The Master Of The Chevron E-Book

John Broughton

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After the Norman Conquest, fate throws a studious monk and a bluff mason together for a lifelong friendship.

The monk, Thurgot, senses Kenrick’s destiny, a man who saves him from drowning near the Farne Isles. His Christian beliefs entwine with Kenrick’s pragmatic talents to overcome the obstacles of revolt, persecution and hardship that these turbulent times present. Each is able to leave his mark in late eleventh- and early twelfth-century Northumbria.

Even today, the visitor to Durham can admire the work of the first master mason. Follow his trials and tribulations in The Master Of The Chevron, the third novel in John Broughton’s Saint Cuthbert trilogy.

Leseprobe

The Master Of The Chevron

Saint Cuthbert Trilogy Book 3

John Broughton

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Postscript

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 by John Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Apart from known historical figures, names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Other than actual events, locales, or persons, again the events are fictitious.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

The Master of the Chevron is dedicated to Anyone who loves English Cathedrals

Special thanks go to my dear friend John Bentley for his steadfast and indefatigable support. His content checking and suggestions have made an invaluable contribution to

The Master of the Chevron

Frontispiece is by Dawn Burgoyne, with scholarly help from the ASHL group, special thanks to Helen M Cameron, Marie Hilder, Stella Mengels and Joseph St John.

Based on the St Petersburg Bede copied in the twin monastery of Wearmouth and Jarrow late 8th- early 9th century.

Dawn Burgoyne, medieval re-enactor/presenter specialising in period scripts. Visit her on Facebook at dawnburgoynepresents.

One

Cowesby, Northumbria, December 1068 AD

Quarrymen eke out rock that has lain undisturbed for millennia. The stonemason, blow by blow, creates an edifice destined to last as long. Decisions sculpt men’s destinies. Their decisions, too, are shaped by experience, which lays character stone by stone and as long as the foundations are on solid rock, the man grows tall and straight.

Kenrick held out his large calloused hands, palms uppermost for scrutiny.

“The only weapons these hands have wielded, Edwy, are a stone chisel and a mallet. I must leave the fighting to you.”

Edwy Aellasson glared at his younger brother. If the revolt was going to be a success, they needed every able-bodied man they could muster against the Norman invaders. William, who liked to style himself the Conqueror, may have won a decisive battle at Hastings against Harold, the true Saxon king of England, but the war was not over by any means, especially here in the far north of the kingdom. Kenrick was built like an ox and Edwy was determined to ensure that his brother’s muscles were used in the just cause of defending the family estates against the foreigners. Edwy was a nobleman, an ealdorman, and he meant to throw in his lot with Edmund Ironside’s grandson the Aetheling Edgar and any other trueborn Englishman, or even Dane, prepared to fight the Normans.

The thought that his brother, two years his junior, all brawn and no brain, it seemed, was not disposed to use his considerable physical strength on their behalf made his blood pound at his temples. Had the oaf lived among the Normans for too many years? What was he saying now?

“My cause is not yours, Edwy. I work for the glory of God. I am a mason, not a warrior. As I told you, I have no more interest in horse-trading or fighting. These last nine years I have used these hands to create, not to destroy.”

Edwy scowled at his sibling and did not attempt to disguise the bitterness in his voice,

“Ay, working in Normandy, on behalf of the foe, who will stop at nothing to deprive Saxons and Anglians, of their hard-won and legitimately held lands. Would you turn against your family, brother?”

Kenrick sighed in exasperation,

Why should I fight for estates I have no share in? Why revolt against those who would promote my career?

This last thought was his closely guarded secret that he was unprepared to divulge even to his brother. As far as he was concerned, the discussion was over. He would make his way, as arranged, to Bishop Ethelwin in Durham and take up his position as Master Mason.

“May God protect you, brother, I am no warrior and I must leave you now to use my hands in the Lord’s service.”

“Traitor! May your God judge you harshly for betraying your people and your family! Go! Run off to your Norman masters but never return here calling yourself the son of Aella. Father will be turning in his grave at your faithlessness!”

