The Beautiful Thread (25 page)

His eye caught by a movement, William looked across the nave to see Father Bernard come to check the church and see that everything was tidy.

“Time to go,” he said quietly. He unfolded his arms. “Are we done?”

His cautious uncertainty made Father Chad smile. “Yes. Come on. I think Conradus could do with a hand serving all these people.”

* * *

As the day wore on, the wedding guests began to move and drift from their first situations. The close relatives of the Mitchell family, courteous and intelligent but supremely unsophisticated, sat with those of the Bonvallet clan and a handful of special guests – the d'Ebassiers notable among them – chosen to grace the occasion. But this was not a comfortable arrangement. Tired of smirks and raised eyebrows, in search of a good time, one by one the Mitchells found excuse to wander outside, find the man with the hurdy-gurdy and watch the jugglers. Eventually Hannah whispered to Gervase and he smiled, took her hand, explained to his mother that he had a duty to greet his guests outside; and the bride and groom went, too.

For a while, Abbot John sat in the place graciously allocated to him, then as the set piece began to break up, he too felt it right to wander among the guests of his house, and extend a welcome beyond the aristocracy.

He found his way to the tables serving food and ale (the fine wines were reserved for those deemed worthy to sit down with the mice in the refectory), where William had been helping Rose and Gavin and Brother Conradus, serving the milling crowd of guests.

There Abbot John made a point of talking with Brother Conradus's father Gavin, expressing his appreciation of Conradus's work in the kitchen and his hearty thanks for sparing Rose from her duties at home to help them with the wedding preparations. Rose smiled at his honest gratitude, which he was careful to couch in terms that made much of her role in life as Gavin's wife.

Then he stood at William's side for a while, watching the groups of guests filling the whole of the abbey court.

“A bit of an eye-opener – some of these new styles of dress,” observed the abbot, watching a knot of young men and women talking and laughing together. The girls' sideless surcoats (“gates of hell”, John had heard them called), the shorter and shorter tunics of the men, these had all been designed and cut not to cover but to titillate and reveal. “What d'you think of them, William?”

His friend looked up from the pastries he'd been organizing onto one serving dish to free up space so he could stack platters to go back to the kitchen.

“Of what? The lads or the lasses? Oh, both? Depends who's wearing what. I noticed Lady Florence has ventured into one of these gates of hell, but by St Peter, any man who reached his hand in there for a quick squeeze would more likely be turned to stone than find himself all aflame. And those parti-coloured hose and stupid little tunics? Don't leave much to the imagination, do they? I'd rather keep my crown jewels a bit better protected than that! Still, you know what, Abbot John? It's well to remember, you and I are growing into old men. 'Tis the shortest possible step from here to Lady Gunhilde's observation tower: ‘We'd never have worn anything like that in
my
day.
We
were brought up properly. We
knew
how to dress with dignity.' A top-up of ale, my lord?” (This last addressed not to John but to a young man unaccountably still thirsty.) “Here you are.” John watched him pour, precisely, never a drip, set the flagon down with care, well away from the edge of the table. Though William had schemed and worked his way to the highest possible status in monastic life, his childhood as general dogsbody trained by exacting standards and unremitting cruelty, had certainly left him able to serve ale without spilling a single drop and wait very effectively upon these guests.

“But, nay – modesty and sobriety are in equally short supply here. Wearing their wares, as you might say. Personally, I find reticence and decency a lot more attractive. And I've noticed you do, too.”

Seeing the discomfiture in the abbot's face, he apologized quickly. “I'm only teasing you,” he said. “I think. But now then, Abbot John, apparel doesn't make the man, nor yet the woman. It's what they say, it's the look in their eye – are they merciful, are they gentle, are they respectful, are they kind? That's what to look for, and who cares what they wear? Talk to 'em.”

