The Lychgate Page 3

  Beccelm straightened, firm resolve stiffening his young facial muscles. “You can rely on me to support you in this fight, Brother. Come what may.”

  “Good. The Lord be with you.”

  “And also with you.”

  They exchanged a holy kiss on both cheeks.

  “What do the entrails portend, Nechtan? Will my wife recover from her affliction?” Beric squatted on floor rushes across the fire from the village druid. The brooch clasp on his cloak shimmered between winking orange sparks and curls of smoke drawn up through a hole in the turf roof. It marked him out as Chieftain of the Bilmingas.

  The bald, sylph-like male figure before him leaned closer to some sprawled animal intestines laid out in ritual alignment. He lifted twinkling, steely eyes and delivered a rancid smile. Around his shoulders, a blue tattoo in woad formed the shape of a religious mantle. This symbol of office could never be stolen or removed. A leather phylactery on a cord about his neck competed for prominence. It contained the holy man’s most sacred enchantments. “The Mist Gods do not say. They are tricksy and fickle.”

  “Can they be petitioned for aid? Will they help Arianrod if I present an offering?”

  Nechtan wiped his mouth with one finger. “Perhaps.”

  Beric growled. “Don’t you have any answers?”

  The druid sensed growing anger in his leader. If the man lost faith in him and the Gods, his usefulness would go with it. The office of village druid came with certain privileges: respect, abundant food, protection, exemption from hard labour and fighting, and no small amount of control and influence. In a harsh world, it enabled him to live a life of comparative luxury and safety. All that in exchange for using his wits to remain in a position of awe and favour. “I will consult the Gods further. For now, they would have you comfort her with the gifts of this world.”

  Beric rocked on the spot. His eyebrows lifted as a hopeful realisation painted his face. “Of course. I have a new amber pin for her hair, I’ve yet to present Arianrod with. And this will help in her recovery?”

  Nechtan swept upturned palms wide in a submissive gesture. “Already the Gods have provided you with a first step along the way. A test. Offer obedience and she may yet live.” That thin, self-serving smile slithered across his pale lips again. If he told Beric his wife would live, and she didn’t, his position (not to mention his life) would be forfeit. If he told him she would die, and she lived, he’d still lose an ideal arrangement, but suffer banishment instead. Nechtan sometimes communed with spiritual beings and wasn’t without supernatural power. But he knew such things were unreliable. In his world, it paid to hedge your bets. Over the matter of Arianrod’s life, it was an absolute necessity.

  Beric clambered to his feet. “Thank you, druid. I will consult you again in a few days if there is no improvement. Will you keep me advised of any new messages from the Gods?”

  Nechtan rose and bowed in a flourish of sycophantic exuberance.

  The Chieftain left the druid’s hut.

  “What ails thee, child?” Guthlac strode out from a bank of rushes. Startled, a woman of the Bilmingas tribe dropped a clay pot. It rolled around the edge of a muddy well encircled by rough stones. The monk had been about enough to realise her manner of dress meant the woman had some stature in their social hierarchy. But her face was thin and drawn. Angry red sores blotched delicate cheeks, forehead and arms. The vitality of life drained from her body as water now drained from her overturned pot.

  “You startled me. Who are you?”

  “Guthlac - servant of The Most High God and His Son, Jesus Christ.”

  The woman swallowed. She had heard many tales of this new religion from distant shores. The faith and its followers seemed to be everywhere, though it was yet to have a direct effect on her village. “Arianrod, wife of Beric - Chieftain of the Bilmingas.”

  Guthlac gave a respectful nod. “You are unwell.”

  Arianrod touched the sores of one arm and winced. “An evil malady afflicts my flesh. My husband has gone to our village druid to petition the Gods for answers.” She bent down to reach for the clay pot.

  The monk intercepted her and lifted the receptacle. “There is one God who will hear your prayer. A great healer.” He glanced at what little unpleasant well water remained in the pot. Muddy and likely foul-tasting, it was almost as bad as that which he drew for himself in a deliberate path to holiness. “Will you allow me to ask this God to bless your well, Arianrod of the Bilmingas?”

