Brother's Blood (20 page)

The abbot nodded. ‘From what you say, I would guess that the man you saw was Brother Walter, our sacrist.' He sighed. ‘He is not suited to his life here in the cloister, but he tries hard and he prays constantly that he might improve.'

‘Why must he stay here, if he is not suited to it?'

‘He is not obliged to stay. Indeed, I have offered him the opportunity to leave the Order on several occasions – you may think that we seek to keep men imprisoned here, but like many of my fellow abbots I recognise that we can all serve God in different ways, and in Brother Walter's case it may be that he would achieve that better in another way.'

Edwin was fascinated by this insight. He had always thought that once you were a monk, you were a monk and there would be no escape, no second chances. But something puzzled him. ‘But Brother Walter doesn't wish to leave?'

The abbot shook his head. ‘No. He is determined that the fault somehow lies with him, that if only he tries harder, prays harder, makes more of an effort, that it will all become clear to him and he will be content here. He wants to stay, but he also wants to
want
to stay, if you see what I mean.'

Edwin could certainly sympathise with that situation, but he wasn't about to think about it just at the moment. He moved on. ‘And what is his role in the abbey? You said he was the …?'

‘The sacrist. It is a highly responsible post, for Brother Walter is in charge of all our sacred vestments and vessels, meaning that he has to set them all out before each service, collect them in and take care of them.'

Edwin thought about that, and about other things he'd seen and heard. And then it started to fall into place. ‘And you appointed him to that post on purpose? So that he is often in the church, so that he has a greater opportunity to pray and perhaps to become closer to the Lord?'

The abbot sat back in his chair, a look of surprise on his face. ‘You have great insight, my son. I did indeed, and for exactly the reasons you describe. It hasn't worked, I admit – I am sure that Brother Walter has a vocation, but it has not yet been revealed to me what that vocation might be. But how did you know?'

‘I —' How could he put it into words?

‘You may speak freely.'

‘I … well, when I first met you, my lord, I thought you stern.' He looked at the abbot in case he had already gone too far, but the abbot nodded.

‘This is something I recognise about myself,' he said. ‘Have no fear – continue.'

‘But since I've been here I have already learned how much you know about all the brothers, and how you care for each one of them individually. They aren't all just monks to you – I mean, they are monks, obviously – but what I mean is, to you they are all individual men with individual needs, and you try to help them.'

The abbot closed his eyes in brief prayer. ‘Yes, I try, for it is written in our Rule that the abbot should show the stern discipline of a master, but also the loving affection of a father. And what father does not seek to help his sons find their path? But sometimes I fail, as I have done so far with Brother Walter. The brethren might look the same to you, but in my eyes they are each unique among God's creatures, and I must find a way. “The abbot must realise how difficult and arduous the task is that he has undertaken, that of ruling souls and serving men of many different characters.” That is also contained in the Rule, and I must seek to understand each individual. The Lord will show me the way if I pray hard enough and am deemed worthy.'

‘I hope so, Father,' said Edwin. ‘He has already shown you the way with Brothers Godfrey and Waldef – think how much easier it is for them to serve God and the Order when they are allowed to be together, when others might have forced them to separate. And Brother William, whom you let out of the abbey to come and serve my lord earl.' The abbot nodded in acknowledgement. ‘And this morning, you were kind to Brother Jordan. You had already arranged with the prior that he would speak up, hadn't you?'

The abbot narrowed his eyes. ‘You are extremely perceptive. I can see why the lord earl puts so much faith in you. I too was deceived at our first meeting, for I thought you an inexperienced boy. I can see now that I was in error.' He continued to stare and Edwin started to feel a little uncomfortable under his gaze. ‘Have you ever considered taking the cowl?'

‘What?'

‘You have only been here a few days, but I am already persuaded that you would make a fine brother of the Order. You have a keen mind and a thirst to know the Lord better, or so I hear both from Brother Helias and Brother Octavian.'

Edwin felt sweat break out on his forehead. ‘I – er, that is —'

The abbot raised his hand. ‘You do not need to decide anything now. But while you are here you might like to give the matter some thought. Once you have found out what happened to Brother Alexander, would it be so difficult to consider staying here instead of going back to the lord earl?'

Edwin opened his mouth but no words came out. He stood abruptly. ‘Thank you, my lord. I will think, as you say.' He started backing away towards the door.

The abbot remained seated. ‘Peace, my son. I had no wish to alarm you. Have no fear – if you decide to walk away from the abbey then so be it. I have no desire to keep any man here against his will.'

Edwin was almost out the door by now, but the words chimed with something the abbot had said earlier. ‘Father?'

‘Yes?'

‘While we were talking, you said that you were sure that Brother Walter had a vocation, but you weren't sure what it was?'

‘I did.'

‘It's not my place, but … have you considered making him the new master of the lay brothers?'

The abbot sat up even straighter than he already was. ‘Why do you say this?'

Edwin shrugged. ‘I don't know, Father, but if constant prayer and reflection are not working for him, perhaps more action, more activity, might be good for him and might reconcile him to the abbey? That way he can see that we can all serve the Lord in many ways.'

As I serve my lord earl in many ways, he thought, as he bowed and left the stunned abbot in the room. But for how long? Might there be another way?