The abbot took this gentle hint, and in the course of the afternoon he made sure to give all the gracious attention of a good host to the assorted members of the Bonvallet and Mitchell tribes, as well as to Sir Geoffrey and Lady Agnes d'Ebassier and all the guests of substance, but also to the lesser folk congregated out in the sunshine, and to the minstrels and friends from the village who had come to help and serve. He listened, he smiled, he complimented, laughed in the right places; and when the bell rang for None he decided he'd done enough.

Walking across the abbey court towards the church's western door, he paused once more by the serving tables. “When Conradus comes back from chapel, can you take a moment to find me in my house?” he asked his friend. “Am I right in thinking you'll be wanting to be on your way home tomorrow morning?”

William nodded. “I'd thought of going home at the end of the afternoon when the guests begin to leave,” he said, “but it looks as though you could do with a hand clearing up at the end, so I'll stay. Tomorrow, as you say. And, yes, I'll drop by in a little while when you've done praying.”

“He's been a Godsend,” said Gavin with a grin, leaning forward to speak past William to the abbot. “You couldn't call him stingy with the ale, but he knows when to stop pouring! Makes it go round. And he can get a dozen slices out of a pie our Rose meant for ten.”

Brother Conradus wiped his hands on a cloth, shook it out, folded it neatly and set it down handy for future use, then came round the table to walk with his abbot to chapel.

“I bet I can guess who that friend of yours is – the one who finds love such a puzzle and a struggle,” he said.

His abbot smiled. “Yes. I think you probably can. I liked his solution, though.”

“Aye, indeed. I do, too. Well, I do believe it's been a success, Father John. All that hard work has been well worthwhile. I hope Sir Cecil is pleased with everything. William says the man is generous in his donations to us. He thinks we may be out of pocket over the wedding, but it'll pay off in the end. I hadn't really thought of it in those terms, but I see what he means. William's a shrewd man – good to have him on our side.”

“Oh yes,” agreed his abbot, as they came through the open doors of the rood screen into the choir. “That's a fact!”

Avoiding the abbey court when the afternoon office concluded, in the silence of the cloister John trod slowly along to his house. He could feel the beginnings of normality re-settling like dust after a gust of wind subsides. The hubbub of music, talk and laughter still seeped through from the refectory and wafted up from the court beyond the west range, blowing around the precincts. But here, with the cool green of the cloister garth shining through the arches, in the lights and shadows of the stone walkway, he felt the ancient current of serenity, an unbroken thread of peace weaving through to the surface again. In all honesty, he couldn't quite feel his way back to it; a tangle of uncomfortable longings still conflicted his heart. He could not claim to have reached equilibrium; but he could sense the healing peace of the house re-establishing, and for that he was grateful.

He sat in the quiet of his lodge, for once undisturbed by people wanting him. Today saw them all fully engaged with the duties of hospitality. He was surprised that when he heard the awaited familiar knock, it was neither on the door to the outer court, nor the inner door to the cloister, but the small door by the scribe's desk, the little escape to the path under the birch trees, leading to the river.

“You seem well acquainted with this little door,” he commented, as he opened it to admit his friend. “Most people don't even notice it.”

William grinned. “I realize that. 'Tis why it's there. I had one too, at St Dunstan's, and it saved my skin. Every life needs an unobtrusive exit. I didn't want folk to see me come to your lodging – didn't want to give them the notion you might be at home and receiving visitors.”

John smiled. “You understand so well. Anyhow, sit you down; that's right. There's a small thing I need to sort out before you pack up to go. Would you like a cow?”

Taken aback by this completely unexpected question, William laughed. “A cow? Aye, I surely would. But what – why – ?”

“A gift from us here, to thank you – and Madeleine, coping at home without you – for all your help and hard work in these last few days. I was thinking if we had anything that might please you, and unless I'm mistaken you still have no cow, only a goat. We can spare a young one – she calved earlier in the spring. Her calf's weaned off onto the bucket now. So she should milk through, you won't have to take her to the bull for a good long while. She's fit and healthy, last you a good few years. Would that be welcome?”

“Oh, aye, it would indeed! Madeleine
might
be pleased to see me – I mean I hope she will, even with a fading black eye; but that she'll be overjoyed to see a cow I am entirely certain. God bless you, John; that would make a lot of difference to us. Are you sure you can spare her?”

