Brother's Blood (18 page)

Brother Durand also came to himself and, in a move that Martin recognised from his own years of obedience to authority, bowed his head immediately. ‘Yes, Brother Prior.'

Prior Henry moved forward to stand next to Martin at the foot of the bed. He sighed and shook his head. ‘Ah, Benedict, I thought we had moved on from this.'

Dear Lord, in his anger Martin had almost forgotten the stricken novice. ‘You know what ails him?'

The prior's voice was sad. ‘He is keen to suffer in the name of the Lord – too keen, and Father Abbot and I have both had cause to speak to him about it during the last couple of years.'

Martin didn't understand. ‘What do you mean?'

‘We have a restricted diet here, as you know, but this is not enough for Benedict. He seeks to earn the Lord's favour by starving himself, which is not the best way to serve as it means he does not have the strength for his labours and for the services. Brother Jordan, the novicemaster, is supposed to have been watching him carefully and instructing him to eat properly.'

Martin wondered how on earth anyone could possibly want to starve themselves, but as he had already worked out that Benedict was a very different man from himself, he tried to feel sympathy.

Prior Henry sighed again as he looked down on the figure in the bed, now moaning and whimpering although he still appeared unconscious, his eyelids moving rapidly. ‘Oh no …'

‘What?' Martin's voice was sharper than he meant it to be, but the prior took no offence.

‘Turn him over, Brother. On to his stomach.'

Brother Durand, who had his hand over Benedict's heart, looked puzzled, but he obeyed. Martin stooped to help him as they manhandled the novice into position. He was still hot, but some of the moaning stopped.

The prior nodded. ‘As I thought. Loosen his robe and look at his back.'

Brother Durand did so and expelled a harsh breath. Martin didn't want to appear too curious, but he leaned forward as far he dared. Benedict's back was covered with a criss-cross of ugly red welts, some of which were oozing an unpleasant substance. Martin looked at the two monks, who were exchanging a glance.

The prior explained. ‘He has been scourging himself. That is strictly against the rules of the Order and Father Abbot expressly forbade him from doing it.'

Brother Durand was now bustling about his business. ‘I have a poultice which can be used for the bleeding and the discharge, and he must be bled to help relieve his fever. If you will excuse me, Brother Prior …'

Martin briefly touched Benedict's hand. ‘Will he be all right?'

The prior was muttering a prayer, and he crossed himself before he replied. ‘If it is God's will.' He regarded Martin with some sympathy. ‘But yes, I hope so.'

A noise from the doorway heralded the arrival of an elderly monk who was puffing and breathing quite heavily. ‘I came as fast as I could.' He staggered inside. ‘The poor boy. Is he —' He wheezed his way over to the bed and saw Benedict's back. ‘Oh.' He dropped to his knees.

The prior's voice assumed a stern edge. ‘Brother Jordan. You and I need to have words. Please come with me to see Father Abbot.'

The new arrival looked both horrified and forlorn. ‘Yes, Brother Prior.' He struggled to rise, holding on to the bed for support, and Martin grabbed him under one arm and hauled him to his feet, then watched as the two monks left the building.

Brother Durand returned with a bowl of something which smelled evil and knelt by Benedict's side. ‘You can go.' His voice was brusque.

Martin shuffled his feet. ‘Yes, Brother. I – I hope he recovers soon.'

‘Whether he does or he doesn't is in God's hands. Your sword can't help him, and neither can you. Now leave, and don't come back.'

Martin opened his mouth but the infirmarer was already kneeling and dipping his fingers in the paste. Still smouldering at being called a liar, Martin turned on his heel.
A good commander must be in control of himself at all times
. Or so he kept telling himself as he fought the urge to kick things on the way out.

When he reached the guesthouse Edwin rose from the table to greet him. ‘I was wondering where you'd got to. Here, sit down and have something to eat.'

Martin folded himself up on to the bench and accepted a bowl of food. He shovelled it in without really noticing what it was, thinking of Benedict being presented with such tiny rations all the time and then refusing some or all of it anyway. What could possess a man to act so?

Edwin was talking to him, but he didn't fancy telling him everything with the other two men sitting at the table, especially about his latest encounter with the infirmarer, so he muttered that they would talk later and then turned the conversation to more general matters, asking Sir Philip about his horse's recovery. As he spoke he looked at Edwin in case he was going to raise the subject of the scabbard chape he had found. But Edwin, somehow reading his mind, gave a very slight shake of the head so Martin kept his mouth shut. The evening passed in strained chat and a few cups of weak ale.

Eventually the guests took to their beds. Once the others were asleep Edwin turned his face towards Martin and listened to a whispered summary of all that had happened that afternoon. Edwin considered the implications of Benedict's announcements and his behaviour, even as he told Martin of his lack of success and the unlikelihood of being able to speak further with Brother Richard.

‘But treasure, though – that has to be important?'

Martin yawned at him and nodded. ‘I thought so.'

‘And he didn't say what it was?'

‘No. I did ask, mind, but he didn't know himself.'

‘That's a shame.' Edwin lowered his voice even further. ‘He must have kept it in that cave. In the box we found.'

‘Yes. But it was empty, remember?'

‘I know.' Edwin considered for a few moments, aware that Martin's eyes were starting to close. ‘Perhaps we missed something. We'll go back there tomorrow and have another look.'

