Chapter 20 Meeting in the Scriptorium
Chapter Twenty
Meeting in the Scriptorium
OSANA STOOD AT the edge of the mourners. Hands clasped before her, she listened to the rise and fall of Bishop Wilfrid's voice. The king stood next to the bishop, his gaze upon Cuthbert’s corpse.
Osana took in the king’s profile. He looked deep in concentration.
She would never tire of looking at him. His blond hair had grown a little longer over the past couple of months, and it ruffled slightly in the sea breeze. He had turned his fur collar up against the chill, its silvery tones highlighting Aldfrith’s pale skin and dark blue eyes.
Aye, she still wanted him. It hurt to look at him, but she could not stop herself.
A hollow sensation settled in the pit of her belly.
She missed Aldfrith; each encounter with him made her feel alive.
Even a brief exchange of words with him made her feel understood.
It felt unnatural to live under the same roof as him and not spend time talking together, sharing ideas and beliefs.
Perhaps I offended him deeply that day.
She had been blunt with her opinion of his writing, but she had not meant to give offense. She had only wanted to know what he thought.
Osana dropped her gaze, closing her eyes to shut out the world for a moment.
Spring was coming; soon she would have to make a decision about her future.
Her aunt would take her in, even if she did so in ill-grace.
However, the thought of living with Hagona, her sister’s spinster sister, did not fill Osana with joy.
The only true joy she had known of late had been in Aldfrith’s arms, and that experience would not be repeated.
Bishop Wilfrid’s voice died away, bringing the burial rite to a close, and Osana opened her eyes once more. The monks lifted the bier and carried it the few feet to the open grave. Then, using ropes, they lowered the prior’s body into the ground.
A few of them were weeping, the muffled sound of sobs blending with the sigh of the wind. The shroud of grief lay so heavy upon the mourners that Osana could almost taste it.
Once Cuthbert’s body had been settled in the grave, the monks placed a layer of fresh rushes over him, before shoveling a few feet of dirt on top. Then, they started to lay rocks. Aldfrith and his men helped at this stage, before the blond monk stepped forward and placed a wooden crucifix on top.
The crowd drew back, leaving the lonely cairn of stones upon the windswept slope. It was done: Cuthbert of Lindisfarena, the holiest man who had ever lived in this corner of the world, was buried.
Bishop Wilfrid strode back to the priory, bringing Oswald and a flock of other mourners with him. The tide had now come in, and they would not be returning to the mainland until much later in the day. The bishop and the mourners would pray for Cuthbert’s soul.
Aldfrith went with them. He did not glance Osana’s way; it was as if she were invisible.
A handful of monks remained outside and took those who had not followed the bishop on a tour of the island and the monastery. “You’re welcome to explore our home,” one of the monks told the group that Osana now stood at the back of. “No doors are closed to you on this day.”
The monks led them into the monastery and began the tour at enclosures where goats lay chewing the cud and fowl pecked for grain in the dirt. They then led them to gardens, protected from the elements by high stone walls, where rows of neatly tended cabbages, kale, onions, and turnips grew.
The monks started to explain their growing practices at length, and after a while, Osana wandered off. She felt the need to be alone now, to discover Lindisfarena at her own pace.
She walked through the deserted complex: past a network of low-slung thatched dormitories where the monks presumably slept, between a scattering of storage huts, and out through a narrow gate at the highest point of the promontory.
Standing upon the edge, Osana’s gaze traveled south to where Bebbanburg’s bulk shadowed the sky, smoke from the cookfires rising high.
On the rocks below her, she spied a cluster of puffins.
A smile curved her lips as she admired their fat bodies, large red feet, and waddling gait. They looked like such happy birds.
The wind gusted here, and so Osana did not linger. Wrapping her fur cloak about her, she turned and re-entered the monastery, circuiting round to the largest buildings in the heart of it.
She entered a large feasting hall, which was empty at this time of day, although the sulfurous odor of cooking cabbage, onion, and turnip drifted in from where a pottage was most likely simmering over the fire. It would be a simple noon meal, even today.
Osana wandered out of the feasting hall and crossed the courtyard, stopping before a heavy wooden door. An annex came off the side of the church, and she wondered what lay inside.
The monk had said no doors were closed to them today; yet even so, Osana hesitated. She did not want to intrude. However, curiosity got the better of her, and she pushed the door open and went inside.
