Brigid of Kildare (13 page)

He sat down at a long white worktable, completely devoid of any objects other than the necessary tools of his trade, and put on sterile gloves, handing her a pair as well. Gesturing for her to sit in one of the two ergonomic chairs pulled up to the table, he stretched out his hand. “Shall we have a look?”

Her heart quickened as she reached into her black bag for the manuscript. Intentionally, she had held back mentioning the other two books she’d found in the convent archives. She didn’t want to reveal too much too soon, particularly if Declan’s initial assessment of the manuscript did not match her expectations.

The manuscript slipped out easily due to the protective sheeting she’d wrapped around it that morning. She hesitated before handing over her precious discovery, but Declan’s surprising seriousness calmed her nerves. “Here it is.”

Laying the manuscript on the table, he slowly turned through the folio pages. Alex could feel her palms sweating and her stomach churning as she awaited his initial reaction. But the minutes stretched on, and soon she lost herself in the beauty of the manuscript. So much so that she jumped when he spoke.

“Where on earth did you get this?”

“I’d rather not say just yet. Is that important?”

“Not for my translation. But it will become important. Very, very important.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alex, you’ve just handed me the most artistically proficient, ancient illuminated manuscript I’ve ever seen outside the Book of Kells—maybe even including the Book of Kells. I wouldn’t swear to an origin date until I’ve translated it and done some tests on the vellum and ink, but I’m a gambling man. I’d place good odds on a date near the ninth-century creation of the Book of Kells.”

“You’re putting me on, Declan.”

“Do I look like I’m taking the piss, Alex?”

She stared at him. He looked as somber—and sober—as she’d ever seen him. “No.”

“Alex, you’ve just rocked the world of illuminated manuscripts.” He grinned. “My world too.”

A few drinks later, Alex set the ground rules. She must be present when he worked on the manuscript: She would take it with her whenever she left his apartment. Declan must share with her each translated page immediately upon completion. If he began to draw firm conclusions about the date or nature of the manuscript, he must tell her straightaway. And, most importantly, no one else must be consulted.

Alex didn’t need to tell him why they needed secrecy. But to his credit, Declan didn’t probe, and he readily agreed to all her conditions.

The next day, she sat in one of the upholstered chairs near the bay windows while Declan worked. After she read through the books she’d bought at Trinity College the day before, she decided it might prove helpful to digest Declan’s collection of scholarly texts on the great seventh-to ninth-century illuminated manuscripts containing the four Gospels. Supplementing her rudimentary grad school understanding, she learned that the Irish had led the way in creating the golden age of illuminated texts, utilizing the same intricate Hiberno-Saxon style and iconography she’d come across in Sister Mary’s liturgical vessels. Although the early-ninth-century Book of Kells was the most famous and, arguably, the quintessential manuscript, earlier books—the Cathach, the Book of Dimma, the Lindisfarne Gospels, and the Book of Durrow among them—contained exquisite imagery as well. Some scholars argued that the Irish proliferation of those manuscripts—and their copies—helped re-Christianize the European continent in the Dark Ages after the fall of Rome.

Intermittently, Declan interrupted her reading with a handwritten sheet. The page invariably contained the words of a New Testament Gospel decoded from insular majuscule Old Latin into modern English. Alex had begun to wonder how the translation would help them
date the manuscript when Declan suddenly asked, “Alex, did you find this book in Kildare?”

She panicked inwardly but tried to stay cool on the surface. “Why do you ask?” she said casually, without looking up.

Pushing back from his worktable, Declan stood and walked to his bookshelves. He reached to the highest shelf, which, Alex had noted, contained the oldest-looking reference books, and pulled out a slim volume. The book fell open to a dog-eared page, and he said, “I’m going to read you an excerpt from
The Topography of Ireland
, a late-twelfth-century historical treatise and travel narrative. The author was Giraldus Cambrensis, a Welsh clergyman and historian accompanying Prince John, the heir to English King Henry II, on his subjugating tour of Ireland in the 1180s.

“In describing the Abbey of Kildare, Giraldus says:

“This description,” Declan noted, “has been applied repeatedly to the Book of Kells.”

“I thought it sounded familiar.”

“You can see why people think Giraldus saw the Book of Kells. The excerpt certainly describes an illuminated manuscript with a decorative scheme very similar to that of the Book of Kells. But there is a major problem with that leap of logic.”

“What?”

“Giraldus wrote these words in 1185, while visiting Kildare. An entry in the Annals of Ulster for
A.D
. 1006 shows that the Book of Kells arrived in Kells as early as the beginning of the eleventh century. If for some reason you doubted that evidence, there’s proof that Kells had possession of the book in the early twelfth century, when land charters pertaining to the Abbey of Kells were copied into some of the book’s blank pages. Either way, by 1185, when Giraldus visited Kildare, the Book of Kells was elsewhere, if it had ever been in Kildare at all. Giraldus saw a different manuscript.”

Before Alex could interject, Declan continued. “Listen to another of Giraldus’s entries for Kildare, it purports to describe the way in which this book was created:

“What book was Giraldus describing?” Alex asked.

