The Unburied Page 6

  The king, however, in the hours of darkness before dawn on this, the tenth day and the one on which Wulflac was to be killed, disguised himself as one of his own servants and managed to escape. Unrecognized, he made his way to where the army’s horses were stabled and found his own mount – the fierce Wederstepa, which nobody but he could ride. The horse resisted being saddled and mounted, but as soon as the king was astride, it recognized its master and grew still. Because of the noise the stallion had made, the young stable-boy was roused from sleep and as soon as he saw the horse’s gentle demeanour he knew that Alfred was the stranger in the saddle.

  ‘Incidentally,’ I said, ‘I don’t know if you’re familiar with that painting by Landseer in the National Gallery on the subject?’

  ‘Landseer?’ He smiled. ‘What is it called? “The King at Bay”?’

  I saw instantly that this was a joke and laughed. ‘No, this is Edwin’s brother, Charles Landseer. The painting is called “King Alfred being recognized by his devoted stable-lad”. It’s very moving. In the foreground the king, with an expression of mingled guilt and affection beautifully caught on his noble features, is turning his head away from the cry of startled recognition that has just come from the lips of the handsome boy who gazes at him with awe and devotion.’

  He removed the pipe and smiled. ‘Indeed? I’ll make a point of seeing it next time I’m up in Town.’ He seemed to be making some private allusion which was lost upon me.

  ‘Anyway, back to Grimbald:

  The boy seized the horse’s bridle and shouted until the rest of the household came running. The thegns were so moved by the king’s courage and determination that they now agreed to make an assault on the town without waiting for reinforcements. So the troops were quickly woken, mustered and drawn up facing the walls. The bishop could be seen still hanging above the main gate, and it was clear that he was close to death. Shortly before dawn the English army assembled and waited for the king’s signal to attack. At that moment the sun, which had just risen over Woodbury Downs, began to be swallowed up by a black shadow and the land grew darker and darker until within the space of a minute, complete darkness fell and a cold wind sprang up. Flames seemed to shoot out from the sun which was now hidden behind the disc of the moon. The horses neighed in terror and birds flocked together and wheeled about the skies in confusion, unsure if it was time to roost or not. This was something that nobody then living had ever seen and everybody imagined that it signified the end of the world. Only Alfred knew that this was an eclipse; and so he rode up and down the lines shouting to his men that the sun would return within a minute or two. But his explanation came too late and his troops fell into a state of complete panic. The Danes were overcome by the same terror and Olaf, who was standing atop the main gate, believing that Wulflac had summoned the darkness up by the use of magic, ordered that the ropes which were holding him be cut. The scholar plummeted to his death just as the darkness began to lift. Shamefully, the Danes then threw the martyr’s body into a well beside the Old Minster – now known throughout Christendom as St Wulflac’s Well. Alfred’s horror and grief may be imagined. And although he managed to regain command of most of his scattered army, there was now no possibility of launching an attack on the town with frightened soldiers, especially now that the element of surprise had been lost.

  Fortunately, however, the new levies arrived the next day and Alfred immediately led an assault on the town and recaptured it, inflicting utter defeat on the enemy. At a mass in the Old Minster Olaf and his family and thegns were baptized and took the sacrament, and then he and Alfred exchanged rich gifts. With the capture of the town the treachery of Beorghtnoth was discovered for one of Wulflac’s chaplains, a man called Cathlac, revealed how the martyred bishop had tried to convey a message to the king about the eclipse. Beorghtnoth proved his treachery by fleeing to the Danelaw. Wulflac’s body was recovered from the well and buried in the Old Minster in a black stone coffin lined with lead and embellished with sculptures depicting ... [et cetera, et cetera]. The body was washed and anointed and covered in a cloth of fine ...

  I don’t think that’s particularly interesting.

  The Old Minster had been looted by the Danes and now that its buildings were being repaired, a curious incident occurred. Cathlac found an old document hidden in a wall which had been laid open by the ravages of the Danes. This was a charter under which an earlier king of Wessex a hundred years before had granted certain rights to the Abbey. Alfred accepted the validity of the charter and confirmed these rights henceforth in perpetuity, further endowing the see as a tribute to his martyred friend and teacher. And from that time forth miracles began to occur in association with St Wulflac and in particular with the well into which his body had been thrown. For it was found that loathsome sores were healed by water from the well, trees that were nourished with water from the well bore fruit in the depths of the winter ...

  There’s rather a lot more of this and it’s not frightfully interesting – nor particularly convincing – so I’ll stop there.’

  I was very moved by the story – as I always am when I think of the life of that extraordinary man, the English scholar-king who saved the nation from extinction. ‘Can you guess what my hypothesis is about the young chaplain?’ I asked.

  Austin shook his head.

  ‘Did you notice that he is the only character about whose private thoughts and feelings we are informed? In that scene when Alfred is praying, Grimbald writes that he was “deeply moved by this mark of the king’s respect for him and alarmed by what he suspected of Beorghtnoth’s treachery”. I believe the young chaplain was none other than Grimbald himself.’

