BROTHER ALPHEGE
From the abode of strife and turmoil to the home of peace, from the
house of the world to the house of religion, from the Castle of
Wallingford to the Abbey of Dorchester, do we gladly conduct our
readers, satiated, we doubt not, with scenes of warfare.
What wonder, when the world was given up to such scenes, that men and
women, conscious of higher aspirations, should fly to the seclusion of
the monastic life, afar from
"Unloving souls with deeds of ill,
And words of angry strife."
And what a blessing for that particular age that there were such
refuges, thickly scattered throughout the land--veritable cities of
refuge. It was not the primary idea of these orders that they should be
benevolent institutions, justifying their existence by the service
rendered to the commonwealth. The primary idea was the service of God,
and the salvation of the particular souls, who fled from a world lying
in wickedness and the shadow of death, to take sweet counsel together,
and walk in the House of God as friends.
Later on came a _nobler_ conception of man's duty to man; and thence
sprang the active orders, such as the Friars or Sisters of Mercy, as
distinguished from the cloistered or contemplative orders.
Of course, in the buildings of such a society, the Church was the
principal object--as the ruins of Tintern or Glastonbury show,
overshadowing all the other buildings, dwarfing them into
insignificance. Upon this object all the resources of mediæval art were
expended. The lofty columns, the mysterious lights and shadows of a
Gothic fane, the sculptures, the statues, the shrines, the rich
vestments, the painted glass--far beyond aught we can produce, the
solemn music,--all this they lavished on the Church as the house of
prayer--
"It is the house of prayer,
Wherein Thy servants meet;
And Thou, O God, art there,
Thy hallowed flock to greet."
Here they met seven times daily, to recite their offices, as also at the
midnight office, when only the professed brethren were present. In these
active times men may consider so much time spent in church a great waste
of time, but we cannot judge other generations by our own ideas. A very
sharp line was then drawn between the Church and the world, and they who
chose the former possessed a far greater love for Divine worship than we
see around us now, coupled with a most steadfast belief in its efficacy.
"Blessed are They who dwell in Thy house; they will be alway praising
Thee," was the language of their hearts.
Here men who had become the subjects of intense grief--from whom death,
perhaps, had removed their earthly solace--the partners of their sorrow
or joy--found refuge when the sun of this world was set. Here, also,
studious men, afar from the clamour and din of arms, preserved for us
the wisdom of the ancients. Here the arts and sciences lived on, when
nought save war filled the minds of men outside. Well has it been said,
that for the learning of the nineteenth century to revile the monastic
system is for the oak to revile the acorn from which it sprang.
But most of all, when the shadow of a great horror of himself and his
past fell upon a man, how blessed to have such an institution as a
mediæval monastery wherein to hide the stricken head, and to learn
submission to the Divine Will.
Such a home had Wulfnoth found at Dorchester Abbey.
The year of his novitiate had passed, and he had won the favour of his
monastic superiors. We do not say he had always been as humble as a
novice should, or that he never, like Lot's wife, looked back again to
Sodom, but the good had triumphed, and the day came for his election as
a brother.
Every day after the Chapter Mass which followed Terce, the daily
"Chapter" was held, wherein all matters of discipline were settled,
correction, if needed, administered, novices or brethren admitted by
common consent, and all other weighty business transacted. Here they met
four centuries later, when they affixed their reluctant seal to their
own dissolution, to avoid worse consequences.
It was here that, after the ordinary business was over, the novice
Alphege, the once sanguinary Wulfnoth, rose with a calm and composed
exterior, but with a beating heart, to crave admission into the order by
taking the life vows.
The Abbot signed to him to speak.
"I, Wulfnoth the novice, crave admission to the full privileges and
prayers of the order, by taking the vows for life, as a brother
professed."
There was silence for a space.
Then the Abbot spoke--
"Hast thou duly considered the solemn step? Canst thou leave the world
behind thee--its friendships and its enmities? and hast thou considered
what hard and stern things we endure?"
"I have, Father Abbot."
"And the yet harder and sterner discipline which awaits the
transgressor?"
"None of these things move me: I am prepared to bear yet harsher and
sterner things, if so be I may save my soul."
"The Lord Jesus Christ so perform in you what for His love's sake you
promise, that you may have His grace and life eternal."
"Amen," said all present.
The rule of the order was then read aloud.
"Here," said the Abbot, "is the law under which thou desirest to serve:
if thou canst observe it, enter; but if thou canst not, freely depart."
"I will observe it, God being my helper."
"Doth any brother know any just cause or impediment why Alphege the
novice should not be admitted to our brotherhood?"
None was alleged.
"Do you all admit him to a share in your sacrifices and prayers?"
The hands were solemnly raised.
"It is enough: prepare with prayer and fasting for the holy rite," said
the Abbot.
For there was of course a solemn form of admission into the order yet to
be gone through in the Church, which we have not space to detail.
It was not necessary that a monk should take Holy Orders, yet it was
commonly done; and dismissing the subject in a few words, we will simply
say that Wulfnoth took deacon's orders after he had taken the life vows,
and later on was ordained priest by Bishop Alexander of Lincoln,
aforesaid.
His lot in life was now fixed: no longer was he in any danger from the
Lord of Wallingford; nor could he execute vengeance with sword and woe
for the household stricken so sorely by that baron's hands at Compton on
the downs. It was over--he left it all to Him Who once said, "Vengeance
is Mine, I will repay." Nor mindful of his own sins, did he pray for
such vengeance. He _left it_, and strove to pray for Brian.
