Brother's Blood (16 page)

He took a deep breath. ‘Actually I was wondering if I could speak with Brother Richard? I've been told he's here?' He looked around but he couldn't see that any of the infirmary's residents looked like they had toothache.

Brother Durand's reply was sharp. ‘That won't be possible.'

Edwin tried to remain as mild as he could. ‘Why?'

‘Because he won't be able to tell you anything.'

‘But I have been told that he and Brother Alexander spoke together often.' The infirmarer's face took on a stern look and Edwin rushed to correct himself, not wanting to get anyone into trouble. ‘As often as it was permitted, I mean. I'm sure they kept the proper rules of silence, but the brethren here are allowed to talk to each other occasionally, aren't they, as part of their work or in the parlour?'

Brother Durand relented slightly. ‘That is true. But when I said that Brother Richard couldn't tell you anything, I didn't mean that he might not know anything – just that he is not in a fit state to speak.'

Edwin held his ground. ‘May I see him anyway? Please? It would just be for a few moments.'

Brother Durand shrugged. ‘Very well. But don't say I didn't warn you.' He led the way to the very end of the infirmary, where a bed was hidden behind a screen.

Edwin followed him round, but stopped dead in shock when he saw the monk lying in the bed. He crossed himself and asked for the Lord's mercy for the poor man. Dear God.

Brother Richard's head was monstrously swollen, twice the normal size, the skin stretched so tight that Edwin could almost see through it; it looked in danger of bursting at any moment. His nose had sunk into the swelling, his eyes were almost buried, and he didn't look as though he'd be able to open his mouth at all. A hollow reed had been put between his lips, presumably so that he could breathe.

Edwin looked down at him in horror and pity. He was about to back away quietly, all ideas of questioning him gone, when he thought that he saw the eyes watching him. He knelt by the side of the bed and took the monk's hand. ‘Can you understand me?'

There was no way that Brother Richard could speak or even nod, but Edwin felt a slight pressure on his hand.

Edwin kept his voice gentle. ‘I was going to ask you some questions about Brother Alexander and his travels, and why he took the cowl here, but it can wait until you're better. In the meantime I will pray for you.' He made as if to stand, but the hand holding his did not let go. He looked into the eyes again, and thought he could see a question there.

Brother Durand spoke from behind him, more gently than Edwin would have expected. ‘I don't think he knows that Brother Alexander is dead. He's been in here for more than a week, and he only has brief periods in control of his wits.'

The grip became tighter, and the sunken eyes filled with tears. With his other hand Brother Richard made a gesture which Edwin didn't understand, before his arm fell back on to the bed.

Edwin looked questioningly at the infirmarer.

‘As you might know, we sometimes use signs to speak to each other. That is the sign meaning brother, another of the brethren. Hearing of the death must have brought him back to himself for a moment.' He leaned over the prone man. ‘I'll make up another poultice for your face, Brother, and get you something to drink.'

They both made their way back into the main infirmary room and over to the bench where Brother Durand kept his herbs and medicines.

‘May I ask what happened to him?' Now he was away from the suffering man, Edwin realised he was shaking.

‘He had been having toothache for some time. When it got too bad I extracted two of the teeth from his left side, the ones which were most rotten. Some hours after this he felt better, and he was able to join the brethren on the refectory for the evening meal. He ate more than he had been accustomed to, and was then struck down for his gluttony: he was assailed by pain and his head began to swell as you have seen. I have tried many poultices, and I have bled him several times, but to be honest there is little we can do except pray for him.' He began to grind some things into a paste, saying the paternoster as he did so.

Edwin's curiosity was aroused. ‘Does that make the medicine more powerful?'

Brother Durand smiled without pausing in his mixing. ‘…
adveniat regnum tuum
… no prayer is ever wasted, my son …
fiat volontas tua
… but in this case it is because …
sicut in caelo et in terra
… the poultice needs to be mixed for the exact time it takes to say the paternoster twice.' He continued under his breath as Edwin watched, until the mixture was ready. ‘Now I'll spread some on his face, and then try to get some of that watered wine into him.'

Edwin must have winced, for Brother Durand nodded. ‘It is not easy, and it causes him a lot of pain even though I drip it in one drop at a time. But he must have liquid to restore his humours, or he will die anyway.' He took the poultice and moved away.

Edwin made his way back outside. Clearly there was going to be no point expecting any information from Brother Richard. The poor man. Still, he had at least succeeded in not antagonising the infirmarer so he might be able to go back to him with further questions if he had any.

It was late afternoon, and the precinct was full of monks and lay brothers returning from their labours. Edwin decided against heading straight for the guesthouse and instead turned to walk around to the other side of the infirmary building. He soon found himself in a graveyard – yes, he supposed it was natural that the burial place for the monks should be next to the building in which they were most likely to die. There were mounds laid out in neat rows, older ones at the end nearer to him, which had flattened out and were covered in grass – cut grass, though, with no weeds, he noted, so someone must have the task of taking care of the monks' resting places – and newer ones towards the far end. He walked between the graves towards the last one in the last row, a fresh scar of brown earth.

This must be the final resting place of Brother Alexander, for nobody had mentioned another recent death, and the previous grave looked like it had been there some months at least. Edwin stood in the space next to it, where he supposed the next brother to die would be buried before they had to start another row. He wondered what they would do once the graveyard was full, and how long it would take to fill up the – let's see – twenty-five spaces, if the rows continued in the same pattern.

