Remember Me (16 page)

This was easier for Abbot John to say. He felt a relief of tension as he outlined the two options: raising corrodies on some farms and borrowing from wealthy benefactors, or simply accepting several very lean years.

Brother Thomas asked to speak. His abbot nodded.

“Father, I'm sorry to go back to Father Peregrine—I know it can't feel easy for you—but I'm asking myself what he would have done. I've never had a great head for finance, and I didn't always listen properly to what he said because I couldn't take it in. But something once stuck in my mind, and I can only think I remember it because it was one of the last coherent things he ever did say. It was in the days before he was taken ill, when he sat up night after night the whole night long, working with the accounts to find a way through. I begged him to take some rest, but he would not. He was satisfied in the end that he had found a way to fulfill all we had to do without going into debt. He would not borrow; he would not raise the rents beyond what was at least fair and at best kind. And the thing I remember him saying, when there was a suggestion of selling corrodies, was: ‘For years I laboured to reclaim this abbey from its debts. I am not now going to encumber it with unwanted inhabitants mingling with the brothers to their spiritual detriment and weighing around our necks forever, just to raise ready money now.' That's what he said, and I remember it—if that helps any with finding a way forward.”

Abbot John nodded. “Thank you. That's probably helpful. Corrodies do not need to be for life, of course. What we—this was William's suggestion—had in mind was a number—say, three or four—of five-year corrodies raised on farms, in conjunction with a modest increase in rents. That would give an incentive to take up the offer of a corrody in order to (in effect) peg the rent for five years. That gives us capital but exacerbates our paucity of income. But our cottages, for good or ill, are now filled. The corrodies we are talking about would not bring more folk into the abbey. There's nowhere else outside the cloister to put anybody.”

“We must follow the way of frugality and simplicity,” said Brother Paulinus. “That's always the wisest course in the end. These other solutions sound clever, but they bring unforeseen trouble, and they make us vulnerable.”

Several murmurs of assent followed those words.

“Father, might we be able to start small?” asked Francis. “What I mean is, William seems to have identified a real problem with what we're doing. Basically he thought—presumably—that if we could be a bit more enterprising we have it within us to prosper better than we do now. Well, we've lost whatever it was on that ship—spices I guess, and aromatics, incense and cloth and stone and pigments, and all that we've been limping along without—but we can still adopt the principle with what we do have to hand. We can season our food with our own herbs and make hedgerow medicines of our own. We can make pots from English clay bought at low prices and sell our honey and our fruit. We can work on improving our wine and use what inks we have to make what books we can to raise some money. Just because we can't do everything doesn't mean we can't do anything to improve. If we accept the frugality path, but make a pact with ourselves to work our way up to something better, and if we pray, at least we aren't in debt, and thank God for that.”

Abbot John liked the sound of this, and the quiet affirmations around the room showed this to be generally true. Father Gilbert stood to say he had been approached before by young men wanting to study music but had never taken it up; it would be a possibility. Brother Clement said their stores were very low, but if their efforts were to be directed at earning money rather than producing books for the community for a year, that might help. He also pointed out that they had some rare original texts in their library that could be sold for a goodly sum after copies had been made so their content would not be lost—a valuable book of the sermons of Aelred of Rievaulx, written and bound in his own hand, for example.

John felt surprised and heartened by the unexpectedly positive mood of the discussion. He could see an eagerness in the men's faces as they thought about what they individually could contribute. Then Theodore raised his hand. “Father, may I speak?”

John gestured to him to continue.

“These responses are encouraging and hopeful, and thank God for that; but aren't we forgetting something? Here's this poor man, so terrified of us he couldn't speak and could hardly even stand up, crouched here before us apparently completely forgotten. Financial stability is important, but it isn't everything. Might we put our mind to the man before we begin to think about the money?”

As his eyes met Theodore's,
I love you
, John thought;
you are Christ's man
.

“Indeed,” he said. “Father William? Can you speak to us?”

William raised himself up to speak, still kneeling, still bent low. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm so very, very sorry. I beg your forgiveness, my brothers, and I beg God's forgiveness. I should never have acted in so froward a manner. I should never have been so rash and arrogant. Or so stupid. I… I… I wanted to please you. To bring something of good to make up for… oh, God, I'm so desperately sorry…”

He spoke low, and the community had to listen intently to hear what he said. Out of the corner of his eye John caught a glimpse of Brother Paulinus's face screwed into a grimace as, deaf these days, he struggled to catch the words.

John looked at William and wondered whatever kind of penance he was supposed to give him. He observed that William was still trembling. He got up from his seat and moved to where William knelt. “You are forgiven, brother,” he said. “God forgives you, and we forgive you. Everyone makes mistakes. But please, in future, will you remember to consult and to seek permission. You are a member of a community, and that has its strictures as well as its comfort.”

He bent down and raised William up. “Take your seat, my brother,” he said very quietly. “It's not all right, but it is forgiven.”

His head bent so he didn't have to look at anybody, William made his way back to his stall and sat there bowed in shame while the discussion continued. A way forward was agreed upon unanimously: no borrowing; no more corrodies; determined austerity and new efforts and productivity and trade. Abbot John asked Brother Ambrose and Father Chad to meet with him and William in the abbot's house after the midday meal that day to look at the detail of implementing the community's decision.

The mood was optimistic as the men filtered out of the chapter house. William stayed where he was. Theodore came to stand before him, but William did not look up. “You'll get through it,” said Theo gently, “we all do.” He put out his hand and rested it on William's shoulder for a moment before he went on his way.

