Brother's Blood (17 page)

‘So, how long have you been here?'

The novice looked confused. ‘You just came in with me.'

‘No, I mean, here at the abbey. How long have you been a novice?'

Benedict's face cleared. ‘Oh. I see. Almost three years. I shall take my final vows next spring, once I turn eighteen. I can't wait.'

He's the same age as me, thought Martin. What an age to be giving up on life and shutting yourself away. Why does he want to do it?

‘You must know most of the other brothers quite well by now.'

Benedict placed another log but did not make a move to lift his axe. ‘I suppose so. Some better than others, of course – I have been studying with Brother Jordan, the novicemaster, but I also know Brother Octavian, who tells me what to read, and Brother Walter, the sacrist who prepares the church for each service. I hope one day to be allocated such a holy task.'

‘But for now it's chopping wood, eh?'

Benedict looked down at the log on the block and made an attempt to lift the axe over his head. The spots on his cheeks looked even redder as his white arms rose, and he seemed struck by exhaustion. The axe came down and missed the wood completely. ‘It's God's work, and I must obey.' He sounded miserable. ‘I would rather be praying.'

I bet you would, thought Martin. Now he needed to move forward with his plan. As he added his wood to the stack of split logs, he turned and asked casually over his shoulder, ‘And Brother Alexander? Did you know him?'

The reaction was as violent as it was unexpected. ‘Him! He had no business here!'

Martin turned in surprise to see Benedict looking animated, his arms waving in front of him, his eyes almost wild. ‘Why do you say that?' he asked, keeping one eye on the discarded axe at the novice's feet.

‘He had studied with
heathens
– had the temerity to say to Father Abbot that he had learned much from them! How can he claim to serve God as a brother of this house when he has consorted with those who deny Our Lord? How can he live with himself without confessing his sin? How —'

He was spluttering, almost spitting in the grip of his emotion. Martin stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. He felt the thin bones, barely covered with flesh, through the fabric of the habit. ‘Calm yourself, Brother. Here, sit in the shade a moment.'

Benedict started to protest that he needed to get on with his labours, but Martin propelled him firmly towards the fence where there was a patch of shadow, and pushed him down into a sitting position. He had no wine or ale to offer, but he picked up his tunic from the ground and used it to wipe the sweat from the other's brow. He was hot to the touch. Too hot.

‘I heard that Brother Alexander had travelled,' he mentioned carefully when he was sure Benedict was breathing more easily, ‘but I didn't know where.'

Benedict looked at him, not as wildly as he had done, but still not calm. ‘I heard that he went initially to Paris, but that he did not find the masters there to his liking, so he went south over the mountains, through the kingdoms there and then into the Moorish lands, where he studied with Saracens.
Saracens
! How could he …'

Martin was also appalled that anyone could meet Saracens without wanting to kill them in battle, but saying that out loud wasn't going to help. Think of something to keep him talking. ‘But he came back. He came back with more knowledge, and then he came here to use that knowledge.'

The bright eyes were staring beyond him. ‘He came back with more than knowledge.'

‘What do you mean?'

Benedict leaned in towards him, and Martin could feel the heat radiating off his body. ‘
Treasure
!'

‘What?'

Benedict nodded vehemently. ‘Yes. He brought back treasure with him. Brother Walter heard him say so.'

Martin thought rapidly. He had to go and put this all before Edwin, but even he could see the implications. He shook his head to try and clear it. ‘What kind of treasure?'

‘I – I don't know. But, given his heathenish tendencies, I wouldn't put it past him to have taken Moorish gold or something. He didn't belong here, I tell you!'

He was getting agitated again. Martin put out a hand. ‘Look, you sit there, and I'll finish the wood for you. Just rest, just – stay there.'

But Benedict was already struggling to his feet, mumbling that he had to do God's work, and staggering over to his chopping block. Martin didn't feel that he could use physical force to stop him, not here, not a monk, even though he was only a novice. He would keep an eye on him.

Benedict had managed to split one log by the time Martin had done four, and he was placing another as Martin picked up all his pieces and carried them over to the stack. Then there was a strange sighing noise, and Martin whipped round just in time to see the novice collapse to the ground, where he lay unmoving.

The smell of cooking assailed Edwin's nostrils as he left the graveyard and made his way back into the main precinct. He would appreciate an evening meal, although he would remember to pray for poor Brother Richard who would eat nothing.

Edwin poked his head around the gate of the woodshed as he passed it, but there was nobody there, so perhaps Martin was already on his way back to the guesthouse. Edwin wondered if he had found out anything else. He hoped so, for he was getting very short on ideas of what to do next. He slowed as he passed the main door of the church, and wandered inside. It was empty, it being not yet time for the next service – which one would that be? Vespers? – so he took the opportunity to kneel in the cool silence and pray. Although his head was swimming so much that he wasn't really praying coherently – more just letting everything spill out of his mind in a confused heap, in the hope that the Lord might help him to make sense of it all.

After some while he realised that he was not alone in the church; he could hear a sound coming from one of the side chapels rather than from outside. At first he couldn't make out what it was, so he stood and crept forward as quietly as he could. He shivered as he remembered his shock of the night before when he thought he had seen a ghost, but this was no spirit – it was a real man, a choir monk, kneeling before the small altar in a side chapel and clearly in great distress. The sound that Edwin had heard was the monk trying to swallow his sobs.

