of respect. For in the eyes of Christ, the slave and the master are equal, the warrior and the serf are equal, the king and the blind beggar woman at his gates are equal, and all sins are forgotten once pardoned, as though they had never been.”
All sins forgiven. Wulfstan had heard this claim every Sunday and most other days of his life. Yet he felt he had never heard it before. The thought lit a fire in him. All sins forgiven, if they were but confessed and repented—and forgiven meant not “treasured up to berate him with every time he put a step wrong” but “utterly wiped out of existence”.
He could have Cenred, and afterwards God could make it as though it had not happened at all. What a magic there was in this! What a freedom!
“You are a remarkable man, Brid,” he said, startled into giving voice to a truth he hadn’t known was in him. “I’m sure you will end as a bishop.” And who will know that they are being given orders by a man so soft and submissive he let another man plunder him and live?
This time Brid did laugh, startled, with a laughter that reached those chilly, watching eyes and made them bright. “You are a remarkable man also, my lord, to speak so to a slave like myself. Before I was captured I never would have believed such a recovery possible. To learn from one’s own mistakes is life, but to heed the mistakes of others is rare.”
Now he dares give me praise, Wulfstan thought, with a sensation as though the wind were lifting the collar of his tunic behind him and blowing along his spine. There were many reasons why it did not do to become too familiar with Ecgbert’s bed-boy. “Well,” he said, disconcerted, “be sure you attend my lord with all your heart before then. So great a boon as freedom must be earned.”
Brid’s face closed like a locking box. He bowed and stepped back and all at once was hidden again, unseen in the shadows. “All my will is set on pleasing him, lord, for as long as I may.”
As he hurried to the hall, Wulfstan felt his own heart had become like the chapel—a space full of secrets and silence, inhabited by a riddling presence, shy and speechless and strong. As he plunged back into the hall where the other youths were, as always, wrestling and boasting and drinking, he thought perhaps that Ecgfreda was right. A warrior should not be carrying this weight of mysteries—he should be clear all the way through, resolved, confident in himself and his sword. Perhaps he did think too much. Perhaps he should give it all up and enter the church, where an active mind was an asset.
Cenred looked up at him from his place on the bench, looked up with narrowed eyes as blue as the illuminated sky on the title page of the book Brid had been reading, and everything in him did become clear and certain, narrowed down to a cutting edge of intent. “It will be chill tonight.” He dropped down on the bench beside his friend and felt the warmth of the man’s sturdy thigh against his own. “Will you share your cloak with me?”
Cenred laughed and ducked his head to whisper, “How little time it takes to overcome your scruples, my friend.”
“Mock me and sleep cold.” Wulfstan made to rise, nettled, but Cenred caught the hem of his tunic and urged him back down.
“Forgive me. My father was… He was a man of harsh words. I…”
Wulfstan’s resentment drained away like rain through a hole in a tent roof. Cenred’s brow was furrowed and his gaze turned inwards. It didn’t seem he liked what he saw. “You are not like him,” Wulfstan said quietly. “This we all know, I most of all. Or I would not be here now, broaching this topic with you.”
“A boy sees his father’s example,” Cenred murmured, moving aside as the servants shuffled the first of a long series of trestle tables between him and the wall. Outside the early evening was falling, blue and chill. Cold air coiled through the cracks under the door and stroked along Wulfstan’s fingertips.
All sins forgiven. Wulfstan had heard this claim every Sunday and most other days of his life. Yet he felt he had never heard it before. The thought lit a fire in him. All sins forgiven, if they were but confessed and repented—and forgiven meant not “treasured up to berate him with every time he put a step wrong” but “utterly wiped out of existence”.
He could have Cenred, and afterwards God could make it as though it had not happened at all. What a magic there was in this! What a freedom!
“You are a remarkable man, Brid,” he said, startled into giving voice to a truth he hadn’t known was in him. “I’m sure you will end as a bishop.” And who will know that they are being given orders by a man so soft and submissive he let another man plunder him and live?
This time Brid did laugh, startled, with a laughter that reached those chilly, watching eyes and made them bright. “You are a remarkable man also, my lord, to speak so to a slave like myself. Before I was captured I never would have believed such a recovery possible. To learn from one’s own mistakes is life, but to heed the mistakes of others is rare.”
Now he dares give me praise, Wulfstan thought, with a sensation as though the wind were lifting the collar of his tunic behind him and blowing along his spine. There were many reasons why it did not do to become too familiar with Ecgbert’s bed-boy. “Well,” he said, disconcerted, “be sure you attend my lord with all your heart before then. So great a boon as freedom must be earned.”
Brid’s face closed like a locking box. He bowed and stepped back and all at once was hidden again, unseen in the shadows. “All my will is set on pleasing him, lord, for as long as I may.”
As he hurried to the hall, Wulfstan felt his own heart had become like the chapel—a space full of secrets and silence, inhabited by a riddling presence, shy and speechless and strong. As he plunged back into the hall where the other youths were, as always, wrestling and boasting and drinking, he thought perhaps that Ecgfreda was right. A warrior should not be carrying this weight of mysteries—he should be clear all the way through, resolved, confident in himself and his sword. Perhaps he did think too much. Perhaps he should give it all up and enter the church, where an active mind was an asset.
Cenred looked up at him from his place on the bench, looked up with narrowed eyes as blue as the illuminated sky on the title page of the book Brid had been reading, and everything in him did become clear and certain, narrowed down to a cutting edge of intent. “It will be chill tonight.” He dropped down on the bench beside his friend and felt the warmth of the man’s sturdy thigh against his own. “Will you share your cloak with me?”
Cenred laughed and ducked his head to whisper, “How little time it takes to overcome your scruples, my friend.”
“Mock me and sleep cold.” Wulfstan made to rise, nettled, but Cenred caught the hem of his tunic and urged him back down.
“Forgive me. My father was… He was a man of harsh words. I…”
Wulfstan’s resentment drained away like rain through a hole in a tent roof. Cenred’s brow was furrowed and his gaze turned inwards. It didn’t seem he liked what he saw. “You are not like him,” Wulfstan said quietly. “This we all know, I most of all. Or I would not be here now, broaching this topic with you.”
“A boy sees his father’s example,” Cenred murmured, moving aside as the servants shuffled the first of a long series of trestle tables between him and the wall. Outside the early evening was falling, blue and chill. Cold air coiled through the cracks under the door and stroked along Wulfstan’s fingertips.
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