The Rebel Scribes

Chapter 4

Christ Church Priory, Canterbury, 990 AD

Christ Church Priory, Canterbury, 990 ADOut 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?

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?

foregone: 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.

The gods know nothing, they understand nothing.godsThey walk about in darkness;

They walk about in darkness;all the foundations of the earth are shaken.

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.

godslike mere mortalsScratching 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—

sons of God 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…

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.

angelsNow 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?”

mere mortals gods“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 f*******n 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.”

blessed are the meek 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.

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.