The Island House (36 page)

It was four days since Anselm had discovered her drawings, and even now, Signy found it hard to believe what he said to her. “Our blessed Abbot has agreed that you will be the Scriptorium servant. In silence and by my instruction, you will learn to prepare ink and colors for the valuable work that your brothers perform. And, too, if your progress is satisfactory, I shall teach you the preparation of vellum.”

Signy had stared at the monk. The words scarcely penetrated. “Me, Father?” Her voice had been a strangled squeak.

Anselm had nodded. What he did not tell the awestruck girl was that, in time, she might also be trained as a copyist.

The Abbot had only reluctantly agreed to Anselm’s unusual request, but both men knew there was little real talent among the Scriptorium monks. And they were ambitious. If Findnar was to become the seat of learning they believed it should be, holy books must be copied and a library created. Skill, therefore, must be identified and fostered in the Abbey. However, to consider that a girl, a postulant, might be trained for such tasks was daring and radical, and a potential cause for scandal.

“Our Abbot was naturally most concerned that the work of the Scriptorium might be disturbed by your presence here. With God’s help, we shall guard against that by all means in our power.”

Signy had nodded vigorously. “Oh, of course, Father. I would never willingly do such a thing. In Christ’s name, I shall do my best, unworthy though that be. I am so grateful; it cannot have
been easy to convince our beloved Abbot to allow me this honor.” Her eyes had been troubled.

The monk had been moved, for this reply was evidence of genuine humility, but he held up his hand. “You are correct, Sister. It has cost him, and me, many hours of anxious prayer, and so, for a time, you will be in the Scriptorium on sufferance as we continue to pray for the Lord’s blessing on this work.”

“For how long?” Signy had winced. “Forgive me, dearest Brother, I spoke without thought. I humbly await knowledge of the Lord’s will.” She had clasped her hands in a tight knot and murmured the apology, properly, to the floor.

Ah, youth.
With some nostalgia, Anselm had remembered the impetuosity of that fleeting season. “Our beloved Abbot will inform us both. Meanwhile he has laid down other conditions. Mark them well.”

Reverently, Signy had crossed herself and knelt. “Yes, Father. I humbly await his holy instruction.”

Anselm had attempted severity. “First, you are never to speak unless addressed by me, or the Abbot himself.”

Signy had nodded diligently.

“There is to be no coughing or sneezing—even if you are unwell. The needs of nature must be ignored. Attend to them before entering the writing chamber. You will be at your place immediately after the break-fast, before your brothers, and you may depart only after they have finished and when you have swept and cleaned the copy chamber. The Abbot has most strictly decreed that you will not, at any time, be seen by your brothers here. Or heard.”

“Of course, Father. And thank you. I will not let you down.” For the chance that was offered, the chance to learn, Signy would have agreed to anything, sacrificed anything.

And at first she was the most menial of assistants.

Gathering oysters so that the shells could be used as paint receptacles, she also dug clay to be dried and ground for earth color and picked plants from which to extract dyes. Then with
egg whites, honey, and soot begged from the kitchen, she learned to make ink. The greatest trial was making quills, for Signy was to harvest feathers from living geese—and though they pecked her and beat her with their wings, she became adept at drying and cutting the quills so well that there had never been better writing instruments on Findnar.

Gradually, she was permitted to take on increasing responsibility, including the preparation of vellum from calfskins and goatskins. Signy grew to hate this process, for the lye burned her hands and scraping the hides was tedious and smelly. But the result, once the dried skins had been well burnished, was magical: soft, supple, and fine-surfaced, Signy’s vellum was greatly appreciated in the Scriptorium, and Anselm was well pleased. As he had thought, this girl was quick to learn and diligent. And with good reports, Cuillin permitted Signy to continue with her work.

And now there came a remarkable day.

After diligent prayer, Anselm decided to instruct Signy in the formation of letters in the Roman alphabet. If she was ever trusted with copying any part of the holy books, she must learn an acceptable scholar’s hand, though he did not expect her to read, just to mimic what she was shown.

