The Beautiful Thread (3 page)

Abbot John listened to him, trying to keep from his expression any trace of the incredulity he privately felt. “Subtlety” seemed the right word; and irrelevance, superfluity, inanity or extravagance would have done right well as an alternative. However he could have got his community mixed up in all this, with the bishop's Visitation looming on the horizon, he could hardly begin to imagine.

Then, “Why don't we send for your mother?” asked William. “She is but twenty miles away, is she not? Would she come? If someone rides today, we could have her back here in three days.”

The young man stopped short, his gaze arrested at William, his mouth dropped slightly ajar, his eyes shining. “What a wonderful, brilliant idea!” he exclaimed. “Oh, I wonder if she could.”

John now found himself fixed by the enquiring gaze of two pairs of eyes: one cool, amused, the colour of the sea, one brown and shining as new conkers.

“For sure,” he said. “That should get us out of a hole. Write her a note and some directions to your family's home. I'll send Father Chad.”

“Shall I go and tell him?” offered Brother Tom; and within the hour the matter was settled. Armed with a letter from Conradus, with a postscript from the abbot and closed with his seal, and a carefully drawn map of where to find the homestead, Father Chad saddled up and set off in search of Brother Conradus's mother. She had by this time become established as a legend at St Alcuin's, so much had they heard from Conradus of her guiding wisdom and gentle counsel. If Brother Conradus's mother was on her way, things would be all right.

“William, that was an excellent suggestion. Remind me of her name, Brother,” said Abbot John.

“Rose.” Conradus spoke softly, his voice full of affection and pride. “My mother is called Rose.”

His abbot smiled. “A lovely name,” he said. “Like a summer's day. I look forward to meeting her.” For a moment the thoughts conjured up by her name distracted him. Fragrant blossom. Blue skies. Honey bees. Warm afternoons drifting gently into the peace of evening. A world away from endless administration and the management of difficult people. Rose. So pretty.

“Ah,” said Conradus, earnest and happy, “you will love her, Father John. You will absolutely love her. Everyone loves my mother. She has the gift.”

Looking at Brother Conradus, John thought that was probably true. Certainly she'd done a good job raising her son, he thought, as he watched that young man heading back to the kitchen fifteen minutes later, excited and happy at the prospect of his mother – so dearly beloved – being on hand to help him.

But for now the abbot had to put his mind to Lady Florence Bonvallet. “Will you join us, William?” he asked. “I know you have matters in hand with Brother Cormac; but I'd like you to meet her. How can we work that, I wonder?”

William shrugged. “Tell her you've engaged me as the steward for the feast.”

“Oh – yes, that would suffice. She will be coming to see me later on this morning. Can I send to the checker for you, when she arrives?”

“You may indeed. But will you show me your own inventories before I go, so I have clear in my mind what's expected specifically for the wedding?” He reached out for the sheaf of lists John passed him across the table. “Thank you,” he said, scanning the contents with interest. Without pausing in his perusal he added, “And tell me a bit about the bishop's visit before I get going. I can listen and read at the same time. He is coming when?”

“He's due in four days' time, and – God willing – his stay will in no way overlap with the Bonvallet wedding. He should take maybe three days to look over everything and ask anything he wishes. Then on his way, and we're done for another year, with a week in hand to get everything ready for the wedding.”

“Bishop Eric, isn't it? I know him well enough, of course, but how do you find him as a Visitor? Picky, I should imagine, and demanding. Not easy.”

The abbot shifted uneasily in his chair. He did not like Bishop Eric, but to say so would be disloyal and arrogant. He hesitated.

“Oh dear,” said William, without looking up.

“No, no! All will be well, I have no doubt. He… Bishop Eric – well, you know him – he has very traditional views. He can be insistent on points of church law – likes to make sure we follow to a nicety all that the Rule lays upon us; as so we should. He… well, he can seem inflexible at times, but… on the other hand, it's always possible to jolly him up with something tasty to eat, because he does like his food. He can be searching in his enquiries about our fiscal arrangements.”

