Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.
The baker came here with the sheer terror of Hell. I thought the issue was simply a matter of a miss-understanding about payment for bread. The abbot affirms the monastery doesn’t requisition their bread from local merchants.
So, who is it that shows up every week and demands an abundance of fresh loaves, then offers only a blessing?
“Which blessing is it?” the abbot asks.
“I don’t know one blessing from another. It is all in the — magical incantation–holy and unsuited to a simple layman’s understanding.”
The abbot asks, “So what do these monks look like?”
“Of course they look like monks. Monks always just look like monks, except the particular monks that order the bread don’t have shorn beards.”
“Eureka!” The witness identifies these blessing giving, sword bearing monks as the monks with beards.
I answer, “I will speak to Ousbert regarding the behavior of his men.”
I leave the baker with the abbot to make his confession. I don’t find Ousbert in the monastery today. But I do find my holiday drinking partners. They aren’t disturbing the sacred halls with carols right now. In fact, they are slathering fresh bread with butter. They have a big pot of butter and their dagger tips are slimed in the oily sweetness. The bread is common, though I know it’s source. But the butter…the butter is nothing that is served in this place, even to the guests. And I’ve seen no monks at the churns with this rendering of butter from cream for this fine feast.
Here is all this butter and only a few days ago I was hearing a poor man arguing with nuns over the availability of a fresh cow to be milked to feed the infant of a needy family. In the gapping chasm of miss-understanding between the rich and the poor, the nuns assumed borrowing a cow from a neighbor was a simple solution to nurture an infant, but the poor man knew of no neighbor from whom he could borrow a cow. And now, butter is wasted for the mere pleasure of soldiers.
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 