My fictional mini-series about the storm of 1287 was first printed in The Looker on 17th August 2016 and was published fortnightly for two months. Nearly a year later, and the story was expanded into a full length novel:
What the Monk Didn't See.
What the Monk Didn't See.
From his small room, nestled under the eaves of the priory, the monk could hear the signs that the wind was whipping itself up into a frenzy. The south coast, including the prestigious Cinque Port of Romney, was going to take a battering that night. Roof tiles were being lifted and then slapping down upon one another; most would keep their hold on the priory roof; but what of the reed-thatched cottages and wooden shacks on the seafront?
The sky had darkened prematurely and he could no longer rely on the weak light that was already restricted by the small, salt-encrusted window. He didn't care to write by the flickering, yellow light of a tallow candle. Reluctantly, the monk put down his quill and closed his leather-bound notebook.
He was the predecessor of the modern day news reporter and, months beforehand, had set off from his home monastery at Arundel, in order to record events along the south coast of England. It was a solitary life, as he passed through towns and villages. He was an onlooker, an observer in people's lives but not a part of them. At birth he had been given the name of Nicholas – that of the patron saint of the sea – and that is why God had ordained that he follow the coast and record the stories of the people living at its mercy.
His writing cut short, the monk took his rough woollen cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. He closed the narrow, wooden door behind him and set off along the corridor and down the steep, stone steps to the iron-studded front door which led onto the street. For a moment he stood, in the shelter of the doorway. Opposite was the church of St Martin's and as he looked at the graveyard he was filled with a feeling of foreboding that the grave-digger would have plenty of employment by the time the night was over and the storm was spent.
The rain was by no means torrential, but what there was came down fast. It was sharp and spiteful as it battered the monk's face. Shoulders hunched, he pulled his hood low on his forehead and with his head bowed, the monk turned towards the beach-front. He was heading for the stocky church tower of St Nicholas and although every step would be a battle against the wind, he was determined to reach his goal. From that tower, the monk would have a fine view over the town and could watch the storm unfold.
With his cloak wrapped firmly around him, the monk staggered to the road junction. Here, the High Street stretched to left and right. Now the monk was caught out by the sheer force of the south-westerly gale as it pushed on his throat, making him gag and pulled at his long robes, almost causing him to become a human sail. The combination of early dusk and the high winds had forced the market traders to pack up in a hurry. They had been slack with tidying up that day and the street was strewn with debris.
As he paused for a moment, the monk's ankle was assaulted by the dead body of a chicken as it flew along on the wind. What a life, he reflected: bred as human food, only to be rejected at the market place. What a waste, it would have given a hearty meal to some poor family. A cabbage rolled by. It was not in the nature of the townsfolk to let good food go to waste. The market really had been abandoned in haste as the storm took hold.
With a glance up at his goal, the monk crossed the High Street to a short road that led towards the church and harbour. Now, to the left, at the edge of a natural harbour, the churchyard walls held iron rings. These, in turn, held fishing boats, lashed securely by ropes. A sandy beach stretched out in either direction and shelved gently into the turbulent sea. At the top of the beach, beyond the reach of a spring tide, were more boats and the tools of the fishermen's trade.
"How long to high tide?" a fisherman shouted.
"An hour or more," was the reply from his companion.
"God's bones! It will take the lot."
"Not if we can help it."
The tide was not ready to turn; fishermen were desperately trying to pull their boats further up the shingle bank or secure them with more ropes to the wall of the churchyard. For a moment the monk paused to take in the scene of frantic activity. The sea was licking at the debris which marked its usual limits and then taking its chance to leap further. It clawed at ropes, nets and baskets as the townsfolk fought to snatch them back and drag them up to the beach-front track.
The smell of the sea was rich in his nose and mouth. The monk could taste it on his lips, pungent with seaweed and laden with salt. The seascape before him was a palate of dark blues, greys and purples, all highlighted by sporadic light-beams that came when the clouds raced past the face of the moon. But now it was the noise that assaulted his senses. As the sea forged landwards, it took shingle from the top of the beach. The air was filled with a cacophony of noise as pebbles were pulled back with the tide and then returned to be spat out further up the bank than ever before.
