Remember Me (20 page)

When supper was over and Vespers had ended, William sat in his stall, shivering in the coldness generated by damp stone. Eventually he went out into the cloister and, refusing to allow his mind to dwell upon it just as in childhood he had refused to allow his mind to dwell upon what might or might not await him when he came home, he pushed open the door of the warming room and made as unobtrusive an entrance as he could.

He stood just within the door. Most of the community seemed to be gathered here, enjoying the fire on the great stone hearth this dismal November night.

Brother Bernard and Brother Giles sat with their backs to him at a table not a yard into the room. Opposite them sat Brother Walafrid, a pewter mug of ale in his hand, nodding in agreement as Brother Bernard elaborated on what were evidently strong feelings about a subject he'd been developing before William entered the room.

“… after all, it's not as though there was ever anything wrong with the way old Ambrose did things—he left us in peace and he got things done eventually; he did what was asked of him, and at least he never managed to bring us to the brink of complete ruin.”

Brother Walafrid glanced up and kicked Brother Bernard hard when his eye fell on William standing there. But William didn't care. He agreed with Brother Bernard. It was what he expected, and this was why he had dreaded coming. He'd overheard worse of himself on plenty of occasions before. He walked quietly past the table without looking at the monks who sat there. A hand tugged at his sleeve, and he became aware of Brother Thomas, sitting with Brother Cormac, Brother James, and Brother Theodore. “Come and have a mug of ale—Brother Cormac brought a couple of jugs over that were left from supper. Move over, Theodore, he's not that skinny!”

“No, I'll not take a mug of ale,” replied William in response to Brother Tom's repeated invitation as he sat down gratefully in the company of these four men, in whose eyes he read only friendliness.

“Why not? Go on—you need stoking up a bit! God help you, you're as thin as a lathe! There's some hazelnuts here too—help yourself.”

Brother Thomas watched in amusement, shaking his head at such unbelievable self-denial as William took two nuts and poured himself barely a nipperkin of ale, but he said nothing. As William set the jug down with quiet care, Cormac picked it up and, without looking at William or asking permission, added more ale to the mug until it was half-filled. “Take it,” he said. “You've earned it. You work hard enough.” How did Cormac know, wondered William, what the cause of his reticence had been? But Brother Cormac did not try to catch his eye and said no more to him. “How's Brother Robert?” he said instead to Theodore. “He was scrubbing the day stairs when I brought up that string you asked for this morning—looked mighty sorry for himself. Another half hour and I think it would have killed him.”

Theodore smiled. “He's a good lad, and he doesn't object to rolling his sleeves up, but I think scrubbing floors was always women's work in Brother Robert's family. It came as a bit of a shock to discover who would be doing it here. Mind you, I've spared him the spectacle of Brother James stitching—I think that's cap-strings and petticoat country to him.”

Tom laughed. “Aye, it's a different world once you take the women away! You certainly discover the rags and brooms don't do it by themselves. Have another nut, William—just one, mind, you don't want to overdo it.”

William felt the understated kindness of these men fold around him. He could not imagine how he could ever express his gratitude at the restraint of the tactful gentleness with which they included him. The hour he had steeled himself to endure passed more quickly than he'd anticipated.

When the sand in the glass ran through, Brother Peter got up and left to start the bell ringing for Compline. Tom went to the fireplace where he kicked and prodded the burnt remainder of logs into place amid a shower of sparks to make all safe to leave. Father Chad crossed the room as the bell began to sound, pausing to say to William, “It's good to see you here, Father. I can't think you've spent an evening with us here at all that I remember. The fire is very welcome now the nights are getting chill, don't you think?”

As he looked up at the prior from the bench where he sat, William felt guilty that he had carried with him his scorn and resentment toward Father Chad. He appreciated this gesture of friendship. “The fire is welcome indeed,” he replied. The prior smiled at him and said “It's been good to have your company,” and joined the other men making their way out of the door for chapel.

