The Breath of Peace (15 page)

Brother Conradus listened with sympathy to this confession as the shortening and flour cascaded light from his fingers rubbing in the butter and lard for the pastry.

‘Ah! Don't I know that one! Most certainly I will pray for you. Oh, my word, that brings back memories! This is where the silence of our Rule is such a blessing –
such
a blessing! When people set out to live together in the ordinary way, with no silence for them to take refuge in, there's a tendency to just let slip any thought that's passing through their heads. So, for instance, I might happen to pass a remark to my sister: “You know, that green cap really isn't your colour.” And then I'd think nothing further about it – or if I did, maybe even feel I'd done her a kindness in setting her straight, never realizing that she felt really hurt and spent the whole of the day stewing about it until she was half ready to kill me by suppertime. Then I'd make some innocent request – “Pass the pepper”, or some such, and she'd let fly at me in a manner that seemed altogether uncalled for.

‘My mother told us we had to guard against carelessness in the way we spoke to one another, for she said that's all it was; but I think the Grand Silence works a treat – it gives us the space we need to think better of our indiscretions and contemplate the possible consequence of some of the things we've said, or could've said and didn't.'

William nodded thoughtfully as he considered this, the pen idle in his hand as he watched the deft movement of Conradus's fingers reducing the whole big bowlful of wheatflour and dollops of fat to fine sprinkling particles like powdery breadcrumbs.

‘“Let fly” is exactly right. I love Madeleine so much, but I seem to be forever hurting her without meaning to. And… I take a fair few bruises of my own from every fray. That is – I mean, we don't hit each other, it's not like that with us. Just words that sting and tear. Without ever intending to at all. It… hurts.'

Brother Conradus smiled at him, a flash of perceptive merriment full of kindness and understanding.

‘Oh, I know that so well! Painful, isn't it! But my mother says it's nothing more than self-pity, which will evaporate by itself if we ignore it.'

William reflected that Brother Conradus's mother seemed to have been a source of wisdom on every possible manifestation of human dilemma, and was on the verge of saying so when he suddenly caught himself. He realized how acid the remark would sound, and recognized that this sourness that came so readily had probably poisoned more conversations than he cared to admit in the course of his new vocation as a husband.

‘Self-pity,' he said thoughtfully, instead. ‘She's probably right.'

In silence he watched Conradus judge with practised ease the precise amount of cold water to add to the dry ingredients, draw the mixture together with the minimum of mess, then turn it out to knead quickly and lightly with his fingertips on the floured board.

Then recollecting the purpose of his visit and banishing the inclination to brood on his domestic disharmony, William set himself to casually drawing Brother Conradus into a consideration of the running of the kitchen, commenting admiringly on Brother Cormac's willingness to accommodate Brother Conradus's superior culinary talents, and the affability with which they worked alongside each other. He touched on this and that aspect of the work the kitcheners shared together, asking questions, making observations, listening astutely to every contribution Brother Conradus made to the conversation without ever allowing him to feel this was more than rambling inconsequential chitchat to pass the time.

The young man was cautious and kind in what he said, adroitly sidestepping any assessment of Brother Cormac's performance in the creation of comestibles, until William with apparently artless and ingenuous interest touched upon the subject of making sauces – a skill dear to Conradus's heart and the cause of a great deal of firmly repressed vexation. Cormac's sauces, lumpy and erratically seasoned, were in his estimation not far off inedible.

‘Oh, yes,' said Brother Conradus, ‘gray-vy. It's all in the name!'

He stopped dead then, a slow flush of embarrassment further reddening his already rosy cheeks under the kindling amusement of William's gaze. Conradus was a loyal soul as well as kind. He could hardly believe that he had let his tongue run away with him as he indulged in this idle prattle and allowed himself the indulgence of so sarcastic and critical a remark. He had thought all kinds of caustic things about Brother Cormac's culinary efforts, but never before had he permitted himself to give voice to such uncharitable opinions. Since William was no longer a brother of his house, he had not even recourse to the kneeling confession of his sin of scorn and contempt, and the forgiveness that would set the matter right.

