The Church and the Devils 9

How could he explain? The water had moistened his throat, but still he couldn’t start to say the words. Aethelsunne didn’t feel like a kinsman any more, though it was to him his sister had turned. Aethelsunne was a warrior, with a Lord and a lord, a sister and Swefrith’s sister, and Ediscum listened to what he said. Swefrith was kinless, suspected and committer of crimes, his skills abandoned because he had been too afraid of too many gods. And now he had to tell this – kinsman – about how he spat on his hands to make his grip firmer, how he pushed earth to and fro with the smell of it in his nose. Aethelsunne would nod slowly. And Swefrith would be there again in the dark with the sweat on his body, eyes guessing at the things he reached for to steal or break, ears straining so hard that even the scurrying of animals sent him running wildly away to hide in bushes until he realised that Godric had not found him.
Aethelsunne was waiting, his face soft and shadowed.
Swefrith had to explain to Aethelsunne what drove him out, trembling, into the cold spring nights to destroy God’s church, then flit back to his hut with filth on his clothes, or wet, as he had been on the night when he turned the stone over and dropped it into the river. He would lie down in the dark, knowing that Leofa had heard him come back and praying she had not. Despite everything, he was still able to pray, he meant to say. He didn’t hate God, or the old gods. All he knew was that when the shaven-headed monks and their warriors had come, only a few had stayed with the old faith – and many had died in the sickness that followed. The old gods were not dead yet and the new one had allowed them to live…
But all he said was: “I wore these things when I filled in the pits that were dug for the church. All the other things that happened there were done by me.”
“Did you kill Andred, or burn his hut?”
“No.”
“Do you swear it?”
Swefrith rolled his eyes as far round as he could, so that they hurt. He was too frightened to move his head. Aethelsunne was leaning towards him and he could hear his breathing, but he could tell no more about him. Leofa had made the right choice. Swefrith, was no kinsman to have. It had to happen.
“No, I don’t.”
Then Aethelsunne was on his feet, shouting something he didn’t listen to. Then, again: “You’re a coward, Swefrith, of course you didn‘t do it, you’re just a fool, it’s plain you didn’t do it. If you’ll swear, I’ll be your oath-helper.”
“But look what I have done,” He could hear his voice high and wailing like a child’s.
“There’s a difference between that and what you haven’t done. God is merciful and Father Owain will forgive you, even if you tell him why you did it. Why did you do it?”
He couldn’t answer. His heart was beating with joy. No more skulking and hiding. He would even do a share of the work on the church if Aethelsunne would be his oath-helper, and help him carry his heavy weight up to the door of his forgiveness. He almost felt his kinsman’s back against his own, supporting him so that he wouldn’t have to carry the weight of his thoughts alone any more.
He opened his eyes. Aethelsunne was staring at him with an open mouth, waiting. He had to hurry and grasp the hand stretched out for him.

Stanmode stretched his legs by the fire. He rested his back on the wall. His belly was tight against his tunic, full of food that unfree Cnapa had made for him. The slave woman had been good to him. It had been a long while since the cauldron-stand had been set up over his own fire, but he had rarely gone hungry. He trusted Cnapa to do well for him and she brought him his food whenever it was time in the village to eat. He’d often thought of telling her to make her own meal first, for she was surely hungry while she made his. But then, he supposed, she probably used his scraps for herself – she came to collect them very humbly – and he didn’t want to deprive her of them. His wife, now in God’s hands since not long after the first monks had come, and fortunately buried a long way from Andred, had known better what he liked, but he enjoyed the feeling of having fed well. It was late in the evening, but instead of dozing off, he was thinking of the church. He could see it in his mind, exactly how it would look. Father Owain had good eyes and explained things well.
It had taken Stanmode a long time to remember that priests would know a lot about holy buildings before. He should have thought of it sooner. Work had been wasted while he wondered. Still, now he had thought of it, he had made good use of Father Owain’s good eyes. Perhaps men closer to God could see things more clearly.
The walls would rise up twice a man’s height and slope slightly towards each other. Each corner would be made of big stones so that when you saw it would be short and long, short and long on each side of the corner. There would be a thick door. The roof would be thatch, of course. There would be windows, too, high up so that the light would enter easily. They would be hard to make – perhaps he could make them very small. Inside he would have the arch from the city before the altar. He would have to make sure that when they took it down he would be able to remember how to put it up again. How they would decorate it, he didn’t know. But by then his part of the task would be done. He felt wind rise up in his throat and he let it out through his nose.
