The Beautiful Thread (21 page)

“Are you still angry with me?” he asked first of all.

Theodore shook his head. “No. You were doing the best you could, I know. It happens. I've got over myself.”

“Good. Because I'm in another mess now, and I need your advice most urgently.”

John related the events of the afternoon, explaining that so far he had been able to avoid Bishop Eric, but could only hope to keep out of his way until suppertime at the very latest. By then he would have to answer some very difficult questions about William – not only his present whereabouts but his time at St Alcuin's.

“What am I to tell him, Theo? He's going to be digging up all manner of inconvenient goings-on. He'll want to know what the devil I was playing at, letting William go. And what if he finds him? What if he finds Madeleine? What if he turns up the allegations of witchcraft – besides which they would both be adulterers in a church court, and I shudder to think… I don't know if… I mean, there's a trail of legal documents. I witnessed their marriage. Yes, I know it was stupid, but I did it. And Mother Cottingham left them their cottage.”

Theodore listened carefully.

“Well,” he said cautiously, when John stopped, the abbot's strained gaze beseeching wisdom and help, “witnessing their marriage may not have been the canniest choice you ever made. But only they have the document, yes? You didn't go into the church – just the lych-gate? No? Then I don't doubt that record is in the safest hands possible. And you could ask William to destroy it if you think it prudent.

“As for the cottage, as I understand it, Mother Ellen left it to Madeleine outright. The money, she bequeathed to Madeleine with a share to her husband should she marry. No man was named in that legacy. William's name came up only in respect of the money she left to us here at St Alcuin's. I very much doubt they'll have changed the title of the deeds – partly because William would be the last person to want to advertise his whereabouts, and partly because such a legal change couldn't be got without a hefty fee and – well, you know William. He'd do without. So, though rumours there may be, I think we may rest in good hope there's no legal trail to track him to earth.”

As he spoke, the expression on John's face changed. First puzzled, then intrigued; then he said, “You seem to be more familiar than I had expected with the detail of all this! Was I the only man in this monastery not to know anything of William and Madeleine's affairs?”

Theodore smiled. “You were, without doubt, the last man they could trust with a confidence. But these things were not general knowledge. I was Madeleine's confessor. She left some secrets in my ear. Which will remain
sub rosa
. I'm only reminding you of what I think you already know. And, does it help?”

“Yes.” John shook himself free of the suspicions and uncertainties the conversation had unexpectedly aroused. “Is that all? Have you got any other bright ideas?”

“Well… Only one, I think. The bishop is regarding William as a fugitive? An apostate? Yes? He assumes he left us by his own choice? All right, then. I wonder, does he know about the money? I mean about William taking it upon himself to invest our entire wealth in that ship that went down off Lizard Point. Because, look; I know you might not want to blacken William's name even further, but what about this? Toward the end of the sixth century, the Council of Auxerre decreed that if a monk stole money or had private possessions, his punishment should be expulsion from his own community to enclosure in another. As things were, could it be safe to assume that if William hadn't left here of his own volition at all, but you had thrown him out, it could arguably have been very hard to find another house that would take him in?”

Abbot John digested this thought, and the beginnings of a smile kindled in his eyes. He nodded in slow agreement. “Yes. I think that's very likely.”

“Besides, we've had a papal exemption here for some fifty years – that's why we were able to elect our own abbot and confer your benediction ourselves. So I think the right of excommunication rests with you, not the bishop, because William's solemn vows make him subject to your authority, if anyone's, in this house. And his own place burned down, so he couldn't have stayed there even if he'd wanted to. The bishop's Visitation is a spiritual discipline we agree to – Father Peregrine thought it safeguarded against pride and obstinate ideas. An outsider's eye can see what the family misses. And he can complain about us of course – it certainly pays to keep him sweet. But I think you'll find you're answerable only to the Pope. I'm not sure I should have told you that, mind you; you might become insufferable from now on!”

