The Breath of Peace (17 page)

It took some while for William to say those words in any form, but the tears that flowed then were not bitter or painful; they were the gift of Christ. As he opened his mouth to receive the broken host of the eucharist, his tears trickled in and mixed salty with the bread; his tears mixed with the wine and water of Christ's sacrifice.

‘
Corpus Christi
…' said Abbot John, and William whispered, almost inaudibly, Augustine's ‘I am'.

And then, taking the golden, fragrant oil, the abbot anointed him.

‘
Reppele, Domini, virtutem diaboli, fallacesque ejus insidias amove: procul impius tentator aufugiat: sit nominis tui signo
…' His thumb dipped in the fragrant consecrated oil traced the sign of the cross on William's brow. ‘…
famulus tuus munitus et in animo tutus et corpore
.
Tu pectoris…
' William lowered his clasped hands to permit John to trace the cross of Christ on his breast. ‘…
bujus interna custodias. Tu viscera
…' Again John marked William's breast with the sign of Christ's love. ‘
…
regas. Tu…
' His heart, the seat of his emotions, and now the courage of his intent:
‘
cor confirmes. In anima adversatricis potestatis tentamenta evanescent…
' And thus by the power of Christ conferred upon him John banished from his brother in Christ's family the taunting and tempting of the adversary; and he wondered if this should not have been done long ago.

‘Will it always be like this?' William mumbled, when he could say anything, when all the prayers were done, the holy things stowed safely away, and they sat together by the falling embers of the fire once more. ‘Clawing my way up out of the mess only to slip back in again and be mired in it until someone comes and helps me out?'

‘I think it might,' said John gently, ‘for you have been badly hurt at a time when who you are was growing and forming. But that's probably all right. So long as you know to come for help, and not ask too much of yourself. I think also, you should tell Madeleine, if you haven't already, of these terrors of memory when they assail you.'

William nodded. ‘Yes. Maybe. She knows some. She asks about it when I have nightmares. But it's all so vile I hadn't wanted to…'

‘I understand. But man and wife are one flesh, and it makes a space between you that creates bewilderment if unnamed ghosts and horrors locked in silence share your common life. I think if you have chosen to marry her, give yourself to her, then it has to be your whole self really. When you can. Not if it's just too much.'

The Compline bell began tolling then, and reflexively the two men moved in response to its call.

‘Brother, what's been said here tonight – it is between you and me only; it is
not
for discussion with the brothers, any more than your marriage is. You are clear on that?'

Again William nodded, soberly. He understood indeed, fully aware of the extent to which John had crawled out on a very shaky limb for him, disregarding his ecclesiastical obligations to reject his renegade brother, in offering him the sacrament of Christ's welcoming love, the healing ordinance of his salvation. ‘I understand very well,' he said. ‘You can trust me, I promise. And I'm more grateful than I can say, for… well, everything really. Especially for a second chance. And for calling me “brother”, which is gold and diamonds to me.'

William walked with Abbot John along the cloister to the chapel, holding precious the opportunity to sit with the brothers in choir. For the Mass, he had sat on the parish side of the altar, seeking only a blessing and not to receive the host when the time of communion came; and at Vespers he had sat among the more devout of the villagers – old women mostly – who observed the Hours as well as coming to hear Mass. But in the late, dark office of Compline, John had invited him to sit with the brothers; and the offer had been received like the crown jewels.

‘Are you all right?' asked the abbot in an undertone, pausing as they reached the door of the church, while cloaked and cowled brothers padded past them to take their places in choir.

William's eyes gleamed in the reflected light of the cloister lanterns as he lifted his face, peaceful in spite of its haggard weariness, to his friend. ‘I feel clean again. I feel whole again,' he replied.

* * *

‘Brother Thomas, there's no need to be on our dignity with these two – don't stay to wait on us, take your supper in the frater with your brothers.'

John spoke with his usual easy friendliness, but his esquire had reached the point by this time where he understood his abbot well. As he bowed in obedience and withdrew, Brother Tom wondered, walking along the cloister to the frater, why Father John wanted private audience with Cormac and William. There could not be many things he would prefer did not reach the ears of his esquire.

