The challenge of writing about Anselm in fictional form is that there is such a wealth of contemporary writings about him: so many tales, hagiographies, stories, parables, that to some extent he has already been fictionalised into the standard medieval ‘saint’ before the novelist gets to work. In addition, he was the subject of a biographer – Eadmer – who has left us substantial material about his life and work written from a contemporary viewpoint. Eadmer lived alongside him for many years and travelled with him extensively during his long periods of exile. The material is rich and copious, so the novelist, as always, has to be selective. But this is a great problem to have, and the debt to Eadmer is inestimable.
For me, one of the attractions of putting Anselm into works of fiction is the intimate glimpses we get from Eadmer which go beyond the standard ‘life of a saint.’ Eadmer’s pen gives us circumstantial evidence that Anselm was not always ‘saintly,’ that he was flawed and human and thus attractive to write about because of his personality as well as his huge significance in the affairs of the church and on the political stage over a long period of time from at least 1093 until his death in 1109.
In The Remarkable Tale of the Bull and the Sheep, we first see Anselm in Gloucester, at the Palace of Kingsholm in the immensely dramatic spring of 1093.
The king, William Rufus, has fallen sick and is thought to be dying (p. 13):
“Gloucester was packed. Never had so many prelates and churchmen been gathered together around the king. The town filled up with ministers and clergy, officials, small post holders of the king’s suite and all those who could not be lodged at a castle already filled to bursting with courtiers and their followers. The feeding of such numbers began to put a strain on the surrounding food stores. Barns were forcibly opened and the contents seized. Local manor farms lost livestock. In whatever way the situation was to be resolved, the people of Gloucester wished it would be soon[…] Then, on Sunday, 6th March, a great stir was caused by the arrival of Anselm, the sixty-year-old Abbot of Bec, one of the most renowned monks in Christendom. Had he been summoned? If not, why was he here? Whispers went round among the courtiers. What was Anselm up to? Had a genuine concern for the king compelled him to bring the consolation of prayers? Or was there an ulterior motive, the search for a post, perhaps? Was Anselm at last signalling his readiness to end the great scandal of William’s reign?”
Anselm thinks he is just paying his respects to the king. He is ready to offer his prayers backed by the weight of all his monks at the Abbey of Bec where he has been Abbot since 1078. In fact there is a ‘conspiracy’( of sorts) afoot. The noble and magnates, fearful that William will die, desperately want an Archbishop of Canterbury appointed before that moment comes. What better candidate than the Abbot of Bec? Respected, popular, with a lustrous reputation for learning and a good relationship with the English King, most of all, available and on the spot, Anselm was their man.
Believing the king will die and wanting an archbishop in place, the nobles exert pressure, literally, even physically, trying to force his compliance (p. 18):
“Again, they clamour about him. Voices are raised in unseemly fulminations above the king’s bed. Someone shouts, brings them to their senses and urges him out into an antechamber, pulling at his robes. He is being conducted into the next room where they continue to press about him, once again forcing his hand in the most literal sense, opening his fist around the pastoral staff then clenching it around the shaft, impelling him to their will, overcoming his objections, sensing they have cornered him. Again, he rejects it, but he wants it. Undoubtedly he wants it. Somewhere in his nature, ambition has been revealed, a tiny figure prancing naked.”
This extraordinary scene is graphically described by Eadmer who probably witnessed it. At once comic and improbable, it is nevertheless reported seriously as an event in the life of a saint. While Anselm can barely grasp the enormity of what has happened, his secretary, Baldwin, is already moving on to the next task.
Baldwin asks a very reasonable question of a stunned archbishop (p. 20):
‘Master,’ said Baldwin, wishing to turn his thoughts away from the king and towards Canterbury, ‘do you wish me to write to the chapter house, to inform them of your election? Surely fortune has smiled on them as well as on you.’
Anselm’s face hardened. ‘If the world smiles on you with favours, do not smile in return. It does not smile that you may smile, but that it may mock.’
Baldwin had heard this sentiment before, it was Anselm’s way of denying good fortune the power to deprive him of insecurity.‘
Master, will you accept the appointment? Have you accepted it?’
‘It is in God’s hands, Baldwin. If the king dies, everything will depend on his successor. I will make no move, say no word, until God shows the way.’
Indeed, God very soon shows the way and Anselm has no alternative but to accept, with or without grace. Thus he becomes the SHEEP of the title. In this allegory he is yoked with the BULL (King William Rufus).
What is remarkable is that Anselm himself first made the comparison in a public address to the lords who voted him into office:
“The plough in England is drawn by two oxen outstanding among the rest: the King and the Archbishop of Canterbury. These two, drawing the plough, rule the land, one by human justice and sovereignty, the other by divine doctrine and authority. My lords, you are trying to harness together at the plough under one yoke an untamed bull and an old and feeble sheep. What will come of it?”
Archbishop Anselm 1093 (recorded by Eadmer in Historia Novorum in Anglia (trans. Geoffrey Bosanquet Cresset Press p. 36
As well as Anselm’s relationship with the king, which is centred on power and principle, other important relationships are portrayed in the novel, especially with Baldwin, his secretary, and Eadmer, his biographer. One of the real pleasures in writing about the characters of Anselm and his relationship with Eadmer was the opportunity to imagine their first meeting. What a momentous occasion that must have been!
