Dunstan

by Conn Iggulden

The monks desired to know anything they might hear of the world, informed of it by visits like ours.

I wish I could make my young self look up that last time, to hold every moment of that morning as a jewel – but I cannot. That lout, that thick-headed clod of thirteen, was thinking of all the things he might learn at the abbey.

My father did not embrace either of us. I do not think he ever did, which is only right when a man is preparing sons for the world.

A father gives strength and makes a man. A mother tempers that iron with tears and her love. Too much of either makes weakness.

Glastonbury Abbey grew at our back – still the largest collection of buildings I had ever seen,

It was a stone oath in a whole world of rotting wood, thatch and plaster.

The foxes have their holes and the birds their nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.

Pride, you see. It is one of the nastiest little sins we own.

Faith is hard work.

the world needs faith. Without it, believe me, it is a foul, cruel place.

that expert men love their subject. Show them interest, show them fascination, and they see themselves reflected – and then they will move the world for you.

Sin is the only mark that matters.

Love can be pure, especially if the face does not excite desire.

when you are surrounded by enemies, the least cruel of them is not your friend.

it’s all fool’s gold in the end. Very little is important, in this world. Not success, not wealth, not power.’

All that matters, Dunstan, all – is your soul.

It is strange to think my desire for blood and vengeance saved my life. It seems a man can fall a long, long way and live, if he lands on a priest.

You cannot have an empire when your house is on fire.

Men are all the same, in their desire to follow.

Athelm chuckled, a rich and throaty sound. He always spoke as if he was finishing a mouthful of milk pudding.

‘Women corrupt us, Dunstan, as Eve offered the apple to Adam. Instead of foul lusts, dedicate yourself to study and prayer.

Athelm may have wanted me to embroider and paint, but I was not quite ready to put aside my foul lusts at that time.

Good, thick cloth is the mark of civilisation, I have always thought.

Wide is the gate, Dunstan! Broad is the way that leads to destruction.’

If you had been there, you would have beshit yourself, believe me.

Humility is something of a pain, of course, for any man. We all claim to despise pride, but honestly, must we pretend to be unaware of our talents, year after year?

but the truth is, construction is not unlike the movements of an army. Men die when they move stones and wood.

Christ did not marry – and I saw one path writ clear for those who would reside in my abbey.

Prayer and work! There can be no better course for men to control their base desires.

Kings are often simple fellows. They must be led by the Church or they are likely to break their necks getting out of bed.

I have never had any desire to chew on a cow’s bunghole,

York, that faithless harlot of a city.

Edgar had inherited his father’s sense of duty, without which all the talent in the world can be wasted.

he was neither warrior nor scholar, nor man of God. He was just a minstrel gadabout,

There is honesty in ugliness, I have observed.

I can say it was because I stood too close to the king’s hearth, but the truth is, I had brought it on myself in my pride and my righteousness.

hare in red wine that was so good as to be almost indecent.

me. I have always forgiven my enemies, but only when they have been punished.

The best of us add something to the knowledge of man, but they do not keep it to themselves, like those master masons.

The world knew giants once. I hope we will again.

His nurse was a great fat slattern of a woman, but she was amply provided with milk.

Sleep! It has always been mine enemy. I detest it as I detest the devil. We are given so little time and yet made to waste part of it senseless and snoring.

I cannot understand why it should be so, but men link beauty and goodness together. An ugly woman is more likely to be called a witch, though it makes no sense at all. What form would evil take if there was any choice? It would be fair, and sweet and soft to the touch. It would not be withered fruit.

Boys need to be beaten, or they grow snide and weak in spirit. Yet it must be done in stern reproof, not for enjoyment. It is not a pleasure to be savoured, but a reluctant duty to be

Without our oaths, after all, without our faith, we are no more than beasts.