A Scribe's Tale

By Alan Addison

When Brother Broderick, Scribe of Lindisfarne Priory, set out for Whitby Abbey in 664AD he could never have guessed what would befall him and his Celtic brothers and sister. His story of faith and brotherhood set face to face with wanton corruption and unquestionable evil, told here in these pages, reverberates with scenes from a past that many have long forgotten and some would prefer to forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781447629184

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

King Oswiu of Bernicia

King Oswiu had every intention of overseeing the Whitby Synod for one reason that was not to sway the arguments of faith either way but to keep a close eye on the person who would, his son Alhfrith. He neither trusted his son where religious matters were concerned nor with his kingship.

The king had been brought up in the Celtic Christian faith in Iona and would have been content to see that faith continue in his Northumberland but times were changing and his son had other ideas. Some said he’d been persuaded by his mother but the king knew better. Abbot Wilfrid of Ripon had taught his son that to follow Saint John the Evangelist and not Saint Peter and Saint Paul was akin to heresy. Though others swore it was the other way round and that Alhfrith had convinced Wilfrid of that argument.

But what mattered most to the king was that religious peace reigned in his kingdom and that could only be achieved by a meeting of the two factions.

On his journey north for the Synod events in southern Bernicia had held him up, which meant he was still some miles from Whitby.

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‘Sire, we must make camp for the night. Our horses are exhausted and the men hungry.’

‘The sun has only just set my young warrior. Would you have me late for my meeting?’

‘No sire, but if the horses do not rest and the men do not eat we will not have the strength to continue to Whitby.’

‘Egbert, do not worry yourself so, do you not think I have travelled with my men in the past? Do you believe your king to be lacking experience of men and horses?’

Egbert bowed graciously. ‘No sire, I do not.’ Not knowing how else to respond the young warrior turned his horse and rode back into the line.

It was nearing midnight and they found themselves surrounded by bleak, dark moorland when the king’s retinue heard him call a halt to their march. Many, far enough from their king not to be heard, expressed their pleasure in sighs whilst others almost fell from their horses, crossing themselves as they did so.

Egbert approached his king once more. ‘Can we strike fires my Lord?’

‘Are you cold?’ Oswiu did not wait for an answer. ‘Yes you can warrior but be wary, you may be shot through by an arrow.’

‘I do not understand Sire?’

‘We are surrounded by others, have you not heard them? They have been following us for some time and are now so close I can smell them. Did you not notice their odour?’

Egbert looked around into the darkness but could see nothing. ‘I do not see nor smell anything my Lord King.’ As he said this an arrow dug deeply into his back. Blood poured from the young warrior’s mouth as he fell to the ground. The commotion brought the king’s retinue running. ‘Sire?’

The king dismounted and knelt by his youngest warrior, paying no attention to his men. ‘God bless you Egbert and may you find peace in Heaven this night. He crossed himself before closing the young man’s eyelids. ‘Take your shields from your horses and bring your weapons here. And hurry!’

It took the men less than a minute to be back by Oswiu’s side fully armed. ‘Now, form a shield wall before me and walk in that direction.’ He pointed westward.

‘But sire, if they surround us?’ asked the leading warrior.

‘Those wretches have the moon and the glint of the sea sky full in their faces and cannot see us well but we will soon see them. They are thieves and vagabonds and not warriors. Now walk at pace but do not run; the ground is uneven and you may stumble.’

As his men moved as one towards their assailants the king turned and began walking in the opposite direction. He removed his sword from its sheath as he stared out to sea and the darkness beyond. It was another minute before he heard the clash of shields behind him and the screams of men. It was another minute before he saw the silhouettes of his enemy before him.

‘My people, why do you grieve your king so? Do you not know that I am a Christian king and do not wish to see the anger and violence you bring upon me.’

The reply came instantly. ‘King, ha! You are no king! Where is your crown king?’

