CHAPTER VII DORCHESTER ABBEY
The Abbey of Dorchester stood on the banks of the river Tame, a small stream arising near the town of the same name, and watering the finest pasture land of the county of Oxfordshire, until, half a mile below the Abbey, it falls into the Isis, which thence, strictly speaking, becomes the Thames (Tamesis).
This little town of Dorchester is not unknown to fame; it was first a British town, then a Roman city. Destroyed by the Saxons, it rose from its ashes to become the Cathedral city of the West Saxons, and the scene of the baptism of Cynegils, son of Ceol, by the hands of St. Birinus. The see was transferred to Winchester, but afterwards it became the seat of the great Mercian bishopric, and as its jurisdiction had once reached the Channel, so now it extended to the Humber and the Wash.
Cruelly destroyed by the Danes, it never regained its importance, and on account of its impoverished state,[9] the see was again removed by Remigius, the first Norman Bishop, to Lincoln, in the year 1092. But although the ancient city was thus deserted, the Bishop strove to make it some amends. He took care that an abbey should be created at Dorchester, lest the place should be ruined, or sunk in oblivion; and some say the Abbey was built with the stones which came from the Bishop's palace, the site of which is still marked by a farm called "Bishop's Court."
But the earlier buildings must have been of small extent, for at the time of our story, Alexander, Bishop of Lincoln, was busy with a more magnificent structure, and he had already removed into the buildings, as yet but incomplete, a brotherhood of Black Canons, or Augustinians, under the rule of Abbot Alured.
The great church which had been the cathedral—the mother church of the diocese—had been partially rebuilt in the Norman style,[10] and around stood the buildings of the Abbey, west and north of the church.
In the scriptorium, overlooking the Tame, sat Abbot Alured. The Chapter Mass, which followed Terce (9 A.M.), had been said, and he was busy with the librarian, arranging his books. Of middle stature, with dark features, he wore an air of asceticism, tempered by an almost feminine suavity, and his voice was soft and winning.
He was the son of a Norman knight by an English wife, who had brought the aforesaid warrior an ample dowry in lands, for thus did the policy of the Conqueror attempt the reconciliation of conflicting interests and the amalgamation of the rival races of conquerors and conquered. For a long time the pair were childless, until the mother—like Hannah, whose story she had heard in church—vowed, if God would grant her a child, to dedicate it to God. Alured was born, and her husband, himself weary of perpetual fighting and turmoil, allowed her to fulfil her vow. The boy was educated at Battle Abbey, and taught monastic discipline; sent thence to Bec, which the fame of Lanfranc and Anselm—both successively translated to Canterbury—had made the most renowned school of theology in Northern Europe. There he received the tonsure, and passed through the usual grades, until, attracting the attention of Bishop Alexander, during a visit of that prelate to Bec, he was selected to be the new Abbot of Dorchester.
And now he was in the library, or scriptorium—the chamber he loved best in his Abbey. What books, forsooth, had he there in those dark ages!
First there were all the books of the Old Testament in several volumes and in the Latin tongue; then the New Testament in three volumes; there were all the works of St. Augustine, in nineteen large tomes, with most of the books of the other fathers of the Western Church; the lives of the great monastic Saints, and the martyrology or acts of the Martyrs. There were books of ecclesiastical history, and treatises on Church music, with various liturgical works. Of light reading there was none, but the lives of the Saints and Martyrs furnished the most exciting reading, wherein fact was unintentionally blended with fiction.
"What a wonderful mine of wealth we have here in this new martyrology! Truly, my brethren, here we have the patience and faith of the Saints to encourage us in our warfare," said the Abbot, opening a huge volume bound in boar's hide, and glancing round at the scribes, who, pen in hand and ink-horn at their girdles, with clear sheets of vellum before them, prepared to write at his dictation.
"This book was lent us by the Abbot of Abingdon, now six months ago, and before Advent it must be returned thither—not until every letter has been duly transcribed into our new folios. Where didst thou leave off yesterday?"
"At the 'Acts of St. Artemas.'"
And the Abbot read, while they wrote down his words: "Artemus was a Christian boy, who lived at Puteoli, and who was sent, at the instigation of heathen relations, to the school of one Cathageta, a heathen. But the little scholar could not hide his faith, although bidden to do so, lest he should suffer persecution. But what is deep in the heart comes out of the mouth, and he converted two or three schoolfellows, so that at the next festival, in honour of Diana, they omitted to place the customary garlands on her image. This aroused inquiry, and the young athlete of Christ was discovered. The master, bidding him renounce his faith in vain, severely scourged him, but the boy said: 'The more you scourge me the more you whip my religion into me.' Whereupon Cathageta, turning to the other scholars, said: 'Perhaps your endeavours will be more successful than mine in wiping out this disgrace from the school;' and he departed, leaving him to the mercies of the other boys, who, educated in the atrocities of the arena, stabbed him to death with their stili or pointed iron pens."[11]
"Poor boy," murmured the youngest copyist—himself but a boy—when the dictation was finished.
"Nay; glorious Martyr, you mean. He has his reward now. You have heard me speak of the martyrdom of St. Euthymius; that was a harder one. It follows here.
"St. Euthymius was a Bishop of the African Church, who, being taken by his persecutors, and refusing to offer sacrifice to the idols, was shut up in a close stone cell with a multitude of mice. A wire, attached to a bell outside, was placed near his hand, and he was told that if he were in distress he might ring it, and should obtain immediate assistance; but that his doing so would be taken as equivalent to a renunciation of Christ. No bell was heard, and when on the third day they opened the cell, they found nought but a whitened skeleton and a multitude of fattened mice."
