Brother's Blood (14 page)

He gestured in front of him and Martin saw that he was in a huge barn. The air was chokingly full of wool and dust and he waved his hand in front of his mouth and coughed several times before he could get another word out, his eyes watering. ‘I see.'

Brother Sinnulph grinned. ‘Sorry. We get so accustomed to it that we forget that others aren't used to the air.' He gestured. ‘As you can see, this is our main barn – every one of our animals has been in here to be shorn during the past two weeks. We're now sorting the wool into high, middling and low grades and packing it into bales ready to transport.'

‘And who does that? The monks or the labourers?'

‘The hired hands help with the packing, but the brothers do the grading. Brother Alexander was very insistent about that, as he once had a bale opened by a merchant who declared that we were trying to pass off inferior wool as high grade.'

Martin tried to sound casual. ‘And there was an argument? With this merchant? When was that?'

Brother Sinnulph shrugged. ‘Some three or four years ago, I think. I can't remember the name of the merchant, if indeed Brother Alexander ever told me.'

‘Oh.'

‘Anyway, the bale was swapped and no harm was done, except that the good brother was very insistent about the grading ever after. He was here last week during the shearing to remind us again to be careful about it, and to say that he'd be back to check the bales this week.'

‘But he won't be now, will he?'

Brother Sinnulph crossed himself. ‘
Requiescat in pace
. No, he won't, but the lord abbot will appoint another in his place soon enough. The abbey runs on wool, so the crop can't be left unsold.'

They had been walking through the barn as they spoke, and now the lay brother ushered Martin through a door at the far end into a smaller room. Here there was a table, positioned to catch the light from a window, some shelves and some locked boxes. A monk, one of the ones in a white robe and with a tonsure, was sitting at the table writing something, surrounded by various pens and sharpenings. He looked up and nodded as Martin entered but did not rise or speak. He dipped his quill into a small ink bottle and continued with his work.

‘Your office?' Martin hazarded to Brother Sinnulph.

‘The grange office, yes. Here we keep our records.'

‘And some books.' Martin nodded at some volumes on a shelf. ‘This abbey is full of books.'

There was a slight sound – a tutting noise? – from the monk at the table but Brother Sinnulph continued as though he hadn't heard it. ‘Not really. They look like books but they're just wool ledgers. See.' He took one down and opened it, and Martin could see that it was full of numbers in columns and other incomprehensible notes and markings. His eyes slid over it without interest as Brother Sinnulph pointed out something or other. ‘The main ledgers are at the abbey, in the office in the lay brothers' grange, but we keep our own ones here, separately.'

Martin tried to muster some interest. What did traders talk about? ‘I suppose you need to keep track of how much you've sold, what people have paid you, that sort of thing.'

This time there was no mistaking the snort from the table and Martin looked around sharply, only to be greeted by the sight of the monk's tonsured head as he bent serenely over the column of numbers he was writing.

Martin addressed Brother Sinnulph again, a little more loudly than he had intended. ‘And did Brother Alexander oversee this as well?'

The scratchy noise of the pen stopped and there was silence for a moment before it continued again.

Brother Sinnulph glanced at the other monk, laid a hand on Martin's back and ushered him firmly back towards the door. ‘Yes, yes, he would come and check all the accounts from time to time, but he wasn't here all that often as he had the other granges to visit as well. Now, try to hold your breath while we go through the barn again and then we'll walk around outside and I'll show you the rest of the place.'

Martin stopped halfway through the barn as something caught his eye. He bent and picked up a vicious-looking double-bladed implement from where it had been left on top of a hay bale. It was like a double-ended knife, folded over in the middle and flexible, and the two blades rasped against each other as he pressed the implement in his hand. He held it up questioningly.

Brother Sinnulph took it from his hand, very carefully, and laid it back down. ‘A shearing tool. We have many of them, of course.'

‘You could do quite some damage to someone with that.'

