It was in the year of our Lord, 800, when the Viking invasions had begun and we feared for our lives.

On the Isle of Iona in a Christian monastery, Aeden and his brethren work to transcribe the Gospel of John. Together, they create parchment and intricate designs, illuminating them with fine inks and gold leaf. Their meticulous hands and virtuous hearts transcribe God's word.

Unfortunately, the monastery is not immune to the barbarians invading from the north: the Vikings. Fearful for their precarious position and important work, the Abbot Father Cellarch enlists the help of a Viking king who values Christianity. King Blachmac pledges protection, leaving his daughter Osla in their care as the raids continue.

Osla and Aedan, drawn to one another, develop a friendship as work continues on the Gospels. During this tumultuous time, the Book of John is completed amid stress, love, and accusations of murder. These events bring the star-crossed lovers closer. Together, they save the abbey and their precious work.

Scriptorium is Aedan, Osla, and their brethren's story of courage, where pure hearts triumph over barbaric evils. Little did they know their work would become Ireland's finest national treasure: The Book of Kells.

SCRIPTORIUM

They Wrote the Book of KellsBy Ivan D. Alexander

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2008 Ivan D. Alexander
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4401-1253-9

Contents

Chapter 1. Scriptorium Chapter..........................1Chapter 2. The Book of John Chapter.....................8Chapter 3. Monologue Chapter............................17Chapter 4. Osla Chapter.................................22Chapter 5. Beltane Chapter..............................30Chapter 6. Easter Chapter...............................40Chapter 7. The Root Cellar Chapter......................47Chapter 8. Peace Chapter................................55Chapter 9. The Bishop Chapter...........................63Chapter 10. Blachmac Chapter.............................73Chapter 11. Plain Page Chapter...........................82Chapter 12. Herbarium Chapter............................88Chapter 13. Journey Chapter..............................99Chapter 14. The Bard Chapter.............................105Chapter 15. Blessed Land Chapter.........................112Chapter 16. The Letters Chapter..........................121Chapter 17. The Return Chapter...........................126Chapter 18. Parley Chapter...............................132Chapter 19. The Trial Chapter............................144Chapter 20. Peril Chapter................................151Chapter 21. The True Tale Chapter........................159Chapter 22. Attack Chapter...............................166Chapter 23. Sanctuary Chapter............................173Chapter 24. Wise Council Chapter.........................180Chapter 25. Kings Chapter................................190Chapter 26. High Mass Chapter............................197Chapter 27. Compline.....................................204

Chapter One

Scriptorium

It was in the year of our Lord, 800, when the Viking invasions had begun, and we feared for our lives. We had set to writing the fourth Book of the Evangelists, the Book of John. It was to commemorate the death of our dear Saint Columba by our Abbot Father Cellarch, who says our great abbey was named when our founder first laid eyes on our island and exclaimed "I see her! The island of John," and thus was founded the Abbey of Iona more than two hundred years ago. The books of Saints Matthew, Mark and Luke, are now near completion, and thus we begin with the image of John. Together, the Book of the Gospels will be a gift to our sister abbey at Durrow, in the hands of our Bishop Ailebe. May God help us in our glory to Him.

We six who are the writers and illustrators set long ago to work together in diligence and love for our Lord. Brother Fiotan colored and gold leafed, while Brother Ronant, whose mother was a Pict, drew the beautiful designs. I and my fellow scribe Brother Ion, the Alexandrian, wrote the text in our fine hands, which were identical. Brothers Eogan and Enon, both from our sister abbey in Durrow, were the parchment makers who also mixed the inks. When pressed, they too painted illustrations for the small works. I, Aedan, am master of works and writer of letters, and designer. It was also assigned I be the chronicler of our works. By our Lord Jesus Christ, we give you His word. Amen.