“I'm not sure I need to answer that. I looked over the milk yields this morning, and whose hand did I read, neat and meticulous, missing nothing? You know exactly what we have, in every chest and storeroom, every barn and orchard, every sty and byre: of that I'm sure. Of course we can spare her. Tom can go up and milk her in the morning and bring her down to the gate. You don't mind walking a cow ten miles home?”

William smiled. “You might be wise not to tell her that's how far she has to walk; but no, that'll be fine. We can start out early and take it slow. Thank you. That's a handsome gift indeed. And unexpected.”

* * *

Monks get up early.

William stole silently out of the guesthouse as the flush of dawn began to give way to blue, not wishing to disturb the slumbering guests as he stepped with care over close-packed bodies. He very much hoped to find the abbot waiting for him as he trod purposeful and light to the gatehouse. He really wanted the cow, but it felt imperative to delay his return no longer. And there stood his brother-in-law, the end of a long, stout tether loosely held in one hand. The other end attached to a rope halter about the head of a milk cow the colour of a lightly cooked loaf of white wheat flour. She was cropping the grass where it grew long and lush in the place trees grew adjacent to the court. She swung up her head, chewing, and regarded William's approach with placid, enormous eyes of darkest brown. He liked her.

“I can well imagine you want urgently to be home,” John said, in an undertone appropriate to the time of day. “But let me walk along the road with you a little way.”

Beyond an initial smile of welcome, William said nothing. The abbey was still wrapped in the Grand Silence, its guests fast asleep in the house beside them, windows open through the summer night. Talking could wait until they were beyond its gates. The porter was not yet at his post. William hitched his pack firmly onto his back and took the rope from the abbot's hand. With as little noise as he could manage, John drew back the bolt on the postern door in the big gate, surprising William by latching it behind them after they passed through. He said nothing, waiting for John to speak, as they ambled along at the peaceful pace of a cow.

“I have four things to say to you,” John began after they had walked the whole length of the abbey approach and came onto the open road. His friend alongside him, easy and quiet, waited to hear what they would be.

“The first thing I think I have never put into words is that I love you for many reasons, but not least for the quality of your silence. I have never felt less judged by anyone. You have the knack of giving a man room, freedom to breathe. I would say it is kindness, but that doesn't feel right. It's more spacious than that. You simply leave me alone, leave me in peace; and yet, there you are. It's more comforting than I know how to tell you. You see?” He grinned at William, teasing. “You don't even say ‘Thank you.' Just silence, accepting. I can feel it like a shawl around me, light and warm. For that – and for other things, but that will do for today, I don't want you to get too big-headed – I love you.

“Then, the second thing… is… I'm sorry. Sorry that I let myself fall into that trap like a silly boy. Not that she set a snare for me – by no means. I should have known better, and I should be setting you a faithful example, not relying on you to keep me to the path. I am so sorry.”

They paused awhile for their companion to sample the herbage growing leafy and tender from the rain-ditch, as they turned off the road that continued to the village, taking the lane branching west through farmland, the way home for William now. Still William did not speak.
Then how does his sympathy touch me
? John wondered.
How do I feel his understanding so unmistakably clear?

“The third thing – I beg you, William – please forgive me. I put you in such jeopardy. They would have had you on a gibbet without a second thought. I put your life at risk. I don't know what I can have been thinking, to ask you to come and help while the bishop was with us. Well – I do know really; I was thinking about myself and my own problems. But I never anticipated I'd land you in such trouble. And I haven't forgotten you telling me the basis of good leadership is anticipation. I guess that makes me a rotten abbot. I nearly cost you your life. Please forgive me.

“And then –”

Now William interrupted him. “Look, does this list of your sins and my virtues get much longer? It's a novelty for me, and I'm enjoying it, but we live only ten miles away. We might get there before you've finished, even at this speed. Can I just say, you are welcome to eat with us if we reach Caldbeck before you stop talking.”