The Breath of Peace (14 page)

‘Oh! Lord! William!' His friend looked up, one eyebrow lifted in enquiry.

‘I wanted to pick your brains about finding a new prior. I took note of what you said, and you're absolutely right, and it's something I know I must face up to. But I've got the same problem as I had over the obedience of cellarer. I just don't know who to ask. I must say we do seem to be hard up for leadership material.'

William listened to him thoughtfully. ‘Leadership?' he said. ‘There are few natural leaders among men, and those there are can be a confounded nuisance in a community, if you don't manage to direct their gifts and graces along the right channels. Men grow into leadership. It's only a matter of confidence and familiarity with the job. Well – provided you pick the right man in the first place, of course. You have nobody in mind?'

‘Er… no. That is – Germanus has been doing nothing in particular. He's an intelligent man, and he should be priested, but… the prior… no; short answer is I don't know.'

‘Oh. Well, if I were you I would ask Father Francis.'

Surprised and intrigued, John turned this proposition over in his mind. ‘Francis… I would never have thought… why Francis?' he said.

‘The mere fact that he's so thoroughly able but everyone overlooks him is a good start,' his friend replied. ‘In a prior you need a man content with second place; someone personable, and capable of making a decision without panicking, but who doesn't mind being in the background – and you won't find that combination often. He's charming, he's unfailingly sweet-natured, he upsets nobody – all in addition to being a perceptive, intelligent man who can stand his own ground when the need arises. I've noticed he doesn't always flow with the current or speak with the popular voice. Besides, he's an excellent foil to Brother Cormac who is
not
charming or unfailingly sweet-natured and who manages to upset everybody. With Francis on your right and Cormac at your left you couldn't lose. Francis can disarm your enemies while Cormac watches your back. And while we're on this subject, I never thought to ask: Brother Conradus – he is professed now, is he not? If you take Cormac out of the kitchen, you won't have to be finding someone to plug the gap before he makes his solemn vows?'

‘No, no. He'd made his simple vows already when you came here. He made his solemn profession during this last year. But he will need help, and he's too young in the life for it to be prudent to set a novice to work alongside him.'

‘Brother Giles, maybe? He seems a steady man, and Brother Walafrid's not so overburdened with work he really needs an assistant.'

‘Oh – good thought! Yes. Brother Giles would do admirably. You know, I'd run this place just fine if I always had you sitting on my shoulder telling me what to do.'

‘You think so? Can I hold you to that next time you're raging at me for breaking every rule in the book in flagrant disregard for Benedictine tradition?'

John smiled. ‘I think I have been too harsh in my handling of you at times, and not always perceptive enough. Our Father Matthew…' John picked his way carefully, mindful that he was the abbot of his community and did himself no credit by offering himself as their detractor, ‘died some years ago now, but he was once the novice master here. Father Matthew had a very tender conscience. He… he could be quick to identify the faults of those under his authority. He was often correct in his observations, but he did not always get to the heart of the matter, which sometimes could make bad things worse.'

William listened to this careful assessment, amusement gleaming in his eyes. ‘I see,' he said. ‘No prophet, and no loss either?'

John grinned at him. ‘Go back to your accounts! Father Francis… yes. The more I think of that, the better I like it. Thank you.'

As the Compline bell rang, John realized he had done nothing about finding William a bed in the guesthouse. ‘Oh, don't you worry,' said William casually. ‘I have my cloak and my pack for a pillow. I'll bed down here at your hearth – provided you promise not to tread on me on your way through to Matins.'

On the verge of protesting, it dawned on John that the oversight had not been shared. William, leery of curiosity and disapproval, had said nothing to recall the abbot's mind to his sleeping quarters. He noted the familiar flicker of reticence in William's eyes under the exposure of discernment and compassion. He nodded. ‘If you'll take one of my blankets,' he said.

William's hand moved in concerned protest: ‘Oh no, no – you'll be cold!'

‘Then so will you. You have your cloak. I have mine. We shall have a blanket each. Brother, the floor is draughty. You take it or I'll hook Dominic out of silence to find you a bed in the guesthouse. Which is it to be?'