* * *

It was the leeward of Springtime, on the dawn of a new year, and a new century, entering the month of the Resurrection, that woke on that early gray morning. After Matins prayers, while the brothers were finishing their breakfast of porridge and milk, as was my habit, I was preparing the scriptorium for our day's work. This usually meant restarting the dormant fire in the central pit, which I did today, satisfied that it was not too smoky, watching the smoke curl up into the roof timbers, escaping through the small hole there. A cheerful glow soon dispelled the darkness, and first light came filtering through the thick windows. The usual inks were placed in their horns on the writing tables by the small windows, there were six of them, and the freshly cut goose quills laid by each one. The pigment inks were then likewise distributed with their brushes, each to their work station, and the parchment cases were taken down from the rafters, where they stayed dry and safe from vermin. The room filled with warmth and all seemed to my satisfaction. Now came that moment I daily cherished, when I open the page on which I am working, thanking God and asking for His help in that I am to do His will today.

"Good morning sweet Brother."

It was the voice of Ion, as he first entered the scriptorium. Then followed by Ronant, who in his usual cheerful manner greeted us with a great smile.

"Peace to you in our Lord, my brothers," I answered.

"Enon will bring your porridge shortly," Ronant let me know.

Ion walked in his usual calm manner to his work table, looking out the window into the cool light, the water of the sound laying still and gray beyond.

"We start a new book today," he mused aloud, "it is fitting for Pasqua."

Ion sometimes used his native word for Easter, since his family came to Ireland from Alexandria many years ago. His face was darker than ours, and so his humor, but he loved us in the same we love him, as brothers in Christ.

"The Resurrection is most fitting," answered him Ronant, "for new beginnings. So much already done, and still so much to do, when does it end?" He looked up smiling. "I hope my eyes do not fail by the time we are done, or what good is a blind scribe?"

"Your images are gifts, Ronant, and may you always have them for us." As I said this, Enon entered holding a large cup for me, with a thick wooden spoon standing in it. "Ah, my breakfast! After Matins, I thought I would faint from hunger."

"Why not join us first, and then here?" Enon wondered, though he knew the answer.

"After song and prayer, my stomach does not want food, though does my mind," I answered same as before, "so I come here instead." Enon left the cup on my table. "Thank you sweet Brother."

"Eogan will be at the skin shed this morning," Ion voiced to us. "The brothers have been sheering sheep, and new calves are plenty. So we will not want for pages, as happened when we were finishing Lucas."

"Father Cellarch assured us, Ion, we will not be short ... Blessed Saints!"

Through the window I could see two skiff s just landed from Mull. This was a day of pilgrims coming to our shore, to do penance, pray, and be blessed, or be healed. For this they usually pledged gifts, for which the Abbey is most grateful. The Abbot and a small welcome group were already at the landing. More than a dozen people were getting off, all dressed in the habit of penance, white smocks over their clothes.

"They will be here momentarily," I announced, "after they stop at the chapel."

"This gives us just enough time to appear busy," added Ronant.

"And we must look good," spoke Ion, almost under his breath.

Enon went over to the window and gave off a low whistle, "There is a king amongst them."

I went over and too could see deference, both from the monks and penitents, as well as from Cellarch. The Abbot paid special attention in the manner required of great personages, so we knew this was likely a king, or high lord. Just then Fiotan walked in from the door that leads to the Abbey chapel, which is adjacent to our scriptorium, with his usual sleepy look. His large nose bobbed as if he were to sneeze, which he did, and then he walked over to his table.

"Good morning, sweet Brother," I offered.

"Good morning Aedan, but I still feel poorly. My nose is itching, though I do not feel to have a cold. But one must not complain, if it is God's will." He then looked up and smiled, which did not make him look better. Fiotan was not cheerful this morning, but he was amiable just the same. He must have a cold.

"We must set up quickly, Fiotan, all, and put on a show of hard work."

All knew this and were already spreading the parchments they were working on before them, pressing them down and securing the corners so that they would not slide, and then inked their brushes or quills. I did the same, as Ion was already hard at work on his part. In a few moments, we could hear the Abbot speaking from within the chapel through the open door. Other monks were now coming and going with their duties, only Eogan absent at the animal sheds. Outside the fine morning mist had lifted, and it appeared the sun would show.

