The Year of the Comet

Fred Baggen

The Year of the Comet

Copyright Š 2010 Fred Baggen, www.probatio-pennae.nl Excerpts from The Year of the Comet, a novel in progress.

Synopsis: It’s the end of the eleventh century. In the priory of Rockingham, a young novice prepares himself for making his religious vows.

Before he’s allowed to enter the monastery as a monk, Bishop Geoffrey has burdened him with a test: correctly copying ancient Anglo-Saxon sermons. He’s assisted by Æthelric, the English priest.

But before his task can even commence, ominous events occur, endangering the future of England. The novice is in the midst of the political and religious turmoil that rages over the country. When he experiences feelings of affection for a peasant girl, the choice he is forced to make – a life devoted to contemplation, or a life of worldy delight – is almost impossible. There’s no time to consider these things, for the throne is in danger. What follows, is the monks’ difficult battle of fighting a conspiracy against the king.

The Year of the Comet is a historic novel, based on true events.

It gives great insight into English monasticism in the Middle Ages.

Þa wearð geond eall Engla land swylc tacen on heofenum gesewen swylce nan mann ær ne geseh.

Sume menn cwædon þæt hyt cometa se steorra wære, þone sume menn hatað þone fexedan steorra, & he æteowde ærest on þone æfen Letania Maiora, þæt ys viii. Kalendas Mai, & swa scean ealle þa vii. niht.

Then it happened that all through England such a sign in the heavens was seen as no man had seen before.

Some men said that it was the star, ‘Comet’, that some men call the long-haired star.

It appeared first on the eve of Letania Maior, that is the eighth kalends of May, and so shone all seven nights.

— Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, 11th century

Prologue About the necessity to remember.

Now that midwinter approaches, I tend to compare memories with the parchments that I’ve seen in the scriptorium, lain down to dry on long tables by the scribents who just have written the pages.

They are bent over their books, even now, even here, as if the years have never advanced on the path of infinity. But what is time? The hopeful yearning for the day of tomorrow, isn’t it equal to the inevitable melancholy of looking back to yesterday? Time is the paddle wheel but also the water; the mechanism continues to flow by the grace of both interactive forces. And now, as I have no more doubts that this perpetuum mobile orbitum is constantly subject to change, not allowing anything to interfere with its eternal proceedings, I choose to announce to the reader what has been kept hidden in the folds of time.

I can see them again, shivering in the scriptorium. (But why do I express myself as if I weren’t part of the effigy? More correct would be, I can see us again). Under a firmament of stone-carved foliage, we copyists do our work in silence. With strict regularity the room is divided by slimline, bolt upright stone trees, whose interlocking funnel-shaped crowns raise themselves on high, where they become a crosswise vaulted canopy. It reminds me of the plumy palmforests on the southeastern coast of Britain, where I used to gaze in the distance, defying outrageous seawinds, searching unavailingly for the shape of the continent where my cradle once stood. Where the pillars of the scriptorium elevate from the floor, a pair of tiled paths cross eachother, an ensemble of bifurcations unfolding from every base – the roots of the trees really – which presents a splendid mir

rored counterbalance to the mathematical patterns on the ceiling, thus emphasizing the glorious alliance between heaven and earth.

Last night, after having sung the nocturnes, I noticed that the grass in the monastery courtyard had changed from a green rough habit to a mantle of immaculate ermine. Now its crystals twinkle in the light of a watery sun, the aureolas of a thousand saints.

Rising over this supreme scene, here is the scriptorium, where the mental work of monastic life is immortalized in sacred books. Freshly written parchment is drying, diffusely embraced by the feeble beams of the sun. White sheets are hung in front of the man-sized windows to temper the most turbulent blasts of wind in the scribal room. The icy draught filtering through the threads of the cloth fondles the resting folios. Ink and pages are united in fraternization.

First the wet letters whispered, but now, as they harden, rampantly become everlasting witnesses of truth. But all of a sudden a fierce breath of winter nestles against one of the curtains. With the readiness of a billowing sail at open sea, the linen stretches unconditionally, audaciously setting course for the heart of the silent manuscript studio. Vehemently, a frill is torn from the linen. It flaps in triumph, followed by an invisible arm that reaches inside, smashing with cruel delight the fruits of meticulous labour. The parchments fly like broken-winged doves. How they swirl, what a feast of impudent merriment! Pages all over the floor, the bookshelves, the desks. A few pages disappear, swiftly, through the unforeseen exit of flapping linen, unresisting, escaping from the serene space. In its jumbled flight, one foil overturns an inkhorn. The atrament flows, in an instant, over the surface and absorbs the writing in an irrevocable embrace.

The impeccable pages, elaborately arranged on the tables just moments ago, will have to be raked together like autumn leafs in the priory garden. Only the first page of each quire is numbered, and it will be an ill-fated task to find the right chronology. For the undertaking to be successful, one has to rely on details scribbled in the margin, rubrications and foremost the memory of the copyist who has manufactured the manuscript. On hands and knees, gathering the pages, he moans softly: Ventus increbrescit, ventus remittit; perpetuum et aeternum memoria mea lapsus sum! *

* The wind strengthens and weakens, for always and ever.

But ’tis my memory that fades into shadows of never.

The act of forgetting, I prefer to believe, occurs in a similar way. All our recollections have their places inside our head, but are lacking any logical order. Contrary to the books on the shelves in the scriptorium, we cannot pick a recollection at random. Our mind is rather unwilling to conform to the human tendency for categorisation. No matter how desperately we would like to dispose of everything that we have remembered over time, our memory simply doesn’t seem to have recorded all of it. A missing recollection, erased from our memory, must be regarded as lost forever, for the human brain is incapable of encouraging itself to ‘remember what shouldn’t have gone forgotten.’

