Remember Me (15 page)

“The original idea had been to call at ports along the south and east coasts, trading as they went. But they—the man who owned the ship—had run out of money and needed to send out his next trading vessel before the monies would be in from the
Lady Eleanor
coming home. He was looking for someone who would pay up front for what he had to offer, and in return he would cut the prices of everything paid for by a good margin. There was a risk, of course: buying goods unseen from a vessel not yet safely home, especially as there was no guarantee she would be safely docked before the autumn tides and storms. She was on her way back though, and if I took this chance it meant we could have, before the end of the year, the things we needed to get to work and earn our living, instead of tinkering about keeping ourselves occupied and making do. We have men of such talent and skill here. We do Christ no service to restrict what their hands can do by giving them no materials to work with. So I struck the deal.”

John frowned. “You mean—you paid him?”

“Yes. I paid him.”

“How much?”

“The best part of five hundred pounds.”

For a moment John stopped breathing.

“We had it in store,” said William. “I had been round the farms and taken in a substantial amount in tardy rents still held over from last Michaelmas. Money was owed us here and there by a considerable number of people from our scribing and bookbinding and illumination work. I got it in. I knew that once the Lady Day rents were in and some more hardheaded agreements than previously reached over the work of the scriptorium and the school, we could recoup enough money at least for the next round of papal taxes; and we don't have a visitation from the bishop until the spring. We'd be all right provided we had no unexpected demands from the Crown this year. And with what the five hundred pounds bought us, not only would our own stores be replenished for a long while to come, but we'd have the means to earn better than we presently do. So I gave him what we had—just about everything. I think we had about five pounds, eight shillings, and three farthings left in the chest once I paid him. I got a receipt.”

“Did you consult Ambrose over this?”

William shook his head. “No. I didn't need to. I know what Ambrose would have thought. He would have thought it too risky and been horrified. Pirates. Rocks. Storms.”

“Did you ask Father Chad?”

William looked at him with a certain measure of disbelief. “No. That didn't occur to me.”

“So—you didn't ask any of us. You decided to gamble five hundred pounds—being the entire wealth of a monastery where you'd only just been admitted. And our annual income is—?”

“A hundred and eleven pounds, fifteen shillings, and sixpence. But after you take off the extra land we rent and various fees and such, last year we netted ninety-five pounds, twelve shillings, and tuppence—but that was before I got involved. I had it in mind that we can double that next year with increased output and what is owed us being chased up and coming in as it should.”

“So… it would take us five years on present income to replace what we have lost.”

“No. It will take us far, far longer than that because we have lost not only the money but the goods we needed to earn anything at all. And our earnings at under a hundred pounds a year only just about keep body and soul together; it goes out as fast as it comes in. Without an increase in income—and with no means now
to
increase our income—we can probably not even keep afloat, let alone claw back what we have lost. I meant what I said: I think I have ruined us. We are completely cleaned out, and we have nothing in store.”

Abbot John sat transfixed, so many things going through his mind. He was appalled that William could have made free with what was not his to take. He was horrified that William had simply disregarded the absolute requirement not to act on his own initiative but always within the community's framework of authority; this was not merely to safeguard the stability of the house but was part of the discipline of life for a monk. It was part of the renunciation of worldly goods: no more bright ideas; no more self-aggrandizement; no more self-will or disregard of others. William knew that; every monk did. Explicit in the holy Rule in black and white, Benedict insisted that a cellarer make no decision on his own initiative alone but act always with the permission of his abbot. He would have to take William to task for his outrageous disobedience at some point, but this did not feel like the moment for scoldings—besides which he thought if the lesson had not been learned after this, it probably never would be. As the implications raced through John's mind he wondered what the responses of the brethren might be. He wondered if he would lose their confidence now, for good. It had been on his urging and entreaty that they consented to accept William—against their own better judgment—into their midst. He knew that Brother Ambrose's mind was frankly unequal to this dilemma. He knew that his own inexperience could offer no help—and his prior was likely to be a positive hindrance. With reluctance he came to the conclusion that the only man with half a chance of getting them out of the predicament they were in was the man who got them into it in the first place.

“So what do we do?” he asked simply.

Curious, relieved, William looked at him. John saw him fractionally relax.

“Is that all you're going to say to me?” he asked.

John shrugged. “I cannot think of anything to say that you do not already know full well. What has landed in our laps here is more important than any indignation of mine or remorse of yours. There remains a community to consider, and many who depend upon us. I'm afraid we have to fix this, and that won't be accomplished by recriminations and apologies. I think we have to come up with something, fast. Who else knows about this?”

“Nobody.”

“You gave away
five hundred pounds
from our coffers and nobody
noticed
? What was Ambrose doing? Dozing?”

William shook his head.

“It was Holy Week, Father. We were all so busy, I should think Ambrose was meeting himself coming back. And besides that, I went through our accounts like a whirlwind, and I made inventories of everything. By Holy Thursday, if Brother Ambrose had seen me haul out our chests and empty the money into bags, he would hardly have raised an eyebrow. I could have sold the entire abbey out from under his feet and he'd never have noticed.”

“Is there any possibility of getting some of our money back?”

