The Beautiful Thread (7 page)

“Very good,” approved his Lordship. “That's about right. And what about Ockham's theology of the Eucharist – either of you? Any of you?”

“He… he said…” – this voice belonged to the obsessively diligent Brother Felix, so John had good hopes what he was about to hear might well be correct – “that Christ's body is truly contained in all of the host, and in all of its parts at once. That the reality of Christ present succeeds the humble nature of bread. There isn't an interim stage when it's both, when both natures somehow blend in together. It's bread, then it's the host of Christ's presence.”

“
Very
good!” The bishop sounded impressed, though from what he could detect of Brainard's murmuring, Brother Felix was falling down on the job of keeping his smile in place as well.

“What else have you learned about the theology of the Eucharist? What does Quidort say – and Aquinas?”

John put his hand to the door, thinking this could well be a good moment to interrupt, but paused as he heard Felix begin to speak again. “He – Quidort – did not accept the interpretation given by Aquinas, your Lordship. John Quidort spoke of the nature of the bread being not supplanted by the presence of Christ, but being drawn into the greater being of the
Logos
– the holy Word, the mystical presence of Christ who is there in all the cosmos, in us who make our communion with the living Christ, in the bread, in the body.”

John saluted this with a silent cheer, and thought Theo must feel profoundly relieved and gratified to know that at least one of his lads had been listening. But when the bishop said, “And you, young man? What are your own beliefs about the Eucharist?” he judged this the right moment to cut in. He didn't want any of his novices arraigned before an ecclesiastical court for heresy. And it could happen. Not everyone applied Ockham's razor and assumed basic lack of sophistication and natural stupidity. Some would leap with alacrity to conclude evidence of a subtle and subversive mind at work in sly undermining of the authority of Holy Church, and never stop to ask how likely that was. John pushed open the door.

“Ah! My lord bishop! And Monsieur LePrique. Good morrow to you both. I hope you are finding our novices come up to the mark.”

Thank you
, moved Theo's lips in silent mime as John glanced at him across the tense circle of robed men.

“They seem well versed indeed,” replied the bishop, all geniality. “I was just enquiring about their own views on transubstantiation.”

John smiled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Brainard nod in satisfaction and encouragement at this. “My lord, do not forget this is only Yorkshire,” said the abbot. “Not Avignon, nor yet the Vatican. I hold Father Theodore's scholarly ability and considerable intellect in the highest esteem; but mine cannot compare. Some of what our novices have learned will be from my Chapter addresses and homilies at Mass. If you find any fault, come back to me, of your charity. It will be my own shortcoming.”

Though he allowed himself to be diverted from too careful an assessment of their theological orthodoxy, the bishop still persisted with his questions until the welcome sound of the bell ringing for the midday office brought him to a halt. The abbot and the novice master detached him from their novices and flanked him in an escort down the day stairs to the south transept of the church, allowing the young men to flow around and ahead of them. They both felt a sense of having navigated their way across the treacherous, icy waters of a winter stream.

After chapel, as the brothers departed for the frater, Abbot John remained in his stall. Father Theodore crossed the choir and sat in the prior's place alongside him. “Why did you come up this morning?” he asked, in a discreet undertone that respected the solemnity of the choir. “You were looking for me, not the bishop, weren't you?”

John nodded. He didn't want to have this conversation here, but if they went back to his house they'd be late for the midday meal, and if they set off for the refectory they'd run into Bishop Eric.

“It's Gervase and Hannah, Theo; I'm worried about them.”

“Because –?”

“There's such wide variance in their backgrounds and opposition from Gervase's family. And, you know how it is. The aristocracy have a hundred and one ways of disposing of people like Hannah. She's walking into a lions' den. If he ever tires of her…”

Theo considered this, his face sober. He sighed. “Well, it's true. But might we not have said the same of William and Madeleine? If ever a match was ill-advised, it must have been theirs. Yet from the whispers that reach me, they are happy together. And your efforts to stop them were made with the best of intentions but only made them miserable. Even if the ground of this union is shaky to walk on, if Hannah can't see that for herself, what's to be done? Seems to me this is one of those things where you have to trust in God and not interfere, Father.”

