The Rebel Scribes

ONE

Christ Church Priory, Canterbury, 990 AD

Sibling rivalry! — that he could exploit, smirked Prior Hrodulf, mind whirling with the details of the strange encounter with Ealdorman Ansleth that he had just brought to a satisfactory conclusion. The nobleman had made a proposal, interesting from an economic point of view, but laden with conditions. Ansleth had a lovely daughter, fair of countenance, and deeply spiritual. She was destined to take her vows and enter the most prestigious nunnery in Kent—Minster-in-Thanet, founded by a Kentish princess who accepted land for a house of prayer as compensation for the killing of her brothers. She was granted as much territory as her pet deer could run around in a day. Ansleth did not expect his daughter, Imelda, to become a simple nun; he had wanted to be a proud grandsire but, respecting her vocation, the besotted father already imagined her as abbess in charge of her own religious house.

To give her a head start in her chosen career, he wished to make her a gift of the most beautiful psalter ever produced. Where better to seek the scribe-illuminator than in the priory renowned for such productions, namely, Christ Church Priory in Canterbury?

Prior Hrodulf considered the proposal and mused,

The orphans are ideal for the job.

Money for the production would be no obstacle for the ealdorman, who stipulated, too, a magnificent annuity for the priory coffers. However, there was one overriding condition, and it was to take the form of a test. Prior Hrodulf must select the three worthiest from among the brethren, who would not be mere scribes but also illustrators, capable of interpreting and illuminating the texts to the highest standard.

Hrodulf reran their conversation in his mind. Half-closing his eyes, he could visualise the grey-bearded warrior standing by the window, his back somewhat discourteously presented to the prior as he gazed out into the cloister and voiced his thoughts.

The gruff voice of the nobleman insisted,

Whoever, I adjudge to be worthy of the task, Prior, must complete the whole psalter within two years of our agreed starting date.

But that, Lord Ansleth, is a demanding deadline! You do realise that the Bible contains one hundred and fifty psalms?

I know it well, Prior. I am seeking a skilful scribe who can also interpret and illustrate swiftly and to the most exacting standards.

What sort of test do you propose, Ealdorman? The prior tried and failed not to convey the sudden anxiety in his unsure voice.

Your three candidates will have one week to illuminate Psalm 82. If I am satisfied that the work is of the highest possible standard, then it will be included in the finished volume.

This had been the prime condition and even now, alone, Prior Hrodulf marvelled at the astuteness of the Saxon nobleman. Somehow, he had chosen the most impenetrable of the psalms for the candidates to interpret. Surely, the ealdorman must have sought ecclesiastical advice because he came over as a rough and ready military man, not one seeped in the study and interpretation of the Holy Scriptures. Indeed, if pressed, the prior would have great difficulty explaining the meaning of that particular psalm: A Psalm of Asaph. He muttered the first six lines to himself:

And ran it through in his mind:

God presides in the great assembly;

he renders judgment among the gods:

"How long will you defend the unjust

and show partiality to the wicked?

Defend the weak and the fatherless;

uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed.

Ay, that was how it started but he could remember no more, perhaps because the hardest, most inscrutable part continued until the end. His misgivings returned and brought him to the ealdorman’s second condition: he, Hrodulf was to refuse all help to the candidates regarding the interpretation of the psalm during their attempt. He thought:

Ho-ho! Little did he realise that I couldn’t guide them even if they asked for my aid. I have studied the Scriptures for a lifetime and their three ages summed together, he calculated the total— come to only a decade more than my three-score and seven. He sighed, and said aloud, May God forgive me; I am old and unworthy to hold this position.

He thought about his choice of candidates, the brothers, orphaned sons of the great warrior Heilan, who had perished at the hands of the Vikings in the raid of 974, which had ravaged much of the shire. Nobody knew the fate of the boys’ mother, most likely she had died, too, in the same incursions or had been abducted and sold into slavery. The prior shook his head sadly, the boys had come into the monastery years later, brought here by an uncle, who refused to sustain their upbringing any longer after nine years of fostering. His financial difficulties had been the priory’s gain because both showed ability as readers and writers. They were destined to become the fine scribes the famous scriptorium was crying out for in its endeavours to recover its renown jeopardised by the Norsemen’s plundering and the consequent declining pool of talent caused by a shortage of vocations.

The elder brother had displayed greater resistance to the calling, for he had eighteen winters behind him on entering the priory and was already proficient in arms. His distraction arose from youthful resentment born of the inability to fight alongside his father or uncle against the Vikings. Although a nine-year-old could not take a place in the shield-wall, during the 974 incursions, Aelfwynn had been capable of protecting his seven-year-old brother, Folcwin, and conducting him safely to his uncle’s house.

