A Rare Benedictine (6 page)

And
with that he trotted away after his master, and left several thoughtful faces
staring after him.

“Not
a man to part willingly with any property of his,” mused Brother Cadfael,
“metal or man, but for a price, and a steep price at that.”

“Brother,
be ashamed!” reproved Brother Jerome at his elbow. “Has he not parted with
these very treasures from pure charity?”

Cadfaei
refrained from elaborating on the profit FitzHamon expected for his
benevolence. It was never worth arguing with Jerome, who in any case knew as
well as anyone that the silver lilies and the rent of one farm were no free
gift. But Brother Oswald said grievingly: “I wish he had directed his charity
better. Surely these are beautiful things, a delight to the eyes, but well
sold, they could have provided money enough to buy the means of keeping my
poorest petitioners alive through the winter, some of whom will surely die for the
want of them.”

Brother
Jerome was scandalised. “Has he not given them to Our Lady herself?” he
lamented indignantly. “Beware of the sin of those apostles who cried out with
the same complaint against the woman who brought the pot of spikenard, and poured
it over the Saviour’s feet. Remember Our Lord’s reproof to them, that they
should let her alone, for she had done well!”

“Our
Lord was acknowledging a well-meant impulse of devotion,” said Brother Oswald
with spirit, “He did not say it was well advised! “She hath done what she
could” is what he said. He never said that with a little thought she might not
have done better. What use would it have been to wound the giver, after the
thing was done? Spilled oil of spikenard could hardly be recovered.”

His
eyes dwelt with love and compunction upon the silver lilies, with their tall
stems of wax and flame. For these remained, and to divert them to other use was
still possible, or would have been possible if the donor had been a more
approachable man. He had, after all, a right to dispose as he wished of his own
property.

“It
is sin,” admonished Jerome sanctimoniously, “even to covet for other use,
however worthy, that which has been given to Our Lady. The very thought is
sin.”

“If
Our Lady could make her own will known,” said Brother Cadfael drily, “we might
learn which is the graver sin, and which the more acceptable sacrifice.”

“Could
any price be too high for the lighting of this holy altar?” demanded Jerome.

It
was a good question, Cadfael thought, as they went to supper in the refectory.
Ask Brother Jordan, for instance, the value of light. Jordan was old and frail,
and gradually going blind. As yet he could distinguish shapes, but like shadows
in a dream, though he knew his way about cloisters and precincts so well that
his gathering darkness was no hindrance to his freedom of movement. But as
every day the twilight closed in on him by a shade, so did his profound love of
light grow daily more devoted, until he had forsaken other duties, and taken
upon himself to tend all the lamps and candles on both altars, for the sake of
being always irradiated by light, and sacred light, at that. As soon as
Compline was over, this evening, he would be busy devoutly trimming the wicks
of candle and lamp, to have the steady flames smokeless and immaculate for the
Matins of Christmas Day. Doubtful if he would go to his bed at all until Matins
and Lauds were over. The very old need little sleep, and sleep is itself a kind
of darkness. But what Jordan treasured was the flame of light, and not the
vessel holding it; and would not those splendid two-pound candles shine upon
him just as well from plain wooden sconces?

Cadfael
was in the warming-house with the rest of the brothers, about a quarter of an
hour before Compline, when a lay brother from the guest-hall came enquiring for
him.

“The
lady asks if you’ll speak with her. She’s complaining of a bad head, and that
she’ll never be able to sleep. Brother Hospitaller recommended her to you for a
remedy.”

Cadfael
went with him without comment, but with some curiosity, for at Vespers the Lady
FitzHamon had looked in blooming health and sparkling spirits. Nor did she seem
greatly changed when he met her in the hall, though she was still swathed in
the cloak she had worn to cross the great court to and from the abbot’s house,
and had the hood so drawn that it shadowed her face. The silent maid hovered at
her shoulder.