The words began "In principio bid erat verbum," and so began the Book of John. We worked like this in silence, only the sounds outside the door and gulls flying over the channel calling their high pitched cries. My quill carefully formed each letter, which gave me an inner tranquility at once. This I could do for hours without pain or thought. Ion was lettering the last page of Lucas, and Ronant was working on his design of the lead page, where was found the likeness of John. Fiotan set up and added color to the letters marked on the last pages of Luke. We quickly fell into our patterns of work, as we had been working on this manuscript these past three years. The pilgrims were coming through the chapel door. "And in here, my dear Blachmac, is where we are doing our most important work. These brothers are crafting the manuscript dedicated to the two hundredth anniversary of our founder being called to the Lord."

King Blachmac stood tall and bear chested amongst the small throng of pilgrims, his strong arms filling out the white smock he wore. Though we were all bearded, his was rich and red, framing a large mouth set with strong teeth. He was a northerner, we could tell. The other pilgrims filed into our scriptorium behind him.

"May I see your work, Brother?"

He came over to Ronant's table and examined his rudimentary drawing, still devoid of color.

"It will be finished in the style of these pages, my Lord," Ronant held up some finished folios.

"Such fine lines, such color. It is beautiful." He looked over at the rest of us, the Abbot hovering close to him, solicitous and slightly bowed. "I could commission a book like it for my kingdom, to celebrate our entry into Christ, my good Abbot. But we are plagued still by the heathen barbarians in our land, so it would be a shame to have it fall into their barbarous hands. The devil take ... oh, I beg your forgiveness, my Lord."

Cellarch raised his hand to signify no offense was taken.

"Ach, the heathens are a plague, so we hear. Their long ships steal in the night and attack at dawn."

"We have men ready to protect our settlements," Blachmac answered. "They find it difficult, but they do strike, and we must be ready."

Just then, the last of the pilgrims entered through the small door of the chapel. She stood wide eyed for a moment, and all eyes turned on her, as did mine. Ronant had a wolfish grin, when he looked at me, and Ion studied her quietly. She was tall, long full ringlets of dark golden hair fell to her shoulders, slim of build, and in her sandalled feet looked natural in her white robe.

"May I present to you my daughter?" the king addressed us. "Osla."

"Thank you father, I was most curious to see their scriptures. May I?"

Osla came over to my work, and looked at the first few lines of the page on which continued John's Gospel. She studied my rounded letters, and looked at my quill, then at me.

"Your hand is very fine, my brother. Mine is not so even." She smiled at me.

I smiled in return, feeling lost for words, but managed to answer. "It is in the practice, my child." She was no more than a child, having just reached early womanhood, and she was elegant to look at. "We do as the Spirit guides us. Can you read this?"

"Yes, a little, but I am still in my studies."

"She is a bright scholar," her father quickly intoned, "not without letters like me."

"We can teach, my Lord, without difficulty, to read in both Latin and your language, if you wish." So saying, Cellarch quickly came to his rescue. "Your gifts have already greatly benefited our little Abbey, and we are most happy to show you the way to the Word."

"Perhaps my daughter, when she is of age, but not now."

This brought air back into my lungs, but the group, after all had a chance to look at our folios, were now turning to leave. Osla lingered, as she had done in the chapel. Cellarch now directed them to see the crosses of the stations of Christ. The Abbot gave us one quick kind look, in appreciation for having been gracious in our appearance, and they filed out. Only Osla remained.

She did not speak, but casually walked over to the fire to warm her hands, and then looked up at the rafters, as if studying the smoke curling there. The brothers tried not to show they looked at her, and feigned studious industry, while I held off the quill from the page, fearful I might blot ink. My hand was not steady enough to resume. So I rose and walked over to her.

"Would you like some dried apples?"

"Oh no, I could not, for I am fasting from yesterday." Her eyes did follow the bowl I placed back on the table. I looked over at my bowl of porridge, with the spoons still standing it in, but dismissed it.

"Do you have a scriptorium at your abbey?" I tried to make conversation.

