The Abbot

The Abbot walked moodily down the path that led from the west door of his chapel, kicking at the pebbles as he went. Everything was highly unsatisfactory, and he could see no obvious means to bring about improvement. For a start, he was suffering from acute indigestion. He silently pronounced anathema on whatever miscreant might have ruled that barnacle geese were a permitted food during Lent. His stomach could never cope with goose, but, for God’s sake, he had a position to keep up; he had important guests to entertain; what was he supposed to give them: bread and water? At least the pains in his guts had the effect of temporarily taking his mind off the far greater problem.

     The map! Buying it for the monastery had seemed such a good idea at the time! That man who called himself Vladimir, who spoke his Latin with the funny accent, had been so plausible! He described how he had guided the last crusade across the Bulgar lands to Constantinople, and how he had found an map in a church wrecked by Turkish raiders; and then, with the most reverent air possible, had uncovered the amazing parchment. The Abbot could not read the writing on it, which he understood was in Hebrew, but Vladimir had translated it for him. It was a map on which Saint Paul’s journeys were marked by the hand of the Apostle himself, miraculously preserved over the centuries. He had demanded a very high price for the map, but the Abbot’s head was filled with visions of the countless pilgrims who would flock to the abbey, and he had scarcely bothered to bargain. Indeed, since he lacked the available money to meet the price, he had pledged the monastery’s land as security that the balance would be produced by Michaelmas. The fame of the map had quickly spread, and now the King himself was soon to arrive to admire the amazing relic. How jealous the Bishop was! All he had to boast about in his cathedral was a fragment of a knucklebone of Saint Hilarius, patron saint of professional fools and clowns, and even that was of the most dubious provenance!
All had been going so well until that miserable travelling scholar Brother Cedric had paid a visit. He had examined the map and immediately pronounced it a clumsy forgery. “Not so much a Mappa Mundi and Mappa Tuesday!” he had snorted scornfully. “I verily believe it was drawn not much earlier than last Tuesday; and as for the writing; it is not Hebrew, it is gibberish!” How fortunate it was that the aforesaid Brother Cedric had shortly afterwards been caught in a compromising situation with a milkmaid from the village, and been ordered to walk all the way to Santiago di Compostella as a penance! That should keep him out of the way for a couple of years at least; but rumours were bound to spread.
     The more the Abbot reflected on it, the more he was haunted by the uneasy feeling that the wretched Brother Cedric might perhaps have been right. In which case, what in heaven’s name was he going to do now? He had no authority to pledge monastic land as security for a purchase without consulting the head of his Order. Not only that; he had summoned the famous goldsmith Master Thomas from Paris, and commissioned him to make the most gorgeous frame for the map. More money: unimaginably vast sums of money!

     The Abbot kicked moodily at the path. One small stone flew up in the air and landed painfully on his toes. Muttering an anathema under his breath, he bent down to examine in offending object. It was an unusual stone, perfectly round, and of a peculiar colour and texture. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. He had long been irritated by the custom of the local people to pray to a certain local saint when they suffered from internal disorders. According to legend, the saint was a hermit who in the dim and distant past had miraculously cured one Queen Bertha of a longstanding digestive affliction. Personally, the Abbot believed this so-called saint lacked any canonical justification, but was merely a deplorable peasant superstition; and it was a matter of deep regret that the unauthorised cult was even becoming widespread amongst the nobility. But now …..
     For the first time for many days, the Abbot laughed, as new and exciting vistas opened up before him. This little oddment that he held in his hand was none other than the gallstone of Queen Bertha, which a saint - shall we call him Saint Gastric? the nobles would be vaguely aware that they'd heard the name somewhere before, and the peasants could easily transfer their worship once it won official approval - had miraculously extracted from her body by the power of prayer alone, without need of surgery! A holy relic indeed! The Abbot was suddenly feeling much better, and it occurred to him that he could now swear, with perfect truth, that holding the sacred gallstone in his hand had instantly relieved his indigestion! In his mind he saw a procession of pilgrims, clutching their bellies, noisily burping and breaking wind, flocking to his abbey to seek relief from the saint. Why, even the King was said to be a sufferer, which was hardly surprising, given the prevalence of highly-spiced food at his court.
     How to account for the sudden appearance of this new holy relic? Not a problem: he would say he had bought it from Vladimir, alongside that accursed map. Two treasures for the price of one would seem a reasonable bargain to anyone; and he was sure that Vladimir would co-operate in the plan, once it was explained to him that this new development would greatly increase his chances of actually getting his money. Then he could tell Master Thomas the goldsmith that the terms of his employment had been changed, and what was now required was a reliquary for a much smaller object.

Humming a Te Deum, the Abbot turned around and strode towards his chapter-house, rehearsing in his mind the account he would shortly be giving to his amazed brethren.  

The Troubadour

An exotic figure walked fastidiously across the straw-strewn floor of the great hall of the castle. His clothes were of scarlet and blue silk; he wore a black velvet cap and boots of the finest soft leather. On his back he bore a lute. His face was unnaturally pallid and his lips bright and shiny, and a close inspection suggested that both had been achieved by the application of makeup. Such an apparition had never been seen in the kingdom before. Some of the men-at-arms gawped; others sniggered or passed crude comments amongst themselves. The stranger ignored the vulgar noises, and addressed the guard at the door to the private rooms.
“Now then, my man, pray inform the King that the troubadour Joscelyn de Melun has arrived from Provence and craves audience with his majesty!”
“Indeed! And is his majesty expecting you?” It was not the most promising response, but when the stranger fingered his purse in a meaningful fashion, the guard passed through to make further enquiries. He felt puzzled. It was part of his job to remember faces, and despite the outlandish garb and the affected accent, he felt certain he had come across this specimen somewhere before. Shortly afterwards he returned to usher Joscelyn into the royal presence, then resumed his post outside the door, still puzzled as he searched his memory.