  Austin pursed his lips. ‘That would explain why he is allowed to give such wise advice.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s very cynical. But you’re right and that supports my theory which I recently published in a paper for the Proceedings of the English Historical Society.’

  ‘How authentic is that story?’ Austin asked. ‘To me it sounds no more so than the famous cakes.’

  ‘There are a few difficulties,’ I admitted.

  ‘What about Wulflac predicting an eclipse?’

  ‘Yes, that raises some awkward questions. The astronomical knowledge that would have permitted that had been lost centuries earlier – at the collapse of Alexandrian civilization, in fact. But the writings of Ptolemy and Pliny were certainly known in England at that time, and so Wulflac and Alfred could well have understood what an eclipse was when one occurred.’

  ‘Was there an eclipse at that time? Is it possible to establish that?’

  ‘There is not known to have been one at precisely that moment. That is one reason why many scholars have refused to accept the authenticity of the Life.’

  ‘Believing that it was forged? By whom and why?’

  ‘Well, it survived in only one manuscript with the addition of a preface by Leofranc who described there how he had ordered it to be copied and distributed so that everyone should know how wise and learned King Alfred was.’

  ‘Does the manuscript itself provide any clues?’

  ‘Unfortunately it was destroyed in 1643 when the Library here was ransacked. So all we have is a very inadequate edition of the Leofranc recension published by the antiquarian, Parker, in 1574.’

  ‘Why would anyone have bothered to forge it?’

  ‘I don’t believe anybody did, though I am prepared to concede that Grimbald’s original text was altered and added to by Leofranc. He certainly added that material at the end describing the finding of an old charter that enriched the abbey, and he probably added the account of the miracles in order to make the abbey a centre of pilgrimage.’

  ‘In that case, perhaps he forged the whole thing?’

  ‘That’s what a rogue who disgraces the name of scholar – a man called Scuttard – suggested about three months ago when he published a paper in the same journal attacking my own in the most violent terms. He argued that Leofranc forged the whole of i
t by plagiarizing and cobbling together other texts.’

  ‘You keep talking about this Leofranc as if he were living next door. Who was he, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Do you really not know? He was the bishop who created the cult of the martyred saint, Wulflac, here in Thurchester. Scuttard argues that he did so in order to raise money to demolish the Anglo-Saxon Minster and build the Cathedral ...’

  ‘I noticed that Grimbald refers to “the Old Minster” which suggests that the account was composed after it had been replaced. And that was not until twelve-something, was it?’

  ‘It was at the beginning of the twelfth century, Austin.’

  ‘Sorry. I get the elevens and the twelves and the thirteens a bit confused. The medieval period is nothing but monks and battles to me until you get to Henry VIII and his wives.’

  I shuddered and went on: ‘The manuscript published by Parker was copied in about 1120, so that fits Leofranc’s dates. But you’re right that that is one of the pieces of evidence Scuttard used. And he argued that the whole enterprise that Leofranc carried out – elevating Wulflac’s Well and his tomb into a shrine which became an object of pilgrimage throughout the middle ages – was based on this forgery.’

  ‘Scuttard argues that Wulflac was not martyred?’

  I nodded. ‘He goes much further: he actually argues that he never existed. And it’s true that there is no reference to his existence apart from Grimbald’s Life. But one of my objections to Scuttard in my riposte last month was to ask why, in that case, did Leofranc not forge a life of Wulflac rather than of Alfred?’

  ‘I suppose that what he did was much more sophisticated. Writing a life of Alfred in which St Wulflac is shown to play a significant role smuggles the martyr into existence much more effectively.’

  ‘That is exactly what Scuttard has replied,’ I acknowledged gloomily. ‘And if that is accepted, then some of his other outrageous suggestions are given plausibility. Above all, his absurd and horrible idea that Alfred did not defeat the Danes but was actually defeated by them, paid them Danegeld and became their vassal.’

  Austin studied my face dispassionately. ‘Does it really matter?’

  ‘I don’t like to see a man using bogus scholarship to boost his career. That paper of his has made him the leading contender for the new Chair of History at Oxford. But if I can find what I’m looking for, the original version of Grimbald which I believe the antiquarian Pepperdine saw in 1663, then I can destroy his argument and prove that Grimbald’s Life is genuine.’

  ‘Who was the most likely candidate until Scuttard published his paper?’

  I felt myself blushing. ‘I hadn’t decided whether or not to let my name go forward, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Did Scuttard attack you because he saw you as a possible rival?’

  ‘Without a shadow of doubt.’

  ‘So finding the manuscript would hugely help your chances?’

  I was struck by the malice in his tone and I wondered if he felt bitter because, despite his brilliance, he had gained a disappointing degree and had had to abandon hopes of a fellowship. His lack of success was at least partly due to his refusal to work at the things he was not interested in – though other factors were also responsible.

  ‘I’m not sure that I would want the Chair. A life of quiet scholarship and teaching is all I desire and I have that already. The respect and even affection of my pupils mean more to me than the title of “professor”.’

  Austin smiled to himself in the most irritating way. ‘Suppose you find the manuscript but it disproves your argument?’

  To change the subject, I said: ‘Why don’t you open your gift, Austin?’