“In what sense?” William glanced up momentarily. “You mean he'll be sniffing around to see if there's any money to be had? Yes? Ah, then in heaven's name do yourself a favour, John, and brush across the tracks of Ellen Cottingham's massive legacy. You had an elderly widow leave some money to the abbey, but times are hard; you had big losses – a ship lost at sea, harvests failing year after year in the rains. It's cost you dear, you've about scraped through, but –”

John interrupted him, laughing. “I get the picture! Yes, surely, I'll do what I can.”

William nodded, satisfied, laying down the inventory of pewter-ware and spoons on his pile of checked lists, as he looked at Brother Thaddeus's rough jottings from the pottery, indicating what would go into the next firing. It was hard to decipher this. Some of the numbers were back to front, he wrote every “d” as a “b”, and much of what he'd set down had been obscured by spatters and smears of clay slip. William peered at it, adjusting the angle he held it to catch the light.

“And his staff? Who's he got for his equerry – that's who will be his main go-between with Brother Cormac. Anyone I know?”

Abbot John picked up his stylus and tablet from the tabletop in front of him, and fiddled with them. “Brainard LePrique,” he said. At that, William raised his eyes from the stack of parchments.

“What? Who did you say? Brainard LePrique?”

The abbot refused to be drawn by his incredulous grin. He said only, “I think it sounds better with a French accent.”

“Oh! I beg his pardon!
Brrrain-arrrr
? Is that better?”

John would not rise to this. “They did not elect me abbot to mock my guests,” he said simply. William just looked at him. Thirty years in a monastery had taught him the habit of saying everything while saying nothing. “Well? Do you know him?” John asked.

“No,
mon Père
. I have never had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of
Brainard LePrique
. But I certainly know Bishop Eric. Self-righteous, cruel, greedy, unforgiving, and does not like me one tiny little bit.”

“It would seem that's mutual,” said John. “You do have a remarkable gift for making friends.”

William shrugged. “It's been said. But not by many.” He flicked the parchment in his left hand with the fingers of his right. “Well, this lot's looking… terrifying. I see why you sent for me. Who's been helping Brother Cormac in the checker up until now? By my soul, these nuptials are going to rack up a prodigious bill.” He began to tot up Brother Conradus's careful itemization. “It comes to…”

“It seemed to me,” said the abbot, “that the man best placed to understand what Cormac needs to know is Father Chad. He's so long been our prior. Francis is new in that obedience; he's having to learn as fast as Cormac is. So I asked Chad to advise him a bit.”

William didn't look up. “Oh, yes – Father Chad,” he murmured, running his finger down the column of figures, calculating as he went: “taking mediocrity to the next level. What would you do without him?”

He continued to peruse the document until he was no longer able to ignore John's silence. He let his hand rest on the parchment, quite still, and raised his eyes from the tidy lines of figures.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “That wasn't kind, was it? To sneer at a man who is doing the best he can. Of your charity, will you overlook that? It reflects badly on me, not on him. This is why I have my gift for making friends you mentioned. I'm sorry, John. Anyway –” He got to his feet. “This all makes sense and I have it in mind now. If that's everything for the moment, I'll head on over to the checker; see if your cellarer has the same tight grasp on all the goings-on as your kitchener.” He paused. “Am I forgiven?”

“For your caustic and merciless contempt of your fellow man? Yes, I should think so.”

“Thank you.” William offered the abbot a small ceremonial bow.

As the door closed behind him, Abbot John wondered if perhaps he had worried unnecessarily about the days ahead. With such competent, able men under his roof, maybe everything would roll smoothly. In three weeks' time he might be looking back wondering why he'd felt so apprehensive. He said as much to Brother Tom. “And it's good to see William again,” he added. “He brings a certain something that no one else does!”

“Oh, yes,” said Tom. “Makes my heart glad to see that familiar scowl about the place again – finding fault with everything and keeping us all on our toes.”