‘I can't believe I just said that,' he muttered, shaking his head as he wiped the mouth of the jar of honey, stoppered it, and took it back to the pantry.

William, intrigued and amused, said nothing, watching him quietly.

‘This is the whole problem with sitting about gossiping! Father Theodore could have told me that…'

Or your mother
, William thought.

‘Or my mother!' exclaimed Brother Conradus.

‘It's my fault,' said William contritely. ‘I'll leave you in peace. And I don't think you're being uncharitable. I've eaten Cormac's gravy. Honesty's not such a bad thing.'

But Conradus shook his head, disgusted at himself, his lips sealed against further indiscretion. William saw it really was time he went, murmured his farewell, tidied away the record books and writing implements with no further comment and slipped unobtrusively out of the kitchen. He had what he wanted; he felt confident he could report to Abbot John that not only would moving Cormac out of the kitchen do no harm, it would actually avert the development of a problem as Conradus grew in confidence here in his natural domain. Feeding the community was, William could see, Conradus's great masterpiece of love, just as sweetening the lives of the aged and sick was Brother Michael's. It seemed, he thought, not insignificant that during the brief tranquillity of the afternoon Brother Conradus could be found attending to this and that small task left outstanding in the kitchen as often as Brother Cormac could be found somewhere else.

Satisfied with what he had seen, William moved on to the infirmary, and then to the sacristy, the pottery, the scriptorium and the robing room, asking questions, checking supplies, and gathering into one orderly complex pattern held together in his mind the present state of the affairs of St Alcuin's, in readiness for introducing the as yet unsuspecting future cellarer to the intricate matrix of the abbey's web of enterprises.

He had yet to go through the same process of investigation with the school, and make a systematic check of the bulky records covering St Alcuin's substantial responsibilities and transactions as a landlord. He would give over the day to those matters from first light tomorrow; and by the following day he would be ready to take Cormac through the first steps of the overview he must begin to absorb.

After Vespers, William joined the abbot for supper, apprising him of the ground he had covered during the day and the matters still awaiting his attention. Pleased and slightly astonished at the areas of the abbey's life William had checked in one day, John nonetheless refrained from asking any searching questions in the presence of Brother Thomas waiting on their table, lest William should have uncovered any matters best confided to the abbot alone. But even the initial outline gave him cause for encouragement and reassurance that their current predicament had found its solution. As Brother Tom came to William's side to replenish his cup of wine – which William declined; he wanted a clear and alert state of mind to take the abbot through all the information he had gathered – John saw the warmth and approval in Tom's eyes. The observations Tom had made about William when first he had arrived on their doorstep begging refuge almost two years ago had been so violently hostile John thought it unlikely he would ever forget them. Watching Tom's face now, a sense of gratitude and satisfaction welled up in him as he marvelled at the distance travelled and the change achieved. It was, he thought, in a human way, a kind of miracle.

When they had concluded their evening meal, Tom withdrew from the abbot's lodging, taking the platters and bowls and eating irons back to the kitchen where he left them to soak for Brother Conradus to deal with in the morning. Abbot John invited his guest to the fireside, where uninterrupted he could hear the detail of William's assessment of the present state of things, and the advice that arose from his careful examination. As he concentrated on William's observations, John felt that at last, seeing the temporal concerns of the abbey's life through the lens of William's cool judgment and practical mind, he was himself beginning to obtain a more confident grasp on the matters that not only the cellarer but also the abbot should hold clearly in sight.

He listened, he questioned, he sought clarification here and there; and what had appeared difficult and daunting because it seemed so mysterious and vague, at last began to take shape for him. He felt immensely grateful to William. Turning it over in his mind in silence as he gazed into the low red flames curling sinuously from the ashy logs, he entertained a cautious hope that he might one day feel he had the measure of this aspect of the work entrusted to him.

