A WELL-KNOWN writer has spoken of the Scilly Isles as “patches of rock, dignified by historical and political associations”; and one is surprised to find, considering their small size and their isolated situation, how very frequently they do figure in the pages of history.
They were included with the mainland when the Romans took possession of Britain, and possibly their conquerors introduced Christianity here as elsewhere after they themselves had been converted. This is only guesswork. Strangely enough the first Christians whom we actually know by historical records to have landed in Scilly were heretics, sent there into exile by the Emperor Maximus for their unorthodox opinions. These were Bishops Instantius and Tiberianus, who were convicted of the Priscilline heresy in a.d. 384 and sent to “insula Sylina, quæ ultra Britannias est,” as we learn from Sulpicius Severus, who wrote only twenty years after the event.
After the Romans had left Britain (a.d. 410) the islands probably remained, like West Cornwall, independent of the Saxons; and when four centuries later the Northmen came to harry the country, they were joined by Welsh and Cornish Celts, glad of the chance of a blow at their common foe the Saxon. Scilly was then used by the Northmen as a sort of “naval base,” from which expeditions were made against the mainland. King Athelstan sent a fleet to oust them in 927, and left a garrison on the largest island; afterwards, in fulfilment of a vow, he founded a collegiate church at St. Buryan in Cornwall to commemorate his conquest.
It is uncertain at what date the Benedictine monks first came to Scilly. Some say it was in 938.
According to the Saga of King Olaf Tryggwason there was on Tresco in his time “a famous abbot, the head of a great cloister.” The story goes that the young Viking, in about the year 993, came harrying the coasts of England with a fleet of ninety-three ships, and was driven by contrary winds to the Isles of Scilly. Here he heard of a wonderful Christian hermit, who lived in a cell among the granite rocks and was said to possess the power of prophecy.
Olaf was then in the position of a seeker after truth. He was inclined towards the religion of the Christians, but he had never acknowledged himself as one of their number.
He was seized with curiosity to test the powers of the hermit, so he dressed up one of his tallest and handsomest followers in his own armour and bade him go to the cell and pretend he was the King. The disguise was quite useless. “You are no king,” said the hermit, “and I advise you to be faithful to your King.”
On the strength of this proof, Olaf went himself to the cell to make inquiries concerning his own future. The hermit foretold that he should not only become a renowned king and perform many famous deeds, but that (far greater honour!) he should lead many into the true Christian faith. And for a sign he told him that on returning to his fleet he would meet with foes, a battle would be fought, he would be wounded severely and be carried on a shield to his ship, but would recover after seven nights and would soon after be baptized.
Events happened just as had been predicted, and Olaf was so much impressed that as soon as he had recovered from his wound he put himself under the hermit’s instruction, and enrolled himself as a servant of the God of the Christians.
Afterwards he went to Tresco, where was “a famous abbot, the head of a great cloister,” who with his brethren came down to the shore to meet the King and welcome him with all honour. They gave him further instruction in the Christian faith, and finally he and all his company were baptized.
He appears to have spent several years in Scilly; and when he returned to Scandinavia, it was to devote his energies to preaching, in his native land and in Iceland, the Gospel which he had learnt to love in these remote islands.
Such is the story as told by Snorri Sturluson, the Icelandic historian, in 1222. We must not rely on the accuracy of his details; for example, the “great cloister” to which he refers was probably only a cell of two Benedictine monks. But there is little doubt that he followed a trustworthy Scandinavian tradition in placing the conversion of their hero Olaf in such an out-of-the-way and little-known spot as Scilly.
So in these little islands there was lighted a torch which kindled the flame of Christianity in far-distant lands.
The Abbey on the island of Tresco was appropriately dedicated to St. Nicholas, the patron-saint of mariners. By the reign of Edward the Confessor (1042–1066) the monks had acquired the tithes of all the islands, and the exclusive ownership of St. Elid’s (St. Helen’s), St. Sampson, St. Teon (Tean), Reutmen, and Nurcho, the two last of which cannot be identified.
Scilly is not mentioned in Domesday Book; but we find King Henry I. granting to the Abbot of Tavistock “all the churches of Sully with their appurtenances.” Later, Reginald Earl of Cornwall confirms this grant, with all wrecks “except whale and a whole ship.”
In another grant all the tithes of Scilly (and particularly of rabbits!) are given to the monks by Richard De Wich “for his soul, and the souls of his parents, and of Reginald Earl of Cornwall his lord.” There is something pitifully ludicrous in this special inclusion of tithes of rabbits in the price paid for the salvation of human souls.
The right of the Abbots of Tavistock to the shipwrecks was challenged by King Edward I. in 1302, and upon inquiry the jury found that the Abbot and all his predecessors had “enjoyed” from time immemorial all the wrecks that happened in Scilly, except gold, whale, scarlet cloth, and fir or masts, which were reserved to the King.
An author of the last century says, with a cheerful belief in human nature: “Perhaps the right of wreck was given to the convent for the purpose of attaching an increased degree of merit to their prayers in favour of ships likely to be dashed against those rocks.” But surely, from another point of view, it was putting rather an unnecessary strain upon their virtue!
Of the secular government of Scilly, there are from time to time fragmentary records.
In 1248 Henry III. sent a Governor, Drew de Barrentine, with command to deliver every year seven quarters of wheat to the King or his agent.
King Edward I. in 1306 granted the Castle of Ennor in Scilly to Ranulph de Blankminster, in return for his finding and maintaining twelve armed men at all times for keeping the peace in those parts. This Castle of Ennor is identified with Old Town Castle on St. Mary’s, of which only the smallest vestiges remain.
Ranulph de Blankminster also held the islands for the King, paying yearly at Michaelmas three hundred puffins, or six shillings and eightpence. Puffins must have been cheap in those days! In 1440 we find the rent is still six and eightpence, but fifty instead of three hundred puffins are reckoned the equivalent. Poor puffins! had their numbers really dwindled so much in 134 years by their constant contribution to the rent-roll that they were six times more difficult to obtain? I hope it was only that they had become more wary and expert in the art of being “not at home” when the rent-collector called.
In this same reign, Edward I., the monks of Tresco Priory made an appeal to the King representing their need of proper defence from the attacks of foes. The King granted them letters of protection, which were particularly addressed to “the Constable of the Castle in the isle of Ennor,” who seems, therefore, to have been the chief secular authority in the islands at the time.
Ranulph de Blankminster appears to have fulfilled but ill his half of the compact with the King, for only two years after it was made we find William Le Peor, Coroner of St. Mary’s, making complaint of him that instead of keeping the peace he entertained rogues, thieves, and felons, and with their help committed many abuses. The King appointed a commission to inquire into the matter; but we do not learn that anything was done. The practical result of the complaint was that William Le Peor was thrown into prison by Blankminster at Le Val (supposed to be Holy Vale on St. Mary’s), and made to pay one hundred marks. So it is to be feared that he had plenty of leisure to regret his interference in the cause of justice. Judgment was rough and ready in those days. An old record of the twelfth year of Edward I. tells of the drastic treatment