Revelation in the 22nd Century

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. (Revelation 6:8)

‘Praised be to God, not all the members of our blessed community are as obdurate as Brother Lawrence.’

Abbot William of Pershore sighed, and shook his head sadly. ‘You’re undoubtedly correct, Brother Nathan. No one doubts the excellence of his scholarship, and the depth of his wellspring of knowledge. He’s the best translator the abbey possesses, and one of finest illuminaters in all England: south of York, at least. But his insistence on adhering to certain obsolete annalistic conventions is rather tiresome.’

‘Perhaps not entirely obsolete, I would venture,’ said the abbot’s younger colleague. ‘As I recall from my own visit to Monte Casino, the great mother house of our order still keeps to the particular conventions to which you refer, at least in part.’

‘Yes, but this is not Italy. We pride ourselves in England on a little more sophistication.’

The assistant librarian of Abbotsbury Abbey raised an eyebrow. ‘Pride, Father William?’

The abbot laughed uneasily. ‘An unfortunate turn of phrase. But come, Brother Nathan: you yourself are widely travelled and undoubtedly open to a modicum of innovation. A certain flexibility of mind is precisely what is needed in these uncertain times.’

Brother Nathan stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘The king cannot, surely, continue to doubt the integrity of our order?’

Abbot William sipped his wine, and paused before continuing. ‘When our superiors in Avignon remain subservient to the will of the French court, we should not wonder that His Majesty King Edward distrusts us. He may have had a string of successes on the battlefield, but he fears losing the diplomatic war in Christendom, whilst this ‘Babylonian captivity’ of the Church continues. Nor is it enough to lay formal claim to the throne of France. And while his grandfather may have subdued the Welsh, and he himself now holds the king of Scotland captive, he knows that the conquest of these islands is not yet fully accomplished. And so he continues to seek alliances, both inside and outside his kingdom.’

‘Is that why, on St George’s day, he has chosen to create this new order of chivalry: this so-called Noble Order of the Garter?’

‘Aye, to bind the barons and knights of England more tightly to him. He has learnt well the mistakes of his ancestor King John. And meanwhile his daughter, Princess Joan, has set sail for the continent, under the most impregnable guard imaginable. They say she is the most protected woman in Europe. Certainly she is the greatest prize her father has to offer. I understand her betrothed, Prince Peter of Castile, is anxious to be wed to her as soon as possible. The marriage will bring both Castile and Portugal into the alliance against France. I would not be Philip of Valois when those armies march against him too.’

‘Does the king aim to see his son, the bold young prince, betrothed with similar haste?’

The abbot shrugged. ‘Prince Edward is too enamoured of battle, the joust and the tourney to have much desire for marriage, they say. There is time yet for him to sire a son to continue the royal line. But let me remind you that is not why I summoned you, Brother Nathan: though, of course, his Majesty is not the only person to concern himself with matters of succession.’

Nathan bowed his head. ‘Your pardon, Father. I am, of course, honoured that you should wish me to succeed you, Deo volente: though the other brothers will have their say, of course. But my earnest desire is that you should remain our beloved patriarch for many years to come.’

Abbot William chuckled. ‘Of course it is. And never mind the brothers having their say: my predecessor had a definite hand in my election, and the Holy Father might well have some ideas of his own, let alone Our Heavenly Father above.’ He made the sign of the cross piously. ‘Tomorrow is the feast of our abbey’s patron, Saint Peter the Blessed, Chief Apostle of Our Lord: and the tenth anniversary of my installation as abbot here. I judge that I’ve been a faithful steward. But all things must end: and I am resolved that under no circumstances must Brother Lawrence succeed me. He’s older than me, but far too spry, alas. Still, I should be able to arrange a transfer. Sherborne is in need of a new librarian, and Father John, the abbot there, owes me a favour or two. You’ll succeed Brother Lawrence as librarian, leaving you as my - well, my heir apparent, shall we say? Does all that sound agreeable?’

Before Brother Nathan could reply, there was a loud knock on the door of the abbot’s private chamber.

‘Yes?’ called the abbot, irritated. ‘Who knocks?’

The door was pushed open, and a young monk stood, breathless, in the doorway.

‘Well, Brother Obadiah? What is it?’

‘I’m so-sorry, Father,’ stuttered the young monk nervously. ‘Forgive the intrusion. Brother Damian wishes you to come to the dispensary, as a matter of urgency. Before vespers, if you please.’

