The Chronicle of Brother Iudocus
Entry: Vigilia Pentecostes, Anno Domini 876
The sea mutters angrily tonight. I ponder St Paul and his shipwreck. Even from my narrow cell I hear it grinding against the rocks below the monastery of Our Lady. Brother Riwallon says the gulls fled inland at dusk, a sign he claims foretells danger. I laughed, as if to ward off the feelings of terror, but my heart was not steady.
We have prepared for the Feast of Pentecost. Brother Marcellus has arranged the altar linens; Brother Samsonius rehearsed the chant with the novices. Tomorrow we will sing “Veni Creator Spiritus”. May the Spirit shield us.
Entry: Pentecost Morning
We sang at dawn, our voices trembling the rafters the old words of the hymn. They rise like incense through the abbey - “Accende lumen sensibus… “, “Kindle our senses with Thy light”
As the final note faded, a thick sea‑mist rolled in swallowing the horizon. Our island is prone to such mists, cold and biting. This time, they seemed to be an omen, of dark times to come. When we stepped from the chapel, Riwallon came running, breathless. “Longships,” he said. “Three. Cutting through the fog.” Abbot Judicael closed his eyes for a moment, then said only: “To the chapel. Pray.”
I write this quickly. The bell is sounding the alarm. The mist feels like a burial shroud.
Later, though time has lost meaning...
I have only a dim memory of visions and sounds that overwhelmed the senses and destroyed our peaceful vigil. I recall the fire, the blazing tongues of fire. The screams, and the crash of axes. Words, rough, savage, spoken in an unknown tongue. They came like wolves. These were the Northmen, the Vikings, the much feared raiders of blood and iron.
We knelt in the chapel as Abbot Judicael prayed aloud, his voice shaking but unbroken. The doors burst inward. Brother Riwallon fell first, struck down where he knelt. I saw his blood spread across the stones like spilled ink across a manuscript. The Abbot was dragged outside. I followed, though terror clawed at my belly. The courtyard was a furnace. Flames devoured the scriptorium. Smoke stung my eyes.
Their leader, clothed in furs, a giant in wolfskin, raised his axe over Judicael. I heard myself shout the words from the hymn: “Hostem repellas longius!”, “Drive the foe far from us!”
The fire was thick with smoke, and it was hard to see. Only outlines of shapes moving could be seen. One of the raiders stumbled into the blow meant for the Abbot. The axe split his helm. Confusion erupted, shouts, curses, a moment’s chaos. We fled toward the cliffs, dragging the wounded. Judicael collapsed in my arms. His last words: “The light, Iudocus… the light must not die…” I wept bitterly at our loss.
Entry: The Morning After
Dawn revealed only ashes. The chapel roof is gone. The scriptorium is a blackened skeleton. The relics, our precious fragments of saints, are lost. The golden chalice and the silver communion plate have been stolen by the raiders. We buried Abbot Judicael beneath the charred stones, and carved a figure on a granite stone to mark the place. We few who remain sang softly over his grave: “Deo Patri sit gloria…”, “To God the Father be glory…”. But we have lost our own dear Father Abbot, and our voices cracked with smoke and grief.
Already the brothers call this place the Burnt Monastery of our Lady. A fitting name, though it wounds me to write it.
Entry: One Week After the Burning
We have begun clearing the ruins. The air still smells of soot. Yet today, beneath a fallen beam, I found a single page of parchment from the Psalter, the edges scorched and black but the words intact: “ Dominus lux mea et salus mea.”, “The Lord is my light and my salvation.”
The Vikings destroyed only wood and stone. The light remains. We can rekindle the flame and rebuild, and pray that one day those Norse men will come to know Christ, and their tongue will no longer be unknown. A church will be built by them, and perhaps as a sign of repentance, they will call it “St Mary of the Burnt Monastery”.
Let these words stand as witness to the fire, the terror, the blood, but also the Spirit who did not abandon us. We will gather again, and for now, as at Pentecost, we learn the message of those words of wisdom and consolation, those of the frightened disciples in the upper room so many years so. Wait and hope.