The Beautiful Thread (2 page)

An hour later, having entered and inspected every storehouse and place of work he thought might be available and empty, satisfied that all seemed in good order, William made his way to the abbot's house. Though his quiet, thorough searches had taken him into the cloister, he walked round to the door in the front range. Here in the abbey court guests would congregate. Across the greensward here they approached the church through its great west door. This door to the abbot's house was a public entrance, for visitors. The cloister door was for the community; and William no longer had a right to that entrance.

Knocking and, as expected, finding no answer – they would be in Chapter now – William tried the latch and found the door unbolted. This was a trusting place. And maybe kindness earned the freedom to trust. The village loved its abbey, and all who knew them held these brothers in high esteem. They were good men. It was like John to leave his door open for anyone who wanted to come in.

William stood quite still in the abbot's atelier, breathing the familiar scents of woodsmoke, beeswax, stone, herbs. He felt the movement of love in the private depths of his heart, for this man and this place; this community.

He sat down quietly on one of the two chairs close to the swept hearth. Sunlight diffused softly through the small windows. He watched motes of dust drift, catching the brightness of its rays. He allowed memories of this room in the abbot's house to emerge and float up inside him, some of healing, some of harsh agony. All of them of formation and transformation, the making of his soul. Without moving he let the ghosts of the past parade. He had no regret for his place here, but the bonds of affection… no; deeper than that – belonging, love… their roots grew into the living tissue of his being… or into the stonework of this house of prayer… depending how you looked at it…

The sharp click of the latch to the cloister door curtailed his musing. He looked up, and rose to his feet as Brother Tom the abbot's esquire came into the room.

“I hope I'm not presumptuous, barging in like this –” he began, but got no further, finding himself wrapped in Tom's hearty embrace of welcome: “Eh, but it's grand to have thee back!”

And then Abbot John was with them: “God love you, it's so good to see you, William! So kind of you to come. Man, but it brings my heart joy to see the glare of those baleful eyes once again! Did you sleep well? Have you breakfasted? No? But they put something out for you? We haven't left you to starve? When did you get in – last night? I looked for you at Compline. Brother Thomas – if it's not too much trouble, would you fetch over some bread and cheese and ale for William to break his fast here – I'm getting somewhat of a sense of urgency about the tasks before us and we have much to discuss. Thank you, Brother, thank you. Now then – let's bring your chair to my table here. That's right. So. You'll be pleased with me – I've a sheaf of lists and plans to keep us enthralled through the morning. What d'you want to talk about first? Cormac's progress? The wedding? The bishop? Or have you news of your own? All is well with you and Madeleine?”

William sat down in his chair, the baleful eyes regarding his brother-in-law with a glow of pure happiness. It felt good to be back.

“I've given the place a quick once-over while you were in chapel,” he said. “Bishops and their Visitations are a familiar hell. So tell me about the wedding.”

“Very well, then. Let me relate but a little and you will quickly grasp – this is set fair to be the wedding of the century. Not like yours – a man, his wife and a witness. Oh no. We are expecting upwards of a hundred and fifty guests, despite my striving to keep the numbers down. A party of minstrels has been ordered – with jugglers, so I'm promised. We have a harpist coming, and talk of flutes, lutes, drums and horns. I've said an absolute no to wrestling but yes to skittles. And no to apple-bobbing because what apples we have left we shall need to raid impressively to feed them all.

“The banns are read, no objections. Unless you count the profound opposition of the bridegroom's mother.”

“Who is – ?”

“Nobody in particular – it's not so much who she is as what she thinks she is – and the lip-curling lack of esteem with which she regards poor Hannah. Not that she need think we'd be putting ourselves out for them to this extent if Hannah were not Brother Damian's sister.

“Damian's father is a freeman, has about fourteen acres of his own land – put to barley, oats, peas, a few sheep and his house cows. The usual chickens and a pig of course; and then you've maybe seen Hannah out and about with her goats on the moor. She takes them to browse. Her family are good people. Cheerful, intelligent, kind. Hannah's mother Margery's a sensible woman, and her father works hard. There's another lad – Peter – and the father's Walter. Walter Mitchell. Honest, capable, pretty much what you'd expect if you know Brother Damian.

