Chapter One: How Cuthbert, in the garb of a pilgrim, received from Alfred’s servant a loaf that had been divided, which was afterwards found whole; and how Alfred himself became king through his help. #

¹ Almighty God, who is merciful in His justice and just in His mercy, when He determined to scourge the English people for their many offences, allowed the ferocity of the pagan nations — that is, of the Frisians and the Danes — to hold dominion over them. These nations then, under Ubba, leader of the Frisians, and Halfdene, king of the Danes, came into Britain, which is now called England, and, soon dividing into three bands, overran the land in three parts. For one of them restored the walls of the city of York and, settling the region round about, remained there. But the other two, far fiercer still, soon occupied the kingdom of the Mercians and the land of the South Saxons, destroying everything far and wide with burning, plunder and slaughter, and polluting things divine as much as human with their barbarous contagion. How many noble and renowned priests were slaughtered by them at the very altars where they had consecrated the most sacred mysteries of the Lord’s body and blood — so that the prophecy was rightly fulfilled which says, “They have shed their blood like water round about Jerusalem,” and again, “They have set fire to Your sanctuary; they have defiled the dwelling-place of Your name upon the earth.” Then you might have seen virgins seized, the rights of married women broken, infants torn from their mothers’ very breasts — some dashed upon the ground, some hung by their feet, some torn limb from limb in the barbarians’ hands — and in short, neither sex, nor age, nor any rank spared by such cruel men. Nor could that bestial cruelty be sated until it had destroyed all those of royal stock through whom it feared any danger to its dominion; and so Alfred, the father of King Edward the First, alone of all the royal seed barely escaped the fury of that time. Lest he should be struck down by a like sentence, he lay hidden for three years in the marshes of Glastonbury in the greatest want, while that barbarism was permitted to rage.

² But when God’s mercy, in His wonted compassion, judged that the barbarians’ ferocity should now cease and that His own people should be restored after their scourging, it happened that this same Alfred — when all the rest had been sent out fishing — remained at home alone with his wife and a single household servant. Meanwhile a man in pilgrim’s garb appeared, and earnestly begged for a morsel of alms with which to quench the fire of his hunger. Alfred, most cheerful in face and in heart, at once ordered his servant to give food to the man who asked without delay. When he heard from the servant that nothing remained for himself and all his household for the day’s sustenance except one loaf and a little wine, he was made the gladder for it, and said, “Thanks be to God, who deigns, through this poor man of His, to visit me, His own poor man, cut off so far from the common habitation of men.” And saying this, he cheerfully ordered half of each to be given out, fulfilling in deed the apostolic saying, “God loves a cheerful giver.” When he who seemed poor had received it, he said to the servant, “Do not hesitate to thank your lord again and again for the warmth of such compassion; for I hope that the bountiful mercy of heaven will repay this kindness of his more abundantly still.” These words he spoke to the servant, and the servant reported them to his lord. But when the servant returned at once to the place where he had left him, he found the poor man nowhere; yet he found the bread and the wine whole, so that it seemed to bear no sign of having been cut at all. Astonished at what had happened, he quickly told his lord; and on learning of this new miracle, Alfred himself and his wife were struck with no less amazement of mind. And although they searched curiously, they could in no way discover the road by which he had come or by which he had departed — especially as that place, hemmed in on every side by marsh waters, could only be reached by boat. Meanwhile, when the ninth hour of the day had come, those who had gone out fishing brought home three boats laden with fish, declaring that in all the three years they had spent in the marshes such an abundance of fish had never come their way. Rejoicing therefore in such great benefits of God, they passed that day more joyfully than usual.

³ Night came; each man withdrew to his own place to rest after the day’s labours. And while all were weighed down in deep sleep, Alfred lay in his bed alone and wakeful, turning over in his sorrowful heart the hardships he had endured as a fugitive in fear of the barbarian persecution, and marvelling at the pilgrim and at the unexpected multitude of fish which had befallen him that day. And look! a light, suddenly shining forth more splendid than any ray of the sun, illumined from heaven the whole chamber in which he lay. Terrified by this vision, so unusual and so sudden, he soon forgot all his former cares, and gazed in stupefaction only at the brightness of that light. Then there came forth within that very light an aged man, adorned with a bishop’s mitre, dark-haired indeed but of a most comely countenance, holding out in his right hand a book of the Gospels marvellously adorned with gold and gems; and to Alfred, astounded and trembling, he addressed these friendly words: “My beloved Alfred, do not let the sudden splendour of my coming disturb you; do not let the fear of barbarian fury trouble you any longer. For God, who does not spurn the sighs of His poor, will now, even now, put an end to your labours. I too shall henceforth be your most ready helper.” Straightway strengthened by these words, Alfred begged earnestly that he would reveal to him who he was, by what name he was called, and why he had come. Then the old man, smiling, said: “I am he to whom you ordered food to be given today in condescension to such great humanity; but I rejoiced not so much for the bread and wine which were given me as for the inward devotion of your heart. And as for what you ask — by what name I am called — know for certain that I am named Cuthbert, a servant of God; and it is for this reason that I have come now, that through me you may be more familiarly instructed how you may be delivered from the persecutions that have long afflicted you. Therefore I counsel you to love mercy and justice above all, and always to teach your sons to keep these same things before all else; for by my intercession and God’s gift, the rule of all Britain will be granted to you to dispose. But if you prove faithful to God and to me, you shall henceforth have me as an impregnable shield of defence to crush the whole strength of your enemies. Therefore now cast off all the numbness of sorrow, and when tomorrow’s dawn first reddens, sail to the nearest shore and sound your horn boldly three times. For as wax melts away from the heat of fire, so shall the pride of your enemies be dissolved by the blast of this trumpet. But as much as the stubbornness of your adversaries is cast down, so much shall the courage of your friends be raised up at the hearing of that same blast. For what the pity of heavenly mercy confers upon the godly for the glory of their exaltation, the same it justly permits to come upon the impious for the shame of their abasement. And at about the ninth hour of this day five hundred of your dearest and best friends will come to you, all well armed. And believe by this sign: when seven days have passed, the army of this whole land will assemble at Mount Assandune, most ready to follow you everywhere as their king in adversity and prosperity alike; and when you have there joined battle with the enemy, you will beyond doubt be crowned with the palm of triumph.”

⁴ When the Saint had spoken these words, he vanished with the light from the eyes of the wondering man. Alfred, however, most assured of the fulfilment of all he had heard, commended himself the more earnestly to his protection. Meanwhile the long-awaited dawn arose. He, more active than was his wont, shook himself from sleep and from his bed; and, going down to the shore, he carried out without delay the orders he had heard in the night. And why do we linger long over this? Enemies and friends alike heard the blast of his trumpet; the former, confounded with terror by God’s will, were suddenly drained of strength; the latter, filled with exultation from heaven, were straightway strengthened with courage. And as the day declined towards the ninth hour, those five hundred dearest and best of his friends, by whom he was to receive a plainer sign of the promise’s fulfilment, came to him, all well furnished with arms. To them he opened the whole course of the nightly vision, and said: “Now we have seen what torments our parents, who have all perished, endured from the barbarians for their offences and ours by God’s just judgement; and we ourselves, who are hunted day and night by those same men to a like fate, see — indeed, we endure as miserable fugitives — that we now have no safe place of refuge. Therefore, I beg, let us attentively obey the counsels of Saint Cuthbert, our defender; let us prove faithful to God and to him; let us flee the whirlpools of vice and love the practice of the virtues. Then indeed we shall experience both the promised help of heavenly grace and, everywhere, the shelter of his protection.” So the promised army of the whole land assembled with its king, this same Alfred, at the same mount on the appointed day; and no less did that deadly barbarian crowd come rushing up more swiftly on the other side, trusting in its boundless numbers and its former victories. The engagement was begun at once, but the fortunes of the two sides were far from equal: on this side the Christian proved by slaying how wholesome it is to trust in heavenly aid; on that side the pagan learnt by falling how hateful it is to presume upon human pride. When this battle had been finished without loss to his own army, Alfred gained the rule of all Britain; and because he kept ever mindful in his court the precepts of the holy confessor which he had received in his poverty, he always and everywhere prevailed over all the endeavours of those who opposed him.

Chapter Two: How, when a storm arose, three waves that fell upon the ship in which his body was being carried away were turned into blood. #

¹ In the days of that same persecution, an intolerable tribulation suddenly arose within the borders of the Northumbrians and grievously shook the churches of God with a stormy whirlwind. At that time a man of great merit, Eardulf by name, governed the bishopric of the church of Lindisfarne, in which the most blessed confessor of God, Cuthbert, then rested in the body, worthily before God and before men. Remembering the words which that same father had bequeathed to his people as his last before departing this life, he chose rather to yield up the place than to be subject to the reprobate. For among the other wholesome warnings he then gave them concerning the keeping of peace and the concord of brotherly love, he counselled them in a fatherly way, saying, “If necessity ever compels you to choose one of two evils, I much prefer that you dig up my bones from the tomb, take them with you, and depart from these places, remaining as inhabitants wherever God shall provide, rather than consent in any way to iniquity and bow your necks beneath the yoke of schismatics.”

² There was also at that time a certain abbot, Eadrad by name, himself of wondrous holiness before God and of no small nobility among men, who was ever of one devotion with the bishop towards the most blessed confessor of God. So when the blast of this tribulation thundered and violently shook the church of God, these two men, taking with them certain others of religious life, departed from the monastery of Lindisfarne and carried away the uncorrupted body of the venerable father. When the saint’s own people heard of this, they left their homes with all their household goods and at once followed after with their wives and little ones. For this people — who are properly called his own, because they are preserved by a special protection of his and cannot live anywhere but under him, unlike other nations who know how to dwell in foreign lands as well as in their own — have such assurance of safety in him that they fear almost no injuries of adversity. Yet let no one ascribe to their own merits the fact that he, with such great goodness, has often delivered them when they fled to him from their enemies — of which we shall say certain things in what follows — for, save for a few, they are men of wicked deeds; rather let each man consider well how much strength there is in the firmness of trust. For then it happened, by God’s providence and the will of the most holy confessor, that, wandering for a long time with the most precious treasure of his sacred body, they traversed almost the whole land.

³ Now the bishop and the abbot, worn out at last by weariness from their long toil, long debated between themselves how they might seek in Ireland an end to their labours and a resting-place for the holy body, especially as they had no hope of remaining anywhere in all this land. So they called in for this purpose all those who were wiser and more advanced in age, and laid open to them the secret of their plan. This counsel pleased them, and they said, “It is clear that we are being admonished to seek a place of rest in a foreign land, because had this not been the will of God and of the Saint himself, without doubt a place worthy of his holiness for his rest, and suited to our dwelling, would long ago have been provided.” So they said; but God’s incomprehensible wisdom and ineffable mercy willed indeed to bring their labours to an end and more joyfully to declare the merits of His confessor — but resolved to do this by a higher counsel, and His alone. So they all came together — bishop, abbot and people — to the mouth of the river which is commonly called the Derwent; for from that harbour of the sea lies the easier and shorter crossing for those making for Ireland. There a ship was prepared for the crossing; the venerable body of the father was placed aboard; and a few men embarked with the bishop and the abbot — those to whom this plan had been made known — while all the rest knew nothing of what they meant to do. But why do we delay? They said farewell to their companions who stood watching from the shore, spread their sails to favourable winds, and steered the prow on a straight course for Ireland. Then what grief, think you, was there among those left behind? What lamentation of mourners, what mourning of the sorrowing? They fell to the ground, sprinkled their heads with dust, rent their garments, beat their breasts with stones and with their fists, and at last broke forth together in words like these: “Alas, wretched that we are! Why were we born for these unhappy times? You, our father and patron, are carried off into exile like a captive; we, like sheep to the teeth of wolves, are left wretched and captive to our raging enemies.” They said no more; for at once the winds changed, the swelling waves rose up, and the sea, which a moment before had been calm and most serene, became stormy and most dark; and the ship, no longer able to be steered, was tossed this way and that among the rolling waves, and those who were within it grew stiff as though dead. Meanwhile three waves of wondrous size came upon them with a horrific roar and filled the ship almost up to the middle of its planks — and by a terrible miracle, unheard of since the plagues of Egypt, they were at once turned into blood. O the stupendous majesty of our Creator! O goodness to be embraced beyond measure, which declares by such awful and such wondrous displays of signs how greatly the bodies of His saints are to be feared and venerated by us! So when those within had somewhat recovered their senses and remembered who and where they were, and saw — themselves also drenched throughout with blood — the magnitude of so great a miracle, they at once groaned and mourned, bent their knees, and, prostrating their whole bodies at the feet of the holy body, begged pardon for their foolish daring. Then, seizing the helm, they turned the ship back towards the shore and their companions, and straightway, with the winds blowing astern, came there without any difficulty. Then those who had wept before in grief now wept the more in turn for joy. And the bishop with his companions, weeping no less for shame and sorrow, prostrated himself with his whole body upon the ground and earnestly begged their forgiveness.