  He picked it up. ‘I’d almost forgotten about it.’ He removed the paper with great delicacy and held the book in front of him. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  In some embarrassment, I said: ‘I understand it’s a formidable contribution to the debate about chronology.’

  ‘It was kind of you to think of it. I’m sure it’s a very intelligent piece of work.’

  He made a pretence of being interested, opening and looking at it.

  ‘The author is a Fellow of Colchester which for you and me must be the strongest recommendation anyone could have. And he is, indeed, a brilliant man in his field. I know you will disagree, but he argues that the evidence from geology pushes the date of the Creation back to millions of years ago. I understand that ...’

  ‘I suppose it’s because of this blessed manuscript that you’ve arranged to see Locard?’ he interrupted me.

  ‘I assume you know him?’

  ‘Oh yes, I know him. I know him for a cold-hearted, ambitious and dry-as-dust pedant. He is one of those men for whom the shell is more important than the content, the form than the substance. He is one of those men who have stood on the edge of life, too frightened to dip more than a toe in the water.’

  ‘I don’t mind how dry Dr Locard keeps his feet so long as he knows his business,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘He might know his business as a scholar but he certainly does not know it as a churchman. Beneath all the accoutrements of a Ritualist, he’s as devoid of faith as the author of this.’ He tapped the book. ‘Like so many in our age, he has abandoned the centre of our religion and fled to the trappings. But all of these scientific hypotheses about apes and fossils and galaxies are irrelevant. The fact that everything can be explained by one theory – the rationalistic-scientific as it might be termed – does not mean that there is not a larger theory to which it is subordinate.’

  ‘Oh, you mean that God put the fossils there when he made the world one Monday morning in 4004 BC just in order to test our faith, as some of your distinguished co-religionists have argued?’

  ‘No, I do not mean that. If you would do me the courtesy of attempting to follow my argument, you might grasp the point I’m making.’

  I felt in his cruel words all the frustration of a clever man who knows he has thrown away his opportunities.

  There was a moment of silence. ‘I hope you haven’t made an enemy of Dr Locard,’ I said, remembering what old Gazzard had said. ‘He’s obviously a powerful man.’

  ‘Powerful? Why, what could he do to me?’ he said, throwing the book down on the floor beside him.

  ‘At worst, I imagine he could have you dismissed from your post.’

  ‘Yes, in worldly terms he is powerful, if that is what you mean.’

  ‘How would you live if you lost your situation?’

  ‘Very poorly. I have no resources and no friends who could help me. But do you think I would regret the loss of my post – teaching lumpen youths in this vicious little town? I long to return to Italy. You remember I was there once?’

  ‘But Austin, how would you live? Even in Italy you would need some sort of income.’

  ‘You reduce everything to money and jobs. Don’t you see that none of that really matters? Not ultimately.’

  ‘Then what does matter?’ I asked.

  He gazed at me with an unfathomable expression and when at last I realized that he didn’t intend to answer I said: ‘Do you mean that all that is important is the fate of your soul?’

  I meant to keep from my tone any note of sarcasm as I pronounced those last words. But Austin smiled bitterly. ‘You accused me just now of believing in “eternal life and all that nonsense”.’

  ‘I apologize. I momentarily forgot myself. It is quite contrary to my principles to ridicule the beliefs of another.’

  ‘However ridiculous?’ he asked with the merest hint of irony.

  ‘Historically, most men in most societies have believed in the survival of the soul after death. In believing in a heavenly reward you have at least the weight of opinion on your side.’

  He held up a hand to stop me. ‘I haven’t made myself clear. I do believe in good and evil and redemption and damnation. I accept them utterly and without question. They are as real to me as the chair I am sitting on. More real. You say I’m taken in
by the idea of eternal life, but I tell you, damnation is more real and convincing to me than salvation. And certainly more probable.’

  Just as I believed I was close to understanding him, comprehension was snatched away. ‘Why do you say that?’

  He held my gaze until I looked away. ‘Let me ask you the question you just put to me: What does matter? What ultimately matters to you?’

  I found it hard to answer. ‘I suppose scholarship. Truth. Humanity.’ I broke off. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Austin, that’s a question for undergraduates. What matters is trying to live decently. Trying to do one’s best. I mean, trying to behave with respect and understanding towards other people. And finding some degree of intellectual fulfilment, social sustenance and aesthetic pleasure.’

  ‘There you have the difference between us. Let me put this to you. Suppose you had to describe your life as if it were a journey, then what would you say about it?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I am suggesting that for you life is a slow progress across a wide plain – you can see the land ahead and behind for many miles.’

  ‘I understand. And you don’t see your life in such terms?’

  He smiled. ‘Hardly. For me, life is a dangerous quest through thick mist and darkness along a narrow ridge with a steep drop on either side. At moments the mist and the darkness lift and I see the giddying drop on either side of me, but I also see the peak towards which I am making my way.’

  ‘My life is not without its moments of unexpected excitement. For example, when I found the reference to the possibility of the Library here having that manuscript ...’

  ‘I’m not talking about manuscripts,’ Austin interrupted. ‘What about passion?’

  I smiled in irritation. ‘At our age, Austin ...’