When we had both nodded in acknowledgment, he walked to the closest table, where he waved a hand over the single sheet of parchment that lay there, its colours, gold, crimson, blue, and bright green, coruscating in the bright sunlight that shone down on it. “This piece was made more than seven hundred years ago.” He stopped, giving us time to react appropriately to this unimaginable span of time, then picked the document up reverently, and set it down carefully out of the direct light. “Sunlight can harm it, leach the colours. This came from Ireland, from a monastery at a place called Kells, and the name of the man who made it is forever lost. Think of that. A faceless, nameless monk, working alone, in close to darkness for countless years, created it to the glory of God. It is unique. Our very finest artists cannot duplicate it. Copy it, yes, but poorly, inadequately, for we have lost the secret of the pigments and cannot replicate the colours. Do you begin to see why I permit none but myself and a few others to touch it?”
We nodded, and he dipped his head in return. “Good. Come, then, and meet those others.”
With that, we were introduced to the other monks in the room, Brothers Anselm, Joseph, Bernard, and Bede. Brother Joseph was the eldest and most frail, his bald, mottled pate fringed with wispy, pure white hair. Brother Anselm and Brother Bernard were next in age, and Brother Bede was the youngest, with a full beard and a head of dense, curly black hair surrounding the shaved square of his tonsure. Brother Duncan introduced us by name, although he made no mention of our relationship to him, and all of them welcomed us warmly, the first members of the community at large to do so. Bede and Bernard were librarians, tasked with the care of the library’s contents, while the other three were transcriptors, who spent their entire time copying the collection’s most valuable texts.
Brother Duncan then led us on a journey around the library, explaining what it held and how it functioned. It was easy to tell that he loved his library, and yet his grim face never relaxed from its scowling watchfulness, which led me to think he did not really want us there. When we had completed a full circuit of the room, he asked us if we had any questions.
“If you please, Brother, I heard—” My voice had emerged as a squeak, and I coughed and tried again, relieved to hear it come out normally this time. “Brother James called you Brother Armarius, but I thought your name was Brother Duncan. Which is correct?”
A sudden change came over his face and his eyes gleamed, so that I thought, for the merest instant, that he was about to smile. But then his face resumed its normal expression.
“Both are correct. I am Brother Duncan and Brother Armarius, but the first is the mere man, while the other is a title. The word armarius means provisioner, and it describes my duties. I am the director of the scriptorium, this room in which my colleagues and I work. One of my responsibilities is to provide the material that we need—inks and pens and parchment and fine brushes. Another is to supervise the work being done. Thus the armarius is a form of supervisor. Do you know that word? Excellent. Then I am the supervisor here. I have other duties within the Abbey as armarius, but you will learn of those later. For the time being, supervisor will suffice, and my brethren address me as Brother Armarius. Do you understand now?”
“Yes, Brother,” I said.
He looked from one to the other of us then. “And what think you of our library? Be frank.”
Will shrugged vaguely, but I had no qualms about what was in my mind. I told Brother Duncan that his library was the most wondrous place I had ever seen, and I meant every word I said.
He studied me for a few moments, his lips pursed. “Then you may see it again someday,” he said. “But now we must return you to the Abbey. Father Peter is waiting for you and will tell you all about your tasks, your daily duties, your tutors, and your classes. Off with you, then. Brother Bede will see you safely to where you must be.”
4
Our first year as pupils at the Abbey school quickly defined the differences that would circumscribe our lives from that point on, although neither Will nor I was aware of anything unusual occurring at the time. Our bright new life in Paisley was too new, too different, and too exciting for either one of us to have concern for subtleties or self-examination. We were healthy boys, full of enthusiasm and engrossed by the challenges thrown at us daily, and we were too involved in conquering the ever-changing aspects of our diverging pathways even to be aware of the divergence.
We shared a single room at night, in truckle beds that we stowed upright against the wall each morning, and we were up and astir every day before dawn, grateful for the few extra hours of sleep we would have lost to prayer had we been lodged at the Abbey. Ewan was frequently up and about before we awoke, but Aggie the cook served breakfast to us every day—oatmeal and bannock invariably, with goat’s milk to wash it down, and, very infrequently, a slice of salted pork or venison that was delicious to eat but always made us thirst long before the noon break in our lessons.