The legend of Bunstable, Patron Saint of Madrone,
was set down by Mistress Deirdre Muldomhnaigh, Baroness of Madrone in AS
IX. The celebration of the Feast of Saint Bunstable began in the Barony of
Madrone, Principality of An Tir, and in fact my first SCA event was the
feast of St Bunstable which was held at Lechbury Abbey (a house jointly rented
by several folk of Madrone) in November AS IX. At this time, it was
not truly a feast but an informal gathering where the wine and spirts
flowed freely. Lechbury Abbey is named for St Lech (another tale set down by
Baroness Deirdre Muldomhnaigh). Subsequently the celebration in Madrone
became more formalized, but meanwhile I had moved to Jararvellir and decided to
serve as a missionary by bringing the celebration there. My Lord and I held
the Feast of St Bunstable in Jararvellir several times between AS
XI and XIV and established the new tradition of a Bunstable subtley
complete with blue brandy-fire. Although we moved on, not to return for
more than a score of years, we were delighted to hear that the
celebration of St Bunstable has survived in Jararvellir.
Bunstable, Martyr, Patron of
Madrone
As told by Deirdre
Muldomhnaigh
Prologue
These Northern lands are cold
and damp and drear
Our weather far too cold for
drinking beer
Makes us all flock together
for to raise
Our spirits good St Bunstable
to praise
How we did learn of this good
martyr meek
Will warm thy heart—of this I
will now speak
This wondrous tale one night
to me was told
By a friar somewhat more
dissolute than old.
Better to hear the marvels he
did utter,
I sat me down beside him in
the gutter
In times long past, in
distant Lechbury,
An English abbey far across
the sea,
The monks had learned a
secret—later lost—
They made from simple wine a
splendid sawse.
The spiritual elevation of
Bunstable
Since in that abbey Bunstable
did dwell,
To his lot in obedience, it
fell
To guard the brandy stored in
oaken casks,
He bent with humble heart
unto his task.
The cellar he did watch in
proper spirit,
And vowed he’d never let
intruders near it,
But those were troublouos
days, the Viking horde
Would oft attack with fire
and with sword
Destroying peaceful towns and
villages
For there was no defense
against their pillages
One day the folk of Lechbury
did shiver
When dragonships appeared
upon the river.
As the alarm rang out o’er
farm and field
Lechburians prepared to flee
or yield,
But to the abbey’s cellar
came no din,
To where lay Bunstable, with
saintly grin
As he lay in well-besotted
slumber
And dreamed of casks of
brandy without number
His brothers fled to save
their mortal hides
From Norsemen who sailed in
upon the tide
Their leadr, Bjorn the
Terrible, did boast
His hapless victims he was
want to roast
Over the ashes of their
manuscripts
He thought of well-fed friar
and licked his lips.
But when the dragonships had
reached the beach,
He found the people fled
beyond his reach.
Bjorn, unable to contain his
ire
Swore he’d put the abbey to
the fire
Thought he that stone would
burnz/ We do not know,
For that was far away and
long ago.
But wait, spoke up his second
in command—
Smite not this building with
thy mighty hand
Until we’ve searched it
carefully for treasure—
Tis said the monks have
hoards beyond all measure.
Well-spoke, cried
Bjorn—a-hunting we will go.
Take thou the tower—I will
search below.
In poverty this abbey was
quite pure—
The monks cared less for gold
than for liquer,
And all their liquid measure
they did hide
In the casks poor Bunstable
did sleep beside.
Bjorn brought a torch to
light the darkness vast—
To flames did light the
brandy fumes. A blast
Much like the trump of doom
on judgement day
Did shake the earth and even
Bjorn did pray,
For he was covered o’er by
strange blue flame.
When it died down he found
out to his shame
That he’d become completely
egg-like bald
“Bjorn the Hairless” he was
henceforth called.
The casks had burst, and
Bunstable, who’d tended
Them faithfully, to heaven
had attended.
He was declared a martyr, in
due time
And long did Bjorn the
Hairless rue his crime
Bunstable among the saints
The angels stopped Saint
Bunstable in flight
And garbed the holy martyr
all in white,
Showed him a cloud on which
to sit all day
And handed him a golden harp
to play
Said he, although I am a
martyred monk,
I’d rather be the patron
saint of drunks.
This could is cold, the robe
is far too soft—
I am unsuited to a life
aloft,
And though I wish not to
offend the Lord,
I could be honest—frankly I
am bored.
He plucked his harp and
uttered silent curses,
For all his favorite tunes
had bawdy verses.
Poor Bunstable felt very out
of place
And hoped he might be
banished in disgrace.
Now down below, a thousand
years had passed
Since Bunstable had risen on
the blast,
But still he missed the life
he’d known on earth—
And, sad for want of revelry
and mirth,
He asked to visit for a
little while.
The angels bathed him in
their gentle smiles,
And said, the world has
changed more than you know
But, if ‘twoud make you
happy, why then go.
So Bunstable was free to walk
again,
The world he knew—of common
men.
Saint Bunstable’s Mission
First Bunstable went back to England,
But there he saw such changed
on each hand
That he did shake his head
and sadly sigh
While thinking how the years
had passed him by.
Does naught remain? cried
Bunstable in woe.
Where are the simple people I
did know?
This modern world’s too grim
and gray and stark.
It lacks a certain joy, a
merry spark
We had in Lechbury in years
long gone,
But time has passed and
centuries march on.
So traveling with many a
mournful moon
He crossed the sea to the
Barony of Madrone.
At last he stood with weary
body sore
Before a hall and knocked
upon the door.
Full stunned was he when it
did open wide
To see that his own people
were inside,
As though the years between
had disappeared.
For joy, the martyr wiped
away a tear.
Come join us monk, each
reveler did call
As Bunstable stepped forth
into the hall.
These are my folk, he
thought. I’m home at last.
He smiled as ‘round the
brimming cup was passed
Ambrosia was never like this,
he laughed,
And to the dregs another
cupful quaffed.
The folk made merry late into
the night—
Some reveled faithfully until
first light.
The martyr stayed among them
till the last
A-singing songs and passing
‘round his flask.
My spirit stays among you! He
did cry
Strive not to go to heaven
when you die.
A paradise on earth is far
more fun
For men of spirit—brandy, gin
or rum.
The blessing that I give yo
is as follows—
Like Capistrano, you’ll be
fame dfor swallows
And then Saint Bunstable did
disappear
But he returns from time to
time, I hear,
The friar said, he looked at
me and smiled.
You know not who I am. Bless you, my child.
Then as I watched, the
friar’s face became
Illuminated by a flickering
blue flame
I’ve seen in restaurants that
serve food flambé
I realized it was Saint
Bunstable’s Day,
And fell upon my knees there
in the street.
Stay, Saint Bunstable, I thee
entreat!
He shook his head and faded
from my sight
And I got most devoutly drunk
that night