It is, however, possible for a long lost reminiscence to reappear after many years, without any plausible indications. The wandering parchment must have been touched by Providence, who gave it pinions, head and tail, and look! – it adopts the shape of a white dove; after many peregrinations it suddenly perches on a snow-clad window-sill in the scriptorium.

But many recollections remain wingless forever, fugitives in the mist of years. What has escaped from memory, seems to never have possessed existence. What remains is an unburdened mind, and the cold sense that arming oneself against the grindstone of oblivion is impossible.

My personal experiences have transfigured from soft inscriptions in wax to indelible pages, inked into the codex of my memory. All that I remember has been chronicled for eternity, a legacy of the past.

But, mindful of that merciless act of forgetting, would it be beside the truth if I testified that not one single recollection has ever slipped my mind? Could the opposite be true? That, inside my titanic memory, there may still be a wandering dove that once will return to the window of Mnemosyne, after having glided on its wings endlessly, unconcerned, in the immeasurable depths of the mind?

9 On the scriptorium of Rockingham.

‘Has’en an’ close ’he whore hwuickly, whefore ’he win’ ge’s fhwee whlay. Bu’ whlease come fuhw’er.’

It was, without any doubt, brother Alberic who had spoken.

There was a wealth of space and light in the scriptorium of Rockingham priory. Each day the armarius and his scribes bent over their work in that marvellous framework of stone and oakwood, which was built on top of the chapterhouse, sacred place of ecclesiastical assembly.

The monks had built the scriptorium and chapterhouse next to their cathedral, parallel with the main altar. The ground plan followed the outline of the apse, eastern crown of the nave. Each day, shortly after prime when work in the scribal room commenced, the sun peeped through the window openings and brushed a mighty gilding on the floor, lecterns and books. At that precious moment, around daybreak, the light was at its finest for it fulfilled an ephemeral, lucid aura inside the scriptorium, evenly but abundant, blazing but devout. Around noon the sun stood at a right angle to the south side of the building, chastising the poor copyists’ backs until they had finished a long day of working.

The eastern wall did not confine the scribal room rectangularly like the other three, but described a perfect halfcircle, shaping the building into a regardful, modest mirror image of the apsidal terminus of the cathedral which ground plan is a simplified reflection of the Holy Corpus on the Rood. While the barefoot pilgrim strides into the place of worship at its western foot, the eastwards apse 10

symbolises the opposite part of the Corpus, the part that enables us monks to experience life outside the priory walls without breaking away from them: the part where thinking and acting meet eachother, where the spiritualization of life receives its shape and meaning.

And because the Head of the Lord is a temple of divine wisdom, shrine of infinite judgement, centre of the universe, treasure of knowledge and pledge of faith, bishop Geoffrey had chosen to build his chapterhouse and scriptorium according to the contours of this utmost symbol of Christ on earth. But not only that meaning was hidden in the construction, no – when visualising the outline of the building, comparing it with the window openings in its flint walls, one would have to conclude that the equality of its shape and proportions made the building essentially into a window through which the Almighty turned his all-seeing eyes towards his humble servants. A window too for their heavenward looking eyes, attempting to grasp the sublime light in the acuteness of their pens and spirits.

During my long life I have visited a great number of scriptoria, larger and wealthier than ours in Rockingham, but never did I encounter one where spiritual and earthly delight were connected in such glorious harmony. I had reached a considerable age when I found out that the reason for this was quite obvious. The monastic buildings of most abbeys are situated on the north side of the church, which for the greater part of the day blocks the sun rising from the east. When Geoffrey started building his cathedral, he was forced to create the monks’ places on the south side of the nave, because on the opposite side the parcel was cut off by the ancient city walls.

Therefore the sunlight wasn’t hindered by the belltower; it could illuminate the scriptorium in an unprecedented way.

The only way for the scribes to enter their room was climbing the stairs in the chapterhouse and pass through a horizontal opening in the ceiling. In fact it would be more correct to say that they entered their room by means of a hatch, but because of the exalted nature of the space, both architecturally and spiritually the antithesis of a cellar or an attic – which are usually accessed through such a humble ingress – brother Godfrith didn’t like the idea of calling the entrance to his scribal room a cooperculum. And that’s why we were requested to close the ‘door’, although the hinged partition between both floors did not really deserve such a name. Æthelric the priest climbed the stairs first. He’d pushed up the trapdoor with stretched arms and he put his head through the opening.

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‘Hasten and close the door quickly, before the wind gets free play.

But please come further,’ I heard Alberic say, although someone not familiar with the mumblings from his paralysed mouth might have heard something with a completely different meaning.

‘It pleases me to hear that,’ Æthelric said, while stepping off the stairs and entering the scribes’ room. ‘However, I don’t want to disturb your hallowed silence with unnecessary talk. Bishop Geoffrey has granted us permission to visit the honorable master illuminator and his writers. I hope we have chosen a fitting moment.’

In the meantime I had reached the upper storey as well. Careful not to make any noise I closed the entrance by lowering an iron pin into a notch in the floor.

The old armarius had put down his quill. He painfully rose from his seat to welcome us: ‘Allow me to introduce you to my scribes Odo and John, and to Alberic, who spoke before he was told to do so.’

‘No offense,’ Æthelric said with a smile. ‘And as I am just a humble priest, an unworthy servant of the Lord, I beg you not to treat me as a guest of honour.’

‘So be it,’ the elder answered. ‘My name is Godfrith. Our daily work consists of copying texts from sacred books. Rubricating is what I do; and occasionally I illuminate our manuscripts, which is becoming very troublesome because of the increasing darkness in my eyes.’

‘So I have heard,’ said Æthelric, ‘the bishop has told me about your skills, and I regret the great discomfort which has befallen you.

My young assistant, soon to be clad in habit, also spoke highly of your miniatures. Did you know he and I will be working together?’

‘Oh, the novice…’ The illuminator gazed at me with his troubled eyes. ‘A courteous young man, whom we rarely see around here.

