The Church and the Devils 7

Aethelsunne was exhilarated. So much had been done! His achievement burned in his mind and he could not help smiling broadly in the dark of Aelfleda’s hut. He squirmed around beneath his cloak with an excess of excitement. His throat was sore but his voice had gathered so much!
“Can you tell me if you were stirring at all on the night or morning that Andred was slain?”
They would shake their heads – they all shook their heads, except for Godric and Stanmode, and they would pause. Then he would look over to Father Owain standing by the fire and look again at the face in front of him.
“Do you know of anyone who was up and moving around at that time?”
This was the question that had provoked more expressions. They had all looked at him with concern, and pinched their lips together. A few leaned forward, looked left and right and whispered. At these moments he had felt a thrill, but in the end nothing new had come of it. Still, people were willing to speak. More could be learned in the future through ways like these. All he had learned on each occasion was that – they thought – Godric and Stanmode had been about that morning. Though of course they didn’t believe that either of them had anything to do with… what had happened. Godric and Stanmode had been calm. They admitted without a moment’s hesitation that they had risen that morning before light to go to the city. They named each other in answer to the second question and shrugged.
Now and again Aethelsunne had felt tempted to ask further questions of the faces in front of him. But no matter what he asked he seemed to get no further forward. What he had learned, though, satisfied him. He knew now what the village believed and, excitingly, that they believed him, that it was a man who had killed Andred. He knew Upheahric’s belief had helped the rest of them come to their decision, but that did not make it any the less sweet to know. Even Father Owain, with a little resigned sigh, had admitted that it was likely that he was right after the last villager had gone. He added, a little to Aethelsunne’s annoyance, that perhaps he should have spoken to the women and the slaves. But Aethelsunne laughed. Aelfleda, Leofa, Erderinca, the other women, the slaves with their puny arms, how could they have killed Andred in that vicious way?
“So, Father,” he said at last. “There were four people awake early enough to have done this. Four people that we know of. Godric, Stanmode, me and you, Father. I think we may be sure that we are looking for a liar in the village now.”
“Perhaps it is so, my son,” said Father Owain without smiling.
After this, Aethelsunne called an unfree man to douse the flames in the hall. The priest bid him farewell outside.
“Tomorrow I shall pray over what remains of Andred’s bones. Will you come with me, my son?”
Aethelsunne, full of delight at what he had done, had agreed without listening. “Of course, Father.”
Now, lying on his bed and hearing Aelfleda’s soft breathing, he lay still at last. Only one thing still slightly troubled him, something about Swefrith… well, it could wait. He had worked hard on the church and sat a long time in the hall. It was time to sleep. Tomorrow, Andred would be laid fully to rest. That would be a noble thing at last…

The cemetery, like fear of the city, had been one of the things that Ediscum shared with Edricsham. Aelfleda had not been there for a long time – she felt that she had been there enough times when she was younger – and it was some way down the river. Parts of it long grass ys despite the cropping teeth of sheep. Under that grass were the older graves, from the old times. The sharp angles that had formed the edges of the mounds raised on every fifth burial or so had softened and the stones that lay on other graves were wrapped round with strong green stems. In the ground, the weapons that lay alongside her father and mother would have dulled.
If we spend any more days doing so little work around the village, she thought to herself, we will all be hungrier than ever when summer comes. She had only managed half a morning’s spinning outside the everyday making of food and scrubbing clothes. She paused on the edge of the grave field while Andred’s funeral procession, led by Father Owain, made its way between the low humps in the grass and the dull-eyed stares of the newly-sheared sheep. Streamas had dug a shallow pit for the painted pot holding the bones he had picked from the remains of Andred’s hut. Father Owain would say some prayers and the people of Ediscum would watch each other under half-closed eyelids to see if someone would make a move that would reveal who had killed Andred.