Rather than wishing to be a scribe, Aelfwynn insisted his destiny was to become a warrior, like his father. He was only dissuaded from this course by his poverty, which prevented him from purchasing a sword and body armour. This, together with an understandable reluctance to separate from Folcwin, allowed his talents to blossom in the priory at Canterbury.

The third candidate was a youth, just a year younger than the elder brother, the prior counted on his fingers, ay, he would now have a score and six winters to his name, who was Gerbrand. Being the same age, give or take, as the other two, he had formed a firm friendship with them, which had drawn him to the scriptorium and as God would have it—or had provided for—Gerbrand, too, was skilful with the pen. All three had finished their novitiate together, becoming monks at the same ceremony, perhaps driven on by a healthy rivalry. So, these were his three candidates. Before sending for them, he must obtain three psalters for their use. All three would illustrate Psalm 82 but only one would go on to transcribe and illuminate all one hundred and fifty psalms. He would make it clear to the other brethren, on the pain of strict penance, that nobody must make suggestions or discuss the psalm with the three competitors.

He chuckled to himself, delighted by the situation, but then frowned. Regarding the competition, their healthy rivalry should certainly produce outstanding craftsmanship. As he pondered on this and the eventual worth of the psalter, his earlier misgivings troubled him. It might be that the outcome would not be so positive. Prior Hrodulf was advanced in years and harsh in his judgment of himself, but in truth, his monks considered him a wise, kind and learned mentor.

TWO

Christ Church Priory, Canterbury, 990 AD

Out of the corner of his eye, discreetly, Folcwin glanced across the aisle of the scriptorium, where under the window opposite his, Gerbrand was painting a fine line in liquid gold. His companion was too far away for him to snatch an illicit glimpse of the design, so he sighed heavily. Hitherto, they had obeyed the prior’s order not to discuss their work, but each had tentatively admitted to having finished the copying of the text of Psalm 82, but that was no great achievement since the psalm was relatively short at only seventeen lines. Another glance and his thoughts shifted in another direction.

What’s he doing now? Green ink! Why? Can it be for grass or trees? But where? Why?

There could be no doubt that Gerbrand was further ahead than he. He sighed again, causing his competitor to raise his head and grin cockily his way. Cross with himself for encouraging an adversary, Folcwin bit his lower lip. He had no idea how his brother was doing because he had his back to him but Aelfwynn was sure to be more advanced in his interpretation because apart from the fact that Folcwin was stuck, in trouble, his elder brother was better at—well, everything: singing, running, Latin, socialising. Repressing another sigh, transforming it at the last second into a cough, Folcwin wondered desperately how he could illustrate a psalm he did not understand.

His eyes, so different from those of his brother with their dark grey-brown like hard oak bark, returned to settle on his parchment. Folcwin’s were a soft sage-green but one eye wandered, giving him a permanently distracted appearance, as if his spirit was on a journey to a place only he had glimpsed. He reread his transcription carefully and his front teeth almost drew blood from his lower lip as he concentrated. The beginning was easy enough, for the psalm asserted the supremacy of God over every supernatural power. Of course, he could draw God at the top of the sheet of vellum but that would win him no plaudits. It was too obvious. The ealdorman’s aim was for every page to be thought-provoking, the prior had explained to them, so nothing foregone: he wondered, didn’t that mean, too obvious?

Again, a sigh and it gained him another grin from across the aisle. Gerbrand was cleverer than he; of that, he was convinced. He was sworn to obedience and the prior had chosen him, so he must make more effort or, at least, pray for enlightenment. But could he do that without Gerbrand noticing his desperation? Where was the problem? Let’s see, there’s the problem, beginning verse 5:

The gods know nothing, they understand nothing.

They walk about in darkness;

all the foundations of the earth are shaken.

That was what he could not reconcile: first, the psalm insisted on one supreme God, then its composer had thrown in these gods. The psalmist went on to say these gods were the sons of the Most High but that they would die like mere mortals.

Scratching the hair at his temple, Folcwin set about a promising train of thought. Didn’t Genesis use the term sons of God to refer to angelic beings? He reached for the Bible; each of them was allowed a copy to consult. Deliberately opening it at random to mislead Gerbrand who was staring curiously across at him, he leafed backwards through the Holy Book as if searching for something until his rival’s attention returned to his green ink. Then he opened the beginning of the Scriptures, and there it was! Genesis 6:4—

The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterwards—when the sons of God went to the daughters of humans and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown…

In the margin, in ink, in the tiniest writing, someone had noted a cross-reference to Job1:6 and when he turned to it, sure enough, it referred to angels presenting themselves before the Lord.