* * *

Pleased to find Brother Cormac alone in the checker, William asked to see the ledgers, any orders or unpaid bills, along with any lists from the guesthouse to help get a grip on numbers and timing for the hospitality required of them in the next few weeks.

“It's not only the details you have to get right,” he commented, looking swiftly – but thoroughly – through the stack of parchments Cormac thumped onto the table in front of him: “it's the principles. Attitudes of mind. Anticipation – you have to see what's coming before it gets here. This isn't Cana in Galilee. We'll have to be sure we do actually have enough wine in the cellar. Flexibility – you must be ready to move men, money, stores to cover whatever's needed, plug gaps. To do that, to respond quickly and appropriately, keep everything running smoothly, you have to know exactly what's available to you. What's in store, what's coming in, where to put it all with everything accessible and in the right order, oldest stuff closest to hand. And of course you have to bear in mind any regular outgoings that may alter what you can count on. It has to be all there in your imagination, like a landscape continually before your inner eye, everything charted and repeatedly checked.”

Intent on his explanation, simultaneously examining the stacks of reminders, lists, notes and bills, he glanced quickly at Cormac for his response, then relaxed into a grin.

“I'll help you,” he reassured him. “It's mostly about application and familiarity. You have to know it and care about it. It's the body of the abbey, this obedience. The abbot looks after its soul and the prior should be its mind – noticing, remembering – but you care for its body. Just as if you have a horse, you must make sure it's not too hot or cold, has been fed enough of the right things at the right time but not too much, that it's exercised, groomed, has somewhere to shelter, is properly shod, dosed when need be, mucked out. The list is long, true enough, but second nature for anyone who knows horses. This abbey is the same, like a living thing you're caring for. There's nothing static about it, it's dynamic, nothing ever stays the same for two hours together. You have to be paying attention and alert to the consequences implicit in every change.”

Cormac looked overwhelmed.

“This is the importance of meticulous record-keeping and faithful checking. It's not easy, but it isn't hard either, if you see what I mean. It just has to be done.”

Both men looked up as a shadow in the doorway heralded the approach of a stranger. The checker stood alone in the abbey court, between the gatehouse and the west range of the main buildings. The door stood open when warm weather permitted, and after the porter's lodge and the guesthouse, this was where any visitors at a loss or with an enquiry often called. All tradesmen brought their bills of work and were paid off here. The two men took in the twinkling eyes and curving lips, the expensively attired figure, of a man neither of them recognized.

“Can I help you?” Brother Cormac rose to his feet.

“Ah! It's a beautiful day in a beautiful world,” announced the newcomer. “Everyday blessings keep us smiling! His Lordship sends warmest kindly greetings, and wants to let you know we made good time so we're here a day earlier than expected. Our smiles have travelled the miles to share in great fellowship with you, and we trust we won't be putting you to any inconvenience.”

“Er… what? His Lordship? You're saying… the bishop is here already? He's arrived?”

“Yes, his Lordship is waiting at the guesthouse. I've been looking for your abbot but found only his esquire – so I came here. Our horses will need watering, and his Lordship will be pleased with a hearty repast – we've been on the road three hours.”

Cormac felt, beneath the cover of the table behind which he stood, the meaningful pressure of his companion's boot against his ankle. Press, press, press. Why? He realized that his response must sound distinctly lukewarm in respect of its hospitality.

“I'll… um… I'll be right over,” he said hastily. “If you'll make yourselves comfortable, I'll just dash down to the kitchen and see what… I'll be right there. Is there anything else I can do for you meanwhile?”

The man cocked his head, bright eyes sparkling. “Smile!” he reprimanded. His own smile remained fixedly in place, encouraging emulation. Cormac stared at him, bewildered.

“Who… who are you?” he asked. The visitor threw back his head and laughed.

“I am Brainard LePrique!”

If Cormac had not felt so taken aback, he might well have laughed at that himself; but as things were, the information just made everything feel even more bizarre.

“His Lordship's equerry?” prompted the enquirer, his head at so sharp an angle now and his eyebrows raised so high that he looked definitely peculiar.