26: TETTA WRITES TO ALCUIN *
June 23, Year of our Lord 793
To Alcuin of York, my best-beloved:
Tetta, from the depths of immeasurable distress, sends a desperate appeal.
Terrible news!
Lindisfarne has been destroyed by barbarians from the North.
God's righteous wrath, once felt by the wretched and proud sinners of Sodom and Gomorrah, has inexplicably extinguished a humble community devoted to praising and obeying Him.
Why? In my pain and confusion, that question never departs. Why? Without cease, I beg God -- who is so high above us, yet stoops to hear the cries of the lowly -- to answer: O, why? I seek understanding in the words of Holy Scripture: "Many are the afflictions of the righteous man, but the Lord shall deliver him from them all." I read and read again: "It is through tribulations that we may enter of the Kingdom of God, so let us rejoice in our tribulations." Yet, how can I rejoice that heathens have desecrated God's sanctuaries with slaughter and outrage, poured the blood of Saints around the altar, burned the house of our hope, trampled on the bodies of Saints in God's temple like animal dung in the street.
My heart aches to remember my martyred sisters -- brutally, mercilessly butchered; or dragged in chains, naked and loaded with insults, to the ships of the north-men; or drowned in attempting to escape the island; or, most tragically, driven to the sin of suicide. The north-men came like stinging hornets and spread on all sides like fearful wolves, robbing, violating, committing sacrilege everywhere, ripping and slaughtering my flock of virgin scholars! Alcuin -- behold with pity and tears the shrine of Saint Cuthbert, spattered with the blood of the brides of God, stripped of its ornaments, trampled by the polluted steps of pagan fiends, within fire-black walls once graced by Northumbria's finest art! A place more venerable than all in England was the prey of pagan wretches. It has been nearly 350 years that we and our ancestors have inhabited England, and never before has such terror appeared here as we have now suffered, nor was it ever imagined that such an attack from the sea could be made.
Despite the distress and disorder of my mind, I owe you a duty to describe in this letter all I witnessed; perhaps you can find a meaning in these miserable events, which seem so senseless. On the evening of June 8 -- a date of infamy which shall, surely, be never forgotten -- terrible portents were seen all over Northumbria, miserably frightening the people: whirlwinds swirled across the land, immense sheets of lightning filled the skies, and fiery dragons were seen flying in the air. (So many credible people have reported these sinister signs that they ought not be dismissed as superstition, but as unheeded warnings from Heaven.) Blind to the approaching danger, we went through our accustomed routines; after final Mass, I made sure that all the nuns were in the dormitorium, and then proceeded with my assistant, Sister Wilthburga, to my office and sleeping-chamber. During the third hour of the night, I was awoken by Sister Wilthburga, who informed me that she had seen men outside. At the window, I saw that she was correct -- O, what horror, watching hundreds of strangers, each bearing flame, scrambling over the convent walls! These were obviously not troops of King Aethelred, or of any Northumbrian knight -- their weapons and clothes were so strange and crude, that I have never before seen the like -- some of the pagans actually wore helmets with horns sticking up, as if to imitate the Devil! There were hundreds (if not thousands) of pagan warriors with torches and weapons, running at the home of Saint Cuthbert!
Resisting panic, Sister Wilthburga and I searched our bed-chamber for the alarm-bell. We had never had a need to use it before, and I confess to my shame and regret that I could not remember where I had put it. We searched for it frantically, until Sister Wilthburga located the bell under a pile of manuscripts. (Tetta the hypocrite -- for I had lectured my nuns many times about the virtues of tidiness and order! Alcuin, I hope that you may never learn to despise me.) By this time, the invaders had already penetrated the sanctity of Cuthbert's temple. I stuck my arm out the window and started ringing the bell. When Sister Wilthburga observed that a group of the pagans was approaching our building, I stopped ringing it.
Hearing the sound of weapons striking at the door to my office, Sister Wilthburga and I slipped fruit-knives into our stockings and climbed out the bedroom window and hid in the bushes beneath. Seeing that all of the attackers had left the area of the church, Sister Wilthburga and I ran from shadow to shadow towards it. Not daring to enter by the front doors, which were in clear view of the courtyard and most of the other buildings, we slipped inside through the side chapel-door. Two items needed to be secured, at any cost, from the unholy hands of pagans: the Gospels of Saint Cuthbert, and his remains. Silver and gold ornaments may be replaced; domestic and scholastic supplies may be replenished; even the lives of nuns, each so precious and pure, were of infinitely less worth than those sacred items from our Church's earliest history.
