Blood Moon (17 page)

‘Did I do wrong in telling you, master?’

‘No Timothy, you did not do wrong. You did exactly right. You have saved your own soul and possibly that of your brother, too.’

He smiled with relief. ‘That was what I was hoping you’d say, master.’

I made the sign of the cross above his head. ‘Go in peace, my son, in the knowledge that all will be well.’

Anyone other than Timothy I might have delayed helping, but the child had had enough tragedy in his life and deserved a little of my time.
And Eusebius was also my responsibility, however reluctantly. I could spare a little time to sort out what was surely just a matter of separating the two young men in their dormitory. I therefore sought out his novice master first thing the next morning.

Solomon was a kindly soul who had been doing the job of novice master for as long as I could remember.
Wise by name and wise by nature, he was an old man now but his patience and understanding of the young far exceeded that of anyone younger, or indeed older. I found him in the herb garden engaged in his other great passion, horticulture - another pastime requiring patience and understanding. When he saw me he stopped hoeing and wiped his pate with a rag.

‘The garden is looking beautiful, brother, if a little bare,’ I
told him. ‘You achieve miracles when the ground is so hard and offers such little promise.’

‘Autumn is the time of consolidation, brother. The trees shed their leaves and draw in their sap in readiness for the next season of growth. The little plants sleep in the soil ready to awaken when the time is ripe and they can achieve God’s design for them to fill the world with fruitfulness and joy. These things cannot be rushed.’

We walked a little to the furthest side of his garden. I had forgotten just how reinvigorating can be a stroll in a quiet garden, refreshingly so after so much that had been going on lately.

‘Good habits are not achieved with blows,’ said Solomon. ‘The weak need gentleness from others, kindness, compassion and loving forbearance – or so thought Saint Anselm of
Canterbury.’

‘And you agree with him?’

‘We are all vulnerable to doubts and temptations, brother, the young especially who are often restless and fearful. It is what the Devil hopes to exploit. In this place he sometimes shows us the delights that we once enjoyed or have yet to enjoy and tries to tempt us.’ He smiled. ‘I know why you are here, brother. I saw young Timothy returning to the dormitory last evening.’

‘And are we right to give in to those temptations? Or should we cut them out like a canker?’

He considered for a moment. ‘The question is, I suppose, how deep should we cut? Is your eye so keen that you know when to stay the knife? Too little and the canker returns. Too deep you kill the plant.’ He stopped and looked at me. ‘You were never one of my novices, Walter, but even you were young and innocent once yourself. Can you remember asking me if God watches us every minute of the day, even when we are sitting on the latrine?’

‘I asked you that?’ I said, amazed.

‘You did. You were always a very literal child.’

I laughed. ‘Hardly a child. My childhood was squandered in too many medical schools.’

‘You were still a child to me, twenty years my junior. But since you can’t remember asking the question you won’t remember my answer.’

‘Yes I can. You told me that God loves us for our faults as well as our virtues. He does not look away when we blush.’

We walked on.
‘But the Devil is subtler than that. He sours the air by suggesting that sins committed within these walls are natural and inevitable in the young and would be cancelled out merely by virtue of their monastic vows. Defeating him is not achieved by mutilating the soul but by showing compassion and forgiveness.’

‘There are some here who may not agree with you.’

‘Then they must take charge. But while these delicates are in my hands they will not be choked or cut down before their tender shoots have had a chance to reach the light.’ He bent down, picked up a small pot of apparently bare earth and held it out to me. ‘It’s Meadowsweet. Put it on your shelf, nurture it and next year you will be rewarded with a pretty yellow flower. The stem and leaves are also useful  medicine.’

I took the pot from him gratefully.

‘I thought young Timothy was looking a bit peaky when he returned last night. You are the doctor but I prescribed a little more air for his lungs. That is why I moved him from his usual place in the dormitory to the other side of the room by a window where the air is more plentiful. I’m sure he will sleep more soundly there.’

I smiled. ‘You are a good and wise man,
Dom Solomon.’

‘We can only follow where Christ leads, Master Walter.’

I next sought out Eusebius.
I was still his mentor and it was my duty to correct any errors. I found him seated in his usual place beneath the statue of Our Lady. Today he had another huge volume on his lap and was engrossed reading it. I slowed my pace uncertain how to make the correct approach on so delicate a subject. I did not want to be too direct and embarrass the boy but nor did I want to be so circumspect as to be obscure. Striking the right balance was not going to be easy. I wasn’t sure that I was equal to the task.