One bright day at the close of July the Abbot called him to ride with
him, for the order was not strictly a cloistered one, nor could it
indeed be; they had their landed estates, their tenantry, their farms to
look after. The offices were numerous, of necessity, and it was the
policy of the order to give each monk, if possible, some special duty or
office. Almost all they ate or drank was produced at home. The corn grew
on their own land; they had their own mill; the brethren brewed, baked,
or superintended lay brothers who did so. Other brethren were tailors,
shoemakers for the community; others gardeners; others, as we have seen,
scribes and illuminators; others kept the accounts--no small task.[23]
In short, none led the idle life commonly assigned in popular
estimation.
They rode forth then, the Abbot Alured and Alphege, the new brother.
First into the town without the gates, far larger then than now, it was
partly surrounded by walls, partly protected by the Rivers Isis and
Tame; but within the space was a crowd of inhabitants dwelling in
houses, or rather huts; dwelling even in tents, like modern gypsies,
crowding the space within the walls, with good reason, for no man's life
was safe in the country, and here was sanctuary! Even Brian Fitz-Count
would respect Dorchester Abbey: even if some marauding baron assailed
the town, there was still the abbey church, or even the precincts for
temporary shelter.
But food was scarce, and here lay the difficulty. The abbey revenues
were insufficient, for many of the farms had been burnt in the nightly
raids, and rents were ill-paid. Everything was scarce: many a hapless
mother, many a new-born babe, died from sheer want of the things
necessary to save; the strong lived through it, the weak sank under it:
there may have been those who found comfort, and said it was "the
survival of the fittest."
Day by day was the dole given forth at the abbey gates; day by day the
hospitium was very crowded. The hospitaller was at his wits' end. And
the old infirmarer happening to die just then, folk said, "It was the
worry."
"Who is sufficient for these things?" said Abbot Alured to his
companion, as they rode through the throng and emerged upon the road
leading to the hamlet of Brudecott (Burcot) and Cliffton (Clifton
Hampden).
Their dress was a white cassock under a black cloak, with a hood
covering the head and neck and reaching to the shoulders, having under
it breeches, vest, white stockings and shoes; a black cornered cap, not
unlike the college cap of modern days, completed the attire.
"Tell me, brother," said the Abbot, "what is thy especial vocation? what
office wouldst thou most desire to hold amongst us?"
"I am little capable of discharging any weighty burden: thou knowest I
have been a man of war."
"And he who once gave wounds should now learn to heal them. Our brother
the infirmarer has lately departed this life, full of good works--would
not that be the office for thee?"
"I think I could discharge it better than I could most others."
"It is well, then it shall be thine; it will be onerous just now. Ah me,
when will these wars be over?"
"Methinks there was a great fire amongst the Chilterns last night--a
thick cloud of smoke lingers there yet."
"It is surely Watlington--yes it is Watlington; they have burned it.
What can have chanced? it is under the protection of Shirburne."
"I marvel we have had none of the people here, to seek hospitality and
aid."
They arrived now at Brudecott, a hamlet on the Thames. One Nicholas de
Brudecott had held a mansion here, one knight's fee of the Bishop of
Lincoln; but the house had been burnt by midnight marauders. The place
was desolate: on the fields untilled a few poor people lived in huts,
protected by their poverty.
They rode on to Cliffton, where the Abbot held three "virgates" of land,
with all the farm buildings and utensils for their cultivation; the
latter had escaped devastation, perhaps from the fact it was church
property, although even that was not always respected in those days.
Upon the rock over the river stood the rustic church. Wulfnoth had often
served it as deacon, attending the priestly monk who said Mass each
Sunday there, for Dorchester took the tithes and did the duty.
Here they crossed the river by a shallow ford where the bridge now
stands, and rode through Witeham (Wittenham), where the Abbot had
business connected with the monastery. The same desertion of the place
impressed itself upon their minds. Scarcely a living being was seen;
only a few old people, unable to bring themselves to forsake their
homes, lingered about half-ruined cottages. The parish priest yet lived
in the tower of the church, unwilling to forsake his flock, although
half the village was in ruins, and nearly all the able-bodied had taken
refuge in the towns.
They were on the point of crossing the ford beneath Synodune Hill,
situated near the junction of Tame and Isis, when the Abbot suddenly
conceived the desire of ascending the hills and viewing the scene of
last night's conflagration from thence. They did so, and from the summit
of the eastern hill, within the entrenchment which still exists, and has
existed there from early British times, marked the cloud of black smoke
which arose from the ruins of Watlington.
"What can have happened to the town--it is well defended with palisades
and trench?"
Just then a powerful horseman, evidently a knight at the least, attended
by two squires, rode over the entrance of the vallum, and ascended to
the summit of the hill. He saluted the Abbot with a cold salute, and
then entered into conversation with his squires.
"It is burning even yet, Osric; dost thou mark the black smoke?"
"Thatch smoulders a long time, my lord," replied the squire addressed.
The Abbot Alured happened to look round at Wulfnoth; he was quivering
with some suppressed emotion like an aspen leaf, and his hand
involuntarily sought the place where the hilt of his sword should have
been had he possessed one.
"What ails thee, brother?" he said.
"It is the destroyer of my home and family, Brian Fitz-Count," and
Wulfnoth drew the cowl over his head.
The Abbot rode down the hill; he felt as if he were on the edge of a
volcano, and putting his hand on his companion's rein, forced him to
accompany him.
It was strange that Wulfnoth did not also recognise his own _son_.
FOOTNOTE:
[23] Many monastic rolls of accounts remain, and their minuteness is
even startling.