John grinned at the joke, but absently, as he absorbed the information, heartily glad that his novice master had a good grip of church law and its nuances. He stood, taking it in, wondering with some embarrassment how this crucial facet of their governance, which he must have – well, at least
should
have – known, had passed him by. “Thanks, Theo,” he said. “Thank you very much. Very well, then. Let's get to it. I'll do my best. Pray for me.”

* * *

Finding no trace of either the turbulent cellarer or the evanescent ex-monk, it was in very ill humour that Bishop Eric heaved into the abbot's house in search of supper that evening, Brainard LePrique following hot on his heels, still forgetting to smile.

Out of all the men in his acquaintance, John dearly wished he could have had William at his side that evening. His abbey was known and loved for its simplicity and humility, not its prestige. He had no one of significantly noble birth among his monks, nobody schooled to elegance of manner and finesse in conversation. The only men of them all who came of any kind of aristocratic family – and even then they were farmers – were his precentor Father Gilbert and Father Francis his prior. It was at least a comfort to have Francis there, chatting genially, quick to notice everything, attentive and courteous in every detail. Observing him in action, John saw how shrewd William had been in advising him to give Francis the obedience of prior. His presence brought a balm to any situation, and John felt the atmosphere lighten as Brother Tom and Brother Conradus brought in plate after plate of aromatically delicious delicacies cooked to perfection.

Brother Conradus had raided the wines provided for the wedding to delight the bishop's palate; he had, as promised, done his best – and it was good.

When, inevitably, Bishop Eric raised the matter of William de Bulmer, John tried to imagine himself into the mind of the man they discussed – how would he have handled this? How would he have weaselled out of it and left the bishop wondering what had happened? Half-truths and political manoeuvring had never been John's style. But he gave it his best shot.

“My lord bishop,” he murmured, as he thought maybe William might have done, “we are so grateful this has come up during the time of your Visitation. It was for just such occurrences that our foundation offered voluntarily to invite the spiritual friendship of such a wise mentor as yourself. We are exempted from diocesan authority, as of course you know – but nonetheless we value your guidance and counsel. I of all men feel the burden of responsibility. Mine is to decide when to censure and when to forgive. Mine is to decide – though I tremble at the solemnity of it – when to excommunicate if it comes to that. And how I value the comfort of your spiritual direction in coming to a mind. It all feels so new still. My lord, I thank you from my heart for all your help.

“But –” John lowered his eyes to avoid any impression of pugnacity or insolent confrontation, reaching for his wine and taking a sip before continuing. “But in the particular case of William de Bulmer, I think you may have been… not misled exactly, because your keen wit would soon see through any errors of judgment… Shall we say those who brought you word may not have known the whole story? Could that be thought fair?

“The thing is, before he came to us, William de Bulmer begged refuge at many doors. He was not a popular man. But in his time with us, we saw deep repentance, we saw him become malleable to instruction. Then in his eagerness to please us, to repay our kindness, as he saw it, he overreached himself. Set to assisting our cellarer Brother Ambrose, who was old and less quick-witted than in his prime, William de Bulmer saw – and seized – a risky opportunity to improve our wealth. He ventured to invest a large sum of money without my permission. Unfortunately the vessel bearing goods, for which he had taken it upon himself to pay out a goodly sum from our coffers, was wrecked, and all aboard lost. My lord bishop, you will instantly see the quandary this put me in. No religious house would take him, yet my duty was to expel him from our community – he had, in effect, stolen from us. He had appropriated the community's wealth and used it as private property. He meant us no harm, he meant it for our good – but it was a grave sin. The proper course of action was not excommunication, for he was not apostate and he did not seek to leave us. But the fitting punishment must surely have been expulsion from our midst. In the absence of any community that would have him, enclosure in another became functionally impossible. We sent him forth to fare as he might, like a scapegoat. God knows what became of him. If it is true indeed that he made a home for himself as an ordinary householder and took a wife, well, who could blame him?”

