by Glenn Cooper
A pact with Oswald followed, then a long peace, and Cynegils in gratitude gave Dorchester to Birinus as his episcopal see and became his benefactor. Birinus, for his part, embarked on a campaign to found abbeys in the tradition of St. Benedict throughout the southern lands, and when the charter for Vectis Abbey was established in 686, the year of the great plague, the last of the Isles of Britannia came to the bosom of Christianity. Cynegils bequeathed to the Church sixty hides of good land near running water on this island enclave, an easy sail from the Wessex shores.
Now it was up to Aetia, the present Bishop of Dorchester, to keep the silver flowing from royal households to Church interests. He had impressed on King Offa of Mercia the spiritual benefits of funding the next phase of glory for Vectis Abbey-its conversion from wood to masonry-to praise and honor the Lord. "For after all," the bishop had murmured to the king, "prestige is measured not in oak, but in stone."
In a quarry not far from the abbey walls, Italian stonecutters had been laboring for the past two years, chiseling blocks of sandstone and oxcarting them to the abbey, where the cementarii mortared them in place, slowly erecting the church walls using the existing timber structure as a frame. Throughout the day the incessant metallic clanging of chisel on stone filled the air, silenced only during the Offices, when the ministers filled the Sanctuary for quiet prayer and contemplation.
Josephus swept back through the dormitory on his way to Lauds and gently opened the door of Alric's cell to make sure the old monk had made it through the night. He was heartened to hear snoring, so he whispered a prayer over the curled body, slipped out and entered the church through the night stair.
Fewer than a dozen candles lit the Sanctuary, but the light was sufficient to prevent mishaps. High above, in the dark, Josephus could make out the shapes of fruit bats darting among the rafters. The brothers were standing on either side of the altar in two opposing ranks, patiently waiting for the abbot to arrive. Josephus sidled next to Paulinus, a small nervous monk, and had they not heard the heavy main door creaking open, they might have exchanged a furtive greeting. But the abbot was approaching and they dared not speak.
Abbot Oswyn was an imposing man with long limbs and large shoulders who had spent much of his life a head taller than his brethren, but in his later years he seemed to shrink as a painful curving of his spine stooped him. As a result of his malady his eyes were permanently cast downward at the earth and in recent years he found it nearly impossible to gaze up toward the heavens. Over time his disposition had darkened, which had inarguably cast a pall over the fraternity of the community.
The ministers could hear him shuffling into the Sanctuary, his sandals scraping the floorboards. As usual, his head was sharply lowered and the candlelight glinted off his shiny scalp and his snowy white fringe.
The abbot slowly climbed the altar stairs, grimacing at the effort, and took his place atop the altar under its canopied ciborium of polished walnut. He placed his palms flat on the smooth cool wood of the tabula and with a high, nasal voice intoned: "Aperi, Domine, os meum ad benedicendum nomen sanctum tuum."
The monks prayed and chanted in their two ranks, calling and responding, their voices melding and sonorously filling the Sanctuary. How many thousands of times had Josephus given voice to these prayers? Yet today he felt a particular need to call out to Christ for his mercy and forgiveness, and tears formed when he called out the last line of Psalmus 148.
"Alleluja, laudate Dominum de caelis, alleluja, alleluja!"
The day was warm and dry and the abbey was a beehive of activity. Josephus strode across the freshly scythed lawn of the cloisters quadrangle to make his morning rounds, checking on the critical functions of the community. At last count there were eighty-three souls at Vectis Abbey, not counting the day laborers, and each one expected to see the prior at least once in the day. He was not given to random inspections; he had his routine and it was known to all.
He started with the masons to see how the edifice was progressing, and noted ominously that Ubertus had not reported for work. He sought out Ubertus's eldest son, Julianus, a strapping teenage lad whose brown skin gleamed with sweat, and learned that Santesa's labor had begun. Ubertus would return when he was able.
