“It is not for me to decide for you, Fleda, my little sister. God allows us to be tempted from time to time so that we may glorify Him when we overcome. He may want you for a nun, but it may just seem to be the easier alternative for you. He may want you to be the mother of a line of Kings that will stretch centuries into the future. I don’t know. You must make up your own mind.”
“But I’ve come to you for guidance. I want to know what to do! Please tell me what to do? Please?” So saying, she knelt before Hilda and put her hands in her lap. The Abbess put her own over them.
“I know that’s the Roman way, but it isn’t ours. You must make up your own mind. I know it’s hard for you and all ways seem wrong. But maybe God will help you see the way if you ask Him. But remember,” she admonished, “Our Lord suffered grievously before being hung on the Cross. God’s Will is sometimes hard to bear, but we can look to Christ for our example: He was Man as well as God, and He did His father’s will. Can you not do the same? You’re not being asked to suffer real torture, to have your skin whipped off your back and lay down your life, are you?” Eanfleda smiled a little through her distress and shook her head. “Even if it feels that you may have to do something you would hate. Let us pray for your comfort and guidance.”
Hilda stood to pray in the Celtic manner, Eanfleda knelt as the Romans had taught her. They offered common prayers and blessings for the strength to see their troubles through. Then Hilda dismissed her sister.
“Go on, away with you. I have a great deal to do to accommodate what your troubles have brought upon us,” her words were stern but her smile softened them. Eanfleda stood and made to go out of the door then, on an impulse, she turned back, embraced her sister quickly and kissed her on the cheek. The Abbess stepped back and smiled in surprise, but had no chance to say any more before her sister left.
There came another knock on the door and her attendant nun entered when invited.
“Abbess, there are three monks here who would speak with you.” There will be little rest this Sabbath, she thought, and she asked God to understand.
“Show them in,” she said, and stood to receive Colman, Cedd and Cuthbert, who had waited patiently for nearly two hours until their hostess was available to receive them.
19
The Chapel of Love
I intended to spend the rest of the day in quiet contemplation, maybe reading from the Bible or our prayer book, as the inclination took me. I visited the chapel for an hour or so. I loved its cool tranquillity. The Sabbath was always a day I looked forward to; there would be minimal demands on my time and I was free to follow the path that had attracted me to monasticism in the first place. On this day, however, the noise and bustle of activity and chatter didn’t pause from one moment to the next. There was much work to be done in the monastery itself, which I understood; the Synod was placing strains on their resources - but most of the noise came from the Romans, for whom this was an ordinary day. More were arriving by the moment and greetings were being exchanged, loudly and at length. Orders were shouted across the yard and, seemingly, from one end of the monastery to the other. From the door - even on the verge of God’s House itself - came the yell:
“Hey, Aeldwin! Come and see this chapel! It’s like a barn!” delivered in an accent that distinguished the owner as originating from Kent, possibly Canterbury itself. Two or three excited young novices burst in and looked around, chattering away with, it had to be said, a patronising and superior air that I found intolerable.
“It may be rustic to your eyes but it is still the House of God, a place for quiet prayer and contemplation,” I said from the wall where I was standing. The three spun round this way and that, not sure from where in the gloom the voice had come. Their faces showed alarm and I stepped forward to show myself. Their expressions changed to astonishment and then relaxed as they took in the Celtic shaved forehead, my wild hair and shabby habit. Their own cassocks were travel-stained but obviously new and well-tailored.
“Ah! It is one of our Irish cousins in faith! We have been told to show you all respect, sir,” one of them said, and he executed a bow which reeked of insolence. His accent was educated: likely a younger son of the Kentish nobility. I was less than amused and I held the eyes of first one, then the next, then the third in turn until - quite quickly, for I still had power in my gaze that I’d learned with the Druids - they looked away.
“As I said, this is God’s House, a place for prayer and contemplation. You should show respect to Our Lord, if not to me - and you should also respect your hosts, whose place this is. Today is our Sabbath. If you would have us treat you with consideration tomorrow, then extend the same courtesy to us today.”
No reply came. One of them looked sidelong to his fellows with a barely contained smirk and I stepped quickly across to him. I pulled his head up by his chin and kept it there while I held his eyes with mine, locked them in and poured a slightly larger dose of my Power across the short distance between us. I didn’t say a word and would not release him, I wouldn’t let him blink or look away, until the lad was shivering from head to foot and likely to collapse at my feet. Then I let him go. He staggered back a couple of steps and looked up with fear, almost in tears.
“I repeat, and for the last time I hope, this is God’s House. Treat it and Him with respect. Do you understand?” The three of them nodded nervously and then made for the door. “What about a penance?” I called after them, but they neither paused nor looked back.
I returned to my place in the shadows and tried to resume my quiet prayer, but it was no good, the mood had gone and the noise from outside overwhelmed me. I was angry at the three boys but also at myself. Once again, when faced with a problem I had resorted to my old skills. It as lazy and, in the present Roman company, potentially incendiary.
I couldn’t concentrate so I took a deep breath to steady myself and offered a heartfelt prayer of apology. Then I left the chapel, intending to walk a while outside the walls of the monastery. As I made my way, head down and fighting my temper, I was accosted by a shout.
“Hold up, there!” a priest of about my own age, dressed in the Roman style and with the short hair they sported around their crown tonsures, was approaching at a swift walk. “Hold, one moment,” he panted as he came up. “I would like a word with you.”
“How can I help you?”
“You offered violence to three of my novices, and in the chapel of all places! How dare you do such a thing?” I took a deep breath before answering.