Anselm had no idea if Signy could actually master writing. A woman’s mind was certainly not the equal of a man’s and never would be, but he was curious to pursue the experiment, for he had never had the teaching of a clever girl before. For practice, he supplied her with a piece of slate on which he had written the letters of the Roman alphabet, and he began to instruct her on how to form them.

Once begun on this road, Signy stole all the time she could from her usual chores, and then she had an epiphany. One evening when the monks finished work, she secretly began to search among their manuscripts for the individual letters she now knew, for she was hungry to know how letters became words.

First she worked out the name of Mary, and then Jesus, and
then God. Saying the names out loud, she fixed the images of the letters to the sounds. With growing excitement, she painfully spelled out a series of words; then she composed her first sentence:
Praise God, Jesus, and Mary.

Over the following months, Signy began to write more and more. Slowly copying prayers at first, and comparing the Latin to its meaning in the Christian language she now spoke, very gradually she began to make sense of both. And as she had once drawn the world around her, she haltingly began to write of what she saw and felt on scraps of vellum in her cubicle. And on one slow day, when Anselm had sent Signy to beg leaves from the Infirmarian’s woad plants to make more blue pigment, she dared to visit Laenna’s grave.

Signy had not talked to her sister in a long time. Since she was a postulant, every minute of her day was accounted for, and an absence brought trouble. Today, though, she had the luxury of a little time. “I have missed you, Laenna,” she said. “I know personal affection is a sin and must be guarded against, but I thought you would like to know that I can read now and write too.”

Signy held a scrap of vellum up to the pillow stone; it was covered with her tiny, careful script. “Would you like to know what it says? I wrote it yesterday.” She cleared her throat. “Feast of St. Marinus and St. Asterius. Rain since Matins. Very cold. With God’s help I found a small patch of chalk in the meadow. Brother Anselm is pleased. He has shown me how to make white pigment for my brothers. After Tierce, I was sent to ask for cabbage and parsley to make green dye. In the garden, I saw my old friend. I did not look at him, but he tried to talk to me. I must confess this. My thoughts led me to sin.”

Signy’s voice faltered. She stopped reading. “Laenna, do you ever wonder what it would have been like, being a mother? If we were still at home, we might both have our own households now. And babies.” She picked at the new weeds among the white pebbles. “If I become a nun, I will never know what that is like.
Not properly.” She closed her eyes. That was a lie. She knew what it was like to be a mother, even if so briefly.

“I had better go—they will ring for Sext soon. Next time, it will not be so long, I promise.”

Later that day, Anselm put down his brush with a sigh. He had just applied the last morsel of gilding to the final illustration of Luke’s Gospel, the Ascension of Christ into Heaven. His task was complete.

Anselm guarded zealously against worldly pride and, for that reason, none had yet seen this work. Brother Abbot would be the first audience for the manuscript, the latest to come from Findnar’s Scriptorium, but Anselm felt tired and flat. The ending of something was so often an anticlimax—and a loss.

“Brother Anselm, I must ask your advice.” The master of the Scriptorium jumped; the Abbot had arrived, unheralded.

Anselm cleared his throat. “Abbot, I shall give it to you gladly, if that is the will of God.” He stood quickly. Was this a good moment to show Abbot Cuillin what he had accomplished?

But Cuillin was staring at the restless sea beyond the windows. He said, absently, “Amen, Brother, to that.” The view was obscured by a fleece of mist on the water—only if he squinted could the Abbot see to the far side of the strait.

He was worried. A visitor from the mainland was expected today, a rich merchant from the township that was growing up on the site of the old Pagan settlement. This man had sent a messenger in an impressive ship several days ago. It seemed that the no doubt self-styled Lord Solwaer wished to visit Findnar, but what did he want?

Cuillin sighed. His gaze focused on the top of the cliff where the path to the cove began. At least the new work there—work that he had insisted on and that had involved every able-bodied man on the island—gave him some comfort. A great gate and palisade now shut off the path so that the way down to the cove—and up—might be controlled by the Abbey. Last summer, rumors had reached
Findnar of raiders returning to the North. It had therefore become prudent to arrange protection.

