The Beautiful Thread (11 page)

He paused. None of the lads who sat in the circle listening to him could help but notice the vehemence with which he spoke. Brother Cassian, hearing it, frowned. It sounded as though something might have gone wrong, in that mysterious society of professed brothers, still closed to the novitiate.

“Because peace is so inestimable a treasure,” said the novice master, “it follows, as you might expect, that it is not bought cheap. Our life, our Rule – this is a costly way. It costs us everything. It is our calling, our pearl without price. Don't be tempted, brothers, to trade it in. So long as this is your true calling, you won't find anything better. That would be impossible. Brother Robert, are you listening? Because you need to know this. All of us do, from the newest among our novices clear through to the abbot.”

* * *

After Chapter the following morning, John came into the kitchen looking for Rose. He had seen her yesterday – they had walked by the river in the evening, talking about this and that, inconsequential things, the small, dear, bright, ordinary grains and fragments that made up their respective worlds. But he felt it somehow important he should call by again today, just to check all was well. No doubt Conradus could take care of her competently, but John convinced himself he owed her this courtesy, as his guest. He would have liked to invite her to eat with him in the evenings, but – try as he might – he could not imagine her in the same social space as Bishop Eric. She belonged to a different part of him, the life that had formed and shaped him before he came here, or at least before he was elected abbot with all the unwelcome carapace of consequence and responsibility that came along with it. An unacknowledged inside place felt guilty and defensive as he walked along to the kitchen; but he went anyway.

As he stepped through the open door, the first sight to meet him was Rose carefully pouring melted butter onto the surface of multitudinous pots of paté. A shaft of sunlight lit the place where she worked. John stood quite still, watching her, the friendly curves of her face and body, the soft colours of her linen dress and apron, the tendrils of silvering hair that would not stay put under her graceful linen cap.

“Well met, Father! We're getting on fine now, as you can see!” Conradus, cheerful, appeared at his elbow. “Mother's just putting the last touches to the potted meats – juniper berries and bay leaves to go on the top, then they're all done. I've cleared a shelf in the dairy to store them where it's cool. Today we'll start on the cheeses, and by some kind of cunning wizardry I must summon up a place to store those too. The wine is all in place, and the casks of ale. The sweets are done, for the most part. The birds are hanging out back, and we'll pluck them later today. The butter comes after that, and the subtleties. The bread will be the last thing we can prepare ahead of time.”

Wiping her hands on a cloth, Rose came to greet him, her rosy cheeks dimpling in smiles. “Wes hal, Father John. I mustn't stop – I've to garnish these little pots before the butter sets hard. But it's good to see you.”

“Oh – I can finish those off, Mother! You take a little break. Better still – maybe gather me the salad leaves to send along to the guesthouse?”

John went out with her, into the kitchen garden, each carrying a basket, and they walked along its immaculately tended rows.

“Thank you for helping us,” he said to her. “You're making all the difference. Conradus was beginning to look just a teeny bit harassed before you came.”

Merry and warm, her eyes laughed up at him. “Aye, I can believe it! There's a lot to get through. But we're equal to it. You know, Father John,” she said, reaching out to pluck from the pole beans a leaf where blackfly had begun to gather, “I was thinking only this morning, what is it spurs me on – gives me strength for each day?” She looked up at him, squinting against the sun. He was listening. “And I think I put my finger on it. It first began as a game with myself, when I was just a young lass. I started to see if I could make people happy. I told myself that would be a kind of magic.” She smiled. “Better not let the bishop hear me say that, eh? But I think my secret's safe with you! It turned into a habit, something I almost – not quite – stopped thinking about. When I see anyone looking sullen or feeling low, I watch them, think about what they enjoy, ask myself what might have gone adrift. And then I see if I can't do some small thing to brighten them up. I'm not a rich woman, Father John, as well you know. I'm not important or clever. I learned to read, after a fashion – well enough to know the words in a recipe, but nothing like the Latin and so forth that our lad's learning here with you. But I – well, I'm nobody and nothing really. And I'm not beautiful. That's a kind of confession. All women want to be beautiful, Father John, and I know I'm not.”

