Moyra Caldecott (20 page)

She sensed that Cuthbert was one of the few truly holy people alive at that time. His great physical strength combined with his gentleness, his absolute unwavering faith, his visions, his capacity to heal both souls and bodies, all made him very dear to her. She fought to accept God’s Will in this and found that she could not. She pleaded long into the night for his life, feeling somehow that, if he died, they would be lost and the dark tide of doubt that had swept over the East Saxons, and was already washing at their door, would overwhelm them.

Heregyth found her on the floor in the morning, slumped against the bed, and carefully covered her with rugs. Her face was pale and drawn, dark rings were under her eyes. She stationed a boy outside her door and warned him to let no one near the room to wake her mistress.

A full day and night passed and Etheldreda was not aware of it. When she woke she was greeted with some wonderful news. Cuthbert was on his feet again. It seemed that as he lay dying he became aware that his bed was surrounded night and day by his fellow monks praying for his recovery.

Suddenly he sat up and called for his stick.

‘If I have such men as these praying for my health from such a God as we know exists – I must recover,’ he said.

Still sweating with fever and covered with sores, he hobbled out of the room and down to the abbey church to pray. It was said he was already visiting other victims of the plague and giving them and their families courage and confidence. His fever was down and the sores healing.

On Alfrid’s death Egfrid became sub-king of Deira, Etheldreda his queen.

In Kent her young nephew Egbert, Saxberga’s eldest son, succeeded his father.

In France, where he had been sent by Alfrid before his death to be consecrated as Bishop of York, Wilfrid tarried, enjoying the comfort and luxury of life among the French nobility. Months passed after his splendid consecration at Compiègne before he could bring himself to return to Northumbria.

Meanwhile King Oswy, thinking that he would not return at all, chose to make Chad, one of four holy brothers, the Bishop of York. He sent him south to be consecrated by the Archbishop of Canterbury, but, on his arrival in Kent, he found that the archbishop had died on the same day as King Eorconbert, and no successor had as yet been appointed. He travelled on to the province of the West Saxons and was there consecrated by Bishop Wini and two British bishops from Cornwall. On his return to York he lived as simply as he had always done, being, like his brothers, Iona trained.

Wilfrid returned at last from France to find much had changed in his homeland. Chad was now Bishop of York, Alfrid, his particular friend, was dead, and Egfrid, whom he had never liked, was King of Deira in his place. Oswy was feeling old and tired, much depressed by the ravages of the plague.

Wilfrid rode up to Bamburgh to question his displacement from York, but came away persuaded for the sake of peace to return to Ripon and bide his time. He determined to make his church at Ripon an example to his countrymen of how a church should be. He had brought magnificent church vestments and furniture from France and these, with the new glass windows the French glaziers had installed, made it the wonder of the age. The stone walls rang to the sound of the newly introduced antiphonal chants.

As it turned out Wilfrid did not have to wait long for his return to York.

Since his arrival in Kent in May 669, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, Theodore of Tarsus, had been travelling throughout the Seven Kingdoms reorganising the Church the Roman way, giving the whole country a kind of unity it had never had before. At York he claimed that Chad had not been properly consecrated as bishop because the two bishops from Cornwall who had presided at the ceremony were not acceptable, celebrating as they did Easter according to the Celtic computation.

Wilfrid became Bishop of York and Chad, who had impressed Theodore immensely with his quiet acceptance of the change in his fortunes, was reconsecrated and sent to Lichfield to preside over the see of Mercia and Lindsey.

So powerful were Wilfrid’s friends, so great his popularity, he was continually being showered with endowments for his minster and gifts for himself. His wealth and influence grew.
[15]

After the dark days of the plague York became a centre of light.

While Egfrid spent a great deal of his time hunting and sparring with his companions, Etheldreda ruled the kingdom, encouraging men of learning and talent from all over Europe to settle. Churches were built, monasteries were founded, the queen herself supervising much of the work, riding tirelessly between centres to check that all was well, hearing petitions, granting land and moneys where needed.

She assisted Wilfrid in every way to make the church at York as splendid as that at Ripon, finding herself more and more in his company, and more and more disposed to enjoy it.