Anselm coughed discreetly, and Cuillin remembered why he was in the Scriptorium. “Brother, glorifying our Lord is our chief task, as you know. And it is in this, particularly, that I need your expert advice. Ten years, forty seasons, will shortly have passed since the raiders burned this island, though Christ’s mercy has kept us safe in the time since the comet. Having prayed on the matter most earnestly, I seek your guidance as to how best to mark this anniversary.”

Brother Anselm bowed his head reverently. This was an important matter, and St. Luke must wait. “A great honor it is, Abbot Cuillin, to be consulted by you in this way. Have you considered a cross for the church, perhaps? A large and noble one, graced by a likeness of the body of our Lord? Or, perhaps, a Christ in Glory could be created on the wall behind the altar? In Rome, I have heard that holy pictures—very large ones—are made by cutting up myriad tiny pieces of stone, of different colors. Perhaps we might attempt something in that manner? It would certainly be novel.”

On such confidential business the men were speaking softly, but Signy had excellent hearing, and the pair were no farther away than the length of her arm. She knew she could be punished for listening to a private conversation, and so, clutching Bear’s crucifix, she closed her eyes and began to pray, petitioning God’s mother to prevent the words from reaching her ears.

“My thoughts have been similar, Brother. Prayer has told me that such, or similar things, would be acceptable to our Savior, but I am troubled. Who among us has the skill to create such works?”

Signy opened her eyes. Prayer, today, was ineffective. To distract herself, she put her most recent writings in the little lead box and slipped it into a drawstring bag. She looped it to her belt and tried to concentrate on mixing more ink.

Anselm looked grave. He fiddled with the ratty end of the beard that rested on his belly—that was a habit in times of worry
and explained why the hair was matted and yet wispy. He worried a lot.

“Our brothers labor diligently; however, their skills are . . .” He said no more as the monks contemplated each of the men in the Scriptorium.

The Abbot ventured a name. “Brother Nicodemus?” Anselm gazed with dispassion on his brother—a ratlike man with a red nose that dripped miserably, even in summer. The Scriptorium Master strove hard to remove unsafe, uncharitable, and possibly personal feelings from the faculties of rational judgment. He shook his head, regretfully. “Brother Nicodemus works hard, it is true. Perhaps, one day, the Lord will place His gracious hand upon our brother’s head and vest in him the abilities required for such a project. But until that time . . .”

Cuillin nodded. “Until that time, indeed . . .” With a shared conspiratorial glance, both acknowledged that their brother, though solid, was also stolid. This was a task that required actual talent.

“Brother Paul?” Anselm shook his head.

“Brother Jude?” Again, the veto.

“Brother Martin?” A vigorous and decisive shake this time. Brother Martin, incontestably, was clumsy, and oxlike good nature was not enough. That left only the harried novice who had taken over some of Signy’s duties as she was given more responsibility. Peter was just a child, however, and could not be considered.

Cuillin closed his eyes, fingering the beads that hung at his waist. He had hoped God would show him the correct way forward, but that was not to be today. “We shall speak of this more, Brother. I have much to do.” Sketching a cross in the cool air, a general-purpose blessing, Cuillin strode away.

Anselm could only bow; there was not time for more.

“Father, may I speak?” A soft voice came from behind the screen. Signy never spoke unbidden—it was as if a spirit had whispered in his ear.

Anselm said, severely, “You have broken a condition of your work, Sister.”

Signy murmured, “I know, Brother.” Her tone was utterly humble. If Anselm privately reflected that he was far too lenient with this girl, he still sighed. “Very well. In the name of God, Sister, I give you permission.”

Signy cleared her throat. “Brother Anselm, I most humbly apologize, but I heard your conversation with Abbot Cuillin. Perhaps I should have told you—”

“Brothers, continue with your work.” Anselm knew the monks would listen to this exchange with keen attention. In the distance the mist was breaking up, and he saw a sail on the water. A large ship was beating toward Findnar—the Pagan visitor was near; he had been talked of last night during the personal hour, and there had been a great deal of speculation. Anselm crossed himself.
Lord, defend your flock from evil.
“You may speak, Sister. Quietly and quickly. I am very busy.”

Signy lowered her voice so much Anselm had to bend close to hear her. “Father, I know of a person who has the skill you seek. He is a carver, and his work is very beautiful.”