It was hot in here, but surely the monk was sweating more than he had been a few moments ago? His face looked quite red. ‘Yes, I suppose you could. And I have known of careless labourers injuring their fingers or, worse, causing damage to a prize sheep, but thank the Lord we had no such incidents this year.'

They emerged into the sunlight and Martin took a deep breath of the mercifully wool-free breeze which drifted between the grange buildings.

‘Can you show me anything else Brother Alexander worked with while he was here? And tell me anything else you know about him?'

‘There isn't much else, as this grange really only deals with wool – we don't grow our own crops. But I'm sure you'd find it interesting to look at our garden and some of the other outbuildings …'

Resigning himself to an hour or so of utter boredom before he could start riding again, Martin followed.

Edwin felt as though he was in a dream. He had spent – he didn't know, about an hour, he supposed, as Brother Octavian hadn't yet been called away to a service in the church – looking at different books and asking questions about them. His mind felt so full that it would hardly fit inside his head.

He picked up another volume and opened it carefully, squinting at the tiny, close-written text.

Brother Octavian peered over his shoulder. ‘Ah, now, that one was written by Brother Alexander, may he rest in peace.'

‘He wrote it? You mean he copied it out? I didn't think scribing was one of his duties.'

‘No, I mean he wrote it. He composed it. This is not his handwriting – the original is in another abbey, but we have a copy made by another scribe. In fact this one is clearer, as I'm told that the original is full of crossings-out and notes.'

Edwin stared at the words, wondering if some knowledge of Brother Alexander might come to him if he read through them all. But it was a hefty volume and the subject matter looked complicated. ‘What is it about?'

Brother Octavian sniffed. ‘It is not a theological work. It is his
De naturis rerum
, a manual of scientific knowledge and therefore not on our list of recommended works for the novices or the younger monks. He wrote it while he was a schoolmaster somewhere – St Albans, I think – before he took the cowl. Some of the older brothers who have already been through all our religious works have studied it. They have found nothing contrary to our doctrine in it, so it is not a problem, but much of it is just useless information.' He turned a few pages and pointed at a passage. ‘See here – he writes that a needle which is magnetised can be of use to sailors in finding their way across the sea. How can that be said to be of interest when compared to his other theological studies? What a pity he spent so much time on this and then never completed his other work.'

Edwin had never really thought about how difficult it might be to find one's way across the sea – he'd never even seen the sea – but now he came to think about it, it would be tricky, wouldn't it? There wouldn't be any landmarks to help you find your way, just water on all sides. He wondered how the needle would help, but there was no time to think about that now. He tore his eyes away from the writing. ‘What other work?'

‘Ah, well … wait a moment.' Brother Octavian went to the back of the room and reached up to bring a sheaf of parchment down off the top shelf. ‘This is what he was working on. It's not finished so it is not bound, but as he will now never complete it I suppose we should bind it anyway in case it gets damaged.'

Edwin shut the science book with care and with regret, and replaced it on its shelf so that Brother Octavian could lay the parchment down in its place.

The monk turned over the first of the loose leaves. ‘Now this, this is much more important. This is Brother Alexander's
Speculum Speculationum
.'

Edwin wrinkled his forehead. ‘The mirror of mirrors?'

Brother Octavian nodded. ‘Yes, you could call it that. It is a theological work of great import.'

‘What is it about?'

‘Well, the first volume, which he had already completed, was a refutation of the Cathar heresy and its belief in dualism.'

Edwin didn't quite understand that, but he nodded anyway. Heretics were bad, so obviously a learned monk would be able to disprove what they believed, he supposed.

‘This is the second volume, and here Brother Alexander was just getting into his stride. See here, where he begins to focus on his key purpose of the application of dialectic logic to the study of theology …'

Clearly the Lord intended Edwin to undergo a lesson in humility. He had always considered himself intelligent – had he even prided himself on being able to understand things which the other villagers didn't seem to grasp? Was he guilty of that sin? – but now he realised that he was hopelessly out of his depth. He listened to the words coming out of Brother Octavian's mouth and he had not a single clue what they were about. He needed to be reminded of his place. Which was evidently not here.

