prophecy he had glimpsed and lost.
And Gudrid told Rhodri how she had spoken to traders returning across the sail road from Britain and its many islands - and, from tantalising hints, how she had worked out that the prophecy, transcribed by monks, may have been stored in the monastery on Lindisfarena.
Rhodri listened to all this. ‘Well, it makes sense that your prophecy would be copied down at Lindisfarena, if anywhere. Always writing, those monks, scribbling things down and copying them and making more copies again. It’s a hive of letters, of ink and vellum and the scratch, scratch of styluses.’
She was mystified. ‘Why do they do this?’
‘What, the copying? I don’t know. But it’s an easier job than tilling the fields, a safer one than going to war. That’s why the monasteries of Britain are stuffed full of cowering princes.’ Now he smiled. ‘But that’s not all they’re stuffed with.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You need a reason to persuade your father to go there on one of these raids he’s planning, don’t you? I picked up that much on the boat. I think I know just the thing.’
‘What?’
His smile broadened. He was enjoying his petty bit of power over her. ‘Gold,’ he said.
She gazed at him. ‘If there’s gold there, why didn’t you tell my father?’
‘He never asked. And besides,’ he tapped his head, ‘my only wealth is my bit of knowledge. Why give it away?’
She stood up. ‘I need to talk to my father.’
‘Come back soon, lady. Maybe if I tup you I could lodge a baby in that dry womb of yours. Your husband would never know! ...’
She dared not reply. She turned her back and walked away.
VIII
Dom Boniface had always been kind to Aelfric, yet she found him intimidating. Even in this famous monastery Boniface’s piety stood out. It was said that he would keep himself awake for three or four days at a time, praying intensely. Even his illness only spurred him on to thank God even more. But after the incident with Elfgar the computistor spent more time with her. Perhaps he felt guilty for what had been done to her, even if it wasn’t his fault.
And, he said mysteriously, he wanted to help her understand the true purpose of the monastery.
‘Saint Benedict taught us that idleness is the enemy of the soul,’ he said. ‘All work is good work. Your copying shows promise in its artistry, Aelfric, though how that promise may be fulfilled, only Heaven knows yet. Here in the monastery we are never short of time, and with the slow sifting of one generation’s judgement after another, only that which has true deep value persists. It is not me who will assess your work, but the centuries.
‘But you must always remember that you are here to serve, not your own art, but the words you preserve. The copies you make of these words may be transmitted all over the world -’
Sold on for a tidy profit, she thought a little sourly.
‘ - or, more importantly still,’ Boniface went on, ‘transmitted to the future. And that is our contribution to the ages, the preservation of such treasure for better times than this. Since the fall of Rome, Britain has been overrun by barbarians. We ourselves are the spawn of illiterate pagans! Like dogs learning to talk, we Angles have taught ourselves to read. But sometimes our veneer of civilisation seems awfully thin.’ He sounded tired, his voice a whisper. He was thinking of Elfgar, she supposed.
She felt an impulse to cheer him up. ‘We Angles might be barbarians. But we produced Bede.’
‘Ah, Bede! He died before I was born, but I met a man who knew him as a boy ... Historian, theologian, computistor, Bede had it all. I think Bede would be horrified to see the corruption that has come upon the Church since his day. But perhaps every generation says the same. He was more Roman than the Romans, you know, but Bede had it wrong about them. We are the purer sort, we of northern blood. In the end the future is ours, not the Romans or
And Gudrid told Rhodri how she had spoken to traders returning across the sail road from Britain and its many islands - and, from tantalising hints, how she had worked out that the prophecy, transcribed by monks, may have been stored in the monastery on Lindisfarena.
Rhodri listened to all this. ‘Well, it makes sense that your prophecy would be copied down at Lindisfarena, if anywhere. Always writing, those monks, scribbling things down and copying them and making more copies again. It’s a hive of letters, of ink and vellum and the scratch, scratch of styluses.’
She was mystified. ‘Why do they do this?’
‘What, the copying? I don’t know. But it’s an easier job than tilling the fields, a safer one than going to war. That’s why the monasteries of Britain are stuffed full of cowering princes.’ Now he smiled. ‘But that’s not all they’re stuffed with.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You need a reason to persuade your father to go there on one of these raids he’s planning, don’t you? I picked up that much on the boat. I think I know just the thing.’
‘What?’
His smile broadened. He was enjoying his petty bit of power over her. ‘Gold,’ he said.
She gazed at him. ‘If there’s gold there, why didn’t you tell my father?’
‘He never asked. And besides,’ he tapped his head, ‘my only wealth is my bit of knowledge. Why give it away?’
She stood up. ‘I need to talk to my father.’
‘Come back soon, lady. Maybe if I tup you I could lodge a baby in that dry womb of yours. Your husband would never know! ...’
She dared not reply. She turned her back and walked away.
VIII
Dom Boniface had always been kind to Aelfric, yet she found him intimidating. Even in this famous monastery Boniface’s piety stood out. It was said that he would keep himself awake for three or four days at a time, praying intensely. Even his illness only spurred him on to thank God even more. But after the incident with Elfgar the computistor spent more time with her. Perhaps he felt guilty for what had been done to her, even if it wasn’t his fault.
And, he said mysteriously, he wanted to help her understand the true purpose of the monastery.
‘Saint Benedict taught us that idleness is the enemy of the soul,’ he said. ‘All work is good work. Your copying shows promise in its artistry, Aelfric, though how that promise may be fulfilled, only Heaven knows yet. Here in the monastery we are never short of time, and with the slow sifting of one generation’s judgement after another, only that which has true deep value persists. It is not me who will assess your work, but the centuries.
‘But you must always remember that you are here to serve, not your own art, but the words you preserve. The copies you make of these words may be transmitted all over the world -’
Sold on for a tidy profit, she thought a little sourly.
‘ - or, more importantly still,’ Boniface went on, ‘transmitted to the future. And that is our contribution to the ages, the preservation of such treasure for better times than this. Since the fall of Rome, Britain has been overrun by barbarians. We ourselves are the spawn of illiterate pagans! Like dogs learning to talk, we Angles have taught ourselves to read. But sometimes our veneer of civilisation seems awfully thin.’ He sounded tired, his voice a whisper. He was thinking of Elfgar, she supposed.
She felt an impulse to cheer him up. ‘We Angles might be barbarians. But we produced Bede.’
‘Ah, Bede! He died before I was born, but I met a man who knew him as a boy ... Historian, theologian, computistor, Bede had it all. I think Bede would be horrified to see the corruption that has come upon the Church since his day. But perhaps every generation says the same. He was more Roman than the Romans, you know, but Bede had it wrong about them. We are the purer sort, we of northern blood. In the end the future is ours, not the Romans or