standing: Loftur the Rich Guttormsson, knight at Modruvellir, and his wife Ingibjorg Palsdottir, parents of the king’s governor Ormur, with their large entourage, and many landowners from nearby districts. No one wanted to miss the excommunication, and besides, it was vital to demonstrate one’s support for their bishop. The lawman at Akrar was not present, however, and only a few people from Blonduhlid. The air was thick and clammy and the church dusky, with only minimal light coming in through the stained glass in the tall, arched windows. Lighted candles in candlesticks along the walls and on the transepts on the great columns cast a flickering light over the congregation.
Mass began with the Kyrie Eleison, as usual. The bright tenor voice of Steinmodur the cantor resounded down along the nave, and when more than 120 strong-voiced priests and canons echoed the prayers, the air, infused with song, trembled. The heart of every true Christian had to be moved by the divine beauty of the song as it echoed from the dome above the altar and on throughout the entire church like the murmur of a thousand voices. The singing of the prayers gave way to psalms, and the commoners joined in, many so moved by the beauty of the music that tears welled up in their eyes, causing them to blow their noses into their fingers and on the backs of their hands. The psalm was Kolbeinn Tumason’s “Hear, Thou Maker of Heaven” in Nordic, and some grinned to themselves, recalling that the composer of the psalm had himself been excommunicated by Gvendur, bishop of Holar, some two centuries earlier, something of which the foreign Bishop Craxton was likely unaware.
From the lectorium Father Thorkell intoned the sermon from the First Epistle of Peter, chapter five, in a deep voice, so that both high and low might hear the Word of God: “ Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour: Resist him, stedfast in the faith .” When the final note had sounded, there was silence for a few moments, after which bells began to ring and a murmur passed through the congregation: It was time!
The churchgoers who stood at the back, closest to the door, tried to elbow their way closer in to have a better view, but the overcrowding was such that it was difficult to see what took place next to the holy of all holies, except for those who stood next to the choir doors. Michael was among them; he had slipped in front of the men-servants, schoolboys, and farmers, one by one, lithe as a cat, and now he had a fine view into the bright choir, where thick wax candles shone in the hands of the priests. In front of the beautifully carved bishop’s throne, His Grace John Williamsson Craxton stood with a burning candle in his raised hands and began to sing in Latin. The meaning eluded Michael—Latin was not his strong suit—but he was sure that this was the excommunication itself, excommunicatio maior . Those were the words that barred Father Jon Palsson of Grenjadarstadur Parish from all the sacraments of the holy church, thereby condemning him to eternal hell and damnation if he did not repent and serve true penance within the time decreed. For those who were excommunicated from the church, the gate to heaven was locked. A shiver ran down the boy’s back.
Now twelve clerics came and arranged themselves in a semicircle on either side of the bishop, each representing one of Christ’s apostles. Each had the flickering light of life and blessings, shining on the candles they held in extended hands. The flames danced to and fro in the draft, illuminating the grave countenances of those assembled with an unsteady light. Craxton stepped out among them and threw his candle on the floor, and in a loud voice he proclaimed: “Thy light shall be extinguished in this manner, Jon Palsson, for all eternity!” The priests quickly followed suit and threw their candles onto the stone floor, responding in
Mass began with the Kyrie Eleison, as usual. The bright tenor voice of Steinmodur the cantor resounded down along the nave, and when more than 120 strong-voiced priests and canons echoed the prayers, the air, infused with song, trembled. The heart of every true Christian had to be moved by the divine beauty of the song as it echoed from the dome above the altar and on throughout the entire church like the murmur of a thousand voices. The singing of the prayers gave way to psalms, and the commoners joined in, many so moved by the beauty of the music that tears welled up in their eyes, causing them to blow their noses into their fingers and on the backs of their hands. The psalm was Kolbeinn Tumason’s “Hear, Thou Maker of Heaven” in Nordic, and some grinned to themselves, recalling that the composer of the psalm had himself been excommunicated by Gvendur, bishop of Holar, some two centuries earlier, something of which the foreign Bishop Craxton was likely unaware.
From the lectorium Father Thorkell intoned the sermon from the First Epistle of Peter, chapter five, in a deep voice, so that both high and low might hear the Word of God: “ Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour: Resist him, stedfast in the faith .” When the final note had sounded, there was silence for a few moments, after which bells began to ring and a murmur passed through the congregation: It was time!
The churchgoers who stood at the back, closest to the door, tried to elbow their way closer in to have a better view, but the overcrowding was such that it was difficult to see what took place next to the holy of all holies, except for those who stood next to the choir doors. Michael was among them; he had slipped in front of the men-servants, schoolboys, and farmers, one by one, lithe as a cat, and now he had a fine view into the bright choir, where thick wax candles shone in the hands of the priests. In front of the beautifully carved bishop’s throne, His Grace John Williamsson Craxton stood with a burning candle in his raised hands and began to sing in Latin. The meaning eluded Michael—Latin was not his strong suit—but he was sure that this was the excommunication itself, excommunicatio maior . Those were the words that barred Father Jon Palsson of Grenjadarstadur Parish from all the sacraments of the holy church, thereby condemning him to eternal hell and damnation if he did not repent and serve true penance within the time decreed. For those who were excommunicated from the church, the gate to heaven was locked. A shiver ran down the boy’s back.
Now twelve clerics came and arranged themselves in a semicircle on either side of the bishop, each representing one of Christ’s apostles. Each had the flickering light of life and blessings, shining on the candles they held in extended hands. The flames danced to and fro in the draft, illuminating the grave countenances of those assembled with an unsteady light. Craxton stepped out among them and threw his candle on the floor, and in a loud voice he proclaimed: “Thy light shall be extinguished in this manner, Jon Palsson, for all eternity!” The priests quickly followed suit and threw their candles onto the stone floor, responding in
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