"Better it is today than tomorrow, eh? That's what people are saying," Julianus told the prior, who solemnly nodded his agreement and asked to be informed of the birth when it occurred.
Josephus went on his way to the cellarium to check on meat and vegetable stores, then the granary to make sure the mice hadn't gotten into the wheat. At the brewery, he was obliged to sample from each barrel, and as he seemed unsure of the taste, he sampled again. Then he went to the kitchen adjoining the refectory to see if the sisters and their young novices were in good cheer. Next he toured the lavatorium to see if fresh water was properly flowing into the hand-washing trough, and then the outhouses, where he held his nose while inspecting the trench.
In the vegetable gardens, he checked how well the brothers were keeping the rabbits away from the tender shoots. Then he skirted the goat meadow to inspect his favorite building, the Scriptorium, where Paulinus was presiding over six ministers hunched at tables, making fine copies of The Rule of St. Benedict and the Holy Bible.
Josephus loved this chamber above all because of its silence and the nobleness of the vocation that was practiced within, and also because he found Paulinus to be pious and learned to a fault. If there were a question on the heavens or the seasons or any natural phenomenon, then Paulinus was ready with a thorough, patient, and correct interpretation. Idle conversation was frowned upon by the abbot, but Paulinus was an excellent source of purposeful discourse, which Josephus greatly valued.
The prior crept into the Scriptorium, taking great care not to interrupt the concentration of the copyists. The only sounds were the quills pleasantly scratching on vellum. He nodded to Paulinus, who acknowledged him with a hint of a smile. A greater show of camaraderie would not have been appropriate, as outward displays of affection were reserved for the Lord. Paulinus gestured him outside with the crook of his finger.
"Good day to you, Brother," Josephus said, squinting in the midday glare.
"And also to you." Paulinus looked worried. "So, tomorrow is the day of reckoning," he whispered.
"Yes, yes," Josephus agreed. "It has finally come."
"Last night I watched the comet for a long while."
"And?"
"As midnight approached its beam became bright and red. The color of blood."
"What does this mean?"
"I believe it to be an ominous sign."
"I have heard the woman has begun her labor," Josephus offered hopefully.
Paulinus folded his arms tightly across his habit and pursed his lips dismissively. "And you suppose that because she has given birth nine times before, this child will be delivered to the world quickly? On the sixth day of the month rather than the seventh?"
"Well, one might hope so," Josephus said.
"It was the color of blood," Paulinus insisted.
The sun was getting high, and Josephus made haste to complete his circuit before the community assembled back in the Sanctuary for prayers at Sext. He rushed past the Sisters' Dormitory and entered the Chapter House, where the rows of pine benches were empty, awaiting the appointed hour when the abbot would read a chapter of The Rule of St. Benedict to the assembled community. A sparrow had gotten in and was urgently flapping overhead, so he left the doors open in hopes it would find its freedom. At the rear of the house he rapped his knuckles on the entrance to the adjoining private chamber of the abbot.
Oswyn was sitting at the study table, his head hovering over his Bible. Golden shafts of light shone through the glazed windows and struck the table in a perfect angle to make the holy book appear to be glowing fiery orange. Oswyn straightened himself enough to make eye contact with his prior. "Ah, Josephus. How are things at the abbey today?"
"They are well, Father."
"And what progres
s on our church, Josephus? How is the second arch on the eastern wall?"
"The arch is nearing completion. However, Ubertus the stonecutter is absent today."
"Is he not well?"
"No, his wife has begun her labor."
"Ah, yes. I recall." He waited for his prior to say something more, but Josephus remained silent. "You are concerned by this birth?"
"It is perhaps inauspicious."
"The Lord will protect us, Prior Josephus. Of this, you can be assured."
"Yes, Father. I was wondering, nevertheless, whether I should venture to the village."
"Toward what end?" Oswyn asked sharply.
"In the event a minister is required," Josephus said meekly.
"You know my views on leaving the cloisters. We are servants of Christ, Josephus, not servants of man."
"Yes, Father."
"Have the villagers sought us out?"
"No, Father."
"Then I would discourage your involvement." He pushed his bent body up from the chair. "Now, let us go to Sext and let us join with our brothers and sisters to praise the Lord."
Vespers, the sunset Evening Office, was Josephus's dearest of the day since the abbot allowed Sister Magdalena to play the psaltery as accompaniment to their prayers. Her long fingers plucked the lute's ten strings, and the perfection of pitch and precision of cadence were testament, he was sure, to the magnificence of Christ Almighty.
After the service, the brothers and sisters filed out of the Sanctuary and made toward their respective dormitories, past the blocks of stone, rubble, and the scaffolding left for the day by the Italians. In his cell, Josephus tried to clear his mind for a period of contemplation but was distracted by small sounds in the distance. Was someone approaching the walls? Was news of the birth forthcoming? At any moment he half expected the guest bell to be rung.
Before he knew it, Compline was upon him and it was time to reconvene in the church for the last service of the day. Because of his preoccupations, his meditation had been unsuccessful, and for this transgression he prayed for forgiveness. When the last strains of the last chant were uttered, he watched the abbot carefully descending from the high altar and thought that Oswyn had never appeared older or more frail.
Josephus slept fitfully, roiled by disturbing dreams of bloodred comets and infants with glowing red eyes. In his dream, people were gathering in a village square, summoned by a bell ringer with one strong arm and one withered one. The bell ringer was distraught and sobbing, and then, in a start, Josephus awoke and realized the man was Oswyn.
Someone was thumping at his door.
"Yes?"
From the other side of the door he heard a young voice. "Prior Josephus, I am sorry to wake you."
"Enter."
It was Theodore, a novice who was charged this night with attending the gatehouse.
"Julianus, the son of Ubertus the stonecutter, has come. He pleads that you go with him to his father's cottage. His mother is having a hard labor and may not survive."
"The child has not yet been born?"
"No, Father."
"What hour is it, my son?" Josephus swung his feet onto the floor and rubbed his eyes.
"The eleventh."
"Then it will soon be the seventh day."
The path to the village was rutted from the wheels of ox-carts, and in the moonless dark Josephus almost turned his ankles. He labored to keep up with the long sure strides of Julianus so he could more readily follow the lad's hulking black shape and stay on the path. The cool light wind carried the sounds of chirping crickets and calling gulls. Ordinarily, Josephus would have relished this night music, but tonight he hardly noticed.
As they neared the first cottage of the stonecutters' village, Josephus heard the bell ringing back at the abbey, the call for the Night Office.
Midnight.
Oswyn would be told of his foray, and Josephus was quite sure he would not be pleased.
Being the middle of the night, the village was eerily active. In the distance Josephus could see oil lamps glowing from open doors of tiny thatched cottages and torches moving up and down the lane, signs of people out and about. As he drew closer it was clear that the center of activity was Ubertus's cottage. Villagers milled outside it, their torches casting fantastic elongated shadows. Three men were crowding the door, peering in, their backs forming a phalanx blocking the entrance. Josephus overheard feverish chattering in Italian and snippets of Latin prayer the stonecutters had overheard in the church and stolen like magpies.
"Make way, the Prior of Vectis is here," Julianus declared, and the men withdrew, crossing themselves and bowing.
A scream erupted from inside, a woman in agony, a curdling horrible cry that almost pierced the flesh. Josephus felt his legs weaken and uttered, "Merciful God!" before forcing himself to cross the threshold.
The cottage was crowded with family and villagers, so packed that for Josephus to enter two had to leave to make room. Seated by the hearth was Ubertus, a man as hard as the limestone he cut, slumped, his head in his hands.
The stonecutter cried out, his voice thin from exhaustion, "Prior Josephus, thank God you have come. Please, pray for Santesa! Pray for us all!"