Except for a single candlestick taken from the altar, we found that nothing in the church had been looted -- yet. It was an instant to take up the gospel-book, but rescuing Saint Cuthbert was a challenge -- sliding the stone slab from the top of his crypt was normally a job for six nuns, and we were only two. Yet the feeble arms of elderly women, for a moment, gained the strength of Samson, and we were able to wrench the heavy slab away. Our strength was further tested, in reaching down into the crypt to grip the famous casket and lift it out.
Sister Wilthburga urged that we hide. But I guessed -- correctly, it proved -- that the invaders would search every building in the convent for valuables, and then set them all afire. We had to flee.
With the gospel-book hidden inside my shirt, both of my hands could grip the ancient pine-wood casket. It was surprisingly light, and I suspect that the spirit of Saint Cuthbert himself miraculously assisted us.
At the side chapel-door, we saw only a few of the pagan warriors outside, and they were far enough away that we might slip out unobserved. We carried the relics from shadow to shadow, and reached one of the gates of the convent wall. We had to put Saint Cuthbert onto the ground, as we opened the latch. A barbarous shout from behind us. We had been seen. Pagans ran after us!
I welcomed death, as a passage to Paradise. No, the fear that struck me then was not for my own personal safety, but for that of our precious burden. I had devoted my life to preserving Saint Cuthbert's holy remains and studying the exquisite painted pages of his Gospel. It was fear of their pollution at the hands of pagans that filled my soul with panic and my body with a desperate energy! We ran through the gate, bearing Cuthbert's ancient coffin as if it weighed less than a basket of dry laundry.
We fled with our Saint, along a trail to the beach, hearing the fearsome sounds of pursuit behind. Barbarous yells and curses filled the dark forest! (The north-men use a language like English, but with strange pronunciation and an ugly, harsh accept. Some words were completely foreign, but I could understand most of their speech. Some barbarians were heard referring to a home-land "back in the North". I have never seen men of this kind before. Most were blonde-haired and pale of skin, but others were darker than Beelzebub. Alcuin, is it possible that these people were Germans?)
We reached the beach, heading toward the dock and the fishing-boats. But soon after we left the shadows of the forest, our pursuers burst out after us.
"We have to drop the Saint!" Wilthburga cried. "He's slowing us down."
I said, "Never! Have faith in the Lord!"
And so we ran, hoping for a miracle to save us, until Sister Wilthburga (who was behind me, holding the foot of the casket) was seized from behind. She dropped her end of the casket to the beach-sand and -- I shudder to remember! -- the sacred container broke open, spilling Saint Cuthbert's desiccated legs and hips onto the beach sand! The sacred bones and clothing-shreds of the first evangelist to England, dumped onto the sand and sea-shells before my very eyes!
With one hand, I clutched the Gospels concealed under my shirt, and with the other, I pulled the knife from my stocking and held it to my nose. I had remembered the example of Saint Agatha; like her, I was willing to spoil the superficial appearance of my face, to discourage forcible ravishment.
Surrounded by seven or eight of the armed pagans, my attention was captured by their leader -- O, Christ and Mary and the Apostles, that I never see such a man again! If it was even a man, not a devil. He wore a helmet with terrifying horns, and like the other invaders, crude purple make-up was barbarously applied around his cruel eyes. Most shocking of all -- the skin of his face and body was as black as the accursed hide of Lucifer, and hair hung from his head like the twisted tresses of Medusa! Was this creature a man or a devil? To this day, I cannot decide.
Devils or men, there is no doubt that they were all inspired by the Fallen Arch-Fiend of Darkness. They hurled Sister Wilthburga roughly to the sand, snatching away the unused knife in her stocking.
"Leave us!" I commanded. "By Cuthbert, leave this holy sanctuary!"
The black devil snarled, "Put down the knife. Give me whatever you have hidden in your shirt."
"Never!"
"Do as I say or die."
"Then I embrace martyrdom!"
As the evil horned-one approached me, I offered a quick prayer to Saint Agatha and briskly sliced away the tip of my nose. It fell to the beach-sand, followed by a shower of my life-blood.
The strongest proof that these invaders were devils, not men, consists of their reaction to my facial sacrifice: any man of flesh and blood -- no matter how callous and hard-hearted -- would, on seeing an aged Abbess cut off her nose in defence of her honour, surely feel some degree of pity, perhaps even regret; but these monsters laughed.
I saw them gripping their own bellies with mirth and merriment, howling with amusement at my action.