Kenrick slammed the door, leapt on his grey dappled mare and wiping a tear from his eye, rode for Durham. His homecoming had not been as expected after nine years away in Normandy. The loving friendship and brotherliness enjoyed in his childhood and youth had been replaced by hatred and incomprehension and all thanks to lust for power and wealth—two things that did not interest him in the slightest. He had failed to communicate what truly motivated him to his brother and, yet, his was a family that could trace itself back to close friendship with Saint Cuthbert through a direct ancestor who bore his father’s name, Aella. That particular Aella, the creator of the cover to the Cuthbert Gospel and the author of the Vita Sancti Cuthberti would surely have understood his, Kenrick’s, desire to create a cathedral. But what did his brother know of his sibling’s achievements in Normandy? How could he, a warrior, horse-breeder and owner of farmland, understand the essence of raising a stone monument destined to endure through the ages on a scale worthy of the Almighty? Had he not returned to Northumbria expressly for this purpose and did he not bear in his saddlebag a sealed letter that would make him the master mason of the new project in Durham?

At the gates of the city, high on its hill in a bend of the River Wear, guards barred his way but a glimpse of that seal was enough to allow his entry. He rode to the bishop’s palace, paid a lad to look after his horse and used the impressed wax crest to gain admittance to Bishop Ethelwin’s presence.

The prelate, a thin-faced man with grey hair and slightly hooked nose, a clergyman of austere aspect, broke the sigil and perused the writing with his intense piercing blue eyes. At last, he looked up and concentrated them on Kenrick.

“So, my son, you are a skilled mason and are designated to take charge of the building of the new cathedral. Come with me, I will show you the site.”

The bishop led him out of the house not far towards the cathedral, upon which Kenrick gazed in astonishment.

“But Your Grace, there is already a cathedral here in Durham!”

“Ay, and it is new enough…but the king wishes a more glorious edifice to be raised right next to it. There are many considerations to take into account. In the first place, work is due to begin on a cathedral at Canterbury and I have it on good authority that the length of the church will be eighty-five paces of a tall man. Therefore, our new building must be longer, at least one hundred and twenty.” The prelate’s face glowed with enthusiasm—or was it fanaticism? “After all,” he added, “this edifice will contain the shrine of Saint Cuthbert, and thus, it must be as grandiose as your skill can make it, my son.”

“What about the Saxon building?”

“You may count on using the stone in your construction.”

“So, it will be demolished. But the material will not suffice.”

The bishop smiled knowingly and his expression became serious.

“I spoke with the mason who created this building and although he is an old man now, his mind is still acute. He tells me that across the river,” the bishop pointed, “over yonder, there is a sandstone outcrop. The rock is of fine quality and ideal for masonry.” The prelate looked smug.

Kenrick did not share that sentiment as he gazed in dismay across the deep gorge to the west bank of the fast-flowing Wear. The crag in question was only seven hundred yards as the crow flies but the drop of forty yards to the river made for inclines too steep for ox teams to convey the blocks of stone.

Kenrick made this point but the clergyman was prepared for the objection:

“By making a track north from the future quarry, and then east to cross the river on a wooden bridge, which we must begin building immediately at a place called Framwell, the gradients will be quite possible to manage with ox-drawn carts.”

“I shall have to inspect the riverbed at the place you suggest, Your Grace.”

The prelate was informed about this, too.

“You will find that the bed is rocky and the river shallow there, so its suitable for a bridge.”

Kenrick smiled and scratched behind an ear with his forefinger,

“I see you have thought much about the whole business, for, naturally, we will have to support the wooden bridge on masonry piers and abutments, thus the riverbed will need to provide sound foundations.”

“On the morrow, you will inspect the river at that place, in person. With your approval, work on the bridge will begin.”

Walking back to the bishop’s residence, Kenrick’s head was awhirl with calculations of tonnes of dressed stone, weights of rubble needed and the question of the provision of limestone and sand. He knew from Normandy that an army of men would be required to work on a construction of this scale. But first, they had to beat flat a haul road, construct the bridge and make lime kilns for mortar production. All of this could only be achieved in times of peace. Yet, after visiting his brother, he knew of the threat of war.

