Chapter Twenty One
In the dead of winter, a king
came to Fara. The first Cai knew of it, he was standing in Cai’s
study, a puzzled frown quirking his fair brows. Cai rubbed his
eyes. He glanced down at the Gospel of Science spread out upon his desk. The candles had
burned low. A sudden dark had come down.
Mortification touched Cai. He hadn’t
seen the change from afternoon to twilight. Fen was standing by his
chair, a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. Cai had been preparing
his brethren’s lesson for that night. He’d fallen fast asleep over
a treatise on how rainbows came out of white light. “Fen…I’m
sorry.”
“You need your rest. This
is King Ecgbert of Bernicia, who’s come a great distance to see
you. Your Majesty, this is Abbot Caius of Fara.”
Perhaps Cai was dreaming. He could see
prisms and bands of coloured light in water still. Fen’s quiet
courtesy was perfect, all the more so for the uncompromising fire
that lay beneath it, but Cai couldn’t get used to his own title.
And other than a dream, there was no explanation for the
golden-haired vision in front of him. He took the best breath he
could and stood up. Fen knew better than to aid him unless he
asked, but his warmth was at Cai’s shoulder, a kind of exterior
strength held in trust. He rested his hands on the desk. “I’m
honoured by your visit, sire. And at a great loss to account for
it. But please, sit by the fire. Have you been offered food and
drink?”
“Your assistant has asked
for hot mead to be brought. Will you come and sit also? I wish to
speak to you.”
Cai could make the walk from his
desk to the circle of chairs round the fire. The room wasn’t large,
nothing like Fara’s old scriptorium, and different in its function.
Cai called it his study, but all were welcome here. It was a kind
of roundhouse, built in half-Celtic, half-Dane Lands style. A fire
burned in the centre, and Cai taught his brethren and the villagers
in the nimbus of its comfortable warmth. It had risen in the space
of a week, to the sound of conflicting Saxon and
vikingr
work
songs.
The king had taken a seat, his coronet
glimmering, blue and scarlet garments exotic in the firelight. Cai
settled near to him, careful not to wince, smiling at Fen to come
and sit at his side.
“I had thought to have
audience with you alone, Abbot Caius.”
Cai shrugged. The assumptions of
men—even kings—were so much dust to him now, cobwebs in the wind.
“This is Fenrisulfr. You may speak as freely before him as to
myself.”
Ecgbert raised one eyebrow. “He is
Alexander too?”
Yes, except that this
Hephaistion could never have been spared to rule in Asia on his
own. Cai
remembered Theo’s stories, and how the younger monks would weep at
the tales of their separation.
Fen came and sat, his face composed,
eyes glimmering with amusement. Ecgbert looked them over, plainly
trying to work them out. Fen was in his cassock—every inch a monk,
and yet somehow every inch a splendid Viking too.
“He is my friend and
companion—my most valued helpmeet. Now, tell me what has brought a
king to this lonely place.”
“I have been here once
before, you know.”
“Yes. I
remember.”
“I was on board ship, and I
saw you—you and your companion—on the shore.”
“You came to fetch Addy.
Forgive me—Aedar of Fara.”
“Yes. And it’s news of
Aedar that brings me back now.” The young king spread his palms and
looked into them as if searching for words. “This is difficult. He
spoke very often of you, especially when he was… I know he was your
friend.”
Fen leaned forwards. “I will tell, if
it is better.”
“Yes, then. If you
would.”
Fen reached for Cai’s hand. Cai
returned his grasp on instinct, as if they had been alone. Many
fireside hours had passed for Cai thus, hours when the feel of
drowning inside his own lungs had put him past thought or speech,
and that grip had been a lifeline. “What’s happened,
Fen?”
“Addy’s dead,” Fen said
simply. He laced his fingers through Cai’s. “He was a good bishop,
but his heart was here. And when he knew his days were drawing to a
close, he asked King Ecgbert to bring his remains back to
Fara.”
“Fara? To his island,
or...”
“No. To Fara monastery. He
asked that his body be placed in your keeping.”
Cai gazed into the fire. “When did he
die?”
But here even Fen faltered. “It was
four weeks ago,” Ecgbert supplied. “He was well cared for and
peaceful to the end.”
“But that can’t be. I saw…” Cai
trailed off. Reluctantly he let go of Fen’s hand, and the two sat
in silence, gaze locked on gaze. What had they seen? Cai had fallen sick that night,
worn out by his long ride, and Addy and Danan had flickered through
his fever dreams until memory had merged with delirium. “Did you do
it? Did you bring his body here?”