The leader said, "That's the craziest thing I've seen!"
Another of the Godless crowd crowed, "Odin must be laughing now too!"
They all howled with mockery.
It was hard to breathe, with so much blood flowing down into my mouth, but I managed to shout, "Back! Or I will cut off more!"
That threat only increased their devilish mirth.
I held the little knife to my cheek, and was about to slice deeply into the wrinkled skin, when one of the north-men threw a shield at me. The edge of it forcibly impacted on my abdomen, knocking the air from me; I fell.
They seized me, reached roughly in my shirt -- where no male hand had been before (except yours, so long ago) -- and they yanked away the precious Gospels of our True Faith! I tried to take it back, even in my pained condition, gasping, "Sacred! Sacred! It is sacred!" But to no avail.
A barbarian asked of their horrifying-looking leader, "Take this one to the ships too?"
"No, leave her," the leader said. "Who would want to buy a crazy old slave with no nose?"
I appealed to him, with outstretched arms, "The Gospels. Give me back the sacred Gospels of revered Cuthbert!"
"What?"
One nearby north-man said, "I think she wants that thing" -- gesturing at the Holy book.
The leader said, "She does have a sense of humour." He opened the Gospels (upside-down, the illiterate) and started to flip through its famous, irreplaceable pages. He frowned in bafflement. "We don't need this," he said.
I felt a surge of relief, soon replaced by outrage when I saw the leader ripping away the richly-decorated covers of the manuscript! Rejecting in his ignorance the words and Truth inside, he tore off the gems and hammered gold of the book's famous cover. He kept the front and back covers, tossing aside the pages of divine content. And then the group left, dragging away poor Sister Wilthburga by a rope to her neck, leaving Saint Cuthbert and myself both sprawled on the dark sand.
Over the tree-tops, I saw the sky start to glow orange, from the burning buildings of our lost home. I spent the night on that beach, pained greatly in my face and my abdomen, sure that I would die from my wounds before the light of dawn. Yet, by the grace of the Virgin and Son, I survived to be discovered the next day by horsemen of King Aethelred, who were searching the island for survivors. There were only 12, including me. Tragically, four of the surviving nuns died later -- two of their wounds, and two (deranged by their loss of virginity) at their own hands.
As an epilogue, let me tell you of what followed. We survivors were taken to the king's court at Bambury, where we were made to describe our ordeal again and again to the king and his knights and Bishop Higbold. From Bambury, we were transported to the monastery at Jarrow, where we have remained since.
You will be relieved to learn that the casket of Saint Cuthbert has been repaired and his re-assembled remains, with all proper rituals and blessings and dignity, placed back in. Despite the loss of its precious covers, the Gospels are undamaged, except for a bit of water-damage on one corner, from resting in a puddle.
The doctors say that what remains of my nose is healing well. I have never been vain of my looks, but I must admit that I sometimes shudder when I look into a mirror. People sometimes point and stare at me. Only you, brother of the spirit, could see past my disfigurement and perceive the face of my youth, as I so remember your dear face from long-ago times.
News is scarce here, and I am naive in worldly things, but I will tell you what I have learned since coming here. There have been no more raids, yet the entire nation is on the highest alert. I have been informed that King Aethelred, who was greatly lacking in popularity until recently, has been hailed by all Northumbrians for his wise and decisive actions in the days following the Lindisfarne disaster. New military defences are being prepared, I am informed, to prevent any future incursions from the sea. King Aethelred has travelled around the kingdom, making speech after eloquent speech, demanding fortitude and strength, promising to deter the north-men. He said, "We must stand manfully, fight bravely and defend the camp of God." He counsels against despair or panic, declaring that if we change our traditional ways in reaction to the disaster, then the barbarians will have won.
Perhaps they have already won. Dearest Alcuin, please forgive what I must confess -- the shock of my experiences has changed my character so much that I now embrace practices I once scorned. You know my life-long contempt for primitive superstition, the fanciful "magic" of ignorant peasants. Now, I am proved a hypocrite again, for at night, when it is time for me to rake up the coals in the fire in my room -- I use the poker to scrape an "X" in the glowing ashes, in hopes that doing so will protect me from fire. I know that this archaic folk-ritual, a lingering remnant of paganism, is forbidden -- yet doing so comforts me, and I have not strength to resist. Does that make me a heretic? Is my soul in a new hazard? Is attempting magic a venal sin or a mortal one? I have nobody but you to ask, my trusted oblate.