But then, why would a puer oblatus, incapable of mastering the language of the Fathers, visit this room frequently?’

‘The oblatus and the Anglicus will combine their forces in an effort to enrich the library with Latinised sermons of the influential writer Ælfric,’ the phlegmatic priest answered. ‘A very honourable task for a young monk who, according to you, does not speak the language of the Church.’

‘Sharp is your tongue and brisk your mind.’

‘That’s too much honour for me, venerable Godfrith.’

‘Is it? Like the orators from ancient Rome used to proclaim: “philosophia esset matrem omnium bene factorum beneque dictorum.”

And although you’re an Anglo-Saxon, one cannot deny the eloquence 12

of your words. Come, and I will show you and the novice around.’

While the three scribes devoted themselves to their work in absolute silence, Godfrith walked us along the grand table, laiden with parchment sheets; on the corners of the pages the monks had put small weights made of wood or stone, to keep them flat and to make sure they would not be blown off the table by the wind. He took us to one of the cabinets where the books were kept. Besides bound volumes of all sorts, the shelves were stuffed with unprepared parchments, waiting to fulfill their noble purpose.

‘Many of the books in this room,’ Godfrith said solemnly, ‘are canon law books, but there are also writings of Saints Augustine and Ambrose, Gregory the Great, Solinus, Eusebius, Jerome and John Chrysostomus. Aside from these patristical works we duplicate philosophical dissertations, science and grammar books, histories and the usual texts for daily use in church.’

‘An impressive list,’ said Æthelric.

Godfrith took one of the parchments, stroked it lovingly with the back of his hand and continued: ‘the manufacturing of books starts with selecting good quality skins. Almost the entire book production takes place inside the scriptorium, except for the slaughtering and skinning of the sheep and goats, of course. Once the skins have been washed for several days in the brook, they are drenched in buckets filled with lime water, stirred several times a day with a pole. When enough time has passed, they are scraped thoroughly with a lunellum, to remove any remaining hairs.’ He showed us a crescentshaped knife and moved it back and forth over an imaginary surface.

‘Then the skins are rinsed again and stretched on a frame to dry.

Finally it becomes parchment, which is then polished with pumice, chalk or bone crumble, in order to whiten and degrease it.’

‘So, will there still be remains left, even after all these washings?’ Æthelric asked.

‘Certainly, and not just animal detriments.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Even the slightest touch of the writer’s hand can cause considerable inconvenience. While writing, the scribe must be careful not to rest his hand on the vellum, for it will leave a thin layer of grease one cannot write on. Therefore it is of the utmost importance to wash both hands before thou start working on a book.’ He paused for a while to make us aware of that important rule.

‘The prepared skins are to be cut in the proper sizes and then the 13

ruling of the text margins is begun. Once that is done, the scribes can start with their real work,’ Godfrith said, with a nod to the other three monks. Alberic, whose cripple hand couldn’t hold a quill anymore, made himself useful with humbler tasks like turning the pages of the example books, cutting the pens and cleaning the floor.

Odo and John were diligently working at their tables, equipped with foot-rests. Watching both scribes, their feet resting on the wooden stools, reminded me of a passage from the Scriptures where the greatness of the Almighty is exemplified with the image of heaven as His throne and the earth as the resting place for His feet.

Meanwhile Æthelric admired a very tiny book, hardly measuring the palm of his hand. It had been written in an extremely fine hand, only readable for those with a sharp eyesight.

‘Alberic made it,’ Godfrith explained, ‘before he was struck by his apoplexy. He had the eyes of an eagle. I’m not capable anymore of reading such minuscule texts. Producing a book of hours like this is hardly done here lately. Usually the priory codexes are much larger in size.’

‘And hymnals?’

‘Occasionally we do manufacture antiphonaria, but not the large ones like those from Italy or the Rhineland. These are incredibly expensive, and only the richest abbeys can afford the process of making such books, as it takes over a year to complete them. Copying a regular psalter, however, takes two to three months. But it can be done faster: the Irish monk Columba seems to have written his famous Gospel Book in just twelve days.’ Godfrith seemed content when he saw our admiring faces.

I asked, ‘how many sheep do you need for one book?’

‘Oh, my son, many are needed, entire flocks. Just bear in mind that it takes one skin to produce two, perhaps three bifolia. Anyone can calculate how many sheep fit into one book, if I may speak so.’

‘The Holy Church does not deal sparingly with their sheep,’ Æthelric said dryly, but Godfrith ignored the remark. Instead he approached a cupboard in a corner of the room, obviously placed there to protect the books from the sunlight.

I expressed my amazement about the fact that most of them were bound in simple parchment wrappers, as opposed to the usual leather covers.

‘Alas, they are not bound like they should have been,’ Godfrith muttered. ‘For the humblest books we have to be content with these inferior covers. Last year, when the meadows were flooded by heavy 14

rainfall, most of the cattle fell ill or died. The result can still be seen on these pages, just take a look.’

He took one of the books from the shelf and turned the pages. At first sight I noticed nothing particular, but then I saw the slightly darker stains, the unevenness and thin spots in the parchment; silent witnesses of feverish lambs, having died before their time.

‘What has happened to this book?’ Æthelric asked while he pointed at a pile of detached pages. The words of truth and wisdom that once had been written on them were almost entirely worn off, probably by the light of the sun or some mysterious, violent force.

‘A codex rescriptus,’ Godfrith said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘Nothing important. Our library possesses several books of no great value. They have been left years ago by the former canons who used to rule the church of Rockingh…’ He interrupted himself when he suddenly realised that Æthelric had been one of the members of the old chapter.

‘What I meant to say is that… If we have some spare time, we scrape the pages until all texts are gone, so we can use them again,’ Godfrith said in an uncomfortable voice.