I imagine that it was Baldwin, the secretary, but also chief adviser, fixer and agent of the Archbishop, that introduced them. Perhaps it was just before Anselm’s enthronement at Canterbury, a timeline that seems to fit (p. 21):
‘Master,’ said Baldwin one morning a few days before the ceremony was due to take place, ‘there’s someone I would like you to meet.’
Baldwin gestured the man to enter. He came forward, went on one knee and kissed Anselm’s hand. He was of slight build, about thirty or so with thick sandy hair around his tonsure, a sprinkling of freckles around a fleshy nose and blue-grey eyes of startling ardour and ingenuousness.
‘Welcome, young man, I greet you in Christ’s name.’
‘Master, this young man is Eadmer.”
From then on Anselm and Eadmer spend the best part of the next fifteen years sharing the daily round of Benedictine life at Canterbury, or trailing around Europe on their many trips abroad, often brought about because Anselm had soured his relations with the king. The history of the relationship between Anselm and King William Rufus is one of constant battles, bickering, makings-up and fallings-out. I found this immensely fascinating to write about. Firstly, to understand the serious nature of their differences, and then to see the wonderful human flaws and comic possibilities in their conduct.
On one occasion when they are enjoying a rapprochement, Anselm grows overconfident and sparks the king’s temper (p. 48):
“It was as if the court sighed with relief. For once, after so long, the bull and the sheep were in step, they were going to draw the plough straight, at last, working together for the good of the realm. To the surprise of all, the king called for a chair and had Anselm sit beside him, out of respect for his advancing years. And there they sat, pleasantly discussing their points of agreement in what appeared to be an astonishing rapprochement. But while the king never lost sight of his political objectives, Anselm never lost sight of his apostolic zeal. Overconfidence, or misjudgement, drew him into a blunder[…]”
Feeling himself on solid ground, Anselm proposes that the king should permit a Church Council to be held in order to reform aspects of government where many wrongs were going unchecked (p. 48):
“Anselm seemed completely oblivious to the offence he was giving and continued in this vein, full of earnest and genuine zeal, as if he truly believed that an accusatory speech might reform the king. For his part, William began to suspect that he was dealing with the most dangerous kind of fool, a holy fool with whom it would never be possible to reach a political understanding.”
For establishing Anselm’s character I drew on Eadmer’s works, particularly Historia Novorum in Anglia (History of Recent Events in England) and the Vita Sancti Anselmi (The Life of Saint Anselm.) The latter is a more traditional sort of hagiography which includes the expected miracles and wonder stories, but it also gives a glimpse of Anselm’s relations with the King and his subsequent travels. This text is “the first intimate portrait of a Saint in our history” according to the scholar, R W Southern.
Some of the reported incidents are quite amusing and I took one of them to illustrate an aspect of Anselm’s character – his willingness to see animals as a valuable part of God’s creation. This chimes with a modern current in contemporary thought. So I used Eadmer’s account of De liberatione leporis or How a Hare was Set Free to illustrate an endearing trait in Anselm’s character.
Anselm has left court and is hurrying to his manor at Hayes (p. 214):
“It so happened that, on the journey to Hayes, some boys of his household, running ahead with their dogs, chased a hare which they had come upon in the road. As they were pursuing it, the terrified animal headed straight to the horse on which Anselm sat and sheltered, trembling, between its hooves. Seeing this, he drew his horse by the reins to keep it still. So it was that the wretched, unhoused Anselm turned himself into a place of refuge for another victim of persecution. The dogs came around, snuffling. Anselm told the boys to haul them off. The hare sat still and would not move. Some of the boys began to laugh, never having seen such an unusual sight, made even more hilarious by the fact that it was the Archbishop of Canterbury, the second greatest man in England, who was giving refuge to a cornered hare under his stationary horse.
‘Don’t laugh,’ said Anselm, ‘don’t mock the poor creature. He does not laugh. His enemies stand all about him. He looks for some helping hand. Shall we sneer at suffering innocence?’
With this, Anselm slackened his rein and the horse went forward, allowing the hare to dash away unhurt, running towards the fields while Anselm watched him flee to freedom with a look of longing.”
By the end of the book Anselm has been sent into exile by the King where he remains for three years. But his illustrious career is by no means over. He will be back to do battle with another king in the sequel After the Arrow.
Anselm and Eadmer (and Baldwin) are all historical characters whose lives are fairly well recorded in their own times, and all become the centre of scholarly attention in after years. Nevertheless their relationships – i.e. how they negotiated personality, how they ‘got on’ together is not recorded in so much detail and that gives extensive scope for imaginative writing. Character can be reconstructed from interactions that are a matter of historical record, but only in relation to the other people involved.
But a further fascinating dimension for historical fiction writers is to place historical figures in close proximity to fictional characters. This gives scope for invention and imagination, although it should, in my view, be restricted to the probable – unless you are writing fantasy fiction. Even so, placing your own imaginary character within a strict historical context has its own thrill and challenge. This was the case for me in relation to the historical Ranulf Flambard and his fictional servant, later secretary, steward and friend, Firmin. Their relationship is developed through the novels.