“You
are Brother Cadfael? They tell me you are expert in herbs and medicines, and
can certainly help me. I came early back from the lord abbot’s supper, with
such a headache, and have told my lord that I shall go early to bed. But I have
such disturbed sleep, and with this pain how shall I be able to rest? Can you
give me some draught that will ease me? They say you have a perfect
apothecarium in your herb garden, and all your own work, growing, gathering,
drying, brewing and all. There must be something there that can soothe pain and
bring deep sleep.”

Well,
thought Cadfael, small blame to her if she sometimes sought a means to ward off
her old husband’s rough attentions for a night, especially for a festival night
when he was likely to have drunk heavily. Nor was it Cadfael’s business to
question whether the petitioner really needed his remedies. A guest might ask
for whatever the house afforded.

“I
have a syrup of my own making,” he said, “which may do you good service. I’ll
bring you a vial of it from my workshop store.”

“May
I come with you? I should like to see your workshop,” She had forgotten to
sound frail and tired, the voice could have been a curious child’s. “As I
already am cloaked and shod,” she said winningly. “We just returned from the
lord abbot’s table.”

“But
should you not go in from the cold, madam? Though the snow’s swept here in the
court, it lies on some of the garden paths,”

“A
few minutes in the fresh air will help me,” she said, “before trying to sleep.
And it cannot be far,”

It
was not far. Once away from the subdued lights of the buildings they were aware
of the stars, snapping like sparks from a cold fire, in a clear black sky just
engendering a few tattered snow-clouds in the east. In the garden, between the
pleached hedges, it seemed almost warm, as though the sleeping trees breathed
tempered air as well as cutting off the bleak wind. The silence was profound.
The herb garden was walled, and the wooden hut where Cadfael brewed and stored
his medicines was sheltered from the worst of the cold. Once inside, and a
small lamp kindled, Lady FitzHamon forgot her invalid role in wonder and
delight, looking round her with bright, inquisitive eyes. The maid, submissive
and still, scarcely turned her head, but her eyes ranged from left to right,
and a faint colour touched life into her cheeks. The many faint, sweet scents
made her nostrils quiver, and her lips curve just perceptibly with pleasure.

Curious
as a cat, the lady probed into every sack and jar and box, peered at mortars
and bottles, and asked a hundred questions in a breath.

“And
this is rosemary, these little dried needles? And in this great sack is it grain?”
She plunged her hands wrist-deep inside the neck of it, and the hut was filled
with sweetness. “Lavender? Such a great harvest of it? Do you, then, prepare
perfumes for us women?”

“Lavender
has other good properties,” said Cadfael. He was filling a small vial with a
clear syrup he made from eastern poppies, a legacy of his crusading years. “It
is helpful for all disorders that trouble the head and spirit, and its scent is
calming. I’ll give you a little pillow filled with that and other herbs, that shall
help to bring you sleep. But this draught will ensure it. You may take all that
I give you here, and get no harm, only a good night’s rest.”

She
had been playing inquisitively with a pile of small clay dishes he kept by his
work-bench, rough dishes in which the fine seeds sifted from fruiting plants
could be spread to dry out; but she came at once to gaze eagerly at the modest
vial he presented to her. “Is it enough? It takes much to give me sleep.”

“This,”
he assured her patiently, “would bring sleep to a strong man. But it will not
harm even a delicate lady like you.”

She
took it in her hand with a small, sleek smile of satisfaction. “Then I thank
you indeed! I will make a gift shall I? to your almoner in requital. Elfgiva,
you bring the little pillow. I shall breathe it all night long. It should
sweeten dreams.”

So
her name was Elfgiva. A Norse name. She had Norse eyes, as he had already
noted, blue as ice, and pale, fine skin worn finer and whiter by weariness. All
this time she had noted everything that passed, motionless, and never said
word. Was she older, or younger, than her lady? There was no guessing. The one
was so clamant, and the other so still.

