“She’s recovered her breath well, I thank you for asking, though I’ve told her to rest further just now. We’re forced, in any case, to wait till the monks return from their meeting and the abbot gives permission to visit the wise physician Jonus.”
“A resolute lady, sir. I admired how she made her way here giving no complaint. Ah, here’s the boy back again.”
“See how he holds his injury, Master Wistan. We must take him also to Father Jonus.”
Wistan seemed not to hear this. Leaving the wall, he went down the little steps to meet Edwin, and for a few moments the two conferred in low voices, heads close together. The boy’s manner was animated, and the warrior listened with a frown, nodding occasionally. As Axl came down the steps to their level, Wistan said quietly:
“Master Edwin reports a curious discovery we may do well to see with our own eyes. Let’s follow him, but walk as we’ve no clear purpose, in case that old monk there is left on purpose to spy on us.”
Indeed, a solitary monk was sweeping the courtyard and as they came closer, Axl noticed he was mouthing words silently to himself, lost in his world. He barely glanced their way as Edwin led them across the courtyard and into a gap between two buildings. They emerged where thin grass covered uneven sloping ground, and a row of withered trees, hardly taller than a man, marked a path leading away from the monastery. As they followed Edwin under a setting sky, Wistan said softly:
“I’m much taken by this boy. Master Axl, we may yet revise our plan to leave him at your son’s village. It would suit me well to keep him by me a while longer.”
“I’m troubled to hear you say so, sir.”
“Why so? He hardly longs for a life feeding pigs and digging the cold soil.”
“Yet what will become of him at your side?”
“Once my mission’s complete, I’ll take him back to the fens.”
“And what will you have him do there, sir? Fight Norsemen all his days?”
“You frown, sir, but the boy has an unusual temperament. He’ll make a fine warrior. But hush, let’s see what he has for us.”
They had come to where three wooden shacks stood at the side of the lane, in such disrepair that each appeared to be held up by its neighbour. The wet ground was rutted with wheeltracks, and Edwin paused to point these out. Then he led them into the furthest of the three shacks.
There was no door, and much of the roof was open to the sky. As they came in, several birds flew off in furious commotion, and Axl saw, in the gloomy space vacated, a crudely made cart—perhaps the work of the monks themselves—its two wheels sunk into the mud. What arrested the attention was a large cage mounted on its carriage, and coming closer, Axl noticed that though the cage was itself iron, a thick wooden pillar ran down its spine, fixing it firmly to the boards underneath. This same post was festooned with chains and manacles, and at head height, what appeared to be a blackened iron mask, though with no holes for the eyes, and only a small one for the mouth. The cart, and the area all around it, was covered with feathers and droppings. Edwin pulled open the cage door and proceeded to move it back and forth on its squeaking hinge. He was again speaking excited words, to which Wistan, throwing searching glances around the shed, returned the occasional nod.
“It’s curious,” Axl said, “these monks should have need of such an object as this. No doubt to aid some pious ritual.”
The warrior started to move around the cart, stepping carefully to avoid the stagnant puddles. “I saw something like this once before,” he said. “You may suppose this device intended to expose the man within it to the cruelty of the elements. Yet look, see how these bars stand far enough apart to allow my shoulder to pass through. And here, look, how these feathers stick to the iron in hardened blood. A man fastened here is offered thus to the mountain birds. Caught in these cuffs, he has no way to fight off the hungry beaks. This iron mask, though it may look frightful, is in fact a thing of mercy, for with it the eyes at least aren’t feasted on.”
“There may yet be some more gentle purpose,” Axl said, but Edwin had started to talk again, and Wistan turned and looked out of the shed.
“The boy says he followed these tracks out to a spot nearby on the cliff’s edge,” the warrior said, eventually. “He says the ground’s well rutted there, showing where this wagon has often stayed. In other words, the signs all support my guess, and I can see too this cart’s been wheeled out just lately.”
“I don’t know what it means, Master Wistan, but I admit I now begin to share your uneasiness. This object sends a chill through me and makes me want to return to my wife’s side.”