Eventually, when he judged that everyone had gone, William rose to his feet and walked slowly to the door. He did not know what he felt. He felt nothing. It was as though shame and failure had engulfed him and broken him and left him nothing. He felt his body moving of its own accord as though it no longer had a soul. He was lost now. He was nothing.

As he went through the doorway, he caught sight of a pair of sandaled feet. Startled, he looked up to see Brother Thomas leaning against the wall, waiting for him. Tom moved to block his path, and for a moment William's vision blurred and his throat closed in terror. He did not take in the expression on Tom's face, only the size and bulk of him standing there.

“Oh, you prize idiot!” said Tom and enveloped him in a hug. “For mercy's sake, what did you think I was going to do to you?” Shaking and faint, William gratefully allowed Tom's strength to hold him. “Oh God, I'm so sorry, Brother Thomas,” he whispered, “I'm so sorry.” And Tom just held him, thinking nothing but that this seemed to be his own principal contribution to the life of the community.

As Abbot John made his way back along the cloister to his lodging after Chapter, Brother Dominic caught up with him to remind him that Brother Cassian's parents were coming to visit and would be hoping to hear from the abbot how their son was progressing in the novitiate. They expected to arrive sometime during the morning.

“Ah, God bless you, Brother Dominic—you're right, I'd forgotten completely. Um… how would it be—er—we have no other guests just now, no retreatants? Good. Well, how would it be if I come across to the guesthouse after Sext and eat with them at midday? We can talk as we eat, and that will leave me free this afternoon. If they eat in my house, I know what will happen; they'll relax and get expansive, and I shall have trouble getting rid of them in time to have all the account books and everything set out. Bless you; thank you so much for reminding me—please let me know if they don't appear during the morning. If they're delayed and arrive in the afternoon, they can eat with me in the evening in my house and stay over.”

John retraced his steps to the day stairs and knocked at the door of the novitiate. Brother Felix answered it, which meant the door opened as silently as if a ghost had turned the handle, possibly quieter. Felix gave his novice master cause for concern. Theodore thought he seemed obsessively perfectionist and felt fairly sure that no man who needed to get everything right could last the course in monastic community—especially if his obsessions were allowed to progress to an interest in everybody else getting everything just right. It couldn't happen. Sooner or later chronic disappointment would escalate into conflict.

“Can I help you, Father Abbot?” Brother Felix spoke in such carefully hushed tones that John wondered if the novices were in deep meditation and to be under no circumstances interrupted, or if this novice had a sore throat.

“Can you send Brother Cassian down to see me?” John felt faintly exasperated with himself that whatever was bothering Brother Felix communicated powerfully, so that he found himself matching the novice's undertone.

“Certainly, Father. Is that all?”

“Yes, thank you.” John felt foolish as the two of them murmured at each other with such coy and excessive discretion. As he turned away, his exasperation showed on his face, and Brother Felix, closing the door silently after him, wondered if he'd said something to offend. Their abbot didn't normally seem irritable. He trod meekly back to his seat, his eyes downcast, examining the exchange to think what he could possibly have done to improve his demeanour and conduct.

“Was that Father John,” asked Theodore. “Yes? What did he want? Brother Cassian? Now? Yes? Off you go then, Brother—oh, it's because your parents are visiting, isn't it! Find out from Father Abbot when he will be seeing them, so I can fit in some time with them around that. Now then: the theology of the Eucharist—yes, my brothers, still! Are you all right, Brother Felix?”

Brother Cassian slipped out of the novitiate, glad to be free of a morning's theology, interested to be given some time alone with his abbot, whom he liked, excited at the prospect of a visit from his family. He hoped his little sister might be coming with them too, and his aunt.

Abbot John ascertained from him that though the long silences of monastic life had searched out demons he didn't know he had, Brother Cassian was enjoying his time in the novitiate. He liked the other novices (most of them), he loved Father Theodore, he enjoyed his work in the pottery with Brother Thaddeus and on the farm with Brother Stephen, and he felt proud and privileged to be part of the community at St Alcuin's. John took him back to the demons of the silence and probed a little as to what those might be. Finding they were the usual terrors of loneliness and inadequacy, old buried sadness and personal vulnerability, he concluded that essentially he had here a healthy and basically capable, sane young man who should contribute stability and normality to the corporate personality of the brethren. He walked across with him to the guesthouse when word came that Cassian's family had arrived, with a feeling of relief that at least this seemed to be simple. He liked Brother Cassian's family. Forthright, goodnatured, chatty, they were delighted to meet him—respectful but not overawed, and John felt comfortable with them. He dispensed Brother Cassian from attending Sext when the bell began to ring, excused himself, and left them to enjoy each other's company until lunchtime.

As he sat with them later, relishing Brother Conradus's cheesy herb bread and a bowl of tasty pottage with little pieces of meat from the pigeons they'd eaten yesterday added in, Abbot John felt tension he had not realized was there leaving his body. He could do this. For once something was pleasant, something was rewarding and cheerful and easy to accomplish; he savoured the time with them and admitted to himself a profound reluctance to leave their company for the task of rescuing the finances of the abbey with Brother Ambrose and Fathers Chad and William.

Meanwhile between the guesthouse and the claustral buildings, in the abbey court, Father Chad came across to help Brother Ambrose and Father William carry to the abbot's house any ledgers that might be needed for their conference.