  For one moment the woman considered whether she should consult Nechtan about the matter. Would such an action anger the Mist Gods? But she hated their druid and suspected everything he did was for himself. How many beautiful daughters had been sent to his hut at the druid’s request, by desperate parents in search of answers? It was a wonder if any warrior in the village had married a girl unsullied by their snakelike spiritual adviser. Arianrod puffed out her chest. “Very well, follower of Christ. Say your prayers.”

  Guthlac filled the pot from the well and held it aloft with both hands. His voice bellowed. “Lord of heaven and earth, in the name of Jesus I beseech You to bless this well. May it bring healing and new life to all who drink from it. Let it show those who dwell in darkness, the way to Your eternal light. Amen.” He handed the pot to Arianrod.

  The woman lowered her head, expecting to find the usual brown sludge. Instead, crystal clear water sparkled and showed her reflection. “It’s a trick.” She placed the pot down and drew more water from the well. Again the contents came up clear.

  Guthlac handed the original pot back to her and quoted from the thirty-fourth Psalm. “Taste and see that the LORD is good.”

  Arianrod lifted the pot to her chapped lips and swallowed a mouthful of water. It tasted sweet and refreshing. A second and third mouthful followed. From somewhere deep inside, a sensation of warmth and power vibrated her organs. When she lowered the pot once more, the reflection staring back had a velvety smooth face, hale and unblemished. Arianrod dropped the pot again and brushed quivering fingers across her arms. Not a single sore remained.

  Nechtan pulled aside animal skins covering the entrance to his hut. A girl in her early teens slipped out, face dark and staring at the floor. “The Mist Gods are pleased with your offering, child. Be of good cheer. Your father will soon be well.” He watched the girl trudge away. Her father would probably die, but he was of little importance in the village. His comely young daughter had sated the druid’s sensual appetites for an hour or two. Another perk of his position.

  From beyond the boundary fence of the village, a female squeal of delight arose. What was going on? Nechtan needed to remain informed of all new developments. Unforeseen events - even good ones - could be hazardous to a druid. Far better to hear every facet of a tale and work out how to claim credit and authority for himself and his gods.

  Arianrod appeared, skin like alabaster with no sign of affliction. A crowd of villagers swarmed from their huts as she spoke. “Come and see. Come and see what the follower of Christ has done.” Behind her, a man clad in animal skins strode into the village. He had a curious haircut and bald crown. The Chieftain’s wife took the pot which the monk had carried behind her. “My sickness is cured. The well water is sweet, fresh and clear. See for yourselves.” She passed around the pot. Several of the Bilmingas scooped up the liquid in their hands to try it.

  Beric emerged from his hut. Arianrod ran to kiss him. “See, husband. See what the most high God has wrought in our lives.”

  Nechtan pondered the sight. Should he confront this spiritual interloper and deny his message? The villagers’ excitement was now at fever pitch. Amid such joy, a challenge might prove counter-productive. The druid was a patient man. Better to see how things panned out, then whisper accusations and fears into the ears of the influential. Where would this Christian be when the harvest failed on their small agricultural strips? Where would he be when the marsh fever took young children in the night? The monk appeared to have suffered a touch of it
himself, from the state of his complexion. Why didn’t this supposed worker of wonders heal himself? No. Nechtan would wait and watch like a predator singling out the weakest animal in a herd. Soon the wandering follower of Christ must depart. Then, normal life would resume.

  * * *

  While Guthlac did soon leave - that same evening; he was back in the Bilmingas village the next morning with another of his kind. Nechtan skulked from hut to hut, listening outside each to strains of snatched conversations questioning their old gods; frowning at assertions it was time to embrace this new faith of love and forgiveness. He spat in the grass and slunk back to his own abode.

  In the Chieftain’s hut, Beccelm watched in awe as Guthlac led Beric and Arianrod to a confession of faith in Christ.

  An hour later, the leader emerged to announce his new spiritual allegiance to the village. Many bowed the knee at Guthlac’s invitation to follow the same path. Others would need further convincing before they abandoned the old ways.