Aelfleda grinned broadly as Father Owain bowed his head and Streamas and Upheahric lowered the pinched clay pot, which had already cracked, into the pit. She wondered if Andred’s spirit, watching as it must be, would find it as funny as she did. She thought that he wouldn’t, and as she put her hand modestly over the rough skin around her mouth she realised that only she could laugh about the fact that in these times a man could live in one faith and be buried in two. Though the words had passed no man’s lips, the burning of Andred’s hut had clearly been a burial in the old manner. A warrior’s body had to end in flames. The burning was a death made to calm the old gods. Father Owain’s burying of him was for the new God. At the grave, the priest raised his head and the villagers stopped looking at each other. Streamas poured in the earth with his twine-like arms.
It didn’t matter to Aelfleda which gods were calmed now, or what happened in Ediscum. Aethelsunne was beginning to run around like the child he had been. Father Owain wandered between the huts looking stern, and Swefrith and Upheahric jumped at every sound. Only Godric kept his eyes firmly on his goal. She admired his strength of body now, and she liked the way he worked on the church even though the evil in the village grew worse. She did not expect him to succeed, but he was still true to the vision he had had. Only in his round features could she see belief of the kind the she had felt up to now.
She sighed. Still, she would not give herself to him. Not yet, anyway. She had been married to a smith once before.
When would Father Owain stop? He was praying again as Stanmode patted the brown earth down. She could hear his voice grow emotional. Erderinca still would not let him near her, and still scrabbled her feet against the floor of the hut when anyone said his name. This had helped Aelfleda lose her faith in him. It was the first time she had seen him fail to awe or make happy the object of his attention. And she noticed that he avoided them both, her and Erderinca. He was keeping his faith from them, as though afraid of defeat. At least Godric would not do that. Perhaps when Aethelsunne’s excited questioning had caught someone for Andred’s murder she might think differently, but she had no faith in that either.
They were beginning to file back across the cropped grass, back between the sheep and past the rotting sticks that were all that remained of the old temple on the edge of the cemetery. She remembered a little of when it had been in use, with images of Tiw, Woden, Rheda and the others made of stone and brightly painted by Swefrith’s ancestors. They had stood by the walls and inside it had always smelt of hot animal fat and the sweat of priestly elders. Thin wisps of smoke had always from under its eaves. All that was a long time ago and she remembered it as much bigger, but at that moment the building was almost hidden by Upheahric and Father Owain in their sombre robes. The sight of the old temple reminded her that Andred was buried with his ancestors. Perhaps Father Owain had failed after all. He could not change the burial ground that the village had used for generations, so after this Christian indignity Andred could meet the ancestors to whom he had been faithful.
But now she could see again the rotting sticks with the green shoots thrusting up between them. The new smile that had come to her face fell away. When Father Owain had come to the village he had ended the joint worship of the old gods and the new. The old stone images in the temple had been smashed and thrown in the river, their power broken. Perhaps Andred would be trapped inside the pinched clay pot until some gloomy doomsday, peering out through narrow cracks at the world that the new God had so jealously denied him.
The monks with shaven heads carrying the king’s sign and the warriors they had brought with them had patiently shown them all how to duck their heads in the river at the Lord’s bidding. Most people were baptised, but for a while everyone still knelt before Woden, Rheda and Tiw, and then prayed to Christ. The first priest, who died soon afterwards, shook his head but said nothing. Between his death and Father Owain’s arrival, uphearic and Andred had led everyone in confused prayers that made the priest furious when he heard them.
After that, he and Standmode’s father had struggled against a damp wind to set light to the temple. The bodies of the sacrificed animals had been brought out and fed to the villagers as a sign of God’s plenty. Aelfleda remembered her mother explaining that all this meant that they would be saved. Andred had not said a word. He still seemed happy to say his prayers to his gods at Easter-time alongside men saying others to their new one. Later, she grew up and learned that his prayers had become evil.
Now the villagers were passing close by her. The spring sun shone on them, but she saw only pale faces and pursed lips. She put her hand to her mouth again, but Father Owain passed her by without seeing her. Aethelsunne looked up questioningly, but he too passed on, seeming to promise to ask more questions later. Aelfleda began to move a foot softly in the thicker grass at the edge of the worn path back to the village, looking for a gap in the line of gloomy villagers she could get into. But before she could step forward, not far from where Godric walked, she saw Leofa beckoning to her with a long face – and redness round the eyes?