Every one drew in his breath, some in admiration, some in horror.
The young novice had suspended his labours to listen.
"Benedict, you are neglecting your gradual," said the Abbot. "The music must be completed for the coming festival of All Saints; it is the chant of Fescamp—somewhat softer to our ears than the harsher Gregorian strains. Yet many love the latter well; as did the monks of Glastonbury."
Here he paused, and waited until he saw they were all open-mouthed for his story; for such was monastic discipline, that no one ventured to say: "Tell us the story."
"Well," he said, "the English monks of Glastonbury had endured much unmerited severity at the hands of Thurstan, their Norman Abbot, but they bore all, until he bade them leave off their crude Gregorian strains, and chant the lays of William of Fescamp. Then they stoutly refused; and he sent for a troop of men-at-arms. The monks rushed to the great church and barred themselves in, but the men-at-arms forced a way into the church, and slew the greater part of the monks with their arrows. So thick was the storm of piercing shafts, that the image of the Christ on the rood was stuck full of these sacrilegious missiles."
"And what became of Thurstan?" asked one of the elder brethren.
"The king deposed him, as unfit to rule; suggesting that a shepherd should not flay his sheep."
"And that was all?" said an indignant young novice, whose features showed his English blood.
"Hush! my son Wilfred. Novices must hear—not speak. Speech is silver; silence is golden."
At that moment the Prior made his appearance in the doorway.
"My father Abbot, the brethren have returned from our poor house at Hermitage, and they bring a wounded man, whom they found on the downs."
"English or Norman?"
"The former, I believe, but he has not yet spoken."
"Send for the almoner and infirmarer. I will come and look at him myself."
Leaving the scriptorium, the Abbot traversed the pleasant cloisters, which were full of boys, learning their lessons under the superintendence of certain brethren—some declining Latin nouns or conjugating verbs; some reading the scanty leaves of parchment which served as lesson books, more frequently repeating passages viva voce after a master, while seated upon rude forms, or more commonly standing. So were the cloisters filled—the only schools for miles around. They looked upon an inner quadrangle of the monastery, with the great church to the south. Passing through a passage to the west of the nave, the Abbot reached the gateway of the abbey, somewhere near the site of the present tower, which is modern. The view to the south from this point stretched across the Thames to Synodune; nearer at hand rose to left and right the towers of two parish churches,[12] the buildings of the town (or city, as it had hitherto been), poor and straggling as compared with the ecclesiastical dwellings, lay before them; the embankment of the Dyke hills then terminated the town in this direction, and beyond rose the stately clumps of Synodune.
Inside the porch rested the wayfarers; their beasts had been led to the stables, and on a sort of hand-bier before them, resting on tressels, lay the prostrate form of the victim of the prowess of Brian Fitz-Count.
"Where didst thou find him?" asked the Abbot.
"Near the spot on the downs where once holy Birinus preached the Evangel."
"And this dog?"
"Was with him, wounded by teeth as the master by sword. It was his moans and howls which attracted us."
The Abbot bent over the prostrate form.
"Has he spoken since you found him?"
"No, my lord; only moans and gasps."
"I see he is much hurt; I fear you have only brought him hither to die."
"Houselled, anointed and annealed?"
"If he recover his senses sufficiently."
Just then a moan, louder than before, made them all start, then followed a deep, hollow, articulate voice.
"Where am I?"
"At the Abbey of Dorchester."
"Who brought me hither?"
"Friends."
He gazed wildly round, then sank with a deep groan back on the bier.
"Take him to the infirmary, and on the morrow we will see him."
A chance medley on the downs—a free fight between two who met by chance—was so common, that the Abbot thought far less of the matter than we may imagine.
"Insooth, he is ghastly," he said, "but in the more need of our aid. I trust we shall save both soul and body. Let the dog also have food and shelter."
But the dog would not leave his master's side, and they were forced to move both into the same cell, where the poor beast kept licking the hand which dropped pendent from the couch.
"My lord Abbot, there are weightier matters to consider than the welfare of one poor wounded wayfarer, who has fallen among thieves."
"What are they?"
"Didst thou mark the bale-fire on Synodune last night?"
"We did, and marvelled what it could mean."
"They were lighted all over the country: Lowbury, Highclere, White Horse, Shirburne Beacon—all sent their boding flames heavenward."
"What does it portend?"
"There were rumours that Matilda, the Empress Queen, had landed somewhere in the south."
"Then we shall have civil war, and every man's hand will be against his brother, which God forbid. Yet when Stephen seized our worthy Bishop in his chamber, eating his dinner of pulse and water——"
"Pheasant, washed down with malmsey, more likely," muttered a voice.
The Abbot heard not, but continued—
"And shut him in a dungeon—the anointed of the Lord—and half starved him——"
"Making him fast for once, in earnest!"
"Until he should deliver his castles of Newark and Sleaford——"
"Pretty sheepfolds for a shepherd to keep!"
"Such a king has little hold of his people; and it may be, God's just judgments are impending over us. And what shall we do if we cannot save the poor sheep committed to our charge; for be the one party or the other victorious, the poor will have to suffer. Therefore, my dear brethren, after Sext, we will hold a special chapter before we take our meridiana" (noontide nap, necessitated when there was so much night rising), "and consider what we had best do. Haste ye, my brother Ambrose; take thy party to the cellarer, and get some light refreshment. This is the day when he asks pardon of us all for his little negligencies, and in return for the Miserere we sing in his name, we get a better refection than usual. So do not spoil your appetites now. Haste, and God be with you. The sacristan has gone to toll the bell for Sext."