Now he was convinced that the gods mentioned in the psalm were angels. In the absence of any other idea, he would do his best possible illustration of angels presenting themselves to God. What had he to lose? In any case, if quizzed on it, he could make these two citations. It would save him the ignominy of proffering just the text. Also, as far as he could interpret, his solution was not foregone. But he was not a prior, abbot or archbishop, he thought angrily—nay, not even an Aelfwynn!

Were there other possible interpretations, he wondered. What were the other two up to? There were sure to be, but he could not think of them. Relief flooded over him and he could not resist a triumphant smirk in the direction of his friend, who scowled back in anything but friendly fashion. Well, he’d show them both!

In an hour, he had pricked out the outline of his main figures and by Sext, he was ready to eat and afterwards start his design with coloured ink. Raising the hinged top of the desk and carefully conserving his vellum within, he turned the key and slipped it in his pocket. He’d never done anything so cautious before, but he didn’t want his idea stolen.

He stood to head for the refectory and to his astonishment, his brother lurched forward in his seat to cover his work with both sleeves of his habit.

I’m not trying to steal your ideas, Aelfwynn!

I’m taking no risks, brother. I’ve worked out the hidden meaning in the psalm.

Hidden?

You go on ahead, I’ll join you at the table.

He looked anxiously at the approaching Gerbrand and made sure his sleeves left no gaps to provide a glimpse of his winning interpretation.

Hidden?

Gerbrand had caught the word.

I hope you sanded your ink before draping all that cloth over it!

A look of panic, followed by a glare at his brother and Aelfwynn said,

You’d better not have made me smudge or I’ll beat you senseless.

Charming! I haven’t done anything. I was just going for a bite to eat.

You were trying to pry, being as you are so clueless.

Hush! another of the monks hissed, Some of us have to concentrate. Silence! Or I’ll report the three of you to the prior.

The threat was enough for Folcwin and Gerbrand to move away and leave Aelfwynn to check his work and put it in safekeeping. There was no smudge as he had imagined because he had been staring at the parchment for a while in search of inspiration. He had been checking Exodus 21 and 22 and was sure that he had understood the psalmist’s meaning. All he had to do after lunch was translate the idea into an image. Food should provide him with the mental energy he needed. Was he mistaken or did his annoying brother seem more cheerful and confident? He hoped not, because he considered his friend, Gerbrand, to be the greater threat in this competition. Absolutely, Folcwin was a neat scribe and had a fine, precise hand at illuminating but the Almighty had not blessed him overly with intelligence. How could his brother be an obstacle to his inevitable triumph? For example, the puny wretch would never have thought of that passage in Exodus—he probably thought the gods in question were Woden, Tiw, and Thor! He’d most likely make a laughing stock of himself before the prior and the ealdorman; Aelfwynn almost, but not quite, felt sorry for him.

Finding his competitors already seated at the table and tearing at some oven-fresh crusty bread before dipping it in a delicious-looking vegetable soup, he ladled some for himself from the large iron pot set before them.

So, how did it go this morning? he asked cheerily with confidence designed to intimidate.

Great! Folcwin chirped. I finally realised what the psalm is about.

Did you indeed? Well, aren’t you the clever one?

Not really. I was beginning to lose hope when it came to me in a flash of inspiration.

Gerbrand grinned and said without a trace of malice,

It must have been the Holy Spirit that inspired you, Folcwin. In which case, what chance have we mere mortals?

Aelfwynn looked keenly at his friend, hastily swallowed his piece of bread, and asked,

Are you quoting directly from verse seven, Brother Gerbrand?

The young monk looked surprised; he hadn’t meant to quote at all. If anything, he wished to avoid discussion about the psalm for fear of giving away his interpretation based on his reading of Saint John’s Gospel. Aelfwynn was as sharp as the blade of King Aethelred’s sword, however reluctant the king seemed to use it. The same could not be said of his rival’s insightfulness. The elder of the brothers must be favourite to win this contest and illustrate the whole psalter because he was the brightest among them and if he, Gerbrand, gave him the slightest clue to his thinking, Aelfwynn would pounce and adopt it as his own. So, there could be no loose talk. Cautiously, he asked,

Verse seven?

"Ay, mere mortals you said. In the psalm, a clear reference to the gods. Have you worked out who they are, these deities?"

Maybe I have! But I wouldn’t tell you if I had!

How mean-spirited of you! Now, he said, his voice exuding sarcasm, you can say what you like about Folcwin, but he isn’t mean. Are you, little brother?