I cannot betray Edwy! But there’s a cathedral to be built.

The bishop cut across his musings by talking about Saint Cuthbert.

“Of course, you know the tale of how the saint came to choose Durham, do you not?”

Kenrick admitted he did not.

“Well, the monks, not for the first time, had to flee from the Vikings and leave Cuneceaster. Carrying his coffin, they followed two milkmaids who were searching for a dun-coloured cow and found themselves on this peninsula at this loop in the river. Thereupon, Cuthbert's coffin became immovable, which the monks took as a sign that the new shrine should be located here.”

Kenrick was not thinking of the Viking raids of 995 but more modern warriors including his brother, Edwy. If he did not warn the bishop of the rebels’ plans, their scheme for a new cathedral would be worthless.

Six months earlier,

Jumièges, Normandy, 1067 AD

The stonemasons assembled in a compact and jubilant group, the moment they had been awaiting in the months leading up to the consecration of their masterpiece, the Abbey of Jumièges, had arrived. Today, William the Bastard, or as he preferred, William the Conqueror, after his successful enthronement as King of England was present at the ceremony. Talking about England, one blond-haired member of their group, known to them as Le Saxon, real name Kenrick Aellasson, had more reason than any of them to feel proud. He had reinvented himself as a mason, whilst still managing to continue the family tradition of horse-trading when called upon. As the second son, therefore with no likelihood of inheriting the estates in Northumbria, he had followed a natural curiosity and interest that had led him to the building site of the abbey to seal friendship with the master mason, Robert de Morlaix, who commanded an army of workmen that included carpenters, layers, metal-smiths, carriers, rope makers, and even animals—oxen: a marvellous bustling world apart, beguiling to Kenrick. He had discovered a universe into which he had plunged heart and soul, working hard to complete a seven-year apprenticeship and serving another two as a fully-fledged stonemason in his own right.

An archbishop, the abbot, priors, priests and deacons marched in procession in order of ecclesiastical rank, the senior prelate sprinkling holy water from his aspergillum and catching Kenrick full in the face, making him feel even more blessed. He gazed at the richly bejewelled processional cross, its bearer one step ahead of the archbishop, and copied its form, signing with his hand over his chest.

The masons had their instructions to latch onto the procession of clergymen and parade down the nave in their train, where the Duke of Normandy, neo-King of England was enthroned before the altar.

The ceremony passed by Kenrick in a blur of meaningless ritual because his senses were concentrated on the structure he and his predecessors had achieved, for work had begun more than a hundred and fifty years before. Vikings had burnt down the previous building and Duke William Longespee, before his assassination, had laid the foundation stone to this much grander edifice. But all that was hearsay to Kenrick since it had happened before his birth. He had twenty-eight winters to his name and was a relative newcomer to Jumièges.

After glorying in their achievement and interpreting the construction of the building as easily as a scribe might read a psalter, his mind wandered during the long service to what he would do now that the abbey was completed. For sure, there would be more work in Normandy for a skilled mason like himself; he knew of at least three cathedrals under construction in this area alone. But his heart ached to return to Northumbria even if he had little idea of the political situation after the conquest by the ruthless Duke William. Surely, the King of England would sail back to his new realm, so why not seek passage with his numerous entourage? After this infinite consecration ceremony ended, he would ask Robert the Master Mason for advice.

He caught the mason’s arm on the steps outside the west entrance,

“My friend, I wish to leave and return to my homeland but only if I can continue working as a mason.”

His mentor looked at him fondly, for Kenrick had proved one of his most able protégés, showing a quickness to learn, willingness to improve and a certain ingenuity. He would be sorry to lose him but, as he could not imagine leaving his beloved Normandy, he understood Kenrick’s yearning for home.

“Leave it with me, I think I know the right person to approach. Today is difficult, but on the morrow, I will put forward your name, Saxon.”

