Time of the Beast Read online

  Some time after my arrival there, I was summoned to an audience with the abbot, a man named Adelard, in his private study. It was an impressive chamber – unlike the plain dwellings of the other monks – with a shuttered window which faced the setting sun, and walls adorned with shelves full of hide-bound books – an enormous treasure – along with fine wood carvings depicting Biblical scenes. Abbot Adelard was a Frank, who spoke Anglish perfectly, although still with a strong accent, and he greeted me with his customary dignity of manner. He was a man of advanced years, perhaps fifty, but his mild exterior concealed a true fierceness in his devotion to the doctrines of the Church.

  ‘So, Brother Athwold,’ he said, as he motioned to me to stand before him. ‘You are determined to persist with this matter of yours?’

  ‘I am, Father Abbot,’ I replied.

  ‘And the reason for your decision, the troubles and dissatisfactions in your mind, I must presume they remain unresolved?’

  ‘Yes, Father Abbot.’

  ‘I must tell you, Brother,’ he said, ‘that your longing after a life of seclusion has won you much esteem here in our community. The younger monks especially seem to admire your resolve to commit yourself to an existence of solitary contemplation.’ He shrugged. ‘And why not? Such sacrifice is an admirable thing. So most men believe.’ I was aware now that a discordant note had crept into his voice. ‘But I feel compelled to ask myself what would be the condition of the Church if all those who serve in it were to abandon their responsibilities and seek escape from the world? The answer is most clearly that the enterprise of our Holy Church would die. So I say to you, Brother Athwold, look carefully and study closely your own motives in this, and consider if what you are doing is truly a thing of devotion and humility, or really just an act of intransigence and pride.’ He paused and looked hard at me, for there was significance in these last words. ‘I know your opinion of the Irish matter. Indeed you made it very clear. You made it a source of contention all about you. You, who I once thought to be a man of such loyalty to the Church. But you have seen fit to question the wisdom of your superiors and even of the blessed Augustine himself.’

  At that moment Abbot Adelard and I seemed to be returned to our positions of nearly two years before. Back then, the Irish matter had been controversial. My own opinion of it had been outspoken, and unusually at variance with the prevailing view within our Catholic Church.

  The matter concerned the long and bitter dispute between two Christian sects – the Celtic Church of Britain and Ireland, and the Catholic Church of Rome. British Celts are of course Christians – though often poor ones – a legacy from the days when Britain was a province of the old Roman Empire. But over two hundred years ago, when the Empire of Rome collapsed in the west, the British and Roman churches were split and separated as pagan barbarians overran much of Europe, and the British Church began to exist independently from the Roman. At that time a British missionary named Patricius took the Christian Faith across the sea to the Irish peoples; as the pagan Angles, Saxons, Jutes and others began their migration into Britain. Later, the now devout Irish Church sent its own Christian missionaries into Britain to begin converting these heathen settlers – the native British refused to do so, for there was constant war between them.

  Then, about seventy years ago, Pope Gregory had sent the monk Augustine on his famous mission to Britain, to Kent, the southern kingdom of the Jutes, to win the pagan lands for the Roman Church. So while Irish missionaries won converts among the Picts and Angles of northern Britain, spreading down from their base upon the Island of Hii, or Iona, in the far north, the Roman Catholics established their mission in the south. In time an unseemly rivalry arose. For by now the Roman and Celtic churches had grown far apart in their customs and practices.

  The Romans greatly disapproved of the Britons’ unorthodoxy, and regarded the whole British Church as merely an upstart and heretical offshoot of their own. But Augustine, who was now archbishop, saw that if the Britons could be persuaded to adopt the Roman ways, then this would greatly add to the authority and prestige of his own Church. He decided that the British Church was a thing ripe to be taken over. But he botched the matter completely. At first he decreed that the British clergy were to be artfully persuaded into becoming Roman Catholics. But when they proved stubborn in their own traditions, Augustine became incensed.

  ‘Who are these Britons,’ he thundered, ‘to resist and obstruct us? They must be compelled to comply.’

  A conference was arranged between Augustine and the religious leaders among the Britons. Church records exonerate Augustine from all blame for its failure, but it is easy to read between the lines. Augustine greeted the British clergymen without respect and glowered at them menacingly throughout the debate, seeking only to intimidate them. The Britons became antagonised, and when Augustine saw they would not be bullied into obedience, he flew into a rage and cursed them to their faces, threatening damnation and destruction on them before storming out. And so an opportunity was missed, and the two churches remained divided and unreconciled. I always felt that Augustine’s behaviour in this matter was quite shocking.

  Then came the Irish missionaries, bringing their own version of Celtic Christianity. When I was a child, my family and I were converted to the Faith by Irish preachers. I learned to admire and respect them greatly. I particularly remember a monk named Conchobar. He was an awesome-looking man, tall and rugged, his tonsure cut in the peculiar Irish way – the ‘old way’ as he called it – with the front and top of his head wholly shaved, leaving only his long and unruly locks at the back. He never washed or cut his beard, and he wore a filthy robe which he never took off, although it was so worn and ragged it tended to expose every part of him. His fasts would last for weeks, while he would sometimes sit on a rock and meditate for days. In winter he would wade into the river and stand for hours in the freezing water. ‘It is colder in Hell!’ he would cry. And he was fervent in his condemnation of sin – ‘the mortal enemy to be excised from men’. I thought him a remarkable man.