“It’s as well we do, sir. Let’s stay no longer.”
But as they came out of the shack, Edwin, who again was leading, stopped abruptly. Looking past him into the evening gloom, Axl could see a robed figure in the tall grass a short distance from them.
“I’d say it’s the monk lately sweeping the yard,” the warrior said to Axl.
“Does he see us?”
“I’d say he sees us and knows we see him. Yet he stands there still as a tree. Well, let’s go to him.”
The monk was standing at a spot to the side of their path, the grass up to his knee. As they approached the man remained quite still, though the wind pulled at his robe and long white hair. He was thin, almost emaciated, and his protruding eyes stared at them without expression.
“You observe us, sir,” Wistan said, stopping, “and you know what we’ve just discovered. So perhaps you’d tell us the purpose to which you monks put that device.”
Saying nothing, the monk pointed towards the monastery.
“It may be he’s vowed to silence,” Axl said. “Or else as mute as you lately pretended, Master Wistan.”
The monk came out of the grass and onto the path. His strange eyes fixed each of them in turn, then he pointed again towards the monastery and set off. They followed him, just a short distance behind, the monk continually glancing back at them over his shoulder.
The monastery buildings were now dark shapes against the setting sky. As they drew closer, the monk paused, moved his forefinger over his lips, then continued at a more cautious pace. He seemed anxious they remain unseen, and to avoid the central courtyard. He took them down narrow passageways behind buildings where the earth was pitted or sloped severely. Once, as they went with heads bowed along a wall, there came from the very windows above sounds from the monks’ conference. One voice was shouting over a hubbub, then a second voice—perhaps that of the abbot—called for order. But there was no time to loiter, and soon they were gathered at an archway through which could be seen the main courtyard. The monk now indicated with urgent signs that they were to proceed as quickly and quietly as possible.
As it was they were not obliged to cross the courtyard, where torches were now burning, but only to skirt one corner under the shadows of a colonnade. When the monk halted again, Axl whispered to him:
“Good sir, since your intention must be to take us somewhere, I’d ask you to let me go fetch my wife, for I’m uneasy leaving her alone.”
The monk, who had turned immediately to fix Axl in a stare, shook his head and pointed into the semi-dark. Only then did Axl spot Beatrice standing in a doorway further down the cloister. Relieved, he gave a wave, and as the party moved towards her, there came from behind them a surge of angry voices from the monks’ meeting.
“How is it with you, princess?” he asked, reaching to take her outstretched hands.
“Peacefully taking my rest, Axl, when this silent monk appeared before me, the way I took him for a phantom. But he’s keen to lead us somewhere and we’d best follow.”
The monk repeated his gesture for silence, then beckoning, pushed past Beatrice across the threshold where she had been waiting.
The corridors now became as tunnel-like as those of their warren at home, and the lamps flickering in the little alcoves hardly dispelled the darkness. Axl, with Beatrice holding his arm, kept a hand held out before him. For
a moment they were back in the open air, crossing a muddy yard between ploughed allotments, then into another low stone building. Here the corridor was wider and lit by larger flames, and the monk seemed finally to relax. Recovering his breath, he looked them over once more, then signalling for them to wait, vanished under an arch. After a little time, the monk appeared again and ushered them forward. As he did so, a frail voice from within said: “Come in, guests. A poor chamber this to receive you, but you’re welcome.”
As he waited for sleep to come to him, Axl recalled once again how the four of them, together with the silent monk, had squeezed into the tiny cell. A candle was burning next to the bed, and he had felt Beatrice recoil as she caught sight of the figure lying in it. Then she had taken a breath and moved further into the room. There was hardly space for them all, but they had before long arranged themselves around the bed, the warrior and the boy in the corner furthest away. Axl’s back was pressed against the chilly stone wall, but Beatrice, standing just in front and leaning into him as if for reassurance, was almost up to the sickbed. There was a faint smell of vomit and urine. The silent monk, meanwhile, was fussing about the man in the bed, helping to raise him to a sitting position.
