Thomas of Ribe

By Anne Marie Ejrnæs

Thomas was cold as he sat at his desk. His arms were sticking out of slits in magistra´s old ink-stained skin cloak, and he had turned up his own hood over his ears. There was a brazier at his feet, and he kept stretching out his hands over the heat it gave off, but Candlemas was bitingly cold in Hainaut as elsewhere in the world. He had winter in his bones, and his muscles were stiff from sitting at his work from sunrise to sunset. A dripping nose did not improve his humour, and his eyes burned with concentration in the scant light from the tiny panes placed high above the closed shutters. He could usually call for the candles he needed to see the original text and his own script, but today the curtain out to the main hall was drawn, because Marguerite Poréte was expecting a guest, and he was earnestly hoping his bladder would last out for the visit.
   It was cramped in his little niche. It reminded him more than was to his liking of a monastery or prison cell. He was not bothered by a sense of confinement during the autumn as the open shutters allowed his eyes to rove across the landscape around magistra´s house. The pollarded trees and the woven osier fences, the road winding along the river in towards the fortress of Tournai - all this represented both an unrestricted way out and a consolation because he never went outdoors. On clear moonlit nights he could stay awake and stroll around in magistra´s garden, enjoying the sight of the five towers of Our Lady´s Church, of the soaring city tower and the judge´s massive castle, but he never went in through the city gate, and his knowledge of Tournai and its surroundings stemmed from Mathilde and from her alone.
   He was someone hidden away with a transcribed book to his name. It had already been sent to the bishop in Châlons-sur-Marne, and he was working hard on a new copy. It ought to go effortlessly second time round, but it was not doing so. He swore at the brown ink, for at home in Ribe he used to write in black ink, which was easier for him to see in the poor light, but here they didn´t use anything as primitive as soot for their writing, and besides, it was only to a slight extent the ink that was responsible for his difficulties. He was sitting with a book that as far as he could judge consisted of sixty thousand words, and he was copying it word for word because both the context and the sense often eluded him. He did not ask about anything, although he had the author readily available, for on the first page it said that the book should be read with subtle inner understanding, and you never knew whether you would fail to match up to this.

Translated by W. Glyn Jones