Things like that only made me hate them more, and soon enough I turned that anger upon myself. I drank more than I should, more than God would have wished. Many were the dawns when I woke with head aching and stomach churning, cursing the rising sun. I lost count of the number of times I missed morning Mass because I was insensible from too much mead the night before. The more I drank, the more I hated myself, and the more I hated myself, the more I drank. I’d swear at my students and shout at them and beat them whenever I thought they weren’t trying hard enough. They deserved better than me, they really did. Meanwhile I kept on stealing whenever I thought I could get away with it. A few coins from the alms box; a candle here; a loaf of bread there; an antler comb, a copper spoon, a jar of honey or spices from the storehouse. Not for the challenge, or because I sought to profit from it. No, I did it to keep myself amused. Each one was a trophy, a small victory in my struggle against the world, and against God.
For a long while I was convinced he hated me. In my darkest hours, to my shame, I wondered if anything of what we preached was true. If God existed at all, and if he did, whether or not he cared about what we did on this earth or who or what we worshipped. Or maybe, I sometimes wondered, just maybe the heathens had it right after all. Maybe ours was but one god among many, and had no control over the lives of men, and our fates instead were governed by the whims of the three spinners, sitting at the foot of the world tree, weaving the threads of our fates. Maybe I would do as well to pray to Odin and Thor and Frigg as to our Christian god.
It pains me to admit these things, to confess such things to you, but it’s true. I regret all of it now. I see how selfish I’ve been. But at the time I didn’t. For years all I yearned for was simply to be free.
I suppose that’s why I joined them, really. To be free.
*
‘Why didn’t you just leave, if you hated it that much?’ Tova asks. At the start she felt sorry for him, but now she’s not so sure. ‘What was stopping you?’
‘I could have, it’s true,’ Guthred says. ‘I suppose it was fear that stopped me. Fear of the world outside the Church. You have to understand that I had no trade or craft, no skill with my hands that I could rely on, nothing except what I’d learned in books. What else what I supposed to do? So I was trapped. Realising that only made things worse, because I knew there was no escape, and that I was doomed to live the rest of my days in misery.’
*
Where was I?
Yes, that’s right. We’d been warned when leaving Rypum to take care on the roads. Word had reached us that the rebellion had failed, and there were all sorts of rumours about what might happen, and whether King Wilelm would come north and seek revenge. Armed men, and I don’t mean Frenchmen, were said to be roving the land; we heard tales of night raids, of pigs and sheep and cattle being stolen. Of robbers and bandits waylaying travellers, demanding payment and threatening with violence anyone who tried to resist them. Everywhere we went, folk were living in fear. The laws of the land were being forgotten; there was no justice to be found anywhere. Many thegns and reeves had failed to return from the fighting, and so there was no one to maintain order. Killings were going unpunished, we were told, while thievery was rife, and men who knew those parts well said we ought to hire warriors for protection, just in case.
Like a fool, though, I didn’t listen. I thought my robes and my cross would protect me. I thought that no one would dare attack a priest and his followers.
I was wrong.
It was still early in the afternoon when it happened. We were on the old Roman road, heading north. An icy wind was gusting in our faces and so we didn’t hear the hooves behind us until it was too late.
It was Hedda who noticed first. ‘Robbers!’ he shouted, and we all turned.
There were horsemen, a half-dozen of them, riding towards us with spears and clubs in hand, whooping and yelling.
My students fled, or tried to; they were pursued by some of the riders. I stood as if frozen, my knees shaking. I didn’t know what to do. We were helpless. Outnumbered. We had no weapons, and even if we had, none of us would have known what to do with them.
So I did the only thing I could. I fell to my knees, closed my eyes and started praying. I prayed to God, prayed that he would keep me safe from harm. Not that I expected him to hear my pleas.
The sound of hooves grew closer, and I looked up to find our attackers forming a circle around me and Whitefoot. They were a strange lot, of all ages: one or two youngsters, not much older than my students, but most of them in their middle years. Their faces were dirty, and almost every one of them had leaves and bits of twigs in his hair, but despite that they were dressed like kings: decked out in gold chains and silver arm rings; robed in ermine and otter fur, beaver pelts and wolfskins and good wool cloth. I confess I didn’t know what to make of them.
‘He’s just a priest,’ said one scornfully, and I blinked in surprise as I realised that it was in fact a woman, dressed in a man’s clothes, her fair hair cut short. ‘He won’t have anything worth stealing.’
‘We should search him anyway,’ one of the men said, a hulking fellow as big as an ox. He dismounted and strode towards me. Sihtric, I later learned his name was. He was missing his left hand, but with his other one he grabbed me by the collar and lifted me to my feet. ‘Show us your treasure, priest.’
I didn’t know what to say. We didn’t have any treasure and we weren’t carrying any coin either. There was no need, when every village and manor we came to would gladly feed and shelter us for as long as we needed.