Their host was white-haired and advanced in years. His frame was large, and until recently must have been vigorous, but now the simple act of sitting up appeared to cause multiple agonies. A coarse blanket fell from around him as he raised himself, revealing a nightshirt patched with bloodstains. But what had caused Beatrice to shrink back was the man’s neck and face, starkly illuminated by the bedside candle. A swollen mound under one side of the chin, a deep purple fading to a yellow, obliged the head to be held at a slight angle. The peak of the mound was split and caked with pus and old blood. On the face itself, a gouge ran from just below the cheek bone down to the jaw, exposing a section of the man’s inner mouth and gum. It must have cost him greatly to smile, but once he was settled in his new position, the monk did just this.
“Welcome, welcome. I’m Jonus, whom I know you came a long way to see. My dear guests, don’t look at me with such pity. These wounds are no longer new, and hardly bring the pain they once did.”
“We see now, Father Jonus,” Beatrice said, “why your good abbot’s so reluctant to have strangers impose on you. We’d have waited for his permission, but this kind monk led us to you.”
“Ninian here is my most trusted friend, and even if he’s vowed to silence, we understand one another perfectly. He’s watched each of you since your arrival and brought me frequent reports. I thought it time we met, even if the abbot knows nothing of it.”
“But what can have caused you such injuries, father?” Beatrice asked. “And you a man famed for kindness and wisdom.”
“Let’s leave the topic, mistress, for my feeble strength won’t allow us to speak for long. I know two of you here, yourself and this brave boy, seek my advice. Let me see the boy first, who I understand carries a wound. Come closer into the light, dear lad.”
The monk’s voice, though soft, possessed a natural command, and Edwin started to move towards him. But immediately Wistan reached forward and gripped the boy by the arm. Perhaps it was an effect of the candle flame, or the warrior’s trembling shadow cast on the wall behind him, but it seemed to Axl that for an instant Wistan’s eyes were fixed on the injured monk with peculiar intensity, even hatred. The warrior drew the boy back to the wall, then took a step forward himself as though to shield his charge.
“What’s wrong, shepherd?” asked Father Jonus. “Do you fear poison from my wounds will travel to your brother? Then my hand needn’t touch him. Let him step closer and my eyes alone will test his injury.”
“The boy’s wound is clean,” Wistan said. “It’s just this good woman now seeks your help.”
“Master Wistan,” Beatrice said, “how can you say such a thing? You must know well how a wound clean one moment turns fevered the next. The boy must seek this wise monk’s guidance.”
Wistan seemed not to hear Beatrice, and continued to stare at the monk. Father Jonus, in turn, regarded the warrior as though he were a thing of great fascination. After a while, Father Jonus said:
“You stand with remarkable boldness for a humble shepherd.”
“It must be the habit of my trade. A shepherd must stand long hours watchful of wolves gathering in the night.”
“No doubt that’s so. I imagine too how a shepherd must judge quickly, hearing a sound in the dark, if it heralds danger or the approach of a friend. Much must rest on the ability to make such decisions quickly and well.”
“Only a foolish shepherd hears a snapping twig or spots a shape in the dark and assumes a companion come to relieve him. We’re a cautious breed, and what’s more, sir, I’ve just now seen with my own eyes the device in your barn.”
“Ah. I thought you’d come upon it sooner or later. What do you make of your discovery, shepherd?”
“It angers me.”
“Angers you?” Father Jonus rasped this with some force, as though himself suddenly angered. “Why does it anger you?”
“Tell me if I’m wrong, sir. My surmise is that the custom here has been for the monks to take turns in that cage exposing their bodies to the wild birds, hoping this way to atone for crimes once committed in this country and long unpunished. Even these ugly wounds I see here before me have been gained in this way, and for all I know a sense of piety eases your suffering. Yet let me say I feel no pity to see your gashes. How can you describe as penance, sir, the drawing of a veil over the foulest deeds? Is your Christian god one to be bribed so easily with self-inflicted pain and a few prayers? Does he care so little for justice left undone?”
