Cuthbert was there before me, standing with his hands palm upwards and his head thrown back, lost in silent prayer. He had bathed and changed his habit but he contrived to look more like a scarecrow than ever. I joined him and offered my own heartfelt thanks for my deliverance from the valley of the shadow of Death - Death of my Soul. I prayed for forgiveness of the stealthy pride that had crept into my heart as I’d lectured my brother monk, so much more pious than myself, and hoped that I had truly done my Maker’s will. I prayed also that the taint I carried from my temptation would wither, dilute, dissolve and die in the strong company of my brother monks on Lindisfarne and the gathering later at Whitby. I offered profound thanks for my rescue from the waves and a small mental nudge reminded me to seek out the fishermen who had saved me and thank them personally.
After half an hour I tugged at Cuthbert’s sleeve and led him to the refectory where we ate a simple but hearty meal of bread, cheese, milk and honey, more than was normal during Lent but appropriate given our trials.
Cuthbert was subdued. He had been running on raw energy for the five days that I had been in my coma and now all that was gone. He was barely recognisable, with his hair clean and falling neatly to his shoulders, his face washed and his robe more in keeping with the threadbare but serviceable habits of his brothers. We went together everywhere around the island and I watched over him as carefully as he had watched over me. Prior he was but, however briefly, he was for the time being dependent upon me. I was happy to be of service to him.
We made a contrasting pair: me regenerated but still tender, greeting everyone we met cheerfully, and my companion silent and brooding, seemingly waiting for orders. We met a young Initiate by the name of Mungo, who greeted me seriously but regarded Cuthbert eagerly, with awe and something approaching idolisation. He had the fire of zealotry in his eyes and his Prior was obviously his inspiration. He was confused and unhappy when his hero barely acknowledged him. Cuthbert’s rhetoric and evangelising were proverbial but he offered only the briefest of reactions when we visited the grave and shrine of Aidan. I tried to engage him in conversation about the Founder of Lindisfarne’s life and legacy. Normally he was very responsive but for the moment he was completely drained. I reminded him of Aidan, the founder of the monastery at Lindisfarne, whose ministry was of and among the people, who loved him. He attracted many converts and new souls - one of which was a young Cuthbert - and his Rule, following that of Columba, was demanding but never onerous. Not for him marathon fasts that drove to the point of death. He fasted of course, we all did - but he was disciplined and would not allow excessive deprivation.
I hoped he was taking it all in but he gave no sign.
When the time came to retire, Cuthbert insisted on joining me in my infirmary cell. Colman decided that it may well help both of us to recover and so we arranged ourselves for sleep, me in the bed and Cuthbert wrapped in a blanket on the floor. In the morning we would set off for Whitby: there was no time left to tarry, no matter how uplifting the place or the company.
15
The Road to Whitby
The Community of Lindisfarne gathered in the chapel before dawn to offer prayers of thanksgiving and to ask for protection for those who would be leaving for Whitby that morning. After breakfast in the refectory - which was barely large enough to contain us all - the travelling party gathered by the chapel door. Horses had been obtained for us, a fact that was giving rise to animated debate. We would all would rather walk among the people but we had been delayed because of my condition and time was now pressing. A good twenty minutes was spent arguing until only Colman himself remained unmounted. The confusion was added to by the horses becoming restless, milling about and neighing their alarm at the raised voices. Colman was stoutly defending his right and declaring that he would not place himself above the people.
In exasperation Abbott Cedd of Lastingham, the appointed translator, told him that the Synod would be over by the time he got there. He responded brusquely that, since he was leading the Irish delegation, Oswy would insist that it did not start without him. More arguments followed. It was suggested that, while Oswy may not start the Synod without him, the cost of such a humiliation might be a loss of favour with Northumbria’s ruling family. The Abbott was starting to weaken but now didn’t wish to lose face.
The Irish Church was nothing if not democratic but I felt that the time for debate was over. I quietly asked the silent Cuthbert to intervene, which he did promptly.
“Will you be setting off at the same time as us, Colman?” the reply was defiantly affirmative. “And you will not allow any obstacle or inconvenience to delay you?” confirmation again. “We are setting off straight away and we shall not wait for you, you follow as quick as you can,” the Abbott shrugged. Cuthbert trotted off a few paces, seemingly defeated. Then he turned again for one more word to his superior. “And you’d better hope that the fishermen are on duty again, for while Oswy may wait for you God’s tide will not and His punishment will be very appropriate when he drowns the fire of your bull-headedness once and for all.”
A brief glance showed that the tide had turned while they had argued. Colman relented, mounted and then actually led the company at a trot and even a gallop away from the island, onto the strand and straight across the sands to the mainland. There was a long way to go and little enough time to get there.
In addition to the Abbott himself, his Abbott Cedd the translator, Cuthbert and me, there were another dozen including Mungo (the young Initiate), three of his contemporaries, half a dozen scribes and two more monks, who had been seized in the middle of the night with the certainty that God wanted them to play a vital role in the proceedings. Colman confided that he was surprised there were so few last minute accompanists: he had prepared Abbess Hilda at the monastery of Whitby for five times the number.
It had been our intention to join Oswy’s train at his capital of Bamburgh but we learned that the King was in the south of the kingdom on an expedition to Mercia to collect tribute, from where he would be going direct to Whitby. We saved ourselves the small diversion and kept to the inland road. Although the king’s writ ran strong throughout Northumbria this did not mean it was entirely safe to travel undefended: there were lawless English, displaced British and isolated Mercians to consider and so, although most outlaws knew that Irish Church priests carried no coin and little food, we were all armed with swords just in case. A company of sixteen may still attract attention from desperate men.
We kept up a steady pace and made the Roman Wall before sunset, electing to stay in the protection of a supply and staging fort at Wallsend. Ferrying sixteen men and horses across the Tyne the next morning took well over an hour and so we had to stop the night at an Inn a few miles short of the crossing of the Tees.