⁴ When this had been done and all had been laudably reconciled, they carried that venerable body to the monastery in the vill called Crayke; and there, most kindly received by the abbot whose name was Geve, they dwelt for four months as though in their own home. Meanwhile, by the dispensation of divine grace — which permits its own to labour so that they may not grow sluggish in the exercise of good works, and knows how to restore them in turn so that they may not grow cold in the delight of charity — the episcopal seat which we said above was on the island of Lindisfarne was restored at Chester-le-Street. So when the body of the most blessed father had been translated there from Crayke, it remained there until, after the turning of no few years, it was most fittingly translated to Durham together with the episcopal seat, where to this present day his holiness is declared by continual miracles.

Chapter Three: How a certain pagan named Onalafbald, who had uttered insults against God’s confessor, was fixed fast at the entrance of the church and perished. #

¹ Then, when everything had been set in order and fittingly arranged as befitted an episcopal see, and those who should serve God under a regular discipline had been established there beside the body of His most holy confessor, that above-mentioned bishop Eardulf, in a good old age, departed this life to receive the reward of his labours. And when not much time had passed after his death, Cutheard — himself commended by a life approved before God and men — received the episcopal throne by the election of all, to govern in his place. And though the labour was heavy (for he often endured grievous inroads and injuries from the barbarians), yet he adorned it strenuously with teaching and example, since Saint Cuthbert defended him in a special way and helped him visibly. For in his days a certain pagan king named Ragnall landed unexpectedly in those parts with a great fleet, and either slew in battle or drove out of the country all the men of rank. He soon occupied the whole land of Saint Cuthbert, and divided the saint’s vills equally between two of his soldiers who were powerful in worldly terms — one commonly called Scula, the other, according to the usage of his own people, called Onalafbald. Both were cruel and barbarous; both were slaves to the worship of demons; both were ignorant of the true religion and of their own salvation; they aspired to the name of temporal power, and with blind hearts were hastening towards the lamentations of interminable misery and the torments of eternal punishment. For to such men Holy Scripture utters its threat, saying, “The mighty shall suffer torments mightily.”

² Now although both were barbarous and cruel, as we have said, yet the one we named last showed himself to all far more savage and cruel — indeed wholly inhuman — to his own destruction. Neither the dignity of holy orders nor nobility of birth could incline his bestial mind to reverence for anyone; but like an untameable beast, the worthier a man was in rank or the more noble in birth, the fiercer the fury he sharpened against him. While this man often harassed the bishop, the congregation and the people of Saint Cuthbert with many injuries, and stubbornly usurped to his own power the estates that rightly belonged to the bishop, the bishop, desiring to win him for God, rebuked him earnestly and admonished him for the good of his soul, saying, “I beg you, lay aside the hardness of your stubborn heart; renounce the worship of demons and acknowledge your Creator; and do not refuse to restrain yourself henceforth from the unlawful seizure of the Church’s goods. For if you judge these warnings of mine fit to be despised, do not doubt that the most holy confessor of God will speedily and heavily avenge the injuries so often inflicted by you upon himself and upon his own.” But he — though to men he appeared alive, yet by the hidden judgement of God was already dead — far from being made better by the word of rebuke, began thereby to grow only the worse. For when he had heard these and similar things from the bishop rather often, driven by the fury of a shameless mind, he entered the church one day and, with the bishop and the whole congregation standing by and listening, cried out insolently and swelled up in these words: “Why do you daily cast the threats of this dead man in my face? What do you think the help of him in whom you trust will avail you against me? I call to witness the omnipotence of my gods, and swear by their surpassing glory, that I shall henceforth be most hostile both to that dead man and to you all, so that you may learn openly from this how little either he or you can resist me.” And having said this, with the utmost arrogance of indignation he turned his foot to depart. But the bishop and all the brethren together at once prostrated themselves on the ground, and with much sighing and abundant tears begged God and the holy confessor to annul the proud man’s threats. Already the wretch had come to the doorway; already he had set one foot within the threshold and the other outside it — and there, as though nailed fast through both feet, he could neither go out nor come back in, but remained there utterly motionless. He began at once to grow pale and to tremble, to glare about him with bloodshot and savage eyes, and by the writhing of his limbs to display outwardly the agony he suffered within. And when he had long been tormented thus while an innumerable crowd, both of his own people and of Christians, ran together to watch, at last, crying out horribly, he openly confessed the holiness of the most blessed confessor, and so was compelled to render up his impious soul in that same place. And although this late confession of his profited himself nothing at all, yet it profited others greatly — even the pagans themselves, who, terrified by this example, no longer dared in any way to seize the lands or anything else that belonged by right to the church.

Chapter Four: How the Scots, who had overrun the land of Saint Cuthbert and the monastery of Lindisfarne, were suddenly swallowed up by a gaping of the earth. #

¹ It is written, “The saints shall go from strength to strength; the God of gods shall be seen in Zion.” Because this confessor beloved of God, amid the weakness of this flesh, diligently pursued this course in the progress of his mind, he now declares it by flashing forth in miracles from that heavenly watchtower where the God of gods is seen. For as much as he then advanced in mind from strength to strength, so much does he now, as he proceeds in an ascent of miracles, display wonders yet to be wondered at beyond the first wonders that went before. For what we have told of the barbarian’s destruction is wonderful and fearful; but what we shall tell of the sudden engulfing of the Scots is far more wonderful and astounding. And so, when not many years had passed, the nation of the Scots, having gathered an innumerable army, crossed the river Tweed, which is the northern boundary of the land of Saint Cuthbert, and laid everything waste with slaughter, burning and plunder. It spared no rank, no age, no sex, but cut down all alike like cattle with unheard-of cruelty. And in doing this it had not yet sated its cruelty, but even overran the monastery of Lindisfarne — which had never before been violated by anyone’s presumption — with like cruelty. When the report of this great crime reached the ears of Guthred, who was then king, he hastened against them with a very small force, for the shortness of the time did not permit an army to be assembled. He came upon them at the place which is called Mundingedene in the English tongue to this day. But because the darkness of oncoming night prevented it — for he had come there as the day was already turning to evening — he could not attack them in battle at once, but resolved to fall upon them unprepared in the early morning. But his plan did not escape their notice; and so, keeping themselves always ready, they resolved — since they reckoned that he had few men and they very many — to pursue him even if he tried to withdraw from them. But when the king saw so great an army, and saw it ready not only to resist but even to pursue, he was troubled with exceeding fear, since he had neither strength to fight, and shame and the nature of the place forbade him to flee from them. So, harassed by so great and so varied tides of cares, he was weighed down with sleep by the very excess of his distress. And look! the noble soldier of Christ, Cuthbert, stood beside him in a clear vision and comforted his fainting spirit with words of consolation, beginning thus: “Why do you waste away in such great fear? Do not despair because your soldiers are few, when you have the help of God and of me; for with God it is by no means impossible to save either in many or in few. Your enemies — or rather mine, because they have not feared to violate my peace, which had never been violated even by pagans before — boasting now in their multitude, I shall shortly blot out before you like the mire of the streets. For although they still appear living to men, they are all counted dead in the sight of God. Therefore make haste to command your men to be ready without delay, so that when the dawn of day first rises you may charge and rush upon them; for at the first encounter the earth shall gape open and they shall fall alive into the abyss, and they shall all perish together without loss to your men.” When he had spoken thus, the form of the vision disappeared. The king, greatly strengthened by this, shook off sleep, leapt from his bed, summoned his men, and told all openly what he had seen and heard. When they heard it, they were as much strengthened by their king’s comfort as they had before been fainting with fear. So at daybreak they rushed upon the enemy; but — wonderful to tell — those whom they had just seen hurling javelins against them they found at that very moment nowhere, not one of them. For what the man of God had foretold had come to pass: the earth had swallowed them all alive before their eyes. And here too the ancient miracle is renewed, when “the earth opened and swallowed up Dathan, and covered over the congregation of Abiram.”

Chapter Five: How a soldier of Earl Tostig, named Barcwith, was suddenly struck down and perished when he wished to break open the doors of his monastery. #

¹ Nor should we pass over in silence how greatly the miracles of the same most blessed father shone forth even in our own times. In the recent reign of the most pious King Edward a miracle occurred similar to those of former days, by which, through the destruction of one presumptuous man, many were afterwards corrected from such presumption. When Tostig, the earl well known to all, was administering the earldom in the parts of Northumbria, a certain man of wicked deeds named Aldan-hamal was seized by him and bound in the strictest fetters. For he had done many evils; by thefts and plundering, by murders and burnings, he had often offended the earl, and had never been able to be caught before. His kinsfolk and friends, moved with compassion, offered the earl much money so that he would not be punished with death, and promised more. But the earl, because the man had provoked him so often by such great crimes, swore that he would not accept gold or silver or any other advantage for his life. Then the man, dismayed in mind, thought that his only remedy was, if by any means loosed from his bonds, to flee to the monastery of the most blessed father Cuthbert. For he was then being guarded in the same vill in which the saint rests in the body — that is, in Durham. So he employed every effort of his ingenuity and strength to free himself from the fetters by which he was bound. But although he laboured long and hard at this, he profited little, for the fear inspired by the earl’s command pressed his guards to watch him most strictly. Seeing therefore that he could not free himself by his own efforts, and tormented by the conscience of his crimes, he groaned deeply and, with great contrition of heart, begged the confessor beloved of God to come to the aid of his unworthy self. For it was no longer so much the bodily punishment threatened him by the earl that he feared, as the peril of his soul. Meanwhile, while he was promising amendment of his evil ways if only he might escape, he suddenly saw that his fetters were loosened and that a free way of escape lay open before him. O the great mercy of God! Look, what He once proclaimed through the oracles of the prophets He now speaks to us through deeds themselves: on whatever day the sinner shall be converted and shall sigh, all his sins shall be remembered no more. Glad therefore that he found himself freed, but anxious how he might escape the vigilance of his guards, he committed all the confidence of his salvation to the protection of the blessed father Cuthbert. And without delay — the guards being occupied with other matters and suspecting nothing of the kind — he saw that a way of flight had been granted him, shook off his fetters as quickly as he could, and at a most rapid run entered the monastery; and, drawing the bolts, he alone secured all the doors from within.

² Now it had happened by chance that he came there just after the brethren had gone out after Prime, so that he found no one inside. When this was heard among the earl’s soldiers — for the earl himself was then in the same vill — a certain man named Barwith, who surpassed all others in authority at court, at once pursued him to the very doors of the monastery. When he perceived them bolted and the man inside, inflamed at once with immense fury, he said, “Why do we delay? Why do we not break down the doors? For the peace of this dead man need not be kept by God, so that thieves, robbers and murderers, if they flee here, may insult us because they have escaped unpunished.” So spoke that wretch with an insulting mouth; for the greatness of his fury had caused him not to know what he was saying. But scarcely had he finished the words when — look! — he protested that it seemed to him as though an arrow coming from above had pierced through his head and reached even to his heart. And saying no more, he fell to the ground and writhed; and groaning, howling and gnashing his teeth, he made plain both to hearers and to onlookers how grievously he was tormented. At last he was carried by his companions to his lodging, and, uttering not a single word afterwards, survived in the same torments until the same hour of the third day. And when at last he had thus died and been buried, such a great stench breathed forth from his tomb for the space of half a year that everyone fled the way that passed by that place. So by this example the earl himself, together with all the others to whom these things had become known far and wide, was so terrified that he no longer dared to seize this man, but afterwards began to show him no small honour. Then too all those who remembered that they had so much as consented to men being dragged out of the monastery, fearing a like vengeance for themselves, gathered a not inconsiderable quantity of gold, silver and gems from their possessions and offered them upon the tomb of the most blessed confessor, imploring pardon with many tears and swearing that they would never presume such a thing again. And so, out of this very offering of theirs, a cross of wondrous workmanship and a book of the Gospels of incomparable worth were adorned with gold and gems, which are kept in the same monastery as a memorial of this deed to this day. That these things happened just as we write, we have heard more than once both from the brethren who saw them and from the mouth of the man himself who had thus escaped.

Chapter Six: How, as his body drew near to the island of Lindisfarne, the waves waited until all had crossed with dry feet. #

¹ Then, when the space of a few years had passed and that most excellent king, William the First, had begun to reign, he set over the region of Northumbria a certain earl named Robert. When this man had come to Durham, he was hemmed in by those over whom he was meant to rule, and was soon cruelly slain with all his men on account of his own cruelty; for they did not show themselves the rulers and defenders of the region, but raged with plunder and rape even against lawful marriages. The king, indignant, sent an army there so that those presumptuous men might be struck down with deserved vengeance. When the rumour of this had reached their ears, innocent and guilty alike prepared for flight — the guilty lest they should be slain as they deserved, the innocent lest, not being known to be innocent, they should be punished as guilty. Then indeed, taking counsel together, the bishop with the congregation and all the men of rank in the land carried away with them the venerable body of the father, conferring with one another that it would be incomparably better for them all to perish in one day than to take flight without him. There is an island called Lindisfarne, which we have also mentioned above, where, while he dwelt in the weakness of this flesh, he himself — a monk set over the community of monks in the office of prior, and afterwards raised to the pontifical see — was at last buried when the term of this life was run. This island, as the tides of the ocean ebb and flow, can be reached twice each day by a land journey, and as often it can only be entered by a vessel of the sea. When the innumerable multitude of clergy and people of both sexes and every age drew near to it with his most holy body at about evening — at which hour, according to the nature of the sea’s character, the sea was then full on every side — for they had resolved to wait on the island until they should learn what the army would do, they began to say to one another, “Now what shall we do, we who are prevented from entering the island by the depth of the waters and have no place to stay where we may escape so great a bitterness of cold?” For it was then the most bitter cold of winter, as usually happens around Christmas.

² As they spoke thus, they had come to the very entrance of the island, where, grieving especially for the weaker sex and the tender age, lest all alike should be endangered by so bitter a cold, they were afraid to pass the night until the sea should have receded in its accustomed manner around morning. But look! God’s inestimable mercy, wishing more and more to declare of what account He held the merits of His confessor, renewed there also the wonders of His ancient loving-kindness. For suddenly — a thing they had not themselves dared to hope — the sea permitted a dry way of entrance only in that place, while, as we have said, it was at its fullest all around. Let the charity of those who read weigh, I beg, how great must have been the joy of all those who then read in very deeds what the letter of the Mosaic song tells us was done of old; for it says, “The flowing water stood still; the depths were gathered together in the midst of the sea,” and afterwards, “But the children of Israel walked on dry ground in the midst of the sea.” When all had entered, they both marvelled and rejoiced at so great a miracle of heavenly goodness, and, singing praises to the divine mercy and to the most blessed confessor, they reached the shore of the island with dry feet. And the love of the brethren — men both noble in worldly rank and nobler still in gravity of manners, who at that time carried the bier in the habit of soldiers but have now made their profession with us in that same father’s monastery, that is at Durham, and are true monks in deed and in habit — is wont to bear witness to us again and again in the sweetest telling and with great compunction of heart how the waves of the sea which went before them kept following upon their heels, so that they neither ran ahead of them when they went slowly nor lagged behind when they hastened.

Chapter Seven: How, after four hundred and eighteen years, the body of blessed Cuthbert was found uncorrupt and was translated into the new church. #

¹ Amid these so frequent works of miracles, the same opinion was not held by all concerning the presence of the sacred body of blessed Cuthbert and its incorruption. For some dreamed with vain conjectures that it had long before this age been secretly transported elsewhere by some hidden power, and that the tomb — although now deprived of the treasure committed to it — had nevertheless not been emptied of the glory of its powers, but shone forth famously with miracles even now as a token of its former inhabitant. But others said that although the sacred relics were indeed contained there, for the frame of a human body to remain undissolved through so many revolutions of the ages exceeded the laws of nature; and although divine power commands all natures as it wills and how it wills, yet in the case of this body’s incorruption no testimony of anyone who had examined it by hand or by sight lay open to them; and therefore they found it hard to believe, untested, what they knew had been granted to the bodies of very few other saints, and rarely at that, concerning a body however holy. While some thus conjectured that the holy body had been removed and others would not admit its incorruption, the faith of the brethren who affirmed that it was both present and remained uncorrupted was disparaged, and an anxious shame crept upon them for some while. The brethren therefore turned their minds to God in prayer, and prayed that He who is “wonderful in His saints” would here show Himself wonderful by the displaying of so great a power, and would shut out doubt amid doubtful signs, giving glory to His name.

² Meanwhile the church which Bishop William had once founded, now completed in no small part, was to receive the body of the venerable father Cuthbert, which was to be transferred into it and fittingly laid to rest, for the sake of due veneration, in the place which the careful hand of the craftsmen had prepared. And so, as the twenty-ninth of August drew near — that is, the day appointed for the solemn translation — the brethren took counsel that, since no one survived who could teach from experience how everything was disposed and ordered about the holy body, they themselves, so far as God permitted, should examine it; and should prepare in good time whatever seemed worthy and fitting for its transport on the coming day; lest, when the hour of the festal procession came, any difficulty arising from want of foresight should cause a hindrance, and so, through a delay unwelcome to the expectation of all who had gathered, an injury should be done to the solemn rites. So the brethren — nine in number — with Turgot, the prior of that church, joined to them, having prepared themselves for this by fasts and prayers, prostrated themselves before the venerable tomb at the beginning of the night of the twenty-fourth of August; and with tears and prayers they laid hands upon it, not without fear and trembling, to open it. When at last it had been laid open with iron tools, they found to their amazement a chest carefully prepared on every side, which hides fastened with iron nails had wholly covered over. This chest, by its own weight and size and by certain other indications, gave them readily to understand that within its enclosure was deposited another, smaller coffin. But when they long hesitated to open it, fear holding them back, the same prior commanded them a second and a third time; and trusting in the virtue of obedience, they resumed the work begun, loosed the iron bands, and at length opened the chest. They saw within it placed a coffin of wood, which a thick linen cloth of threefold texture had wrapped all about — as long as a man’s stature — and which was covered with a board of the same material. They hesitated long; for it was not yet clear enough whether this itself was the dwelling-place of the holy body, or whether it still contained within it another lodging holding the sacred relics. At last, coming to themselves and recalling the words of Bede — who records that the body of blessed Cuthbert was found uncorrupt by the brethren of the church of Lindisfarne eleven years after its burial, and was laid above the pavement for the sake of due veneration — remembering, I say, these words, they perceived that this was the same chest which through so many years had preserved so great a treasure of heavenly deposit.

³ So, falling to the ground together, they prayed earnestly that blessed Cuthbert by his intercession would turn away from them the wrath of Almighty God, if they had in any measure deserved it by this presumption. In them was joy mingled with fear; for although they had feared offence on account of their boldness, yet from the certainty of so great a gift they had conceived immense gladness. Moved therefore by joy, they melted into tears, and, having rendered thanksgiving to the Lord, reckoned their desire satisfied. For this reason it seemed a rashness to lay hands deeper into the secrets of the sacred body — a rashness which, as they supposed, the vengeance from on high that would follow would by no means leave unpunished. So, abandoning the intention of searching any further, they discussed in turn with what splendour and what fitting equipment the body should be carried on the day of the coming translation. Now among the others present there was a certain brother of great steadfastness in Christ, who had obtained through the working of grace that charity which he bore in his name. For he was called Leofwine, which in the English tongue means “Dear Friend” — he indeed dear to God, and God a friend to him. For God showed that He was his Father by chastising him with continual sickness; he showed that he was a son of God by bearing God’s scourges patiently and always giving thanks. Whoever had known his manner of life could not doubt that the Holy Spirit rested in his breast. When he saw the brethren hesitating to open the coffin they had found and to look within at what heavenly grace, what new exultation it might offer them, he stepped into the midst and, speaking with a spirit more fervent than was his wont, said, “What are you doing, brethren? What do you fear? That action will always merit a good end which is begun under God’s inspiration. He who gave us the will to search gives us the hope of finding. And the things we have accomplished so far without difficulty are a proof of what good we should hope from what remains to be done. Our beginnings would never have gone so prosperously if the divine purpose were unwilling to bring them to their end. Nor will that ever be imputed by God to rashness which proceeds from a heart of devotion. For we do not approach the exploring of his relics out of contempt or out of distrust of his sanctity, but so that the Lord of virtues, the King of glory Himself, may be glorified the more devotedly by all, in proportion as a more exalted miracle of His power is shown forth in these times. Therefore let us look upon the inner parts of this sacred dwelling, so that ‘what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked upon, and our hands have handled,’ by our steadfast testimony we may leave no argument to those who would detract, whereby that which we affirm could henceforth be called into doubt.”

⁴ At this admonition of the man devoted to God, the brethren, resuming their confidence, carried the venerable body from behind the altar, where it had until then lain, into the middle of the choir, where they could act more freely in the ampler space that the matter required. There, when the covering that wrapped the coffin had been removed, they did not at once dare to open it, but, going around it with candles, examined carefully whether by any little cracks or any other indication they might discover what lay hidden within. But when nothing certain was revealed to them as they did this, at last — though trembling — they lifted off the lid, and saw a book of the Gospels placed at the head upon a board; and the board itself was upheld by three little cross-pieces of wood, and, extending to the breadth and length of the coffin, had covered all that was beneath it. It had two iron rings let into it, one at the head end and the other at the foot, so that those lifting it might find no difficulty. It was certain that what they sought was beneath their hands; but whether they held it in their hands they were uncertain. For there was in them a desire, born of love, to see and handle what they had loved; but from the conscience of their sins a fear drove them back lest they should dare it. Thus they hung doubtful between these two, almost not knowing which they wished more. As they wavered thus, strengthened by the prior’s command and by the exhortation of the same brother, they at length lifted the board; and when the linen cloth which next after the board had covered the sacred relics was removed, they drew in with their nostrils the fragrance of a sweetest odour. And look! they find the venerable body of the blessed father — the very fruit of their desire — which, lying on its right side, with all the integrity of its frame and the flexibility of its limbs, represented one sleeping rather than one dead. At this sight they were struck with a mighty awe, and, withdrawing a little way, did not dare to look upon the miracle that lay open. They began with bent knees to beat their breasts with their fists again and again, and, lifting their eyes with their hands on high, cried out repeatedly, “Have mercy upon us, O Lord, have mercy.” Meanwhile each told the others in turn what he had seen, as though he had not seen it. At last, prostrating themselves with their whole bodies and with tears flowing abundantly, they begged the Lord with the seven penitential psalms that He would not rebuke them in His fury nor chastise them in His wrath.

⁵ When these were finished, they drew near — crawling on knees and hands rather than walking on feet — and saw there relics of so many saints that the narrowness of that coffin could not have contained them, had not the holy body of the father, lying on its side as has been said, afforded them a more ample space to rest on either side together with him. These relics indeed, as is read in the old books, are known to be the head of the glorious king and martyr Oswald, and the bones of the venerable confessors of Christ and priests — namely Aidan, and the successors of this venerable father Cuthbert himself: Eadbert, Eadfrith and Ethelwold. Moreover, the bones of the venerable Bede, who wrote the life of blessed Cuthbert with such clarity, had their dwelling-place of rest together with his body, all contained alike in a little linen bag. But by whom they were brought from Jarrow, where they had been buried after his death, and translated there, is plainly recorded elsewhere. For the same man who collected the bones of blessed Boisil — and also those of the doctor Bede, which had been revealed to him — brought them together into the church of Durham, but placed them in different places in that same church. Relics of very many other saints were also found there. So they wished to turn the holy body of the father from its side onto its back; but because they could not do this conveniently on account of the multitude of relics surrounding it, they resolved to move the holy body a little aside, to gather the relics of the saints together and, having laid them apart by themselves, to let the uncorrupt body keep its own single resting-place thereafter. But since they feared to lay hands upon it to touch it, at the prayers of the same brother they took heart to stand ready to obey whatever their elders should command. When therefore the two to whom it had been commanded — one at the head, the other at the feet — raised the venerable body from the place of its repose, it began to bend in the middle as though still living, and, solid with flesh and bones, to sink down by its natural weight. At once, by command, a third ran up and clasped it round the middle with his arms; and so they laid it reverently upon the pavement, with rugs and cloths spread beneath. What tears were then shed by them all, which the greatness of their joy poured forth! What voices of thanksgiving! What songs of praise and exultation, when now they had before their eyes this treasure of heavenly grace, in comparison with which all gold seemed worthless to them! Now they reckoned that nothing would be wanting to them, since they saw as it were living and present him through whom the divine bounty would confer upon them both the sustenance of the present life and the joys of the life to come.

⁶ Meanwhile, when the relics of the saints had been removed, they replaced the father’s body in its own case, intending to place it more worthily and fittingly on the following night, because — as the hour of the night office was already at hand — the shortness of the time did not allow them to linger longer over these things. Therefore, having sung “We praise you, O God” in a low voice, they carried the holy body back to the place from where they had moved it, rejoicing to the Lord in psalms.

⁷ When morning had come and they made mention of God’s wonders in the assembled company of the brethren, the latter, first turned by the strangeness of the thing into a kind of stupor, afterwards testified to the joy conceived in their minds more by tears than by words; and, bending their knees to the ground, gave thanks to Jesus Christ, who had deigned both to show them of what merit was the patron they possessed, and to teach them what they could hope for themselves from his merits. But the bishop, not readily lending belief to these things, judged it altogether incredible that a body, however holy, yet human, had endured for so long a time — that is, for four hundred and eighteen years — untouched by any stain of corruption. Those men could scarcely at last satisfy him by their oath — men who counted it a crime to speak untruth even without swearing.

⁸ On the following night the same brethren who had been present before, in a spirit of humility and a contrite heart, again brought the venerable body into the midst of the choir and laid it upon cloths and rugs spread over the pavement. It had first been wrapped round on the outside with a precious silk cloth, then with a dalmatic of purple, and then with linen cloths — all of which, without any stain of corruption, whole and white, kept their former freshness. The chasuble, however, which it had had in the tomb for eleven years, had already been taken away by the brethren at that time, and is now kept elsewhere in the church to display the proof of its incorruption. When therefore they had ascertained with certainty, by sight and by handling with their hands, by lifting and by laying down, that the body was solid in its sinews and wholly uncorrupt, and had seen it tended with solemn care, they added to those things in which it had been wrapped before — out of their abundance — the most precious silk that could be found in the church, and a very fine linen shroud besides. When they had wrapped it round in these with great care, they laid it back in the dwelling of its peaceful rest with great devotion of prayers and of sweet tears. And they also laid away the other things that had been found with it, just as they had been found — namely the ivory comb and the scissors, still keeping the grace of their former newness — and the things that became a priest: namely a silver altar, corporals, and a chalice with a paten, small indeed but precious in material and in workmanship; the lower part of which, in the figure of a lion of purest gold, bears upon its back an onyx stone hollowed out with most beautiful art, which is so fastened to the lion by the craftsman’s skill that it can easily be turned round by the hand, yet cannot be removed. Moreover, of the holy relics which the lodging of that same coffin had enclosed with him, they placed only the head of the blessed King Oswald beside the head of the glorious bishop, just as it had been before. For the rest of the relics, as has been said before, were taken from there and are kept with honour, solemnly laid up elsewhere in the church. So when the body of the blessed father had been enclosed in its case, they wrapped it all about with a cloth of coarse linen which they had steeped throughout in wax, and carried it back behind the altar where it had rested before, blessing the Lord of hosts in His works, who alone does wonders, whose great works are sought out according to all His will.

⁹ Meanwhile, when the day of the coming translation had been proclaimed far and wide, a great concourse of people from all quarters came together as far as Durham: very many persons of every dignity and age, and also of every calling — both of secular life and of spiritual — who, having learnt of the miracle of the body so long incorrupt, rejoiced greatly in the Lord; and with praise and thanksgiving rendered to Him, exulted that their own times were visited by the showing of so great a power. Among these, one of the number of the abbots who had come complained that an injury had been done him in the things that had been done, accusing the brethren of the church of thoughtless rashness in that they had dared to undertake so great and so unusual a work by themselves, without consulting or summoning him. For he said that he, being a neighbour, ought to have been called in to share in this act, by whose assertion the testimony of the truth could be confirmed. For he said it was likely that the brethren — who had willed that no witness from another church should be present at these secrets — were not so much telling the truth about their Saint as inventing it. “Therefore,” he said, “reason seems to demand that the truth of so incredible a thing should be investigated by others also, so that to the people who flock here in such numbers we may affirm by our testimony what we ourselves also have examined with our eyes.” Repeating these things often in the ears of those who had come with him, he inclined the minds of some to his assent. And now the appointed day of the translation was at hand; and when the abbot’s slander was brought into the assembly of the brethren, their minds were shaken by a grave scandal: by it they were branded with the infamy of falsehood, and a second uncovering of the Saint’s body was sought, which they neither dared to repeat themselves nor would permit to strangers. So there arose a great contention between the parties: the abbot maintained that the testimony of the brethren of that church alone about their own Saint should not be accepted; the brethren, bewildered that their good faith was suspected, protested that he was plotting either the desolation of the place or their expulsion from it — for he who rejected their sworn testimony as fictitious judged them sacrilegious and detestable to all. “Therefore,” they said, “far be it that access should be granted to this man to see these holy things, by whose doing we have come under suspicion of grave falsehood. For those who yesterday sang ‘Glory to God in the highest’ in exultation with us — some of them, at the abbot’s accusation, hold us suspect of lying today.”

¹⁰ As they thus contended, and no end could be put to the contention, Ralph of venerable memory — then abbot of the monastery of Séez, but afterwards archbishop of Canterbury — interposed himself as mediator between the two parties. He was a man of great gentleness and religion, and nobly learned in the holy scriptures; and desiring to restore peace between the disputants, he said: “It is true what the scripture says, ‘In the mouth of two or three witnesses every word shall stand;’ how much more in the mouth of so many and so trustworthy men, that no reasoning can permit anyone to doubt their testimony. We believe indeed that the work of divine power has been revealed to you in the body of blessed Cuthbert — we believe it, I say, for ‘my mouth shall speak the praise of the Lord, and my soul blesses the Lord.’ But since the evidence of this miracle is so great, I should perhaps seem rash if I demanded that the incorruption of the holy body shown to you should be shown to us also. And yet in this request I ought to seem neither rash nor superfluous; for since ‘perfect charity casts out fear,’ I presume to ask out of much charity what I demand should be presumed out of love. Our prayers are aided also by the circumstance which has now arisen — namely, this doubt of our brother the abbot; for unless it is driven from his heart by the testimony of others also, he will seem to himself to have brought just accusations against you, and will gather more supporters to them in future. But, as I see it, this doubt has been raised in him by God’s providence, so that where you think a grave scandal is being made, from there, by God’s ordering, a fuller glory may accrue to this place. For if the favour of your grace accompanies our prayers, when we ourselves too have seen what we have already heard, the calumny of detractors will fall silent the sooner, in proportion as one and the same experience has confirmed both your testimony and ours. And the more widely the glory of God in blessed Cuthbert shall be preached, in proportion as we who have proved this with our eyes, returning hence and scattering through different and distant parts, shall persist in declaring these things to all.”

¹¹ To these prayers of the venerable abbot the bishop would already have given his assent, had it not seemed to the brethren that consent should not be given at once — for they feared that a grave peril by the judgement of God hung over them if they should inconsiderately allow the holy body to be shown to anyone again. But, swayed by the counsel of prudent friends, they at last — though most reluctantly — consented to this: that, the abbot who had judged them unworthy of belief having been removed, the humble and devout petitioner should be admitted with others who seemed worthy to a new inspection of the miracle. Yet at length the counsellors persuaded them to allow even that man to be present at this matter most of all, who had doubted and had made others doubt their testimony, so that he might stand by as a onlooker of the miracle which, when they bore witness to it, he had refused to believe. With the contention thus settled, led by the prior they entered the oratory clothed in white: the same abbot of Séez; Richard, abbot of the monastery of Saint Albans; Stephen, abbot of Saint Mary’s, York; and Hugh, abbot of Saint Germain’s in Selby. After them followed Alexander, brother of Edgar king of the Scots — who shortly afterwards would succeed that same brother of his on the throne — and William, then a clerk of the bishop of Durham, but after the often-mentioned Ralph archbishop of the church of Canterbury; then also the others who had been designated, men of religious life, both monks and clerks, forty in number. Moreover several brethren of the same church followed — for the rest were attending upon the bishop, who was then dedicating an altar in the church. And so, when prayer had first been humbly offered by all, the holy body was borne into the choir; where, when the coffin in which the brethren had earlier enclosed it had been opened, the prior raised his hand and forbade by a solemn prohibition that anyone except the abbot of Séez should lay a hand either upon the body or upon any of the things that were about it. The rest he ordered to stand nearer, and take in the truth of the matter by sight rather than by touch. He also commanded the brethren of the monastery to be constantly present and to watch with vigilant gaze lest anyone should in any way carry off even a small thread of the vestments that wrapped the body. What was commanded was done. The said abbot, assisted by one brother of that same church, unfolded the wrappings around the venerable head, raised it a little with both hands while all looked on, and by bending it in different directions found that it held fast to the rest of the body with all the joints of the neck’s structure whole. Then, putting his hand to it, he pulled the ear more firmly back and forth; and afterwards, examining and testing other parts of the body with his hand, he found the body firm in sinews and bones, with softness of flesh. And shaking it by the head, he raised it so far aloft that it seemed almost to be sitting up in the dwelling of its rest. And lest any diligence of enquiry should be wanting, he took care to test the same wholeness about the feet and legs also. Now there were some who, fearing to look upon this a little longer, put their hands over their eyes and cried out that he was carrying out a proof beyond what the truth of the matter demanded — he who had himself held so manifest a certainty of it. When therefore the devout examiner had explored the miracle of incorruption fully and more than fully, he lifted up his voice in the midst and proclaimed: “Look, brethren! This body lies here lifeless indeed, yet as sound and whole as on the day when the holy soul, seeking the heavens, left it.”