“Our god is a god of mercy, shepherd, whom you, a pagan, may find hard to comprehend. It’s no foolishness to seek forgiveness from such a god, however great the crime. Our god’s mercy is boundless.”
“What use is a god with boundless mercy, sir? You mock me as a pagan, yet the gods of my ancestors pronounce clearly their ways and punish severely when we break their laws. Your Christian god of mercy gives men licence to pursue their greed, their lust for land and blood, knowing a few prayers and a little penance will bring forgiveness and blessing.”
“It’s true, shepherd, that here in this monastery, there are those who still believe such things. But let me assure you, Ninian and I have long let go such delusions, and neither are we alone. We know our god’s mercy is not to be abused, yet many of my brother monks, the abbot included, will not yet accept this. They still believe that cage, and our constant prayers, will be enough. Yet these dark crows and ravens are a sign of God’s anger. They never came before. Even last winter, though the wind made the strongest of us weep, the birds were but mischievous children, their beaks bringing only small sufferings. A shake of the chains or a shout was enough to keep them at bay. But now a new breed comes to find us, larger, bolder and with fury in their eyes. They tear at us in calm anger, no matter how we struggle or cry out. We’ve lost three dear friends these past months, and many more of us carry deep wounds. These surely are signs.”
Wistan’s manner had been softening, but he had kept himself firmly in front of the boy. “Are you saying,” he asked, “I have friends here in this monastery?”
“In this room, shepherd, yes. Elsewhere, we remain divided and even now they argue in great passion about how we are to continue. The abbot will insist we carry on as always. Others of our view will say it’s time to stop. That no forgiveness awaits us at the end of this path. That we must uncover what’s been hidden and face the past. But those voices, I fear, remain few and will not carry the day. Shepherd, will you trust me now to see this boy’s wound?”
For a moment Wistan remained still. Then he moved aside, signalling to Edwin to step forward. Immediately the silent monk helped Father Jonus to a more upright position—both monks had become suddenly quite animated—then grasping the candleholder from the bedside, tugged Edwin closer, impatiently raising the boy’s shirt for Fathe
r Jonus to see. Then, for what seemed a long time, both monks went on looking at the boy’s wound—Ninian moving the light one way then the other—as though it were a pool within which a miniature world was contained. Eventually the monks exchanged what seemed to Axl looks of triumph, but the very next moment Father Jonus fell shaking back onto his pillows, with an expression closer to resignation or else sadness. As Ninian hastily put down the candle to attend to him, Edwin slipped back into the shadows to stand beside Wistan.
“Father Jonus,” Beatrice said, “now you’ve seen the boy’s wound, tell us if it’s clean and will heal on its own.”
Father Jonus’s eyes were closed, and he was still breathing heavily, but he said quite calmly: “I believe it will heal if he takes good care. Father Ninian will prepare an ointment for him before he leaves this place.”
“Father,” Beatrice went on, “your present conversation with Master Wistan isn’t entirely within my understanding. Yet it interests me greatly.”
“Is that so, mistress?” Father Jonus, still recovering his breath, opened his eyes and looked at her.
“Last night in a village below,” Beatrice said, “I spoke with a woman wise with medicines. She had much to tell about my sickness, but when I asked her about this mist, the same that makes us forget the last hour as readily as a morning many years past, she confessed she had no idea what or whose work it was. Yet she said if there was one wise enough to know, it would be you, Father Jonus, up here in this monastery. So my husband and I made our way here, even though it’s a harder road to our son’s village where we’re impatiently awaited. It was my hope you’d tell us something of this mist and how Axl and I might be free of it. It may be I’m a foolish woman, but it seemed to me just now, for all the talk of shepherds, you and Master Wistan were speaking of this same mist, and much bothered by what’s been lost of our past. So let me ask this of you, and Master Wistan too. Do the both of you know what causes this mist to fall over us?”
Father Jonus and Wistan exchanged looks. Then Wistan said quietly: