by E. M. Powell
‘Brother Reginald speaks the truth.’
Stanton recognised the hiss. Silvanus. Over to the right.
Next to him, Lambert, the gatekeeper. Sitting with his huge thighs apart under his cowl, his scarlet chins wobbling as he nodded and nodded.
‘And you also insisted that every one of us also speak to you in private, my lord abbot.’ This from a wiry, grey-tonsured monk in the left corner, a man of equal age to Reginald. He had one milk-white eye and the other cloudy, glaring from under a drooping lid. Missing most of his teeth, his voice was clogged with spittle. ‘Which we have done. With willing hearts.’
‘For which I am very grateful, Maurice,’ said Philip.
Maurice. Stanton locked gazes with Barling for a second. The clerk had recognised the name too. Brother Maurice, the novice master. The man who had woken without the need for Cuthbert’s bell. The man who had found Cuthbert’s body.
‘We do not need your gratitude, father.’ Reginald again. ‘We need you to believe us.’
‘And as I keep saying, I do believe you.’ Philip spread his hands wide, seeking out every face in the room with his gaze. ‘But it is still necessary that the King’s man is allowed the full freedom of our house.’
‘Necessary?’ asked Maurice. ‘To have the cloister open to a stranger? Two strangers, in fact. That’s the other one by the door, isn’t it?’ He peered over, pointing a bony finger at Stanton.
To Stanton’s horror, all heads swivelled towards him. He didn’t dare say a word.
Abbot Philip saved him. ‘Yes, Hugo Stanton is the assistant to the King’s man. Again, as I have explained.’
‘To invite the world in to poke and pry is a terrible mistake. Father.’ Reginald, yet again. To a chorus of agreement.
Philip held a hand up. ‘Loud words are not necessarily the best ones.’ He looked over to Stanton’s left. ‘Osmund: you have said nothing.’
The deeply uncomfortable-looking Brother Osmund was less than a decade older than Stanton. The sleek black hair of his tonsure still had the shine of youth, as did his deep blue eyes. ‘No. No, I have not.’
Stanton could have sworn at that moment that he heard a snigger being stifled, yet every face was still. The sudden set of Philip’s jaw told Stanton that he’d heard it too. ‘Then perhaps, Osmund, you would like to do so? This abbey’s cellarer should have an opinion on important matters such as this.’
‘Ah. Yes.’ Osmund clasped his hands, unclasped them. ‘Well, I would say, I think, whatever you think, my lord abbot. I . . . I will be guided by your wisdom.’
‘Thank you, Osmund,’ said Philip. He turned to address the whole room again. ‘I understand how painful this is for all of you. But it would be nothing compared to the pain of never bringing Cuthbert’s killer to justice.’
Reginald opened his mouth once more.
Shut it as Philip raised a hand. ‘Enough, Reginald. My decision is that the King’s men should be free to walk in our world and speak to those of you that they need to. To that end, I am giving permission for you to speak where you would ordinarily be keeping your vow of silence. I realise this will cause you unease. But, and I repeat, you not only have my permission, it is a direct order from me. I should not have to remind any of you of your vow of obedience to me as the superior of this house. To the Rule. To God.’ His tone hardened as he imposed his authority. ‘For, mark my words, if I hear of disobedience in this matter, you will hear of it here in chapter. And I shall punish those who transgress.’ His voice rose. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
A subdued murmur of agreement met his words.
‘Good. Then we conclude chapter for today. And, brothers, we should take comfort in the fact that an Aelred walks amongst us on this, the feast of the late Abbot Aelred of Rievaulx Abbey. Now, let us pray.’
He began a familiar psalm and Stanton joined in once he saw Barling did too.
But judging by the looks on the faces of many of the monks, he and the clerk would need a lot more than the name of a dead holy man to get the monks to quell their ire.
Chapter Twelve
As the monks filed out of the Chapter House, Stanton went to join Barling and Philip.
He didn’t want to get in the way, standing in his place right next to the door. As he moved over he caught a few glances: some curious, others hostile.