“But the lad Hannah's set her heart on – Gervase Bonvallet – is born of a tribe with rather more airs and graces. Florence is his mother, comes with a
very
keen sense of her place in the world. Father is Cecil, and Gervase has two brothers, Hubert and Percival. The Bonvallets are farmers, same as the Mitchells, but the difference is that Cecil has a knighthood, two hundred acres, and plenty in store.

“The way Florence sees it, Hannah would do very well as a serving wench, but she's no choice at all for a Bonvallet bride. A comely enough lass in a common way, but decidedly too rustic for Florence's tastes. We've been all through it. Florence has argued and protested, stormed and pleaded, said this marriage has ruined her life's work and will take her down to an early grave. She has no quarrel with Hannah as… er… a playmate for young Gervase; Hannah's clean of lice and diseases, she's a fresh and pleasant, sweet-natured girl. It's just that Florence can't envisage her as a Bonvallet. She imagined an altogether more delicate and gently born helpmeet when it comes to the family name.”

William listened to this with interest and amusement. “I see,” he said. “And what about the menfolk? Sir Cecil? Walter? They like each other? Or do they oppose the match?”

John shrugged. “Up here in the hills – well, who is there? Sir Cecil has his head screwed on. Walter's a good farmer, and an honest man. Hannah may not be an aspirational catch, but her family will bring no shame or trouble. They aren't brawlers or drinkers. They do well with what they have. In this decade of wet summers when food has been so scarce, Walter's had meat salted away, grain in store, dried fruits aplenty. He's got through where others have starved – and helped his neighbours too. He's a shrewd man. And Sir Cecil's no fool; he respects ability.

“The lads of both families all grew up together of course, they're good friends. Margery is proud as punch, thinks Hannah has an excellent catch in Gervase – as so she does. It's only Florence; but when I say ‘only'… Well, Florence… still, you'll meet her maybe.”

“And the wedding is in a fortnight's time, you tell me?”

“It is.”

“All provisions in? Well prepared? Ready for the onslaught?”

John hesitated, evidently unsure.

“Well… we are; yes, we
are
. Thanks to the legacy from Mother Cottingham, we've been comfortably off this last year. We took heed of all you told us we lacked, and have set about stocking up with everything needed to bump up our earnings. Even in times when others are struggling under money troubles and failed harvests, we seem to be getting through without feeling the pinch too badly.”

“Besides,” William interrupted him, “it's presumably not you who will be paying for this wedding? John? Whatever of your comestibles may be sequestered for the feast, Sir Cecil will surely make good? Cormac is keeping careful tally? Reassure me!”

“Oh, aye.” John waved his hand vaguely. “We'll keep account. We'll get it back, I've no doubt. And if we didn't it wouldn't be the end of the world.”

William shook his head at this casual attitude, then addressed the hesitancy he had detected in John's tone. “But?” He looked at the abbot enquiringly. “What's the ‘but'? I can hear it in your voice.”

“Oh – it's a question of finding enough hands for all the preparations. Brother Conradus is a wonder, and we have the lads from the village helping in the kitchen, as well as Brother Damian when he can be spared from the school – I moved him there from the infirmary, and he's doing well. But every man here has his work to do, and I can't see how we can release many of them for cooking. Besides which, even if we did, the sort of delicacies Brother Conradus has in mind will be beyond the abilities of Thaddeus or Germanus or Richard, even supposing they had time on their hands. Brother Conradus looks worried – which isn't like him; he's usually equal to anything culinary we ask of him. I'm not sure just exactly what we're going to do. I thought of asking Madeleine to come and help, but I know how it is; you have fowls and beasts of your own, and soft fruit coming on. I don't see how your place could do without the both of you.”

William frowned thoughtfully, turning the matter over in his mind. John was right. Their homestead could not possibly be left unattended.