I put on my most avuncular smile. ‘Good day to
you, my son,’ I said glancing at the tome he had on his lap. ‘What are you reading today? Ah - the letters of Saint Anselm of Canterbury. Very apt. Anselm was much influenced by the founder of your own rule, Saint Augustine of Hippo.’

He was looking at me expectantly. There was nothing for it but to plunge straight in:

‘Eusebius, I -’

‘Master, do you believe that the Devil wishes to capture all men for himself and that he particularly wishes to seduce us monks who by our lives are vulnerable to his jaws?’

I drew back. ‘Erm, well yes I suppose so. Feelings of restlessness and discontent are natural in the young. Is that…how you feel, my son?’ Maybe this was going to be easier than I thought.

He frowned. ‘I do think sometimes the Evil One is trying to tempt me. Sometimes he puts thoughts into my head that I wish were not there. Thoughts that are…unworthy.’ He lowered his eyes.

Bless the boy - he really was trying to confess. My heart was filled. I determined to ease his burden if I possibly could:

‘Brother, I have to tell you that I know of your affliction.’

He didn’t look up. ‘Do you master?’

I nodded. ‘Indeed I do. And I understand
. Well no - I sympathize at least. I wish to put your mind at rest that we are all here to help you. It is not unknown for a young man to have thoughts such as yours. Your solution is in prayer. But in addition to prayer there must be…forbearance.’

‘Forbearance?’

‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Forbearance - or perhaps
restraint
is a better word. A good word, yes, very apt under the erm…’

I was not finding this
at all easy. But once again Eusebius eased my burden, blessed boy. He looked at me shyly.

‘You are speaking of Timothy. Is that why his bed has been moved?’

‘That was not my doing – but I approve. And it will help you both.’ I sighed with relief. ‘You must see you are being unfair to Timothy.’

He nodded. ‘I have been keeping him awake at night.’

‘Have you?’ I squirmed uncomfortably on the bench. ‘Eusebius, I have spoken to Dom Solomon - a good and knowledgeable man. He is far more experienced on the subject than I am. He is your best guide. Consult with him. And in the meantime you have my blessing. Yes indeed.’ I tapped him perfunctorily on the shoulder. ‘Good. Excellent. Well, I’m glad we’ve had this little chat. Go in peace, brother.’

I
made the sign of the cross over his head just as I had over Timothy’s and rose to leave feeling I had done my duty. If he knew there were people there to support him he might find the strength to help himself. But I could at least satisfy myself that I had a better understanding of the boy now. What I had thought was a purely
religious
fervour I could see it was something far more down to earth. Rather more
human
. I must say that the revelation came as something of a relief. Now that I saw the true nature of his problem, while he was not out of the woods, at least it was manageable given the right precautions and he would have no gentler and understanding a manager than old Solomon. I hurried away feeling rather pleased with myself at a good job well done.

Chapter
18

KING JOHN

With
Eusebius’ problem resolved I could hope at last to have time to concentrate fully on the de Grays. But it was not to be. Suddenly there was no more time for anything for all at once the king was upon us. Carts and people and animals had begun arriving at the abbey ahead of King John himself. There was the usual vast baggage train of court personnel and paraphernalia – clerks, scribes, chaplains, ushers, cofferers, cooks, saddlers, armourers, smiths, carpenters, wheelwrights, leather-workers, yeomen, tent-makers, fletchers, minstrels, heralds together with those essential items of personal comfort that John could not do without: His bed, his tapestries, his windows, even his latrine seat and, I was amused to note, his bath. All this vast panoply of goods and people accompanied the king wherever he went be it on pilgrimage or to war. In my mind’s eye I can still see them now. It seemed at the time as though an occupying army had suddenly invaded our peaceful community - as, indeed, it had.

Even so, it wasn’t as bad as the first time he visited the abbey. Then it had been a great pageant with the newly enthroned King John looking young and splendid and eager to win his subjects’ approval. It had also been a gloriously sunny day in June then, not this dull November morn, and he had cantered in on a splendid steed at the head of an army and supported by all the great men of church and state. This time a tired, middle-aged and portly John limped into town escorted by just a few of the lesser magnates among them, I was dismayed to note, Geoffrey de Saye who must have ridden out specially to meet him. But what drew my attention most was his personal escort for it consisted almost entirely of foreign mercenaries – Flemings, Bergundians
, Genoans. It seemed Peter the cellarer had been right and the king could no longer trust his own people to protect him.