Brother
… William stowed the treasure in his heart. ‘All right,' he said. ‘Thank you. I – if you don't mind, that is – I won't come to Compline. Let the grapevine do its work. I'll come to Mass in the morning. And… well…' He paused awkwardly. ‘Look – I won't embarrass you. I might come to the altar for a blessing, but maybe not even that. I do understand that you can't offer me the host. I haven't forgotten.'

No
, thought John, recognizing the pain of this exclusion:
I don't suppose you have
. He had not enquired what William did about the eucharist in his new home – mingled with all the others and let his identity be lost in the crowd, he supposed. But here, where he was known all too well as a brother who had forsaken his solemn vows, he could not ask to be included in the communion of Christ's fellowship.
Ow
… the severity of that hurt cut into John's soul like a sharpened knife. Lost for words, he just stood and looked at his friend.

‘No!' William shook his head. ‘Leave it be – I brought it on myself – it's all right. Go. You'll be late. I'll fetch a blanket from your bed like you said, and tuck down here by the fire when I'm done. Don't pity me, John – I'm not worth it. Look, get you gone.'

But John still stood there. ‘There are two ways to communion with Christ,' he said. ‘One is to receive the
Corpus Christi
, the other is to be it. No one can take that away from you.'

‘The bell's stopped ringing. Go.' And William turned away.

In the morning when the community met for Chapter, the abbot made the brothers officially aware of William's presence. He explained why William had come, and that he would be among them for a few days to determine the state of matters awaiting their new cellarer, whose identity would be decided during those few days. Another visit no doubt would be required in the busier and more challenging times later on in the spring. He asked that William be made welcome as he did the rounds of the abbey, making inventories, asking questions, drawing all into readiness for the new obedientiary.

‘I am more grateful to him than I can say,' said the abbot firmly, to quell any resentment before it had time to build. ‘The hole we're in now is of my making, and he didn't have to come and help us out of it. Do your best to assist him.'
Be kind
… he wanted to add; but he hoped he didn't have to.

After Chapter he found William in the checker, bringing the bills and receipts accumulated since Brother Ambrose's death into date order ready to be dealt with later. William set the task aside to walk round the abbey with John, hearing the abbot's observations about changes made or still waiting to be done.

‘I notice you have fires on every hearth,' William remarked. ‘Nay, don't look so guilty! It's good for morale and does something towards keeping mildew out of the books, rot out of the wood, and stopping men falling sick. But I'm surprised there's a tree left standing in the north of England, the amount you must be burning here. What's your fuel bill been? You don't know? But… you must have signed off the payments, surely?'

Then, seeing John's embarrassment and sense of inadequacy, he added quickly: ‘No, look, it's me – it's not you. I can't help memorizing costs and prices – most people don't. I'll look it up when I get back into the checker. May I take a lantern and go in again tonight? I'll use the daylight hours to find out what I need from the brothers. And as for trying to alleviate the cold as best you can, well, I did the same thing in your position. D'you think we were cold at St Dunstan's? I'm surprised we didn't burn the place down even with no one to help us, the great fires we had roaring away on a winter's day!

‘There now, I won't take up any more of your time – you've shown me what I need to see. I'll just prowl about a bit and ask the right questions. Maybe wait until tomorrow to ask Brother Cormac? Just to be sure we have the right man for the job? Yes? Good. I'll see you later on.'

Chapter
Four

‘Concept,' said Brother Conradus, the generous contours of his amply proportioned figure whisking vigorously about the kitchen with remarkable agility through sheer force of irritation. ‘A man comes in here between meal-times because he has missed his dinner, or has a guest, or just feels hungry. He helps himself to bread and butter and honey, maybe to a slice or two of cold pigeon, or a wedge of left-over stuffing, or a drink of ale or a hunk of cheese. And he is welcome to it. We are not stingy here. Then, when he has done, he takes the plate, the bowl, the knife, the spoon, the mug – whatever he has used – and he
washes it up and puts it away
! Is that hard to grasp, as an idea? I think not. Is it asking a lot of him? I hadn't thought so. Is it difficult to do? Nay, not so, apparently. Not difficult at all.
Impossible!