‘My crown is in my sack and my sack is on my horse. Would you accept my sword in its place? It has a fine gold and jewelled hilt.’

A tall figure stood up from the long grass and walked towards him from the darkness. ‘Some king we have here men,’ he called back to his followers, ‘He is no more than an ass high!’

As he turned his attention back towards the king the sword with the gold and jewelled hilt hit him square in the face but did not cut him. The robber fell backwards to the long grass. King Oswiu placed the point of his sword on the man’s chest. ‘Remain where you are thief and listen to the sound of your tribesmen being slaughtered. When my warriors have completed their task I will invite you to stand and you will ask what is left of your band if they would like to join their king on his travels north.’

For one moment the man pushed up against the blade then looked into his kings eyes before laying back on the grass, knowing he looked directly at the face of his king.

‘We have a priest with us and I will accept your conversion this night to our faith, the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ. Now here are my men. You may stand.’

CHAPTER TWO

June 664 AD

Prior Cuthbert of Melrose

Prior Cuthbert of Melrose had walked the winding paths of Wauchope since early morning. It was getting on for mid-day and he stopped by the River Bowmont and looked across the gently flowing water to Yetholm, the land of the Gypsies. That place had come to be known as Little Egypt and he assumed that was because of the colouring and the habits of the people. He’d also heard it said that they used their carts like chariots much as the Egyptians had done.

He sat down hard on a tuft of grass and swung his cows’ leather pouch of milk that he’d been given by his fellow monks at Melrose and placed it between his knees before opening a small sack that was tied to his rope belt. He removed a piece of hard bread and pure white cheese and placed them on his lap.

‘If you walk this path much more old priest they will be for naming it after you.’

The monk twisted around to see two well built, very scruffy men stand either side of him. ‘That would be an occurrence indeed, Cuthbert’s Way, and one I might cherish if I were a priest. But alas I am a mere monk of the Celtic faith on my way to our mother house of Lindisfarne.’

‘Then tell us monk, do you have something more appetizing than bread and cheese in your sack, coins perhaps?’

Cuthbert got to his feet quicker than his visitors would have expected for a man his age. His leather skin fell from between his knees to the ground, causing the precious milk to spill across the river pebbles. ‘Only what you see on the ground there.’

The taller of the two men bent to look at the sack tied to Cuthbert’s rope belt and was about to take hold of it when the monk’s heavy staff came down on his head. The cracking sound of wood on bone caused a multitude of nesting birds to fly from the riverbanks. The man only managed to put both hands to his head before falling backwards onto a thorn bush.

Cuthbert then turned to the man’s companion. ‘Forgive me friend, for I have sinned.’ But his words of atonement fell on deaf ears as the man was already some distance from the monk.

He turned again and knelt down by the body lying limp in the thorn bush and put his hands together. ‘Heavenly Father forgive me for I have sinned once more. My task given by your precious presence is that I live in your peace and administer to my flock and I repay you by being unfaithful to your love. Though I am old, I remain weak. My past rises and I am once more snared to commit heinous violence. Heavenly Father, I have longed for a life of peace and yet once more I have failed.’ He collapsed down heavily on the grass and after some moments tried to retrieve what was left of his meal and began to cry.

CHAPTER THREE

Abbot Wilfrid of Ripon

‘Acca get that stinking beggar out of our way! The path to Whitby is a long one and we must be there on time if we want to teach our Celtic Christian brothers a lesson they will never forget.’

‘Yes Master.’ Acca immediately summoned their two mounted guards from the rear of their column to shift the old man from their path. The Teutonic warriors obeyed with zeal.

Wilfrid smiled for the first time since leaving Ripon Abbey earlier that morning. ‘I found those men on one of my journey to Rome. They take their work very seriously. You know Acca, this Synod should put an end once and for all to that accursed church of Iona with all its false worship. These are merely Pagans Acca, dressed as monks and we must rid Northumbria and Britain of their presence.’