‘John, can I… can I ask you about something else for a minute? About me – us – me and Madeleine, I mean. I think I need your help.'

William ventured a glance at John to size up how the abbot might receive this, and saw that he had his friend's immediate and complete compassionate attention. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach he felt a sudden lurch as he saw the kindness with which he was beheld. It brought him unexpectedly to the edge of tears. He realized that this above all else was what he wanted. Kindness. Understanding. Sanctuary. Battle-weary, his soul hungered for peace to a degree that had become quite desperate.

‘Go on,' said John. He waited, seeing that something had unsteadied William, who looked away into the glow of the fire, and did not immediately reply.

‘In some ways,' William managed eventually, back in command of himself, ‘we do well. As lovers, what is between us is beautiful – and I thank God for that, because it allows us to heal no end of rifts and squabbles. I love her – as much as ever I did and more, I love her. She is the moon and the stars to me. I believe she loves me too, and trusts me. It isn't that. But somehow we can't get to a place of harmony. We are always warring. Nothing goes very far before we hit a rock and everything goes flying. I never was so often in trouble since I was a child. And… Madeleine… well… I have no right to complain about this, but at any time of night or day she will make such dizzyingly frank observations about my shortcomings – just casually in conversation – as to knock me completely off balance. “You have the scariest eyes of any human being alive. I should think anyone you looked at would want to run away.” That kind of thing.'

Miserable at the thought of it, he glanced at John. His gaze was arrested. John was laughing. He couldn't help it.

‘What?'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry, William! She's quite right!' He tried for a straight face and failed.

William shrugged. ‘I guess it's funny if you're anyone but me. Brother Conradus said that's just how it
is
in families – without our way of silence containing the house, people say whatever passes through their heads, and you simply have to resign yourself to not taking it personally. He says his mother would say my problem is self-pity.'

That sobered John up. ‘
What?
You have been talking to
Brother Conradus
about your marital strife? William, what are you
doing
?'

William shook his head. ‘No, I – well, I didn't mean to. He asked… oh, I don't know…' His voice faltered into silence.

John slapped his hand down on his thigh in vexed frustration. ‘You can't
do
this! This is
exactly
what you did before! You
cannot
come here and rearrange our ways to suit your own purposes! William, that's the whole point of a community. What keeps it strong, what makes it a place of peace, is that we consent to abide by the ways of our tradition – they are the fortress of our souls. I cannot have you discussing your relationship with a woman with one of our young brothers – with any of the brothers! It will unsettle them. It will make them restless and set off hungers that were manageable and quiet. Oh,
Sancta Maria
! You will not learn, will you? I should never have let you back in here! I should have known better than to trust you!'

William would not meet John's furious glare, but he felt it as acutely as if he had seen it. Wretched, he sat gazing into the fire, wondering how it could be that whatever he did and wherever he went, he made everybody angry within the shortest possible space of time.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. He buried his face in his hands and sat, motionless.

After a minute, John leaned toward him. ‘Hey –' he said, firmly still but more gently, ‘come on out. Look, it's no good. I simply cannot have you do this, and well you know it. Come on, now,' he insisted. He reached a hand across to William's knee, squeezed it kindly, patted it, then sat back in his chair, shaking his head in exasperation, but his ire cooling nonetheless.

‘William. Come out from there. Talk to me.'

William lowered his hands and faced his friend, who saw the despair in his eyes, around his mouth. ‘Don't send me away,' William whispered. ‘Please don't send me away.' He struggled for a more normal tone of voice. ‘John, at home there is nothing I can do well. Most of the time I feel incompetent and stupid. I forget things, I carry out tasks badly, I'm clumsy, I'm inept – and I
hate
it. I'm a lousy husband. But I can help you with this. It's something I can do well – and if I don't, I tell you, you'll be in no end of a muddle in a shorter time than you realize. Don't send me away, John. Please. I – please – I… I'm begging you… It… it's so peaceful here. I'll be gone anyway in a day or so. Just don't send me away.'