Bishop Higbold seems, as well, to have been changed by the disaster at Lindisfarne. He was once the most worldly of priests, notorious for his gaudy clothes and feasting, but he seems to have interpreted the disaster as a personal message from God. I am told that he now lives humbly, dressing in accordance with Chapter LV of Benedict's Rules -- "Worry not about the colour or the texture of these things, but let them wear what can be bought most cheaply ... It is sufficient to have two tunics and two cowls" -- and I am told he now dines in full compliance with Chapter XXVI: "Let a pound of bread be sufficient food for the day ... Let all except the very weak and the sick abstain altogether from eating the flesh of animals."
Bishop Higbold preaches, even to knights and King Aethelred himself, that the only effective defences are spiritual. I am told that he insists that no Christian should handle weapons of war, it is better to throw ourselves on Christ's mercy. He quotes a passage from Saint Paul, "When I am weak, then I am strong." He compares the north-men to a contagious disease, and asks if an epidemic can be avoided by flight or fought off with weapons?
"We declare that to be utterly foolish," I heard him say in the presence of King Aethelred and many knights. "None can escape the hand of God. None can predict their hour of reckoning. Doomsday comes to all as a thief in the night. So repent, take refuge in prayer, despise this world, hope only for Heaven."
Bishop Higbold's new-found piety has apparently not endeared him to King Aethelred or the nobility. I have heard rumours that Higbold may be forced from office and replaced by Aethelred's brother-in-law, Aelbert.
In short, all is confusion in Northumbria. Our land's people are used to political crisis, and to aggression from across the borders we share with Wessex and Scotland and Pictland, but this surpasses all. It is not only I who wonders, unceasingly, why did God make this happen? Was this divine retribution, for the slack morals of our people? Look at our King: until recently, he was known mostly for his evil habits and contempt for justice. Look at our politics: so many murders and rebellions and bribery and corruption and defiance of the Church. Look at our appearance: inspired by fashion, the popular hairstyles and clothes are both reckless and unholy. Look at our bishops, owning gold goblets and huge estates of land; look at our priests, wearing silk outfits and eating sugar with a spoon; look at some of our nunneries, those that mainly exist as a refuge for noble women abandoned by husbands or widowed; look at vagabond monks selling fake relics to the gullible; look at a population that claims to be Christian, yet rarely attends church other than for sickness-cures, weddings and funerals.
Did the sins of Northumbria invite this disaster?
Did my own?
Alcuin, I have need of your wise counsel, more than ever in the past. Despite hearing the (contradictory) assurances of King Aethelred and Bishop Higbold, I spend my nights wracked in fear of another attack of north-men, with wailing captives and sacred buildings pouring out flames, here at the Jarrow monastery. How can I assume safety here? What security can be found anywhere in England, if Saint Cuthbert could not protect his own temple? If the Second Coming is at hand, will I -- most-guilty sinner -- be left behind, as I deserve?
I often think about my devastated nunnery, and often my thoughts fill with a strange, melancholy notion. As you know, the walls of our church at Lindisfarne were made of stone that had been quarried from an ancient Roman ruin. I ponder how, before our race arrived here, this land was ruled by Romans, worshipping Roman gods. Then the Romans disappeared, leaving nothing but crumbling ruins behind. Could that happen to our society here? Was the attack on Lindisfarne merely the first drop of a great torrent that will someday wash away, forever, all that we know and cherish? Is that God's plan?
I feel lost and bewildered and heart-sore! With my sisters nearly all slaughtered or enslaved, I am so lonely! Sometimes I imagine the fate of Sister Wilthburga (who was my closest confidante) and the other captured girls and women, in some barbarous pagan land, suffering unspeakable indignities, and I shudder with the deepest of revulsion and regret! I feel unable to continue my duties to God, after such calamity and woe.
O, my friend, I need you here! You have been in Germany so long, with such distinction -- serving the Church, advising King Charlemagne on a new education system, converting thousands of souls -- that surely you have earned a rest. In the light of Northumbria's need for spiritual guidance in this most trying of times, and in light of my personal desire for you, could you not ask of His Holiness permission to return home, if only briefly?
More than anything, I yearn to clasp your strong hands, gaze into your eyes, and pour into your ears all of the troubles of my tormented soul. Alcuin, only you can save me from utter despair -- please, return to Northumbria, and me!
If I were before you now, on bended knee and with floods of tears, my obvious and wretched need would compel your pity. Let not the distance between us keep your heart hard to my frantic appeal; let our shared past, our marriage of the spirit, draw you here with the speed of angels!