Oh, Rose, yes you are
, he thought; but he didn't say it. He just listened.

“But it came to me, making people happy is so great a power, so beautiful a thing, that if I could do that, it would make me… well…” She hung her head, blushing to admit this private thing. “I thought it would make me like a queen.” She stood quiet for a moment, then she said, “So that's what I do. Every day. It brings me joy, and that joy is my strength. Magic. Power. Making people happy.”

She risked a shy glance at him, to see how this glimpse into her private world had been received, and saw understanding in his eyes, and tenderness. “I think you know what I mean,” she said. “I think maybe you do it too.”

He began breathing again. “Well, I will now,” he said. “Always, I do believe. Thank you, Rose.”

“Oh! It's only a little thing, but it does make a difference. It doesn't take a lot to make people happy, I find. To be considered and remembered, comforted and fed. Just ordinary things. Asking how the day went, bringing them a drink. But now – hark at me, prattling on while our lad's put to it to get all done back there in the kitchen! Here are we idling in the garden together – let's get him the greens that he asked for.”

As John went along the row, doing as his mother had taught him in his boyhood, plucking out some leaves and leaving some to grow on and renew the plant for further harvest, a memory obtruded into his mind of William and Madeleine in her garden during her time at the abbey – and how he had said to William, crisply: “One word – boundaries!” But this, as he told himself, was obviously different. For he was the abbot, and owed Rose the courtesy due to a guest. He wondered vaguely where the bishop was, and decided not to care. His world seemed to have drawn apart into contrasts of light and shadow; these vivid moments of satisfying, delightful conversation sparkled like sunlight at noon. They send into dark, recessive hollows of meaningless tedium the round of the day shaped by bells and chant and silence, the duties of administration, the obligation of courteous attendance upon Bishop Eric. And the Bonvallet family simply grated on his nerves; he stopped trying to pretend to himself that they didn't.

He made himself leave Rose in the summer garden, willed his feet to take him along the cloister to his house. In the rest of the day, he listened politely, he spoke with as much intelligence as he could muster, he tried to put his mind to the never-ending pile of documents accumulated on his desk. But his heart was not there. Then, halfway through the afternoon he remembered he'd promised the bishop over lunch to show him the library. It must be nearly time for None, but he thought he'd better take a look, in case his Lordship had gone straight there instead of coming to find him first.

As the abbot came out of his house, something caught his attention. Obviously he could see monks in the cloister at most times of day; it wasn't that. What made him look twice was the absolute dejection in the young man's demeanour; Brother Robert mooching dismally along the cloister as if he'd lost interest in arriving anywhere. John felt it more than sure he would already be keeping Bishop Eric waiting in the library, so he considered leaving Robert to sort his own problems out. But he reminded himself of the priorities of Jesus, which didn't rank status and position as a more compelling imperative than the struggles of ordinary people, and he strode briskly after Brother Robert to find out what had gone wrong.

Not a gifted man, Robert had no expectations of setting the theological circles of Christendom alight with his insights any time soon. His illumination work was frankly awful, and though his lettering stood up tolerably well his spelling hampered him. Not quick-witted, he often missed the point of the understated jests, the puns and parodied references, characterizing the conversation of the novitiate's leisurely moments. His departure from the world into monastic life had left no trail of broken hearts; in fact, though he had three sisters and two younger brothers, it would be accurate to say no one missed him much at all. Here in the abbey, he worked alongside Brother Thaddeus in the pottery. Their craftsmanship directed itself towards the production of simple, serviceable vessels for everyday use, and under Thaddeus's kindly tutelage Robert had begun to shape up into first a passable craftsman and then a good one.

Seeing time was short because he wanted to be on his way, John felt relieved that it usually required no oblique diplomacy to draw Brother Robert out: a straight question would do. And so it proved today.

