The Wanderer and the Way 26
A Letter from Home
This is Chapter 26 of The Wanderer and the Way, now available for purchase.
Alcuin spent most of the time between Sext and None the next day quizzing Theodemir on the subject of adoptionism. Discovering that despite his multiple readings of the letter of Beatus of Liébana, Theodemir was not prepared to do much more than repeat the formula of Constantinople, he set about explaining the matter to him. By the end of this, Theodemir found that he did indeed understand the controversy and the flaws in the adoptionist position and wondered whether, if he had gone to Tours rather than Rome for his studies, he might have made a much better scholar than he had become.
This matter concluded, Alcuin called for a novice to bring them cups of wine, and, when it was brought, and they had tasted it and seated themselves comfortably for conversation, he said, “The young woman speaks very highly of you.”
“Agnes?” he said.
“I was not aware that there was another,” Alcuin replied. “If there is, then I fear my opinion of you may change.”
“No, Agnes, of course, Father Abbot. I was only surprised that she spoke so highly of me. I have been the cause of much misery and many trials to her.”
“In her eyes, you are her savior from those same trials and misery. And I am quite certain of her sincerity in this. At court one develops an astute ear for false praise. Her regard for you is genuine. I confess that when you arrived with her, I formed a very low opinion of you. But she has assured me of your chastity towards her and tells me that you have been the agent by which her virginity has been preserved. And again, I don’t doubt her sincerity, though I will say that she is not a woman unafraid to scold those in authority over her if she thinks they trespass on her dignity. And indeed, some of my questions were indelicate. But it was necessary that I should satisfy myself on this point, and so I accepted her scolding with, I hope, an appropriate grace and humility.”
“I do not doubt it, Father Abbot,” Theodemir replied, unable to think of anything more on the point that he dared say.
“The last embassy we had from Alphonso was much larger and included many men of more experience and rank than yourself. I was surprised that he sent such a young man and with no one for a companion except Lady Agnes.”
“It was not his design that she should accompany me,” Theodemir said.
“I suppose that it was not his design that a number of young women of dubious character, and quite certainly not in possession of their virginity, should have accompanied his last embassy,” Alcuin said. “But so it was. His ambassadors were quarrelsome, proud, boastful, and lascivious. An ambassador represents the man who sends him, not only in speaking his words but in the whole conduct of his life. And so the effect of this embassy on the King, combined with the disaster of his last adventure in Hispania, caused him to believe that the men of Asturias were wild, uncivilized, and not to be trusted. Let them and the Moors wear each other down while I deal with the Avars. That was his conclusion. And until the Avars are dealt with—they are proving a stubborn people—you cannot expect any help to come to Asturias.”
“I see, Father Abbot,” Theodemir said. There was a finality to Alcuin’s judgment on this that said that neither argument nor protest would change it.
“I had wondered if Alphonso wore the name ‘the chaste’ in irony or whether it was deserved,” Alcuin continued. “Now he has sent me an ambassador who is an exemplar of chastity. And I think it more likely that a chaste king should have mistakenly sent lascivious ambassadors than that a lascivious king should have mistakenly sent a chaste ambassador, for lascivious men can never bring themselves to believe that there are men who are chaste. It was a matter of great good fortune that that young woman was with you to give evidence of your chastity.”
Theodemir was about to protest that it was not good fortune but his own deliberate act that had brought Agnes with him, but then realized that it would cast no good light upon either Alphonso or his ambassador to reveal that he had poisoned and kidnapped Agnes and carried her off against her will. That she had not told Alcuin this part of her story showed that Agnes was a more astute ambassador than he, and he bit his tongue and let Alcuin’s high opinion of him go uncorrected, for her sake as well as for the sake of his king and his commission.
“So,” the great scholar meanwhile continued, “now that I see he has sent me an ambassador who is chaste, even if he is a poor scholar, though a patient one, I have formed a good opinion of Alphonso, and I shall write to the king and to the pope to recommend that they give him and his kingdom due recognition. As for military assistance against the Moors, however, that, I can assure you, will not be forthcoming until the Avars are conquered, unless the Moors should attempt to venture over the Pyrenees again.”
And with this, the whole matter of Theodemir’s embassy had been dealt with without him having to speak a word of argument.
“I hope,” Alcuin added, “that Alphonso is a just and reasonable man and will reward you appropriately for having not only accomplished a goodly part of your mission, but also for having reversed the damage done by his previous ambassadors. Not the most silver-tongued of men, not the great Cicero himself, could have accomplished more by words than you have achieved by chastity. Now, speaking of chastity, I mean to summon the young woman, for I have news that concerns her.”
Agnes was sent for, and when Luitgard and Theodrada appeared with her, laughing and fondling two tiny puppies with folded ears that they were holding in their arms like children, a plaintiff bitch trailing anxiously behind them, they were sent away peremptorily by Alcuin.