“Yes, just as he asked. His
casket is on his funeral bier, under supervision by my personal
guard. I have come to ask permission to place him in the crypt of
your church.”
“Granted. Granted, of course. I
will come and see it’s done at once.” Cai ran his hands over his
hair. He had met old Addy only twice, but still a bitter grief
knifed through him. You said we would meet one more time. The world is darker
for your death. “This land is unsettled and dangerous, Your Majesty. I have
never known a king come so far on such a mission, even for one of
his bishops. Why?”
Ecgbert sighed. He looked as if he
would have liked to pull off his gold coronet and scratch in
bewilderment. “This too is hard for me. I’m a man of Christian
faith, but I have also striven to educate myself. And yet now I
have seen things that…” He shook his head. “Yes, I am rational. But
Aedar’s body hasn’t decomposed. He lay in state for three days in
Hexham crypt, and we have taken two weeks on our journey here. I
travelled with his casket because I had to see for myself. But it
is true.”
The scientist in Cai awoke. He too had
seen things that had challenged his bright, plain view of the
world, part of his inheritance from Broc. But dead men soon faded,
reaching out to meet the earth halfway. “I’m a physician,” he said.
“Tell me—was the crypt in Hexham cold? You’ve had a cold journey of
it up here, I know.”
“Aye, we have. But this is
different, Abbot. He looks as if he’s sleeping.”
“Was there rigor
mortis?”
“His attending doctors
argued over that. If so, it was quick, and now…”
Cai gestured him impatiently to
silence. King or no king, if some idiotic, beautiful mistake had
been made… “These attending doctors did make quite sure he was
dead?”
“There’s no breath, no
pulse.”
“I will come and see. There
may be a catalepsy or some hypothermic state. All men rot, Your
Majesty.”
He set off well enough. Pain and hope
were sparking in his blood, a stimulating mix. He knew he should
have paused at the door, let Ecgbert precede him, but to hell with
that—he marched out into the dark and made it halfway down the hill
to the torchlit church before the breath scraped in his lungs. Fen
was there instantly. Oh, not a second too soon—catching him,
restraining the stumble that would have dropped him to his knees.
Speaking to him gently, too low for Ecgbert to hear. “Cai, slow
down.”
“I have to get
there.”
“Will you let me help you,
then?”
“Yes, love. Thank you.
Just…please don’t let him see.”
It was too late—Ecgbert had caught up
with them. He looked them over with the pity Cai had struggled so
hard to avoid. With Fen’s aid, he had managed—kept his faintness
and battles for air out of sight of his brethren, a feat that grew
harder every day, his determination hardening with it.
“I fear you don’t have your
health, Abbot Cai.”
“It’s nothing. A pleurisy.”
He moved on, Fen’s arm around him. Fen had learned an unobtrusive
hold that kept him on his feet. He had promised to use it until Cai
told him to stop, until his failing body took the choice from him.
He kept it in place until they were on the frosty path to the
church, and then let him go so he could make the final stretch on
his own.
Cai was glad of it. News of the
arrival had spread, and brought not only as many of the brethren as
could be spared from their tasks down to see, but half the
population of the villages as well. Quite a crowd was shifting
about, the flames of the cressets lighting up faces of wonder,
cynicism, blank incomprehension. As Cai approached, all turned to
him, the cluster of bodies parting. Did they think he had answers
for them? Well, perhaps he did. Ecgbert was a man of faith, but it
was not the same faith as Cai’s. Perhaps only the pure faith of a
Saxon king could keep dead flesh incorruptible. What would happen
when a man who had read Theo’s Gospel of Science looked inside?
The bier had been lifted from its cart
and carried inside the church. Around it, the king’s honour guard
stood at attention. They were clad in royal livery and well-enough
armed to deter any attention their rich attire brought down, but
they too had had a long trek through the dark. They were looking
disdainfully at the farmers, women and children milling about in
what once had been—as it should be still, Cai knew, by
ecclesiastical law—an enclave of holy men.
Hunger and cold did nothing to ease
relations. Cai smiled and nodded at Hengist, who had been doing his
best to bring some order to the crowd. He stopped in the doorway
and clapped his hands. “Gentlemen,” he said into the ensuing
silence, looking at the guards. “These people are my friends and my
brethren, and much excited by the news you bring. Show patience to
them. You must be in need of food and drink. Has
anyone—”
“I have.” Hengist stepped
forwards, flushed with eagerness. He had a real kitchen
again—another work of Celtic and vikingr hands—and could barely contain his desire
to refresh the royal visitors. “Mead and hot flatbreads. Gareth and
Eyulf are fetching them now, and our evening broth is ready at your
command.”
“My command…” Cai shook his