¹² Then, when everything had been carefully arranged as it had been before, the brethren of the monastery were proclaimed by all to be truthful and worthy of belief; and he who had judged them unworthy of belief now, together with the others, affirmed what he had previously refused to believe, whether he would or no. And now, when “We praise you, O God” had been solemnly sung while all exulted, and everything the matter required had been fittingly arranged, the body of the father was taken up on the shoulders of bearers, and in honour of Almighty God the voices of the singers resounded far and wide with heavenly hymns. When the shrines of the other saints’ relics had gone before, and at last the venerable body of blessed Cuthbert was being borne out through the doorway with the equipment of a yet more festal observance, the multitude of people who had waited outside, all dissolved into tears for joy, rushed to meet it, so that the bearers of the holy body could scarcely advance in so great a crush, and the voices of the singers were drowned by so great a clamour of people praying, exulting and weeping for joy all mingled together. Going round the outside of the new church, they made a station at its eastern side, where, while the bishop preached, those same men who had found the miracle of the incorruption which had now endured for four hundred and eighteen years in a human body stood by and declared to all the assembled people that they had both seen it and handled it. The people were kindled to a new exultation to render thanks to God, who had deigned to reward the devotion of their minds with so great a manifestation of heavenly grace. Now the day was far advanced, and the bishop, interweaving much that the cause of the present business did not require, had made many weary of his over-long sermon. But although the sky was so serene that no sign of coming rain appeared in the air, suddenly rain began to pour down in such floods that the sermon was at once broken off; the brethren snatched up the coffin of the holy body and hastened to carry it swiftly into the church. When it had been brought in, the rain ceased at once — so that it was given to be understood from this that it was not pleasing to God that the sacred body of His servant should be kept any longer outside the holy places. And this too seems in no way to be passed over in silence: that although the downpour of rain was so great, yet neither the ornaments of the church, which were all then set out, nor the vestments of anyone who then processed in splendour, received any injury to their beauty or their use from the rain. So when the body of the blessed bishop had been placed where it had been fittingly prepared, and the church resounded with the praises of God, the solemn mass was celebrated; and when the most sacred mysteries had been completed for the salvation of the faithful, “they returned to their own homes with joy, glorifying and praising God in all the things they had seen and heard.” This manifestation or translation of the uncorrupt body took place four hundred and eighteen years, five months and twelve days after his deposition — that is, in the year of our Lord’s incarnation eleven hundred and four, which is the fifth year of King Henry’s reign and the sixth of Bishop Ranulf’s pontificate. And from the beginning of the world there had then passed six thousand three hundred and three years.

Chapters on the Miracles and Translations of Saint Cuthbert #

Chapter Eight: How a certain man himself betrayed a theft which he had committed in his monastery, and so perished miserably in the same place. #

¹ Above, we have set down how this most gentle confessor of God freed a certain man who had been seized for robberies, murders, thefts and pillage, and avenged him upon his persecutor; now we shall set down how another man, on account of a theft which he had committed in the saint’s own monastery, was long and grievously tortured by a demon and perished in the same place. After the detestable murder of Walcher, bishop of Durham — well known to all — when the glorious king, the same William, had sent an army to avenge the enormity of so great a crime, all those presumptuous murderers at once hid themselves in woods and mountains. But all the common folk, trusting in their innocence — as it is written, “The righteous man is bold as a lion” — sought the accustomed and, in all their straits, proven protection of the most blessed confessor, and, as was their wont, carried their goods into his monastery. Meanwhile a certain man of those who were in the castle, a Frenchman by birth, when he saw so many chests there with no one guarding them (for the custodians in the inner parts of the monastery attended to what belonged to their own office and cared nothing for these things; nor, moreover, do any of the natives of that region presume to violate the temples of God, however much they may rob and steal elsewhere), was at once driven by a deceiving spirit, and thought that he had then found a suitable place for stealing. So, having marked out a certain night on which to accomplish this conveniently, he asked the custodians of the monastery that permission to keep vigil there should be granted him according to the custom of the country, on the ground that he had vowed this to God. But they, suspecting no evil in him, most gladly granted to the devotion he feigned what is granted to all the devout. He however, having received permission, in the silence of the dead of night when sleep is heaviest, when he saw the custodians asleep, devoted to evil deed the theft he had conceived in his wicked mind and accomplished it. But when a few days had passed since then — and not even a suspicion was entertained of any theft committed in that place, for, as we have said, no one there dares to commit theft in the church — he was seized by a most grievous and sudden sickness and was burnt up as though by a most fervent fire. Driven by the greatness of this burning into madness of mind, he leapt from his bed and, just as he was, in only his shirt, went at a most rapid run into the field; and mounting his horse which was grazing there, he came with a great rush into the monastery before the very crucifix, howling and crying out horribly, “Have mercy on me and spare me, Saint Cuthbert — but I know you will not, because I dared to steal this and that” (for he named the things he had taken) “in your monastery.” While he was crying out such things without ceasing, running this way and that through the monastery and raving, he was led away unwillingly to his lodging and bound with strong straps, because whatever he could seize with his mouth or hands he tore at like a dog. And when he had passed three or four nights in such torment, growing more and more mad from hour to hour, at last — I know not how — breaking free from his bonds, he ran driven by the furies into the monastery. And he fell down at once before the tomb of the confessor beloved of God; and while the choir was sounding “We praise you, O God” (for the office of Nocturnal Praises was then being performed), he, howling and crying out horribly, kept repeating the same words we have set down above, adding certain other things besides. For when he cried, “Have mercy on me, Saint Cuthbert,” he added, “But I know that you will not, after you struck me so grievously with your staff.” For he confessed that this most holy confessor had come to him in a vision by night and had inflicted three heavy blows upon him with great indignation, the pain of which, now entering into his heart, was tormenting him to death. While he kept uttering these and many similar things in mad motions and cries, his whole body was soon contracted in that same place, and his miserable soul was drawn from there to burn eternally.

Chapter Nine: How a certain man’s horse suddenly died while it was eating the crops of Saint Cuthbert’s church. #

¹ The prophet, searching out the wondrous works of God in the Psalms, though he finds Him wonderful everywhere in His creatures, yet proclaims God wonderful in His saints above the rest by a certain prerogative of ineffable excellence. So then, that our mouth may speak the praise of the Lord, what worthier theme, I ask, can there be for Him than that His wonders should be told, which He, Himself wonderful, works by making His saints wonderful? Clearly how wonderful God is in Saint Cuthbert, and how wonderful Cuthbert is in God, is daily declared by the evidence of miracles. Of these, relying on the help of Him by whom they were worked, we shall unfold in writing a few from those that happened in the reign of William the Younger — by no means inferior to those we read already written. The yearly feast of the most holy father’s translation, which was now close at hand, invited a concourse of people from all quarters to Durham, as is the custom. But the intention of devotion was not the same in all: some desired above all — indeed, solely — the patronage of so great a father; others thought not so much of the saint’s intercession as of the business of buying and selling, which is chiefly done at that time. Among their number was a certain man — already better known to very many on account of what befell him — who, bringing with him a horse of worth and high price, intended to sell it at Durham. And so, as he made the journey in company with others, he saw close beside the road the ripe crops of the church, which those who had reaped had left scattered in heaps through the fields, as is the custom, having lately gathered the sheaves into piles. Here he turned aside alone, leaving the company, and, with no regard for justice, gave his beast fodder from what belonged to others. When the servant of the monastery to whom the care of those things had been delegated hastened to stop him, he pointed out that these things were to serve for the sustenance of those who served Saint Cuthbert; but he could not recall the man from his stubbornness. Then, when his warnings profited nothing, rebuking and entreating him too, he at last, failing in his fruitless labour after all he could do, held his peace under mockery. For the man, enraged, hurled back grave insults and curses at him, and in no measure restrained himself from his presumption. So he stood there swollen and stiff, bending himself by no fear or reverence of the Saint — or rather, scattering the grain here and there and pressing on far more vehemently than he had begun — when look! the beast, which a moment before had been grazing sound and whole, suddenly fell to the ground and died at once, so that you would have thought that by the speed of so unexpected a death it had eaten not wheat but some deadly thing instead. Thus was his obstinacy repressed: that by which he had most despised reverence for the Saint, that very thing he most justly lost, the Saint exacting vengeance. So, compelled by the loss he had suffered, and repenting of his injury and obstinacy, he was violently afraid. You might have seen the man grow pale and tremble in all his body, not knowing for dread what to do or where to turn. Now he counted the loss of the horse as nothing at all, but feared exceedingly lest he too should be struck down by a like sentence. And so, rushing to the ground, he prostrated himself, and beating himself alike with fists and words, said, “O wretched me, perhaps unworthy of mercy! See where sins drag a miserable man. What shall I do? I came here to perish. For the place and my desert promise me nothing else. This place and this hour, as I suspect, will bring an end alike of my journey and of my life.” Then, recovering his breath a little into the hope of pardon, he invoked blessed Cuthbert with prayers and showers of tears, and earnestly implored him to have mercy on his misery, remitting alike the guilt and, for the future, the punishment he had deserved. At last he arose and, completing on bare feet all the rest of the journey, stood at the door of the church. For he had not presumed to enter before he had reconciled to himself those whom he thought he had offended — the brethren of the monastery — so that they might intercede for him with the Saint. For this purpose he had already sent before him a certain monk, by whose merit, and by the familiarity he had there, he might more easily obtain pardon. When he came out — the prior of the monastery, who survives to this day — the trembling man fell at his feet and, while many stood by, recounted the whole course of the affair, and showed forth the judgement and the mercy worked in him: the judgement, in that he had been struck down by the loss; the mercy, in that he himself had not been punished with death — so that, living, he might acknowledge his fault, and acknowledging it, lament it, and lamenting, show himself a better man thereafter. For this reason he now humbly sought penance; but the prior himself with the brethren thought it too inhuman to impose another penalty of penance beyond what he had suffered from on high. And taking him by the hand — for he dared not enter otherwise — he led him, pale and trembling, like a kind of mediator, to the very tomb of the most sacred body. There too, prostrate in body and heart, he bewailed the guilt of his presumption by making satisfaction, and, provided only that he might now obtain pardon, promised that he would never presume anything of the kind again. And so, having gained his own amendment from the beast he had lost, he returned home both better and more joyful. Nor did it compel him alone, but also all to whom this deed became known, to hold the reverence due to the venerable confessor even in the smallest matters.