‘But Master, is the Synod no more than a discussion on the date of the resurrection and the wearing of the tonsure?’

‘That is what some believe the Synod to be my loyal priest but it is about more than that. Our King Oswiu not only wants their calendar and tonsure changed but wants his kingdom cleared of all their evil practices and the poisonous seeds they have planted in our beloved Bernicia. We are charged by our King Oswiu to see an end to Lindisfarne as a house of Celtic worship.’

Acca looked shocked. ‘I am not sure we can call Abbot Colman of Lindisfarne an evil one Master. He is Bishop of all of Northumberland and is our Bishop. I have met with him more than once and he is a devout Christian and a fine and upstanding man. And is it not Alhfrith, our King’s son, who wants rid of the Celtic form of worship? It was he who expelled their monks from Ripon was it not? And are you yourself not a student of Lindisfarne Priory?’

‘Unlike myself Acca of Hexham, your journeys to Rome have taught you little. You have much to learn about Colman and Lindisfarne but that is for another day. We are approaching a village. Go and make sure they have the hospitality we deserve as followers of the risen Christ, and Acca, have their daughters serve the fayre.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Prince Alhfrith son of King Oswiu

Prince Alhfrith, son of King Oswiu of Northumberland, had his sights set not merely on his father’s kingdom of Northumberland but on the whole of Bernicia, an area which included the lands as far north as the Firth of Forth and south to the Humber. And he needed allies.

He had been made aware by Abbot Wilfrid of Ripon on many occasions that the Roman church had grown fast in Mercia to the south and had become the dominant ally of powerful Kings and nobles. But in the lands of King Oswiu, Celtic worship was still practiced and the centre of this practice was Lindisfarne, a centre of Christianity that took its roots from the Irish church of Iona. Wilfrid was convinced that if this situation remained then the whole of Northumberland would be weakened to the point of spiritual and political collapse.

And that was why Alhfrith had ordered Wilfrid to make his way to Whitby. His journey would take him sixty miles north-eastward from Ripon Abbey, where he was Abbot. And Abbot Wilfrid was more than willing to obey the prince’s order to attend as he, much to his master’s pleasure, wanted to see an end to practices that encouraged worship of the natural world and treated people equally when he and his church knew full well that the power that comes from God springs eternal through noble birthright. And it is a power bathed in gold, a power that should be exercised over all kingdoms.

CHAPTER FIVE

Cuthbert, as Prior at the abbey of Melrose, had received news of the pending Synod at Whitby and it was that news that had him now on the road to Lindisfarne to gather his fellow monks for the long journey south.

It was early evening when he arrived the hamlet of Mindrum. There were not many people about in the straw-hut village that sat on the sweeping bend of the Bowmont but the monk could hear the sound of a heavy hammer banging on an anvil so he made his way to the wooden hut of the blacksmith.

‘I am surprised your hut does not end up aflame with all those sparks flying Smith.’ Cuthbert looked around the fragile space.

‘Well father, if it did, it would not be the first time.’

‘That I believe. What is that you are hammering at?’

‘It is the beginnings of a sword blade father.’

‘For a king perhaps? It has the breadth and length of a noble weapon.’

‘You have much knowledge of weaponry for a monk.  It is being forged for a prince.’

Cuthbert looked on in surprise. ‘For Alhfrith,?’

‘No, not for that one. It is for my son. He will be sixteen years soon and it is a coming of age gift.’

The monk laughed heartily. ‘You are a devoted father then?’

‘No, I am a devoted husband and am working under the instruction of my dear wife.’

Cuthbert laughed again. ‘I am called father but have no such instruction in my life.’

‘Then maybe I will join you on your journeys. But till then I must continue whilst this metal is hot.’

‘Yes Smith, sorry to take up your valuable time. That blade left to cool too soon may see the air getting hotter still.’ Cuthbert was about to leave then stopped. ‘Before I go, have you seen Gemili? There is no sign of him at his hut.’