The stooped, white-haired Reginald had yet to leave. It had taken him a little time to rise. A fussing Silvanus had tried to help him get to his feet but he was shaken off by the old monk and waved out of the room.
Now Reginald made his way out past Stanton and his companions, bent over his stick, his steps slow and painful.
He didn’t pause as he drew level. ‘The blessings of the day be upon you all.’ His unsmiling gaze moved over Barling, then Stanton.
‘And to you, brother.’ Stanton echoed Philip’s and Barling’s reply.
Reginald shuffled out, his steps quiet but the sound of his stick on stone firm and loud.
As the tap, tap, tap faded away, Barling asked, ‘Reginald is your prior, is he not? I noticed he was sitting to your right.’
‘He is,’ replied Philip. ‘My prior and my deputy. As he was Abbot Ernald’s before me. He has been prior here for some twenty years. It is a great comfort to me to know that he presides here in my absence. I can travel as my post requires I do, knowing all the while that Fairmore is in safe hands.’
‘Indeed,’ said Barling. ‘Quite forceful hands as well.’
Stanton saw a new flush rise in Philip’s cheeks at Barling’s pointed remark.
‘My deepest apologies for Reginald’s conduct – his and others’,’ said the abbot. ‘But I can assure you that his words were not born out of any malice.’
‘Worry not, I understand completely,’ said Barling. ‘This is not the first hostile reaction Stanton and I have had to our arrival in a strange place, is it?’
‘Not at all,’ replied Stanton. ‘At least the monks weren’t shouting and throwing things.’
‘That has happened to you?’ Philip’s eyes widened. ‘On the King’s business?’
‘Emotion,’ said Barling. ‘Always high at such times, which is totally understandable. My apologies, Philip. I did not mean to delay our task and further keep you from your duties. Shall we proceed?’
‘My time is yours, Barling.’ Philip pointed to an open arch set into one corner. ‘The sacristy is through there. If you will follow me.’ He set off across the wide floor of the Chapter House, Stanton falling in behind with Barling.
‘Observe,’ mouthed the clerk to him.
Stanton nodded. He was trying as hard as he could in this setting which was so strange to him.
He followed the clerk and the abbot into the sacristy as Barling put another question to Philip. ‘Cuthbert was your librarian as well as your sacrist?’
The clerk stood in front of the open door of a large cupboard set into the wall. The wide wooden shelves were stacked with manuscripts.
‘No, he was the sacrist only.’ Philip pointed at a partition that divided the room, with a gap in it to allow passage from one half to the other. ‘The library is through there. Fortunately for our abbey, it continues to grow. Less fortunately, it devours the sacristy as it does.’ He gestured to the many chests that were piled up, one upon another. ‘These all contain books as well.’ He stepped over one to open another cupboard, full of clothing and a number of other neatly stacked linen items. The spotless white cloths almost glowed in the gloom and the fresh scent of rosemary came from them. ‘This is where Cuthbert keeps – I mean, kept – all the vestments.’
‘A diligent man,’ said Barling. ‘His care of the sacred cloths is still apparent.’
‘He was.’ Philip clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘I wish I could say the same of Brother Elias. This room should only be for the vesting of the priests.’
‘Elias?’ asked Barling.
‘Our librarian. I know that Cuthbert despaired of Elias and his books. He does keep order,
of a sort. But sometimes I think it is an order known only to him.’
A polite cough came from the arch that led into the sacristy.
Stanton turned to look.
A middle-aged monk stood there. Stanton remembered him from the chapter meeting. The man had distinctive red hair and green eyes and had been silent and still in the midst of the loud objections being raised by the other monks. He had not been like the others, Stanton had noticed that much.
‘What is it, Elias?’
Philip’s frown, Stanton guessed, was not so much for being interrupted as for potentially being eavesdropped on. In such a setting as this, Stanton would have to make extra efforts to ensure he and Barling didn’t get overheard when they spoke in private. The monks moved quietly as ghosts.