He
put out his lamp and closed the door, and led them back to the great court just
in time to take leave of them and still be prompt for Compline. Clearly the
lady had no intention of attending. As for the lord, he was just being helped
away from the abbot’s lodging, his grooms supporting him one on either side,
though as yet he was not gravely drunk. They headed for the guest-hall at an
easy roll. No doubt only the hour of Compline had concluded the drawn-out
supper, probably to the abbot’s considerable relief. He was no drinker, and
could have very little in common with Hamo FitzHamon. Apart, of course, from a
deep devotion to the altar of St. Mary.

The
lady and her maid had already vanished within the guest-hall. The younger groom
carried in his free hand a large jug, full, to judge by the way he held it. The
young wife could drain her draught and clutch her herbal pillow with
confidence; the drinking was not yet at an end, and her sleep would be solitary
and untroubled. Brother Cadfael went to Compline mildly sad, and obscurely
comforted.

Only
when service was ended, and the brothers on the way to their beds, did he
remember that he had left his flask of poppy syrup unstoppered. Not that it
would come to any harm in the frosty night, but his sense of fitness drove him
to go and remedy the omission before he slept.

His
sandalled feet, muffled in strips of woollen cloth for warmth and safety on the
frozen paths, made his coming quite silent, and he was already reaching out a
hand to the latch of the door, but not yet touching, when he was brought up
short and still by the murmur of voices within. Soft, whispering, dreamy voices
that made sounds less and more than speech, caresses rather than words, though
once at least words surfaced for a moment. A man’s voice, young, wary, saying:
“But how if he does ...?” And a woman’s soft, suppressed laughter: “He’ll sleep
till morning, never fear!” And her words were suddenly hushed with kissing, and
her laughter became huge, ecstatic sighs; the young man’s breath heaving
triumphantly, but still, a moment later, the note of fear again, half-enjoyed:
“Still, you know him, he may...” And she, soothing: “Not for an hour, at
least... then we’ll go... it will grow cold here...”

That,
at any rate, was true; small fear of them wishing to sleep out the night here,
even two close-wrapped in one cloak on the bench-bed against the wooden wall.
Brother Cadfael withdrew very circumspectly from the herb garden, and made his
way back in chastened thought towards the dortoir. Now he knew who had
swallowed that draught of his, and it was not the lady. In the pitcher of wine
the young groom had been carrying? Enough for a strong man, even if he had not
been drunk already. Meantime, no doubt, the body-servant was left to put his
lord to bed, somewhere apart from the chamber where the lady lay supposedly
nursing her indisposition and sleeping the sleep of the innocent. Ah, well, it
was no business of Cadfael’s, nor had he any intention of getting involved. He
did not feel particularly censorious. Doubtful if she ever had any choice about
marrying Hamo; and with this handsome boy for ever about them, to point the
contrast... A brief experience of genuine passion, echoing old loves, pricked
sharply through the years of his vocation. At least he knew what he was
condoning. And who could help feeling some admiration for her opportunist
daring, the quick wit that had procured the means, the alert eye that had
seized on the most remote and adequate shelter available?

Cadfael
went to bed, and slept without dreams, and rose at the Matin bell, some minutes
before midnight. The procession of the brothers wound its way down the night
stairs into the church, and into the soft, full glow of the lights before St
Mary’s altar.

Withdrawn
reverently some yards from the step of the altar, old Brother Jordan, who
should long ago have been in his cell with the rest, kneeled upright with
clasped hands and ecstatic face, in which the great, veiled eyes stared full
into the light he loved. When Prior Robert exclaimed in concern at finding him
there on the stones, and laid a hand on his shoulder, he started as if out of a
trance, and lifted to them a countenance itself all light.

“Oh,
brothers; I have been so blessed! I have lived through a wonder... Praise God
that ever it was granted to me! But bear with me, for I am forbidden to speak
of it to any, for three days. On the third day from today I may speak...!”

“Look,
brothers!’ wailed Jerome suddenly, pointing. “Look at the altar!”

Every
man present, except Jordan, who still serenely prayed and smiled, turned to
gape where Jerome pointed. The tall candles stood secured by drops of their own
wax in two small clay dishes, such as Cadfael used for sorting seeds. The two
silver lilies were gone from the place of honour.