enquiry. Cædda knew the voice and what the question was.

It’s me; Cædda. Open the door quickly! Cædda pitched his voice just loud enough to be heard within. The wooden bar was drawn back and a little light spilled out along a narrow path. Cynna held the door, ready to slam it shut if it proved to be anything more otherworldly than his friend. Cædda shouldered his way forward and quickly shut the door behind him.

What kept you? It’s long past midnight! snorted the old man. Cynna, although actually about five years younger than his friend, always looked the older of the two of them, largely thanks to his head of grey hair. Cædda knew him to be a shrewd man, and he was the only one who had his full confidence. "Isn’t it bad enough that I’ve missed the feast without missing