Chapter Ten: How the people shut up in Durham were delivered from two armies. #

¹ Meanwhile the same king of the English and Malcolm, king of the Scots, when quarrelsome causes had arisen between them, maintained a heavy enmity to the hurt of both realms; and so Malcolm, having led out an army, compelled the Northumbrians to seek the protection of flight. Some of them hid themselves in the coverts of woods and mountains; but the greater part — and especially those who are properly called the people of Saint Cuthbert — transferred their belongings into Durham; for there they always have a sure place of refuge in dangers, trusting not so much in the strength of the place as in the peace won by the presence of the most holy body. Here they drove all their flocks together with their whole household goods, and the spaces of the town scarcely sufficed for so many and so great throngs of men and cattle. Meanwhile Malcolm placed his forces not far from there to the north, and lingered there some days. In the meantime the nobles of the neighbouring cities, accompanied by a numerous body of young soldiers, made haste to hinder the enemy’s attempts; and they too had now pitched camp in the vicinity of Durham to the south. But each host, while each out of fear promised itself the peace or flight of the other, passed some time there. Thus neither was in truth formidable to the other, yet both were intolerable to those shut in by their idleness. For the multitude of men and of animals of every kind which had been driven into the narrow place could scarcely bear itself, one pressing upon another. Nor dared anyone easily go forth or drive out the cattle to pasture, since hemmed in on every side by swords they feared plundering and death on this side and that. What shall I say of the churchyard being occupied by the crush of flocks and of certain men, when scarcely even the church alone could be kept free of them? Mingled with these, throngs of infants, boys and women walled the church round about, where with ceaseless confused clamours they disturbed the voices of those singing psalms in the church. The murmur of their miseries was misery even to hear. You might have seen, as the famine that compels all things pressed on, one horse crop the tail of another with its bite, and do other things horrible to see and hear, and many even pine away to the point of death. The season too, being in the heat of summer, was an increase of evil to the endangered. Why say more? — to sum up much in few words, there was groaning everywhere throughout the town “and every form of death.” And so, when their resources had almost failed the wretched people and all hope of human help had utterly failed, they fled to the patronage of the most loving confessor Cuthbert, of which they had already often had experience in adversity. For when an assembly had been held, one and the same opinion united them all: namely, that the accustomed aid of the father should be invoked by all in common with prayers and with gifts according to their means. So they came together in one accord at the church; out of the contrition of their hearts each one freely offered prayers and tears, and gifts from their substance; they implored the help of the confessor for themselves and theirs, soon to perish unless he quickly succoured them. O the merciful justice of God! O the just mercy of the same! “He has visited the iniquities of His people with the rod, and their sins with scourges.” Yet His mercy, at Cuthbert’s intercession, He did not scatter away from them. Here indeed, as it is read, “the Lord was made a refuge for the poor, a helper in due season, in tribulation.” Not yet had the next day’s light broken in the dawn, when look! the whole army of the Scots was suddenly driven to flight by I know not what terror. When the news of their departure reached the English camp, it soon granted those men too leave to depart to their own land. The enemy having thus been driven off on every side, a day of longed-for exultation dawned, on which the whole people was redeemed to its freedom from the straits of place and heart. A day, I say, of exultation, on which a grace of consolation overflowed for them far more abundantly than anyone could have hoped. For they had only desired the flight of the enemy, and look! they breathed again by a twofold grace of God. For while they rejoiced that the enemy had departed, at the same hour — a thing they had not hoped for — they congratulated one another that their own bishop had returned from exile. For when, the gates being opened, the people were hastening to go out, look! the bishop’s officers came in to meet them, and everywhere the rights of his flock were restored to the bishop. Then the restoration of their prelate, most welcome to all, crowned the great gladness and great thanksgiving which the enemy’s flight had already brought forth. And in this deed every prudent man understands of what merit is blessed Cuthbert, through whom the pitying and merciful Lord displayed such great riches of His goodness even to the unworthy, because “the Lord is gracious to all, and His tender mercies are over all His works.”

Chapter Eleven: How a certain man, when in a rage he wished to drive the horses of Saint Cuthbert’s monks out of his lodging, fell down as if dead. #

¹ Not much time had passed when look! through the merits of the holy confessor a thing no less memorable occurred. The same prior of the monastery, when the common good of the church and of the whole people required it, went into the parts of the South English, accompanied by no small number of the people. With him were also two brethren of the monastery, one of whom has now died, while the other survives with the prior as an undoubted witness of the thing we now begin to relate. So, as they went through the countryside, since the declining day and the winter’s cold were already driving them to seek lodgings, they hastened into a nearby village — the monks following more slowly — and one outstripped another. As they lodged throughout the whole village, a certain poor little cottage remained for the monks, which could suffice for themselves alone, but not for their horses too. So the mistress of a neighbouring house was entreated — for her husband was away — and kindly granted room for the beasts. When he returned home he took it ill; he demanded who they were and from where, who had presumed to stable horses in his house. Learning therefore that they had come from far away, he lost all the more the benevolence of humanity, and, raging and shouting, ordered the horses to be driven out as quickly as possible. A brother sent by the prior tried to soothe him with such blandishments as he could, begging that he would allow Saint Cuthbert a corner of his house for his own, since the multitude of other guests everywhere now denied them any other lodging. But he, whom fury had made masterless of mind, returned insults for prayers; and speaking unworthy things against God’s confessor and threatening them all, raved with horrendous cries, and was already rushing in frenzy to cut the horses’ tethers. And so, while he raged implacably in heart, mouth and hand, he suddenly fell down before the horses as though about to die — indeed, as it seemed, already dying. For when he lay bereft of voice, motion and senses, he was laid out in the midst as one already breathing his last. That whole house turned itself at once to mourning, about to perform the funeral rites of the man whom a little before, raging and shouting, they had scarcely been able to bear. When the prior heard what had happened, he sent one brother as it were to the dying man, while he himself, remaining with another, pressed on more intently in prayer and earnestly implored the help of blessed Cuthbert for the wretch’s salvation. After some interval, as life gradually returned, the man opened his eyes, saw the brother sitting beside him, and said, “O pray to your Saint for me — to him, I beg.” A little afterwards, having recovered the vigour of spirit and body — according to that saying of the Wise man, “When the fool is scourged, he will be wiser” — he hastened to offer everything with his whole house as a suppliant to those to whom he had denied a corner before. But let no one think that this happened on account of the monks’ merits; rather the loving stripes taught one who did not know how greatly the reverence of God’s confessor is to be held. Nor was there delay: what was done in the poor man’s house became known in the king’s palace. For when it was told by one of those who had been present, it stirred the king and his nobles to praise God and to extol the praiseworthy merits of His servant.

Chapter Twelve: How, for those suffering want, the sea as it receded left behind a multitude of fish through the merits of Saint Cuthbert. #

¹ Not long afterwards, the venerable confessor renewed in our own times almost the same miracle which he had once shown while living in the flesh. The feast of Easter, chiefest of all feasts, was soon to come. But because the scantiness of their means seemed to promise too little provision for the brethren’s table, they could perhaps themselves rejoice the less in the joy of so great a solemnity. Therefore the same prior and the other brethren whose office it was were troubled with a loving care, that after the observances of Lent their weaker brethren might be refreshed with some more abundant comfort. But want, growing day by day, pressed the more grievously upon their fruitless cares, and now not even any hope of human relief upheld them. But contrary to what they had themselves known how to hope, they breathed again in the sudden blessing of divine bounty. For at the island of Lindisfarne, as the ocean receded at its appointed time, certain huge bodies of fish lay gasping here and there upon the sands; and they presented to onlookers both amazement and joy alike by their number and their bulk. For they were sixty-five, and of such great size that for dragging away each one only pairs of oxen sufficed. But because the place itself belonged to another’s jurisdiction, not even the smallest portion of them came to the brethren. For a certain one of those men was present who demanded for the church at least the tithes of so great an abundance of the divine gift, as the ancient custom of the law and of the province required; but when all was denied him, he departed covered alike with shame and grief. And why do I delay? Soon the proud grasping was confounded, and the humility of the petitioner was wonderfully raised up. The same brother caught sight from afar of a multitude of fish wandering here and there, but was prevented by the still deep waters from reaching them. Made therefore more eager in hope, he begged father Cuthbert the more earnestly that out of such great abundance the need of his own people might be relieved. Meanwhile, as the waves gradually slipped back, while they wandered about like strays, the fish were little by little left upon the dry ground as the sea receded. And although the places round about belonged far and wide to the rights of others, the generous blessing of God filled only that narrow part of the shore which belonged to the monks, so that not even one fish lay beyond it. Equal in kind and size to the former ones, they exceeded their number by two. Truly it was a fair spectacle that thing presented, not only to the brother himself but to all the needy, with whom he generously shared what he had so generously received from God. And so he quickly sent the abundance of the heavenly benefit home to the brethren, and the unhoped-for thing turned them all to amazement and to the praise of God. Thus refreshed in mind and body, they passed the Easter festival more joyfully than usual, and for a long time afterwards abounded in this feast, not ceasing to bless Him “who gives food in due season; who opens His hand and fills every living thing with blessing.” Nor is it doubtful that this munificence of God was procured for His little servants now by the merits of that same saint who, once shut in by a storm at sea, when he already had no food, sought it from God by prayer; and without delay found dolphin flesh upon the shore to suffice for himself and his companions. All these things, just as we have related them, we have very often heard in the telling both of that man who was present — whom we mentioned before, a monk in deed and in habit — and of others who saw them.

Chapter Thirteen: How Abbot Paul and Earl Robert received the reward of their wrongdoing in the very place which they had taken from Saint Cuthbert. #

¹ When we consider, praising them in Saint Cuthbert, God and the miracles of God, we sing with the Psalmist mercy and judgement to the Lord. For through the merits of the magnificent bishop, “God, the just judge,” “brings this man low and lifts this man up,” because “the Lord lifts up the meek, but brings sinners down to the ground.” We have proved the truth of these things in what we have already written, and we shall prove them in what is still to be written. So we shall relate a deed done by no means in obscurity, of which — lest anyone should think it doubtful — almost the whole people of Northumbria stands witness.

² Robert de Mowbray, violent in spirit and strenuous in arms, when he held the dignity of the earldom, was stirred by hatred against the church of the Saint to the loss of his honour. For he held it as his chief concern to wear it down with accusations and to crush it with injuries. He strove to trouble its affairs and destroy its rights wherever he could; whatever harm he could do, he threatened that he would do more than he could. Hence he made the church at Tynemouth — being, as the whole province knows, of the church of father Cuthbert’s own right — the first prey of his violence. From there the monks who had long inhabited it — indeed, the Saint himself in his monks — were driven out with contumely, and it was transferred into the lordship of a certain Abbot Paul, who lived far away. Yet the monks of Durham, lest in accepting stolen goods he should do injury to the purpose and rank of the church, had earnestly striven — though in vain — to recall that abbot by letters of legation through themselves and through all religious men, warning, begging and forbidding. Not the grace of anyone could bend him; not even reverence for the venerable confessor or for his order restrained him from accepting the plunder. But not unpunished. For as the outcome of events showed, each of them — the robber and the possessor of the plunder — paid the penalty of rashness with avenging punishment. For the abbot, whose monks had been sent ahead long before, when he himself followed after and first saw that very church, was seized by a sudden sickness; and he who had come hale and whole was carried home dead. But the earl, after some time had passed, besieged by the king whom he had offended by his evil deeds — when, with the enemy pouring in on every side, the way of advancing and retreating was blocked — entered Tynemouth for the strength of the place. For this place, on the eastern and northern side, presents itself inaccessible upon a high cliff above the ocean, while elsewhere it has little need of defence by reason of its loftier situation. Trusting in this stronghold and in a proved band of soldiers, he promised himself and his enemies a far different end than the matter was to have. For when a siege of two days had been made, the enemy, resolved either to conquer or to fall, attacked the defenders with sword and flame. And without delay they took the place, difficult yet not difficult — for breaking in with no loss to themselves, they cut some down, crippled others with wounds, seized them and dragged them away, and drove the earl himself — wounded and now despairing of life — into the church. O the just judgement of God! Look, as the scripture sings, “The sinner is caught in the works of his own hands.” And “He opened a pit and dug it,” and “He fell into the hole he had made.” For in that very church the earl himself now became the prey of his enemies — the church which we said above had been the prey of his own presumption against Saint Cuthbert. In that very one, I say, which in his pride he had seized from the Saint, he himself, wretched, is now seized, dragged away, and led before the king, to whom his life was dearer than his death — and to this day he is consigned to custody in chains. When these things had been done, the same place makes plain to those who consider it the cause of each punishment: for where they did injury to the Saint, there each received the wages of his injury. There the sickness of death befell the one; there the loss of all his honour befell the other. Thus, when one little church had been taken from blessed Cuthbert, the one lost his life; the other lost not only riches and honours, but even — what he held more than all these — the liberty of his body.