  Nechtan lingered near the back of the crowd. If Beric continued down this road and the village followed suit, what would it mean for him? Ahead, a man named Ecgga appeared to be weighing up the Christian’s words. The druid slipped out a small blade and cut some loose fibres from the rear of the undecided fellow’s tunic. Nechtan's twinkling eyes narrowed to slits, and he edged back to his fire. A place dark powers could be summoned by those schooled in such knowledge.

  Many brought their sick to Guthlac for aid. He mixed fenland herbs and plants into salves and medicines. Each was applied or consumed in tandem with the laying on of hands and prayer by himself and Beccelm.

  A sudden, guttural roar shattered the tranquil afternoon. A crazed figure hopped into view. Ecgga jumped and staggered from person to person, writhing and shrieking obscenities. His eyes were wild and filled with terror. Several villagers tried to calm him. He ripped at their clothing, pushed them away, then tore his own robes and picked up stones to scrape the skin of his arms until they bled.

  From the doorway of a hut on the far side, a serpentine smile broke into a pursing of thin lips. On the fire behind the druid, Ecgga’s cloth burned in a poppet of herbs wrapped in a written curse. Nechtan let the door skin fall back into place, satisfied many in the village would read this outburst as an ill omen. Let the Christians come up with an answer to that, if they dared.

  Guthlac rose from where he had been rendering medical help to the sick. His face darkened.

  Beccelm appeared at his shoulder. “What is it, Brother?”

  “A demoniac.”

  The younger monk gulped. “Will you drive the demons out?”

  Guthlac made no reply. He threw back his animal skin robes and strode forward.

  In Nechtan’s hut, the fire flared and dissolved what remained of his curse to instantaneous grey ash. The druid pushed back from the surging blaze. Outside, a round of cheers filled the air. He swept the door skin open enough to peer out. Guthlac led a calm and sane Ecgga across to the man’s wife and children. Tears of joy and relief stained their cheeks as they too turned to Christ. The druid ground his teeth. So the Christians wanted a spiritual war, did they? He’d show them the full force of the dark and vengeful powers that lurked in the islands of mist.

  * * *

  AD 714.

  “Is there nothing I can get you, Brother?” Beccelm knelt beside the forty-one-year-old monk. A man he’d assisted with unswerving loyalty in the fifteen years since they came to the island of Croyland.

  Guthlac lifted his head. “Every day the Lord sends angels to minister to me. Soon I will stand in His presence. Then, all will be well.”

  “What after that?”

  Guthlac gripped his helper’s hand. “Take the boat and find my sister, Pega. Bring her here for the funeral rites. She will know what to do. I have petitioned Ecburgh for a lead coffin. The Abbess will also provide a winding sheet from Repton Abbey.”

  “Are you sorry you sent Pega away so soon after our arrival?”

  The elder monk shook his head. “She would have fussed over my diet more than you did. No. Pega needed to find a place of seclusion for her own calling. The Lord is with her.”

  “I do not wish to stay here without you, Brother. Am I wicked?”

  Guthlac patted the younger monk’s wrist. “No, Beccelm. Faithful friend and brother in Christ. The Lord has work for you elsewhere. Someone will come to take charge of our little oratory. I know it in my heart.”

  Beccelm closed his eyes. “The things we have seen in our decade-and-a-half on the island. Do you remember Æthelbald and his men in their exile from Ceolred? They found sanctuary and peace here. What do you think will happen to him?”

  “Æthelbald will become King of Mercia. The office is set before him. Or it will be, in God's good time.”

  “And what of… that night?” Beccelm’s voice faltered.

  “The night of the demon attack? Still it troubles you?”

  “Not a day goes by I don’t give thanks for our deliverance by The Almighty from those creatures. I confess I awaken in a sweat from time to time. The spreading mouths, raucous cries, fierce eyes and long, yellow necks. Such ferocity. Such hatred in their discordant bellowing.”

  Guthlac sighed. “Those beasts were banished to the outer darkness and will not return. The one who summoned them against us is long dead. Though I doubt any among the Bilmingas attend his sorry grave in mourning.” The monk broke into a fit of coughing.

