The Beautiful Thread (8 page)

Hubert and Percival breezed in with a turbulence of loud geniality, and their repast got off to a good start with Conradus's excellent herb bread and consommé soup. Wine flowed freely and lubricated the conversation. The bishop tucked in with gusto. The second course balanced the piquancy of myriad salad leaves – many of them wild herbs and simples, John noticed; broadleafed plantain, rocket, young dandelion – against perfectly seasoned chicken breasts in a creamy sauce. Brother Thomas changed the wine.
How does he know which wine to serve?
John asked himself; then realized he probably didn't, but Conradus did.

“Think about it,” Brainard was saying to Father Gilbert (the only person willing to listen to him now Francis was occupied in conveying just the right tempered amusement at Percival Bonvallet's recounting of his dubious social conquests), “does not a smile make every man immediately more attractive? Suppose you start the day in a sour mood. Then your brother smiles at you. Does this not instantly disperse the gloomy clouds? A smile has special powers! The sunshine you radiate reflects back to you. It makes you feel better inside. It expresses the joy of salvation. Even when nothing seems harder, nothing further from your true desires; just do it, Father… er… just do it!”

“Gilbert,” said Father Gilbert quietly. “Yes?” responded Brainard, his smile beaming encouragement; then, leaning in, “Though actually my name is Brainard. Brainard LePrique.”

Somewhere in the back of his head John imagined William's impassive face, heard his dry murmur, “Aye, it would be.” He watched Father Gilbert's face pucker in slight puzzlement, not following, and thought his precentor had probably had too much to drink.

“My compliments to your kitchen brother,” said the bishop to Brother Thomas as he stooped to lift his Lordship's plate away. “He has excelled himself again. Oh – what's this? Fruit and cheese! Ah – figs! And some marzipan sweetmeats. And mead? My favourite!”

There came a certain mellow lull over the cheese. A contented satiety settled on the company. John felt cautiously pleased. This was going well. As conversation around the table momentarily ceased, Francis said quietly, “
Un ange passe
.”

Hubert looked across at him with the lopsided smile of a well-lubricated wit.

“
C'est peut-être l'Abbé Bé
,” he said meaningfully.

“
Puéril
,” responded Francis with a grin.

What?
thought John.

“
Ou – le Père Plexe?
” offered Percival.

Francis grimaced, moved his hand in a so-so gesture. “
Religieux
,” he said, “
mais dubitative.
”
1

John looked from man to man. They were all grinning. Presumably he should be as well. He wasn't sure what to do. Latin, he knew passably well. Greek, he could just about master. But of French he had only a smattering, and that mostly what he'd picked up from Peregrine's colourful muttering in the infirmary.

“
Eh bien, peut-être ça c'est le Père Missif
,” suggested Brainard, smiling broadly.

“
Un peu trop laxiste
,” responded the bishop.

“
Ou bien, la Mère Itante
,” said Hubert – and his brother chimed in, “
qui a bien gagnée sa place au ciel!
”

The palms of John's hands began to sweat, and his belly tightened until he felt sick.

“
L'Abbé Casse?
” put forward the bishop; and, “
Un drôle d'oiseau!
” said Father Gilbert with a smile.

“Come on, Father!” LePrique turned the sunshine of his smile upon the abbot. “You give us one!” John's mouth went dry.

“
La Soeur Titude, enfin?
” LePrique roared with laughter at this contribution from Father Francis. And Gilbert came back at him: “
Mais on n'a jamais été sûr d'elle!
”

“
Ou, l'Abbé Névole?
” Percival now. His brother answered with: “
Oui – car celui-ci ne demande jamais rien!
” And they were laughing. They were all laughing, and snatching small glances in the direction of the abbot wondering why he wasn't laughing too.

“
L'Abbé Nédiction
,” said Francis, raising his goblet as if he were making a toast. And every single one of them (except John) immediately roared as one: “Ameeeeeennnn!!”

“Ahhhh… Heheheh…” The bishop leaned forward to catch John's eye as the laughter subsided. “Not amused, Father John? Oh, come, come, come! Don't disapprove of us!”