‘How sad.’ Æthelric the ever-polite, witty diplomat. ‘Perhaps it was me who had written these pages. What happens when holes occur in the material, will you remove those pages from the manuscript?

The old monk shook his head. ‘We simply write around them.

The bishop tolerates no wasting.’

A lot of quires were waiting to be bound in leather jackets. Without an exception they were titleless and Æthelric was astonished about the infallible memory of the scribes who had to distinguish the various parts.

‘Indeed,’ Godfrith said, ‘an experienced scribe must be able to open a book, leaf through a few pages and recognize its contents.

There’s good reason why working in a scriptorium is held in such high regard. Alcuin, a master at Charlemagne’s palace school, once said: “transcribing sacred books is a very special responsibility, and the scribe will be rewarded according to his duties. Who would not prefer to be a writer above being a servant in the vineyard? The latter serves the stomach, the first serves the soul.”’ Æthelric nodded in assent.

‘In accordance with that sense,’ Godfrith continued, ‘our scriptorium is very soberly equipped, even more so in comparison with some of the Norman monasteries. The scribes’ room in Tournai, for 15

example, consists of a dozen monks and during the winter they are allowed to use the fireplace, so the book production will not be interrupted. And the abbey of Bellême once had two scriptoria: the small one was reserved for novices who wanted to practise the art of the pen. The inspiring master Ewald, himself a writer of great talent, taught unskilled young oblates many hours a day, without giving in to their protests. The larger room, of course, was intended for book production and repair. Regard this manuscript.’ He walked to the old refectory table in the middle of the room and took an old book, worn from the countless hands that had leafed through its contents. Many pages had become detached from the bindings; the wooden boards, covered with dark leather, cracked as if they were about to release their valuable treasures, not unlike Alberic’s lame hand.

‘This codex has been loaned to us by our brothers from Bellême; it is over forty years old. To return the favour, we will restore it in its former glory.’ With tender care Godfrith put the book back on the table and walked to the south side of the room, where sunlight poured in from the large windows like milk from a can.

All the time Æthelric walked next to the old monk; I followed them and kept a discrete distance, but near enough to catch every word of their conversation. We had almost finished the short tour through the scriptorium, and we ended at Odo’s table. Godfrith was very fond of him because of his outstanding reputation, being the scribe who hardly ever made a mistake. On his lectern, a writing desk of very steep nature, was the example book, its pages kept flat by cords with small copper weights. Next to the book he had attached a large piece of vellum, neatly written to the bottom. I caught my breath while I watched his slow-moving right hand. With the other he pressed a small knife gently against the page, at a fingernails’ distance from the tip of his ink-soaked pen.

With a muffled voice, Godfrith taught us about the ideal proportions of the rulings and margins on the page that Odo was writing.

An ancient mathematic formula dictated the height and breadth of a page to be in the proportion of five to four. The height of the written space should be equal to the breadth of the sheet – four. Both the empty margin in the heart of the book and the space at the bottom of each page had to be three times the size of the outer margin.

And the bottom margin should be one thirth of its upper twin. In case a text was to be divided into two columns, so the formula read, the gutter should be one thirth of the inner and lower margins. Less rigid were the regulations for the spacing between the lines, which 16

depends on the size of each scribes’ handwriting. The ruling on Odo’s parchment was a striking visual artefact of the principles from old times. He had written the page in his elegant hand, the characteristics of which would be very familiar until the latter days of my life, for the scriptoria of York used a script that would spread from there all over England, and it would become the most important minuscule of my time.

After Odo had completed his page, he placed his quill back into its holder and stretched himself blatantly. He rubbed his writing hand, slipped from his stool and silently walked to the nearest window, where he stared into the light, cracking his elbows.

‘Tria digita scribunt, totus corpus laborat,’ Godfrith explained. Æthelric bent over towards the copy that Odo had made. ‘What an astonishing piece of craftsmanship.’

Godfrith beamed with pride. ‘Brother Odo is definitely a skilled worker. As a rule, his writings are entirely faultless duplicates of the exemplars. He is the embodiment of Irenaeus’ words written by Saint Jerome in his book De Viris Illustribus, a warning all scribes should take very seriously: “qui transcribis librum istum, ut conferas postquam transcripseris, et emendes illum ad exemplar, unde scripsisti diligentissime. Hanc quoque obtestationem similiter transferas, ut invenisti in exemplari.”’

Even I knew Irenaeus’ edifying incentive to the pupils in his scriptorium: “I adjure thee whosoever shall transcribe this book, that you diligently compare after you have transcribed, and amend it according to the copy from which you have transcribed it and also that you shall similarly transcribe this adjuration as you find it in your pattern.”

Odo blushed with all this praising by his master. He seated again, ready to continue his work. Æthelric stepped forward to watch the scribe attach a new leaf to his desk, but Godfrith motioned him to keep some distance.

In the meantime I walked to the table. All over it were books: anonymous bible commentaries, works of the Fathers, homilies, a lectionary, a passional, two benedictionals, a psalter and an epistolary, all of which didn’t look particularly interesting. I decided to pick up the largest book.

‘That’s a much consulted work by the Venerable Bede,’ said Godfrith, who seemed to take pleasure in my curiosity. ‘De Arte Metrica et De Schematibus et Tropis, and further onwards in this volume we have Alcuin’s De Dialectica. Both works are bound together, for 17

convenience’s sake. The first part deals with the prosodia or metric verse, the second with rhetoric, using examples from the Holy Scripture. But I should not burden you with all these matters that only librarians take interest in.’ He sighed deeply and tightened his girdle.

‘Please accept our sincerest gratitude, venerable Godfrith,’ Æthelric said. ‘Your work and the writings of your scribes are held in high esteem and we will send prayers to ensure that your library and scriptorium liveth for evermore.’