Chapter Fourteen: How a cleric sick with fever was healed at the tomb of blessed Cuthbert. #

¹ Not long before, there came forth from that tomb which keeps safe the deposit of the heavenly treasure a wonder of healing of the accustomed kind. For among the South English a certain man of the clerical order, excelling many in honour, was seized by a most grievous fever which, exhausting him with long torment, devoured his miserable body. Nor did he lack the anxious care of physicians, who, invited by the hope of rewards, left nothing of their art’s healing untried. But by no kind of medicine could the affliction be at all relieved — to which, on the contrary, medicine gave increase day by day. When therefore the despairing physicians could devise no kind of remedy, he had this sole hope of health: if he could visit the tomb of the incorrupt body of blessed Cuthbert; for by the spreading of fame he had learnt that miracles were often done there, and that those held down by any affliction were often relieved by healing. And so, although wasted by long affliction, he undertook the labour of the long journey; and coming to Durham, he was received with the honour that was fitting. There too, labouring under his accustomed affliction, he was shaken for some while by the fever’s sickness; but suddenly, through the merits of Saint Cuthbert, he was restored whole to health. For while he was passing the night sleepless in prayer before his sepulchre, the plague, as though terrified by the presence of the holy body, fled away, and never afterwards dared to touch the man at all. Of this thing we know ourselves to be witnesses, as many of us as — though unworthy — minister to the precious body of the confessor; for we both performed the offices of the night praise while the sick man prayed at his tomb, and afterwards, rejoicing with him in his healing, sang thanks to God in Saint Cuthbert. A few days later, resuming his journey, he returned to his own people, whom he had left sick — to their amazement and glad congratulation at the miracle of his healing.

Chapter Fifteen: How a certain man, who had taken a strap from the church of Saint Cuthbert’s ass-boy, suddenly suffered pain in his eyes. #

¹ Another miracle also — though at a different time — suddenly occurred to the praise of his wondrous holiness. A boy of the church, who kept watch over the asses, had cut grass to serve for their fodder. Wearied by this labour and by the midday heat, he fell quickly asleep in a soft and sweet-smelling meadow. Meanwhile a certain stranger, who was present as a companion in the work with others, gently put his hand to the sleeping boy, loosed his strap, and having taken what he had seized, freely went back to work. For the heavy sleep which had stolen away his senses could not let him be a hindrance to the crime. Waking at last, the boy grieved as though he had lost some great thing — which he held in no small account. When, searching everywhere, he had nowhere found it, suspicion of theft at once stirred his mind. At last he knew that the crime had indeed been committed upon himself not in suspicion but in certainty, but he was uncertain on whom of the many to fasten it. Meanwhile, while he anxiously demanded the strap of everyone, by evident signs he received an indication of the thief. He begged him earnestly to restore his property to him; but, despised, he received nothing but the insults of words. Nor did he even so desist from entreaty: “Since,” he said, “neither mercy nor justice moves you, I beg at least let reverence for Saint Cuthbert obtain for me from you what is mine. By him I implore you, do not rob me — me who daily render to his church the owed service of my labour.” But he, who had sinned greatly for small gain, incurred from contempt of the most precious confessor a graver guilt than from the theft. For more fiercely than before he attacked the begging boy with curses and abuse, and threatened now to inflict punishment upon him if he should dare to open his mouth about it again. The boy, following him as he went away, called down vengeance in these words: “Because I cannot,” he said, “may Saint Cuthbert avenge my injury.” He spoke; and the penalty followed the words of vengeance. For though a little before his eyes had been sound, a sudden pain in them and a poured-over darkness spread through them, so that now he could not easily guard his feet from stumbling unless another stretched out a hand to him. In which deed God ordained the punishment according to his desert: he received the effect of suffering there from where the cause of sinning had proceeded. For he who had done injury with enticing eyes received the penalty of injury with aching eyes. Thus he who had loosed a strap from another by stealing bound himself more strongly with the cord of sin and of a punishment that avenges sin. And so his friends, astonished that he had suddenly become almost blind from seeing, while they searched carefully into the cause by questioning, heard him confess that he was conscious of no evil except that he had taken a strap from the church’s ass-boy. Understanding that this was the sole cause of that calamity, they at once sought out the boy and at last with difficulty found him; and asking him to set out with them, they led him to the sick man. Then things were reversed: he who had suffered the violence rejoiced; he who had done it was grieved. The one stood rejoicing over the vengeance; the other lay bewailing his crime and its vengeance. The one stood, no longer caring to demand what he saw punishment exacting for him. The other now begged him — more humbly than he had begged before — to deign to take back his own. At last, when what had been taken had been restored, and he was now moved by the tears of the man himself and the prayers of those standing by, he was appeased towards him in word and heart by forgiving the injury. When this was done, the man received back the use of sight — if not to full health — so that he returned with his master and did not need a guide for the way, without whom a little before he could not even come to the door. Nor did he now marvel that this blow had come upon him, remembering that in the boy’s prayers he had held the blessed Cuthbert, by whom he had been adjured, in contempt.

Chapter Sixteen: How the sea, suddenly coming against a man fleeing from Lindisfarne with stolen goods, blocked his way. #

¹ We read that once, for those fleeing into the island of Lindisfarne, the sea, though it was full, suddenly afforded a dry passage through the merits of Saint Cuthbert; now on the contrary we shall tell how it hindered one fleeing out of it with stolen goods by waves rising suddenly against custom. A certain Northumbrian’s horse, of great worth in form, in speed and in its general condition, could easily entice anyone to violence or theft on that account. For it is wont to be the custom among those who dwell in those parts to afflict one another alternately with thefts and robberies; so that in acquiring something, each man may seem to have laboured not so much for himself as for the robbers. But although they do these things to one another as though with licence, yet in the same island, where the blessed confessor had lived and been buried, they dread such things as causes of sudden destruction. So that man took his beast there, where on account of the firmness of the peace, which even barbarians observe there, he feared no loss. But a certain man, driven by a diabolical spirit, plotted theft with sacrilegious rashness, and watched for an opportune time to accomplish it. At last he brought forth to deed the iniquity he had ill-conceived in mind — worse in act. For, setting aside reverence for blessed Cuthbert, he violated his peace and, seizing the horse, hastened to depart as quickly as possible. For it was the time when the ebbing of the sea should have opened the way off the island, when look! he was hindered by the sea’s sudden onset, and as the waves swelled on high the way of flight was blocked. He, astonished with great dread at the strangeness of the thing, asked himself, “What marvel appears here? Now the sea transgresses the law appointed from of old; it outruns the order of its own time. For it does not now obey its appointed order, since by its ebb it should already have left a free passage for the feet.” Yet he strove to cross in whatever way he could with his theft, but was beaten back by the opposing billows so that he could not proceed. Meanwhile, while the deep sea flowed round him on this side and that, he had power neither to go forward nor to go back; and now the horse, with the thief sitting upon it, swam amid the waves; and while it was borne to and fro by the driving billows, the thief himself, conscious of his crime, despaired of safety. Therefore he invoked in cries the hope of heavenly mercy, saying, “Saint Cuthbert, have mercy, though I am unworthy. Have mercy, I say, upon me. Look with pity upon a wretch about to perish now, even now, unless You deign to succour me — to perish, I say, with a twofold destruction, of body and of soul. Look, I promise You I shall live more worthily, if I escape death now with You propitious.” There was no delay in the midst of this. When he thought he was already being carried to deeper water, look — he knew not how it was done — he saw himself borne back into the island, sitting on the horse he had stolen; able to do no more, willing or unwilling, he found there the end of his malice. Marvel followed upon marvels: for where he had leapt down to let the horse go, look, he suddenly saw the sands bare, which a moment before the opposing wave had covered.

² So returning where before, perverse, he had not been able to ride, he now walked with dry feet, corrected. And so, full of joy at his deliverance and wonder at the strangeness of the miracle, he laid open the whole order of what had happened by his own telling to a certain monk of our church, that is of Durham — lest if he hid in silence what he had known done so magnificently to the glory of God, he should incur offence before God; for as the Scripture says, “It is good to hide the secret of a king, but honourable to reveal and confess the works of God.”

Chapter Seventeen: How a little child was rolled under a beam as the oxen dragged it, and yet was not hurt. #

¹ The Lord speaks through the prophet, “Whoever honours Me, him will I glorify.” Therefore, because the blessed father Cuthbert, living in the flesh not according to the flesh, never ceased to honour God above all things and in all things, God glorifies him both in heaven by the blessed contemplation of His glory and on earth by the daily showing of miracles. Certain things most worthy of all admiration we have already set forth, although in unworthy speech; and we shall attempt to add something no less wonderful than these. Not yet a year has run since timber was being brought from far away to serve for the fabric of the church which is now being built in his honour with a most beautiful work. It is said to have been of such great size that it could only be dragged by the whole effort of no fewer than eight oxen. They had come near the gate of the city, where the wearied oxen were allowed to breathe a little, so that with strength renewed they might strive more easily against the slope. Meanwhile a throng of boys flowed round about, and with the lightness of play bore themselves diversely around and upon the machine of timber. But when, at the goading of an ox, the beam began to move, a little child happened to fall, and his leg was caught between the weight of that mass and the earth, and he was rolled over for a long time by the grinding impulse of the timber. For the drivers, who had charge of the oxen, saw nothing of these things, until the boy called them back to free him as they went ahead, with weeping and wailing. They ran up at once; and, with no small difficulty, the magnitude of so great a mass could scarcely at last be raised a little by the whole effort of sixteen men. Wonderful to tell! The timber which by its mere weight could have crushed even stones could not break the tender leg of the child. For when it was believed that he was breathing his last, his leg being as it were crushed to powder, he was taken up whole — not only in bone but even unhurt in flesh. O thing worthy of the amazement of all! Whirled round by the rush of the mass, he could suffer so that he cried out — not so that he lost his life. Only the skin seemed for a little while torn, but it did not at all hinder him from returning at once to running and to the contests of play. Nor is it doubtful that the protection of father Cuthbert saved the boy from death under the torment of death, lest anything that could be of use to his church should harm the innocence of a child.

Chapter Eighteen: How a sudden tempest cast upon the island of Lindisfarne, which is under the jurisdiction of Saint Cuthbert’s church, pirates who were carrying off a ship with the church’s goods. #