  Beccelm lifted a simple but elegant chalice from the floor. “Please, Brother. Please, at least have some water from your ordination gift. Perchance God will bless its muddy contents like He did for you at the village well. I’m sure Bishop Hedda would approve.” He raised the cup to Guthlac’s lips.

  “God bless you, Beccelm.” He took a sip. His facial expression changed. “It is time. Go with God, where’er you walk. The Lord is calling me home.”

  A sweet fragrance with the odour of nectar wafted from his mouth. Guthlac lay his head back and closed his eyes. In the darkness of their shared cell, a beam of light radiated from his body and shone upward. The silence of the chamber vanished in a beautiful confusion of high-pitched voices, singing some spiritual language the remaining monk couldn’t comprehend. Each individual tone washed over the next, like a hundred unique singers each reciting a different song of praise. Yet somehow their combined melody remained harmonious and true. Beccelm gazed around the chamber in wonder. The experience made him feel small. It echoed both terrible and exquisite in the same heartbeat. When the singing ceased, Guthlac’s corpse remained surrounded by an ethereal glow. Beccelm bowed his head for one final benediction. “Requiescat in pace, Guthlac of Croyland.”

  That evening, Beccelm pushed their boat away from the rush-choked bank of the little island. He paddled through the copious inland waterways, heading southwest in search of another refuge of spiritual seclusion and the woman who dwelt there.

  Pega leaned across the prow of a sturdy wooden boat. She dangled a lantern in her hand, desperate to catch sight of her brother’s oratory through the dead mist.

  Beccelm left two rowing monks and rested beside her. “We will be there soon. Before nightfall.”

  Pega turned round and set the lantern down. “Do you have any siblings, Beccelm?”

  “No. But your older brother felt like one. A day since the heavenly host took him home, and it seems like an eternity.”

  “You did well to come to me.”

  “Guthlac spoke of a coffin and winding sheet from Ecburgh. In my grief, I forgot to mention it. Forgive me.”

  “No matter. I knew his wishes. I’ve dispatched a messenger to Repton who will speak with the Abbess. The items shall arrive soon. A few days at most. In the meantime we will attend my brother’s body in prayer.”

  When Pega descended into the cell at Croyland, she found no signs of smell or decay. Guthlac’s body still shimmered with an otherworldly glow. The entire island bore a fragrance like some heavenly ambrosia. Those accompanying monks
joined her in keeping a vigil until the day another vessel arrived.

  Pega wrapped her brother’s body in the delivered winding sheet. The monks buried his lead coffin on a mound by the oratory. Cissa, a monk appointed as Guthlac’s successor at Croyland attended the funeral. Beccelm left with Pega and the others the following day. The pair watched until the terrain of the island vanished into gloom behind them.

  Throughout the following year, Pega felt a growing desire to return. When a divine vision woke her in the middle of one night, she took a boat back to Croyland with two helpers.

  “Who’s there?” Cissa emerged from his hut at the sound of a craft drawn up among the reeds.

  “Do not be afeared, Brother Cissa. It is I, Pega.”

  The monk hurried to help them secure their vessel. “Sister Pega. What are you doing here? Is there news?”

  “Only from above. The Lord has told me to move Guthlac’s body to the chapel.”

  Cissa swallowed. “Of course. If the Lord wills it.”

  After an age of digging, the lead coffin lid emerged beneath dark, peaty earth. The monks struggled to retrieve it, but what they lacked in physical strength they compensated for by their faith. One novice slipped on the wet grass and lost hold of the casket. It slid several feet down an incline until a blackened tree stump halted the escape. A dull impact caused the coffin lid to bounce free, spilling radiant beams across the gloom.

  “Glory be.” Cissa crossed himself and sank to his knees.

  Pega reached lithe fingers into the casket to touch one of her departed brother’s shoulders. His body remained uncorrupted and shining with light.

  Cissa joined her. “The Lord has made Guthlac a saint. This is the sign.”

  Pega lifted her brother’s chalice from beside his corpse. She smiled at the novice who had let the coffin slip. “Fear not, Almund. Take this chalice and present it as a gift at the church of the Bilmingas. Tell them the Lord wills it.” She handed the cup across.

  Almund bowed and ran downhill to the boat, eager to atone for his earlier slip.