‘Fine.' Martin's voice was drowsy, and as Edwin watched he saw the exact moment when his friend fell asleep. He wished he could drop off as easily, but it seemed he was in for another night of thoughts jumping up and down in his head. He tried to order them but they would not obey, and after a while he sat up again. He'd had several cups of the small ale, not enough to make him feel drunk, but as he was still awake he now found that he needed to relieve himself. He put his bare feet on the floor – no need to lace himself into his boots just to go to the latrine behind the guesthouse – and tiptoed past the other guests. As he did so, he caught a flash of something from one of the beds – a reflection of the light from the burning rush on the table twinkling from one open eye. Now he looked again, both eyes were closed and the man appeared to be fast asleep, but Edwin had the definite feeling that Sir Philip had been awake, and he wondered how much of their conversation the knight had overheard.

The following morning Edwin felt as though his head was full of sand. He groggily raised himself to a sitting position and then put his fingers to his lips as Martin looked like he was going to say something. Martin gave him a questioning glance but took the hint and said nothing, merely stretching and yawning as he pulled his tunic over his head.

Once they had left the guesthouse Edwin checked all around him to make sure they weren't being overheard. Sound would carry much further here than it would at home because there was so little background noise. He explained that he suspected Sir Philip had heard them last night. ‘I'm not sure about him.'

Martin lowered his own voice. ‘It does seem a strange story, him staying here because his horse has gone lame. Surely he must own more than one, and he could send a servant to fetch another? And where's his squire?'

‘He might be a knight, but I don't think he's very well off. Not all of them are.'

‘How can you tell?'

‘Well, the lack of a squire, for one thing. Maybe he can't afford one. And his clothes are wearing thin and a bit frayed around the edges – didn't you notice?'

‘No.'

Edwin couldn't resist it. ‘A fine knight like that, and you haven't looked him over so many times that you know every detail? You're mad.'

But Martin didn't get the joke. ‘Well, come to that, I'm not so sure about the wool merchant either. Maybe he's in on this cheating which might be going on in the grange?'

‘Maybe,' said Edwin, unwilling to commit to the theory at the moment. ‘But he didn't get here until after Brother Alexander was already dead.'

‘Oh yes, I forgot that. Anyway, where are we going? I thought we were going to head back to that cave to have another look around?'

‘We will, but it will have to wait until this afternoon. This morning we need to watch the
lectio divina
, and before that the monks have their Chapter, their daily meeting, and I want to see if they will let us in.'

‘The
lectio
what?'

‘It's reading.' Edwin felt guilty, but he wanted to have Martin with him so they could both watch and then compare notes. ‘We're going to watch the monks reading.'

‘
What?
'

They stopped outside the door to the abbot's house and Edwin turned to squint up at his friend. ‘I know you won't like it. But two pairs of eyes are better than one, and you might see something I miss.'

Martin sighed. ‘All right. But you're going to owe me a day's hunting in the forest once this is all over, you know that, don't you?'

Edwin managed a tired smile. ‘All right. Just because I know I'd hate that as much as you're going to hate this. But first we must speak to the lord abbot.'

It took Edwin some persuading to get the abbot to give them permission to attend the morning Chapter meeting, as this was normally for the monks only, unless there were very honoured guests to be received – to which category he did not consider that Edwin and Martin belonged, evidently – but he eventually admitted that these were exceptional circumstances and that the two of them could attend as long as they stood at the back, remained silent and did nothing to make themselves noticed by the brethren. The abbot added that after the service of sext at noon he would expect Edwin to visit him to apprise him of progress so far, and then with a brief reference to precept twenty-eight – Edwin thought he really must go and look these up somewhere – he swept off through his garden in the direction of the chapterhouse. Well, that will be a short meeting, thought Edwin, as he and Martin took the longer way round into the abbey building through the lay brothers' range.

The monks were already assembled in the chapterhouse when Edwin and Martin arrived and they slipped in as quietly as they could. It was a rectangular room into which light flooded at this time in the morning, thanks to the three windows at the east end; nearer the door it was a little darker and they managed to find themselves a shadowy corner behind a pillar where they could watch proceedings unobtrusively. The abbot and the prior, who were facing them, might be able to see them if they stretched a little, but the other monks were facing their superiors and so not likely to spot them unless they turned around. Edwin scanned the backs of their heads and realised again how difficult it would be to pick out the one he had seen crying in the chapel. It could have been any one of up to about half the monks. He had forgotten to mention that to Martin but he couldn't do it now as they had promised to remain in silence. He made a note to himself to do it later.

Chapter started with a reading from the Rule of St Benedict, the text which governed how the monks should live their lives, which Edwin had also heard being spoken aloud during the meal the other evening. He let it wash over him but then snapped back to attention when the abbot invited any of the brethren who needed to do so to step forward and confess their faults.

An elderly brother hauled himself to his feet and shuffled forward. Edwin felt Martin's breath in his ear as he leaned down to whisper, ‘That's Brother Jordan, the novicemaster. I saw him yesterday in the infirmary.' Edwin nodded, recalling that he had seen the monk in the company of the three untonsured boys on the day they had arrived.

Brother Jordan had made his way to the open space in front of the abbot and the prior, and lowered himself creakingly to his knees. His voice quavered as he spoke. ‘Father Abbot, Brother Prior, Brothers, I confess to you that I have failed in my duties with regard to the novice Benedict.'

The abbot looked down on him, and Edwin could not detect a trace of sympathy. Dear Lord, he was as inflexible as the earl. ‘Continue, Brother Jordan, and explain your fault fully.'

‘I have failed in my duty of care. Against your express wishes, Father, he has been starving and scourging himself, and I failed to notice this and to stop him. The fault is not Benedict's, but mine, for he is but a youth and had he been better guided by me he would not have misunderstood the Rule and acted in such a way. I humbly ask for punishment and forgiveness.' He leaned forward and lowered himself with aching slowness to the floor, lying face down with his arms stretched out to the sides. Edwin wondered how he would ever get up again.