In the small audience-chamber, the King was seated on a richly-carved chair beneath a brocade canopy. As Joscelyn knelt to kiss the royal hand, he thought; he’s impressive enough when he’s sitting down, and I’m told he looks even better on a horse: it’s only when he’s on his feet that you notice his short bow legs. I’d advise him to keep motionless, like a statue, whenever possible. And he really shouldn’t keep scratching himself: it completely spoils the effect.
“So, Joscelyn!” said the King, “You have come to me from Provence; and I suppose you seek employment at my court.”
“Yes, your majesty. Your kingdom, though very grand, is a little remote, perhaps, from the centres of fashion. The Kings in other parts have lately been employing troubadours like your humble servant here to compose poems that tell of their mighty deeds. I understand that, as yet, no-one has undertaken such a service for your majesty.”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s quite true. The peasants sing songs about me, or so I’m told.”
Indeed they do, thought Joscelyn: mostly highly disrespectful songs; sometimes very rude indeed! But what he said was, “I‘m sure that is the case, your majesty; but sadly that kind of traditional verse is now completely out of favour in the most cultivated kingdoms. In Provence nowadays everyone is writing in heroic couplets . And this is what I have come to offer your majesty: a great epic, in the very latest style and the best possible taste, which will cause your name to live forever, not only here in Britain, but throughout Europe!”
“Well, it’s a thought!” said the King. “you will, of course, be well rewarded if it’s good enough. Explain to me how you intend to proceed.”
“The poem would begin, as is usual in these cases, with your majesty’s childhood and early adventures. As yet, unfortunately, I know little about the subject. Could your majesty, perhaps, tell me something concerning your noble father?”
The King looked unhappy. “I remember that he was drunk most of the time. He was a very violent man.”
“I see. And your mother?”
“I don’t remember anything about her. I think he kicked her out when I was a baby.”
This won’t do at all, thought Joscelyn. Oh well, we can always fall back on the traditional biography for a hero.
“Ah, but of course there were rumours that he wasn’t really your father!” he said in a conspiratorial voice, “We all know the story of how, when the Emperor visited this kingdom, he was so smitten by the great beauty of your lady mother that …. Well, need I say more?”
I don’t remember any such story, thought the King. Is this fellow hinting that I’m a bastard? But that would explain all the hostility, wouldn’t it? And then, if I’m really the son of the Emperor himself… now there’s a thought!
All he said was, “Did the Emperor really come here?”
“Of course he did! In disguise, naturally. He always travelled in disguise: he said it was the only way he could really find out what was going on in his domains.”
That’s a clever idea, thought the King: I might try it myself some time. He continued, “I left home when I was still quite young.”
“Of course: heroes always do. No doubt you narrowly escaped some plot to murder you: that’s pretty standard as well. We’ll flesh out some details later. Next, you must have had a famous sword: how did you acquire it? Did you have to undergo some kind of ordeal?”
“You mean my first sword? I pinched it from my father’s armoury when I left home. I’ve still got it somewhere. I didn’t know it was famous.”
“But it surely had a name? Heroes’ swords always have to have names!”
“Oh, you mean like the Vikings? Something like “Skullsplitter” or “Blood-drinker”?”
“No, your majesty! That Viking stuff is hopelessly out-of-date: no longer fit for the best courts! Let’s move with the times! Your sword must have some ringing, poetic name, and there should be a romantic story about how you gained it. Never mind: we’ll work on that as well. Then I suppose you fought a great many battles before you gained your kingdom?”
“Yes, there was a lot of fighting. But it was a long time ago, and it’s all got a bit blurred by now.”
“But I expect you killed the odd dragon. No: that won’t do; no-one around here believes in dragons any more. How about a giant: that sounds more realistic. Did you ever kill any giants?”
“Well…. There was Kevin. He was an Irishman. He was pretty big, as I recall. But I don’t remember any details.”
This job is going to require a great deal of embroidery on my part, thought Joscelyn. “Next,” he said, “how did you win the hand of your true love, the Queen?”
The King winced, “Do you have to bring Agatha into it?” he asked plaintively.
Joscelyn suppressed a smile. He’d heard how Queen Agatha ruled her husband with a rod of iron: wouldn’t let the royal household spend a single groat without her express permission. There was no getting round Queen Aggie, the courtiers said - or at least, it was a very long walk!
The King continued. “She was the daughter of the Lord of Salopia. They sent me a picture of her, but when I met her, I found she didn’t look anything like it. But her father insisted that we go ahead and get married anyway. And then her father died and I inherited all his lands, so really I shouldn’t complain.
“Is that enough to be going on with for the moment? You’ll have to leave now, because I’ve called a conference of all my knights. I’ll see you some time and you can tell me how you’re getting on with the poem.”
Joscelyn knelt to kiss the royal hand again. As he backed respectfully out of the presence-chamber he thought, if I can make a proper epic poem out of this drivel, then I’ll really have earned every penny he pays me! As the guard opened the door for him he took a small foreign coin in his hand, but before he could bestow it, the guard suddenly exclaimed, “I know where I’ve seen you before! You were a local lad, weren’t you? Hogg the baker’s boy, that’s right! Then you disappeared. So you went down to Provence and became a troubadour, and now you’ve come back here, all togged up! Well, good luck to you, I say! But where did you get the Joscelyn?
The troubadour said nothing. He gave the man a long, cold stare and returned the coin back to his purse.