He interrupted. ‘So, Brother, do you think any of this might have a bearing on why Brother Alexander was killed? Surely nobody would want to stop him completing this work?'

Brother Octavian looked shocked. ‘No. I can't imagine such a thing. Or at least, no good Christian would want to stop this. If there were any heretics or heathens around then they might want to, but there aren't any of those around here.'

Then why, thought Edwin, have you just looked over your shoulder as though you expect one to appear behind you at any moment?

He changed the subject. ‘Brother, have you heard of the writings of a man called Daniel of Morley?'

Brother Octavian looked taken aback. ‘Of course I have, but how have you?'

Should he reveal the reason for his question or not? ‘Oh, it's just that one of the other brothers mentioned his name and I didn't know what he had written – I thought you might.'

‘Which brother? It would have to be someone very well read, for Daniel's works are very difficult and we have none here.' He thought for a moment. ‘His best-known tract is probably his
Philosophia
. It is divided into two books, on the sublunary and superlunary world, and deals with …'

Edwin didn't think this was going to help – he needed to concentrate on more immediate practical matters. ‘Brother, would it be possible for me to come into the cloister tomorrow while you are all carrying out your reading? Your – I'm sorry, I can't remember the proper name.'

‘The
lectio divina
? Well, it wouldn't be normal to have the brethren disturbed at their study, but as Father Abbot has asked us to help you … I shall ask him directly later today and let you know what he says.'

‘Thank you, Brother. I promise not to disturb anyone or even speak – I just want to watch for a while so I can get more of an idea of exactly what Brother Alexander was doing when he died, and how it might have happened.'

They were interrupted by the sound of a bell.

Brother Octavian regretfully started to gather up the loose pieces of parchment. ‘That is the call to nones, so I must ask you to leave now so that I can lock the armarium.' He gave Edwin a long look, which Edwin returned for a while before dropping his gaze to the floor. ‘I know that you did not understand what I was speaking of just then. But remember: ignorance is not the same as stupidity. If you feel that you have a calling, you can always talk to Father Abbot. Many have joined the brethren and had their minds expanded by a lifetime of study.'

A lifetime of study. Edwin felt his heart beating faster. To leave everything; never again to be sent by the earl on a perilous and terrifying mission; instead to spend his life in peace, reading all morning, working all afternoon and praying to the Lord in between.

The prospect of what such a life could offer, of what might be within his reach if he only asked, of the bliss he could have, was almost as terrifying as the prospect of trying to explain it all to the earl.

Edwin was catching the sun's afternoon rays in a corner of the precinct, sitting with his back against a wall and soaking up the heat while trying to make sense of the thoughts – too many thoughts – which were going round in his head.

Did he really want to consider becoming a monk? It was all idle thought at the moment as surely the abbot would object, but still he couldn't help thinking about it. There were arguments both for and against, but he was so confused that it was difficult to line them up and decide which side was stronger. On the one hand, he would live a life of peace, and he would get the opportunity to study. On the other, it would mean giving up his friends and family, and any chance of a life of marriage and children. He leant his head back as he considered. Once, those aspects would have outweighed all else. But his lifelong friend, the companion of his boyhood, was dead these two months, and he still felt the betrayal. His father was dead. Admittedly his mother still needed him, but might she not be pleased that he would be in a position to pray for her? And might she not marry again anyway, possibly giving him a stepfather he didn't want? And as for marriage … the blackness threatened to encroach from the corners of his mind and he pushed it back. If he couldn't have her, he didn't want anyone. And then there was his duty to the earl, to whom he owed his position. Would the earl even let him leave, if he asked? He doubted it, or at least he doubted that he would be released as long as he was still useful. But how useful was he? He had helped the earl out of a few situations so far, he knew that, but could he guarantee that he would keep being able to do it? At the moment, for example, he was no nearer to knowing what happened to Brother Alexander than he had been when he arrived.