CHAPTER XVIII 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.