‘My apologies, my lord abbot.’ Elias bowed. ‘But I need to fetch a book for Brother Reginald. He requires a different devotional text today.’
Reginald again.
‘Can he not fetch it himself?’ asked Philip, even more irritated-looking now. ‘You should be at your own devotion, Elias. Not doing Reginald’s bidding.’
‘He says his bones are especially stiff today,’ said Elias. ‘And I don’t mind.’
‘Very well,’ said Philip. ‘If you must.’
‘I need to get past you to get into the library for it, my lord.’
Philip drew breath to reply, but Barling intervened. ‘There is no need, brother. We are leaving.’ He looked at Philip. ‘I have seen all I need to. Shall we move on?’
‘We shall.’ Philip led the way out past Elias, who waited with his head bowed in respect.
Philip paused, his voice low. ‘We are going into the church, which means we have to go along the claustral walk now. The monks will be at prayer, so I would ask that neither of you speaks until we are inside the church.’
When they stepped outside under the eastern arches of the cloister, they were not met with silence as Stanton had expected. Instead came the murmur and hum of many, many voices. Not speaking together, but each one with its own individual tone and rhythm.
As he followed Philip and Barling along the walkway, he saw why. Between each arch of the cloister was a small wood-panelled enclosure. He had noticed these on the way to chapter this morning. They’d been empty then but now he could see that each one held a monk, bent over a book or a manuscript. Whereas in the chapter meeting each monk’s cowl had been lowered, now every hood was raised over every head. A stick leaning against one of the arches told Stanton where Reginald would be. Otherwise there was little to tell one holy man from another. The noise of their reading was loud enough to drown out the sound of his and his companion’s passing footsteps, though Philip’s seemed to glide almost silently.
The closed entrance to the church was at the top of a short flight of stone steps that led up from the cloister.
Philip twisted the large iron ring that was the handle and ushered them through the door.
They stepped inside to a gasp of admiration from Barling.
‘My goodness, Philip. This is magnificent.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘I believe it is a wonder.’ The pride in Philip’s voice was evident. ‘A wonder. Yet a wonder that so few see.’
‘Magnificent,’ repeated Barling.
Though he knew Stanton was not a man normally drawn to admiration of church architecture, he could tell that the younger man was impressed.
‘It is.’ Mouth open, Stanton stared around him.
Barling’s gaze also roamed over the huge, quiet space.
He had not expected that the plainness of a Cistercian house could rival, indeed surpass, the gold, jewels, paintings and silk hangings of other orders. They had entered at the side of the stalls of the monks’ choir, the floor beneath his feet patterned in a black-and-white check made up of hundreds of small tiles. To the right, flanked by a couple of smaller altars, was the high altar. Made of plain stone, it was covered with a simple linen cloth, as white as the snow on the mountaintop. A bare wooden cross stood upon it. The tall, arched windows had no coloured glass or images in them, only simple clear glass patterned with thin black whorls that might be clouds. The midday light that shone through them took on a greenish hue, as if bathing the church in water as well as light.
‘I think it is here that I feel Cuthbert’s loss the most,’ said Philip quietly. ‘He would open it. Light it. Prepare it for us.’ His voice caught.
‘I can understand.’ Barling put a hand to Philip’s arm for a moment to acknowledge his grief.
While he waited for Philip to regain his composure, Barling saw Stanton walk over to the rood screen that divided the church and take a look through the gap in the middle, then disappear through it in the direction of the nave. What on earth was he doing, wandering off like that? Barling itched to be able to order him back, but he could hardly start berating his assistant the length of the church with the abbot next to him, grief-stricken and struggling to compose himself.
Within a few brief minutes, Stanton reappeared. ‘Is this where the bell ropes are, my lord?’
Ah. The bells. Rung by the late Cuthbert. There had been purpose, and a sound one, to Stanton’s exploring.
Philip took in a shuddering breath, calm once more. ‘Yes. In the west end of the nave. Beyond the lay brothers’ choir.’