“Do they ever bother to clear away their beer mugs? Pigs might fly!” observed Brother Cormac as he rose with the rest of them. “Well, I'm not doing it now; it can wait until morning.”

“Do you have your head above water?” asked Theodore quietly, coming alongside William as they made their way to the door. “Just? Well, I have prayed for you—and for all those who are dear to you.” William looked at him, startled. He knew him to be Madeleine's confessor, but he couldn't believe she would have actually told him any of what had passed between them—would she? Theodore's face held only kindness and gave him no further clues. Theo stood aside to allow William to precede him through the door, and they followed the other men along the cloister and into the choir.

“
In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum
.” Brother Gilbert's voice left the beautiful melody of the versicle on the damp November air.

“
In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum
,” came back the echo of the brothers' response.

“
Redemisti nos, Domine, Deus veritatis
,” the cantor continued.

As the community sang the response, “
Commendo spiritum meum
,” William suddenly had the feeling someone was looking at him and glanced up in the direction of the parish altar. There, on the threshold of the choir, hesitant and not wanting to interrupt them, but clearly agitated, stood Madeleine. William murmured an apology to the novices in the stalls below him as he slipped past them to see what was amiss. The disturbance was very slight but attracted the abbot's attention. He saw William go light and swift to where Madeleine stood and gently put a hand to her elbow to guide her out of anyone's earshot to tell him her trouble.

“It is Mother Cottingham,” she whispered. “William, I am so sorry to intrude like this, but there is no one in the guesthouse or the porter's lodge, and she begged me to ask for you. She is—William, I think she is coming near her end.”

“Wait for me,” he said. Madeleine marvelled, as she often did, that the brothers had this trick of speaking so muted—not a whisper, for that is sibilant and can carry, advertising what is said, but an undertone that barely breathes on the air and yet is heard. “It's all right,” he added. “I am with you.” He gave her elbow a little squeeze, and she felt instantly comforted.

He trod briskly and quietly along to the sacristy, fetching a fair linen cloth, a bottle of holy water, the little pot of chrism, and the key for the tabernacle in the Lady Chapel, from where, briefly bending his knee in reverence, he retrieved the blessed Sacrament for the Viaticum.

“Have you a crucifix in the house?” he asked Madeleine in the same hushed undertone, and she nodded.

The blessing was said, and the brothers were finishing the
Salve Regina
when John appeared at their side, his face questioning.

“Mistress Cottingham is passing; she has asked me to come to her.” William betrayed no sign of impatience as he waited for his abbot to give permission, but Madeleine's eyes fixed anxiously on her brother's face. He nodded. “Go,” he gave his consent, and the two of them went with all speed through the small door in the narthex, hurrying along to the abbey close as fast as they could, given that they could hardly see anything in the dark and now lashing rain.

William paused for a moment as he followed Madeleine into Ellen's cottage. The fire was built up compactly on the hearth, warming the air, which herbs scented with a clean and wholesome aroma. He saw that the floor had been swept and strewn with rosemary, that all was neat and well cared for, the pots scoured and set orderly on the dresser. Nosegays of herbs hung in bunches from the rafters, and their fragrance had mingled with the woodsmoke until the house smelled as beautiful as incense.

“Come quick!” she insisted, and he followed her up the stairs, ducking to avoid the low lintel as he came up into the bedroom. Here again all was calm and well tended. Mother Cottingham lay tucked in her bed under several blankets—soft, good-grade wool, William noticed. Her hair had been brushed for her and spread loose on the pillow. In addition to the lovely fragrance that permeated throughout the warm, dry cottage, William caught the scent of lavender here and detected the source of it in a small willow basket stacked with bunches of the dried flowers on the floor near the head of the bed. He took in that Madeleine had lavished every resource she had on this old soul, as well as her time and loving care.

“You have done well here, my love,” he said quietly. Mother Cottingham opened her eyes. When she saw William, her feverflushed face wrinkled into a smile. “You came,” she said.

