Chapter Four
Upon the Lonely Isle
SHEETS OF RAIN blew across the windswept island of Lindisfarena, bringing with them a chill from colder lands to the north.
Leofric bowed his head against the gale, drew his homespun robes close against him, and hurried up the path toward the monastery. The leather bag stuffed with driftwood thudded against his spine with each step.
If this is summer, I can’t wait till the bitter months, Leofric thought with a grimace.
This far north the wind seemed to drive into a man’s bones.
His damp robes chaffed his skin, providing little protection from the weather, and he longed for the thick fur mantle they had stripped him of upon his arrival here.
Ahead, a collection of low, wooden buildings sprawled before him. Hemmed in by the headland on three sides, it was the most sheltered spot on the island. The roof of the priory rose higher than all the others, peeking up from the center of the complex.
Despite his desire to get out of the rain, Leofric felt no relief that his destination lay a short distance ahead. He wished he could turn around and run from it—the driving rain and high tides be damned.
One long month had passed since Halwend and Godwine’s sons had hauled Leofric here and dumped him at the feet of Cuthbert.
The moon had been waxing when they rowed Leofric across from the coast, with the fires of Bebbanburg lighting the southern sky.
He had tried to escape twice on the journey from Eoforwic, so he went before the prior with a bruised eye, split lip, and trussed up like a Yuletide goose.
The moon was now waxing once more—two more nights and it would be full.
Leofric quickened his step, squinting at the pitch torches guttering at the entrance to the monastery. He was late for Night Prayers—again.
This time it was not his fault. After the usual silent evening meal of coarse bread and pottage, he had gone off to collect driftwood for the feeble hearth that burned in the hut he shared with three others.
Bad weather had closed in, and despite that it was still summer, Leofric had not wanted to spend the night shivering under his one coarse woolen blanket.
Dusk fell swiftly with the bad weather, and his wandering had taken him to the northern edge of the island, to Snook Point, where he had lost track of time.
Leofric passed under a wooden arch, his feet splashing through puddles as he made his way across the central yard toward the church. He passed low timber buildings, their windows all dark as everyone was at prayers.
Reaching the church, Leofric dumped his bag of wood, stepped into the stone entranceway, and pushed back his sodden cowl.
Underneath, his auburn hair had been cropped off close to the scalp.
He had not yet shaved off the hair at the crown of his head into a tonsure though, for he was still a postulant—the prior had not yet accepted him into the order.
The thought of taking the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience and becoming a novice here soured Leofric’s stomach. He could not bear the idea of spending the rest of his life here rotting away on this rock—yet that fate was inching ever closer.
Dripping water, Leofric squelched his way into the church, where a group of twenty men knelt in prayer upon the roughly paved floor.
He inhaled the acrid smell of burning pitch, which filled the iron cressets lining the walls.
The flames guttered and flickered in the drafts as the storm outside tried to force its way in through the cracks in the walls and shutters.
Cuthbert stood upon a raised wooden platform. Dressed in a dyed blue habit, his head dipped, he cut a solemn figure. Torchlight gleamed off his shaved crown, his hands clasped before him in prayer.
Leofric’s sandals scraped on the stone as he approached.
The sound caused the prior to glance up.
His brown eyes flashed in annoyance, his lips thinning before he cast his gaze downward once more.
Knowing that would not be the last of it, Leofric took his place at the end of the row of kneeling monks.
A slender youth with close-cropped blond hair looked Leofric’s way as he knelt down.
Deorwine gave him a pained look, but Leofric merely grinned back.
A cottar’s son who had grown up near Bebbanburgh, Deorwine had proved to be a much-needed friend during the month Leofric had lived on Lindisfarena. Unlike some of the monks who lived here, Deorwine still acted as if there was a world beyond the monastery and this lonely isle.
The stone pavers were cold and hard beneath Leofric’s knees as he knelt.
He closed his eyes. Instead of praying, he listened to the drum of rain on the roof and the sound of it lashing against the walls of the church.
Low-lying with no woodland to protect it, Lindisfarena sat very exposed to the elements.
It was a godforsaken spot, but perhaps that was why the monks had chosen it.
The wet wool of his habit started to itch his skin, making it feel as if an army of ants marched up and down his back. By the time Cuthbert straightened up and lowered his hands, Leofric was clenching his jaw in discomfort.
Silently the monks filed out of the church, heading toward the low-slung dwellings outside where they slept. Leofric made to follow them, at Deorwine’s heels, when Cuthbert’s voice—low but commanding—halted him.
“Brother Leofric—stay.”
Letting out the breath he had been holding, for he had hoped that this time he might be excused his lateness, Leofric halted. He turned to face the prior, as behind him the church emptied. Cuthbert approached him; his gait unhurried, his manner as serene as ever.
The prior was over two decades older than Leofric, although he wore his years well. He had a lean, gentle face with earnest eyes the color of rich earth. His hair and beard were thick and ash-brown, although his long, slightly hooked nose gave him a hawkish appearance.
However, his mouth revealed the most about the prior. Cuthbert’s lips were small and pursed, hinting at a character that enjoyed self-denial and austerity. Such a mouth had never reveled in sensuality of any kind, whether it was for food, mead, women—or men.
“Brother Leofric,” the prior greeted him with a shake of the head. “Late again … may I ask why?”
“I was collecting driftwood for the hearth, Father,” Leofric answered, dipping his head. “The bad weather caught me by surprise, and I lost track of the time. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”
Cuthbert let out a soft sigh. “You said the same thing two days ago, and a day before that. Please only apologize to me if you actually mean it.”
Leofric glanced up, surprised at the prior’s shrewdness; that was the closest Cuthbert had ever come to telling him off outright. Their gazes met and held for a heartbeat.