What has Aethelsunne done? she thought unkindly. Or is she still weeping about that old fool with his two burials? She was no longer surprised by her bursts of unkindness. It was as though she had used up her stocks of charity and patience on Erderinca and Aethelsunne. Like a village that had not put aside enough grain over summer she would have to make do with what remained until the harvest.
But she stepped alongside Leofa without laughing at her. The girl’s nails dug sharp and ragged into her wrist as though fearing to be dragged off. Aelfleda did not pull her hand away.

Leofa was still weeping. Aelfleda had had a look in her eyes that she did not understand.
“Should I tell them? Aethelsunne or Father Owain?”
And what had Aelfleda said? “My brother was up before light as well on the morning of Andred’s death.”
“Yes, but he had a reason didn’t he? He was to meet Father Owain wasn’t he? Swefrith had no cause to be up at that hour.”
“Just because there was one reason doesn’t mean that there wasn’t another.”
“How can you say that about him? Your brother –“
“Swefrith is you brother, Leofa. Your closest kin.”
“But Aelfleda, don’t you think it’s different?”
“You must do what you think is right.”
Aelfleda had left her. She was weeping, but she knew what she was going to do. It was a new feeling. Late afternoon saw the sun coming down from his height, coming close to the bird-heavy trees, and Leofa looking at the grass that Aelfleda had walked on rising up again, trembling.

Aethelsunne did not know what was to be done. The last day and a half had flowed beneath him and now he was stopped like an arrow that had found its mark. Before this he had been working towards the conclusion of his mystery through questions and when it was over Father Owain would thank him gravely for doing the Lord’s work. In the mean time there was order, to which he had contributed. Andred had been laid to rest with God’s blessing and the work on the church had gone on quickly.
Then Leofa had come to him and told him what she knew. His heart had become confused and his clear head clouded. And now he was going to find Swefrith with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“…I was wounded with sharp points…”
“What are you saying, Godric? Work’s still waiting.” Stanmode’s face was angry. “Your poems are too heathen.”
Godric closed his mouth quickly. Since he and Stanmode had resolved to give young Aethelsunne the same answers to his questions, there had been a friendly understanding between them. Each had known that the other had been awake before dawn because they had met at dawn to go to the city. Each of them was important for the building of the church, and so they had resolved on a pact. Whatever one of them said, the other would agree with. They had also sworn to tell no lies. Their oaths would protect each other from Aethelsunne’s questions and allow them to get on with their important work in peace, but none of this would stop future troubles. He straightened his back and swung his pick into the soft earth. They were making the trenches they had dug wider so that the stones could be placed more easily. Godric had not used a pick since he had pulled the one with Andred’s blood on it out from the goat pen, but now he was rediscovering the pleasure of using one as the sun sank through the new-sprouted leaves. It was so easy that his mind had wandered and he had begun muttering as he always did when working hard. Stanmode had not minded when he’d done that before, though. He looked questioningly at the builder and found the big eyes staring at him.
“Don’t get cross with me,” Stanmode said gruffly. “We decided to trust each other didn’t we? I won’t go telling tales to no one.”
“I won’t either, Stanmode. You’re a true kinsman.” The builder grunted, but then turned his back to Godric and jerked his head at an approaching figure.
Godric lowered his pick and looked over his shoulder. “Good evening Aelfleda. It’s good of you to come and see us.”
She had been coming to him more and more often lately. Not at night, though, as he half-desired. She smiled modestly and pushed loose hair back under her widow’s cap. He tried to see into her eyes but they remained fixed on the springy turf under their feet. She gave no sign that she had heard what they had been saying.
“I want to see the city, the place where you saw the Cross.”
Godric felt a strange heat prickle across the top of his head. He wondered if Stanmode could hear, if he was watching them, how much of Aelfleda’s her faded red dress and long deep blue shawl he could see. Her face was softened by the lines on it. Godric moved forward on the soft ground, thinking that if he did that Stanmode would be able to see less of her, and hear less. He tried to take her hand, but she moved it away.
“It couldn’t be secret if we went alone,” he said through his teeth.
“I don’t mind. Do you?”