Father Gilbert, he explained, had co-opted the entire novitiate to sing the polyphonic setting of the Mass for the forthcoming nuptials. Several of the young men had fine voices, as did Father Theodore. Mostly just two or three of them were required to learn new solos for acting as cantor as their turn came round; but this music was difficult and asked for a full choir. Father Gilbert needed them all; except, as it turned out, Brother Robert, who came in early however often he was told (late would have mattered less), seemed incapable of following a conductor, and sang flat.

Robert had no aspirations to further the cause of monastic music, to shine or succeed. His company was dull – his fellow human beings had left him in no doubt of that. He lacked the quick sensitivity of insight that makes men loved, the agile wit that draws admiration. Neither did he have the quality of spirit to scale the heights of prayer or undertake the heady adventures of mysticism. Even his voice was boring. Barely even useful, as he knew quite well, his ambitions could hardly be considered lofty. He just wanted to be included, to have other men laugh at his jokes and let him join in. And though in general they tolerated him with good humour, today they had not. Father Gilbert, driven to distraction by Robert's unexpurgated incapacity, had eventually, not exactly mean but with asperity, suggested he could be better occupied in the pottery. So all the others got to work on the Mass setting together, but not him. And he knew that later, in their hour of recreation, the talk would be all of the intriguing challenge of tackling polyphony, all about the Mass on which every one of them except him had been working.

He explained this in his straightforward way. It never occurred to him to turn it to any kind of quip or pretend it didn't matter. He just related it dolefully, and then stood there looking miserable.

John's first reaction to this tale of woe was impatience. The young man's biggest problem seemed to be complete self-absorption. But on the very edge of saying “Oh dear, I'm sorry about that; well, never mind,” he pulled himself back.

“Will you be – can you be – firing pots in the next week?” he asked. “Have you anything ready?”

“I'm not sure we'd planned to, but we could,” said Brother Robert. “It takes five or six hours to bring the kiln up to full heat after we've built and stacked it, but if we start early it'll be done and cool down in time to unload the next day. We've got some pots made only wanting the addition of slips and glazes. A few big platters and some bowls and drinking cups.”

“Well, why,” suggested his abbot, “don't you and Brother Thaddeus decorate them with some pictures or lettering suitable for the wedding? Nothing too tricksy. A picture of a man and a woman, or just their names – if you like the idea, I'll write ‘Hannah' and ‘Gervase' down for you on a wax tablet, and leave it out on the scribe's desk in my room. Then if you can get them fired in time, Brother Conradus could use the platters for fruit or cheese, or pastries, and the cups could take pride of place at the wedding feast. Just an idea. Tell Brother Thaddeus I'd like it done if he can see his way to it.”

As he watched Robert's crushing despondency give way to delight, saw the excitement in his step as he hurried off to the pottery, filled with enthusiasm to begin, the abbot reflected that taking the trouble to be kind wasn't all that difficult. Yet its results were transformative. He smiled, enjoying the energetic bustle of Robert vanishing along the cloister. Then he turned away, and made for the library, where he hoped Father Chad had found the inner reserves to keep his Lordship amused.

He paused at the library door, hearing voices within.
This is getting to be a habit
, he thought –
eavesdropping
. Not a practice he admired, but there was something about a Visitation that seemed to develop stealth.

“And this –” he caught the tone of pride and reverence in Father Chad's voice: their showpiece – “is a book of Bishop Aelred's sermons – Bishop Aelred of Rievaulx – written and bound by his own hand!”

Don't tell him that, he'll snitch it for his own place!
The abbot noted his own immediate instinct to clutch tighter what he feared might be taken, and thought it did probably not spring directly from the Gospel.

“Really? Let me see.” John's heart sank as he heard the avaricious note in the bishop's reply. He heard the sound of stiff vellum pages being turned in the silence. And then: “
Very
interesting. No – leave that out, please. I'll have a word with your abbot about it.”
Oh, you idiot, Chad
, thought the said abbot.