The Purple Thread: Eighth-Century Saxon Missions In Europe - John Broughton

Historical Fiction Set In 8th Century Europe

The Purple Thread: Eighth-Century Saxon Missions In Europe by John Broughton

Book Excerpt

June, 736 AD

Bewildered, Begiloc sought Father Robyn. Two days Caena and he had waited for a summons from the abbess. Did she not wish to know the outcome of their assignment to Neustria? In church, he found the priest standing beside a wooden statue of the Virgin in the nave.

“Ah, Begiloc, well met. I can’t decide whether Our Lady should stand to the right of the altar or in the corner on the left for offerings and prayer.”

The statue, a finely sculpted and painted donation of a nobleman from a nearby farmstead, wore a golden crown and blue mantle. Father Robyn, to the accompaniment of noncommittal shrugs from the Briton, opted to place the dazzling figure by the altar. The honed muscles of Begiloc aided the clergyman to lift the statue in position. Stepping down to the nave, they surveyed their handiwork. The priest made the sign of the cross and instructed his helper, “Repeat after me: ‘Ave Maria, gratia plena’ …”

The Hail Mary over, Father Robyn genuflected, and rising said, “I’m not sure whether you are troubled or impatient, Briton.”

“Father, why does our Abbess not send for us? Odd, she always summons us at once, but this time after two days—”

“Can you think of no reason why this should be?”

A hint of accusation in the voice? Begiloc scrutinised the priest’s face.

“Why, what did I do?”

“Examine your heart, my son – nothing to confess?”

Plenty weighed him down but was locked inside without hope of release.

“Nothing.”

The word rang false and Father Robyn smoothed back his red hair in a gesture of exasperation.

“As you will. I shall speak to Abbess Leoba.”

Aware of the hardness in the eyes of the man whom he considered a friend, he mumbled half-hearted thanks and left the church.

Within an hour, the priest ushered Caena and Begiloc into the presence of the Mother Superior. The abbess greeted the Saxon with a warm smile, but ignored the Briton. While she listened outraged at the news of Meryn, he worried about her anger with him. Her cousin Boniface, she told them, was at present in communication with the Holy See on the matter of the Bishop of Rems and his crimes. Given her mood, he decided to give her no inkling of his desire for revenge.

The abbess passed on to what they had learned about Aldebert. News of the so-called letter from Jesus drew nothing other than a sneer and an exchange of glances between her and the priest, but she questioned them about Aldebert’s prayer, about the invocation of angels. Could they not recall even one name? She tapped her foot and clenched her delicate fists. Well, there was Michael of course, but that name failed to impress her “… between the two of them …?” To his surprise Caena said, “Ay, one was Simiel, it reminded me of the bloo—, erm … beggin’ your pardon, My Lady … the castrator, Shmuel; and for the same reason Uriel, but otherwise …” He shook his head.

Begiloc said, “Tub-something.”

“Tubuel?” she asked, eagerness evident.

“Ay, that’s it.”

“Demons! Others you say but you can’t recall the names?”

“At least another two or three,” his comrade said, “but the man spoke so fast …”

The abbess bestowed her loveliest smile on the Saxon.

“You have done well, Caena, quite sufficient for my letter to the archbishop. I am most pleased with you. You may go.”

They turned to leave.

“Not you, Begiloc. Stay!”

The eyes of the Briton met those of the Saxon reflecting his own bemusement. His gaze shifted to Father Robyn, but found him inscrutable.

Caena bowed and left.

“What does she want of me? Not going to send me away again?”

“You will excuse me.” Leoba passed through a door to a vestibule. Begiloc turned to the clergyman but the priest frowned and stared at the floor. The abbess returned wearing a mitre, cope and carrying her staff of office. The effect was startling. Her hard stare made his heart sink, for this woman, whose regalia so intimidated him, read it like one of her volumes.

“As our Church father Jerome wrote: ‘A woman’s reputation is a tender plant; it is like a fair flower which withers at the slightest blast and fades away at the first breath of wind.’ Do you know why I tell you this?”

In a grave error of judgement, he shook and lowered his head. This feeble reply did not anticipate the ferocity of Leoba’s response. Lifting her staff, she drove it down on the stone floor.

“Fornicator! On your knees!”

He knelt at once.

“She knows about Aedre!”

Unable to meet her glare, he lowered his chin to his chest.

“Aedre has confessed her sins and repented. The Church has embraced her, enabling her to take her vows; instead, you betrayed your wedding oath taken before God, your wife, the trust of your abbess and show no sign—”

“I did not mean—”

“Silence! You will hear me out. Impropriety of this nature, were it to become common knowledge, would ruin the reputation of our community. The lay support upon which we depend for our life of monastic devotion would fle.” Her voice was blade sharp. “Important as it is, this is not my main concern. Most of all, I fear for your eternal wellbeing. When the chance came, you hardened your heart and failed to confess to Father Robyn.” She pointed at him,. “A wise man would not consider the beauty of the body, but of the soul. Turn your wanton gaze from Aedre, lest you conceive evil in your breast. She is to be a bride of Christ and love of her must exclude you from that of the Father.”

“Ay, but—”

The staff slammed down again, “No “buts …”

Under a half-raised brow, he peered at her. The stern beauty below the mitre overawed him so he bowed his head once more.

“Are you willing to do penance for your sins? Look at me!”

His gaze followed the rod of office upwards and moved to fix her hazel eyes. This time, he met them without flinching, ready to accept the punishment he deserved.

