“Good,” Aldfrith said, glancing back at the prior’s body. “He went gently then.”
They stood behind the church of Lindisfarena. The prior’s body had been laid out upon the wooden bier ready for burial. Behind him, the monks had dug a deep grave. Unlike the heathens of the past, this would not be a fiery burial. The prior’s body would be interred so that one day he could be resurrected.
Wilfrid, his austere face composed, began the burial rite for Cuthbert.
Aldfrith had heard the words before, and yet they carried more weight today. Despite the fact he was not fond of Wilfrid, he had to admit the bishop was a powerful speaker.
Wilfrid spoke of Cuthbert’s kindness and patience. He spoke at length of all the miracles attributed to him, near and far: children who had been healed of deathly fevers, lepers whose skin had cleared of boils, barren women who had miraculously conceived. After that Wilfrid spoke of what the prior had done to make Lindisfarena a place of pilgrimage.
Soft sobs accompanied Wilfrid’s words. Oswald had covered his face with his hands now, his slender shoulders shaking. Most of the monks were weeping, and many in the surrounding crowd were struggling to keep their composure.
The bishop’s voice rang out loud and clear, his own cheeks wet with tears. “Fly free from the earthly cares of this world, Cuthbert. We will never forget you.”
Aldfrith listened to the bishop’s words, closing his eyes a moment as the wind pushed at him. It was a sad day, and yet his thoughts felt scattered. He found it difficult to focus on the burial or the rite.
Instead, he was acutely aware of the dark-haired woman, dressed in a fur-lined mantle, who stood at the edge of the crowd to his right.
Osana.
He glanced her way now, taking in her solemn expression as she listened to the bishop. Her gaze, like that of many others in the crowd, was focused upon Wilfrid. The past months had been torture. How often had he yearned to seek her out, to speak to her? He had often caught glimpses of her in the hall, but he always had to be careful lest she, or someone else, catch him looking her way.
Everyone’s attention lay elsewhere now though, and so his gaze drank her in, committing every inch of that lovely face to memory. Long moments passed before Aldfrith forced himself to look away, focusing instead upon Cuthbert.
An ache of loss that had nothing to do with the prior’s death fisted in the center of his chest, squeezing hard.
Chapter Twenty
Meeting in the Scriptorium
OSANA STOOD AT the edge of the mourners. Hands clasped before her, she listened to the rise and fall of Bishop Wilfrid's voice. The king stood next to the bishop, his gaze upon Cuthbert’s corpse.
Osana took in the king’s profile. He looked deep in concentration.
She would never tire of looking at him. His blond hair had grown a little longer over the past couple of months, and it ruffled slightly in the sea breeze. He had turned his fur collar up against the chill, its silvery tones highlighting Aldfrith’s pale skin and dark blue eyes.
Aye, she still wanted him. It hurt to look at him, but she could not stop herself.
A hollow sensation settled in the pit of her belly. She missed Aldfrith; each encounter with him made her feel alive. Even a brief exchange of words with him made her feel understood. It felt unnatural to live under the same roof as him and not spend time talking together, sharing ideas and beliefs.
Perhaps I offended him deeply that day.
She had been blunt with her opinion of his writing, but she had not meant to give offense. She had only wanted to know what he thought.
Osana dropped her gaze, closing her eyes to shut out the world for a moment. Spring was coming; soon she would have to make a decision about her future. Her aunt would take her in, even if she did so in ill-grace. However, the thought of living with Hagona, her sister’s spinster sister, did not fill Osana with joy.
The only true joy she had known of late had been in Aldfrith’s arms, and that experience would not be repeated.
Bishop Wilfrid’s voice died away, bringing the burial rite to a close, and Osana opened her eyes once more. The monks lifted the bier and carried it the few feet to the open grave. Then, using ropes, they lowered the prior’s body into the ground.
A few of them were weeping, the muffled sound of sobs blending with the sigh of the wind. The shroud of grief lay so heavy upon the mourners that Osana could almost taste it.
Once Cuthbert’s body had been settled in the grave, the monks placed a layer of fresh rushes over him, before shoveling a few feet of dirt on top. Then, they started to lay rocks. Aldfrith and his men helped at this stage, before the blond monk stepped forward and placed a wooden crucifix on top.
The crowd drew back, leaving the lonely cairn of stones upon the windswept slope. It was done: Cuthbert of Lindisfarena, the holiest man who had ever lived in this corner of the world, was buried.
Bishop Wilfrid strode back to the priory, bringing Oswald and a flock of other mourners with him. The tide had now come in, and they would not be returning to the mainland until much later in the day. The bishop and the mourners would pray for Cuthbert’s soul.
Aldfrith went with them. He did not glance Osana’s way; it was as if she were invisible.