Abbot William scowled. ‘Why does our brother herbalist require my presence so pressingly?’

‘He’s received reports of a strange new pestilence. A sailor aboard a ship newly arrived from Gascony at Melcombe, on the feast of St John the Baptist, was sore afflicted with it. He has since died, and many others in the port have been struck down. Brother Damian is most anxious, Father.’ He gulped. ‘One of the brothers, Brother Giles, is sick.’

‘With similar symptoms to this sailor?’ Obadiah nodded.

‘Return to Brother Damian at once, and tell him I shall be with him shortly. Speak to no one of this - no one. Do you understand?’ The abbot’s commanding tone was starkly different from the calm, measured speech he customarily employed. The young messenger nodded his assent meekly, and immediately withdrew.

The abbot turned to Brother Nathan, who had not moved, stunned by this unforeseen development. ‘And not a word to any of the other brothers from you. Especially not to Brother Jerome. You know how prone he is to read any doleful news as a sign that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have been unleashed. Remember how he reacted when we received news of the great earthquake in Italy on the feast of St Paul five months ago.’

‘As you direct, Father,’ replied Nathan obediently. He turned to go, then paused. ‘And what of Brother Lawrence?’

The abbot took hold of his pectoral cross firmly, as if to emphasise his authority. ‘Nothing is to be said to him.’

‘You mean about this pestilence?’

‘That: and the other matter we discussed,’ replied the abbot. ‘Leave Brother Lawrence to me.’

*

Equally oblivious to the minor matter of abbey politics, and the rather more compelling matter of the great plague that had now arrived on the southern shores of England, that would soon change the course of European history, the aged librarian of Abbotsbury Abbey continued his labours in the scriptorium.

Brother Lawrence was busily working on a copy of the great Anglo-Saxon Chronicles. He had just completed transcribing another page. Laying it to one side, he turned to a fresh sheet of vellum, and carefully noted both the current year date and the date of the next entry in the annals. As was his idiosyncratic custom, he had recalculated these dates according to his preferred calendar convention.

In the English courts of law, it was currently the 22nd regnal year of King Edward III. And for most within the Church, Lawrence knew, it was June 28th, the Eve of the feast of St Peter the Apostle, in the Year of Our Lord - Anno Domini - 1348. But as far as he was concerned, it was the 4th day before the Kalends of July in the year 2101 Ab urbe condita (‘from the founding of the City’: Eternal Rome itself). That was what mattered to Lawrence.

Forget the mendacious machinations of the papacy in Avignon, or the meticulous interwoven pattern of royal marriages between competing dynasties, or the blood of knight and peasant needlessly shed on the battlefields of France: forget all these inconsequential things.

That fool William thinks I’m an antique, an obstinate fool who lives in the past, he thought. But the past is the key to the future. This young man I’ve heard of - Petrarch of Arezzo - he understands that. And this discovery he’s made of the letters of Cicero: fascinating! The ‘new learning’ that William so readily scoffs at, is merely the old reborn. That’s the real Revelation to come. The old man chuckled to himself. So let him send me to Sherborne. He doesn’t know I know. Let him think that it’s his idea. It has a far greater library than I have access to here. I couldn’t be happier.

Though all else might fall in these dark ages before fire, flood, famine and fever, the learning of Rome and everything that it had stood for would endure.

Of that, Brother Lawrence had no doubt.

***

Commentary:

The year 2101 AUC (according to the Roman calendar, which still continued in use in the Middle Ages in some places) is the equivalent of AD 1348 - the year in which what was later known as the Black Death arrived in Western Europe. The first known outbreak in England took place on June 24th at the port of Melcombe (modern Weymouth) - close to Abbotsbury Abbey in Dorset. The Hundred Years War was raging at the time (and going fairly well for the English at this point). However, the outbreak of the Black Death soon led to a truce between the combatants. The casualties of the plague included Princess Joan, the daughter of King Edward III, who never arrived in Castile to marry Prince Peter. She was, of course, just one casualty amongst many millions. It’s estimated that between one-third and one-half of the population of Europe died during the outbreak. On a more positive note, the erudite Brother Lawrence is revealed to be an enthusiast for the endeavours of Petrach, an early Italian humanist who rediscovered previously lost letters of Cicero, and was a leading light in the early stages of the Italian Renaissance.