John accepted this, with reluctance. “Aye. You're right. I suppose you're right. Very well, then; I'll let it be.” He shook it off him and looked at his novice master with a smile. “Your lads gave a good account of themselves to the bishop, did they not?”

“Indeed they did. Good thing he came today and not yesterday. They were all in the kitchen learning to make pastry.”

“What? Why?”

“Brother Conradus will need some extra help for the wedding. He asked if they could all come down, to see who had some aptitude.”

“No! Tell me you're joking! Making pastry? With the bishop breathing down our necks? They need to be hard at it, Theo, earnest and diligent. Or at least looking like they are. Pastry!”

“Oh, I don't know.” Theo smiled. “I think it's good for them to try something other than book work once in a while. I've had them down in the pottery learning how to make bowls. I've sent them to Brother Walafrid a time or two, to learn how to make tinctures and poultices – basic medicine.”

“Aye, well that's useful! That's worthwhile. But – pastry?”

“So speaks an infirmarian,” retorted his novice master. “But listen – while I think of it – Conradus tells me you've sent for his mother to come and work alongside him in the kitchen for the Bonvallet wedding. Have I understood him right? You didn't, did you?”

“For sure. Yes, I did. Is that – is there a problem?”

“Who suggested this? Not Conradus. Oh, don't tell me – this was William's bright idea, wasn't it! John, what are you thinking of? We can't have a woman working here in the cloister!”

John hesitated, disconcerted. “She's not… not a
woman
exactly. This is Brother Conradus's mother.”

“What?”

“I mean – well, she won't pose any kind of temptation, will she? She must be near enough my age, and she'll be a little rolypoly comfortable farm wench. She… well, she'll be like Brother Conradus but a lot older. What's wrong with that? What trouble are you expecting? What could possibly go wrong? Nobody's going to fall in love with Brother Conradus's
mother
!”

Theo ran his hand across his scalp. “John, didn't you say when Madeleine came here that there's always trouble when women mix in with the community?”

“Oh yes, but” – John waved his hand in dismissal of this – “Madeleine came to
live
here. Rose will only be here a matter of a fortnight. What problems can she cause in a fortnight, for heaven's sake?”

“I've no idea,” said Theo. “Let's wait and see. But I'll have to think twice about the novices helping in the kitchen. Right, then. Shall we have something to eat?”

They walked to the frater in silence.

* * *

In the afternoon, John took the bishop across to the school. One of the few decisions he had made by himself in these first difficult months of his abbacy, was a recent transplanting of Brother Damian from the infirmary and Brother Josephus from various manual tasks, to work in the school. Brother Cassian helped out when his novitiate studies permitted. This dispensation proved to be happy and effective. Occasionally Father Gilbert came in to teach them the rudiments of music, and Father Clement to watch over their penmanship. The boys had evidently been warned of their inspection, and John saw their abnormally angelic behaviour as evidence of a supportive attitude towards their schoolmasters – from which he took encouragement. The bishop was satisfied with what he saw and made no rigorous inquisition. He next asked to visit the checker.

“Perhaps in the morning?” suggested John. He thought it more than likely William would be there, and such a meeting ought to be avoided if at all possible. Even in layman's clothing and sporting a beard, William was hard to disguise. “I'm hoping your Lordship will dine with me this evening, and I don't wish to tire you.”

“Nonsense! Not at all!” The bishop laughed at the suggestion. “I'm as fresh as a daisy. Let's go now.” As they walked across the court, the abbot discoursed as loudly as he dared without sounding strange, making frequent use of “your Lordship” and “my lord bishop” in his conversation. As they neared the checker, he halted, turning back toward the main buildings of the abbey, gesturing up towards the crenellations atop the west range. “I believe we have to do some leadwork, your Lordship,” he said in a stentorian voice, inventing wildly. “I don't suppose you can really see from here, but we've had some incursion of water into one or two of the cells. Along there. No – a little further.”

The bishop lifted his hand to shade his eyes from the sun as he scanned the meaningless vista. John heard a slight sound from the direction of the checker, and hoped he'd sufficiently advertised their imminent arrival.