“No. That was the deal we struck. I listed what I thought would benefit us from what they expected to have on board once they had completed the voyage, bearing in mind their last stops would be in Ireland and then in Bruges. I gave the money for what was on our list, with the agreement that those items were then ours. The goods came cheap, but they were ours—so, our risk. Everything on the list was ours both to have and to lose.”

“But… if they were wrecked off Lizard Point, presumably they never made it to Bruges. And how do we know the rest of the items were even on board for sure, with such a mixed cargo?”

“You're right about Bruges. I think I can argue the point to get back the money for the lace—if he ever comes near us again—but the rest is known. They had their own carrier pigeons, same as us. The captain was able to send home reports at each stage. Apart from the Irish linen, when I saw the man in Holy Week he was able to show me a full inventory and let me choose from that.”

“What do we want lace for anyway?”

“The sacristy. Some of our altar linen has almost had it. And Father James's stitching is exquisite. And Madeleine can embroider. I thought she might be glad to do a little work for us since she lives on our charity—she regards herself as part of the community in a way, I think. It was in my mind that we could produce some high-quality vestments and sanctuary linens if we had the materials. Anyway, never mind that, it's all gone now.”

“God in heaven, William! What are we to do?”

“Well… we have no more cottages spare in the close, and because Chad filled up all the ones Columba had left empty, that means they're relatively new tenants, so no chance of any revenue from there for years—only obligations to maintain the houses and supply provisions according to each agreement. I think I have only two suggestions to make. It is possible we could ask Sir Geoffrey d'Ebassier for a loan. He might stump up two hundred pounds. No guarantee, but we can ask. Then the other thing we can do is offer corrodies instead of regular tenancies on perhaps three of our farms. If we tell them we shall be raising the rents next year, that should bait the hook, because if they'll buy a corrody of five years duration, that means they'll have pegged their rents and have five years immunity from increases. We could try the same thing with the school. They're paying two pounds a year at present; we could give them a choice between an increase to two guineas a year or a down payment for the whole five years at the present rate. Of course it also means we'll raise capital but lose income, which is never good news in the long term. It'll serve to get us out of a hole now, that's all.

“‘We can always do nothing—just kiss it good-bye. That means some very lean, hand-to-mouth years scratching along with no reserves, unable to restock our supplies. We'll have to live with the frustration of able men with no materials to work with, but…” William shrugged. “It's an option. It's what Columba would have done, if that helps you make up your mind.”

John looked at him thoughtfully, weighing these possibilities in his mind.

“Or we could sell pardons,” said William as an afterthought.

“Are you serious? That business stinks.”

“Surely it stinks, but where there's muck there's money.”

John shook his head. “No. If we have to beg on the streets, we can do so with dignity and with our integrity intact. If we start selling pardons, the first thing we sell is our souls. We just become scum, exploiting people's terrors for our own gain. Not a pretty trade. Cross that one off your list.”

William sat in concentrated thought for a little while longer, then spoke. “Leave it with me,” he said. “I'll come up with something. I promise you I will. I'll get us out of this hole somehow.”

“Well,” John replied, “do your best, for we'll have to bring this before the community at Chapter in the morning.”

William nodded, mute, gazing at nothing. That prospect seemed too appalling to be faced.

Slowly he rose to his feet, and slowly he moved into the space at the centre. He hated that yawning space at the centre of the chapter house. He looked as though he could hardly put one foot in front of the other, his body tense and hunched. His face was ghastly pale and beset with tics and twitches. Standing before them, John saw he was shaking. Everyone saw it. The room became very still; no one moved, except Theodore, who leaned forward in his seat, a look of concern on his face. William licked his lips. Shaking violently, he tried several times to speak, but no sound would come out. Desperately, he raised his eyes to his abbot, so John explained, in calm and neutral terms, what had happened. That years of living very frugally had brought them out of debt, leaving them with the fabric of the buildings in excellent order but with a serious shortage of materials for the work of their hands whereby they might consolidate future security. That an excellent opportunity had arisen to purchase everything they needed at low cost from a vessel nearly home—with a risk therefore, but a relatively low risk. That there had been no need to go into debt to make this transaction, but it had used up reserves entirely, thus creating the probability of necessary debt in the likely event of demands from the Church or the Crown. That the intention had been to create an invigoration of earnings, thus replacing the reserves, increasing reputation and future prosperity and stability. That unfortunately the vessel, almost home, had gone down with all still aboard off the treacherous territory of England's southwest coast. That a great sum of money had therefore been lost, along with the goods implied. There was silence when John finished speaking. William looked as though he could barely stand.

“But… why… how… Father—why did you not consult me about this?” Old Brother Ambrose sounded hurt as well as amazed.

“Nor me!” exclaimed Father Chad. “I would never have endorsed such a suggestion! I do wish you had asked us, Father!”

John looked at him. “I didn't know either,” he said quietly.

William bent his head. There are levels of silence. The silence of the community entered a new depth as they grasped what had happened.

Again William licked his lips and tried to say he was sorry, but not even a whisper would come out. Still shaking, he knelt, his face to the floor, in the centre of the room before them.

“So. What's to be done?” asked Brother Cormac.