“Sit, my dear,” Alcuin said to Agnes, who came and sat as she was bid, darting an inquiring glance at Theodemir in response to which he could only shrug.
“You have forgiven my impertinence of yesterday,” Alcuin said. It was an instruction rather than an inquiry, and Agnes responded only with a slight inclination of her head. “Agnes of Whitby,” Alcuin continued. “That name was somehow in my memory, and I have had my clerks searching through my records for some mention of it.” He then picked up a piece of ratty and stained parchment that had been lying on the table beside him. “Tell me,” he said, “Do you have any knowledge of a woman by the name of Elswyth of Twyford?”
“I am Elswyth of Twyford,” Agnes replied.
“And how is this?” Alcuin asked.
“I was born Elswyth of Twyford,” she replied. “When I entered Whitby Abby, I was given the name Agnes, and I have lived by that name since.”
“I see,” said Alcuin, raising an eyebrow. “Well, this explains much. Do you read Latin, my dear? I see that it is not native to your tongue.”
“Not well, Father,” Agnes replied. “I did not learn to read at all until I was a woman, and my ear is much quicker than my eye.”
Alcuin handed the ratty parchment to Theodemir. “Read this,” he said. “Never mind the folderol. Read this passage.”
“Si forte audias verbum Elswyth de Twyford et Agnetis de Whitby, eam redime et ad me mitte,” Theodemir read aloud. Should you chance to hear word of Elswyth of Twyford and Agnes of Whitby, ransom her and send her to me.
“‘Eam, you see, singular,” Alcuin said. “It should, of course, be eas, plural. I blamed the scribe for that laps of grammar – two women named but a pronoun in the singular. I sent back a letter scolding Eardwulf for employing an incompetent scribe and for allowing him to use such poor parchment. But I see now that it was a riddle intended to fix the matter in my memory. And here before me is the riddle in the flesh. Elswyth of Twyford and Agnes of Whitby, one woman who answers to both names.”
“Eardwulf?” Agnes said, a catch in her voice. Theodemir saw the color that had come into her cheeks at the mention of that name and understood why she wanted him as a brother only, not a husband.
“Eardwulf, King of Northumbria,” Alcuin said, using the tone of one who speaks of a nephew who had stained the family name. “It is fortunate that the parchment is too old to be reused, or I should not have it still. I wondered, when it was delivered, that the scribes of York, men trained in my own school, should use such worn stuff for a letter to Aachen. But now I wonder if it was not part of Eardwulf’s design, so that being unusable for further correspondence, it might be kept for future reference.”
“May I see the parchment, please,” Agnes said.
Theodemir made a questioning glance to Alcuin, who responded with a nod. He handed the letter to Agnes.
“Do not blame the scribe, Father,” Agnes said after she had examined it. “This is Eardwulf’s own hand. It is true I have not seen much of it before, but still, I know it is his.”
“Then I suppose he and his scribe will have had a good laugh at my scolding,” Alcuin said.
“Yes, Father,” Agnes said. “It is just the kind of joke he enjoys.”
“He finds me pompous, I believe,” Alcuin said. “It is true that I spend much of my time scolding the kings and dukes of Christendom. Better that it should come from me than from the king. I scold with the pen and he with the sword.”
“Eardwulf always told me that it was my part to scold him, Father,” Agnes said. “He said I was the only woman with the courage and the wit to do it, apart from Mother Wynflaed, who is his aunt and of royal blood.”
“Well, then we must ransom you and send you back to him,” Alcuin said, “For I think Eardwulf is in great need of scolding, for his soul’s sake as much as for his kingdom’s sake. The question is, what is the ransom, and to whom must it be paid?”
“There is none,” Agnes said, “Theodemir has ransomed me already. But I cannot return to Northumbria. There are things that Eardwulf does not know.”
“Read her the next part,” Alcuin said.
Theodemir took the parchment back from Agnes, found the place, and began reading. “If she objects, tell the silly …” He paused here and raised an eyebrow at Alcuin.
“Not the word I would have chosen,” the Abbot said. “Perhaps you should say ‘puella’ instead.”
Theodemir began again, “If she objects, tell the silly girl that I know all. Nothing to worry about. All can be arranged. Send her back at once.”
“When did this arrive?” Agnes asked, her face full of wonderment and caution.
“Better than two years since,” Alcuin replied.
Agnes took the parchment back from Theodemir and sat staring at it, her fingers tracing the letters as if she were caressing the hands that inscribed them. Theodemir and Alcuin sat in silence and watched her face move as she took in all that this letter meant to her. After some time, she looked up at Alcuin with anxious hope. “Father,” she said, “can you tell me. Did Eardwulf ever marry?”
“Yes, my dear,” Alcuin said gently. “He married Claennis of Mercia, what, three years since, I believe.”
At this, Agnes began to weep, and Theodemir rushed forward and took her in his arms and held her as she wept.
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