Aldfrith’s gaze widened a moment before he nodded. “Aye … I don’t see why not.”
“Sire,” Wilfrid choked. “When you suggested a group of mourners follow us, I did not think you meanther.”
The derision in his voice made Osana’s spine stiffen. She squared her shoulders and met the bishop’s eye. “Why not? My faith is as real as yours.” She shifted her attention to Aldfrith who was watching her, a quizzical expression on his face. “I would not be any trouble, sire.”
“The woman has a forked tongue,” Wilfrid cut in. “She should stay behind.”
Aldfrith ignored the bishop, his attention remaining upon Osana. “The Lady has as much right as the rest of us to pay her last respects to Cuthbert,” he replied. His gaze then swept across the waiting, breathless crowd. “As does anyone here who wishes to join us. Go and gather your cloaks—we leave now.”
The tide was out, leaving behind an expanse of glistening sand. The group from Bebbanburg did not take boats across to the isle, as Cuthbert had during the winter. Instead, they walked.
A narrow path, The Pilgrim’s Way, was the only safe path during low tide to the island. The travelers walked two or three abreast, following the king; the bishop; the priest; and the king’s men, who rode on horseback. The rest of the group were on foot.
The red and gold of the Northumbrian pennants fluttered in the breeze as they crossed.
Osana walked at the back of the group, next to Mildryth.
Inhaling the cold, salty air, Osana gazed around her as she traveled, marveling at the openness of the surrounding landscape. It felt magical to walk out across a stretch of sand that was usually covered by water: strangely exciting and frightening at the same time.
Once they arrived upon the isle, they would have to wait for the next low tide—which would come that evening—before they could return home. It would give them plenty of time upon Lindisfarena. The monks would host them, give them a tour of the monastery after the burial, and feed them before they took their leave.
Ahead, Osana spied the low profile of Lindisfarena draw ever closer. It really was a barren spot. There were few trees, and what vegetation there was had a stunted look, sculpted by the prevailing winds. There were few signs of spring here, unlike on the mainland. Upon the Farne Isles, winter still resided. Lindisfarena was the largest of the group of islands. Until his health failed him, Cuthbert had lived as a hermit upon one of the smaller isles. Osana had heard that some of the islands were completely covered by puffins and other seabirds.
As they approached the shore, Osana’s gaze shifted south to where a complex of low wooden buildings, including one with a high pitched roof, rose against the windy sky. The faint peels of an iron bell reached them, calling the mourners to Cuthbert’s burial.
Osana glanced over at Mildryth then. The woman had been uncharacteristically silent during the walk. Her long face was solemn, her large eyes watery and red-rimmed. She had wept noisily upon hearing that Cuthbert had passed away, but had been insistent that she would join the group to farewell him.
“Are you well, Mildryth?” Osana asked gently.
“Aye … it’s just … this is such a sad day,” the woman sniffed.
It was, although sadness was an emotion that dogged Osana’s stepmostdays. She had become part of life in the Great Hall, yet melancholy cast a shadow over everything. She felt lonely, especially after Aldfrith’s dismissal of her, but she knew she was lucky to have a roof over her head, to have a warm, dry place to sleep at night, and to have food in her belly.
She was grateful for a great many things, yet at unguarded moments sadness would still creep up on her like a thief.
Not for the first time that morning, she cursed Lora for pushing her forward. Life was easier at Bebbanburg when she was invisible. She was a woman with too much to say for herself; her tongue only got her into trouble. Not only that, but the other women in the hall had finally started to accept her; they would cease being friendly if she made a spectacle of herself.
Osana’s boots crunched upon pebbles as she followed the procession of mourners onto the shore. Here, they turned south, following a narrow path up to the highest point of the island, where the monastery stood.
“It looks shabbier than I expected,” Mildryth observed, disappointment in her voice.
Osana cast her a wry look. “I too expected something grander. Maybe this is better though … Cuthbert was not a man for earthly possessions. Gleaming walls and towers would not suit him.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Mildryth replied, although she sounded unconvinced.
The two women said no more as they approached the monastery.
Aldfrith stood before the bier and gazed down at the corpse upon it.
Cuthbert lay there dressed in a simple brown robe trimmed with a fur collar. His thinness shocked Aldfrith; he was painfully emaciated, his head nothing more than a skull with parchment skin pulled over it. His hollowed, sunken eyes were closed, his claw-like hands placed across his chest, where they clutched a small wooden crucifix.
“He looks at peace.”
Aldfrith glanced right, at where Wilfrid stood next to him. For once, he did not disagree with the bishop. They rarely saw eye-to-eye on anything these days. Beside Wilfrid, Oswald was silently weeping. The priest’s mouth trembled with grief as he stared down at the prior’s corpse.
Aldfrith glanced over at the cluster of monks opposite, their heads bowed, their bald pates gleaming in the morning sun. “How did it end?” he asked.
One of them, a slender man of around forty winters with graying blond hair, answered. “He was very weak of late, sire. Cuthbert eventually fell into a deep sleep and did not awake from it.”