‘Whether they will exist that long, only the Lord knows. But you choose your words deliberately, and stylish too. If both of you will now excuse me, it’s time for mass.’ After having spoken these words, Godfrith cautiously started to descend the stairs. In his younger years he had regularly skipped divine service so he could continue working on his illuminations. Now, having become stiff and grey, he often sought refuge in the cathedral, a cool place where one can always find inspiration. With just his head visible through the opening in the floor, he directed a last remark towards Æthelric. ‘I’m sorry about the codex rescriptus,’ he said, then he shut the trapdoor behind him. Æthelric and I thanked the other scribes for their hospitality.

My heart rejoiced over the wondrous works of beauty that I had witnessed. In former days the distant, enigmatic scriptorium had clouded the windows of my imagination, and the charm of writing books had always been beyond my horizon.

That day, when the veil of the unknown was taken away by reality, like the erased words in the Anglo-Saxon manuscript, a whole new world opened up for me.

Thus passed the days in the year of my profession. The naivety surrounding my decision to spend the rest of my life as a monk, has never ceased to amaze me. It still does from time to time, even now, as I look back at all the years that have passed. Now that my ears are constantly ringing and my hair has become silvery and fragile, I sometimes wish that I could awaken the youngster from olden days, teach him the wisdom of my weathered life.

But what’s done cannot be undone. Such reflections won’t help an old man; quiet resignation in one’s fate is among the few things that bring assuredness. The years advance endlessly, and following the trying but fair character of nature, time knows no mercy. It neither looks back nor looks ahead, unlike we vulnerable mortals, moving 18

on our fictitious lines between the countless events and experiences from which our lives are made.

While glimpses of the future evoke hope and yearning, the act of retrospection can be painful and disappointing. Isn’t it similar to the Liber Vitae on the altar, the chronicle of our short-lived existence in this world? But even joy is inherent in this melancholy, for when our earthly wanderings come to an end, the infinite bliss of the Lord awaits us in heaven, where all souls are united. For always and ever.

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12 About the fact that the same things can be said in different languages, and that perseverance and practising are the key to nice results, especially if one can read into the indefinite white between the lines.

‘Fæder ure, þu þe eart on heofonum, si þin nama gehalgod. Tobecume þin rice. Gewurþe ðin willa on eorðan swa swa on heofonum.

Urne gedæghwamlican hlaf syle us to dæg. And forgyf us ure gyltas, swa swa we forgyfað urum gyltendum. And ne gelæd þu us on costnunge, ac alys us of yfele. Amen.’

Having gained the knowledge and wisdom of old age, ever since my first encounter with the English priest Æthelric, long ago, I now master his language almost as good as my own, but in those days, being a novice, I could only listen with great attention while he was sitting at the table, praying in his Anglo-Saxon dialect.

When he had finished his Pater Noster, he opened his eyes, unfolded his hands and looked at me, friendly but apprehensive; there was a hint of sarcasm in his shrewd eyes, although they never lacked reverence; politely in anticipation, and always trying to see the deeper meaning in all things. ‘Well, my son,’ he said with a smile, ‘shall we now begin? For all proper beginnings start with the Father, so a blessing will rest upon all that we do today.’

Carefully, he opened the book. Without further explanation, he began to read aloud, and while he spoke, my eyes went over the page and followed his finger going past the insular script, which he was going to teach me.

When he stopped reading, I remarked that his language sounded like a song to me, tuneful and euphonious.

He smiled, proudly. ‘Ælfric, who wrote these sermons would have been pleased with such a compliment, although I don’t think he aspired to be a bard, singing to drunken folk in a tavern.’

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‘No, just the idea,’ I said, ‘but what was it that you just read?

None of it was understandable to me.’ Æthelric laughed teasingly. ‘Was it really that difficult? Just try to read between the lines,’ he said, while he pushed the book in my direction. ‘Let the differences and the similarities between my language and yours guide you.’

Repeated exercise, he said, was the only way to learn how to pronounce his language properly. But he warned me that much time and effort would be spent before it revealed its meaning. The wish to translate a text from one language into another, requires a comprehension of the way things are being said in the native language, as equated to another one that meant the same. And for a skilled student, these differences should reveal the mutual coherence between both of them. Æthelric likened these differences to ‘the indefinite white between the lines’, being exactly the place to look for linguistical similarities.

I didn’t understand much of his explanation, but I listened carefully, while he began his lesson by saying that the English alphabet contains several characters that are quite different from the continental script. For instance, aside from the letter ‘p’, there were two other characters that looked almost identical: W, according to Æthelric, was pronounced as a ‘w’, while the other, Ê, turned out to be one of a pair of runic signs used by the English scribes to indicate a kind of sibilant, a pronunciation that was unknown in my mother tongue.

But the sound of it was familiar, as I had heard it before, from farmers and their servants who supplied the priory of Rockingham with food and live stock. On an old piece of parchment, the priest scribbled all the letters of the alphabet:

Aa Ææ Bb Cc Dd Ee Ff Gg Hh Ii Ll Mm Nn Oo Pp Rr Ss Tt Î∂ ʆ Uu Ww Xx Yy I didn’t succeed in imitating my teacher’s pronunciation, much to his amusement, and he laughed when I tried to pronounce the runes, which were pronounced as ‘th’, slightly lisping.

‘That sounds more like the drunken folk,’ he remarked decidedly.

‘Listen carefully: “Gewurþe ðin willa on eorðan.”’

Although I tried to imitate Æthelric’s accent, I failed, and my interpretation sounded rather silly.

‘No, son,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t call that English, but if you were in the company of locals, you might be quite successful in raising a few 21

good laughs. Now watch my mouth: “Gewurþe… ðin… willa on eorðan.”’ The tip of his tongue was visible between his upper and lower teeth. I gave it another try, doing as he did, now getting better results.

Then he pointed at the excerpt he had just read. ‘Why don’t you try and read it yourself? Use my abc as a guide.’