Whilst the sea threatened the fishermen, all men of the town gathered, whatever their trade, to help save the fishermen's livelihoods. The monk, set apart by his vocation, did not consider helping. He saw himself as a scribe, a messenger, and his duty to the town was different. By watching it all, he could record this great storm so it could be remembered beyond the fishermen's lifetimes. He was doing a service to the people of Romney in a less obvious way. By recording their history, their struggle would not go forgotten. So, he turned towards the best viewpoint that he knew of – the tower of the Norman Church.
"It's going to be a rough night," a fisherman passed by with an armful of rope.
"We are in God's hands," the monk replied piously.
"Let's hope He sees fit to spare us," the reply was whipped away on the wind.
No one noticed the loner as he opened the wooden entrance door, which was set at the base of the church tower. In near darkness, the monk felt his way around cool stone walls until he reached a roughly-hewn wooden ladder and began his ascent to the tower roof. In the dusky darkness he climbed up, pausing on platforms of wooden planks. Then, up past the bells, hanging steady, not knowing of the tempest outside the stout Norman walls. Finally, he reached a trap door and used all his strength to push it open. The monk then settled himself to crouch on the roof, against the low stone parapet. At once, he was so enraptured by the storm that he longed to put his quill to vellum, but this was not possible so he was forced to say the words aloud, committing them to memory:
"The moon, swollen to twice its usual size and glowing gold, sent shafts of light across the raging sea." He imagined the curling lines upon his vellum; it would look very fine. "The sea raged, throwing itself beyond its usual limits, seizing boats and pulling them from their moorings, taking them for its own." Looking down, he saw the sea was by no means ready to ebb and was now throwing its spoils back upon the beach track. As the sea forged on he prepared more lines in his mind: "No man was safe in his seafront home as the sea savaged them, battering them with their own boats and spitting shingle out onto the streets."
That evening, the monk had a perfect view of the harbour and beyond. He believed that he could see everything that happened in the town. He believed that nothing of significance would happen that he could not see and record for the town's history in his fine curling script.
He was wrong as, unseen by the monk, huddled in her father's pig shelter, a young woman was suffering her own terrors while the storm raged.
The sky had darkened prematurely and he could no longer rely on the weak light that was already restricted by the small, salt-encrusted window. He didn't care to write by the flickering, yellow light of a tallow candle. Reluctantly, the monk put down his quill and closed his leather-bound notebook.
He was the predecessor of the modern day news reporter and, months beforehand, had set off from his home monastery at Arundel, in order to record events along the south coast of England. It was a solitary life, as he passed through towns and villages. He was an onlooker, an observer in people's lives but not a part of them. At birth he had been given the name of Nicholas – that of the patron saint of the sea – and that is why God had ordained that he follow the coast and record the stories of the people living at its mercy.
His writing cut short, the monk took his rough woollen cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. He closed the narrow, wooden door behind him and set off along the corridor and down the steep, stone steps to the iron-studded front door which led onto the street. For a moment he stood, in the shelter of the doorway. Opposite was the church of St Martin's and as he looked at the graveyard he was filled with a feeling of foreboding that the grave-digger would have plenty of employment by the time the night was over and the storm was spent.
The rain was by no means torrential, but what there was came down fast. It was sharp and spiteful as it battered the monk's face. Shoulders hunched, he pulled his hood low on his forehead and with his head bowed, the monk turned towards the beach-front. He was heading for the stocky church tower of St Nicholas and although every step would be a battle against the wind, he was determined to reach his goal. From that tower, the monk would have a fine view over the town and could watch the storm unfold.
With his cloak wrapped firmly around him, the monk staggered to the road junction. Here, the High Street stretched to left and right. Now the monk was caught out by the sheer force of the south-westerly gale as it pushed on his throat, making him gag and pulled at his long robes, almost causing him to become a human sail. The combination of early dusk and the high winds had forced the market traders to pack up in a hurry. They had been slack with tidying up that day and the street was strewn with debris.