On a cold day in February of the year 670 King Oswy took ill and called Wilfrid, Etheldreda and Egfrid to Bamburgh.

They took the road to the north together, travelling over bleak and icy moors, the snowdrifts sometimes so deep that they were forced to spend several days and nights in whatever shelter they could find.

One night just as a blizzard looked as though it were setting in, they came upon a village huddled against the lee of a hill.

‘We have to take shelter,’ Wilfrid said, ‘whether we like the conditions or not.’

Etheldreda at once dismounted, thankful to see the smoke drifting up through the thatch. Although she was clad in fur from top to toe her face was exposed, her cheeks were stinging and her nose seemed as though it would never feel like living flesh again.

Egfrid looked around with disgust.

‘What a way to live!’ he said. ‘My pigs have better sties!’

‘We must see what can be done about these people, my lord,’ she said. ‘It is not just that we live so fine and they so poor.’

‘It is not just that we have to spend the night in such filth,’ Egfrid snapped. He strode up to one of the huts and kicked in the frail door of woven twigs and straw. The men who travelled with them as protection strode in and hauled everyone out into the howling wind and driving snow.

‘We will have this one,’ said Egfrid, ‘you take the others.’

Etheldreda’s face went scarlet with anger.

‘What are you doing, my lord?’ she cried.

Men, women and children were unceremoniously pushed out of their house and stood bewildered and terrified in their rags in the freezing night. Some of the men seized sticks and tried to defend themselves against the rough treatment, their faces full of sullen bewilderment.

‘Would you have us die in the snow?’ said Egfrid impatiently to Etheldreda. Would this woman try to shame him before even the lowest in the kingdom!

‘My lord,’ said Wilfrid smoothly. ‘We don’t need all these houses. Let some of the people stay with their neighbours this night and we’ll take up as little of their space as possible. It would not be well, my lord,’ he added softly in Egfrid’s ear, ‘if the King of Deira were seen not to care for the lives of his subjects.’

Egfrid shrugged. ‘Arrange it,’ he said. ‘But be quick about it.’

Wilfrid took over and very diplomatically explained to the people what was happening. Within moments they were willingly vacating some of their huts for the royal party, the women looking out what food was available in the village and bringing it eagerly to the tall bishop and the beautiful lady, dropping frightened bows as they passed the surly king.

At last they were alone. The mutton broth had tasted vile and smelt worse, but at least it was hot. The fire was burning well and they were safe from the wind that was tugging at the roof, and the snow that was driving through the wild, dark air.

Etheldreda loosened her fur cape and Wilfrid helped her take it off. Her cheek touched his hand as she turned for him to reach for it. Shaken, they pulled apart, neither daring to meet the eyes of the other.

Egfrid was grumbling loudly that if they could have only kept going another few miles they would have been in the home of one of his father’s noblemen and would have had a proper bed at least to sleep upon rather than this pile of bug-ridden straw.

‘I think, my lord, it would be better if you slept on your cloak on the floor than on that straw,’ Wilfrid suggested. ‘My lady can have mine. I’ll not sleep this night.’

‘No indeed!’ cried Etheldreda, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, hoping that nothing of what she was feeling was showing on her face. ‘I can’t sleep either. Keep your cloak, you’ll need it.’

‘I insist, my lady.’

‘I will have it,’ Egfrid said sharply. ‘My wife is used to sleeping on the floor, Wilfrid. I am not.’

Wilfrid looked from one to the other. Etheldreda had turned her face from him and he could only see the rich gold hair that the wind had tugged loose from its moorings, and the curve of her shoulder under the soft wool of her dress.

Egfrid was holding out his hand for the cloak impatiently. Wilfrid hesitated a moment and then handed it to him.

Egfrid took some time to get settled, swearing and grumbling as he tried various positions and found them all unsatisfactory. Wilfrid and Etheldreda sat on either side of the fire on some low wooden stools that they had found. They said nothing. They looked nowhere but into the fire.

At last Egfrid fell asleep and there was no sound in the hut but his heavy breathing and the occasional crackle of the flames. Outside the sound of the blizzard seemed to be less than it had been. Etheldreda told herself that she should pray, confess her feelings to the Lord and repent of them, but she could not. Guilty as she felt about them, they were so intensely sweet she could not bear to part with them. She dare not look at Wilfrid, dare not wonder if he felt the same.