“That’s better. Confess to Father Robyn and remove the weight from your heart. From Prime for one hour every day until I decide otherwise, you will stand in front of the church with your arms raised level to the ground. In that position, you will reflect on the suffering of Our Lord on the Cross. Your sin is part of His dolour. Lower them during that time and you will repeat the penance for one hour before Vespers. Do you understand?”

He found the strength to say, “May God forgive me.”

In strong contrast to her formal attire Leoba smiled.

“Ay, Begiloc, He will. As a loving Father, when we give our hearts to Him, He fills them with joy. Beware, repentance must be sincere.”

With that, she turned and disappeared into the vestibule.

At dawn, a novice came to the lay dorter to fetch him. The bell chimed for Prime as they walked along the south wall of the church, where they positioned themselves under the sundial set high, carved out of a square block of stone, contained within a double circle. At the centre, in the style hole, a wooden peg cast a shadow in a weak but lengthy line along the first of the canonical hours to mark Prime.

The novice gestured and Begiloc raised his arms level with the ground. The postulant sat with his back against the wall and drew up his knees while a procession of monks filed past on their way from the dormitory to the service. They did not stare but kept their heads bowed, hands clasped in front of them. Soon afterwards the same happened as the nuns glided beyond him. Among them, he glimpsed Aedre, who did not raise her head either.

Grateful for their humbleness, Begiloc concentrated on his own humility. He felt better having confessed to Father Robyn. Absolution through penance granted, he still felt guilt for his betrayal – especially of Somerhild, but the priest warned failure to forgive himself was the sin of pride.

‘If I suffer enough in atonement might I absolve myself?’

At first, easy to keep his arms raised but as time passed the aching began. The shadow on the sundial crept but remained far from the next line.

Jesus hanging on the Cross: the Lord had a crown of thorns, his hands and feet transfixed by nails and a wound in his side. What was his suffering compared to that? This thought did not stop beads of sweat forming on his brow and the fire in his shoulder muscles. Resentment prickled at him but he remembered the priest’s warning: ‘The human heart is often selfish, resentful, cold and restless. Recognise the counterforce working against you, your spiritual adversary, the devil, if you want to make progress as a believer in Christ.’

The diabolical in him had brought him to this need to purge his soul.

The monks trooped out of the church followed by the nuns. Once again nobody looked his way.

‘Is it pride that makes me thankful? Is sinning second nature to me? What did Leoba say? Aedre confessed her sins and repented. She will take vows. Not the woman I know. Did she have a choice? Is it a sin to think? What I’d give to be in Wimborne where life is less complicated.’

The shadow had run three-quarters of its course when he glanced at the dial. Could he resist? The burning in his arms and shoulders, the stiffness in his neck told him not. Teeth gritted, he baulked at the notion of coming here before Vespers. How to distract himself? In addition to his feelings of unworthiness, everyday thoughts invaded his attempt at praying for Somerhild and Ealric.

‘Sure, God has no time to heed a sinner like me.’

The voice of the devil? The voice of experience? Insidious, it insisted he had lost his parents, his family and his friend blinded.

‘Why believe these priests and nuns? Aren’t they the cause of my suffering? Or are these the murmurings of a demon? Where’s the voice of God in all this? Why can I never hear it?’

This skirmish in his mind brought him no closer to a resolution but served a purpose. To his surprise, the novice called, “Time’s up! You may lower your arms.” The shadow ran straight along the next line of the dial. An hour had passed. Aching, he rolled his shoulders and turned his head. When he looked up, the young man was heading to the nuns’ quarters. The novice was to report to the abbess – no surprise. After a while he strolled back.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said before ambling away. Begiloc grinned in relief. Each day would be easier and he would never have to stand like that before Vespers, but for how many days?

The question was answered on the third morning when Father Robyn came out to speak with him after Prime, perhaps halfway through his penance.

Glaring at the novice scrambling to his feet, the priest directed his gaze at the penitent.

“Our Lord endured terrible pain on the Cross.”

“Ay, that much I’ve learned.”

“Have you acquired humility, my son?”

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, but I’m still full of doubts and short of faith.”

The cleric smiled. “Then our Lady Abbess is right to send you to Rome—”

“Rome?”

‘Rome! Rome, he says the word like it was second turn left down the cart track.’

Father Robyn’s smile widened. “Ay, you and your band of Saxons. You’ll escort Denehard and a couple of monks there on Church business—”

“I must go to Rems—”

“Careful, Begiloc: penitence implies obedience!”

The eyes of the priest were ablaze with challenge. He met and held them, but there the clergyman read acceptance – or hopelessness. Unsure which, he continued, “The abbess says your penance is to last until Denehard arrives, so pray he makes good speed. I believe he set off three days ago. Würzburg is two score and three leagues away, so my guess is another two and you will be released from—”

“Father, about Rems. It can’t be right that the swine who passes for a man of God gets away with blinding my friend. I swore an oath to Meryn … and she …she …” No explanation was needed for who she was. “… can’t have any of the feelings, passions, yearnings of mere mortals like us! So she is punishing me for my trespasses, but who decides what is sin? Who reigns over that! Is it God or her? I’m thinking it is Abbess Leoba chastising me for an act she—”

In time to prevent blasphemy, he stopped short but he was enraged, indignant, besides himself at the thought of the pain tormenting poor Meryn.”

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: John Broughton

BOOK TITLE: The Purple Thread: Eighth-Century Saxon Missions In Europe

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: Medieval Historical Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 349