Brother Basil, of the scriptorium, was doing two things at once with the
same brain. He did not know whether any of the other monks ever indulged
in this or not. None of them showed any signs of it.
The Abbot was clearly intent, soul, brain and body, on the ruling of
the community. In such a house as this dozens of widely varied
industries must be carried on, much time spent in prayer, song and
meditation, and strict attention given to keeping in every detail the
traditional Benedictine rule. In many mediaeval Abbeys not all these
things were done. Rumor hinted that one Order was too fond of ease, and
another of increasing its estates. In the Irish Abbey where Brother
Basil had received his first education, little thought was given to
anything but religion; the fare was of the rudest and simplest kind.
But in this English Abbey everything in the way of clothing, tools,
furniture, meat and drink which could be produced on the lands was
produced there. Guests of high rank were often entertained. The church,
not yet complete, was planned on a magnificent scale. The work of the
making of books had grown into something like a large publishing
business. As the parchments for the writing, the leather for the
covers, the goose-quill pens, the metal clasps, the ink, and the colors
for illuminated lettering, were all made on the premises, a great deal
of skilled labor was involved. Besides the revenues from the sale of
manuscript volumes the Abbey sold increasing quantities of wool each
year. Under some Abbots this material wealth might have led to luxury.
But Benedict of Winchester held that a man who took the vows of
religion should keep them.
With this Brother Basil entirely agreed. He desired above all to give
his life to the service of God and the glory of his Order. He was a
skillful, accurate and rapid penman. Manuscripts copied by him, or under
his direction, had no mistakes or slovenly carelessness about them. The
pens which he cut were works of art. The ink was from a rule for which
he had made many experiments. Every book was carefully and strongly
bound. Brother Basil, in short, was an artist, and though the work might
be mechanical, he could not endure not to have it beautifully done.
The Abbot was quite aware of this, and made use of the young monk's
talent for perfection by putting him in charge of the scriptorium. In
the twelfth century the monks were almost the only persons who had
leisure for bookmaking. They wrote and translated many histories; they
copied the books which made up their own libraries, borrowed books
wherever they could and copied those, over and over again. They sold
their work to kings, noblemen, and scholars, and to other religious
houses. The need for books was so great that in the scriptorium of which
Brother Basil had charge, very little time was spent on illumination.
Missals, chronicles and books of hymns fancifully decorated in color
were done only when there was a demand for them. They were costly in
time, labor and material.
Brother Basil could copy a manuscript with his right hand and one half
his brain, while the other half dreamed of things far afield. He could
not remain blind to the grace of a bird's wing on its flight northward
in spring, to the delicate seeking tendrils of grapevines, the starry
beauty of daisies or the tracery of arched leafless boughs. Within his
mind he could follow the gracious curves of the noble Norman choir, and
he had visions of color more lustrous than a sunrise.
Day by day, year by year, the sheep nibbled the tender springing grass.
Yet the green sward continued to be decked with orfrey-work of many
hues--buttercups, violets, rose-campion, speedwell, daisies--defiant
little bright heads not three inches from the roots. His fancies would
come up in spite of everything, like the flowers.
But would it always be so? Was he to spend his life in copying these
bulky volumes of theology and history--the same old phrases, the same
authors, the same seat by the same window? And some day, would he find
that his dreams had vanished forever? Might he not grow to be like
Brother Peter, who had kept the porter's lodge for forty years and hated
to see a new face? This was the doubt in the back of his mind, and it
was very sobering indeed.
Years ago, when he was a boy, he had read the old stories of the
missionary monks of Scotland and Ireland. These men carried the message
of the Cross to savage tribes, they stood before Kings, they wrought
wonders. Was there no more need for such work as theirs? Even now there
was fierce misrule in Ireland. Even now the dispute between church and
state had resulted in the murder of the Archbishop of Canterbury on the
steps of the altar. The Abbeys of all England had hummed like bee-hives
when that news came.
Brother Basil discovered just then that the ink was failing, and went
to see how the new supply was coming on. It was a tedious task to make
ink, but when made it lasted. Wood of thorn-trees must be cut in April
or May before the leaves or flowers were out, and the bundles of twigs
dried for two, three or four weeks. Then they were beaten with wooden
mallets upon hard wooden tablets to remove the bark, which was put in
a barrel of water and left to stand for eight days. The water was then
put in a cauldron and boiled with some of the bark, to boil out what
sap remained. When it was boiled down to about a third of the original
measure it was put into another kettle and cooked until black and
thick, and reduced again to a third of its bulk. Then a little pure
wine was added and it was further cooked until a sort of scum showed
itself, when the pot was removed from the fire and placed in the sun
until the black ink purified itself of the dregs. The pure ink was then
poured into bags of parchment carefully sewn and hung in the sunlight
until dry, when it could be kept for any length of time till wanted. To
write, one moistened the ink with a little wine and vitriol.