Aelfwynn was bigger and stronger than he, but Folcwin did not like to be mocked about his size. Secretly, he had been lifting heavy stones that the brothers had placed as a rockery in the herb garden. He’d been lucky not to have been noticed so far, but the hardened muscles, hidden under the sleeves of his habit, were beginning to please him. Not that he felt capable of challenging his tormentor in any physical contest just yet: maybe one day!

Mildly, he smiled at his brother and in a low voice said,

Nay, I don’t think I’m mean, Aelfwynn.

So, tell us then, wise little brother, who were these gods referred to in the psalm?

Folcwin smiled again, seeking to avoid any provocation, said gently,

Come now, brother. It’s not mean spiritedness, but you must remember, the prior has forbidden us to discuss our interpretations. Then, he deliberately sounded defeated, Anyway, what chance is there of me getting the right answer? I’m not as smart as you two. He bestowed his studied unhappy expression on Gerbrand, too.

The ever-cheerful Gerbrand smiled at him,

Don’t be so resigned, my friend, inspiration can come to anyone humble enough to receive it.

Humble, Aelfwynn chortled, no problem there then! Froddy’s got us both beaten, he’s positively lamblike!

Gerbrand did not like it when Aelfwynn tormented his brother. He preferred them to be happy in their friendship.

"Come now, Brother, blessed are the meek said Our Lord and he is known as the Lamb of God."

The elder brother sneered and revealed the worst of himself,

Perhaps we should nail Froddy to a tree!

Hush! How you exaggerate! Were anyone to overhear you, you might be accused of blasphemy. We know you are only teasing Folcwin, but it would be better if you let him be.

Aelfwynn sneered, broke off a piece of bread, and threw it at his brother’s head, who caught it deftly and dipped it in his soup.

Thank you!

But whether that remark was for the bread or the moral support from his friend was unclear to either of the two young monks.

Gerbrand looked anxiously at Aelfwynn. The elder of the brothers was a good companion but there had always been a rough edge of bitterness to his character, which most likely was due to being orphaned at a young age. Even so, Gerbrand had always admired his intelligence and despite these occasional excursions of tormenting his sibling, he liked the normal fierce protectiveness he showed towards Folcwin. Today’s behaviour was probably to be ascribed to his desire to assert his authority as the oldest among them and, naturally, to the yearning to succeed in this prestigious competition.

I wonder how he’ll take it when I win the contest? I hope it won’t destroy our friendship.

He had no worries about Folcwin, he truly was a meek character and he doubted that he feigned humility. If anyone could accept being bested, it was Folcwin.

THREE

Christ Church Priory, Canterbury, 990 AD

As they slouched out of Prime, Folcwin glanced at Gerbrand, whose morose expression struck him as unusual for their ever-cheerful companion. He sidled up to him,

What’s up? he whispered, Why the long face?

If possible, his countenance grew even more doleful,

Good news for you! I’m withdrawing from the contest.

What! But today is the last day!

I know, but yesterday I realised I got it all wrong. My interpretation is erroneous and there’s no time to change now.

His face suddenly brightened,

At least it means that I have the day free, instead of poring over that blessed parchment.

Folcwin’s emotions were mixed. A shameful part of him exulted because his chances of being judged the winner had increased but a nobler trait despaired for his friend.

The work’s done, you might as well submit it. Your presentation might be acceptable to the ealdorman. You can’t be sure.

Thanks, Folcwin you are a true friend. In any case, I have things to do today. Good luck with your page.

And that was the last he saw of him.

Vaguely aware of his brother at his back as he settled into his place in the scriptorium, he stared at the almost completed document when a strange impulse seized him. Why not abandon the idea of leaving a white margin around the page? He could fill the vellum to its very edge with rich entwined foliage and blooming flowers. That would avoid a portion of white background, creating a sumptuous, exciting effect. This disquieting inspiration had implications. It meant he would have to work hard all day, most likely doing without lunch because if he left even an inch unfinished, the result would be so counter-productive: as immediately noticeable as a person with a black eye, and the fine detail it necessitated could not possibly be rushed. He took a deep breath, put his tongue between his teeth and began this brilliant self-imposed task. At once, he could see the merit of his scheme as the winding foliage gave completeness to the whole, leading the eye into the text and, essentially, the joyous visages of the angels.

Surely, now, I will win!

Deep in concentration and driven by a fervid desire to finish the page, Folcwin lost all sense of time until the tolling for Sext reminded him that it was midday. He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked into the smiling face of his brother.

