The Dunce Chapter 2

It was late summer in the year of our Lord 1280. John Duns swung his scythe and felled another swathe of the yellow oats. The late afternoon sun was still hot. Dust from the grain stuck to John’s sweaty forehead. His straight brown hair was cut at shoulder length with a short fringe that was sticking just above the grain dust. His arms were tanned from spending the summer working on the family farms. He had cut and carted hay on his grandfather’s farm, Grueldykes, just over a mile south of his parent’s house on the slopes above Dunse. He then went and did the same for his Uncle Cuthbert down in Roxburgh. Now at the end of August he was back at Grueldykes harvesting the oats. He swung again then paused. To the south he could see the Cheviot Hills shimmering in the haze. Between him and the hills was the rich Tweed valley and some of the best agricultural land in Scotland.

The ownership of the land was divided between lay landowners and the religious orders that had established priories, friaries and abbeys in the area. Fifty years previously his own great-grandfather had given land to some of the first Franciscans to arrive in Scotland to help them to establish a holy house in Roxburgh. He had just left the Friary in Haddington, thirty miles to the North West, where he had received his early education. Three years ago, when he was twelve and living in the Friary, Uncle Cuthbert had donated land to the Haddington monks so that they could extend their gardens. Recently another uncle, Elias, had negotiated a degree of freedom for the Scottish Franciscans from their English brethren. Elias was head of the Dumfries Franciscan house and of the Scottish Franciscans.

John took one more swing and then bent to gather the cut corn. As he gathered the stalks into a bundle, he drew off a handful and neatly twisted them into a temporary rope, which he used to tie the bundle into a sheaf. He picked up two other sheaves that he had tied earlier and stood the three in a little stook. There they would stand for a day or two until they were carted into the threshing floor in the farm yard, where the sheaves would be untied and the stalks beaten to separate the grains from the straw. The grains would then be milled to produce oatmeal and the straw used for bedding both people and animals over the winter.

Aidan, one of John’s, grandfather’s farm labourers, worked alongside him. As John turned from setting up the stook, Aidan cut another swathe of oats. A family of field mice scattered as the stalks fell.

“Vermin” cried the farm worker and raised his boot to stamp on the scurrying mice.

“Stop!” ordered John and pushed the man back. “They’re all God’s creatures. Let them live.”

“Sorry, Maister John. I was nae thinkin’. I forgot ye followed Brother Francis.”

“No Aidan. I should be apologising to you. I shouldn’t have laid a finger on you or shouted at you. Brother Francis did indeed teach that we should love the beasts of the fields and the birds of the air. But he also taught the importance of living at peace with our fellows. I have no right to shout at you or to push you. Please forgive me.”

“Och dinnae bother about it young master. I’ve had far worse treatment than you’ve ever ge’en me. Look here’s young mistress Hilda wi’ some refreshment.”

John’s cousin had walked from the fermtoun with a bucket of water freshly drawn from the well. It still had the chill of its subterranean reservoir. In it were a couple of handfuls of oatmeal. Hilda set the bucket down and stirred up the liquid with a ladle that she had brought with her. Each of the men took the ladle in turn and drank the cloudy water.

“Will you walk me back, John. I’ve hardly spoken to you all summer.”

“I should really carry on here. There’s a good two hour’s work I could still put in.”

“O come on. You could be back in twenty minutes and I’m sure the men will work just as hard without your example.”

“How could I refuse such a pretty maiden’s request? Here give me the bucket and ladle.”

Hilda was eighteen months older than John. The top of her head reached his shoulder. As they walked across the stubble, she linked her arm into his.

“Tell me about school,” she said when they were out of earshot of the men. “What did you learn?”

“We learned Latin and Greek. We studied the holy scriptures. We prayed and we worked in the gardens with the monks.”

“I wish I could read. Will you teach me?” asked the young woman.

“I fear I won’t have time. I’m due to leave for Dumfries soon. Uncle Elias is letting me enter as novice.”

“I don’t want you to go. Will you kiss me?”

“What are you saying?”

“Kiss me, please.”