‘Same with dirty linen. Cloths for straining cheese, we rinse through thoroughly, of course; likewise if we have strained fruit or anything else, or cooked a pudding in them or whatever. Rags from washing and drying dishes and wiping down the table, we rinse out crumbs and anything stuck to them. Then the cloths go on the heap yonder by the door waiting for whoever goes by to take them to be laundered. And who do you think it is that takes them? Guess! Why – me or Brother Cormac,
every time
! I say this to Brother Cormac and he laughs at me; tells me I'm being precious, and possessive, and – he did say this, he actually did – bossy! But I say, this is community; you
help
, you
notice
, you
lend a hand
.'

William listened to this outburst with interest and amusement. He had never seen Brother Conradus look so thoroughly flustered and cross.

‘Is that what your mother used to say?' he asked casually.

Brother Conradus stopped. ‘Why, yes,' he answered in surprise. ‘How did you know?'

William shook his head. ‘No idea. It was just a thought that came to me.'

Satisfied that all seemed in order in the kitchens – that no knives or spoons had been lost, every pot and kettle kept in good repair, the stores used methodically not randomly – William had thought it might be wise to probe a little for information about the kitcheners. He had wondered how confident Brother Conradus would feel without the sheltering authority of Brother Cormac, and wanted to be sure he had overlooked nothing, could glean no final stray fragments of insight, before the abbot committed himself to moving Cormac to the checker. So he sat now in the kitchen in the quietness of the afternoon, looking through their record of stores and bringing them up to date, while at the same time chatting amiably to Brother Conradus, encouraging him to talk about his role as a kitchener and about the brothers alongside whom he worked.

William recognized that he had a unique advantage in having been part of the community. Brother Conradus felt less guarded than he would have done with an ordinary guest to the abbey – who would not have been inside the claustral buildings and sitting in his kitchen anyway. William's presence here implied the trust of the abbot, special permission granted, and Brother Conradus relaxed in the knowledge of this trust.

He glanced at William sitting at the table on one of the battered kitchen stools, updating the record of how many cords of wood they had used, how much flour and oil and salt.

‘Are you… are you happier now?' he asked shyly. ‘Did you… I heard… I think you may have married somebody?'

William looked up from the ledger, smiling a reassurance at Conradus's diffidence and his careful reticence lest he be gossiping or intruding.

‘I married Madeleine Hazell.'

‘Oh!' Brother Conradus's face cleared in understanding. ‘Oh, I see!
That
love!'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Well – I'm not sure I should be saying this, and I'm not meaning to boast or pretend to be especially spiritual – but I used to pray for you so hard when you were here with us and so wretchedly unhappy. I asked Our Lady of Sorrows to pray to our Lord with me, because I didn't know what was the matter. I had no idea how to pray for you, or what petition to offer. And you know how it is in the novitiate. None of us knew and nobody was about to tell us. Then, as I was praying one day, the notion came to me that I should beg of God that you might have the courage to keep the flower of your love alive through this winter, for it would have its time in the sun. I had absolutely no idea what that meant. But it's what I used to pray for you. Madeleine Hazell. That must have been what Our Lady meant.'

Surprised and touched, William took this in, watching Conradus assemble the honey and spices, the butter, the lard and the flour. ‘Thank you so much,' said William. ‘Thank you for praying for me.'

Silence fell between them then, and he dipped the quill in the ink, returning to copying neatly into the book from the notes he had scratched into the wax tablet.

‘I'd be grateful of your prayers again,' he admitted after a few minutes, without lifting his eyes from the inventory. ‘I am indeed happier than I was, and glad I made the decision I did; but I won't pretend it's been easy. There seems to be so many bones of contention between us. Nothing ill-meant, not full-on rows exactly – just touchiness and picking at each other. Sometimes… there are days when I feel I can't say a thing right.'