1108 by wartcap
Summary: It is New Years Eve, 1107 AD. The Saxon masoners are finishing building Chichester Cathedral for a Norman king.
Finalist in Chichester Short Story Compatition 2008.
Categories: Short Stories Characters: None
Genres: General
Warnings: None
Challenges:
Series: None
Chapters: 1 Completed: Yes Word count: 1216 Read: 803 Published: 12/18/2008 Updated: 12/18/2008

1. 1108 by wartcap

1108 by wartcap
1108
It dominated the landscape south of the Downs. A cross of Wight stone that dwarfed all but God’s creations; the sea, the clouds, the sheer chalk hills.

‘It’s a testament to men’s craftsmanship,’ Dean Odo said, hastening the King’s thane along the fresh-swept nave, ‘and to the leadership and skill of Bishop Ralph de Luffa.’

The thane perfunctorily bowed at the vacant altar. Un-consecrated she might still be, and roofless, but this cathedral church needed no ceremony to instil awe, a sense of God’s presence, on those who passed through her doors. Even those only here to check how the building progressed.

‘And will it be ready before Lent?’ the thane asked, impatiently.

Oswin rolled his eyes. Trowel in one hand, the rung of the ladder in the other, he listened to their conversation as he leaned out to point the furthest stone. Church politics he had heard aplenty in the last thirty years. ‘When will it be finished?’ he had heard asked for at least twenty-five.

‘Finished before Lent? I should say so. Or soon after,’ Odo added quietly. ‘The masons are working throughout Christmastide to ensure—’

‘But the roof, Odo!’ The thane was pressing him. ‘What am I to tell the King?’

‘Tell him the roof is coming. The oak is cut, carved and ready. It will be here.’ Steepling his fingers, he pressed his hands together in prayer. ‘By His grace.’

‘By cart, more like,’ Oswin muttered under his breath.

Beside him, Wynnstan laughed. The dean pinned the two masons with his keen, sharp eyes. Wynnstan’s laugh hastily became a hacking cough. ‘Dust,’ he mouthed to the dean, sufficiently placating him.

‘And here,’ Odo continued haughtily, guiding his exulted visitor away, ‘the north transept...’

Oswin tucked his trowel into his belt and cast a critical eye over his afternoon’s work. ‘How long have we been working here?’

Thoughtfully, Wynnstan wiped his hands on his leather apron. ‘Twenty-nine winters. It will be thirty, exactly, tomorrow – New Years Day.’

Theirs had been a lifetime dedicated to the creation of a monument, the greatest Chichester had ever seen. They had both come here as boys, chancers, try-out apprentices. Building this cathedral had made them into men. She had taken their youth as payment. Oswin’s knees creaked as he descended the ladder. His tapered beard was white, and it was not from the stone dust.

Whenever he thought of the cathedral’s completion his chest tightened and his mouth dried. It was well that the thane had moved on, it would not serve for a man of the king to see his face in frown.

‘Come on,’ Wynnstan said, picking up both their tools and nudging Oswin with his elbow. ‘Supper time.’

The waning sunset painted the sky in rich purple hues. Oswin followed Wynnstan, doggedly, to where the other masons were encircled. Their laughter and the good-natured banter of these hard-working men was enough to cheer anyone. Anyone except Oswin.

‘Why do we even need a roof?’ he said, untying the linen square that wrapped his bread and cheese supper. ‘She’s fine as she is.’

The other men exchanged weary glances.

‘She’s having one, Oswin,’ Wynnstan told him. He wrapped his cloak about his shoulders, night was drawing in and the temperature was falling. ‘A roof was always planned, as well you know. Cathedral churches have roofs. They all do. What? You want Chichester to be the first to be left open to the skies?’

Oswin looked up. The night had darkened the sky blue-black and the stars, like a thousand candles, were shining down, straight down, into the nave of the new Cathedral. ‘Heaven’, Oswin thought, captivated by its beauty. ‘Left open? Aye, it should be left open. Tell me why not?’

‘Oswin?’

Behind him, in a quiet, unassuming, voice, his name had been spoken. He did not need to look around to know it was the bishop.

‘Back from the parishes, Excellency?’ Wynnstan piped up, falsely cheerful. ‘They said you were conducting mass in Selsey.’

Oswin felt the de Luffa’s eyes upon his back. He did not dare turn around.

‘I am. I did. I have returned,’ the bishop said, answering Wynnstan’s questions in turn. ‘My vigil is here. It was my wish to welcome in the New Year with the men who given up their Christmastide to ensure that schedules are observed.’

Oswin closed his eyes and struggled to hold his tongue. The cathedral was not a schedule, not something to be observed. She was his life and she would ready when he said so, not a plan to fit in around a king; a Norman king, at that. Drawing a long, calming breath he reined in his emotions before he said something he might regret. The remaining crust in his hand had been crushed to crumbs.

‘Oswin,’ the bishop said again. ‘Walk with me.’

To disobey was unthinkable. He got to his feet and left the circle of masons. Bishop Ralph de Luffa waited with the infinite patience that only he possessed and a countenance of such kindness that it touched everyone that he met. Even Oswin was not immune.

They walked the length of the starlit nave, stopping here and there, discussing the business of building and expected days for completion, as they had many times before. Finally, when they were out of the hearing range of the others, the bishop said, ‘We are ready for the roof, are we not?’

Oswin could delay this final part of the building. The bishop trusted him. He could lie. He could say they were not ready, that the holes for the timber roof struts were incomplete or that he’d found a weakness in the upper stone level. He looked up to the heavens, resplendent in a mantle of stars like glittering jewels, and he said the only words he knew he could say.

‘We’re ready, Your Excellency.’

The warmth of Bishop Luffa’s smile did dissipate the chill of New Years Eve. 'It is well, Oswin,’ he said. ‘And she will look well framed by her gables, her timber crown, and her waves of wooden shingles.’

Oswin could not share the bishop’s enthusiasm. Eleven hundred and eight, the year that heralded the end of what had been the most important era of his life. This cathedral meant everything to him. Unwittingly, his chin drooped and he saw only a haze of newly flagged floor.

With deep understanding, the bishop placed a hand on Oswin’s shoulder and turned the mason to face him squarely. ‘Carpenters’ timbers are a poor substitute for God’s ceiling, and what you have created is beyond any words of mine, but you must let her be finished. Let her new roof be uplifted by the rejoicing voices of her congregation.

‘She is the greatest monument; so impressive she can be seen for miles, even from the sea. She lights Chichester like a beacon. You did this, Oswin. You built this. And when these stones have mellowed, and you and I are no more, they that follow in our footsteps will look upon this cathedral in awe of what you have created.’

Oswin smiled with satisfaction. ‘I can be content with that.’
End Notes:
Thank you to Fervesco for the beta.

Histoical note: Both Bishop Ralph de Luffa and Dean Odo are real people dipicted here as bishop and dean of Chichester respectively as they were in 1108. The Masoners are mine.
This story archived at http://chaos.sycophanthex.com/viewstory.php?sid=2305