They were standing in a V shape formed by two tall hedges at the edge of the farm orchard. Hilda was standing close to John and looking up into his face. He looked down, dropped the bucket and took her in his arms. They kissed. He felt a rush of excitement as she pushed herself against him. He rubbed against her and pushed his head into her hair. It smelt of the sun and the corn and the open air. His hands were all over her and her’s all over him. Suddenly he shuddered and felt a damp, warm patch between his legs.

“O Lord what have I done?” he cried and pushed her away from him.

“You’ve just done what’s natural for men and women to do,” Hilda consoled.

“But the natural man is an enemy of God.” He responded.

“Didn’t God create nature? How could something natural and pleasurable be wrong?”

“Because it’s a betrayal.”

“Who have we betrayed? Neither of us is betrothed.”

“We have betrayed my future calling and your future husband.”

“My future husband!” Hilda retorted. “My future husband will be a rare man indeed if he comes to me without having known a woman. Why should it be different for me?”

“You know it is different for you. I worry for you. You may not read but you can think and that is dangerous. You’ll get into trouble with God and the Church.”

“God and the Church surely have greater concerns than two young people who have an embrace on a summer evening in Scotland. Every year another Christian city falls to the Mohammedans. The holy city itself, where Christ was crucified, has been gone these forty years.”

“God cares for every creature no matter how great or how small. He sees their every action. He judges their every deed.”

“We are also taught that God is a God of love. He will recognise love and intention. He will recognise no malice or sin or filthiness in our actions this night.”

“Then why do I feel so dirty and worthless.”

At that Hilda picked up the ladle and cracked John on the head with it.

“There. Now you also hurt as I do from your ridiculous whinging. You think only of yourself and your guilt; not of my feelings”.

She retrieved her bucket and made for the farmhouse. John watched her go and doubted her would ever see her again.

He returned to the field and worked reaping the corn until it was too dark to continue. He then ran the mile uphill to his parent’s house but could not escape the guilt. When he reached the courtyard of the townhouse where he lived, there were two pack horses tied up under the shelter. His heart fell. Could it be? Surely not? He called to a groom.

“To whom do the horses belong?”

“Ah young master, they’re frae the friary at Dumfries. Your uncle’s visiting.”

It was John’s worst nightmare. On the very evening when he had committed the worst sin of his life, his uncle arrived, presumably to take him back to start his preparation to be a Franciscan monk and a priest. John sneaked into the house but was seen.

“Ah John. Come and join us. Look who’s here. Your Uncle Elias from Dumfries with one of his brethren.” Ninian Duns held his arm out towards his son and directed him towards the guests.

“I see you have been labouring in the fields of harvest. I believe you wish to engage in the Lord’s greater harvest.”

“Forgive me please, Uncle. I fear I am unworthy to follow such a path.”

“My dear son which of us considers himself worthy? We all labour under the burden of sin. I perceive that you are tired. Let us speak again in the morning.”

“Yes, uncle. Let us.”

John knew the burden of guilt that night. He slept little. He feared that not only had he destroyed any chance of becoming a Franciscan but possibly any chance of redemption. It was a hot night and John felt close to the fires of hell. He dreaded his interview with the superior Franciscan of Scotland in the morning. It did not help at all that this man was his father’s brother.

He rose early and knelt in sincere prayer crying out inwardly for forgiveness from God. He felt a little better but still considered his soul to be in jeopardy. As he rose from his prayers his uncle was at his side.

“Come walk with me, my son. Tell me what troubles you.”

John looked into the eyes of this kindly man and trusted him. He told him of the events of the previous evening without incriminating Hilda by revealing with whom he had engaged in the activity that troubled him. He told Elias of his fears that he was now ineligible for the Franciscan order and for the priesthood.

“My dear boy, if the Order and the priesthood were only open to those who are perfect, our holy houses would be empty. Brother Francis himself indulged in some debauchery as a young man. Your sin is significant but minor compared with the acts of many. You have not yet undertaken your vow of chastity. All is not lost. You have recognised your error. That is the first step. Christ died to take upon himself the sins of us all. To retain the sin to yourself is to deny Christ’s power. Let it go. Let the Saviour save you. Come kneel with me.”

The two kneeled together on the slopes of Dunse Law; the old priest and the young man, and the latter wondered what it was to let Christ take your guilt away. As the elder’s prayer ended the younger thought he knew.