The only thing that remained to be leanred was how to make the mortar that would bind the stones together. He had tried some mixes with straw, old leaves sand from the river banks – but they had come to nothing. He would have to ask Father Owain again.
Still, the first rows of stones had been laid in the foundations. There was space enough between them for the mortar when it would come. It had been hard work, for once the stones had been dropped into the space, many hands had had to help shift them if they fell at the wrong angle. Straelsith’s thin legs had been very helpful. He could fit in the spaces between the stone and the earth wall and tell them where they should move it to.
Oh yes, something still had to be done about the “devil’s stone”, as they called it. Father Owain had made them bring it out of the water and he had promised to lift the curse off it. But they’d waited a long time and Father Owain’s mind was still elsewhere. You shouldn’t hurry God, though, Stanmode thought, shifting his heavy buttocks on the floor and feeling a pleasant thickness in his head brought on by hard work and ale.
Father Owain was still busy with that business with Swefrith, he supposed. Imagine Swefrith killing the old man! Stanmode licked his lips and grinned to himself at the thought. Swefrith could not handle a pick. Everyone could see that he couldn’t have done it. Still, it wasn’t wholly comfortable to see and hear people talking about what had happened. He had sworn with Godric to tell Aethelsunne the tale they had told, but Godric was beginning to act strangely. He hoped that his trust in the warrior’s word wasn’t wasted. Of course, Standmode hadn’t told him about his dream, or the knife, or anything to do with them. Anyway, there wasn’t any need because Swefrith was the one in trouble, and Stanmode’s conscience had stopped bothering him. He’d even stopped carrying the knife around. It’d turned out to be useless. These days it lay under his bedding, wrapped in cloth. Suddenly, he found himself reaching out to make sure it was still there. He stopped his hand. It wouldn’t be very helpful to frighten himself again.
He though about Godric again, because it was less worrying. The smith had been distracted by something all day. Normally, the two of them would take charge of the building together. Stanmode would say what had to be done. Then Godric would point to the men and tell them where they should stand and what they should do… They’d got less done than they’d expected lately.
Was it that fewer men were coming these days? Perhaps they missed Aethelsunne’s strength more than they knew. When this foolishness with Swefrith was over Aethelsunne would come back and help. There was no question of that not happening… but, yes, Godric.
Today of all days, when men had to work with their eyes in true so that the stones wouldn’t be laid wrong, he had mumbled and Stanmode had had to take charge of everything. Godric had also been muttering something that Stanmode had not wanted to hear, about kinsmen plotting murder and burying under great oak trees. He preferred it when the smith spoke about the “barren worship-places” of the old gods, which was good to think about when you were building a church to the real one. As evening came on Godric began to look round like a hare catching the scent of dogs, and do even less work. Stanmode would have thought that, since he had started the church after his big vision, he would have wanted to help lay its first stones in the ground…
They would have to bring more stones down from the city. Today’s work had made their pile by the river smaller than Stanmode expected… And, he realised, stiffening his legs a little, Godric had not wanted to touch any tool with metal in it all day. Other men had always had to pick them up. He just left them lying about. And he a smith and all! Stanmode could trust Godric, but… Godric did not seem to be Godric.
Stanmode made a grumbling noise in his throat. He wasn’t relaxed any more, and was angry with himself. A day of God’s work done and now he was worrying, all because of the death of a heathen. He spat into the fire and listened uneasily as the spittle hissed away on a black ash-crusted branch. This was the feeling he had had at the trial – though it wasn’t like any trial he remembered from the old days – when he had found himself speaking without expecting to. That had been bad. He didn’t like to find that hec could do that sort of thing.
Perhaps it wasn’t so late at night after all. Godric wouldn’t be asleep. He would go and have a few words with him. Stanmode got to his feet and pushed aside the cloak over his door.
He had only gone a few steps, but already the dampness from the gathered clouds had got into his nose and into his clothes. There were things rustling about his feet, too. They were most likely the hens that pecked around the village waking each other up, but he didn’t like the sound. He began to think that perhaps it wasn’t so important to speak to Godric tonight. And he would have to rise early so that he could pray with Father Owain and then ask him about the mortar they had used in the stone buildings he had seen. His steps slowed. Then he stopped and twisted his body, looking back at the warm light of his own fire. Most of the village around him was completely dark. He could only see two fires burning, in Father Owain’s hut and the other… it was hard to tell… Upheahric’s. Strange that these two were still awake. Then he heard steps behind him and turned, raising his hands.