Bishop Eric watched John narrowly, weighing these words. Francis sat swirling his wine slowly in its pewter goblet, not looking up, his face thoughtful and composed, breathing peacefully, apparently relaxed. Brother Tom, tasked with waiting on their table, stood quiet and alert against the wall. LePrique watched the bishop watching the abbot. John waited, trying to look open and without guile. He wished he'd never left the infirmary. He wished with all his heart he'd let some other man take on this confounded job.

“I heard,” said the bishop then, “de Bulmer tried to take his life.”

John reared backwards, his face a picture of astonishment. “You heard what?” he said. “From whom? Tried to…? When? While he was with us? But – we were his shelter from the storm! Why would he have done that? From whom did you hear such a thing, my lord, may I ask?”

Francis and Tom remained entirely still. John hoped they saw, he hadn't exactly told a lie as such. He wondered if they would ever trust anything he said to them after this.

The bishop frowned. This thing was slipping away from him. “Is he here?” he asked abruptly. The abbot did a double take.

“Is he – de Bulmer? How do you mean, ‘here', my lord? In this monastery? You have seen him? Recently you mean?”

LePrique thought he'd help. “There's a man my lord bishop says fits his description. Not a monk, a merchant – or someone who dresses as one. Thin and pale. Bearded. White hair. Unnerving gaze. Crops up everywhere. Foxy, watchful type.”

Father Francis laughed, and the cheerful, pleasant sound of it eased the mood. “Oh,
him
,” he said. “God bless us, my lord, I know the man you mean! And he
is
called William, too – well, isn't everybody who isn't called Thomas or Edward or John? I see how the confusion arose. Yes – he helps out with the provisions. I don't think he lives in the village, though – York man, I believe. He brought in some bits and pieces because we've a big wedding in the offing. I suppose you might have seen him in the checker? He'll have had some business to do with Brother Cormac, I imagine. William… William… oh… Fletcher, is it? Or Fuller? Brother Cormac would know. Yes, I came across him myself yesterday, and again this morning – I do see the resemblance. This was the man Brother Cormac regrettably punched, Father John. Had a black eye, poor soul. I had to apologize. I believe he's gone home now.”

Brother Tom moved quietly forward, replenishing the bishop's wine, adding to his plate another serving of the chicken and salmon pastry, with its saffron rice and crisp, tender salad greens.

“But there was another matter,” continued Father Francis easily, “that with my lord abbot's permission I wished to raise with you – if we've dealt with that? Yes? Moving on from Father William, then – whatever became of him, God bless him – I wondered if I might ask your advice, my lord bishop, about our school here at St Alcuin's. You've met our boys, and liked what you saw, I believe. As you know, we take not only the sons of freemen, but the more promising from among the families of the poor. We teach them arithmetic and grammar, logic and rhetoric, astronomy, Latin, some French for those families in more elevated social circles, and music of course. Now, it's the music that has been exercising us. We have always taught them plainchant and simple melody. But, from France, we are hearing more and more of polyphony. Our dilemma is this: should we avail ourselves of the newest scores to be had, so we may pride ourselves that the education we can offer is the very best? Or should we, for the sake of spiritual lowliness and a humble heart, keep to the old ways and teach them the plainchant alone? Especially since some of them are hardly sophisticated.”

Listening to this with some amazement, John hoped fervently there was at least a grain of truth in it. He could easily envisage the bishop taking his schoolmasters to task, and he hoped if they were as surprised as he was himself to hear of this, they'd at least have the gumption to disguise it. But he saw the keen interest that suddenly lit the bishop's eyes. Francis, evidently, knew his man. “Ah!
Ars nova
or
Ars antiqua
!” The bishop chuckled, transformed. “So you've entered the fray! What have you got? Johannes de Muris? Philippe de Vitry? Guillaume de Machaut? Well, now! His holiness Pope John had no time for it whatsoever, of course – not one bit! But times move on, seasons change. God rest his soul. And you say you're trying this on the boys in the
school
, as well as the choir?
Avant garde
, eh? Well, well, well!”