He waited for a moment. Had she ever said anything like this to her husband? “Not if it renews your faith.”
“Good. I will come for you.”
She turned away and Godric, feeling a chill in the air he had not noticed before, went back to where Stanmode was digging. For a while, the creaks of the trees sounded less mocking than they had done. Stanmode did not raise his head and his shoulders went on moving as smoothly as the river flowed. Godric could hear him breathing through his open mouth, but at first did not hear when he spoke.
“I said, why didn‘t she come down to the grave today when we buried Andred?”
No one had spoken of that until now. Godric thought of guessing, but in the end he just shook his head. “Well, they whole day’s been odd. Did you see Father Owain this morning?”
“I only knew what was happening after I’d been in the fields a while.” Stanmode still had not stopped working, so now Godric, still wary of his friend, began to swing his arms as well.
“I didn’t know it was going to happen until this morning. Aethelsunne and Streamas seemed to know, but they had made no preparations. It’s as though Father Owain had forgotten about it until this morning, even after the fire. He didn’t seem to know his Latin either.”
“It’s been a while since anyone from Ediscum was buried.”
“Father Owain doesn’t usually forget things. He went to Erderinca soon after… it happened, to try and save her.”
“And he wasn’t welcomed. Andred had no belief like we do. Perhaps Father Owain was going to leave him to his gods.”
“If that’s true, perhaps it was a spirit that killed Andred. Aethelsunne might be wrong.”
“Aelfleda, you mean. Aethelsunne won’t get anywhere with his questions. How much can he find out acting on a woman’s words? Besides, there aren’t many weeping over Andred.”
After Stanmode’s half-laugh they worked in silence for a while. All the outline of the church was now ready to receive the biggest stones brought from the city. At last Godric wiped sweat from his face and listened to the singing of the larks. The sun was almost gone.
“I wonder if Father Owain was afraid of disturbing Andred’s spirit? He was burned like warriors were in the old days.”
“You saw what’s left of the old temple didn’t you? My father burned it. All that kind of thing is gone now. The only people who need to be frightened are the ones who don’t like what we’re doing.”
Stanmode’s voice was violently angry. Godric spread his hands peacefully.
“Look at it, Godric. This church is your doing. All this work. Stop thinking about things that don’t matter.”
“As you wish.” Godric paused. “Well, tomorrow we can lay the first stones in here.”
Stanmode’s face was still red, but it was happier now. He nodded.
“So you know how we’ll start building then?”
The builder tapped the side of his head. “I’ve spoken for a long time to Father Owain. He’s described the church that St Ninian had built near his cave for the Picts. Saint Ninian’s white church, he tells me with a very serious face. There’s all the abbeys round us, and then others in the Frankish lands and a church built by the holy Augustine, somewhere on the other side of Mercia as well, he tells me, serious again. I asked him how the stones were laid and how the walls were placed and how they look inside. He only said a few things at first but he said God would help him see the rest. And he has. He’s told me a lot of things.”
“We’re not going to build an abbey,” Godric laughed. “Not without a miracle.”
“There’s not many of them here,” said Stanmode seriously.
“Each of the other churches is linked with a holy name. If we build a stone church it will have to be Owain’s church. But perhaps Father Owain is too modest to let us call it that.”
“Perhaps,” said Stanmode, scratching his chin.
Now Stanmode had gone to rest his big arms in his firmly-built hut. Godric stood in a moment of calm and breathed sweet-smelling air. The cooling of the sun had turned the sky deep greens and blues over the forest lines. Everything seemed to be settling into sleep. The birds were growing quieter. He gazed happily at the deep cuts in the ground that awaited the high walls of the church. This was a peace that he had not known since Andred’s death. It could be that, now the old heathen had earth and Christian prayers over his head, Godric was no longer afraid of him.
He weighed the pick in his tired hand – should they have buried that other, blood-marked, pick with Andred? He shuddered at the thought of the metal that was never to be dulled with use. He did not want to see it again. Perhaps he should throw it in the river. That would cut his link to it at last.
The moment of peace had passed. He thought of a quick prayer he should say to ask God to grant him more peace like it, but even as it came into his mind he was thinking over what Stanmode had said about the dead warrior. Well, Godric was not one who was weeping for Andred.