Frozen, John looked back at him. He had no idea what to say. But Brainard stepped in. “Did you know,” he said, “it has been put forward that people who smile actually live longer? A scowling demeanour is actually bad for your health! A smile can melt away –”

“Yes, yes, Brainard,” interrupted the bishop. “Very good. No doubt it can. But maybe – oh, hark; there's the Compline bell.”

“And time we were on the road,” said Percival.

John registered that he was trembling so badly that he found it hard to rise convincingly from the table to take leave of them with all due courtesy; but he did it somehow, Francis sending the occasional worried glance in his direction.

Fading light and the call to worship kept all farewells brief. The bishop hurried away to make use of the reredorter before Compline began. Father Gilbert, as hebdomedarian, excused himself and set off to the choir.

Francis, Tom and John stood in the abbot's house as the bell tolled, beside the table cluttered with left-over food, goblets, crumpled napkins and plates.

“What happened?” asked Francis softly. Brother Tom darted a glance at John, permitting himself a small, rueful smile. “I think,” he said, “our abbot may not speak French. As neither do I.”

Involuntarily, Francis's hand rose to his mouth in horror. “I… oh, John! Holy mother of God, I am so very sorry. I never thought. I… oh, dear. What can I possibly do to make this better?”

“Kill me now?” suggested his abbot. “Oh, forget it, Francis, never mind. No – please don't faff about kneeling and making apology. We're late already, and I've had enough.”

Then, recalling the bishop's equerry's exhortations and thinking there might be something in what he said, John took a deep breath, and smiled at Francis. “His Lordship looks cheerful enough, at any rate. The whole Visitation's going remarkably smoothly so far. He was very encouraging to our novices today. Odd, that. William didn't seem to like him in the least. Hadn't a good word to say for him.”

“Aye, well – that's nowt fresh, is it?” said Brother Tom. “William has a jaundiced and suspicious view of the whole human race. I'd not set too much store by his opinions if I were you. Come on, Father John. Let's go to chapel. I'll clear this lot up later.”

John nodded. Still determined to be cheerful and put the awful evening behind him, he asked, “Did you get the bracken you wanted? Did the day go well?”

“It did,” responded his esquire. “We'll need to go at least once more, though. We got what we could stack on the small cart, but it's only half what we need, if that. I'll find a chance when there's a quiet moment later in the week.”

A quiet moment
, thought the abbot.
Remind me what those are, again
. But he knew it would sound sour, so he didn't say it. They went into the peaceful vaulted shadows of the abbey church, and he felt more glad than he could say to let the gentle measure of Compline's chanting take his day down to rest.

* * *

After Chapter, the abbot received Bishop Eric in his lodging. Respectfully, he invited his Visitor to be seated, and offered refreshment from the jug of small beer Brother Thomas had judged suitable to partake at this time of day. The bishop enquired and, discovering it not to be wine, decided not to bother.

“I am getting the drift of your spiritual teaching among the brethren, Abbot John,” began the bishop. “I like your friendly, conversational, familiar style. A good stratagem – especially with the novices. Makes them feel comfortable and at ease, no doubt – the homely approach. Yes – yes, I can see there is merit in it. To draw upon personal experience; a simple faith, a simple Gospel. Just believe and all will be well; no need to think, just keep on from day to day.”

John did not recognize in this description anything he could recall having said, but could see such a comment would hardly be welcome. Besides, the bishop was only warming up.

“But now,” went on his Lordship, “perhaps the time has come to dig deeper. You have been in post for – what – eighteen months? During that time no doubt you have made extensive study in theology, maybe even begun to write a book. Have you?”

John could hardly begin to frame a reply to this. The last eighteen months. Turmoil. Struggle. The turbulent days of William's brief residence with them. The anguish of his mother's death and the outrage of Madeleine's violation. The inner turmoil of trying to find his feet in navigating some kind of compassionate passage through William's departure and marriage, trying to hold on to at least the hem of Christ's garment of integrity and truth, not lose his way in monastic vocation in making himself spacious enough to accept William as his brother-in-law. The massive loss – then restoration – of the community's income. The last eighteen months… write a book? He could now.