Edwin was in a dilemma. He could not bring himself to interrupt a man in such need of speaking with the Lord privately, but what if it had some bearing on the murder of Brother Alexander? For why else would a monk be crying like that unless he had done something wrong? He seemed to be begging for something, and maybe that something was forgiveness. Edwin craned his neck to try and see more, to identify the man at least, but the monk had his back to him and all he could see was a bit of dark hair around the tonsure. He felt frustration rising. Why were they all so difficult to tell apart? All he could work out was that it wasn't one of the novices, who were untonsured, it wasn't the infirmarer, who was completely bald, and he was fairly sure it wasn't one of the very elderly brothers who had greying or white hair. But that still left, what, the other forty or so choir monks? He had to move forward, he had to talk to the man.

He didn't move.

Eventually he gave up and backed away into the main body of the church, and then out the door into the evening sunshine.

On his way to the guesthouse he saw Brother Helias, presumably making his way back from the cellarer's office for his own evening meal. As Edwin greeted him he mentally crossed the cellarer off his list, firstly as he didn't think the weeping monk could have got out so quickly, and certainly not without having some signs of his distress around his eyes, and secondly as he had forgotten that Brother Helias had reddish hair not dissimilar to his own.

Brother Helias nodded to him and was about to pass by. Edwin wondered if he might know anything about the weeping monk in the church. ‘Brother, may I speak with you please? Privately?'

Brother Helias inclined his head and indicated the nearby guesthouse. As they reached the building Edwin stood back to let the monk enter first. To his surprise he heard Sir Philip addressing the new arrival in a low hiss. ‘I thought we agreed only to talk while we were in the …' He saw Edwin and bit back his words, turning away.

The merchant Aylwin rose as they entered, and greeted them. ‘Brother Helias, do you have any idea of how long it is going to take the lord abbot to appoint a new master of the lay brothers? I need to speak to him really quite urgently about this year's wool, and while I am kicking my heels here I am not out doing business elsewhere, which is …'

Brother Helias held up a hand. ‘Peace, Master Aylwin. I appreciate your business concerns, but the appointment of such a key obedientiary cannot be rushed. Father Abbot needs to consider carefully who will be best for the position, and to pray for guidance.'

‘But —'

‘As soon as I am aware of the identity of the new master of the lay brothers, I will make sure you are informed. Now,' he turned to Edwin, ‘what was it you wanted to ask me, my son?'

Edwin had forgotten that they wouldn't be alone in the guesthouse, and he didn't feel comfortable airing before others what was probably a private matter for the monk concerned. ‘Oh, er, it can wait, Brother. I don't want to make you late for your meal.' He tried to give Brother Helias a significant look to indicate the reason for his change of heart, but he wasn't sure it worked.

After Brother Helias had left, Edwin sat down at the table where Brother Amandus was setting out the meal. Edwin saw that there was egg and cheese to add to the normal beans and vegetables, maybe because it was Sunday, he guessed, and thought that Martin would be pleased. Come to think of it, where was Martin?

Martin swore out loud as he saw Benedict crumple to the ground; he dropped the wood he was carrying and ran over, throwing himself down next to the still form and turning him on to his back.

‘Brother, Brother, can you hear me? Are you all right?' He tapped the side of Benedict's face. ‘Wake up.'

Benedict made no reply and Martin wasn't sure he was breathing. That wasn't good, was it? And should his eyelids be fluttering like that? Well, there was only one thing to do. He put his arms under the prone man and lifted him, standing up as he did so. He was immediately thrown off balance by how light Benedict was. Dear Lord, he weighed nothing! Regaining himself, Martin clasped the unconscious novice to him as he hurried out of the woodshed and in the direction of the infirmary.

He should have guessed that the sight of a panicked stranger carrying what looked like the body of a dead novice would cause much alarm, and he was soon surrounded by an anxious crowd of monks and lay brothers.

He brushed them off as he thrust his way through. ‘He's not dead – taking him to the infirmary – will be easier if I carry him —'

One of the white monks took charge, shooing the others away and telling a lay brother to fetch Brother Jordan to the infirmary, whoever he was.

Martin tried not to think of the welcome which was going to await him as he kicked the door open and burst into the building. And indeed Brother Durand's face turned purple as he saw who entered.

‘I told you not to –
what in God's name have you done
?'

‘Nothing! I have done nothing! But you have to help him.' Martin moved to the nearest spare bed and knelt to lay Benedict on it. As Martin watched he took in a breath, and Martin sagged with relief.

He felt himself being pushed aside by the infirmarer, and stood hovering at the end of the bed.

‘What did you do to him?' Brother Durand thundered as he knelt to examine Benedict, looking for any signs of a wound.

‘I told you, nothing. I was helping him chop wood and he just fell over and I couldn't wake him, so I thought —'

‘Don't lie to me! Don't tell me that something just
happened
to assail him while you just
happened
to be nearby —'

Martin felt his own anger rising and he pointed an accusing finger at the infirmarer. ‘If you were any man other than a monk I would knock you senseless for calling me a liar!'

Brother Durand stood. Martin had the unusual sensation of being face-to-face with a man almost as tall as he was, as the monk lost his own temper, spitting out his words. ‘Knock me senseless? Your answer to everything, no doubt!'

‘What have you got against me? Ever since I —'

‘Who do you think you are, coming here and —'

‘Brother Durand, calm yourself please.'

Martin turned, for the voice had come from behind him, to see that the monk who had taken charge outside was the prior, who had followed him in. He now stood unmoving, his arms folded in the sleeves of his habit. Martin belatedly realised that he was in an abbey building, facing off furiously against one of the senior monks, and that the elderly men in the surrounding beds were cowering. He took a pace backwards.