Saint Cuthbert Trilogy

Chapter 3

The monks of Melrose Abbey were hospitable and our stay was comfortable both for men and horses but we anxiously awaited the arrival of spring to be able to move on. Our task, as outriders, was simply to follow the coffin bearers to ensure their safety in the remoter, more dangerous parts of the kingdom. As outlaws sought weak unarmed prey, six heavily armed warriors did not fall into that category and our progress was undisturbed by miscreants.

The weather was typically variable for the time of year and consequently the roads sometimes slippery with mud. Occasionally, the monks came close to falling and one day, one of them twisted his knee so badly that he could not continue. There were seven of them for this reason since six always shouldered the coffin and the seventh relieved the first among them to falter. At once, I offered,

“Let me take a turn, you can ride instead of worsening your leg.”

“I’m sorry, friend, only brothers accepted into the order are permitted to touch the sacred box.”

Despite my protests, they were inflexible and I suspected that they believed the more they suffered the better it was for their souls.

The days passed slowly, trudging from village to village and at every settlement the local priest, villagers, woodlanders, whoever beheld the coffin, fell to their knees before running off to fetch from their homes what meagre offerings they could barely spare. Often, our party would stop at religious houses where food, a bed and warmth for the night were assured. Slowly, we headed for the coast and I will list our route only for the record: we travelled from Melrose Abbey to Elsdon, Bellingham, Bewcastle, thence amid the rolling hills down to Hebdon Bridge, on to Beltingham until we came to the large settlement of Carlisle, where our monks once more met with Abbot Eadred. This affable churchman came up with the fateful suggestion that we should sail with the coffin to Ireland. His theory was that the King of Dublin, well known for being both of Viking stock and a devout Christian, would protect the precious relics from his original fellow-countrymen of the Great Horde, so busy at that time sacking Mercia. The argument was sound and convinced us all. I had a half-formed idea that I might be able to visit Ardfinnan where we had relatives on our great-great-great grandfather’s estates. With this plan in mind, we travelled on through Plumbland to Embleton and thence the last four leagues to the sea at the mouth of the River Derwent.

It was there that we found a vessel willing to take us via the Isle of Man to Ireland. As mentioned, the weather was variable and the sailors warned us that the crossing might be rough. The most senior of the monks, a prior, replied blithely that the saint would protect us. From the way the wind was freshening, I could only pray that he was right.

To my eternal shame, I have to relate a disgraceful incident that was wholly my fault. We boarded the ship in the estuary in relatively calm conditions and at that point confided to Galan my desire to travel down to Ardfinnan to see the place where Aella had found love and later settled to breed horses. The mention of Aella aroused my slumbering longing to see the Cuthbert Gospel.

“Brother, will you at least allow me a fleeting glimpse of Aella’s handiwork? I don’t ask to handle it, just a glance.”

Furtively, Galan looked around the deck and since the nearest monk was the prior, he drew me away towards the prow. At this point, the ship was nosing out into the open sea, where the water was rougher and the vessel began to pitch fearfully. My brother withdrew a pocket-sized book from within his tunic and I caught a glimpse of a marvellous red leather binding before I broke my word to try to snatch it from his grasp. At the same moment as he whipped his hand away from my lunge, the ship pitched and he lost his grip on the precious volume, sending it spinning through the air and down into the sea.

“No!” cried my brother, regaining his balance and clinging to the gunwales, staring hopelessly down at the murky, turbulent waves. “What have you done, Cynn? You promised; you gave your word. What can I tell the prior?”

I thought frantically, realising the seriousness of the situation,

“Tell him only this: the truth—that you were assuring the safety of the volume when the ship lurched, flung you off balance, sending the book overboard.”

“Ay, that is the truth,” he said ruefully, glaring at me, “but a cunning version, it does not include your fault, does it, brother?”

Since he’d accused me of cunning, I decided to be so.

“Regarding that, Galan, don’t you think it is between me and God? I shall confess my fault as soon as I find a priest to hear me. Meanwhile, I beg you to forgive me for my impetuous act, brother.”

If you’d let me see it in Melrose, young fool, the book wouldn’t be lost.

If you’d let me see it in Melrose, young fool, the book wouldn’t be lost.The sky darkened and the rain suddenly came in sharp spatters on the wings of a squall that flapped the sails frightfully. The sea rose high and flung foam, soaking us to the skin. The wind moaned through the rigging and the captain had had enough as the first silver flash lit the sky. Even as the thunder pealed, he steered the ship, causing it to roll alarmingly, so that we could fly back to the estuary.