“I…” He could see Bishop Eric waiting upon his reply. “I have never imagined myself as a writer,” he said. “I… don't know.” That this sounded nothing like the man of intellect and acumen he was supposed to be, John felt all too keenly aware. The bishop frowned.

“Hmm. I see. No doubt you have kept records of your Chapter talks? No? Why not? I was going to suggest you start there. You could move on now from these homely little encouragements to something of real calibre. Something stronger. I know you will have thought it fitting to begin gently – shrewd, very shrewd – but I judge the community would be ready now for you to beef things up a bit. Some meaty theology. Something wider and deeper. Richer. More inspiring. Something substantial.”

Silence lengthened between them, as the bishop looked expectantly at the abbot. John wondered if he could even begin to confess that he poured his heart and soul into what he offered the community in Chapter. That there was no more to give, no more inside him, beyond what he already put before them.

“Of course, your Lordship,” he said humbly. “I'll do my best.”

Nothing improved after that. Bishop Eric wanted to hear about John's vision for enlarging St Alcuin's prestige in the local community – by which he meant the aristocracy; nobody else's esteem mattered much. What plans had he for musical development, for creating a circle of debate, for building on such reputation for scholarly achievement as they had?

“I always thought,” mused the bishop, “your predecessor should have written a book. Abbot Columba was a man of real depth, true intelligence. Nobody like him. A man of stature. He had a quality of greatness about him. I should think you have your work cut out to step into his shoes. Well, never mind. I'm thinking of writing a book myself, you know. About the ethical realization of the theology of transubstantiation applied to the political structures of the nation. What do you think?”

John swallowed. “If you do that,” he said, “it would be an honour indeed if you would permit us to make a copy for our library. Oh – have you seen our library yet? No? Well, while you are here, I'll show you round. And I wondered if today you might like to see the work we do in the pottery. And visit our infirmary.”

“The infirmary – no,” retorted the bishop. “I am a man of too much consequence to risk contagion. And I doubt your old men in their dotage are worth examination. But it would be diverting to take a look at your little pottery.”

The abbot smiled at him, though he did not find it easy. “I'll ask Father Francis to take you,” he said. “Brother Thomas – would you find Father Prior and ask him to come
directly
.”

The abbot's esquire, who knew a man at the end of his rope when he saw one, vanished without a word, and returned with all speed, Francis hurrying along in his wake.

In an ideal world, the abbot thought, Lady Florence Bonvallet would not follow hot on the heels of Bishop Eric into his life. When the community had elected him abbot, he had grasped the solemnity of the charge – a weight of spiritual responsibility that no man dare take lightly. But he had not appreciated the extent to which he would be tasked with diplomatically fending off constitutionally difficult people determined to bend him to their point of view. To resist without offending was not always easy. He acknowledged that, as he saw the bishop out of his house with a promise to see him later in the day, and opened the door to Lady Bonvallet, he felt somewhat buffeted; like a man trying to keep his feet in very slippery mud and a gale force wind.

“Good morrow, my lady; come in. I trust you are well? Your mother is well? Not with you today?” He did what he could to set aside the persisting irritation at Bishop Eric's remarks about his abbot's Chapters, let it go, let it fade. He smiled at Lady Bonvallet. She looked at him. She herself was evidently not in a smiling mood.

“It is a sore trial to me, this marriage,” she began without preamble as she took her seat. “I think Gervase must be out of his mind. What will he do when he tires of her and he bears a duty to a fat, coarse woman and a rabble of Mitchell spawn? How will he live cut off from all his friends? He doesn't know what he's doing; he's little more than a boy. He hasn't the maturity to understand what will be the consequences of his action. He's fallen for a pleasing manner and an ample bosom, poor silly lad. It'll wear off. It should never have come to this. You're a man of position, you should surely see how inappropriate this is. Why haven't you stopped him? Where is your good counsel when we depend on you? And
don't
you tell me it's his own fault!”