Kenrick smiled at the swarthy-faced mason; his skin darkened by exposure to the rigours of extreme weather on towering scaffolding. He accepted the name with good grace, although not a Saxon, but an Anglian, it was no use trying to explain the difference to his companions for whom he would always be theSaxon.

After the ceremony, he watched the unskilled labourers piling tools and material onto ox-carts to clear the site. It was hard to believe that his years of work on this magnificent structure had come to an end. The Duke used abbeys, cathedrals and castles on a monumental scale to impress on everyone the crude power that he wielded without mercy—a reminder to his subjects that they were to obey him through the authority invested in him by the Church and thus, implicitly, God.

A voice interrupted his reverie.

“Saxon, meet me here tomorrow at noon when I hope to have news for you,” said Robert de Morlaix, clapping him on the back.

The status of the master mason was such that a recommendation from him carried considerable weight. It took very little for Robert to convince King William’s cleric that his Saxon mason was worthy of the most important commission the monarch might wish to bestow on him. A brief meeting with the clerk was enough to gain Kenrick passage onboard one of the ships bound for Kent. The exchange also established the mason’s origins and resulted in a promise that his skills would be used in his homeland area. First, he would have to travel to London with the royal party, where his case would be dealt with and the necessary documentation provided for him. The clerk smiled thinly,

“Do not worry, friend, you will be given the post of master mason because your famed teacher has faith in you.”

A few days in London and he emerged clutching a parchment with a large red wax seal, which he stowed in his saddlebag together with a purse bulging with silver coins to ‘tide him over’. His instructions were to travel to Durham and present the letter to Bishop Ethelwin.

Two

Lincoln, Lindsey, April 1068 AD

“Hook that rope around the doorpost!”

The Norman warrior tossed the cord with an iron grapple attached to one of his men. The other end was fastened to the yoke around the shoulders of a large ox.

“You can’t do this! It’s my home!” A weeping woman cried. “At least let me gather some things!”

Her arms were pinned behind her back by another of the men whose task was simply to obey orders and deal with anyone, like this woman, trying to stop them executing their officers’ commands.

“You should have taken your belongings when we issued the warning!”

The officer had no more time to waste on the wretched Saxon slattern. He raised his birch wand and brought it down hard on the rump of the ox, which ponderously but irresistibly thrust its weight forward, heaving the doorpost out of the ground—just like extracting a bad tooth, the Norman soldier thought. As it broke free, the front of the house collapsed, the woman writhed and spat a torrent of vile oaths, causing the officer to spin and whip the birch across her face, leaving a vicious weal, tiny prickles of blood forming across her cheek. A large stone clattered against his chain mail shirt. It had been hurled with force but when he spun around, drawing his sword, there was no sign of the offender. If he had spotted the miscreant, he’d have had him seized and then…his mind dwelt momentarily on the possible cruelties he’d have inflicted.

He knew feelings were running high here on the hilltop settlement of Lincoln. It was understandable. He and his men were invaders, conquerors, foreigners, but he didn’t care about the locals’ sentiments. The king had commanded the building of a castle on this strategic point and that was what they would do. It meant demolishing six hundred houses, most of them little better than hovels, nonetheless, the homes of the same number of potential enemies. Lincoln was a prosperous inland port of five thousand inhabitants. The richest among them were merchants, who traded with the lands across the North Sea, shipping wool out of ports like Boston and Lynn. They, at least were worth encouraging so that they could pay taxes into the king’s coffers. The castle, once built, would enable a small garrison to keep control not just of the town but also of the surrounding area.

One month later,

The minster church of St Mary, Lincoln

When the Normans entered the building, pushing the secular canons out of their way, Thurgot, a youth of ten and nine winters had no thoughts of resistance in mind. He was here for nothing more subversive than to learn psalmody, the art of singing psalms, something he excelled at with his fine voice and excellent pitch. This town had become his home, the centre of the bishopric of Lindsey from 678 until 958 when it became part of a huge see of Lincoln but based on Dorchester, Oxfordshire. He came from a family of landowners, of good position and had shown an aptitude for learning, making friends with some of the other Saxon youths of wealthy families.