Brother Conradus usually took responsibility for the victuals that went to the abbot's table now. Brother Cormac's soul acknowledged in admiration that there was a reason for this, as he surveyed the array of very good cheeses, crisp savoury pastries, salad made out of stored apples and dried fruit and grated roots in the absence of greenstuff at this time of year, soused in dressing that Cormac knew would taste delectable. And, as always, perfectly salted butter and soft, well-risen bread. The realization came to him that, just as when William had been a brother with them he had been the cellarer in reality and Brother Ambrose held the obedience only in name, so it had come about that Brother Conradus was the kitchener in this house; he, Cormac, was tolerated there in kindness, not out of necessity. An uncomfortable thought, but he was grateful that they let him stay on in the kitchen; it was where he wanted to be.

Brother Cormac rose to his feet to pour his abbot and their guest their mugs of ale. He wondered why John had asked Brother Tom not to stay, but assumed that in such familiar company his own service at table would do just as well. So he tore the bread for them and cut into the cheeses, that partaking might be easier. John nodded his thanks, and Cormac resumed his seat.

‘Do you have land, where you are?' he asked William. ‘We had heard it's not too far from here.'

William nodded. ‘Ten miles south-west. We have five acres. Good land. A stream runs through and we've a well, God be thanked. We have an orchard and some woodland that runs on into common woodland – good for our pig.'

‘You keep a pig?'

William nodded and finished chewing the bread and cheese in his mouth. ‘By heaven, this cheese is good, Brother Cormac! Yes, we do. We have hens too, not many – we also have a fox, but not by intention. We've started with just what we could manage, but we shall increase our little flock of hens by half a dozen as soon as we can, and I hope we'll be able to take on another goat this year.'

‘Is it good land for growing?' John asked. ‘Did your vegetables do well in the summer?'

As they consumed the tasty spread Brother Conradus had made them, William told them about the homesteading year that had passed, the crops they had grown, the fruit yield, and the plans they cherished for the year to come. An important factor in this was their sow, Lily, due to farrow sometime in March, whose offspring would give them a sucking pig to ease the lean gap of early spring, and hopefully provide income as well as food for their table – and maybe grow on a second sow to keep, to double the benefit next year.

‘You plan to eat a sucking pig?' asked Brother Cormac. At these words a sense of foreboding stirred somewhere in the depths of John's soul.

‘Aye, we do. Why?'

‘It seems so sad.' Brother Cormac stopped eating, toyed with the torn bread still before him, glancing up momentarily at William, then down at his plate again. ‘Just a baby thing barely taken from its mother, never known the joy of life to run in the woods and rootle in the earth, scratch its back on a tree and feel the cool mud of a wallow when the sun is hot. Without even a chance at life. It seems so terribly sad.'

William shrugged. ‘We'd eat the runkling. It would probably never make it through anyway, left to itself. 'Tis but following the course of nature, isn't it?'

‘Aye, I suppose.' Cormac nodded, his face stilled with the sorrow of the prospect. ‘What will happen to them? Not the one you keep for more pigs or the ones you sell, but the ones you keep to eat. Will you slaughter them yourself?'

William grimaced thoughtfully. ‘I hadn't looked that far ahead. Possibly. Probably. I don't know.'

‘Well, you should think about it,' said Cormac, and John heard a familiar note of peculiar intensity enter his voice, ‘because it isn't that easy to kill a pig. Have you ever seen a pig killed?'

William had grown up in a town, and he had a queasiness about bloodshed. Unlike the other boys of his age, he had never joined the fascinated gathering to watch the awful sticking of a pig.

‘Nay,' he said, ‘I have not.'

‘Killing a sheep or a goat is not so bad,' Brother Cormac persisted. ‘You can gentle them, if they will come to you with no fear. You speak soft to them, and hold them, and they like it, they trust you. You have a sharp blade by, and a pail to catch the blood, and when you have lulled the beast all peaceful in your arms, you slit its throat right across. The throes are horrible, feet kicking in the dust; but it's a gentle death, and swift. But a pig is different.'