Alys looked around the cottage as she sipped her ale, thinking to herself that it was a better brew than she had ever managed to produce. In some ways it was very different from her home – the place that had been her home – in Lincoln: it was made of wattle and daub rather than wood, and it was all on one storey with no upper floor. She was in the main room, but she could see that there was another off to one side which she assumed was a bedchamber. Another difference was that back home the front room of their house was a shop, opening on to the street, and they lived above and behind it; here all the space was for living.

But although the space looked different, there were also similarities: the cottage was well kept, with fresh rushes on the floor and stores hanging from the rafters; the fire was well tended, a bubbling pot over it, and the furniture was in good repair. She had striven to do the same in Lincoln, to make the house into a welcoming home, or at least she had until – but better not to think of that. She took another sip of her ale.

Mistress Anne, for so Edwin's mother was called, was ladling some kind of savoury pottage into a bowl, and now she placed it on the table in front of Alys, along with a piece of bread. They were alone; Mistress Anne had explained that she was a widow, which Alys knew already as she had first encountered Edwin shortly after his father had died. Alys had started to speak, to try and explain, but she had been gently shushed, for Mistress Anne said she would like her sister and her sister's husband to hear the tale as well. ‘And it might distress you less if you only have to tell it once.'

Alys was grateful, and also not a little jealous that Edwin had not only a mother but also an aunt and uncle. What she would have given for such adult family support when she had lived through the siege, trying almost single-handedly to keep her younger brothers and sister safe.

The pottage was warm and delicious, and Alys was just wiping the last piece of bread around the bowl when the doorway darkened and another woman entered, calling out a greeting as she did so. She was a similar age to Mistress Anne, perhaps a few years older, and although they were not terribly alike there was enough of a resemblance for Alys to work out that this must be Edwin's aunt. The sisters embraced and Alys stood, smoothing down the front of her apron. Another shadow blackened the door and a man entered, stooping to lower his head under the lintel and leaning on a stick. He straightened and Alys started backwards in fear, for his face was twisted, distorted, like the very devil.

Mistress Anne hurried to her and patted her shoulder in reassurance. ‘Have no fear, child, for William is not as frightening as he looks. He was wounded in battle many years ago.'

Alys looked at the newcomer, taking in the horrific scar which disfigured the whole left side of his face, and the torn and part-missing ear. She curtsied and said nothing.

‘None of that, now, none of that. I'm no lord for you to bow to.' His voice was gruff but a little lighter than she had expected; she watched as he heaved himself laboriously over to a stool and sat down, laying the stick on the floor next to him. He nodded to Mistress Anne. ‘Although she has her manners about her, I'll give her that.'

Mistress Anne made a tutting noise and placed a cup of ale down in front of him. ‘Alys, this is my sister Cecily and her husband William, who is the steward at the lord earl's castle.'

Alys had noticed the castle as she had approached Conisbrough – well, you could hardly miss it, could you, it was a landmark for miles around – and she felt a little overawed at meeting someone who worked in such a fine place. Her dealings with the castle in Lincoln, and the folk who lived there, had been scant. But she had no time to think further on the subject for she was being embraced by Edwin's aunt, who smelled of herbs even more strongly than her sister and who felt comfortable.

They all sat and everyone looked expectantly at Alys.

She took a deep breath. ‘Mistresses, Master – from what you've said already, I think there has been some confusion.'

William thumped his cup down on the table. ‘You can say that again. First the lad mopes about like a calf because he's left you there, then he decides to ask the lord earl can he marry you, and then he mopes about even more because you're married already.'

Alys tried not to stare at his disfigured face. ‘I beg your pardon, but I am not married and I never have been.'

Mistress Cecily spoke soothingly. ‘So that is where the confusion has arisen. Why don't you explain it all to us, from the beginning?'

And so Alys told them of the siege, of the attack on and subsequent death of her father, of her two eldest brothers both being missing, and of the discovery of the body of one of them, Nick, on the doorstep. She faltered and felt tears coming to her eyes when she described the scene, remembering the fear, the terror … and the comfort of having with her the man who had come to dominate her thoughts ever since.

Mistress Anne patted her hand and William muttered something about war. Alys steadied herself and wiped her eyes on a corner of her apron before continuing.

‘And then it was over. The other army came, there was a great battle. The city was looted but our house was saved by a knight, Edwin's friend. The children and I hid. But within another day they were all gone, and the city had to try and right itself again.'

She looked around at her audience. ‘And then a miracle happened – or at least I thought it was at the time. My eldest brother Thomas had been away from the city since before the siege started, away on business for his master – he was an apprentice, you see.' She wasn't sure whether they would know what she meant, but they nodded in understanding so she continued. ‘When he didn't come back I was worried, but in fact he'd been staying with one of his master's business partners about a dozen miles away, and once the city fell they said he'd be better off staying with them and not going back, because it would be too dangerous. So he stayed there during the whole siege.'

William interrupted. ‘Leaving a girl and a pile of children in a besieged city? Some brother he is.'

In her heart of hearts Alys would have liked to agree with him, but she ought to show some family loyalty. ‘Well, my father was still alive at that time and Thomas had no reason to know what would happen to him – or to Nick – after.'

She expelled a breath and looked up at the ceiling and back down at the floor. ‘While he was there, he got to talking with the merchant about his apprenticeship, about Father's business and so on, and he obviously thought Thomas would be a good catch, for when he arrived back in the city after the siege he brought a wife with him – the merchant's eldest daughter.'