He did, however, have one enthusiastic supporter waiting for him. Obsequious as ever, Prior Herbert was waiting at the south gate to greet his monarch and make his supplication on bended knee. No-one was ever quite sure where Herbert’s true loyalties lay but rather like the reeds in the River Lark they were forever bending this way and that with the prevailing political current. Mine wasn’t the only lip that day that curled with contempt.

Once within the abbey walls the royal party was quickly escorted to the freshly-scrubbed and appointed abbot’s palace. But there was no great banquet of welcome this time or a triumphant address to the burgesses of the town. Instead a diminished and subdued King John ate with us quietly in the monks’ refectory. I sat with my old friend Jocelin, still alive then though in his seventh decade and going blind. I wondered if he remembered the last occasion we broke bread with our sovereign. Poor Jocelin; he could no longer see well enough to write, which was a great pity for writing was his joy so cruelly snatched away from him. Nor would Herbert allow him an amanuensis for all our scribes were busy on far more important work than the vain scribblings of one aging monk – or so he said. What observations Jocelin may have had after he finished his famous
Chronicle
would have, alas, to remain locked within his wise old head.

‘What do you think?’ I muttered to him as I leaned across the table for a jug of cider.

Jocelin squinted at the dais. ‘He’s l-looking tired.’

Indeed he was, tired and old beyond his years. For a man not yet fifty John could easily pass for a decade more with grey lacing his beard and that once lustrous auburn hair thinning. That’s what comes of having to be constantly on the move never spending more than a day or two in one place. His father, good King Henry, had become bow-legged in old age and suffering, it was rumoured, from an anal fistula – none of which surprised me for all are symptomatic of too many hours spent in the saddle. As to the reason the king was here at all, it soon became clear that Joseph had been right and
he let it be known he wished to settle the question of who was to be our next abbot. To this end John’s herald announced his desire to enter the chapterhouse the following day and address the assembled brothers.

Now
why, you may ask, should the election of an abbot so much matter to the monarch that he should bring his entire court half way across England in order to personally oversee it? The answer is that abbots and bishops are more than just clerics but also politicians, businessmen and administrators. As Baron of the Liberty of Saint Edmund, our abbot sits on the King’s Council and personally holds sway over half the county of Suffolk, the richest and most populous shire in the land. The man who holds this post is very powerful indeed, custodian of that great office though he may only be. And while in theory it is for the monks of Bury to choose their pastor, no king since the Conqueror has permitted the position to be filled without his approval. The secret is to divine the king’s preferred candidate beforehand and to make sure this name is included on the shortlist from which the king can make his final decision. Or if he has no favourite at least make sure there is none that is abhorrent to him – that, I believe, is how Abbot Samson was chosen.

However, the process this time had been complicated by the elevation of Cardinal Langton to the archiepiscopal throne of
Saint Augustine. Langton was the choice of neither the king nor the monks of Canterbury but a direct appointee of Pope Innocent. The whole question of clerical elections therefore had become a trial of strength between the pope and the king. Sensing an advantage, the monks of Bury have thus far resisted the king’s interference while for his part King John has deliberately equivocated over our choice which was why Hugh Northwold has been chasing the king half way round France trying to obtain his approval – so far without success. And that was how matters stood this November morning as John entered the chapterhouse preceded only by the earl of Winchester, Saer de Quency, and Philip de Ulecotes who carried before him the Sword of State.

John’s speech was long and rambling and at times a little bitter. It was a cold day and the vapour from his breath iced his words. He spoke a lot about loyalty and duty and I got the impression that he had others in mind than the seventy shivering monks who were listening in respectful silence. Not much of what he said was relevant to us, but he
did eventually come to the point:

‘My brothers, I have detained you for long enough. All I ask is that you proceed according to custom and not infringe upon my historical rights as your king. If you do this I will be happy to accept whoever you choose as abbot, either him who calls himself abbot-elect,’ here he graciously acknowledged Hugh Northwold who was sitting alongside, ‘or anyone else you desire.’

But then he finished with a stark warning:

‘But let me caution you, if you choose to ignore my advice then you risk incurring the wrath of your ruler. That may not be a wise position to hold.’ He looked sternly around the assembled faces before smiling graciously. ‘I leave it now to you to
ponder my words.’ And so he sat down.

Personally I thought it was a good speech. It seemed to give everyone what they wanted. We could choose who our abbot should be and John would not contest our choice provided we agreed to abide by his decision – which would be to confirm that choice. As a piece of face-saving fudgery it was masterly
and equal to anything his wily father could have devised. I could not see how anyone could object to his offer and I confidently looked forward to Hugh being confirmed as our next abbot.