As I clung to the mast in desperation, I saw, although over the howling wind could not hear, the agitated conversation between Galan and the prior. For a moment, I thought the senior monk would strike my brother, for he raised his fist, but he calmed and to my surprise, placed a comforting arm around him. I felt like a dog that had disobeyed its master and if I’d had a tail, it would have been firmly down between my legs.

Safely on solid ground, we begged admittance to the Derwentmouth monastery and spent the night there. In the dormer, I slept on a pallet next to my brother and found sleep elusive, likely because I blamed and tormented myself for the dropping of the irreplaceable Gospel. Thus, I watched Galan tossing and turning restlessly whilst asleep and his lips moving, forming sounds not recognisable as speech except for the occasional word. I ascribed his agitation to the same source as my sleeplessness. I knew the loss of Cuthbert’s gospel had affected him deeply and was grateful that his kindly nature and fraternal love were so ingrained that he could not hate me for what I’d done.

In the morning, the most remarkable happening occurred—Galan shook the prior awake and declared,

“Saint Cuthbert appeared to me in a dream this night, Brother Prior, he spoke to me telling me of a certain place where the Gospel is to be found on the shore. The obedient sea has returned it according to God’s will. We must leave at once, follow the coast to the north to seek the place the saint showed me.”

The prior, unlike me, was not sceptical but threw up his arms and praised the Lord. Once again, I did not cover myself in glory, saying,

“What nonsense! The sea does not obey the will of God!”

The prior stormed towards me with a raised fist, his face contorted in anger, but again he did not strike, for he was a better Christian than I and controlled his temper. Still, his tone was biting,

“How dare you question the will of the Almighty? Did He not command the Red Sea to open for the Israelites fleeing the Egyptians? And did Our Lord not still the tempest frightening the Apostles on the sea of Galilee?”

I admitted the truth of these events and begged forgiveness, setting off in a mood of crushed humility, praying that Galan’s dream would prove true. Riding along the beach, the invigorating air after the storm, the tangy smell of the strewn wrack and the clamour of the seabirds could not compensate for not finding the volume. But Galan continued insisting that the landscape was not that of his dream, so we went on slowly northwards, following the shore until towards evening before stopping for the night after a fruitless search. I confess I had no faith in this impossible venture. The next morning, the resolute monks continued their efforts until we came to a place called Kirklinton, and there, once more abandoned the task for the night. Next day, we reached the island of Whithorn. Excited, Galan recommended the brothers to keep a sharp eye, because the scenery resembled that of his dream.

Humbled, I may have been, but in my heart, I doubted the likelihood of ever finding the volume. Nonetheless, I could only admire the faith and resolve of the brothers, foremost among them, Galan. My feeble conviction told me that even if by some miracle the book were found, it would be ruined beyond recovery. Galan’s trust in Saint Cuthbert and the Lord proved me wrong because my brother cried,

“Over there! See the rock formation of my dream! The Gospel will be hereabouts!”

He relinquished his position as pall-bearer and began to run around along the shoreline like a demented terrier, and like that creature, sniffed out his quarry. With a roar of exultation, he pounced and raised aloft a red-covered book. The monks laid down Cuthbert’s coffin on the sand and knelt to give praise to God for this miracle. Tears ran down my cheeks, a sign of my gratitude and my heartstrings being touched by my brother’s joy.

Galan turned the pages and his face revealed the extent of the marvel: after three days in the sea, the book was wet but undamaged. Later, when it had dried completely, it was left with only a few lines of salt deposit on some pages. Purely thanks to this wonder, at last, I was allowed to touch, inspect and admire my forbear’s masterpiece. Galan told me that Aella had not written the text, which had been the work of the Lindisfarne scribes, men like himself, but that he had made the magnificent goatskin cover. Only later, had Aella learnt to read and write and produced the famous Vita Sancti Cuthberti. I could not help but think how fitting the tale of the re-finding of St John’s Gospel would have been for inclusion in that work. Impossible of course, since our adventure occurred five generations after Aella completed his masterpiece.

Vita Sancti Cuthberti. This prodigious event convinced me that Saint Cuthbert would look after his bearers whatever fate threw them and, for the present, the Danes were occupied elsewhere and posed no threat in this part of the land. I resolved, therefore, that our guardianship was pointless and that we six horsemen should return to Bamburgh to pursue our ordinary lives. The monks, for their part, chose to forsake the journey to Ireland in favour of continuing their wanderings around Northumbria. We left them at Carlisle to take the old Roman road towards Hexham.