I started a bit hesitantly, but after a while I began to recognise the context of what was written on the parchment leafs.

‘Here says the holy… What’s written there?’

‘Godspell,’ Æthelric said. ‘Gospel, the psalm.’

‘Here says the holy gospel that…’ Impatiently I glanced at the priest for help.

‘Don’t rush yourself. We’ve got plenty of time.’

My eyes dwelled over the page, looking for anything recognisable. I found a word that looked familiar: lofe. ‘Does that mean lovon?’

I asked, my hands in a heavenwards gesture.

‘Lovon…’ the priest repeated. ‘Sounds almost the same. Is that how your kinsmen on the continent pronounce it?’

I nodded in consent, glad that my dialect bore fruit after all.

‘Go on.’ ‘“…þæt we… þysse halgan tid… godes naman to lofe,”’ I read using my tongue and my teeth. ‘Here says the holy gospel… that we, in this holy time… have to praise God’s name?’ Æthelric clapped his hands.

Despite my progress, most words remained impossible to decipher; without Æthelric’s help, trying to understand the meaning of the text on my own seemed an impossible task. A sigh of disappointment escaped my mouth. I was already on the verge of giving up.

‘Another example then,’ he said, grabbing one of his own books, the annals of the Anglo-Saxons. ‘Perhaps this will be an easier one: “Her sind on þis iglande fif geþeode: Englisc, Brittisc, Wilsc, Scýttisc, Pýhtisc and Bocleden.”’

I asked him to show me the syllable on the page. He was right – this was quite a bit easier. ‘“Here on this island… are five languages: English, British, Welsh, Scottish, Pictish and…” The last one must surely be Book Latin?’ Æthelric nodded.

‘Doesn’t make that six languages, by the way?’

‘Six languages indeed! Obviously the scribe’s fault, or perhaps he did not count the last one because his purpose was solely to emphasize the vernacular.’

22

Æthelric pointed out that, of the tribes that were mentioned – the truly indigenous people of ancient Britannia –, none of them had been skilled at reading the language in which the Scriptures were written. ‘And for that reason, Ælfric devoted himself to producing religious commentaries and sermons in a language that all people could understand, whether they were illiterate or not,’ he said solemnly. ‘It’s a well-known fact that many holy books contain mistakes due to inaccuracy of the scribes who wrote them, which could trap unskilled readers and listeners into mistaking errors for facts, false interpretations for wisdom. Ælfric painstakingly rewrote many holy books for the sake of the ignorant, who, especially at his time, when the end of the world was approaching, needed to be fortified against tribulation and hardship.’

‘Hm, I’m neither illiterate nor ignorant, yet I still cannot read most of this,’ I said.

‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Æthelric said with a smile. ‘Now all that needs to be done is changing Ælfric’s translation back to Latin, so you will be able to grasp its meaning.’

‘But what about the people’s spiritual welfare? Isn’t it particularly our duty to guard them, as a shepherd, and to make sure that they will be taught the Lord’s teachings?’

‘A rather pretentious concept, if you ask me,’ the priest murmured. ‘I think all men and women have the right to address Our Lord in their own language. And Ælfric thought likewise, not least because it was Jesus Christ who said that we should consider it our duty to teach the common folk, not to keep them in ignorance.’

‘I agree. Where did you study, Æthelric?’

‘In a minster near Churchfield. One of my favourite exercises used to be Ælfric’s colloquies. Most certainly you remember them too, from your grammar lessons.’

‘Yes, I do. The role play was a welcome distraction from the daily work at school.’

‘Have you, by chance, ever played the magister’s role?’

‘No, unfortunately not. The parts that I got were those of the ploughman, the oxherd, the baker and the hunter.’

‘Be patient, one day you will be a teacher yourself,’ Æthelric said, while leafing through the pages of the homiliary. ‘Let us now commence with Ælfric, one of the greatest English magisters of all time.

Before exploring grammar, conjugations, rhetoric and translations, it might be interesting to tell you about the origins of these sermons. So, if you have any questions…’

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‘Did Ælfric write them himself, or did he borrow from older sources, like the Church Fathers?’

‘He has not been reserved about mentioning the authorities he drew from,’ Æthelric said in an instructive manner. ‘This is evident from the listings he left behind: the sermons in the first volume describe the Proper of Time, and are based on the writings of Augustine, Jerome, Pope Gregory, Bede, Smaragdus and Haymo. But also Alcuin’s treatises, disquisitions by Gregory of Tours and Ratramnus’ Vitae Patrum have been used. You must realise that Ælfric’s vernacular works became very popular. In those days, there was scarcely a single English priest who could write or even read Latin, and the people were eager to hear their local priests read to them in their own language. As a result, Ælfric’s books were continuously copied in monasteries all over the country.’

‘And the second volume – what’s that about?’

Well, there the sanctoral cycle is laid out: you’ll find the homilies for the Invention of the Cross, Saints Clement, Cuthbert and Irenaeus, Joshua’s victories, the homilies on love, on James the Just, also known as the brother of the Lord...’

I was perplexed: ‘What, did Jesus have a brother?’ Æthelric laughed affectionately. ‘No, of course not! Could someone like that ever have been born from a mother called the Blessed Virgin Mary? What is meant, of course, is a symbolic relationship.

Christ had neither brother, nor wife.’

That thought stirred my imagination. ‘Æthelric…’ I said, a bit sheepishly, ‘what’s it like to have a wife?’

‘Let me explain it this way,’ he replied after a moment of introspection. ‘When Ælfric had become abbot, he once wrote a letter to a befriended nobleman. In that letter, amongst other matters, he spoke about the celibacy of the clergy, for the nobleman entertained among his household an anchorite who affirmed that the marriage of mass priests was permissible. But Ælfric, though loth to differ from this “good friend”, if he were a God-fearing man, could not refrain from pointing out that the earlier usage of the church required celibacy from all members of the clergy. It’s quite easy to imagine what the abbot would have thought about my way of living.’