He shook his head. Concentrate. He knelt down by the grave and said a prayer for the soul of a man he had never met and never would – a man he couldn't even visualise – but whose life and death had become of great concern to him. Then he began to pray for enlightenment, for help with his task. He remembered not to let himself speak aloud: he had once done this at the grave of his father when he was in desperate need of help and advice, and it had earned him some strange looks. But the people in Conisbrough knew him, knew his devotion to his father; here they did not, and he had no idea what sort of punishment might come his way if he were to be accused of trying to commune with the dead.

He listened as hard as he could, in the silence of the graveyard in the middle of the greater silence of the abbey. Speak to me, Brother Alexander, tell me something which will help me find out what happened to you. You are a holy man, so you probably don't want revenge and retribution, but you will be able to rest easier once we know who killed you and why.

But there was silence. Brother Alexander had no word for him from the grave. He was busy making his way through Purgatory while his earthly remains mouldered in the ground, and he had no time for Edwin. Edwin laid a hand on the turned earth, muttered a final prayer, and stood. He was on his own.

He wasn't on his own. He was being watched by one of the monks, whom a closer look revealed to be Brother Amandus, the guestmaster.

‘I did not mean to disturb you, my son. Were you praying for Brother Alexander?'

‘Yes, I —'

‘That is highly commendable of you, for you did not know him during his life. What a shame he should be cut down like that.' He shook his head.

‘Did you —'

‘But of course every man is called to God when He wills it, and not at any other time. It is all part of His divine plan.'

‘Well, yes, but —'

‘And we will all lie here one day. Indeed, it seems likely that we will be digging a grave for Brother Richard here before too many more days have passed.'

Edwin remembered the dreadful figure in the bed. How much longer could a man possibly survive that?

Brother Amandus shook himself. ‘But there I go again, talking too much. It's why Father Abbot made me guestmaster, you know – unlike many of the other brethren I have to speak as part of my duties, and I think he was tired of hearing me confess to the same fault over and over again. I shall do it again, no doubt – precept fifty-three, “not to be fond of much talking”. But now I must leave you and go to prepare the evening meal for the guests. I shall see you at the guesthouse later when you are ready to eat.'

‘Before you go …'

Brother Amandus turned back.

‘Just out of interest, what did Brother Alexander look like? The lord abbot said he was in later middle age, but that's all I know.'

The guestmaster looked down at the earth. ‘I'm not sure what you want to know. He was tall, certainly – not as tall as your friend, but probably next in size after Brother Durand. Tonsured, of course, like the rest of us, with blond hair going grey. And …' he paused for a moment, searching for the right words. ‘Thoughtful.'

‘Thoughtful? You mean, he cared for others?'

‘No – I mean, yes, of course he cared for others, but I mean he always looked like he was thinking of something. He was a very clever man, a real scholar, so perhaps he had thoughts which the rest of us couldn't contemplate. Thoughts which were just between him and the Lord.' He waited to see if Edwin was going to say anything else, and then inclined his head and turned away.

Edwin watched him depart, aware that the whole day had passed and he was no nearer to solving the murder of Brother Alexander – master of the lay brothers, driver of hard bargains, traveller, writer, scholar, thinker – who lay under the ground at his feet.

Martin made his way across the precinct as he followed the novice Benedict. The place was so eerily quiet that he didn't like to call out and draw attention to himself, but he waved and Benedict caught the movement as he turned into the woodshed. He waved back and waited until Martin joined him.

‘Greetings.' He sketched the sign of the cross in the air.

‘Hello, Brother. I was at a bit of a loose end so I wondered if I might help – if I might serve the abbey again by helping you chop some wood.'

Benedict inclined his head. ‘That would be most welcome.' He turned to go in and then seemed to stagger, resting his hand on the gatepost for support.

‘Are you all right?'

‘I'm fine, thank you. I just turned around too fast in the heat of the sun. Please, come in.'

It was late in the afternoon and the sun wasn't that hot. Martin looked at the flushed patches on his cheeks and the over-bright eyes, but he said nothing.

If he were being honest with himself, Martin would have preferred just to get on with the task without speaking. But that was not his purpose in coming here: he had to make sure he didn't let Edwin down again, and so far Benedict was the only person in the abbey he'd managed to strike up a conversation with which hadn't ended badly. So he discarded his tunic and started. As he got into a rhythm – place the log, lift the axe, bring it down,
thump
, repeat – he considered his next move. Once he had an armful of split logs he swung the axe into the chopping block to hold it and started picking them up while he watched Benedict. He was working as he had done the other day, with little strength and no pattern, which was just going to wear him out.

Martin waited until Benedict had succeeded, at the third try, in splitting a log and then stopped for breath.

‘Do you mind if I show you a different way to do it?'

Benedict considered. ‘I am here to learn in all things, so please do.'

‘You've got to get into more of a steady pace. You need to be able to make the same movement over and over and over again, smoothly. That way you'll do it better and you'll be able to carry on for longer. Look.' He demonstrated, and then stood back to let Benedict have a go. ‘That's better, but just hold the axe a bit more …' he adjusted the novice's hands. ‘Now, bring it up – yes, a bit further – no, that's too far – yes, about there. As it falls, try to let the weight of it do some of the work, so it's not all coming from your arms.'

This time the log split cleanly and Benedict smiled. He needed a lot more practice, but it was a start. Martin got back to work himself and resumed the conversation.