from The New Lives of the Saints (Random House, 1956)

While source materials are both coloured and contradictory about the origins of St. Gavin, the quondam Holy Roman Emperor, some things can be held as (shall we say) gospel: that Gavin was not his birth name, but the name he assumed on entering the Church; that he was from Lincolnshire; that he was once whipped by a bishop for stealing his apples and repeatedly sneaking into his cellars. In the latter instance, it is said that he prayed to Bernard of Clairvaux to relieve him of pain and Bernard changed the uncomfortable welts on his posterior to tattooed lines of Scripture. This was cited to the Vatican as one of the three miracles required to declare Bernard of Clairvaux a Catholic saint.

This tale serves to reveal the poor, humble origins which St Gavin overcame, as so many notables of his time did. ¹⁾ St Gavin’s lifelong devotion to St Bernard and St James both formed and informed his scholastic career as well as his later revisions to scholastic law and study (and the founding of the University of Aachen). There are many anecdotes of students being startled by the apparitions of the trio during exam times, quizzing them in Latin and interrupting parties when their time should have been spent studying. (The same accounts allege the ale left behind had been consumed by morning.)

That he was flippant and had pet names for saints such as “Bon-Bon” for the accursed Boniface and “Jimbo” for St James I strongly dispute, for in religious matters his behaviour was mostly exemplary. We are fortunate to have many records of Aachen from this period survive in Gavin's own hand, and although there are various meditations on the merits of St James, never are any of the saints referred to in anything other than devotion. Of his flirtations with the cult of St. Guinevere little is known; what is certain only that once his actions triggered her temper to such an extent that the chapel in which the incident occurred exploded and Gavin was left nursing a withered member, which he bore for years until another saint cured it. That it was cured is evident by the fact that we continue to have notes written by the afflicted limb….

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Gavin found himself suddenly physical. His mind blinked and gradually became accustomed to the sensation of having hands and feet again. He looked around.

“Hel-lo, darling.”

“Garsenda. How did you get me here?”

“I used the bracelet, darling, or rather, I had a priest summon you from it. It is time for our rendez-vous, you know.”

“I suppose it is. How have you been?”

“I’m wonderful as ever, darling. We have work to do.”

“We do?”

“Yes. It is time to address your legacy. The stories about you simply won’t do. They are dying. Not enough for people to chew on. A hundred years ago when Adelise was still alive I had her compose songs about your rise to power.”

“I vaguely remember that.”

“Vaguely, yes, darling. The tunes were a smashing success but the material was so dull that people immediately forgot the words, and substituted others. You do know The Dancing Ferrets?”

“The one about the six hundred identical polecats? Oh, yes, that’s jolly good.”

“That used to be one of them. Now, Gavin dear, drink up and let’s make up some really juicy truths for people to love about you.”

Centuries had not strengthened Gavin’s lack of ability to withstand the troubadour. At least he was certain of good drink and an entertaining few days. He picked up the cup and drank. It tasted—it tasted of things almost forgotten. Of home. “…Garsenda. What is this?”

“Cider, darling. I thought you might be tired of Vincent’s blue wine. It’s all right, isn’t it? Lincolnshire apples. I scrumped them myself, so it’s all done good and proper. There’s a couple of barrels to be got through.”

“…”

“Oh, now, darling, chin up. Saints don’t cry….”