¹ To these and suchlike things new miracles daily succeed the old, and to men already amazed the later ones add yet more amazement than the first. Of these we do better honour to very many by silence — lest they should seem incredible — than by our weak discourse. But lest what is wholly passed over should show us ungrateful for the wonders of God, we subjoin to the few things we have already set forth a few more, telling them not so much effectually as truthfully. A certain ship, serving the business of the church, had visited various places for the sake of trade, and itself provided no little thereby for the monastery’s uses. On one occasion, when it was returning home to discharge its cargo, it was captured with all its goods as the prey of men lying in wait. For the band of sailors, weak in number and ignorant of fighting, yielded without difficulty, conquered by men more numerous and trained in sea-battle. When they had been brought to land — which was not far off — the savage pirate left them nothing but their bare lives. Then, transferring an equal part of their number into the ship they had taken, they hastened to commit their sails to the winds; and, with conscience affrighting them, feared the land more than the sea. Truly nothing is more unhappy than an evil conscience, which while it endures itself as an enemy, counts also as an enemy him whom it does not suffer. Look, those whom no one pursued an ill-conscious mind drives to the winds and the depths of the sea. But they who had not feared to offend the Lord of earth and sea could escape His judgement neither on land nor on sea. For when at last they were returning to their own land as though sated with plunder, look, suddenly stirred up from the south-west wind, a savage tempest arose against them on every side and stirred up the waves, turning the sea over; and they were borne by raging winds and waves where the tempest drove them. But where they were being driven they knew not, nor could they hope for anything good anywhere, who had conscience as the witness of their malice. The air pursued them with blasts, the sea with waves, the land with fear. And so, having lost the security of conscience, everywhere they lost the security of life. Amid these things they were not refreshed even for a moment by any rest or hope — for them everything kept threatening death for days and nights on end. And so, while they were tossed with the toil of death and a dread heavier than death, the tempest cast them — some sick with hunger and dangers, all alike exhausted in strength — upon the island of Lindisfarne. And since their quality was not yet known, cunning composed a tale of things better rather than truer; and calamity lent credence to their lying. Their miserable appearance and mournful speech moved those who saw them to pity rather than suspicion. The often-mentioned prior of the church happened to be present; he, showing diligence to restore them, even made them sharers of his own table. In other ways too he showed himself liberal and humane enough. Not a few days had passed when look! the church’s own merchant-ship was borne there by favourable winds — where the unexpected thing turned the sailors themselves to amazement and joy. For those whom they had long and greatly feared, known to them by the fame of their cruelty, they found there sent ahead — fearing rather than to be feared. When then the prior himself greeted them and returned their greetings, they said, “Lord, look, you receive, cherish and embrace pirates and enemies of the church whose minister you are! Look, the robbers of that very ship and of all the goods it was bringing you — you deign worthy of such great humanity, unworthy men unworthy even of life. Their accomplices in crime, as we ourselves proved with our own eyes, perished by the slaying sword. These men are being sought everywhere for this very deed. Let it not seem unjust, therefore, that those whom the same malice made comrades should now be joined in the same sentence of death.” They, having nothing to oppose to these words, stiffened with dread, groaning for their own and suspecting their own imminent death; and already the avenging sword would have hung over their necks, had not reverence for the place itself, and moreover the presence of the prior himself, forbidden it. They, having no hope of life save him alone, fell at his feet and tearfully implored that life be granted them. When he had learnt all these things, contemplating the wondrous merits of the wondrous father, he marvelled at the vengeance and feared the measure of the vengeance; he was astounded, and astounded he feared. He marvelled indeed that the vengeance for the injury had been carried out before the injury was known; that they had been driven like accused men to their judgement before he knew their guilt. Meanwhile he was forced to consider why, through such great stretches of sea, the sea had driven the guilty to no other place than this — namely, so that they and theirs, having snatched away what was the property of his church, might by a different outcome pass into the power of that church. For the illustrious confessor had consecrated this church to himself by his heavenly manner of life while in the flesh, by the summit of his pontificate, and lastly by the burial of his incorrupt body. Having examined these things subtly, he wavered anxiously, uncertain which of the two he should choose. For on one side he saw the wickedness of the robbers, on the other the misery of the same men now afflicted. On one side he weighed the injury to the church, on the other the vengeance for the injury. In the one case justice urged severity, in the other pity urged gentleness. Each course the case demanded, but he judged each alike difficult together. Yet “mercy, exalting itself above judgement,” prevailed — because those whom seas, winds, loss of goods and toils had afflicted, God exacting vengeance, it seemed to be the part of fury, not of justice, for a man to afflict further. He placed them in the villages of the church where security suited them, and made them both safe and furnished with necessary things, until — when the rumour that had threatened them with death had been stilled — they might return to their homeland, their own ship being freely left to the church with all its equipment.

Chapter Nineteen: How a young man crushed beneath the immense weight of a bell escaped unhurt through the merits of blessed Cuthbert. #

¹ Then, after some time had passed, the same prior, led by devotion to the blessed father Cuthbert, had ordered a bell of immense weight to be made in honour of the church which he illumines with his body; which, when made ready at London, was to be brought to Durham. So it was placed upon a vehicle in the casting workshop, and from there was dragged with great effort — now by the strength of young men, now of oxen, now of all together. Moreover the vehicle, though fitted with strong timbers and diligently composed by art, was less than sufficient to sustain the mass of so great a weight; for its joints were often loosed and almost its whole strength fell apart. This, repaired with great difficulty after a fashion, brought great hindrance to the travellers. Over the level ground of the roads passage was for some while easy; but where the earth rose on high, the difficulty in the ascent was grievous, and in the descent more grievous still with immense fear — lest the bell, by rushing back or plunging down from the height, should by its own rush injure itself and those dragging it. A faithful brother of the monastery was present, on whom rested the diligence of a great and skilful care, that since the casting of the bell had succeeded according to his vow, he should bring it safe and unharmed by his conduct to blessed Cuthbert. He, often wearied by the difficulty of this kind of transport, breathed again with strength resumed from the remembrance of the blessed father, hoping without doubt that in difficult matters he would be present to serve him after his wonted manner. Meanwhile, when the bell was being dragged by the whole effort of twenty-two oxen, a certain young man of heedless rashness, while he was mending something in the fore part of the cart, was seized by the grinding wheel with a mighty rush by his tunic — which hung down to his feet — and held fast, was laid prone upon the ground; and the wheel, running over him and crushing him from the loins up to the shoulder and arm, left him lifeless, as was believed. For who would not think dead a man whom he saw lying beneath the engine of so great a mass without voice, without motion, without sense? The brother, seeing the helper of his labour dead, knew not what to do or where to turn for anguish of heart, his spirit almost failing. So, crying out with a mighty groan, he said, “O Saint Cuthbert, where are you? What are you doing? Is this the recompense you pay to your devoted ones? We do not now find you such as we have often learnt you to be by experience.” And saying no more, his groaning hindering him, he ordered the young man to be lifted a little from the ground. As his breath gradually returned, he sat in the hands of those holding him and said, “O how heavy this bell is!” When the brother asked whether he could live, he confessed that he felt nothing. Then his tunic was taken off, so that it might be seen whether his bones held together; and he found that the man, whom he suspected crushed in every limb, had not only bones and joints of his limbs whole but even flesh unhurt — no sign at all of injury. Only the shirt which clung next to his flesh seemed worn and broken in that place alone where the hot rush of the running wheel had hurled itself — the tunic which was on the outside meanwhile showing no damage to its wholeness. Then, being set upon his feet, since he could not be carried on horseback, he began with a staff and a tottering step to attempt the journey; and, advancing thus, as the faintness of his limbs was gradually driven off, he became livelier in face and sounder in all his body. After a little while, proceeding some distance with a firmer step without the support of the prop of a staff, at last, having recovered the vigour of all his members to the full, he joined himself as a ready helper to his companions in labour and journey, labouring in every way lest anything harmful should happen to the bell in its leading — the bell which had harmed him by crushing him. Then the brother, turned to joy by so unlooked-for a change of affairs, exulted far more abundantly in experiencing so great a benefit of God than he had grieved in despairing through the peril before. For he understood that the help of God through the merits of blessed Cuthbert swiftly draws near where human strength and industry can be of no avail. And so he became glad at the newness of the miracle now worked; he became also secure of the prosperity of the journey that remained. So, having rendered thanks to almighty God, he set forth on the journey begun, having as a glad companion of the way the man whom he had received back from the summit of life’s peril to unhoped-for safety; who on that same day himself walked ten miles on foot, whole in body and strength, from the place where he had come to the border of death. For offering himself freely to the labour, he accompanied the bell on the long journey all the way to Durham, where, humbly prostrated at the tomb of his deliverer, he rendered thanks to Christ the Saviour of all, who through the intercession of His holy confessor, when he had fallen into death, recalled him to life.

Chapter Twenty: How, on the very day of his translation, a devout abbot was cured of a long-standing infirmity of his hand by the touch of the coffin of his body. #

¹ Among the others mentioned above there had come Richard, abbot of the monastery of Saint Albans, a devout minister of the translation described above, who had always cultivated blessed Cuthbert with much love and had often been wont to visit his sepulchre. For a long time he had been held by a grave affliction of his left hand, so that he could neither celebrate mass nor easily perform any other work without another’s help. He had indeed the diligent care of physicians, but no skill could confer any remedy. And so, when the company of the brethren had been gathered, he, humbly prostrating his whole body before the hour of the translation, begged that the brotherly charity which took pity on him would ask of blessed Cuthbert that by his intercession he might obtain for him from the Saviour of all the gift of health. The ready devotion of the brethren assented to his petition, and with prayer enjoined they begged that He would regard not their sins but the faith of the petitioner, and that he would obtain for him from God the grace of healing to the glory of God’s name. They were heard, and both were heard — he through faith, for “all things are possible to him that believes,” and they through the charity which, the more it inclines towards a neighbour, the more it draws near to God. When the solemn procession had been completed as described above, the coffin of the incorrupt body had to be raised on high behind the altar upon a stone, which — carefully prepared by the hand of craftsmen for the sake of bearing so great a weight — nine columns hold aloft from the ground for its size. So the often-mentioned prior mounted the stone; where, when he needed help to receive the body from those bearing it, he turned to the abbot and said, “Lord abbot, come up quickly and help me.” He came up; and, forgetting his infirmity, he laboured as a diligent co-operator, taking hold of the case of the holy body as it was received and laid away. And when they had laid it back in its place, then at last the infirm hand came back to his memory — but he felt it so whole, as though he had never suffered any trouble in it; and the miracle worked in him he did not cease all that day to declare, flaunting the easy bending of his fingers which before he could not do. By this benefit worked in him he lifted up the hearts of many to praise God and to admire the sanctity of blessed Cuthbert; and returning home he at once built an oratory in honour of the holy confessor, and cultivated him from then on the more devotedly in proportion as he had felt his help come to him more swiftly.

Chapter Twenty-One: How a certain man was punished for the theft of a thread taken from the little case of Saint Cuthbert’s book, and afterwards, repentant, was restored. #

¹ It is read in the life of blessed Cuthbert that when he himself was still a youth in the monastery, being formed alike by the words and examples of blessed Boisil in the service of God, he learnt from that same man — when he was sick and now on the point of ascending to the heavens — the Gospel of Saint John, which he completed in a book of seven quires, taking turns simply to read it over in seven days. This book, which for the merit of each — of teacher and of learner — still keeps the grace of its former newness, this church, namely that of Durham, preserves in a fitting place among the other relics of sacred veneration. The little case in which it is kept is of red-dyed leather in the manner of a pouch, having a hanger of silk — which age has already unravelled into threads — by which the book used to be carried hanging round the necks, as it is said, of the saints, namely of the blessed master and, after him, of his disciple and faithful heir. When the bishop, amid the sermon which he was making to the people at the translation, as has been said above, held this up with raised hand for all to see, a certain one of the bishop’s officials — while the bearer meanwhile held the empty pouch rather carelessly amid the press of the crowd — stole a thread from the hanger and hid it between his leggings and his shoes; and there he irreverently kept such a theft until he went to bed. But on the following night he was tormented by so grave a pain in that leg beside which the thread had been placed, that not only could he have no rest in sleep, but even, as the swelling of the leg grew worse with the increase of pain, he thought that no other end of this affliction would come than death. Trembling therefore and fearing, he had a priest summoned; and confessing to him the guilt of his rash presumption, he received this counsel from him: that when the portion of the holy relics he had so unworthily taken had been restored, he should renew his favour with the brethren in the church; that the blessed confessor, appeased by their intercession, might obtain pardon for his foolish daring for him, and that in this way, God being propitious to him, he might receive back his health. He assented to the wholesome counsel, and, supported by a staff and by servants, was led to the prior, and openly restored the thread he had stealthily taken, making satisfaction by repentance and by tears that prayer should be made for him to Saint Cuthbert, by whose merits he might merit both pardon for the presumption committed and the grace of health. The prior said to him, “Be reconciled to him whom you have offended, laying what you took upon his sepulchre.” But he, not daring to approach it by himself, was at last brought there with brethren accompanying him; where, while they prayed together, all the pain began to grow milder for the sufferer, and the ugly swelling began to subside. And not long afterwards, when his health had been fully restored to perfection — where his body had for a time failed from salvation, from there his mind repaired its strength to its own salvation — holding by experience that word, “When the fool is scourged, the unwise man will be wiser.”