Her words were faint and hard to discern. William recognized the problem from his own bout of pneumonia; she had neither the breath nor the strength for speech. Even that short phrase left her panting, and her words formed in her mouth only, backed by no power from her chest or diaphragm. The bellows of her lungs were blocked solid.

He returned her smile and turned to the small table Madeleine had cleared of everything but a crucifix and a dry sprig of hyssop she had left in readiness. He could feel the feathers of death's angel brushing close to this house, and he set about what he had come to do with dispatch.

When the sacred vessels and elements were laid out on the little table, he gave his full attention to the woman in the bed, drawing up the low, three-legged stool that stood by. He took her hand. As he looked at her, they heard the door latch and the sudden rush of gusting wind downstairs, then footsteps mounting the wooden stair to join them. Abbot John, ducking his head as William had, stepped softly into the room. He said nothing but glanced round for somewhere to sit, and Madeleine lifted a shawl and towel and bowl from a handsome carved chair in the corner by the window. William turned his head to look at his abbot, his eyebrows raised in inquiry.

“Go ahead,” said John quietly. “I did not come to take over or intrude.”

“God bless you, mother,” William addressed himself to Ellen as he held and stroked her hand. Madeleine sat down on the old footstool next to John in the carved chair. “Do you mind these two being here?” Ellen shook her head, turning her face toward him, her trust and love shining clear in spite of the extremity of her condition.

“Have you anything to confess, my dear?” he asked her gently.

“Nay…” The weightless rasp of her voice hardly stirred the air. “I am done… with all of that… now…” She stopped, closing her eyes, her breathing distressed and quick. A light sheen of sweat began to gleam on her brow. “Only… my son… I was angry… with thy abbot… on account of thee…” She stopped again, gasping uselessly for air. “And it was unjust… of me… I ask God's pardon…”

Panting, perspiring, weak, she gave herself to the effort of breathing and said no more. William waited lest there be more, and then he said, “That's all? Yes? Then know that you are forgiven, absolved by Christ's death on the cross for you of every earthly sin. I will anoint you now, dear heart, if you are ready.” Eyes closed still, she gave a little nod in assent.

He gently withdrew his hands from hers, took his holy water and the sprig of hyssop, and sprinkled the water on her in the shape of a cross. “
Asperges me, Domine…
”

The fragrance of chrism blended with the perfumed air as he anointed her and spoke the beautiful words of blessing and forgiveness. He placed a fragment of the host upon her tongue, the soul's strength to begin this most momentous journey home, and he absolved her of every weight of earthly sin, so that nothing might hold her back or impede her way. “…
Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.
” And it was done.

Mother Cottingham opened her eyes and watched William as he covered the holy things on the table with the cloth he had brought and came back to the stool to sit beside her again. She gazed on his face as if she was fixing it in her mind forever, and her features moved in a smile through which tenderness radiated like actual light.

“My Will…” she whispered. “Oh, tha'st been… God's gift… of a son to me… My Will… my Will… never fret… my child… all shall be well…”

Then with an odd, bubbling exhalation, the laboured gasping ceased, the shining love in her eyes vanished as suddenly as a candle blown out; all that was left was an aged body in a bed and the fragrance of lavender, woodsmoke, chrism, and healing herbs. In the silence the wind sounded loud again. “Go forth upon your journey in peace,” William murmured. He reached forward and drew down her eyelids over the staring eyes and held them shut firmly so they would stay that way. Then several minutes passed in which they did not speak or move as the moments suspended and they tasted eternity, feeling death's angel gather up God's child and take her home.

Eventually William got up from where he sat at the bedside. Madeleine watched the bleak, pale, neutral mask of his face and noticed the tendons of his neck and his habit belted around almost nothing as he gathered up the things he had brought from the table. He did not look at her. He could not, she knew, while his abbot sat quietly observing, his chaperone. She wished John had not come. She wished she could comfort William; she could see the ragged wound of loss this death had left.