“Which of you is named Thurgot?” the officer asked, glaring around the assembled group of curious faces. The warrior’s accent was so strong that the young man understood only after repeating the words to himself twice. He did not mean to be uncooperative, but when he stepped forward, the delay earned him a painful slap across the jaw from a mailed gauntlet.

“You will come with us!”

He did not need to interpret that because the meaning was quite clear when his arms were seized by two burly soldiers and he was dragged away from his companions and outdoors to the newly constructed castle built within a month by forced labour.

It took Thurgot two days to discover why he had been taken and locked in one of the cells of the castle. That was the time needed to befriend one of the gaolers, a young man of his own race who responded shyly to Thurgot’s cheerful demeanour. The captor found it strangely beguiling that the prisoner should be so buoyant in the face of his treatment and was prepared to risk the wrath of his overseers by chancing whispered conversation. This concession made life bearable for the resilient Saxon captive and enabled him to understand his situation.

“They’ve taken you as a hostage. You’re not the only one. It’s to make sure that the most important families in the area don’t organise a revolt, see?”

He did see. And he understood, but it meant that he was useful in confinement to the Normans and that might last for years and years! He couldn’t have that, but how could he escape from under the noses of the well-armed and vigilant guards?

Bribery was his only hope. Knowing that a lad like his gaoler would seldom if ever have held a silver piece in his hand, he whispered,

“I have coins hidden in a pocket inside my breeches. I can give you five silver coins if you help me flee this place.”

The youth’s eyes widened at the suggestion. Such coins were a fortune and he believed he could arrange an escape without risk to himself.

“I need two days, my friend! Tomorrow, I’ll tell you how it will be done.”

The next day, he brought Thurgot a bowl of steaming chicken broth and whispered instructions.

“I will take three coins; the other two you will give to the butcher. You will pull on his son’s bloodied tunic and keep the hood over your face. The guards are so dim-witted that they will not notice that he has arrived without his usual helper, but departs with him! When he arrives with his meat, you will be waiting, wearing the tunic I’ll give you, in the kitchen to help him unload. Remember, hood up!”

That night, Thurgot could not sleep. His mind was racing, worrying about everything that could go wrong. Since he was not privy to every detail, he also worried about the unknowns that might ruin the youth’s plans. Anxiously, he brooded on how they would arrive unseen in the kitchen and whether, once there, an overzealous cook might alert the guards. What he could not know was the extent of the hatred for the Norman taskmasters that meant a blind eye, deaf ears and mute tongues would be in order during his escape.

“Here, put this on! Make haste. We have a few minutes whilst the guards are changing.” Thurgot shrugged himself into the white, blood-spattered over-tunic, caring little about its unsavoury smell, as long as it meant freedom from this place. Without being instructed, he pulled the hood up over his head, receiving a grunt of approval. “Come, move!” The youth locked the cell door and he followed his saviour down a blessedly empty corridor and they turned sharply into a large, smoky room where a cauldron hanging over a fire issued steam and vegetables in bunches hung from the wooden beams. The three people working there gave him only a cursory, uninterested glance, so his thumping heart calmed its racing rhythm.

They stood by the door and waited. Thurgot fumbled inside the waistband of his breeches and took out three silver coins, pressing them into his deliverer’s hand.

“What will you tell them?”

“Nothing! But I’ll be well away by the time they miss you. I don’t want to work here, anyway!”

“Just don’t get punished for helping me.”

The gaoler smiled slyly,

“Shut up and remember to help the butcher unload. Just do as he says and don’t forget, you owe him two silver coins. God be with you!”

His rescuer walked away without a backward glance and, alone, Thurgot at once began to worry.

What if the butcher didn’t play his part?

But he needn’t have troubled himself. The tradesman pushed open the door and, glancing at the bloodied white tunic, ordered,

“Untie the canvas cover then lend a hand with the swine!”

Together, they worked on the knots of the rope holding fast the flaxen sheeting and that done, hauled the covering back to expose the meat. Hoisting a heavy half side of beef onto his burly shoulder, the ceorl trudged into the kitchen, familiarly greeting the cooks. Thurgot sprang into action, glancing, without hesitation, around the courtyard to assure himself that none of the soldiers was staring at him. All appeared normal; he grasped a sectioned pig and carried it into the vast room, laying it on a table as instructed, before returning to collect the other half.

