“He was a warrior, I’m a scholar,” Aldfrith replied, surprised that bitterness rose within him as he spoke. “We are as different as the sun and the moon.”
Cuthbert shook his head and raised his cup of broth to his lips. Aldfrith noted that his hands were trembling. “There is more to being king than being able to wield a sword, Aldfrith.”
Despite Aldfrith’s insistence that he stay on longer in Bebbanburg, Cuthbert took his leave mid-morning. Leaning heavily on a cane, he shuffled from the hall, flanked by his escorts. Aldfrith and his men followed close behind. In the yard outside the tower, the prior climbed upon a small cart, and they rumbled out of the inner perimeter, following the King’s Way to the low gate.
Folk lined the thoroughfare to greet Cuthbert as he passed, craning forward to catch a glimpse of the man who had become legend across Britannia. They called out to the king too, their faces alight with smiles. Aldfrith smiled back, acknowledging the folk of Bebbanburg with a wave.
They had nearly reached the low gate when they met a group of travelers entering the fort. Aldfrith’s heart sank when he recognized the tall, rawboned figure perched atop a horse, a cluster of servants riding behind him.
Wilfrid.
The bishop rode toward them before swinging down from his horse. He then moved over to where the prior had stopped, and knelt before him.
“Father … I heard you were here and came as soon as I could.”
Cuthbert favored the bishop with a tired smile. “There was really no need, Father Wilfrid. As you can see, my visit was too brief to warrant you traveling all this way.”
Wilfrid’s heavy features creased in concern as he rose to his feet. “You’re unwell?”
Cuthbert nodded. “Aye, and returning home to rest.”
The bishop gestured to his servants, indicating that they should continue up to the Great Tower without him. “Then I will accompany you, Father.”
Watching the deference with which the bishop spoke to Cuthbert, Aldfrith gritted his teeth. Wilfrid rarely spoke to him using such a gentle tone.
A damp wind blew in from the sea as the small procession made its way down the sloping causeway and along a path through the dunes to the beach. The tide was in, and a small boat waited on the shore. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their cries mixing with the roar of the surf.
Cerdic and three other warriors pushed the boat onto the edge of the waves, while Aldfrith, Oswald, and the bishop helped Cuthbert and his companions climb in.
“God speed, father.” Wilfrid grasped hold of Cuthbert’s hand and squeezed. The bishop’s dark gaze gleamed, and he looked on the verge of tears.
“Farewell, Wilfrid,” Cuthbert replied, his voice raspy from the effort it had taken him to climb off the cart and into the boat. The prior’s gaze then shifted to Aldfrith. “I wish you well, milord. God bless you … and your reign.”
Aldfrith nodded, suddenly choked up. There was something about Cuthbert’s gaze when it fixed upon you that made you feel as if the man were looking into your soul, flaying it bare. It felt as if Cuthbert had seen him, even the things he took such great pains to hide. He saw and understood.
“Farewell, Father,” he answered. “Thank you for granting us this one, last, visit.”
They pushed the boat out into the waves, wading in deep, before guiding it through the surf. The water was freezing, its chill penetrating layers of leather and fur in an instant. Aldfrith and the others were gasping from the cold as they waded back to shore.
Squelching up onto the sandy beach, Aldfrith turned, his gaze following the small craft that bobbed in the surf as one of the monks picked up the oars and steered it left. The isle of Lindisfarena was but a short journey, just beyond the headland to the north. At low tide, travelers could skirt the coast north before walking out across the sandflats to the isle. However, the prior was too weak to make the journey on foot.
The group of men upon the beach stood and watched till Cuthbert and the monks were out of sight. Then they turned and made their way back to the fort. Bebbanburg rose above them upon a great rocky outcrop, its palisades bristling against the pale sky.
“The prior is not long for this world,” Bishop Wilfrid announced, falling in step next to Aldfrith. “Someone will need to take his place at the monastery. The monks will need a new leader … someone with a deep piety … someone who understands Cuthbert’s work.”
Aldfrith cast him a sharp glance. “The prior isn’t dead yet, Father.”
The bishop’s mouth thinned. The grief he had shown when bidding the prior goodbye had gone. The Wilfrid that Aldfrith had come to know well had returned. “I’m aware of that, sire. I’m just acknowledging the fact that Lindisfarena will soon need a new leader.”
And that would be you?
Aldfrith did not voice the question out loud. Yet they both knew that was what Wilfrid was implying. Aldfrith’s gaze narrowed. “Cuthbert worships God in the manner of the north … does that not bother you?”
Wilfrid’s nostrils flared. “Not overly … but that is why the monastery at Lindisfarena could do with my influence.”
Aldfrith clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to reply. If Wilfrid wanted to become prior of Lindisfarena, he would need the king’s permission. And as things stood, Wilfrid would be the last man he would choose.
Perhaps sensing his king’s mood, the bishop fell silent. It was only when they were climbing the causeway to the low gate that Wilfrid spoke once more. “Did Cuthbert speak to you about that widow’s presence in your hall?” he asked quietly, as if he was wary of Aldfrith’s men overhearing them.