A knock interrupted them. Brother Tom set down the tray of food he'd just brought in, and turned back to answer the cloister door.

“Ah! Brother Conradus!” The abbot half rose from his chair. “Come in – we were just talking about making ready for the wedding. William is here, as you see – come to give Brother Cormac a hand in the checker, juggling the bishop's visit with Hannah's marriage. I was only explaining this minute that though we have the provisions we're woefully shorthanded. Have you a moment to tell him something of what you propose? Is it all carried about in your head or written down somewhere? I have the lists you gave me along with all the others here, if your memory needs a jog.”

William formed an impression of something in full sail as the young kitchener approached them. A few months of overseeing the abbey's culinary provision had impressively augmented his girth. But more than this, the kindness, the enthusiasm in his smiling face billowed about him and shone ahead of him, like gulls and bright sunshine around a small ship making good headway on a fair, breezy day.

“Father William!” he exclaimed. “Good morrow! Ah, how splendid to see you!”

In the last hour William thought he'd been met by a more loving and magnificently hospitable welcome than in all of his life before. He noted the sense of happiness cautiously establishing in his core.

Brother Conradus began eagerly to outline the complexities and challenges of preparing his feast, while simultaneously keeping the brethren and their steep accumulation of overnight guests well fed. His exact and detailed knowledge of every morsel they had in store and on order became impressively clear as he talked. He knew the capacity of their milk cows and the laying averages of their hens. He knew how much of what they had could be used and how much should be kept back to see the community onward. He had calculated their likely harvest produce (if they were spared deluging rain this time, but also if they were not), and assessed how low they could therefore run down what they had put by. William listened to him with evident approval, pleased to see the ambitious project ahead in such competent hands, as Conradus waved the list about, not needing to consult it to explain its many implications.

“It's a joy – it's all a joy, of course,” said the kitchener. “I'm tremendously looking forward to it. I'm just not quite sure how… well… there's only one of me and nobody else quite up to – at least, of course… umm… The subtleties are what I'm really worried about.”

William nodded thoughtfully. He could see that.

“There must be three at least, possibly four if we have soup as well.”

“Four what?” John frowned, puzzled.

“Four subtleties.” Conradus looked at his abbot in helpful clarification, but quickly saw he'd drawn a blank. “There has to be a subtlety after every course,” he explained.

William grinned at John's complete incomprehension. Raised by a wise-woman herbalist on the outskirts of a hamlet high in the hills at Motherwell, exchanging the moors and the woodland streams for a life of work and prayer in St Alcuin's infirmary, John hadn't even a nodding acquaintance with lavish and elaborate formal feasts.

“Oh!” The young monk flushed, perceiving his abbot to be at a loss and ashamed at having set his superior at a disadvantage. “Forgive me, Father – I should have expressed myself more clearly. So thoughtless. I was all trammelled with my own cares and preoccupations – like St Martha – I'm so sorry. I've been too wrapped up in myself.”

“Not to worry,” said his abbot. “So… ?”

“Oh! Well, a subtlety is the fantastical centrepiece that crowns each course. Something in pastry usually – though I'd thought I could make a dragon out of artfully arranged shortbreads, with a marzipan head and maybe spun sugar wings, for the sweet course.” Conradus gesticulated excitedly as he spoke, then caught himself. He paused in recollection of appropriate humility. “That is – if I may have permission to get the sugar, of course. If the expense is not too great. Lady Florence said I shouldn't cut corners, and I thought… well, a dragon would be easy.

“But the others should speak something of the occasion – a representation of the bride and the groom – but also of the holy solemnity. I ought to attempt a Holy Trinity in pastry, or a gingerbread monastery with gilded crenellations perhaps. I thought I could make a whole community and a bride and groom in bread dough, and a chalice and paten on an altar, egg-washed to make them shine. I haven't really finished thinking it through, to be honest; because every time I hit the obstacle of shortage of time. I know the obstacle is the path, Father, and we should make light of adversity under every circumstance, and I do my best, truly. But even with the right attitude, time is pressing.”