“Who’s there?” he demanded as gruffly as he could.
“Upheahric,” The old man came close to him with rustling steps.
“What are you doing? It’s late.”
“I was just walking. Walking and thinking. But sometimes I think that Ediscum has seen enough people walking around at night,” the old man said with a dry laugh. “It’s not as if it’s brought us much good for a long time.”
“That’s as may be. All that walking never did us much good. It was heathen stuff.”
“You’re too young to really know, Stanmode. When the priests first came you weren’t much more than a child. There was a lot of walking at night then, and until they came from over the hill it was important for the whole village. When we did it, it really did feel as though we were talking to our protectors. Only I – and Andred and Erderinca – really remember what it was like. But, as you say, heavenly grace has come, praise the Lord. All that walking was leading us all into hell. It is best it was forgotten.”
Stanmode did not understand the old man. There were too many men in this village who remembered the old times, he thought. His hands suddenly felt heavy as though one swing of them would grind Uphearic’s memory-ridden body into powder he could use to build the church.
“It’s hard to sleep when I’ve been with Erderinca in the day,” the elder went on.
“She’s not getting any better then?”
“No,” a long, painful sigh. “She still won’t speak and Streamas tells me that she often wakes before dawn and makes horrible noises and tries to get outside. He said that sometimes he lets her go. She can’t do any harm to anyone, though perhaps he should watch her for her sake.” He half-laughed. “There it is again. Walking in the night. I suppose she dreams of Andred.”
Stanmode stood still and breathed the night air.
“Perhaps if Father Owain went to her again she may begin to get better,” said Upheahric after a moment.
“Perhaps. But could Father Owain make her speak?”
“He hasn’t seen her since the first time, when she tried to hide from him. I wonder what she’s got to tell.”
“Perhaps it’s best not to find out.”
“Nothing she could say could take away from the miracle of her speaking again. But it’s late, and here we are, still walking at night. A good night, Stanmode.”
“A good night,” Upheahric’s body was a dark shape against the firelight from his hut, and then he was gone.
Stanmode waited. The old man’s sadness was more real to him than all he had said about Erderinca. He hadn’t foreseen these bleak things coming from Andred’s death. It was terrible.
But it couldn’t be helped. Stanmode shrugged his shoulders looked at the flame-light that still burned in Father Owain’s hut. The church would not be exactly as he had foreseen, he supposed. But it would be good enough, and all he had done to make it grow from the earth would in the end be worthwhile.

“Should I see him?” Leofa could feel her eyes widening as she said the words. Since she had made her choice, the sight of Aethelsunne was always a surprise. He was here again, except that this time he was leaning, not standing, his shoulder pressed heavily against the edge of the hut’s thatch. Thousands of tiny grass points in the thatch directed her eyes to him. There was darkness round his eyes. He looked thin as well, and his eyes glittered unnaturally even beneath this dull sky. Still, he was there and the creases in his clothes made it look as though Swefrith had clung to him all night.
When he spoke, the skin on his face stretched unwillingly.
“Yes, you should see him. You are his sister.”
A chill ran through her, the return of old fears. When Straelsith woke her, not long ago, she had believed that Swefrith was guilty. It had been made true by some midnight spirit. But Straelsith had been less sullen he was than the night before, and even smiled when he told her to go to Aethelsunne.
“Don’t worry Leofa. He’ll forgive you. He has a Christian heart.” And now Aethelsunne smiled.
She pushed aside the hanging cloak in the doorway. Inside, the air was dank and smelt of men’s sweat. Swefrith sat slumped in a corner. His hair hung over his face and his clothes seemed to be the colour of dirt. He did not look up. “S-Swefrith?”
His head jerked up with a start and struck the wall behind him. For a second he looked so afraid that she stopped, thinking perhaps that it would be better to go back outside. But the muscles in his face relaxed and he almost looked at her as he had done… long ago. She went forward hesitantly and crouched in front of him.
“Are you all right, brother?”
“Yes, I am. I was just asleep. Aethelsunne and I talked for a long time.”
“What came of it?”
“I‘m forgiven,” he said breathlessly. “Aethelsunne will be my oath-helper. And I won’t damage the church any more.”
“Am I forgiven?”