‘Oh,’ was all Stanton said.
Barling could not tell from his assistant’s response if Stanton had found anything of note, but if he had, it was good judgement not to raise it at this point.
‘Here are the night stairs.’ Philip led them a short way to the right, where a smaller door than the main entrance they had come through was set between two pillars. He reached for his keys, which hung from his belt.
‘This is always locked?’ asked Barling.
‘Yes,’ said Philip. ‘Until it is time to open up the church for the night Office, for Vigils, which Cuthbert always did.’ He put the key in the lock. ‘As I said to you yesterday, that was the first sign that something was wrong.’ He pulled open the door. ‘Come, follow me.’ He led the way up the narrow stone staircase, which led to a passageway at the top. ‘The night stairs and this passage connect the monks’ dormitory directly to the church. The monks use this route at night so that they do not get wet or cold on their way to church. It is also quicker than opening up the whole cloister and lighting it. The dormitory is through here.’ He came to another door, opened it without knocking and walked straight in.
Barling and Stanton followed him.
A long, long high-ceilinged room stretched before them. On the floor, laid out at exact, regular intervals, were the monks’ beds. Each one was identical: a sleeping mat with a single pillow, neatly covered with a smooth woollen blanket. At the foot of each bed sat a square chest, presumably containing clothing and other personal items. Interesting, Barling thought. There was no privacy here. Of any sort.
‘I presume the lay brothers’ dormitory is the same?’ he asked Philip.
‘Like many of the rooms that the monks use, the lay brothers have their own. They live and work quite separately. A monastery within a monastery, if you will. But yes: the lay brothers’ beds are all in one room together and the latrine block is at the very end. Do you wish to see that building?’
‘Not at this time,’ replied Barling. ‘You mentioned that Cuthbert slept by himself?’
‘Yes, this was his chamber.’ Philip pointed to the left of the door, where one small section of the long room had been walled off with a wooden partition.
‘May we look inside?’
‘Of course.’
Philip opened the door and Barling looked in. Aside from the walls surrounding it, the bed and chest arrangement was the same as those outside. One other object was different: a candle clock sat on a table next to the bed, to help the sacrist judge the time for the bell.
Barling recalled what Stanton had said about the bells. ‘Who has taken over Cuthbert’s timekeeping duties now?’
&nbs
p; ‘Brother Maurice,’ replied Philip.
The half-blind novice master? ‘Is that the same Maurice who discovered Cuthbert’s body?’ asked Barling.
‘Yes, it is,’ replied Philip.
‘Is he not very advanced in years to have taken on such a responsibility?’
‘It is only a temporary arrangement until I make my new appointment,’ said Philip. ‘And like I told you, Maurice is reliable. Probably more reliable than that candle there.’
‘Indeed.’ Barling looked at Philip. ‘Lastly, may we please see the kitchen, where Cuthbert’s body was found? And Philip, I completely understand if you do not wish to view it.’
‘Thank you, Barling.’ Philip gave a sad smile. ‘But what kind of father to the brethren would I be if I could not do everything possible to help solve this? Come, both of you: follow me.’
They retraced their steps, the abbot locking the door to the night stairs once more and closing the church door behind them. They passed through the cloister, the air feeling so much colder after their time inside, but the sound of prayer and worship from so many male voices was undiminished.
‘This is our kitchen,’ said Philip.
If the cloister was busy with prayer, the enormous steam-filled kitchen bustled with the labour of the bearded lay brothers. Men hurried to and fro, some bearing large vats of vegetables, others trays of bread. Glances darted their way, but no brother said a word or stopped what he was doing in his haste to get the only meal of the day ready on time.
‘May I help you, my lord abbot?’
Barling turned at the familiar voice.
Silvanus, the skinny guestmaster, stood there, teeth in a ready smile.
Where he had appeared from, Barling had no idea. He had not seen the monk when they came in.
‘We do not require anything, brother,’ replied Philip. ‘Do not let us disturb your work.’