"Yes, we have scribes there who copy our holy texts, but much smaller than yours. And the work is not so fine."

I fought off pride, knowing it a sin. The others now looked at us. Ion had a smile on his face. Ronant also. Fiotan turned back to his drawings and Enon stirred his inks.

Osla seemed content in silence, so I also silently turned away, when she called to me.

"We also have heathen scribes in our land, who do very fine work, though not for our Lord Jesus." She looked at me wide eyed. "Is it wrong to encourage them?"

"Ah, well, no, not to discourage them from the written word." I thought about it a moment, not sure of her reason for asking. "If their work is dedicated to the love of God."

She stayed silent a moment longer, pondering. "I suppose so. They do worship witchcraft, and magic, which is against the Church, so I am told. But if their work brings them closer to God, then it is not evil."

"Tolerance is too a virtue. And magic is no sin if given in the name of the Lord. Our Lord Jesus brings to Himself through the Holy Spirit even those who are lost. To forgive makes us all soldiers of Christ."

Osla liked my answer, and thanked us for allowing her to stay. Then she turned away from us as if in meditation, and silently went out into the chapel door. In a few moments I could see her outside joined with the others, and my heart fell quiet again.

"You are a king at heart, Aedan, by your birth. But you are a brother now, given to chastity," reminded me Ronant, with a roguish smile.

"I am a man given over to God, but I still find God's work wonderful," I answered him with a grin.

All became jovial, and an air of lightness reentered our midst. Even Ion fixed a smile.

"The ladies of Alexandria were devout too, and just as pretty. Perhaps someday we will be the pilgrims and go there."

This launched us into a discussion of the holy places of the world, a topic we often bring up while working. Now that we were back to our task, I looked again at my breakfast bowl, but my heart was not in it, so took it to a side door that led out of the scriptorium.

"Luru!" I called. "Here boy!"

My faithful friend came trotting over, hints of gray around his muzzle, and eagerly lapped up the contents of my bowl. Afterwards, I took a handful of dried apples, and returned to my table. My involuntary fast forgotten, the apples tasted as if they had been blessed.

Chapter Two

The Book of John

We resumed our work in silence, as is our habit for long stretches of time. Though our order is not given to silence, we prefer it to preserve the spirit whenever it is called for. Only the swift sandaled feet of acolytes or brothers bringing refreshments, or called for firewood, could be heard in our scribe's hall. Brother Domnall would send us milk, or on rare occasions mead, as he saw fit, which we accepted gratefully. His secret wish, though not secret to us, was to paint his likeness somewhere into the manuscript, which we did into Luke, as a small Abraham. His happy thanks continue still. Tierce prayers had long been held, and I had seen the penitents filing into the main church for them. We did not attend this, for the need to make up for lost time. Now it was Sext, and the bell was ringing the noon hour. "Stretch your legs my friends. It is time for chapel."

We laid aside out works and filed into the chapel and took our places. Father Cellarch was in the sacristy, wearing his vestments. The Deacon Fergus prepared the Psalters. Acolytes took their place at the rear, with the penitents standing amongst them. The chapel was very full. We were nearly a week away from Celtic Easter, so more pilgrims arrived from abroad daily. Our chapel was smaller than our church, though much older, the church built later during Saint Adomnan's tenure, blessed were those times, and only now nearing completion. The thick old stone walls of the chapel date back to blessed Columba's time, ColumbKil in Gael, so it was used with great reverence. Light from a pale sun came in through the vaulted windows encrusted with multicolored glass, and the air of the chapel carried the sweet incense of its venerable presence in the Holy Spirit. This was where our Saint Columba placed his staff upon arriving, pointing it towards Jerusalem, and thus was built our chapel on this consecrated ground.

"All rise," called the Deacon.

The brothers in the front raised their hands palm up to receive the blessing, and the sound of hymnals opening could be heard from the rear. I tried consciously to not look behind me, though I felt eyes were focused on us monks. The Abbot entered and took his place at the lectern near the altar, facing us, and in his clear voice commenced the singing prayers.

(Continues...)

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