As all the colors for illumination must be made by similar tedious
processes, it can be seen that unless there was a demand for such work
it would not be thrifty to do it.
Brother Basil arrived just in time to caution the lay brother, Simon
Gastard, against undue haste. Gastard was a clever fellow, but he needed
watching. He was too apt to think that a little slackness here and
there was good for profits. Brother Basil stood over him until the ink
was quite up to the standard of the Abbey. But his mind meanwhile ran on
the petty squabblings and dry records of the chronicle that he had just
been copying. How, after all, was he better than Gastard? He was giving
the market what it wanted--and the book was not worth reading. If men
were to write chronicles, why not make them vivid as legends, true,
stirring, magnificent stories of the men who moved the world? Who would
care, in a thousand years, what rent was paid by the tenant farmers of
the Abbey, or who received a certain benefice from the King?
As he turned from the sunlit court where the ink was a-making, he
received a summons to the Abbot's own parlor. He found that dignitary
occupied with a stout and consequential monk of perhaps forty-five, who
was looking bewildered, snubbed, and indignant. Brother Ambrosius was
most unaccustomed to admonitions, even of the mildest. He had a wide
reputation as a writer, and was indeed the author of the very volume
which Brother Basil was now copying. He seemed to know by instinct what
would please the buyers of chronicles, and especially what was to be
left out.
It was also most unusual to see the Abbot thoroughly aroused. He had a
cool, indifferent manner, which made his rebukes more cutting. Now he
was in wrathful earnest.
[Illustration: "'SOME OF US WILL LIVE TO SEE THOMAS OF CANTERBURY A
SAINT OF THE CHURCH'"]
"Ambrosius," he thundered, "there are some of us who will live to see
Thomas of Canterbury a Saint of the Church. But that is no reason why
we should gabble about it beforehand. You have been thinking yourself
a writer, have you? Your place here has been allowed you because you
are--as a rule--cautious even to timidity. Silence is always safe,
and an indiscreet pen is ruinous. The children of the brain travel far,
and they must not discuss their betters."
"Shall we write then of the doings of binds and swinkers?" asked the
historian, pursing his heavy mouth. "It seems we cannot write of Kings
and of Saints."
"You may write anything in reason of Kings and of Saints--when they are
dead," the Abbot retorted. "But if you cannot avoid treasonable
criticism of your King, I will find another historian. Go now to your
penance."
And Brother Ambrosius, not venturing a reply, slunk out.
In the last three minutes Brother Basil had seen far beneath the surface
of things. His deep-set blue eyes flamed. The dullness of the chronicle
was not always the dullness of the author, it seemed. The King showed at
best none too much respect for the Church, and his courtiers had dared
the murder of Becket. Surely the Abbot was right.
"Basil," his superior observed grimly, "in a world full of fools it
would be strange if some were not found here. It is the business of the
Church to make all men alike useful to God. Because the murder of an
Archbishop has set all Christendom a-buzz, we must be the more zealous
to give no just cause of offence. I do not believe that Henry is guilty
of that murder, but if he were, he would not shrink from other crimes.
In the one case we have no reason to condemn him; in the other, we must
be silent or court our own destruction. There are other ways of keeping
alive the memory of Thomas of Canterbury besides foolish accusations in
black and white. There may be pictures, which the people will see,
ballads which they will hear and repeat--the very towers of the
Cathedral will be his monument.
"I have sent for you now because there is work for you to do elsewhere.
The road from Paris to Byzantium may soon be blocked. The Emperor of
Germany is at open war with the Pope. Turks are attacking pilgrims in
the Holy Land. Soon it may be impossible, even for a monk, to make the
journey safely. The time to go is now.