As he paused for a moment, the monk's ankle was assaulted by the dead body of a chicken as it flew along on the wind. What a life, he reflected: bred as human food, only to be rejected at the market place. What a waste, it would have given a hearty meal to some poor family. A cabbage rolled by. It was not in the nature of the townsfolk to let good food go to waste. The market really had been abandoned in haste as the storm took hold.
With a glance up at his goal, the monk crossed the High Street to a short road that led towards the church and harbour. Now, to the left, at the edge of a natural harbour, the churchyard walls held iron rings. These, in turn, held fishing boats, lashed securely by ropes. A sandy beach stretched out in either direction and shelved gently into the turbulent sea. At the top of the beach, beyond the reach of a spring tide, were more boats and the tools of the fishermen's trade.
"How long to high tide?" a fisherman shouted.
"An hour or more," was the reply from his companion.
"God's bones! It will take the lot."
"Not if we can help it."
The tide was not ready to turn; fishermen were desperately trying to pull their boats further up the shingle bank or secure them with more ropes to the wall of the churchyard. For a moment the monk paused to take in the scene of frantic activity. The sea was licking at the debris which marked its usual limits and then taking its chance to leap further. It clawed at ropes, nets and baskets as the townsfolk fought to snatch them back and drag them up to the beach-front track.
The smell of the sea was rich in his nose and mouth. The monk could taste it on his lips, pungent with seaweed and laden with salt. The seascape before him was a palate of dark blues, greys and purples, all highlighted by sporadic light-beams that came when the clouds raced past the face of the moon. But now it was the noise that assaulted his senses. As the sea forged landwards, it took shingle from the top of the beach. The air was filled with a cacophony of noise as pebbles were pulled back with the tide and then returned to be spat out further up the bank than ever before.
Whilst the sea threatened the fishermen, all men of the town gathered, whatever their trade, to help save the fishermen's livelihoods. The monk, set apart by his vocation, did not consider helping. He saw himself as a scribe, a messenger, and his duty to the town was different. By watching it all, he could record this great storm so it could be remembered beyond the fishermen's lifetimes. He was doing a service to the people of Romney in a less obvious way. By recording their history, their struggle would not go forgotten. So, he turned towards the best viewpoint that he knew of – the tower of the Norman Church.
"It's going to be a rough night," a fisherman passed by with an armful of rope.
"We are in God's hands," the monk replied piously.
"Let's hope He sees fit to spare us," the reply was whipped away on the wind.
No one noticed the loner as he opened the wooden entrance door, which was set at the base of the church tower. In near darkness, the monk felt his way around cool stone walls until he reached a roughly-hewn wooden ladder and began his ascent to the tower roof. In the dusky darkness he climbed up, pausing on platforms of wooden planks. Then, up past the bells, hanging steady, not knowing of the tempest outside the stout Norman walls. Finally, he reached a trap door and used all his strength to push it open. The monk then settled himself to crouch on the roof, against the low stone parapet. At once, he was so enraptured by the storm that he longed to put his quill to vellum, but this was not possible so he was forced to say the words aloud, committing them to memory:
"The moon, swollen to twice its usual size and glowing gold, sent shafts of light across the raging sea." He imagined the curling lines upon his vellum; it would look very fine. "The sea raged, throwing itself beyond its usual limits, seizing boats and pulling them from their moorings, taking them for its own." Looking down, he saw the sea was by no means ready to ebb and was now throwing its spoils back upon the beach track. As the sea forged on he prepared more lines in his mind: "No man was safe in his seafront home as the sea savaged them, battering them with their own boats and spitting shingle out onto the streets."
That evening, the monk had a perfect view of the harbour and beyond. He believed that he could see everything that happened in the town. He believed that nothing of significance would happen that he could not see and record for the town's history in his fine curling script.
He was wrong as, unseen by the monk, huddled in her father's pig shelter, a young woman was suffering her own terrors while the storm raged.