  When I decided to receive the tonsure, I reflected long and hard over which church I should join. Finally I chose the Roman, as the first and universal Church. I think I was also intimidated by what I saw of the harshness of the lives of the Irish monks. And for years I remained content in my choice.

  The antipathy between the churches continued to grow over the years. In my monastery the Irish were derided as idiotic and filthy creatures. Irish jokes abounded. Yet I knew their beliefs were strong and sincere, and I was angered by this discord over matters of mere form between fellow Christians. I admired the devout Irish ways of poverty and humility – qualities for which our high Roman churchmen were certainly not renowned. Then news came that the matter was to be settled finally. There was to be a synod held in the north – the stronghold of the Irish – at a monastery in a place called the Bay of the Light, where King Oswy of Northumbria would decide between the two churches, and declare whose rituals and doctrines should in future be adopted in his kingdom. No one could fail to understand the significance of this. It was an open bid by the Roman Catholics to become predominant within the Irish heartlands.

  My monastery was filled with excited debate over this matter. Abbot Adelard and other monks of high rank, spoke of it as the final battle in a great and glorious war. I grew angry, and told my brother monks that the synod was set as a trap, for the Irish advocates – doubtless honest and plain-spoken men – would never sway a king in council like the smooth and polished politicians of our Church. Before I was aware of it, I had become a dissenting voice. And the other monks always seemed keen to encourage me in my outspokenness. Then one day in discussion, I remarked that this whole matter might have been settled years before with peaceful compromise had it not been for the intransigence and pride of Augustine.

  Later that day I was summoned into the presence of Abbot Adelard. He gazed at me for a time without speaking, but his expression was enough to tell me my transgress
ion had been grave.

  ‘Blasphemy!’ he spat at last.

  ‘Father Abbot?’ I looked at him with astonishment. Perhaps my words had been hasty and imprudent, but blasphemy? They were hardly that.

  ‘Do you think, Brother Athwold, that any word spoken in this monastery remains unknown to me?’ He glared at me savagely. Truly he was in a fury, barely able to control himself. ‘And I say your words were a blasphemy. That a mere and supposedly humble monk should speak so of our blessed Augustine – that holy man! – the founder of our Church in these lands. That a member of this community…’ he stopped, apparently speechless, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘I am truly sorry, Father Abbot,’ I said, as his rage began to frighten me.

  ‘I will not tolerate such insolence!’ he shouted suddenly, his face growing red. ‘I am amazed, Brother, that you would speak openly to criticise our Church in defence of that deplorable nest of Irish heretics.’

  ‘My apologies again, Father,’ I murmured, hanging my head. ‘I was only distressed to see such divisions among Christians…’

  ‘Christians!’ he hissed. ‘They cannot be dignified by the name – they do not keep Easter at its proper time or practice the sacraments as we do; they even consult with their local people in matters of religious custom, if such a thing can be believed. And then there is the abomination of their tonsure. They are barely better than pagans. Hardly like us in any way, for their customs are a foul and loathsome parody of our own.’

  ‘They are godly men, Father Abbot,’ I objected, shocked by the force of his contempt, and finding that slowly my fear was turning into anger. ‘I believe the differences between us are only small matters…’

  ‘Ah!’ he said with a scowl. ‘I suspect now I have nurtured a serpent inside my Eden. Let me instruct you, Brother. Let me tell you about your “godly men”. Time and again, we of the true Church have sought to persuade them from their ways of transgression. We send to them rulings from our archbishop, and even directives from his Holiness, in our efforts to correct them. We have requested they supply specifics of their rituals and practices, to show them where they err, and demanded reports of their attempts to convert the pagans – facts, figures and details. But they simply refuse to respond. They are truly monsters!’

  ‘But, Father Abbot,’ I said mildly, ‘they are merely not familiar with our Roman ways. Remember that Ireland was never a part of the old Empire. The Irish simply do not understand the concept of a central authority. They are concerned with the business of saving souls, rather than in compiling records about it. Surely we cannot despise them for this?’

  ‘Monsters, wicked monsters, to defy us so!’ he growled under his breath. ‘They follow no true doctrine but act according to their own interpretations. This cannot be tolerated. You should understand that it is our skills of organisation and orderly administration which have been the greatest weapon in our conquest and control of these lands and their ignorant illiterate natives. For nothing frightens and browbeats them more that the writings on a document.’ He seemed to forget, or ignore, the fact that I was a native. Then he said softly, as if to himself: ‘Ah, yes. It is our talent for these things that in the end will make them all into our bondsmen.’ Then his voice rose again in anger. ‘But do not suppose for all our successes that our victory is assured. Remember our past reverses among the Northumbrians, and the East Saxons, and others, that demonstrate clearly how fragile our hold upon these chaotic lands remains. The pagans retreat, yet they still have the power to corrupt. So must all Christians remain united, to speak with one voice. In this house mine is the voice of the Church, and it is your place only to accept and obey. Understand me, Brother Athwold. My authority here is absolute, and I will endure no words of dissent. Reflect upon your maleficium – your shameful misdeed – and know that if you offend again it will be my place to determine your fate.’

