The Rebel Scribes

Chapter 3

Christ Church Priory, Canterbury, 990 AD

Christ Church Priory, Canterbury, 990 ADSibling 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.

Sibling rivalry!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?

the most beautiful psalter ever producedPrior Hrodulf considered the proposal and mused,

The orphans are ideal for the job.

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.”

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 togethercome to only a decade more than my three-score and seven.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 s*****y. 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.