Scotland’s Earliest Charter Story
Imagine: ChatGPT AI Creation by Tiffany McCarter Evans
Imagine Scotland before kings wrote Latin charters, before castles dotted the hills, and before surnames even existed.The monk? Columcille — better known today as St. Columba, the Irish saint who founded Iona.
The pupil? Drostan, son of Cosgrach, was destined to be remembered as the quiet saint of Aberdeenshire.
Their destination? A patch of land in Buchan that would one day become Deer Abbey.
The First Scottish “Charter”
We call it a charter, but in truth it’s a miracle story, a legal note, and a folk etymology all rolled into one. It survives not in stone but scribbled into the margins of a gospel book — the Book of Deer, now one of Scotland’s national treasures.
Here’s the tale:
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Columcille and Drostan arrive in Buchan. The local strongman, Bede the Pict, holds the title of mormaer — think “earl” before earls existed.
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Bede grants them land “in freedom forever, from mormaer and toísech.” In plain English? The church wouldn’t owe taxes, rent, or military service to the local lords. A revolutionary deal.
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Later, when Bede refused to grant more land, disaster struck: his son fell gravely ill. Desperate, Bede begged the monks to pray. When the boy recovered, Bede relented and gifted them more territory.
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As Columcille prepared to leave, Drostan burst into tears. The saint, touched, declared: “Let this place be called Deer henceforward.”
That’s it. That’s the birth of a monastery — with tears, a healing, and a permanent shift in land law.
The Domino Effect of Donations
After that first miracle, more nobles lined up to grant land:
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Comgeall son of Ete gave Orti to Furene.
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Moridach son of Morcunn gave Pett Meic Garnait and other lands.
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Domnall and Maelbrigte gave Pett in Mulenn.
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King Maelcoluim son of Cináed (likely Malcolm II) gave the king’s own share in Bidbin, plus lands in Rosabard.
Each gift followed a formula: “to God and to Drostan, free of mormaer and toísech until the Day of Judgment.”
One donor even promised a banquet for one hundred men every Christmas and Easter — the medieval equivalent of underwriting the parish potluck for eternity.
Why It Matters Today
This isn’t just church history. It’s the Oldest surviving written record in Scottish Gaelic. It’s also the seed of Scotland’s land tenure system, showing how local power could be checked by spiritual authority.
Think about it: long before Magna Carta, long before Bannockburn, ordinary Scots were recording who owned what — and tying it to God, curses, and blessings to enforce the deal.
For genealogists? These memoranda are gold. They preserve the names of Pictish and early Scottish families otherwise lost to time. For historians? They reveal how Christianity reshaped politics in the farthest corners of the kingdom.
For the rest of us? They’re a reminder that our ancestors’ world was built not only with swords and castles, but with ink, prayers, and tears.
The Takeaway
The Book of Deer charter isn’t just dusty parchment. It’s a human story: a father bargaining for his son’s life, a saint giving away land with a curse attached, and a young monk crying as his master walked away.
It’s a reminder that even the earliest laws of Scotland were written not in boardrooms or parliaments, but in moments of faith, fear, and compassion.
And that’s why a scrap of Gaelic in the margin of a gospel, written before 1153, still matters today.
✨ When the ink fades, the Y speaks — and sometimes, so do the tears.
In July 2025, my 12-year-old niece, two friends, and I spent fifteen unforgettable days in Scotland. We journeyed to the Isle of Iona and across to Mull, walking the grounds of the Abbey and the ancient church ruins.
I laid my hands upon the very stones that once bore witness to kings — Kenneth MacAlpin, founder of the united Scots and Picts, Donald II, Malcolm I, and the lesser-sung rulers whose names echo faintly in history yet rest here all the same.
As I moved through those sacred halls, touching stone after stone, a strange current ran through me — something beyond words.
It was as though I had stood here once before, not as a visitor in 2025, but as someone who belonged to another time.
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