“What about thanksgiving?”
“I will thank Our Lord, for it was at his intervention - requested and prayed for by you - that I was saved. We can all offer a prayer of thanksgiving. Fasting is one thing, Cuthbert: you are starving yourself to death.” Cuthbert was still standing and for a moment his eyes held a secret superiority and then he looked away. “I know what you’re thinking. You believe you can detect about yourself that which our fathers in Egypt called the Odour of Sanctity. What you can detect - and what they smelled - is nothing to do with sanctity, it’s your body breaking down and feeding on itself. Although I’m not a Healer I can See it. It is not so much sanctity as a selfish madness. That’s why I said you were self-indulgent, because that’s what your behaviour is: proud, self-righteousness, self regarding and” I concluded “self-indulgent. You need food in your stomach and a clear head: then maybe you can see yourself better and think more of humility and less of exaltation.” When I finished, I was appalled at myself but also a little satisfied, if I’m honest. I should have been grateful but instead I’d woken up angry and fearful, and I’d lashed out at my friend. I don’t know what drove me to it but I couldn’t stop until I had said everything.
Cuthbert took it in silence, pacing up and down the restricted cell: three steps up and three steps back. Three steps up and three steps back. He was very like a caged wolf, trapped, confused and angry.
Abruptly he stopped, collapsed in the chair and put his head in his hands. I reached over to touch his shoulder and, although he flinched, he allowed my hand to stay.
“God, oh God,” he sobbed at last. His voice was thick. “You’re right, Anselm, you are right. God made you see and speak rightly. I am proud and vain! In my pride and arrogance I thought I was gaining sanctity, at last. At last!” he whispered. “And you tell me it is my body decaying while I yet walk around in it,” he sobbed again. “I abhor it, it is my enemy but it is God’s temple, too. I try everything. I make myself look disgusting to all, especially women: no-one should want me but they swarm around me all the more when I am on Mission: they’ve heard of miracles performed in my name - in my name! - how could I have allowed it! - and want to touch the hem of my cloak. If I wanted, I could make two converts at once: bed a woman and father a child on her. Two at one go! There could be dozens of little bastard Cuthberts running around all over Northumbria, and Lothian, and Rheged...” he stopped to catch his breath again. “Praising God in my name. And their mothers would regard it as a privilege, all these rich women who want to give me money and churches, they would regard it as a privilege to have my bastard children, like concubines with their Royal bastards! They debase themselves! They throw themselves at me! They would welcome me with open arms and willing flesh.” He looked at me and his eyes were red and raw and pleading. “And I want to! Oh, may God forgive me, I want to!”
“There’s nothing that says you have to be celibate, Cuthbert. You can marry and still be a priest.”
“And have her and any children stuck in grinding poverty with me? I chose it, I cannot force it on anyone else, not a mother and child! Not a wife!”
He stood and walked around the cell once, twice, three times while I sat at the edge of the storm I’d sown. He was so weakened and had fought so long for my soul. Without the weakness he wouldn’t have cracked - until maybe much later when his parlous state would have been even worse. Maybe it was for the best that he should break and speak now even though I wasn’t his appointed counsellor.
“Why does God reject me? Why? I try to be His faithful servant and am tormented constantly for it. I long for the day when I will be allowed to go into my hermitry for good, away from the temptations of the World.”
“Temptation will follow you, Cuthbert,” I said gently.
“I will fight it willingly. I look forward to it and will rejoice in the battle.”
“Don’t invite the enemy in! He will creep into your mind when you’re alone and find you out in your arrogance. You cannot hide from him as you would hide from pious women. Have a care that you wish such a thing and remember this,” I continued, “the demons that will seek you out in solitude, stripped of the veneer they adopt when we are among companions. They are the most dangerous of all, for they reflect your own deepest and most hidden desires.”
Cuthbert sat down again. “Tell me what to do!” he moaned.
“The finest steel is tempered in the hottest part of the fire, Cuthbert. God has work for you and you can achieve great things in His name.”
“I am not worthy,” he said dully. His mood had changed from the secret pride of just a few moments ago to self-pity: he was very far gone.
“We are none of us worthy,” I replied. There was only One who was worthy and they took Him and hung Him on a tree, and He went meek as a lamb - for all of us Cuthbert, all of us!” I took the tormented monk’s face in my hands and held it, with love and with humour, even with gratitude that I could somehow repair the hurt I’d caused. “Even you, you dirty, ragged, smelly excuse for a man, even you!” Cuthbert tried to smile but his face dissolved into tears. He put his head in his hand again.
“Tell me what to do,” he murmured.
“Bathe, trim your hair and nails, put on a decent habit and I’ll meet you in the chapel in an hour. We’ll offer a prayer in thanksgiving before we eat together.” Cuthbert stood up to leave. I spoke again before he left. “And Cuthbert,” he turned again, with resignation on his face, “thank you. Your intervention moved Our Lord to save me just before I would have fallen. Thank you.” Cuthbert left, with barely an acknowledgement of my thanks.
Just under an hour later I crossed the yard from the Infirmary to the chapel. I’d asked Colman to arrange food for the pair of us and the Abbott had done so, thanking me and congratulating me for getting Cuthbert to eat. They had all been worried about him, but I felt that the thanks were unmerited.