“Aren’t you afraid of your King’s anger?”
“Very little frightens me, Magister, but yes, I fear Oswy’s wrath. As I said, I’ll observe the niceties in his presence. He’ll forgive me the occasional slip,” he winked and smiled again. “But I don’t think I fear him as much as he fears St Peter.”
“Yes. That was a surprise to me. That he should be so upset by it. Surely he knows the words of the Gospel? Hadn’t he appreciated what it meant? What the Romans take it to mean?”
“I doubt if he’d heard those words any more often than I have. He could recite the Gospel of St John standing on his head - me too, if put to it.” He took another swig of beer “Luke was the Gospel of Parables and Miracles. But John, St John’s was the Gospel of Love, which tells us how to live.” He ruminated for a moment, then stood up and stretched. “A strange Gospel it is for a fighting man, eh Magister? But conversions are achieved where miraculous victories are gained. King Oswy believes he has a duty to extend his kingdom, and to glorify God in it. There will be plenty of time for peace and love once all the battles are won.” He stretched again. “I seem to recall a little from one of the other scriptures, though. Something about ‘woe to those who corrupt the children: it would be better for them that they had never been born. They should cast themselves into the sea, or pray that the mountains would rise and cover them up.’” He was serious again. “Shall we go? Where we see the mountains moving, there this wicked man will be, eh?”
I nodded grimly, remounted my horse and made ready to lead north-westwards across the windy moors.
“Ethelred,” Godwin called, “where are you? We want to move on now.” I realised that this was the first time I’d heard the other’s name. He was a very quiet man.
“One moment,” the reply came from the bushes, “I’ll be with you in a moment.” Ethelred emerged a few seconds later, adjusting his clothing, and mounted his horse. “I’m ready now.”
I led the way and moved quickly into a canter. I knew where the quarry was heading. The most direct route to Strathclyde was north-west to the Roman Wall then due west along it to the eastern marches of his own lands: he would be known there or, at least, he would carry King Owain’s seal and be granted protection. But the first part of the route would be through Northumbria and Oswy’s discipline meant that anyone going the well-guarded way along the Wall would be challenged. Rushing to the Synod was one thing; running away afterwards was another, entirely. The guards at the forts on the Wall would hold Ieuan as a matter of course until receiving instructions. He would head for a quiet part of the Wall and try to get across to the borderlands to the north: then, and only then, head west for friendly territory.
The two villages we passed through during the afternoon had no report of him.
*
Another village. The sun was going down. Night soon. There wasn’t much time if he was to get a child. The parents were calling and collecting their offspring. They were coming in from around the village. The woods must have been full of them earlier in the day. He was too late, unless he could find a straggler. He would find one.
The hunger was gnawing at him. It had been all day. He had passed two villages and the second was harder than the first and the first was hard enough. He was shaking and shivering as he got off his horse and crouched down and looked for the straggler. He looked with his eyes and felt with his mind.
“Good afternoon, Magister,” a voice came from behind him and he almost leaped out of his skin. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you. Have you lost something? I’ll help you find it. What was it? Where did you lose it?” The words came from the toothless mouth of a grey-haired Englishman, who was returning from hunting in the woods. He had two rabbits slung over his shoulder and an air of content about him.
Ieuan didn’t speak English so he hadn’t understood a word the man had said. He jumped on to his horse, kicked it into an immediate gallop and rode straight through the village, scattering chickens and people alike. He was still shaking, now with fear. He’d nearly been caught! A few more moments and he would have been caught! He would make camp in a few hours, well after dark and miles away from this place - or any place, if they’d left any space between their settlements. They were all over the land, like maggots over a corpse. They had no respect at all, these barbarians.
Back in the village the old trapper was regaling his fellows with the tale of the strange monk, who’d taken off like a bird when he spoke to him.
“Never said a word to me. Looked as if he’d seen the Devil himself! Strange one, that. Never known any like it - those Magisters are always so friendly usually, always ready to lend a hand -”
“In exchange for some vittles!” there was general laughter at this.
“Aye, true. But they always pay their way, that’s what I say.” The discussion moved off to beggars, Roman bishops, outlaws and other such topics, lubricated by the first ale of the year. It was Friday, after all, and you don’t fast on Friday evening, do you? So it went on but when they were later asked about the solitary monk by three more strangers, another Magister and two soldiers, they would all remember how oddly he’d behaved and which way he’d gone.
*
“Godwin,” I began, “may I ask you something?”
“Ask away Magister, we’ve plenty of time I think.” We’d slowed our horses to a trot but were still making good time.
“You know King Oswy probably better than anyone, yes?”
“Maybe. We’ve been together thirty years. We learned swordplay together. He’s saved my life many times, and I’ve returned the favour.” I nodded.
“Why did he choose Rome? Above the people who sheltered him and his brothers? Was it really just St Peter?”
Godwin didn’t answer immediately. As the silence extended I thought of putting the question again but he answered before I could do so.
“More than one reason. It’s hard for me to talk about it, I think he would rather I didn’t, but -” he turned to our companion. “Ethelred. Ride up ahead a bit. Keep an eye out for likely ambush spots.” Ethelred grunted assent, pulled a couple of dozen yards ahead of them and Godwin continued. “The stuff about St Peter got to him. He was worried - I would go so far as to say frightened. He had always counted on St Michael, the warrior. If God would have a warrior at his right hand then he thought that a fighter like himself would be welcome. He hadn’t counted on a fisherman being the keeper of the Gates. He kept coming back to that when we spoke about it – or rather he spoke about it. I just listened. But there were other things too. The old order changes, yielding place to new.” He looked sideways at me and there was a grim smile there. “But why didn’t your people answer it? The thing about St Peter? What happened?”