"You will set forth within a fortnight, and go to Rouen, Paris and
Limoges; thence to Rome, Byzantium and Alexandria. I will give you
memoranda of certain manuscripts which you are to secure if possible,
either by purchase or by securing permission to make copies. Get as
many more as you can. The King is coming here to-night in company with
the Archbishop of York, the Chancellor, a Prince of Ireland, and
others. He may buy or order some works on the ancient law. He desires
also to found an Abbey in Ireland, to be a cell of this house. I have
selected Cuthbert of Oxenford to take charge of the work, and he will
set out immediately with twelve brethren to make the foundation. When
you return from your journey it will doubtless be well under way. You
will begin there the training of scribes, artists, metal workers and
other craftsmen. It is true that you know little of any work except
that of the scriptorium, but one can learn to know men there as well
as anywhere. You will observe what is done in France, Lombardy and
Byzantium. The men to whom you will have letters will make you
acquainted with young craftsmen who may be induced to go to Ireland
to work, and teach their work to others. Little can be done toward
establishing a school until Ireland is more quiet, but in this the
King believes that we shall be of some assistance. I desire you to be
present at our conference, to make notes as you are directed, and to
say nothing, for the present, of these matters. Ambrosius may think
that you are to have his place, and that will be very well."
The Abbot concluded with a rather ominous little smile. Brother Basil
went back to the scriptorium, his head in a whirl. Within a twelvemonth
he would see the mosaics of Saint Mark's in Venice, the glorious windows
of the French cathedrals, the dome of Saint Sophia, the wonders of the
Holy Land. He was no longer part of a machine. Indeed, he must always
have been more than that, or the Abbot would not have chosen him for
this work. He felt very humble and very happy.
He knew that he must study architecture above anything else, for the
building done by the monks was for centuries to come. Each brother of
the Order gathered wisdom for all. When a monk of distinguished ability
learned how to strengthen an arch here or carve a doorway there, his
work was seen and studied by others from a hundred towns and cities.
Living day by day with their work, the builders detected weaknesses and
proved step by step all that they did. Cuthbert of Oxenford was a sure
and careful mason, but that was all. The beauty of the building would
have to be created by another man. Glass-work, goldsmith work, mosaics,
vestments and books might be brought from abroad, but the stone-work
must be done with materials near at hand and such labor as could be had.
Brother Basil received letters not only to Abbots and Bishops, but to
Gerard the wood-carver of Amiens, Matteo the Florentine artist, Tomaso
the physician of Padua, Angelo the glass-maker. He set all in order in
the scriptorium where he had toiled for five long years. Then, having
been diligent in business, he went to stand before the King.
Many churchmen pictured this Plantagenet with horns and a cloven foot,
and muttered references to the old fairy tale about a certain ancestor
of the family who married a witch. But Brother Basil was familiar with
the records of history. He knew the fierce Norman blood of the race,
and knew also the long struggle between Matilda, this King's mother,
and Stephen. Here, in the plainly furnished room of the Abbot, was a
hawk-nosed man with gray eyes and a stout restless figure, broad coarse
hands, and slightly bowed legs, as if he spent most of his days in the
saddle. The others, churchmen and courtiers, looked far more like
royalty. Yet Henry's realm took in all England, a part of Ireland, and
a half of what is now France. He was the only real rival to the German
Emperor who had defied and driven into exile the Pope of Rome. If Henry
were of like mind with Frederick Barbarossa it would be a sorry day
indeed for the Church. If he were disposed to contend with Barbarossa
for the supreme power over Europe, the land would be worn out with wars.
What would he do? Brother Basil watched the debating group and tried to
make up his mind.
He wrote now and then a paragraph at the Abbot's command. It seemed
that the King claimed certain taxes and service from the churchmen who
held estates under him, precisely as from the feudal nobles. The Abbots
and Bishops, while claiming the protection of English law for their
property, claimed also that they owed no obedience to the King, but
only to their spiritual master. Argument after argument was advanced by
their trained minds.
But it was not for amusement that Henry II., after a day with some
hunting Abbot, falcon on fist, read busily in books of law. Brother
Basil began to see that the King was defining, little by little, a code
of England based on the old Roman law and customs handed down from the
primitive British village. Would he at last obey the Church, or not?
Suddenly the monarch halted in his pacing of the room, turned and faced
the group. The lightning of his eye flashed from one to another, and all
drew back a little except the Abbot, who listened with the little grim
smile that the monks knew.
"I tell ye," said Henry, bringing his hard fist down upon the oaken
table, "Pope or no Pope, Emperor or no Emperor, I will be King of
England, and this land shall be fief to no King upon earth. I will have
neither two masters to my dogs, nor two laws to my realm. Hear ye that,
my lords and councilors?"