After these words, Æthelric fell silent. He probably didn’t want to share more than what he considered necessary. I decided to leave the subject for now, but just when I was ready again to concentrate on the books, he suddenly continued: ‘You see, not that it is of any busi24

ness to a novice like you, but I consider myself a lucky man; besides the love I receive from God, I enjoy my wife’s ever-present affection,’ he said with great tenderness in his voice. ‘To both I give, and from both I receive. Each is entirely different and yet so equal: whenever weariness troubles my soul, there’s always God’s guiding hand to show me the way to inner peace, and all it takes to continue following that road is my wife’s gentle smile. Therefore I disagree with Ælfric: it is very well possible to practise either form of love, without fearing one of them to overshadow the other. I’m glad I don’t have to choose; wouldn’t that be something impossible once you’re married?’

All ears, I had listened to Æthelric’s discourse, and I hardly dared to breathe. I was fascinated by the unusual dichotomy, and for the future I could only pray that he’d continue to share his thoughts with me.

‘Now, back to the book.’ Instantly, my rather inappropriate dreams vanished. The priest took the homiliary and opened it at the first page. ‘Let’s take a close look at the first volume, which contains Ælfric’s sermons for all feasts from Nativity until Easter. A few anonymous writings have been added later.’

‘So, aren’t those Ælfric’s?’

‘Well, isn’t that precisely the meaning of anonimity – the lack of an identifiable person?’ Æthelric observed me while he obviously took great pleasure in my bemusement.

I decided I’d better not ask those silly questions of mine anymore.

Carefully, I turned the pages, anxious not to harm the secrets they were going to reveal to me. They were written in an angular, confident Anglo-Saxon script, extensively decorated with titles in red ink. Each sermon opened with a beautifully illuminated initial. The most striking embellishments were bestial figure characters: a twoheaded dragon shaped as a capital S, and a C resembling a snake.

Further, a D had been decorated with petal, butterfly and acanthus motifs. The ultimate penwork, however, was to be found on the very first page: a large capital M, being the outline of a church, in which a crowned figure from olden times kneeled in front of an altar.

‘He’s a king, isn’t he?’ I asked, impressed by the picture.

‘He’s not just a king – this is Ethelbert, the first Christian king of all England,’ my teacher answered tirelessly. ‘Did you know he founded this city?’

I admitted that I didn’t know. Rockingham already existed in Roman times, he said with an excited light in his eyes, but then it was 25

only an insignificant settlement, located on the bank of a stream.

After Christianity had arrived, everything began to change. In 596 a.d., Pope Gregory had sent a group of clerics on a mission to England. The next year, a certain Augustine reached the coast of Kent where he, shortly after arriving, converted king Ethelbert to the true faith. Augustine was consecrated as the first archbishop of Canterbury, while the king gratefully endowed a piece of land to the settlement by the river, and had a small church built there. Æthelric talked for the rest of the afternoon, going into many details about his country and the richness of his language. He commented exhaustively on the small text excerpt, which had taken me so much effort translating it – he analysed each and every syllable, he was unstoppable and kept talking, mostly in Latin, or in his own language which, at times, resembled mine so much. I listened and asked questions, but despite Æthelric’s talent for storytelling, towards vespers, the words and writings dazzled before my eyes. It was impossible to concentrate any longer, I gasped for some fresh air.

‘This is never going to work,’ I sighed. ‘Why has bishop Geoffrey chosen me to fulfill this task? After all these years I still haven’t managed to fully comprehend Latin grammar, and now I even have to learn English. How could he be so wrong?’

‘You’re the one who’s got it wrong, I’m afraid,’ Æthelric said. ‘I think Geoffrey has chosen wisely, my son. Of all the brethren here, the person most suitable for translating the vernacular writings into Church Latin, is you.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, ‘that’s exactly what the bishop told me. Everybody seems to be convinced of my skills, except me.’

But, rather mysteriously, Æthelric answered: ‘Just bear in mind to read into the indefinite white between the lines. By the holy Dunstan – I foretell: once you have practised my so-called incomprehensible language for a week or two, you’ll see, all of a sudden it will start revealing its secrets.’

‘I hope so.’ An even deeper sigh. I closed both homiliaries and handed them to the priest. ‘Would you please safeguard these? Geoffrey would never forgive me if something happened to a vulnerable treasure like this.’ Æthelric smiled at my weighty tone. ‘You are right when you say that a book is a valuable possession, but let’s not see things in the wrong perspective. Calling these volumes a treasure goes a little bit too far – you’re likely to find a copy in the libraries of most abbeys in the neighbourhood, either written in Latin or English.’

26

‘But, if so many copies exist, why did the bishop choose an unworthy novice like me…’ Æthelric interrupted my lamentation, whilst seemingly absentmindedly leafing through one of the books, by asking: ‘You still don’t understand, don’t you?’

‘Well… no, not really.’

‘I was under the impression you had a keen mind,’ he remarked, shaking his head.

‘But…’ I tried once more, ‘why doesn’t he just order a Latin copy to be duplicated for our priory? I’m sure we’d have a much better result in the end.’ Æthelric’s eyes sparkled with modest pleasure, and I felt silly, for he apparently knew something that I did not.

‘You see, my son,’ he engaged in a private manner, ‘even I, not exactly a monk, know that each novice preparing for his profession, has to commit himself to a difficult dedication before he is allowed to be converted. A task which has to be fulfilled for God, an indication of good will, of perseverance. Of trust.’

‘Yes, but how…’

‘Don’t you see this assignment is only a test?’ His joyous look had changed to seriousness. ‘Certainly, the bishop could have sent for a Latin original from Churchfield, and the scribes here would have duplicated it neatly, no problem whatsoever. But that’s not what Geoffrey has in mind for you. Please don’t doubt yourself or others. Work hard and keep faith in what you must do.’

