Brother's Blood (9 page)

He went out, the younger monk pulling on his sleeve, but poked his head back around the doorway. ‘I forgot to say, when we were speaking of those outside the abbey. One of Brother Alexander's other duties was dealing with that witch in the woods. Perhaps you should talk to her. Yes, yes, I'm coming!'

He departed once more.

Martin didn't know how long he had been stamping around before he found the woodshed. He wanted to walk off his temper – better still, ride it off – but he wasn't going to leave Edwin alone in the abbey with all these madmen. Honestly, why would anyone choose to live here if they didn't have to? He had walked around the ward, or whatever they called it; he'd glowered at any monk who so much as looked at him; he'd kicked a stone around; he'd sat in the sun with his back against a wall for a while; and he'd walked again. The place was just too quiet, and it was suffocating. The walls weren't like the ones at Conisbrough. There they kept him safe, but here they were imprisoning him, closing in until he could hardly breathe.

At some point he heard a noise he did recognise – the thump and split of logs being chopped. Of course, with this many mouths to feed the abbey kitchens no doubt got through a fair amount each day so it would be a constant task, just like it was at the castle. Although, judging by the sound, whoever was doing it was very erratic and hadn't got into the rhythm which you needed if you were going to keep at it. Martin didn't do so much of it these days, what with his other duties, but chopping wood had been a major part of his strength training when he was younger, and Sir Geoffrey had made him wield the axe hour after exhausting hour until the sweat poured off him and his arms shook. That was before life got so complicated, and Martin now looked back on those times with some fondness.

He followed the sound until he rounded a fence into a yard full of wood. At one end were new and uncut pieces; at the other a roofed area where split logs were stacked neatly. In the middle, busy turning one into the other, was a monk, just one on his own. Martin watched him for a few moments. He wasn't very good at it – a weedy-looking youth with white arms sticking out of the sleeves of his habit, the skirts of which were clearly getting in his way.

The monk stopped and put his axe down, picked up some logs and staggered over to the woodshed to stack them. As he turned again he saw Martin and jumped and took a step back.

Martin, who was beginning to be aware that people could be intimidated by the mere sight of him, held up his hands. ‘Sorry, Brother, I didn't mean to startle you.'

The monk said nothing but continued to look wary. Martin nodded at the white habit, which surely indicated that he was a choir monk. ‘Are you supposed to be doing that? Don't you have anyone to do it for you?'

The monk opened his mouth but no words came out. Damn these people. Martin spoke slowly. ‘It's all right. I've been sent here by my lord earl, and your abbot said that you were allowed to speak to us.' The monk's stance softened a little. ‘What's your name, Brother?'

‘B– Benedict.' His voice quavered a little but recovered. ‘I'm a novice.'

‘And, what, you've been told to chop wood as some kind of punishment?'

Benedict moved closer and Martin saw what he hadn't noticed before – he had no tonsure. ‘Oh no, it's not a punishment. It's God's work.'

Martin was confused. ‘God's work? Chopping wood?'

Benedict nodded, his face lighting up. ‘Yes. As part of our duties we all have to undertake manual labour every afternoon. Everyone has something different: the older brothers might do sewing or shoemaking, and others are scribes or copyists or work in the gardens or the stables. I'm the youngest apart from the three boys, so it's fitting that I should do something heavier.' He heaved a piece of tree-trunk on to the chopping block and hefted the axe enthusiastically, the pale skin on his arms catching the sun as he brought it down, not hard enough, and it got stuck in the wood instead of splitting it. He tried to jerk it back out, without success.

Martin stepped forward to help him, and between them they levered the axe free. Martin looked speculatively at the piles of logs still waiting to be dealt with, and at his companion's gaunt frame. ‘Is there any rule that says you can't have some help?'

Benedict's face was immediately confused. ‘I don't know. I wouldn't want to fail in my duty to the abbey or to the Lord. I have to do this.' He backed away and gestured vaguely; Martin realised he was losing him again. Pretend he's a skittish horse, that might work.

He took half a pace back so he wasn't crowding the monk, and spoke soothingly, placatingly. ‘I'm not saying that you have to stop. You'll still be doing your duty. But …' he cast around for an idea that would sound right. ‘But surely it would be my duty as a good Christian to help with some abbey work while I'm here?' He was quite pleased with himself for coming up with that.

Benedict nodded doubtfully. ‘Well, if you put it like that … as long as I keep going as well … I'm sure …'

Martin grinned. He took off his belt and tunic, rolled up his shirtsleeves and spat on his hands. ‘Pass me another axe.'

Edwin sat in the church. The open space in front of him, where the congregation would stand and kneel during Mass, was empty; the choir, where the monks sang their services, was away to his right on the other side of the altar screen. He had found a bench pushed up against the side wall, presumably put there for the benefit of those parishioners who were too aged and feeble to stand or kneel, as was the case in the church at Conisbrough, and he had been there some time observing the church from this unusual angle and trying to order his thoughts.

Eventually a bell began to toll somewhere, and a few people made their way in from the western end of the church, the end which led out into the precinct. It must be time for vespers, which parishioners were no doubt allowed to attend if they could. Edwin slipped off the bench and mingled with them, gaining a few looks but no suspicion – the people here must be used to strangers and abbey guests being in their midst. He knelt along with them as the monks filed in, chanting, and the service began. The lay brothers were all along one side of the church and the choir monks away near the altar behind the screen, so he couldn't see them very well. Edwin tried to look around him as much as he could without arousing too much notice. The parishioners all looked like respectable people – no working men among them at this time on a Saturday, of course, but some older folk and a few devout-looking goodwives. The lay brothers – well, frankly, they all looked alike. All bearded, all wearing the same scapular over their clothes, which were in themselves very similar tunics of brown wool.

Edwin said ‘Amen' without thinking and then realised that the service was at an end and that people were leaving. He watched the parishioners go out of the west door and decided that now was not the time to try to talk to any of them – better to wait until Mass tomorrow morning when there would no doubt be many more. The lay brothers could wait as well; they might not be too keen to talk to him after a full day's labour and besides, he wanted to take Martin with him if he was going to leave the abbey. Instead he slipped on to the end of the line of choir monks and followed them out of the door which led from the church into the cloister. He followed them around the edge of the square and to the entrance of the refectory, where they filed in and sat in silence at two long tables. Edwin did not like to go in, so he hovered by the doorway. One monk saw him and detached himself to come over. Red hair, middle-aged – yes, it was Brother Helias, the cellarer.

‘Can I help you, my son?' His voice was a whisper.

Edwin hadn't meant to be noticed. ‘Thank you, no, er, what I mean is …'

Brother Helias moved them both to one side so they were out of the doorway. ‘We're about to have our evening meal – the days are so much longer in the summer that we are allowed to eat twice. You won't be able to talk to anyone during the meal, I'm afraid.'

From inside the refectory came the sound of sixty or so men all sitting down at once. Then a single voice started to speak, reading sonorously from what Edwin now recognised as the Rule. Thanks to his early studies Edwin's Latin had always been reasonably good, so he picked up most of it. This bit was evidently about the use of the church:
… used for prayer and not for any other purpose … when the work of God has been completed all are to go out noiselessly … if someone wishes to make a private prayer then let him go in without hesitation and pray not aloud but with tears and with the attention of his heart
.

As the reading continued Edwin could hear the sound of cups, plates and spoons, but there was no other noise, no chat, no raucous conversation as there always was at the lower tables in the earl's hall. He risked a glance back through the doorway. It was very strange watching so many men sitting in such complete silence. Some of them were making obscure gestures to each other.

Brother Helias put his head close to Edwin's. ‘Speech is forbidden at meals, but we have other ways of asking the brethren to pass the bread or the beans.' He smiled and patted Edwin on the shoulder. ‘I must go back in – I am sometimes late anyway so Brother Prior won't chastise me. And you'd better go back to the guesthouse if you want your evening meal.'

Edwin realised how hungry he was. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you, Brother.'

As he made his way to the guesthouse he saw another monk hurrying towards him, no doubt realising he was late. It was Brother Godfrey, who had come to Conisbrough to fetch him, so Edwin nodded his head and spoke a greeting as they neared each other. But Brother Godfrey looked straight past him and hurried on. Edwin stopped and turned to look after him. How strange. Obviously Brother Godfrey was in haste, but it wasn't that he had ignored him because of that – the monk had looked right through him as though they had never met. Edwin felt again the sharp stab of reality. He was unimportant, worthless, his face not recalled, his presence not worth a greeting.

Back in the guesthouse Edwin found Martin and the two other guests whom he had seen earlier in the day already at the table. Martin looked hot and sweaty, and he was shovelling in what looked like a meal of vegetables and beans as though he hadn't eaten for a week, interspersed with giant gulps of ale. He looked up as Edwin entered.

‘Come and sit down. I looked for you a while ago but I saw you praying in the church during the service so I reckoned you didn't need me. Come and eat.'

Edwin sat down while Brother Amandus fussed around him placing a bowl and cup on the table. He took out his spoon, then remembered where he was and said a quick grace. The hunger he had felt earlier had dissipated after his encounter with Brother Godfrey, but he forced it all down, clearing the dish and wiping it around with a piece of bread before speaking.

‘Where were you?'

Martin was still eating, having held out his bowl for a second helping, and he said something indistinct which Edwin interpreted as ‘I'll tell you later.'

The other two guests at the table had finished eating and were stretching their legs out in front of them while they sipped the remainder of their drinks. The knight turned his head away but the merchant called Aylwin, with whom Edwin had spoken briefly earlier, gave him a smile.

‘So, you and your companion are staying the night? You're on a journey somewhere?'

Edwin was immediately on his guard. Was that a hint of extra curiosity in his voice? Or was he just making polite conversation? After all, anyone might while away the evening in a guesthouse in idle chat.

‘I – er, we're the guests of the lord abbot, so we'll probably be here a few days.' He rushed to cut off any further questioning. ‘And you? Are you on a journey?'

Aylwin took another sip from his cup. ‘No, this was always my destination. I come here every year to talk to Brother Alexander about exporting some of his wool, but it was only after I arrived yesterday that I found out he'd died.' He crossed himself and Edwin did the same. ‘But business is business and must be attended to, so I'm waiting to see who they will appoint to talk to me instead. Hopefully someone who will drive less of a hard bargain!'