‘Brother Cormac…' John murmured, noting that William's hand was trembling as he lifted his napkin and placed it on the table: but Cormac completely ignored the warning.

‘It's not just the sticking, it's holding the pig. Pigs are strong and fast and nippy, besides which the strength in a pig's jaw can crunch your arm no trouble, and its teeth can tear your flesh to shreds. So when the man comes to stick the pig, once he's got it captive he has an iron to hold it. 'Tis a vile thing, a grisly spiked contraption to grip it by the snout – for their snouts are so sensitive, pigs. It screams and screams. And then the pigsticker with his knives and things, once he has a hold on it so painful it cannot get away, he plunges in the knife, and you will have to hold a bucket with oatmeal and cooked barley in right close, for the blood comes spurting out everywhere. It's a messy, bloody, cruel, screaming business, the death of a pig – and I envy you not one bit.'

Complete silence followed these words. William swallowed twice, convulsively. Even by candlelight his pallor was most evident. Abruptly he pushed back his chair, grabbed his napkin and made for the door to the abbey court, fumbling at the latch until he managed to get out, one hand pressing the napkin tight against his mouth.

‘That was not helpful, brother,' chided Cormac's abbot quietly, as he rose to his feet to follow his guest into the night. Cormac said nothing, his expression settling into an unshakeable obstinacy with which John was all too well acquainted.

John took the lantern and found William not far outside, leaning against the wall, his forehead pressed gratefully against the cold stone, taking gulps of the night air. ‘Be careful where you tread, I've just thrown up my supper,' he said, and groaned. ‘I'll leave it lie, if you don't mind, and swill it down in the morning,' he added. ‘Don't you worry, I'll come back inside in a moment. I'm all right, I just can't bear… Give me a minute. I'll be with you. I'm all right. Look – you're letting the cold in.'

Respecting his evident wish to be left in peace, John stepped back inside. ‘Take this lantern,' he said to Brother Cormac, who stood when his abbot returned, ‘and fetch a mug of cold water from the well. Direct from the well. Not something that's stood about in the kitchen gathering grease and dust.'

Perceiving himself to be in considerable disgrace, Cormac took the lantern and did his abbot's bidding swiftly. As he went he asked himself: was it wrong to have spoken so? Was it wrong to make a man think twice before he inflicted fear and agony on a beast and shed its blood? He could never understand why this always made people so angry – not with those who perpetrated the cruelty, but with him for making them think about it.

When he brought the water, he found William seated at the table once more. He offered him the mug, which William received thankfully, and took outside, that he might swill out his mouth and spit away the sour remnants of vomit.

‘In the morning, first thing after Lauds before anyone has chance to step in the remains of Brother Conradus's fine repast outside on the pavement, you will kindly bring a pail of water and wash the stones clean,' said the abbot to Brother Cormac, who nodded in submission: ‘Aye, Father, I will.'

William returned to the table, and sat down. He lifted his gaze to meet Brother Cormac's eyes, which regarded him ruefully, but without apology. Watching the two of them, John remembered with a smile the comment about scary eyes, and reflected that his monastery did seem to attract them.

‘I'll not sell them, I'll not keep them, I'll not kill them. I'll set them free to take their chances in the woods,' said William.

‘Oh, no,' John demurred, moving his hand in remonstrance. ‘That's not prudent. You have to eat. Sell them all if you can't face the slaughter. If they run wild, all that will happen is someone will capture them and take them for their own to slaughter. You know that well. Don't listen to him, for heaven's sake – none of the rest of us do. If Brother Cormac preached the gospel with the conviction that he defends the beasts of farm and field, all Yorkshire would have been converted by now. Leave it, William. Don't make rash promises. Bear in mind you have a wife to go home to with opinions quite as settled as any Brother Cormac may hold. Now, if you've finished upsetting each other, the both of you, and throwing up, there was something I was hoping to bring your minds to before Compline. May I do that now?'