The arguments got more and more esoteric and the monks gradually drifted off to their own private thoughts. I went to walk the peaceful hillside of the bees again and passed Mungo and one of his friends as he left. I noticed that the pair of them - the most zealous of all the zealots, I felt - were looking daggers at Abbott Cedd.
“Remember we are brothers in Christ,” I said to them quietly, “we’re free to speak our minds as friends among friends, and to seek help or clarification as is necessary. If Cedd or anyone has doubts or uncertainties, they should voice them, not keep them hidden. That goes for all of us.” Mungo looked resentful, his companion looked embarrassed.
Through it all, Cuthbert had said not a word.
*
In his chamber, Agilbert was thinking again, very deeply. He had prayed long and hard and his meal had gone cold, lying uneaten by his side. He had done better that day but not well enough. He rose and went to open the door.
“Erebert,” he said to the priest who waited there, “go and fetch Prior Wilfrid of Ripon. Tell him I would like to speak to him.” Erebert went to do as he was ordered.
*
I’d wandered over the hilltop as before, but there were no bees to offer comfort and inspiration, not on this occasion. The day was cooler, there were clouds overhead, and a breeze whipped the wave tops into white foam. It was too windy even for the resilient bumblebees. My thoughts were swinging from the details of the Synod to the problem of my Visions and back again. I was troubled and confused and felt that the arguments were slipping away from the Irish, even though Oswy wasn’t impressed - so far. The division in our ranks, reaching to the highest levels, was not good. I doubted if the Romans were suffering the same problems. And I wasn't sure if I should be here at all, but should rather be scouring Strathclyde for whichever disciple of Lucius had escaped and was spreading such evil. I looked up just as Wilfrid approached, smiling and confident.
“You look troubled, Anselm,” he called.
“Thoughtful, Wilfrid, thoughtful.” It was a lie of omission rather than commission, but must still be atoned for. The Prior of Ripon arrived at my side.
“Not such a bright day as when we last met. Confused and perturbed, would you say?”
“All things have their season. You should know that, of all people,” and I wondered if he had heard of the disagreements within the Lindisfarne camp. He merely smiled, and didn’t rise to the bait.
“Your party has done well. So far,” he responded, “but it will not continue. We still have three days until the weekend. We shall win, and you will come to the bosom and comfort of our Holy Mother Church. We will welcome you warmly, as a mother welcomes her lost children back to the family, and you will be consoled and happy as your errors are ended.”
“What makes you so certain? Were he to pronounce now, Oswy would come down on our side, I think.”
“Possibly,” Wilfrid conceded, then he smiled again, “all right, almost certainly - at this time. But we have those three days, and don’t think we will ever again do as badly as we did yesterday.”
“What makes you so certain that you’ll do well enough to change his mind?”
“Rome will triumph, here as it has everywhere else. In Antioch, against the Arians, in Egypt, over the Copts and Gnostics, in Greece over the Manichees, as we will triumph over this latest Meccan heresy in Arabia. Everywhere error and heresy have been overcome. Rome is the See of Peter, and will overcome all obstacles. It must be so.
“I know you find it hard to accept,” he continued, “but what can you know of the power and majesty of Rome - of Rome itself! The buildings! The people! All the people of God, going about His business! On one day - one day!” he emphasised, “- Rome has as many visitors as are numbered in the whole of your Irish Church. And the books! Scripture and teachings that go back to the foundation of the Church in the Holy Land! You can’t imagine!”
“Yes I can.”
“No, it’s not possible. No-one who hasn’t seen Rome with their own eyes can possibly imagine what it is like. It is magnificent! It is awe-inspiring! It is powerful, none can stand against it and survive!”
“I can imagine, because I have been to Rome,” I responded quietly. Wilfrid looked surprise and he looked me up and down, taking in the threadbare robe, its missing buttons and its travel stains, my wild hair and shaved forehead and, though he tried to suppress it, he couldn’t altogether conceal his contempt. I continued. “Yes, Wilfrid, I’ve been to Rome. I had a life before we met. I was older than you are now before I took Holy Orders. Before then I wandered far and wide, and I came to Rome. You talk of magnificence and learning, and give the impression that the sweet smell of incense rises from every fireplace and ascends in a cloud of holy smoke: but I’ve been there. If you were to build a Roman Basilica here in Britain, would you remember to cover the outside with peeling and flaking paint? Don’t forget the dirt and rubbish piled up in every corner. Make sure that the pavement outside your great church is well-stocked with prostitutes, parading their services openly and not in any way put off by clerical robes.”
I went through a litany of the tawdry reality behind Rome’s magnificent fa?ade – and it was magnificent, even now, two centuries after its fall and after being sacked by every marauding invading war band on its way somewhere else. But it was a city of human beings, and human beings are riddled with faults. It was still a city of riches, and riches attract the greed, the unprincipled and those who will not let a paltry consideration like the value of human life stand between them and what they wanted. What I said was true but it made Wilfrid very, very angry. He believed such licentiousness was being controlled, suppressed and eradicated, its perpetrators dispatched to missions in the Balkans or to Arabia, to certain death.
“There will be none of this. You don’t understand. When I build an abbey church - “
“Oh, I do understand,” I interrupted. I, too, was angry and my voice was cold and determined. My anger with this turncoat got the better of my control. “I understand how mistaken I was to help you learn, to lend you power and show you skill so that you could accelerate your reading of teaching and the Scriptures. You read very fast, but you do not understand. I understand well what you have done with all that we gave you. You have picked it up and thrown it in our face! Tell me, Wilfred, when you build your great abbey - and I expect it will be the finest north of the Alps, nothing less will do, will it? - when you build it, will you be building for the greater glory of God, or for the glory of Wilfrid? Abbot Wilfrid? Bishop Wilfrid? Pope Wilfrid?”
Without waiting for a reply I left, but a reply came anyway, spoken firmly and coldly, in a voice that carried far enough to be heard clearly.