I felt a blush appear on my cheeks. Æthelric observed me with a fatherly look in his eyes. ‘Of course you’re right: others have transcribed these sermons much better than you and I can, especially given the few weeks that we have at our disposal. But by acknowledging the – if I may say so – uselessness of your task, you’ll learn how to submit to the rules of your superiors, and the will of God. Obey, and carry out the things He wants you to do, without grumbling. It is no vain thing for you, because it is your life: “Quia non in cassum praecepta sunt vobis sed ut singuli in eis viverent quae facientes longo perseveretis tempore in terra ad quam Jordane transmisso ingredimini possidendam,”’ he enforced his argument in an edifying voice.

Silently, I gazed at the tabletop. How could I have passed over the possibility of a trial just for the sake of a trial?

As if to prove the ordinary nature of the book, he closed it loudly, indicating the lesson had ended. We left the library and sauntered 27

towards the herb garden, which was situated between the nave’s transept and the Roman wall, which protected the settlement against hostile tribes centuries ago. It was lit by the setting sun, and adjoined the west front of the cathedral, which was completed only recently. About twenty feet further, dozing in the evening light, there was the ruinous collegiate church, weathered by the ages, in memory of king Ethelbert’s conversion. A soft breeze arose, the crowns of the trees shivered.

‘What was this place like in your time, Æthelric?’

‘There’s not much to say about it, really,’ he answered a bit surly.

‘Under our bishop Sigeric, we constituted a chapter of canons, quite similar to your current priory. One of the main differences was the relative freedom we had, not obliged to follow the rules of celibacy and absolute obedience. In those days, of course, there was no cathedral – all we had was Ethelbert’s small church.’

‘So, weren’t there any other buildings, a refectory, or a dormer?’

‘Dear boy, who’d you expect to have paid for all that?’ Æthelric said with a frown. ‘We didn’t have an archbishop squandering his money. Our meals were eaten in the kitchen, and we had to share that room with the goats if the weather was rough. There were no supplies, no food cellars. Nothing! When Sweyn and his Vikings raided this town some seventy years ago, all the chapter’s books were lost, and the few valuable things they had, were either taken away or burnt. For years, there seems to have been a smell of smoke inside the church, like an infernal breath, which constantly blemished the holy mass. But that was many years before I served there.’

‘And what happened afterwards?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then came years of poverty for the Rockingham citizens. Many of them left the town. After the Norman Conquest, I joined the chapter as a young man, and even then there were only twelve men left of what used to be a group of twenty men at the least. For seven years, we led a reasonably untroubled life, until Sigeric died. After his death, a couple of elders left the chapter, because they couldn’t bear the bitter circumstances anymore: there were days we could only afford one meal of bread and salted fish. We didn’t have the means for maintenance of the building: when it rained, water dripped from the ceiling, despite the small repairs. In the beginning, we covered the moldy walls with tapestries, which our wives knitted from wool and goat’s hair. So the ones who couldn’t take the hunger and the cold any longer, left. Only five of us decided to stay.’

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For a moment, the priest stopped talking to watch a butterfly, elegantly fluttering about, before settling on a flower and enjoying the last rays of the sun.

‘Soon after,’ he continued, ‘the archbishop and his coadjutor Geoffrey, both of whom resided in Churchfield, paid us a visit. Geoffrey was about to be made bishop of Rockingham, and a few months later, he moved into our impoverished chapter, under far simpler conditions than he was used to. As a matter of fact, they weren’t much different from the situation with Sigeric: even Geoffrey suffered from hunger once in a while, but he never complained. On the contrary, he devoted most of his energy to the building of a new cathedral. The major change didn’t come until six years later, when we were told about the arrival of a group of monks, who were selected to be founding a Benedictine priory here, as a replacement for us obsolete canons. The reform was to take place within six months.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re not to blame, my son; that’s the way things go.’

‘Wasn’t there any opportunity for you to stay?’ Æthelric smiled. ‘Yes, there was. Me and the others were given the chance to enter the congregation, but on one condition: we had to reconcile ourselves to the monastic rule. Considering the fact that all of us were married priests, that was an impossible choice, which Geoffrey, of course, had considered beforehand.’

‘So, did he send you away?’

‘Yes. I soon found an office as a travelling priest in the surroundings of Brookshire, where I preached on the marketsquares, and visited the poor and destitute. One day I got acquainted with sir Gilbert’s chancellor, who asked me to read a few private masses every week in the chapel of his Rockingham castle. With the alms I receive from the count’s family, and Geoffrey’s prebends, I can make a fair living,’ he concluded.

In the meantime, the sun had disappeared behind the trees. The golden light, which had brushed such an idyllic, unworldly light all over the garden, had vanished, and the colours of the flowers, shining with an inner light just a moment ago, had faded. To my regret, it was time for Æthelric to return home.

‘Will you join us for dinner in the refectory?’ I tried.

He shook his head, he didn’t want to keep his wife waiting. ‘Tomorrow, we will continue the reading lessons,’ he said. ‘I hope we will be able to start with the translation in, say, two weeks.’

29

A sudden worried look must have appeared in my eyes, because Æthelric broke into laughter. ‘No need to grow desperate, my son,’ he said, ‘just keep reading into the indefinite white between the lines!’

Finally, he said goodbye and walked along the path, winding around the old church, once the proud symbol of a king who had the courage to say farewell to his old idols, in order to devote himself for the rest of his life to a religion that he hardly knew. As a token of his gratefulness, he had ordered for a modest church to be built, a stone building that was to stand up to the test of time.

The English priest’s words resounded in my ears, until I realised I was immersed in thoughts, staring at the decayed building. I turned and walked back to the priory. It had been a day not to be forgotten easily.

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