A brief discussion followed. Then Hugh stood up and bowed low to the king. He thanked his grace for his words and answered that the house would divide on the issue. Those in favour of the king’s proposal should move to the left of the room, those against to the right.

Now, this wasn’t the first time this had happened. Back in May a similar division had been conducted under the auspices that time of William Marshal, the earl of Pembroke, when the split had been more or less even – half for the king and half against. This time, however, those in favour of the king were overwhelmingly outnumbered by those against. It was a deliberate slap in the face for the king and frankly I was astonished. It seemed to me an act of gross ingratitude considering how far the king had moved to accommodate us.

What had happened since May to so harden their faces against the king? Well
what happened, of course, was that John had lost the war in France. It was as Joseph had predicted. In the eyes of the world he had been fatally weakened and sensing it, the brothers had become obstinate. Understandably furious at the result, John stormed out of the chapterhouse threatening all manner of retribution. Thus instead of achieving harmony and reconciliation we had prolonged acrimony and recrimination.

*

It was probably not the best moment to pick for what I did next but I felt I had no choice. For all I knew John would have one of his famous sulks and leave town forthwith before I had the chance to put my case to him. Having failed so dismally to win Hugh Northwold to my side I was determined not to make the same mistake with John. Uppermost in my mind was Joseph’s advice to play the royal suit as possibly my only
trump card. I just hoped it did not turn out to be another Joker.

With this in mi
nd, I rushed from the chapterhouse arriving at the abbot’s palace just ahead of the bodyguard that was escorting the king to his chambers. In the middle of the party the king was talking animatedly with his advisors including among them once again Geoffrey de Saye. Seeing my great adversary so cosy with the king I was tempted to withdraw but I knew I owed it to Raoul, Adelle, Rosabel, Onethumb and to Effie at least to try. Summoning all my courage, therefore, I stepped out directly into the path of the king.

‘Sire, may I -?’

I got no further before one of the guards pushed his pike into my face cutting my lip and sending me sprawling on the floor. He was a great lump of a German and in another moment he would have skewered me to the floor if the king had not intervened.

‘Whoa there, monk!’ he said putting out his hand to stay the guard’s hand. ‘Don’t you know it is impertinent to address the king uninvited? Men have been garrotted for less - assuming this brute hasn’t decapitated you first.’ He gave the guard an amiable shove in the shoulder.

Seeing me, de Saye immediately stepped between us. ‘Sire, I know this man. He’s a trouble maker. Let us continue.’

He placed his hand on the king’s arm -
a fatal mistake for one thing I did know about King John is that he has a strong dislike for being hoodwinked. John removed de Saye’s hand from his arm and gently but firmly eased him out of the way.

‘Well monk,’ said John glancing down at me still flat on my back
. ‘Have you come to apologise on behalf of your brothers, or gloat at your king’s humiliation?’

‘Neither, your grace,’ I said in as clear a voice as I could muster. ‘I have come to give you a message.’

John rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘Oh God’s teeth, another soothsayer. I warn you, I hanged the last one. What is it this time? Is my kingdom doomed? Am I to eat less meat? Take fewer baths? Go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land?’ Then he squinted at me. ‘I know you. We’ve met before.’

‘Indeed sire,’
I said scrambling to my feet. ‘I am -’

‘No, don’t tell me,’ he said waving me silent. ‘I have an excellent memory for faces.’ He tapped a beringed finger on his lips but eventually had to shrug and give up. ‘No, it’s gone. But you were in the chapterhouse earlier, I think.’

‘We all were, sire.’

‘Indeed. So tell me, which way did you vote?’

I swallowed hard. ‘The…fairest way, your grace.’

His smile evaporated. ‘Fifty against nine. Do you call that “fair”?’

‘Sire, I…’ I started, but he interrupted:

‘Fair to gainsay your royal liege?
Fair to sew controversy where none need be? To set king against pope?’

For a dreadful moment I thought my efforts had been in vain and he was going to go into one of his famous rants. But as suddenly his smile returned and he snapped his fingers.

‘I’ve remembered who you are. You’re the bone-breaker. You cured my bellyache.’ He grinned round at his companions who to a man laughed appreciatively at the joke.

‘Sire,’ I bowed.

‘Well well well,’ he continued to chuckle. ‘The bone-breaker. But I can’t keep calling you that. Only a fool would call you that – wouldn’t you say my lord? A foolish phrase,
n’est-ce pas?
Bone-breaker?’ he said pointedly to de Saye who blushed a fine shade of scarlet, much to my delight. It seemed John was not quite the fool his courtiers took him for.