Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [123]
“The monastery of Kells,” Morann announced with satisfaction.
If the journey had been gloomy, the effect of the great monastery upon his family made up for it now. The children gazed at it with awe. Even his wife turned to him with a look of respect.
“It looks like a city,” she remarked.
“It is a city,” he said. “And a sanctuary. You can sleep easy tonight,” he added, pleased by the impression he had made. “It’s almost as big as Dyflin, you know,” he said. Soon, while it was still light, he would give himself the pleasure of showing them around.
But they had only gone a hundred paces when they heard the sound of horse hoofs cantering behind them, and turned to see a man wrapped in a cloak, his face pale as a ghost, his horse all in a lather, about to overtake them on his way to the monastery. He hardly seemed to see them as he came past, but in answer to Morann’s calling out to ask him if he had news, he cried back, “We’ve lost. Brian Boru has smashed us. He’s on his way to Dyflin now.”
The room was silent. Looking at the monks in their woollen habits, sitting stooped over their desks, you might almost have taken them for five huge mice trying to burrow into the vellum before them.
Vellum—skin of the newborn calf—pale and smooth; for the hair had been removed by soaking it in excrement or lime before scraping it with a sharp knife. Everyday documents and accounts were written on ordinary cattle skins, which were plentiful and cheap on the island. But for copying sacred texts like the Gospels, only costly vellum would do. And they could afford the finest vellum here, in the scriptorium of the great monastery of Kells.
Glancing outside now, Osgar saw flakes of falling snow; swiftly, with only a faint scratch, his hand moved to and fro. It was nearly two months since he had come to Kells; soon he’d be leaving.
But not just yet. Not if he could help it. He stared at the snow outside. The weather had changed abruptly that morning, as if in reaction to the news of the night before from Dyflin. But it was not the snow that concerned Brother Osgar, but the person who was waiting for him out there. Perhaps the snow would be a deterrent. If he waited in the scriptorium until the bell for prayers, he could make his escape without getting caught. At least, he hoped so.
He had changed in the last decade. There were some grey hairs now, a few stern lines on his face, a quiet dignity.
His eyes went back to his work. The pale vellum had been neatly ruled into lines with a stylus. He dipped his pen in the ink. Most scribes used a quill pen, made from the tail feather of a goose or swan; but Osgar had always favoured reeds and he had brought a good supply with him, cut from the edge of the lake at Glendalough. The ink was of two kinds: either a brownish colour, made from oak apples and sulphate of iron; or a jet-black, made from holly.
Osgar was a skilful calligrapher. Writing in the clear, rounded script of the Irish monasteries, he could copy a text at roughly fifty lines an hour. Working six hours a day, which was certainly the maximum possible during these short winter days—for good calligraphy needs natural daylight—he had almost finished copying the book of the Gospels for which he had come there. Another day and it would be done.
He paused to stretch. Only those who had tried it understood—the calligrapher might seem only to be moving his hand, but in fact the whole body was engaged. It was hard on the arm, the back, even the legs.
He settled back to his task.