Robert Annys had been at the Abbey of St. Dunstan for six months only,
and he was still going through his novitiate, when he received the
signal distinction of being appointed the chronicler of the Abbey. It
was a position of great trust, and never before in the history of the
monastery had it been given to a mere novitiate. To Annys there was
a profound inspiration in taking up a task that had been handed down
from generation to generation through an unbroken line of chroniclers
of whom the Abbey was justly proud. Well he knew that the world owed
a great debt to those patient, industrious monks in every land, who
faithfully set down the doings of those that lived in the world. Surely
if it had been left to those that spent their lives in the midst of the
fray, it had never been done--not alone from lack of time, but from
lack of clerkly knowledge as well. Right glad he was to take up the
task done by that Gildas who had painted in fiery colors the misery of
the Britons when the Romans departed; by the venerable Bede, father
of Catholic history; by Ingulphus, Abbot of Croyland; by William of
Malmesbury, "the Great Chronicler," fountain-head of English history,
chronicler of the monastery of Malmesbury, who grew so to love his work
that he refused to give it up to become Abbot of the monastery.
The great book into which the Chronicle of St. Dunstan was entered was
treated with the greatest possible veneration. It lay in a conspicuous
place in the scriptorium, and no one but the chronicler was permitted
to make entries in it. When any great piece of news was brought to
the monastery that seemed worth recording, the person giving the
information wrote out his version of the story on a loose piece of
parchment and slipped his communication into the book of annals for the
authorized compiler to make use of in any way that seemed best to him
after due examination of the evidence.
There came a day in June, a wonderful day when Nature put forth at
once all her attractions in one burst of rapture after the long, hard
winter. The garden in the close was one mass of brilliant color, and
the air was overpoweringly languorous with the sweet fragrance. Annys
went to his daily task reluctantly, so ardently did Nature woo him to
remain outdoors. As he stood for a moment hesitating on the threshold
of the scriptorium, the words of the poet Chaucer came to him:--
"Whan that the month of May
Is comen, and that I hear the foules sing,
And that the flowres ginnen for to spring,
Farwell my booke, and my devotion."
He smiled to find how perfectly the poet had expressed his own mood. He
seldom found in Chaucer's joyous, buoyant nature a note that appealed
to him so intimately as did the voice of the sombre wanderer among the
Malvern Hills. At last he turned his back resolutely upon the picture
of loveliness and entered the scriptorium. The scene that greeted his
eyes was a busy one, and yet one of great charm. Not one black-robed
form that was not earnestly engaged in work of some kind; here one
bending closely over some old Latin text that had been destroyed almost
beyond recognition; there one deftly engaged in cutting great sheets
of vellum; over in a corner an artist holding his hand poised in
uncertainty over several pots of color; near him was one sharpening a
quill; another patiently awaited his turn for some longed-for volume;
and yet two more were carefully copying a score of music with large
notes, that the beginners in the choir could easily read it. Work, and
no shirking of it, yet an atmosphere of perfect peace and content, for
it was work done in joy, and therefore lifted to the realm of Art.
Oh, the wonderful, indescribable peace! How far off were the turmoil,
the doubt, the responsibility, the unjoyful, incessant toil, the
infinite woe, the weary burden of the world. Even as the pioneer monks
had built their monasteries always in some hidden vale protected by
high hills from the north winds that their crops might flourish, so
their lives were protected from all contact with the great currents of
action that swept by outside. The storm-centres of protest and unrest,
the whirlwinds of revolt--all passed over and around the walls of the
monastery, unknown, unfelt, unsuggested.
Robert Annys owed much to the Abbey of St. Dunstan. He had been as a
helpless mariner in the fierce grip of a storm. He had been swept by
tumultuous waves, his ears had been deafened by the awful voices of
the warring elements, and suddenly he had drifted into a sheltered
harbor, and the same winds that had beaten furiously upon him, here but
peacefully rocked his bark upon the quiet waters.
Poor fool! before he had sought a haven here, how the woe of the
world had weighed upon him! How foolish he had been to feel a personal
responsibility in the actions of Divine Providence! There were some
mortals who acted as if all the wrongs on earth were to be righted
between sunrise and sunset. He had been one of those. How faintly the
echoes of his past existence came to him here.
He opened the ponderous volume. He had been thinking the day before,
when the daylight had faded and he had reluctantly left his work,
of a new and charming device for an initial letter H, which he had
been about to trace. It was to be something quite novel in the way of
decoration, and he expected to receive great approbation for it. His
fingers hovered in some uncertainty over the brushes before he could
make up his mind which one was the very finest. Then, having made the
auspicious selection, it remained for him to choose between a paint of
brilliant scarlet or one with the depth of the sun-warmed strawberry in
it. Finally he chose the brilliant scarlet. As he bent over the page,
he noticed for the first time a slip of paper which had evidently been
placed between the pages of the Chronicle during his absence.
"The outbreak of the rustics at the Bury is terrorizing the true and
loyal men of the realm," it began. "On Saturday last, under the
leadership of one Richard Meryl, the unruly mob attacked the abbey and
plundered it, taking away a rich cross, chalices of gold, and many
jewels, to the amount of a thousand pounds, and did much mischief to
the buildings.
"The prior, Sir John de Cambridge, fled, under cover of darkness,
hoping to reach Ely. But the following day the mob discovered him in
the woods near Newmarket. They conducted him to Newmarket, where, all
night long, they did most blasphemously mock him; kneeling before him,
they cried, 'Hail Master!' and striking him with their hands, they
cried, 'Prophesy who smote thee!'
"At break of day, the rioters led their victim back to Mildenhall,
where they were joined by many people from the Bury. Here they held
a council by which the prior was condemned to instant execution.
After allowing him the privilege of confession, his head was severed
from his body at a single blow. The excited rabble cried, 'See the
traitor's head!' 'Happy the day that sees our wish accomplished!'
"Thus they came and went as masters, those who once had been slaves of
the lowest order."
The room swam about him for an instant. He was obliged to clutch the
high desk upon which the folio rested to save himself from falling. He
looked at the indifferent backs of the monks bending over their work; a
great fury came over him, and he longed to strike and beat them, that
they could so placidly pore over their books, while this thing was
going on outside. Before his agitation was noticed, he had recovered
sufficiently to ask permission to leave the scriptorium and seek the
air in the close.