At last, I’ve finished! he said, making it obvious that there was no attempt to sneak a glance at his younger sibling’s work. His deliberate nonchalance was his way of imposing his confidence in victory. So, I can relax now. How’s it going, anyway? No nearer to finishing?

I’ve still got a lot to do.

All right, I’ll see you in the refectory, later.

I don’t know about that. I have only until the Vespers bell to complete the page.

Right to the last minute, eh, little brother?

Aelfwynn’s sneering tone grated with Folcwin, who was pleased to hear the sandals pad away so that he could concentrate again.

By mid-afternoon, with the chiming of the Nones bell, he knew for certain that he had three hours left to finish the margins. His eyes felt dry and sore and his shoulders, hunched over his work, ached, and cried out to be rolled and stretched. Nothing for it, he had time enough to finish and, masking the unfinished margin with his hand, so it did not strike his eye, he marvelled at the beauty of his creation.

Ealdorman Ansleth won’t be able to fault my skill. If my interpretation is right, I’m sure to beat Aelfwynn—and what a blow that will be to him!

Smirking to himself, Folcwin set to again after rubbing his eyes and another hour flew by, leaving him with another two, although he did not know it, and two inches of margin in the bottom corner.

Suddenly, he heard a gasp at his shoulder and looked up into the smiling face of one of the older brothers.

Your psalm is magnificent, Brother Folcwin, said the chandler. But you must come with me, Prior Hrodulf wishes to speak with you forthwith.

But I haven’t finished here, and it will soon be sunset!

The candle-maker looked scandalised.

"You must not disobey Father Prior’s command!"

Folcwin’s face tensed in agitation but he took his parchment and locked it in the desk and leapt to hurry unwillingly to the prior’s quarters.

What the devil does he want at such an inopportune moment?

He knocked on the heavy oak door. Always amazed that anyone could hear his puny knock through that solid wood, but sure enough a muffled voice reached him,

Come!

Father Prior, you wished to speak with me? The thing is, I only have till the evening bell to finish my page, he blurted, looking anxious. At once he regretted his impertinence as the elderly monk’s eyes flashed their annoyance and his lips flattened.

Some things are more important than book illumination, Brother Folcwin! Can you account for your movements today?

The young monk gaped at his superior. What was this, an interrogation? It was. He laughed, but it was a false, forced sound even to his ears.

Movements? Father, you jest! He bit his tongue. He was being flippant and impertinent, and it displeased the man who could inflict severe penance if he so chose. Hurriedly, he said,

Please forgive me, Father Prior, I am not myself today. The need to complete my work bears down on me!

Answer my question unless you wish to arouse my ire!

Folcwin gulped, looked contrite and in his most servile voice, replied,

I have not moved from my desk in the scriptorium until our brother chandler told me to present myself here. I chose not to eat lunch because time is pressing to finish—

Ay, ay! the prior snapped, So, the brothers in the scriptorium can verify your story.

Story? It’s the truth, I swear!

The prior took a bible from his desk.

Place your hand on the Bible and swear that you have been in the scriptorium all day and nowhere else.

What the devil’s going on?

He laid his hand on the tooled-leather cover,

I swear in the name of God the Father that I have been in the scriptorium all day and never moved until a few minutes ago to come here.

Good! Of course, I shall check with the other scribes.

Father Prior!

Does he think I’d perjure myself?

He recovered his composure,

May I ask—

You may. Brother Gerbrand has been found dead by the river.

Folcwin paled and gasped. He had spoken to him after Prime and at once told the prior as much.

You will understand, Brother, that nobody had any reason to murder Gerbrand, except for you and your brother, Aelfwynn—

For a psalter! Folcwin glared, conveying his outrage. But even as he spoke, the worm of doubt wriggled in his stomach, making him feel sick.

Is it possible that Aelfwynn could perpetrate such a heinous crime?

He dismissed the thought at once and said,

There must be some other explanation, an accident? Some misadventure? Aelfwynn would not harm a crane fly! And I have been illustrating all day.

Our investigation will reveal the truth, Brother. You may go.

Folcwin hastened back to his desk and heart pounding strangely, feared to raise his quill, lest he ruined his work through the distracting thoughts that tormented him. His best friend, apart from his brother, was dead! Thanks to his numbed state, he hadn’t had the presence of mind to ask the prior how Gerbrand had died. The elderly monk had mentioned the fast-flowing Stour. Had he drowned, or been held under? Gerbrand was Aelfwynn’s dearest friend, too. That he had murdered him was inconceivable!

The doubt returned, for what did he know? He could not vouch for the movements of either monk since his concentration had been fixed all day on his manuscript. Talking about which…he could only pray