“You are my sister. I forgive you. Father Owain will forgive me, everyone will be forgiven.” His body was like a bird’s.
His eyes were still wary, but there was light in them. Without knowing what she was doing, Leofa pitched forward on her knees and embraced him. She breathed the smell of him into her nose, weeping with relief.
At last she leaned back and wiped away the tears on her face. “So will you go to Father Owain today?”
“Should I?” Fear returned to his face.
He looked up at her. “Aethelsunne and I will be with you if you want. Your guilt isn’t great enough for him to remain angry is it? And wouldn’t it be best if the village knew the truth as soon as possible?” She tried to smile. “But it’s your choice. And Aethelsunne will have to tell you what he thinks.
Swefrith looked down at the old straw on the floor of the hut. Then he said in a low voice: “Father Owain will forgive me if Aethelsunne speaks for me.”
“Yes he will.” She forced herself to say it as brightly as possible. She wondered if she should fetch Aethelsunne, but she didn’t know if that was what Swefrith wanted.
Swefrith was trying to get up. She stood first and held him under the arm, where his clothes were hot and damp, and helped him to his feet. It was as though he could barely walk, because when she was at the door he was barely half-way from where he had sat. As the light fell on his face, she could see that it had sagged like soft pottery. He looked grimly ghostly by Aethelsunne’s side. Around her she noticed the villagers beginning to look at the three of them. Aethelsunne had just woken from his standing doze outside the hut. He ran the backs of his strong hands across his eyes.
The familiar faces of the villagers, men and shawled women, free and unfree, openly now turned to stare, forgetting for a moment the goats or hens they herded or the clothes and wood they were carrying. Leofa smiled at what she thought they might be thinking. No one could know the truth except her and Aethelsunne. He and Swefrith leaned close together.
“When should I go to Father Owain?”
“When you feel it’s time. What does Leofa think?”
She started a little at the sound of her name, but stood at her brother’s shoulder.
“When you think it’s time,” she said, looking at them both.
Swefrith led the way through the staring villagers and their loud children, often glancing behind to see if they were following him. Outside Father Owain’s hut the three of them stood in a huddle to make way for Stanmode, who was leaving. He gazed at them for longer than the other villagers, who had parted like birds before a dog. But he asked no questions and turned his back on them. Leofa waited for Swefrith to duck his head under the priest’s lintel. At last he did so, and she watched as Aethelsunne passed through. Then, as a spring shower began, she breathed deeply and followed.

Godric raised his eyes to heaven, searching for an answer. What did Aelfleda believe? Every time she spoke to him she turned their talk to Andred’s murder. He had told her… little things he hadn’t really meant to, and he spent all day wondering what he should say to her and then half-praying for guidance, and finding none. He’d come only a little way towards the answers he had looked for in his smithy after the first night.
Was it the end of the day already? As he paced about, feeling crumbs of earth from the digging crumble under his feet, he noticed that no one was left on the site. What had he done with the day? He stretched out his hands in front of him. They weren’t smooth, but the only dirt on them was from days past – not today. He stood by as the work went on and didn’t see them.
It was because of her, he knew. When she came to him every night at sunset he would answer her with a puzzled face and try to see in hers what she wanted to know. They didn’t only talk about Andred – she chattered about the work she’d done, or the animals. But he’d been told how she saw through her husband’s lies. She asked him about God, and he answered as honestly as he could, shielding her, he hoped, from the fact that even God was cast into shadow by her. She was so close – he could have her, yet he could not, though she came to him every night, was close to him, kissed him now and again. He could taste her breath, and the thought of it made him stop in mid-stride. She came to him every night but she went away before anything really happened. Every night it was as though she would do something different – but always her talk came back to the murder.
He asked himself again, what was it she believed? Perhaps she believed worse of him than she’d ever had cause to believe of her husband. The thought of it made him sick at heart. Sometimes he thought he saw that she was expecting to hear something he never said. Should he say it?
His thoughts tailed away and he found himself staring at a bright blade clotted with pieces of earth. It was a moment before his eyes really fixed on it and he could see it clearly, but he knew its shape well. It was a pick, a cousin of the one now rocking back and forth on the river bottom. He looked away from it, towards the disturbed ground under the trees. There would be a church here, he thought with surprise.
Evening was coming in, and what should he say to her tonight? He stared at where the sun hid behind the clouds. Then, leaving the pick out in the night air, he left the church and went down into the village while his thoughts ran ahead.