Maria sent me a question to ask the brothers at St Alcuins Abbey — she didn't mind who I asked, but wanted to know who their favourite saint was, and why. I know Brother Conradus has a particular devotion to Our Lady, but I didn't get as far as the kitchen to ask him about that.
* * *
The big double doors of St Alcuin’s gatehouse stand open much of the time, so carts and people on horseback can easily come and go; Brother Martin is always there in the porter’s lodge to greet and help anyone who arrives. To be fair, he’s also there to find out what they want — he’s a kind of living barrier, a human alternative to a gate, but a nice one, courteous and cheerful — at the same time as he represents the Benedictine principle of hospitality, making people welcome.
When the big doors are shut, the little postern door is left unbolted before sundown. Anyone who enters can come in and find Brother Martin and ask for who they need to see.
This seems as good a place to start as any. So I ask him, “Brother Martin, who is your favourite saint?”
It surprises me that he looks a bit embarrassed. “I find it hard to admit this," he confesses, "but St Martin of Tours is — my namesake. It seems rather self-centred. But he has a special place in my bin my heart for who he was, not just because I bear his name.”
I do know about St Martin of Tours, of course; I know he became a bishop but wasn't keen to be one. In fact he hid in the goose pen when they came to make him bishop — that level of not keen. But the thing he’s really famous for is cutting his cloak in half on a cold day, giving one half to a shivering beggar and keeping the other half for himself. That — dividing his cloak — turns out to be what specially endears him to Brother Martin (St Alcuin’s porter).
“I like that he was practical,” he explains. “It’s always felt like a particularly helpful pattern to follow. Because he could have given away the whole cloak, so the beggar was warm and he was half-frozen and caught a cold and got chilblains. Settling for half feels more realistic to me.”
I suggest to him that some people might think half a cloak is no use to anyone, so that far from being realistic he actually ensured that neither he nor the beggar had anything that could be of ongoing use to anybody. For a moment Brother Martin looks a bit put out, and then he says, “Oh! No, no. I see what you mean. You’re thinking the cloak would have been like ours, shaped across the shoulders, with a hood and a clasp. Oh, no, no no. St Martin was a Roman soldier. He wore a sagum, like a big blanket made of wool with the lanolin still in it to keep out the weather. It was just a simple rectangle that fastened on the shoulder with what they called a fiblula. Not a fibula, that’s a bone in your leg. A fiblula is a cloak pin like the Vikings had. So when he gave half his cloak away, they both had enough to manage, something to keep them warm. Not half a hood and something that would only serve for one side of you.” Then he looks at me, and begins to laugh. “You’re pulling my leg, aren't you! You knew that!”
Well, knew is overstating it, but yes, I guessed.
“I just liked that he was generous but not daft,” says Brother Martin. “He was sensible about it.”
The checker isn’t far from the gatehouse at St Alcuins, so I go there next.
“Oh, hello Little Ghost,” says Brother Cormac. “We haven’t seen you in an age. Well, I haven’t anyway. All well in the 21st century?”
I tell him it’s not really, and ask him to pray for us. He certainly knows what I’m talking about, because England wasn’t all peace and harmony in 1326 either, and he promises they will indeed hold us in their prayers. And I thank him and explain about Maria wondering who his favourite saint might be. I hazard a guess at Francis of Assisi, because I know what a soft spot Brother Cormac has for animals.
“I tend to feel that Francis — the Italian one — is the sole property of our prior,” he says. “It means a lot to him that he was given the same name. So, no, not him. I mean, he was a wonderful individual obviously, and had a kind of wholeheartedness that I certainly admire. But my favourite saint is St Melangell.”
As it happens I have an icon painting of Melangell that I can show you when I’ve finished writing this down, so I do know who he’s talking about, but I ask him to explain because you might not have heard of her. She lived in the 7th century and she's the patron saint of small creatures.
“She was an Irish woman,” he says (and I didn’t know that), “who crossed the sea to live in Wales as a hermit. A royal hunting party came after a hare in a valley there, and it took refuge with Melangell, hid under her cloak. She stood firm, and had no intention of giving up that hare. Prince Brochwel, who was the one doing the hunting, was actually rather charmed by her, not annoyed at all. He thought she was brave, and he could sense how holy she was. So he gave her the entire valley for her own, and she started an abbey there. What I treasure is not so much Prince Brochwel’s opinion, but what the hare thought of her. It recognised her as a safe place. And I honour that. I wish I could be the same. I have a special devotion to her, because she managed to be what I aspire to, but it’s out of my reach. I wish all living creatures could be safe from violence. She made something come true that I care about.”
Then he asks me about Maria, and I tell him a bit about her, and where she lives, and how her country is at war. He listens soberly, and then he says, "Oh! That Maria! Yes I know who you mean. Please tell her I will pray for her, that she will have courage, and peace, and be as safe under the protection of Jesus as the hare hidden under Melangell’s cloak."
And then they all have to go into Vespers, so I leave them to it and come back here, thinking how odd it is that both the men I asked chose as their favourite saint somebody who — in different ways — shared the warmth and shelter and refuge of their cloak.
[Icon painting of St Melangell by Alice Wilcock]
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