“Please don't concern yourself,” he said in a more normal tone. “It's nothing but a small domestic matter. Below your interest, really.”

In the checker, the bland innocence which met him in Brother Cormac's gaze, as that obedientiary rose to greet them, told him the stalling tactics had done the trick.

“New in post, you say?” the bishop remarked with surprise, looking up at Cormac from the immaculate accounts spread out ready for him to see. “Well, by all the saints, you're doing a marvellous job!”

The new cellarer enlarged convincingly on the state of the abbey's finances. The picture he portrayed could be summarized as “struggling with chronic poverty in this moorland wilderness, but frugal and careful and an exemplar of responsible management”. Cormac, it seemed, had come a long way in three days.

Later, as he knocked on the wood of his stall with his ring for the community to rise and begin Vespers, Abbot John thought the day had passed off tolerably well so far. But he was not looking forward to the evening, with its influx of sophisticated guests.

* * *

Brother Tom had lit the fire even now in May. The abbey's thick stone walls meant the rooms were always cool through the summer, and bitterly cold in winter. In the evenings, a fire was always a welcome sight, cheery and hospitable, the woody fragrance a pleasant addition to any occasion.

Father Gilbert, the abbey's precentor, stood holding his hands out toward the blaze, appreciative. Abbot John stood with his prior, looking toward the door to the courtyard as he awaited the knock announcing his guests. Their desultory conversation had dried up. Francis glanced at his abbot and saw that he felt nervous. John had natural authority and character of considerable stature. He had moral conviction, deep faith and a good mind. He had compassion, quick insight, and the instinct to turn to prayer. What he lacked was sophisticated social finesse in his upbringing. The son of a soldier killed in battle and a village wise-woman who had subsisted on gifts of thanks for her success in practising the healing arts, he had grown up in poverty. Monastic life had taught him all he knew of the aristocracy, and that was not much. He could read and write when he came, knew any amount of practical and effective country lore; he had cared for sick men in the infirmary with competence, consolidating what he knew as he gained experience. In his novitiate years he had learned Latin and Greek, been required to study theology and become tolerably adept at following musical notation. But the
savoir-faire
and refinement men like Francis and Gilbert brought with them into monastic life had made little impression; they were expected for the most part to keep it to themselves. Simplicity and humility were valued above wit and urbanity. Nobody asked them to sparkle. Just now and then – and this evening was one such occasion – John wished quite desperately that he had a family background like that of his predecessor, Father Peregrine, on whose shoulders the cloak of elegant formality and propriety sat lightly and naturally, a French aristocrat born to noblesse. John knew quite well how far from polished was his own social manner. When it came to spiritual counsel, he was sure-footed; his knowledge of humanity gave him confidence. In this gathering about to eat at his table he would feel distinctly rustic. But he was grateful for Father Francis and Father Gilbert there with him, and had the strength of spirit to keep his sense of rising panic firmly in check, if not entirely quelled.

When the knock came, he stepped forward to answer, but Francis's restraining hand on his arm held him back; his esquire, Brother Thomas, opened the door. And then Francis lifted his hand away. When John, his assurance evaporating, still did not move, Francis murmured a quiet “Yes”, glancing encouragingly at his abbot, and stepped forward himself. Something in John that always observed, always took note, asked how did he do that – Francis? How did he manage to both take the lead and yet seem to hang back, to give his abbot preference? Tonight, as so often before, he silently thanked William for his shrewd judgment of men, for identifying Francis as the right man to set in the obedience of prior.

“My lord bishop,” he said; “Brainard – come in. Welcome to my table.” Francis had given the go-ahead for this invitation. It was proper, he'd said, for bishop and abbot sometimes to dine alone; but since Hubert and Percival Bonvallet would be with them, it would be a kind gesture to include the equerry. LePrique's social standing was greater than that of an ordinary servant. He was not a chaplain, but some courtesy should be extended in recognition of his position's status. And John had wondered,
How does he know? How does Francis always know?
At the same time seeing that Francis didn't know that he knew. He thought everyone knew. He thought it was obvious. So he made a good prior.