The monastery of Saint Gall, 883.
My name is Notker, the St-St-St-St-ammerer.
Have no fear, my friends. I jest with you. Though my tongue betrays me whenever I open my mouth, my pen is as fluent as the stream that flows beside our monastery. Here I sit, old, weary, and toothless, shivering in this inhospitable place where I have lived out my days. The Benedictine house of Saint Gall is in the upland valley of the Steinach, in the German Swiss canton of Saint Gallen. It is bleak and remote. We suffer all the privations enjoined by the founder of the Order, and I, of course, your humble narrator, suffer the additional burden imposed upon me at birth. A stammer can cause endless amusement among those who can speak without impediment, but it is a heavy cross to bear for the stammerer himself.
Monks are capable of great cruelty. They tease me incessantly. My nickname is N-N-N-Notker even though that particular consonant is one over which I never stumble. Labials are my real enemies. My lips tremble at the very thought of them. But nothing terrorizes me more than the letter S. Ask me to tell you about saints such as Simeon Stylites or Simplicius or the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus and I will hiss embarrassingly at you for hours on end. Like others who were born to stammer, I have learned to choose my words with care or, on occasion, to express myself in ways that require no speech at all. That is why I am drawn to tell this hitherto unpublished story about Carolus Magnus, the Emperor Charlemagne. It features a man not unlike myself in younger days: naive, devout, and deeply loyal to his ordained ruler. An unlikely hero, perhaps, but one who deserves praise. How many of you realize that Charlemagne’s life was once saved by a monk with a pronounced stammer?
We also serve who only stand and bite our tongue.
Charlemagne is remembered primarily as a military leader, as a supreme general who fought over fifty campaigns in the course of his long life. Danes, Slavs, Saxons, Avars, Dalmatians, Lombards, and Spaniards alike found it impossible to resist the inexorable extension of his empire. Yet he was impelled by no mere lust for glory. Behind the recurring wars was a holy purpose. He strove to defend the Christianity of the West against the enemies who threatened it on all sides and, in the wake of his victories, he was able to promote the most wondrous renaissance of learning.
Charlemagne’s renowned Palace School in Aachen was a haven for the finest scribes, teachers, scholars, and illuminators of manuscripts. No scriptorium before or since has ever rivaled the quality and quantity of the work that was published and disseminated from the Carolingian capital. Only one achievement was greater than the establishment of the Palace School and that was Charlemagne’s choice of the man who was its head.
His name was Alcuin but his master called him by an affectionate nickname.
“Greetings, Albinus.”
“Welcome to the School, mighty King.”
“It seems busier than ever,” said Charlemagne, looking around the scriptorium with satisfaction. “Or are your scholars merely trying to impress me?”
“What you see now is what you would see on any day that you cared to visit us,” said Alcuin proudly, indicating the rows of monks bent diligently over their work. “I impose stern discipline. It is the only way to ensure that our high standards are maintained. Lazy scholars have no place here.”
“How does it compare with York?”
“Very favorably.”
“In what way?”
“The most obvious,” replied Alcuin. “When I began copying and editing texts in York Cathedral all those years ago, we never had more than three or four scribes at work. Here, as you see,” he went on, waving a skeletal arm, “we have almost four dozen. This year we expect to produce over two hundred and fifty books.”
“Excellent!”
“Much of the credit must go to you.”
“Me?” said Charlemagne with a chuckle. “A man who cannot even write?”
“You appreciate the importance of books.”
“What I appreciate is the genius of a certain Albinus.”
Alcuin gave a weary smile. “My remaining hair is silver rather than white.”
“You will always be Albinus to me.”
“And you, my Imperial Highness, will always be King David to me.”
Charlemagne gave another chuckle. His own nickname delighted him. It was an honor to be compared to such a commanding figure from the Old Testament. King David was a courageous soldier, a shrewd politician, a fond husband and father, a lover of beauty, poetry, and music. Believing himself to be in the same mould, Charlemagne was not blind to the fact that he, like David before him, also had an impressive retinue of concubines. It was something about which Alcuin ventured to tease him.
The contrast between the two men could not have been sharper. Charlemagne was tall, well-built, and powerful. He had a natural authority and a dignified bearing. His eyes were unusually large and set either side of a prominent nose. There was a worldliness about him that made others feel desperately provincial. Alcuin, on the other hand, was an ascetic, a native of Northumbria who had dedicated himself to learning at an early age and who had grown up within the hallowed walls of York Cathedral. The fair skin and white hair of a typical Anglo-Saxon had earned him the nickname of Albinus. Slight of build, he was a quiet, resolute, conscientious man who had distinguished himself as a scholar, teacher, and poet. Whatever reservations he might have about the darker sides of Charlemagne’s private life were kept to himself. At the Palace School, he had been given an opportunity that every scholar in Christendom would envy.
“Are you happy here, Albinus?” asked Charlemagne.
“Sublimely so, David.”
“Then why do I sense a note of wistfulness?”
“Wistfulness?” repeated Alcuin.
“Yes,” said Charlemagne, studying him carefully. “I noticed it as soon as I came in. It is as if your body is here in Aachen but your mind is somewhere else.”
“I am sorry if I give that impression.”
“Do you still pine for York?”
“No, David.”
“Are you sure? I would not blame you if you did.”
“I still think of York,” admitted Alcuin. “It holds many dear memories for me. When you were gracious enough to let me return there, I was filled with contentment, but I do not yearn to spend the last of my days in York. That chapter in my life is ended.”
“Will you remain here in Aachen?”
“That is for my lord and master to decide.”
“I would not hold you here against your will.”
“My heart and mind belong to the Palace School for the moment,” said Alcuin, not yet ready to confess that his real ambition was to become abbot of Tours. “But, if we are looking to the future,” he continued, deftly turning attention away from himself, “we ought also to consider your own.”
“Soldiers have no future, Albinus. The next battle could be my last.”
“Then it behooves you to think about a successor.”
“My eldest son, Charles.”
“Not necessarily.”
Charlemagne tensed. “You doubt his qualities?”
“Not at all, great King. All your sons are worthy of their illustrious father. What I beg leave to doubt is whether Charles will outlive you.”
“Yes,” sighed the other, “he is prone to recklessness on the battlefield. But he has fought bravely and deserves to take my throne in the fullness of time.” He saw the glint in Alcuin’s eye. “You know something, Albinus.”
“Do I?”
“You can see into the future.”
“Hardly.”
“Your predictions are invariably correct.”
“They are simply wild guesses.”