With one last breath of the holy air around the church, he began to go down to Ediscum. But the sight of a shawled figure coming towards him, made his heart thump in his throat. He knew he would soon have to go to the city he had forgotten to look at while he stood idle.

“The women in this village have loose tongues.” All Father Owain had hoped to come from Andred’s death was that Ediscum would come together under God’s guidance. But Aelfleda and now Leofa had, with spite, it felt like, asked questions and encouraged the suspicious looks that passed between men even at his holy services. And Aethelsunne had listened and followed and the village had become impatient with God’s mysteries. He had chosen to bury Andred as a Christian with many doubts, but he had hoped that it would have stopped men foolishly looking into that which they had no need to know and turned them back to the greater work.
“But is it not right to seek the truth, Father?” Aethelsunne asked, shocked.
“There is Truth and there is truth. One is a contemplation of high mysteries. The other asks us to waste time thinking worldly things.”
“Father, you’ve always tended our worldly needs as well as our souls. You’re a holy man, and your judgement is sound. I need you to hear what I’m going to tell you.”
Father Owain allowed his face to soften a little. At least the boy still had faith. “I am not the sure judge that the Lord is.”
“But, Father, you’re closest to the Lord. You will listen a little won’t you?”
Father Owain could not help smiling. “Very well. But you mind that it is the truth you tell. You shouldn’t risk your soul.”
“Oh it is the truth, Father. Come here, Swefrith.”
Swefrith ducked below the lintel of Father Owain’s door. He was pale and blinked in the smoke from the small fire in the hearth. The priest looked at him pityingly.
“Sit down Swefrith.”
Swefrith’s fingers could barely grip the stool’s carved seat. He pulled at it with both hands and sat suddenly. His eyes were mournful. Father Owain could see his throat moving up and down and quivering like the flesh of an animal caught in a trap.
“If you have done wrong, may God have mercy on you.”
Swefrith’s quivering didn’t stop. Father Owain sat very still. Then Aethelsunne, his voice shifting between high and low pitch, began to speak, hanging onto the end of every word while his eyes searched Father Owain’s face.
“I will say what I know exactly as I know it. I know that Swefrith was not in his bed on the night that Andred died. Nor was he working outside the village on the day Andred’s hut was burned. These are strange things, don’t you think, Father?”
Father Owain sat still. He could feel his ears growing hotter as new thoughts poured into his mind. If the village was to be united… Swefrith cowered.
“We know how you feel about our Lord’s works, don’t we Swefrith? You hate him and all good works. You mock holy things…” He had not raised his voice but he could feel spit breaking through between his lips. He saw it land on Swefrith’s clean skin.
“Father, Father, I made no accusations against him and we still don’t know what caused the fire… I just wondered whether I should ask more questions of him You seem certain, Father.”
Father Owain stopped his circling of Swefrith’s bowed head. “You saw the mocking things he made for our church. How can you not believe he is the one?”
Aethelsunne narrowed his eyes. He nodded gravely. When he spoke, his voice had lost its edge of excitement. It was determined and sad. “Yes, Father. Tomorrow I’ll bring him before the village. I will watch him until then.”
Swefrith was sobbing. Father Owain looked away. “You did well to tell only the truth, Aethelsunne. You did not risk a lie by saying things you could not know.” He went on a little more hurriedly. “God’s truth will out. Upheahric and the others will hear it tomorrow.”
“Yes Father.” Aethelsunne took his snivelling kinsman by the elbow and helped him to his feet. Swefrith’s face was bulging with tears. Aethelsunne led him outside. With reverent fingers, he unfolded the cloak over the priest’s door so that it fell back into place.
Father Owain looked down at his body under its heavy woollen robes. In spite of the heat of the fire, they felt chill on his shoulders and back. He ran a hand over the smoothness of his tonsure, then let the same fingers run across the cracked vellum that lay across the oak bench by the wall. On it were written Saint Paul’s words. Father Owain knelt so that his knees dug into the rough ground. He read, but the cold only grew as the fire burned down.