The unloading finished, the butcher said,

“Tie the canvas loosely and then hop up next to me.” In a lower voice, he said, “Keep your hood up and don’t say a word unless you’re forced to.”

The butcher urged the ox into its plodding motion and headed towards the courtyard gate. Thurgot’s heart pounded in his chest, his head full of ‘what ifs…?’ The main one of these was…what if the guards remembered that the butcher had arrived alone? He wasn’t to know that was impossible because his gaoler and the butcher had arranged arrival time to coincide with the changing of the guard. Nonetheless, to Thurgot’s dismay, a rough voice ordered: “Halt!”

The guard did not as much as glance at him, but strode to the back of the cart, untied the loose knot he’d tied, raised the canvas and peered under to ensure there was no hidden fugitive. So, they were not as dim-witted as his rescuer had suggested.

“Move on!”

Never were two words more welcome. If only the ox had been as fleet-footed as a stallion! Still, the cart rolled over the wooden bridge and away into the space where once houses had stood tightly together. Thurgot bit his lip at the thought of the devastation the invaders had wrought.

“We have an agreement, lad,” said the butcher.

“Ay,” Thurgot nodded, fumbling for the coins inside his waistband. “Thank you for your aid, friend. I’ll not forget,” he said handing the coins to the eager tradesman. He made to take off the over-tunic.

“Not yet,” hissed the butcher, “wait till we’re well away from prying eyes.”

It seemed an age before the slow-paced beast hauled them under the old Roman arch and once through it, the driver said,

“Before we reach yon houses, you take off the tunic and slip away and may God be with you!”

Without further ado, he wriggled free of the overall and laid it next to the butcher.

“Bless you, friend. Farewell!”

He glanced around to ensure no-one was observing them, noticed by only a curious goose beside a house wall, he slipped down on to the road and strode briskly away. Knowing the town like the palm of his hand was an advantage and he made directly for the old Roman road out of the settlement in direction north.

Despite the occupation of the town by the Norman conquerors, the people in the outskirts, made up of scattered houses beside the thoroughfare into the countryside, continued about their normal activities and a solitary traveller did not excite attention.

He had only to decide where to go and what to do. Clearer in his head was what not to do. He could not return to St Mary’s church or his father’s estates. The Normans were sure to search for him in both places. Unfortunately, he could think of no-one and nowhere he would be welcome or safe. As he marched jauntily downhill out of the town, stopping just once to glance back at the arrogant castle dominating the settlement, he realised that he would have to leave the country. With this in mind, he decided would head for the coast. This direction would take him towards the Humber and he remembered his father talking about a port named Grimsby. In any case, he believed it would be quieter than the busy port of Boston and, anyway, the two ports were each a little more than ten leagues from Lincoln. So, in terms of distance, there was nothing to choose between them. His mind as made up; he’d walk to Grimsby. He would be there the next morning allowing for an overnight stop. His purse still held silver coins enough to ensure a bed and a meal and more besides. He grinned and thought that God would provide for his future, the important thing was that he was free.

Three

Durham, 1068 AD

The bishop’s house, with its intricately carved doorposts, towered over the neighbouring buildings and Kenrick could not help admiring the trappings of worldly success conceded to a prelate. He supposed, like the abbey at Jumièges, the effort committed to impressing the Church’s opulence on the populace for the glorification of the Almighty was justifiable. These musings reminded him of the situation that might undermine his schemes and those of the good bishop.

“Your Grace, there is a pressing matter that I have refrained from mentioning. All my thoughts have been on plans for the cathedral. None of them will come to fruition if we do not move to stop the rebellion.”

That word stopped the prelate in his tracks as if an invisible hand had pressed against his chest.

“Rebellion, you say? Kenrick, what is it that you know?”

“I know that the king has sent a new earl to Northumbria and that he will arrive within days in Durham.”