Ubertus entered the warm crowded tavern and his senses were assaulted by a din of drunken voices and the smells of stale ale, sweating bodies, and piss. He stood before the blazing peat fire, revived his cramped hands and called out in his thick Italian accent for a jug of wine. Since it was a market town, the men of Tisbury were well-used to strangers, and they received him with cheerful curiosity. A group of men called him to their table and he fell into an animated conversation about where he hailed from and why he had come to town.
It took Ubertus under an hour to pour three jugs of wine down his throat and obtain the knowledge he had been sent to discover.
Sister Magdalena usually walked through the abbey grounds at a deliberate pace, not too slowly, as that would be wasteful of time, but not too speedily, as that would create the impression that something on this earth was more important than the contemplation of God.
Today she ran, clutching something in her hand.
A few days of warmer air had thinned the snow to a patchy shell, and the paths were well-trampled and no longer slippery.
In the Scriptorium, Josephus and Paulinus sat alone in silence. They had dismissed the copyists so they could meet privately with Ubertus, who had returned from his mission, cold and exhausted.
Ubertus was no longer there, having been sent back to his village with a grim thanks and a benediction.
His report was simple and sobering.
On the eighteenth day of December, three days earlier, a child was born in the town of Tisbury to Wuffa the tanner and his wife Eanfled.
The child’s name was Sigbert.
While neither would openly admit it, they were not shocked by the news. They half expected to hear as much since it was scarcely possible that the fantastic circumstances of a mute boy born to a dead mother who could, without tuition, write names and dates, could grow more fantastic.
When Ubertus was gone, Paulinus had said to Josephus, “The boy was the seventh son, of this there can be no doubt. He has a profound power.”
“Is it for good or evil?” Josephus asked shakily.
Paulinus looked at his friend, puckered his mouth but did not answer.
Without warning, Sister Magdalena burst in.
“Brother Otto told me you were here,” she said, breathing heavily and slamming the door behind her.
Josephus and Paulinus exchanged conspiratorial glances. “Indeed we are, Sister,” Josephus said. “Is there something troubling you?”
“This!” She thrust her hand forward. There was a rolled parchment in her fist. “One of the sisters found this in the children’s dormitory under the pallet of Octavus’s bed. He has stolen it from the Scriptorium, I have no doubt. Can you confirm it?”
Josephus unrolled the parchment and inspected it along with Paulinus.
Kal ba Lakna – 21 12 782 Natus
Flavius de Napoli – 21 12 782 Natus
CNMEOH – 21 12 782 Natus
– 21 12 782 Mors
Juan de Madrid – 21 12 782 Natus
Josephus looked up from the first page. It was written in Octavus’s tight scrawl.
“That one is in Hebrew, I recognize the script,” Paulinus whispered to him, pointing at one of the entries. “I do not know the origin of the one above it.”
“Well?” the sister demanded. “Can you confirm the boy has stolen this?”
“Please sit, Sister.” Josephus sighed.
“I do not wish to sit, Prior, I wish to know the truth and then I wish to severely punish this boy.”
“I beg you to sit.”
She reluctantly sat upon one of the copying benches.
“The parchment was certainly stolen,” Josephus began.
“The wicked boy! But what is this text? It seems a strange listing.”
“It contains names,” Josephus said.
“In more than a single language,” Paulinus added.
“What is its purpose and why is Oswyn included?” she asked suspiciously.
“Oswyn?” Josephus asked.
“The second page, the second page!” she said.
Josephus looked at the second sheet.
Oswyn of Vectis – 21 12 782 Mors
The blood drained from Josephus’s face. “My God!”
Paulinus rose and turned away to hide his expression of alarm.
“Which of the brothers wrote this?” Magdalena demanded to know.
“None of them, Sister,” Josephus said.
“Then who wrote it?”
“The boy, Octavus.”
Josephus lost count of the number of times Sister Magdalena crossed herself as he and Paulinus told her what they knew of Octavus and his miraculous ability. Finally, when they were done and there was no more to be told, the three of them exchanged nervous looks.
“Surely this is the work of the Devil,” Magdalena said, breaking the quiet.
Paulinus said, “There is an alternative explanation.”
“And that is?” she asked.
“The work of the Lord.” Paulinus chose his words carefully. “Surely, there can be no doubt that the Lord chooses when to bring a child into this world and when to reclaim a soul to his bosom. God knows all. He knows when a simple man calls out to him in prayer, he knows when a sparrow falls from the sky. This boy, who is unlike all others in the manner of his birth and his countenance, how do we know he is not a vessel of the Lord to record the comings and goings of God’s children?”
“But he may be the seventh son of a seventh son!” Magdalena hissed.
“Yes, we know of the beliefs concerning such a being. But who has met such a man before? And who has met one born on the seventh day of the seventh month of the year 777? We cannot presume to know that his powers have an evil purpose.”
“I, for one, cannot see an evil consequence of the boy’s powers,” Josephus said hopefully.
Magdalena ’s demeanor changed from fear to anger. “If what you say is true, we know that our dear abbot will die on this very day. I pray to the Lord that this is not so. How can you say that this is not evil?” She rose and snatched up the parchment pages. “I will not hold secrets from the abbot. He must hear of this, and he-and he alone-must decide on the boy’s fate.”
She was determined, and neither Paulinus or Josephus were inclined to dissuade Sister Magdalena from her actions.
The three of them approached Oswyn after None, the mid-afternoon prayer, and accompanied him to his chambers in the Chapter House. There, in the dimming light of a wintry afternoon, the embers of his fire glowing amber, they told him their tale as each tried to study his pinched face, which because of his deformity angled down toward his table.
He listened. He studied the parchments, pausing for a moment to reflect on his own name. He asked questions and considered the responses. Then he signaled that the caucus was over by striking his fist on the table once.
“I cannot see good coming of this,” he said. “At worst, it is the hand of the Devil. At best, it is a severe distraction to the religious life of this community. We are here to serve God with all our heart and all our might. This boy will divert us from our mission. You must cast him out.”
At that, Magdalena suppressed a show of satisfaction.
Josephus cleared his dry throat. “His father will not take him back. There is no place for him to go.”
“That is not our concern,” the abbot said. “Send him away.”
“It is cold,” Josephus implored. “He will not survive the night.”
“The Lord will provide for him and decide his fate,” the abbot said. “Now, leave me to contemplate my own.”
It was left to Josephus to do the deed, and after sundown he dutifully led the boy by the hand to the front gate of the abbey. A kind young sister had put heavy socks on his feet and wrapped him in an extra shirt and a small cloak. A cutting wind off the sea was pushing the temperature to the freezing point.
Josephus unlatched the gate and swung it open. They were hit squarely by a strong cold gust. The prior gently nudged the boy forward. “You must leave us, Octavus. But do not fear, God will protect you.”