“Piety, diligence, and obedience,” Cuthbert began quietly. “These are the values all the monks here live by—only you do not share our beliefs.”
Leofric opened his mouth to excuse himself but the prior intercepted him. “I know Godwine of Eoforwic forced you to come here. I understood from your first night here that you are not made to be a monk.”
“Then send me away, Father,” Leofric said, hope rising in his chest. Maybe Cuthbert had finally come to his senses. “You speak the truth—this is not my place.”
Cuthbert’s pursed mouth compressed slightly. “I do not give you leave to go—it would only bring death upon you. The ealdorman made it clear there will be a price on your head if you ever leave Lindisfarena. Whether or not you wish it, he has condemned you to this life.”
Bitterness rose within Leofric. The walls of the small stone church closed in on him, and he struggled to breathe.
He hated this life: the meanness, dullness, and endless routine of it.
The youngest of five sons of a wealthy thegn—for his father was Godwine’s most favored retainer—he had lived a free, charmed life until the day he insulted Godwine of Eoforwic’s daughter.
Unlike his two elder sisters, who worked hard from dawn to dusk alongside his mother to run his father’s hall, Leofric’s days had been spent riding, hawking, hunting—and whoring.
As soon as he was old enough, he had enjoyed many nights in Eoforwic’s mead hall, in the company of lewd women who drank alongside the men there.
It might have been shallow, but he had loved that life and would have given anything to return to it.
Leofric’s feelings must have shown plainly on his face, for Cuthbert watched him steadily, sympathy in his dark eyes.
“Is such a fate so terrible?” he asked.
Leofric dropped his gaze, his cheeks warming under the prior’s scrutiny.
Cuthbert had an uncanny ability to make him feel unworthy—something no one had ever had the ability to do.
His father and brothers had taunted him growing up—the fate of the youngest son—but their insults had flowed off him like water off an oilskin cloak.
Cuthbert was different. He never stooped to insults or even raised his voice.
Yet with just a quietly spoken observation he made Leofric feel like a spoiled, callow youth.
“You may not realize it now,” Cuthbert continued when it became clear that Leofric had nothing to say, “but everything happens for a reason. God wanted you to come here, to learn humility and obedience.”
Leofric gritted his teeth but held his tongue.
Hang your sniveling god. He had grown up believing in Woden, Thunor, and Freya, and it had felt right to him.
Then his father—to find favor with Godwine—had forced his entire family to be baptized.
He had destroyed the stone idols of the gods that had once decorated their home and beaten his children if he caught them favoring their old beliefs.
Perhaps seeing he was getting nowhere, the prior inhaled deeply and stepped back from the younger man. “Go to your pallet now and think on what I have said. As punishment for your lateness, you will spend tomorrow morning here in church, praying with me to atone for your lack of diligence.”
Leofric tensed and glanced up, scowling at the prior. He would have preferred a beating to a morning of prayer—it bored him witless. “But I’ve got chores to do.”
“Your brothers will take care of them for tomorrow,” Cuthbert replied.
The prior then turned away, signaling that their conversation had ended.
Leofric left the church and retrieved his bag of damp driftwood, before returning to the squat timber dwelling that he shared with Deorwine and two other postulant monks.
He was in a foul mood. The thought of spending the morning on his knees chanting made him want to run out of the monastery and throw himself in the churning sea.
Worse still, Cuthbert had made his situation clear. The prior was not responsible for keeping Leofric here—Godwine of Eoforwic was. Both of them knew the truth.
It was as black as pitch inside the dwelling, and he could already hear two of his companions snoring. Life was physically grueling upon Lindisfarena; they must have fallen asleep the moment they stretched out on their sleeping pallets.
Leofric left the bag of wood near the door before moving carefully in the dark, around the edge of the one-room hut. His pallet lay under the tiny window on the far side of the dwelling, next to Deorwine’s.
Reaching his destination, he stubbed his toe on the edge of the pallet and muttered a curse under his breath.
Then he stripped off his damp habit and climbed under the coarse, itchy blanket.
Outside, the wind and rain buffeted the wooden frame of the hut, probing through the cracks like seeking, cold fingers.
“Leo …” Deorwine whispered, his voice barely audible above the roar of the storm. “Are you in trouble again with the prior?”
Leofric snorted. “Of course.”
“I don’t understand why you were late again. You know—”
“Enough,” Leofric growled. “I don’t need you preaching to me as well.”
Deorwine obeyed and fell silent. After a few moments, Leofric started to feel like a cur for snapping at him. “How do you bear it, Deorwine?” he asked finally, despair pressing down like a boulder upon his chest.
“What?” Deorwine mumbled, half asleep.
“The thought of spending the rest of your life here. Never having a woman again. Never being able to hunt, drink, and fight like other men.”
In the darkness, he could almost sense his friend’s smile. They were around the same age, but they came from vastly different worlds. Leofric knew his approach to life often amused as much as it bemused his friend.
“My village is poor,” Deorwine replied. “Life is mean and hard. Every winter brings fear of starvation or dying from the cold. My father looked like an old man at thirty winters and my mother died birthing her eighth child. Before coming here, all I had to look forward to was back-breaking toil in the fields.”
“But you’d have a woman at least.”
Deorwine gave a low laugh. “I wouldn’t want to put a wife through such a life. To get her with child and then fear she’d die birthing it, to watch her youth and fairness wither years before they should.”
Taken aback, Leofric considered his friend’s words. “Surely you’re exaggerating. The life of a cottar isn’t so bad.”
“Says the son of a rich man,” Deorwine countered, although there was no bitterness in his words.