‘Schism and solitude, plague and politics…
The life of St Cuthbert as witnessed by Holy Island’s lowliest scribe’
– Let These Things Be Written
Let These Things Be Written by Fiona Whyte published October 2024 with Eye Books and is described as a novel that ‘vividly conveys the hardships and compensations of monastic life in a brutal age…a richly evocative tale of seventh-century England – based on the chronicle of the real St Cuthbert – offering some startlingly modern lessons about trauma and guilt.’
Fiona has kindly shared an extract for us all today so I do hope you enjoy.
[ About Let These Things Be Written ]
Seven-year-old Wilfrid lives a privileged life as the eldest son of the warmaster to the King of Northumbria. But that life is turned upside down when he is given away, without warning, to the monks of Lindisfarne.
There he is taken under the wing of Cuthbert, the eccentric prior, who tries to cure him of the demons that torment him. But everywhere the boy goes, he seems to bring ill-fortune: to Fergus, drowned in the freezing North Sea, or to Sigi, his brother, struck down by plague when Wilfrid finds his way back home.
As he comes of age and major events erupt around him – war with the Picts, religious schisms and the queen’s desperate measures to conceive a son – he pieces together his own family history and the ageing Cuthbert’s part in it.
Let These Things Be Written ~ Purchase Link
[ Extract ]
CHAPTER 1
AD 675
They came for him at twilight. He spied them, two shadows skimming down Wulfstan’s Hill. He thought at first they might be heading west, beyond the village, but instead, they crossed the river and continued on towards the hedgerow which was the northward mark of his father’s land. Wilfrid’s heart beat fast as the two figures, no longer distant shadows, but darkly cloaked and hooded beings, passed through the gap in the hedgerow. It seemed to him as they advanced towards the village that the whole land was filled with their presence.
Oswine, the servant, met the riders at the outer wall and directed them towards the house while the villagers looked on, nudging each other and muttering. Wilfrid swung down from the branch of the tree he had been sitting on and followed at a distance. He picked up
the hazelwood stick he usually carried with him and busied himself drawing patterns on the ground, glancing up every few moments to see what was happening. The men had dismounted, and Oswine was leading their horses to the stable. Wilfrid’s parents stood at the door of the house. He noticed how his father pulled back his shoulders and lifted his head. He had been carrying himself with a hunched gait recently. His mother stood a little behind her husband, holding a small, tightly swaddled bundle close to her chest.
One of the men stepped forward, and it was to him that his father first extended greeting. They exchanged brief words that Wilfrid did not catch. His mother did not speak. Neither did the second man who stood back and kept his head down. But when they went to enter the house, this man, going in last, turned around, looked back at Wilfrid and stared. He had not drawn back his hood, and Wilfrid could not see his expression clearly, but something in that look made him shiver.
It was late when Oswine came to fetch him. The servant led Wilfrid out of the house and across the yard to the Great Hall. It was dark now, and quiet. A trail of cooking odours – parsnips flavoured with rosemary and garlic – lingered in the air. Oswine and Kendra, the slave girl, had hurriedly prepared a meal for the travellers. Wilfrid had eaten alone though, wondering why there was no music, why no laughter or chatter spilled over from the hall. There hadn’t even been storytelling to entertain the guests. He had seen how Godric the Scop, harp in hand, had been dismissed from the door, his services not required. In fact, it had been some time since he had heard Godric sing, and lately Godric’s stories had lost their flavour. Like butter without salt they failed to satisfy, left Wilfrid with a dull and flat aftertaste.
Wilfrid stood at the hall door beside Oswine, waiting to be admitted. Voices carried from within. A man was speaking in a strange accent with words that sounded odd and malformed.
‘Yes, yes, your son…’ the man was saying. ‘…some other boys on our island, you see. The prior thinks…’
The other man spoke too. He did not sound as strange as the first man.
‘Is the boy at least well versed in the True Faith?’ he asked. ‘I’ve heard that some in your village still follow the old gods.’
‘My family serves only the Christ god,’ Wilfrid’s father said stiffly.
The first man spoke again. Wilfrid had to listen hard to decipher his words.
‘Look, the prior wishes only to help. But you must be clear about what this decision demands of you and him. This boy. He’s your eldest son.’
Wilfrid’s father interrupted. The sound of a goblet landing too hard on the table accompanied him.
‘See the child at Rowena’s breast. Yes, he is small. He came early, to bring comfort, no doubt. But look at how he kicks, thrashes in her arms. A warrior, for sure. And Rowena is young and strong, of good breeding. We will have more sons.’ He coughed. ‘By God’s grace,’ he added.
‘Right then. Bid the boy enter.’
Wilfrid’s mother opened the door. The light from the wall-torch shone harshly on her face so that her skin seemed unnaturally pale. Her eyes were dull and empty, the shadows beneath them deep. Wilfrid could not tell if she was looking at him or somewhere beyond him, though she held the bundle in her arms fiercely as if someone was trying to wrest it from her. He wasn’t sure which he feared most, this ghost of a mother or the strange men in the hall.
[ Bio ]
Fiona Whyte has both a master’s degree in English Literature and a PhD in creative writing from University College, Cork. She co-edited the university’s literary journal and her short fiction has appeared in a wide variety of anthologies.
Let These Things Be Written, which was longlisted before publication for the Exeter Novel Prize, is her debut novel. It was written with support from the Irish Research Council.
She lives in Crosshaven, Co. Cork.