Santesa was lying in the best bed surrounded by women. She was on her side, her knees up against her bulging belly, her shift pulled high, exposing mottled thighs. Her face was the color of sugar beets, contorted and almost lacking humanity.
There was something animalistic about her, Josephus thought. Perhaps the Devil had already taken her for his own.
A plump woman he recognized as the wife of Marcus, the foreman of the cementarii, seemed to be in charge of the birthing. She was positioned at the foot of the bed, her head darting in and out from under Santesa's shift, blathering in Italian and barking orders to Santesa. The woman's hair was braided and bobbed to keep it out of her eyes, her hands and smock covered in pink, gelatinous material. Josephus noted that Santesa's belly was glistening from reddish ointment and that the bloody foot of a crane was on the bed. Witchcraft. This, he could not condone.
The midwife turned to acknowledge the presence of the minister and simply said, "It is breeched."
Josephus edged up behind her, and the midwife suddenly lifted the shift to let him see a tiny purple foot dangling from Santesa's body.
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
The woman lowered the shift. "A boy."
Josephus gulped, made the sign of the cross and fell to his knees.
"In nomine patre, et filii, et spiritus sancti…"
But as he prayed, he wished with all his might for a stillbirth.
On a raw November night, nine months earlier, a gale blew outside the stonecutter's cottage. Ubertus stoked the fire for the last time and went from cot to cot checking on his offspring, two or three to a mattress except for Julianus, who was old enough for his own pallet of straw. Then he crawled into the master's bed beside his wife. She was on the verge of sleep, drained after another long day of heavy toils.
Ubertus tugged the heavy woolen coverlet to his chin. He had carried the cloth with him from Umbria in a chest of cedarwood, and it served him well in these harsh climes. He felt Santesa's warm body beside him and laid a hand on her softly heaving chest. The urge was there and his hardness would have to be satisfied. By God, he deserved some pleasure in this difficult, earthly world. He slid his hand down and pulled her legs apart.
Santesa was no longer beautiful. Thirty-four years and nine children had taken their toll. She was puffy and haggard and she chronically scowled from the pain of rotting molars. But she was nothing if not dutiful, so when she became aware of her husband's intentions, she sighed and whispered only, "It is the time of the month to take note of the consequences."
He knew precisely what she meant.
Ubertus's mother had borne thirteen children; eight boys and five girls. Only nine of them had survived to adulthood. Ubertus was the seventh son, and as he grew he carried this mantle. If ever he
had a seventh son, that boy, by legend, would be a sorcerer, a conjurer of dark forces: a warlock, some said. Everyone in their hillside village knew about the lore of a seventh son of a seventh son, but no one, truth be told, had ever met one.
In his youth, Ubertus had been a lady's man and exploited the dangerous image of the potential locked within his loins. Perhaps he had used his status to bait Santesa, the prettiest girl in the village. Indeed, he and Santesa had teased each other over the years, but after the birth of their sixth son, Lucius, the teasing stopped and their sexual unions took on an air of gravity. Each of the next three births was the source of considerable trepidation. Santesa sought to foretell the sex of the babies by pricking her finger with a thorn and letting a drop of her blood fall into a bowl of spring-water. A sinking drop indicated a boy, but sometimes the drop sank and sometimes it floated. Blessedly, each child had been a girl.
Ubertus rammed himself in. She caught her breath and whispered, "I pray it will be another girl."
At her bedside, deep into the night, the situation was becoming more grave despite Josephus's urgent prayers. Santesa was too weak to scream and her breathing was shallow. The tiny protruding foot was getting darker, the color of the deep blue clay the abbey potters favored.
Finally, the midwife declared that something must be done or all would be lost. There was heated debate, then a consensus: the baby must be forcibly extracted. The midwife would reach in with both hands, grab each leg and pull as hard as was necessary. This maneuver would in all likelihood destroy the baby, but the mother might be spared. To do nothing would condemn both to certain death.
The midwife turned to Josephus for his blessing.