“Some believe that Giraldus is describing the lost Book of Kildare, which—who knows—you may have just found.”

Brother
,

Long days have passed since I last wrote you. I find myself busy, swept as I am into the monk’s life here in Cill Dara. My hands so ache at day’s end from the scribe’s duties I find it hard to rouse them to write—especially words that I know will lie buried in the secret hole I dug out beneath a loose stone on the floor of my hut, words that may never reach you.

You have not left my thoughts, however. I imagine you assessing the olive groves’ health after the harsh winter. I envision your young boys tearing through our family fields as we once did in the early spring, freed from the confines of the dark, frigid months. And I pray to God that someone, somehow has provided you with some measure of comfort as to the whereabouts of your younger brother. Who would defy Gallienus’s strict command of silence about my mission in order to perform such kindness, I cannot imagine.

Though I can picture your days in vivid detail, I doubt you can visualize mine. Shall I walk you about this unfamiliar world I now inhabit? I can almost see you nod as we set off. Although this time we will not be embarking on one of your many mad larks, as we did so
often in childhood, with you leading and me protesting in tow. Instead, we will embark on my own adventure.

Let us begin with my first day in the scriptorium. As promised, Ciaran arrived at my hut just after dawn that first morning at Cill Dara. I had finished my early prayers and was waiting for him. We broke our fast together in the refectory. The room buzzed with tantalizing phrases in not only Gaelic and Latin but Greek and countless local dialects. I noted this to Ciaran, whereupon he introduced me to scholarly monks and priests and nuns outcast from so many countries that it made my head spin. I tell you, brother, though this place lies on the very edge of, if not beyond, civilization, a number of its inhabitants are the very essence of it.

We took our leave and walked the brief distance to the scriptorium. Ciaran held open the door, and I entered a vast, bright room much larger than the church itself. I could almost hear you tease that perhaps the size of the buildings was telling—that the residents of Cill Dara stressed words over God. But no matter.

Most people had not yet begun to arrive after the morning meal, so Ciaran and I had the building nearly to ourselves. An astonishing amount of daylight flooded the work space, as the walls were cut with cunning openings designed to admit light yet shield one from the weather. Long desks, stands, and chairs stood in strategic locations around the room to best capture any hint of brightness. Each table offered ample writing materials—wax tablets, parchments, vellum, ink, brushes, rulers, and quills—so sophisticated I might have procured them from my study in Rome. Yet this cache of scribes’ instruments was not the room’s biggest surprise.

I reserve that honor for the manuscripts. They populated the scriptorium by the hundreds, perhaps even thousands. They lay on table-tops and were stacked on the floor. They were splayed on stands and suspended from the ceiling in leather satchels. They reclined with their spines outward in cupboards with hinged doors. In all my days, I have never witnessed so many manuscripts in one location, not even in the papal library.

As we walked about the room, I stole a glance at a page from an opened manuscript on one of the stands. I could not discern the
script, but its exquisite style struck me. Elaborate scrollwork, abstract animal and human figures, and vivid patterns, all in brilliant pigments, embellished the letters and borders. The work was masterful.

In our imagined dialogue, you interrupt me with an impatient question: But what of the decor? Does the scriptorium not have gilded moldings, fine mosaics, and marble columns, as in the papal buildings? Surely it has silken tapestries and a vast fireplace stoked by servants to keep out the bitter cold?

No, I answer with a laugh. The Cill Dara scriptorium bears none of the luxuries seen in the Roman papal offices, save the manuscripts. For a scribe like myself, however, it contains all that I require and more: light, instruments, and inspiration. I know this would not satisfy you, my worldly brother.

The Abbey of Cill Dara is a working institution, however, and my day did not consist of a languorous walk about the scriptorium. Once more people arrived in the scriptorium, Ciaran began scanning the room. He took me by the arm, explaining that he needed to introduce me to the monk who would be my tutor.

Ciaran hurried over to an enormous man with a barrel chest and a wizened face; this was Aidan, my teacher. Ciaran gestured for me to sit at the chair waiting by Aidan’s side, and left.

I settled into the chair as instructed. I offered my greetings to Aidan in Gaelic, and he answered in tenable but brusque Latin. Then, without the pretense of polite exchange, we got to work.

Aidan invited me to watch him add emerald-colored details to the wings of an angel. I observed as this great hulk of a man, gray-haired and with meaty fingers, painted nearly invisible brushstrokes, rendering the celestial figure even more ethereal. His skill mesmerized me for hours. I had never seen its like.

Then I reminded myself that Gallienus had sent me to Cill Dara to learn about heresy, not to hone my techniques as a scribe. I steeled my nerves, cleared my throat, and asked Aidan, “Where did you learn your craft?”

For a long while, he did not answer. He kept at his work. With his eyes fixed to the page, he finally said, “You are Roman?”

“Yes.”

“And you learned your trade at a formal school, did you not?” he asked as he added the lightest touch of the green to the angel’s harp.

“Yes.”

“Well, I was taught in a field—under a large oak tree.”

“You learned your skills as an illuminator in a field under an oak tree?” I should not have so sputtered, but, brother, you can imagine my confusion. For how could one learn such mastery in such conditions?