  I bowed my head to him in meek and abject submission. But even as I did so there was born in my heart the secret spark of defiance and fury whose flame was to grow and consume me. I saw then that Adelard – the voice of the Church – cared nothing for honesty or conscience, but solely for his own authority, and my docile surrender and conformity. He concerned himself only with the politics of the world, and sought to bully and intimidate me just as Augustine had with those British monks. I knew him finally as a hollow, soulless creature with nothing truly Christian inside him. So I began to despise him.

  Soon news arrived concerning the outcome of the synod. The Roman advocate, a priest named Wilfrid, had slyly derided the Irish in debate, asking with mock amazement how they and the British – inhabitants of a few remote and backward islands – could be so presumptuous as to oppose and contradict the opinions of all Christendom, and the very Church of St. Peter? As I had predicted, the Romans were triumphant and the Irish were forced to retreat, their customs rejected, their Church fatally weakened. And it seemed to me that while our Church was a glorious thing, the men who served it in these times often fell far short of glory.

  Of course this victory was met with jubilation inside the monastery. I knew I lived under the constant surveillance of Adelard and his informers, so I went with care, giving no outward sign of my feelings in anything. This is the form my rebellion took. Self-concealment became my natural condition and suppressed rage my only companion as I withdrew into myself and grew suspicious of all those about me. I performed my duties adequately, to avoid accusations of obvious fault, but I did nothing more and shunned all company, not even communicating to others unless first addressed, and giving no more of myself in anything than I must. I distanced myself from the rest of the community until I came to see how hopelessly I had backed myself into a corner.

  At that time a plague came to ravage the land, and for more than a year we were trapped inside the monastery, forbidden to venture outside for fear of contagion. And, thus isolated and restricted, the pressures in me grew, as the torments of doubt began to fester in my mind. I became ever more conflicted within, as I was haunted by horrible fears that I might be deeply in error and drenched in mortal sin. Could it be that the Devil had sown in me these seeds of resentment so that in my heart I defied the Church with that same anger and presumption with which Satan had opposed Heaven? Desperately I would pace my tiny cell in the night-time, a battle seeming to rage in my head, filling me with uncertainty and terror for the condition of my soul. Or I would awake from troubled dreams, my mind filled with the incoherent echoes of angry voices; or crying out in alarm as I imagined in the darkness that the walls of my cell were closing in upon me. In despair I did penance and mortified my flesh. I prayed constantly and feverishly for guidance. And I asked myself if all my torments were really only the conceits born of my stubborn pride?

  It might have served me then to have accepted this; to have submitted and confessed my fault and sought absolution to end my pain. But finally I could not. For there remained inside me a lonely unbending voice that cried out: must my principles be pride? Might not my anger be righteous?

  I was not ready for atonement.

  So I remained alone, confiding my feelings to no one. As the state of my mind worsened, I knew that my life at the monastery had become insupportable and entirely detrimental to me, for I found no answers there. The place which had once been my home was now one of intolerable oppression and confinement to me. And I longed to be free of it: to find somewhere distant to still my mind. I was lost, terribly lost, and I knew I must find solitude to seek my reconciliation with God. So it was that I determined to lead a hermit’s life – like the desert anchorites of old – in which I was certain I could feel no more alone than I did in that place.

  At first my petition to the abbot was ignored. But I was persistent. For the place of my retreat I proposed the Fens – the most dark and inhospitable of regions – so that my intent might not be dismissed in any way as merely vain or frivolous. And at last Adelard relented.

  So finally I came to stand once more before Abbot
Adelard, on the eve of my departure, as he sat and regarded me coldly. His accusation that I was forsaking my duty to the Church stung me deeply and instilled in me a strong sense of guilt; but I saw how the monastery itself had come to seem like a metaphor for my very being. How could I hope to stand against the chaos of the world outside until I learned to contend with the turmoil within?

  ‘And so, Brother,’ he said, ‘it is time for you to leave us. But first you will hear my judgement of you, for I think you stand in need of it. When you first came to us here, you became for a time a most promising member of this community. But your downfall has been your obduracy, which has become apparent in your excessive zeal. Ah, yes. It is true that a monk can be too zealous in his faith, I assure you. And it always displeases me to see this, for such a man is seldom reliable or sound. Remember that we must always be careful to bridle our faith with clear thought. This is what your Irish never understood, and that is why they lost. Common people may be impressed by displays of religious excess, but to thinking men such things are only the foolish posturing of children. I have often thought the title “saint” to be a distinction we bestow too freely upon attention seekers and lunatics. Yet I suppose these things please the simple folk and make them easier to manage. But you are not a simple man, Brother. So I caution you, do not fall so much in love with your own fervour that you mistake it for the true love of God. I have seen too many young monks divert their gross fleshly urges into what they delude themselves is religious passion.’

  ‘I am hardly seeking to satisfy fleshly urges alone in the middle of a swamp,’ I reminded him.