Although there were sounds, the breathing of Egfrid, the fire, the wind, a silence was between them that they could almost touch. It grew more and more uncomfortable until she could bear it no longer. She lifted her chin defiantly and looked him in the eye.

‘My lord Wilfrid,’ she said with determined brightness, ‘it will be a long night. What shall we talk about?’

She could not see whether his dark eyes were as full as hers of feelings that he had difficulty in mastering, or whether he was amused at the earnestness of her proposition.

‘Must we talk at all?’ he said gently, and the expression in his voice showed her that she was not alone in her confusion. She was determined that they should fight their feelings.

‘What! The eloquent Bishop Wilfrid at a loss for words? I can’t believe it!’

He laughed, and at last the spell was broken. They talked about their childhood and about Wilfrid’s adventures on the way to Rome. They argued the finer points of theology, and the relative merits of various members of the clergy and the court.

Egfrid woke at midnight and heard an argument in full swing as to whether there co-existed two perfect natures, divine and human, in the Christ, or whether there was only one, and that divine.
[16]
He gave a groan and rolled over, pulling Wilfrid’s fur cloak over his head so that he could not hear their voices. In the small hours Wilfrid stood up to put more wood on the fire and when he sat down again he sat on the floor close beside her. The conversation began to flag and sometimes there were long gaps, some even in the middle of sentences. Etheldreda wished he would not sit so close to her, but could not bring herself to ask him to move. At last she could bear it no longer and told him that she was now going to sleep. She rose from her seat and went as far away as she could from him. She lay down on the hard and dirty floor wrapped in her cloak and shut her eyes. But although there was now a whole room between them, the sleeping body of her husband and a fire, she could still feel his presence.

At Bamburgh they found Oswy very pale and weak, but he rallied at the sight of them. He had been particularly eager to see Wilfrid and reached out his hands at once to him. The guilt of certain things he had done in his life had begun to weigh heavily on his heart and he longed to make a pilgrimage to Rome, to die in the city of Saint Peter and Saint Paul.

‘My friend,’ said the old king, taking the bishop’s strong hand in his. ‘I need your help for the journey. I need your guidance and protection. Will you come with me?’

Wilfrid put both hands over the king’s.

‘It will be an honour, my lord,’ he said quietly, thinking that if this invitation had come at any other time how pleased he would have been, but now, to leave Etheldreda…

‘I’ve sinned, Wilfrid, my friend! I’ve sinned,’ the king repeated sadly, ‘and all the deeds I’ve done to God’s honour can’t save me on the Day of judgement if I don’t receive absolution.’ He paused. ‘In Rome they have holy relics of great efficacy. Their strength will flow into me, their goodness will fill my soul and wash away the stain. Come, sit by me, tell me of Rome. Tell me of the holy places there that we will visit.’

Etheldreda looked across the king’s bed to Eanfleda. Oswy’s queen shook her head almost imperceptibly and indicated the door. Etheldreda stooped and kissed the pale cheek of the old man.

‘We’ll leave you, my lord, to plan your journey. Come,’ she said to Egfrid. He was sitting on a chair at the bedside of his father in almost the same position she remembered from their wedding night, one knee drawn up to his chin, biting the knuckles of one hand. He looked up at her with the same dark sullen eyes.

He did not move.

Oswy turned his eyes to him and there was a spark of the old impatience in them.

‘Go, my son,’ he said. ‘I don’t need you.’

Egfrid stood up suddenly, knocking over the chair. Without a backward look he strode out of the room, the door slamming noisily behind him.

A flash of anger crossed his father’s face.

Etheldreda bowed quickly to him and hurried after her husband. She called his name but he wouldn’t look back. He strode to the stables, took a horse and rode fiercely off, almost knocking her down as she ran after him.

She was worried. Lately the moodiness that had marred their early relationship had been less in evidence. There were times when he would seek her presence and be reasonably content to talk to her. But now… she had seen something in his face that made her afraid. She bitterly regretted Oswy’s thoughtless words and knew that Egfrid would not forget them.