Closing the door gently behind her, she entered a long, windowless chamber illuminated by a row of cressets burning along the stone and mud wall. The air smelled of pitch and something else—a scent that Osana did not recognize.
Below the row of cressets ran a long bench with many low stools under it. And there, spread out like the wings of multi-colored butterflies, were sheets of the most beautiful illustrations Osana had ever seen.
She realized then that she had stumbled upon the monastery’s scriptorium.
Her breath hitched as she moved forward to the end nearest and took a closer look. She had admired Aldfrith’s flowing handwriting, and had marveled at the book he had shown her, but the illustrations here made that volume look crudely drawn.
Osana could not believe that a man had crafted these: the colors were even deeper than in nature, the calligraphy exquisite.
She recognized a few of the letters, for she had not forgotten her one lesson with Aldfrith.
She had practiced writing her name in the dirt in the orchard outside the Great Tower when she was alone.
It frustrated her that she could not read the stories upon these sheets of vellum.
She recognized a few of the illustrations, for she knew the story of Christ’s birth, life, death, and resurrection. Yet some of the drawings mystified her.
Captivated, Osana slowly moved down the bench, drinking the pages in. She was so enraptured that she did not hear the gentle swish of the door opening behind her. It was the draft on the back of her neck that made her glance over her shoulder.
Aldfrith stood in the doorway.
Slowly, he closed the door behind him. “The scriptorium is a private place, Osana,” he greeted her. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Apologies, sire,” she replied. “The monk giving us the tour said we could go where we wished. I didn’t know this room was forbidden.”
“The items in here are precious … irreplaceable.”
“I know.” She glanced back at the page she had just been studying.
It showed a man, swathed in wine-red robes, sitting upon a stool with a blue cushion.
A halo around his head marked him as a saint, and a golden-winged lion leaped over him.
“I’ve never seen the like. How do they produce such colors? ”
“Minerals and vegetable extracts, I believe.”
He moved across the room toward her, stopping at her side. “That’s the evangelist, Mark. He was represented as a lion, symbolizing the Resurrection of Christ.”
“He almost looks alive,” Osana breathed. She resisted the urge to reach out and trace the picture with her fingertip. “How does one learn to draw like this?”
“The monks here dedicate their life to it … and many will go to their grave still learning the craft.”
Osana was suddenly aware of how close he was standing next to her.
She could feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of leather, and the warm spice of his skin.
Osana’s breathing constricted. She wanted to drown in that scent.
Tamping down her reaction to him, for it could lead nowhere good, she glanced up, meeting Aldfrith’s eye.
“I was rude to you a moment ago,” he said, his expression achingly serious. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize.” Osana forced a brightness into her tone she did not feel. “I should have asked before entering the scriptorium. I’ve always been too curious. My father once told me it was an ill-trait in a woman.”
Aldfrith smiled then, an expression that lit up the dim space. “He was wrong … it’s a sign of a sharp mind. A good thing in a woman.”
Osana huffed. “My husband would have disagreed with you there. He said I’d have been happier if I’d been born dull-witted.”
“Well, he was wrong too.” Their gazes held, and Aldfrith’s smile faded. “It’s a long while since we last spoke.”
Osana heaved in a deep breath, summoning her courage. “Did I do something to offend you, sire?” She knew the question was bold, but they never had the chance to speak privately, and she would get few opportunities to get the truth out of him.
“You did nothing wrong,” he replied. “I’ve kept my distance for my own reasons. My hall is full of sharp eyes, flapping ears, and wagging tongues. I wanted to protect you.”
Osana arched an eyebrow. “Really? Was it me you were trying to protect … or yourself? You don’t seem the type to care what other people think.”
His mouth curved into a wry smile, although there was no humor in his eyes. “You see through me, Osana. You’ve always been able to do that.”
Flustered, she looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Aye, you do … you don’t let me lie to you. When I talk to you, I feel things I’d rather not. Life is easier without you. I can immerse myself in my writing, my philosophy … in the role of king. But you shatter my shield.”
Osana’s head jerked up, her belly clenching. “Then I should go … I should leave Bebbanburg.”
Aldfrith stepped closer and raised his hand, lightly tracing his fingers down her cheek.
His touch made her legs tremble. It suddenly felt airless inside the scriptorium.
His gaze ensnared hers; she literally could not look away.
A shadow moved in his eyes, revealing the war raging within him.
“Aye … I think that would be best,” he murmured.