The Miracle at St. Bruno's

by Philippa Carr

  To be back would be glorious for them both; Clement was a man who could settle in anywhere, but Eugene had suffered nostalgia. To be back, to serve their young master. I overheard them as they discussed it. “It’s a miracle,” whispered Eugene.

  “And what do you expect but miracles with that one?” answered Clement.

  Kate and Lord Remus came to Caseman Court for the wedding.

  On the first day of their arrival Kate was up in my room—the door shutting us in—she stretched on my bed and I in the window seat as in the old days.

  “You, Damask!” she cried. “You to marry Bruno! I can’t believe it.”

  “Why be so incredulous? You have come to a wedding, yet you are surprised to find there is to be a bridegroom.”

  “That bridegroom!” she said. “And to think of it! He is rich. Is he as rich as Remus? To buy the Abbey! How is it possible?”

  “You know Bruno is not as other men. When he wants something he takes it.”

  “Not always,” she contradicted.

  “You must admit he has the Abbey. He always wanted it. In the old days he believed he would be the Abbot. Now he owns it.”

  “But how could he have bought it? It must have been presented to him. Some have been given abbeys for good service. What service could Bruno have rendered the King?”

  “He went on a mission to France.”

  “What does Bruno know of missions to France?”

  “You don’t know Bruno.”

  “I don’t know Bruno! I know more of Bruno than you will ever know.”

  “I suppose you would know my husband better than I.”

  “You can be a simpleton at times, Damask.”

  “And you are so wise.”

  It was like the old days. But there was something different about Kate. She did not like my marriage.

  I took her over to see the Abbey and walked on that spot where we used to play. Bruno joined us there.

  “Now,” said Kate, “we are three grown-up people. What a lot has happened since we played as children here.”

  “You have become Lady Remus,” said Bruno.

  “And a mother,” she answered. “And you have become the owner of this great Abbey.”

  “That surprises you, does it not?”

  “Greatly.”

  “Damask was less surprised.”

  “Why, Bruno,” I said, “I was astounded.”

  But he went on: “Damask does not care for worldly possessions as you do, Kate. What do you think now of the penniless boy who took shelter in your home?”

  “I think,” said Kate, “that he was sly. He had jewels in his possession, it seems, on which he founded his fortune. He should not have kept that to himself.”

  They were regarding each other intently and I said: “That is all in the past.”

  Bruno turned to me. “And our future, Damask…yours and mine…is here in this place. Together we will build the finest house that ever was seen and even Remus Castle will seem insignificant beside it.”

  “I like not these comparisons,” I said. “Let us show Kate what we intend to build onto the Abbot’s Lodging.”

  He was delighted; and once again I was aware of that burning pride as he showed Kate his domain.

  We were married almost immediately. It was a ceremony slightly less grand than Kate’s had been. But I had my bridal gown which had been made by my mother’s seamstresses with herself supervising them; my bridecake was, I think, finer because Clement had made it so. And Eugene had worked hard that the bridecup might compare with that drunk at royal weddings.

  There was dancing and revelry in the hall and later we were conducted to the Abbey with a party of the guests, and we were alone in our new home.

  Wife and Mother

  HOW STRANGE, HOW WONDERFUL to wake up next morning in the bedroom which had been the Abbot’s. I lay looking up at the vaulted ceiling and tried to think clearly of all that had happened to me during the last few weeks. I certainly could not have imagined anything like this.

  Bruno was awake and I said to him: “Does it not show how wonderful life can be when you consider what has happened to me?”

  I had quickly learned that this was the sort of thing he loved to hear. I would never forget how he had kept secret the fact that he was a rich man because he was so anxious to be taken for himself and I felt tender toward him on account of this. I understood him well. He had believed himself to be apart from the rest of the world, a very special being and because that rude awakening had humiliated him more than he could endure he needed constant reassurance. He should have it. I would give it to him; and in time he would be able to face the fact that I loved him none the less because of his birth. I would assure him that it was far more commendable for a man without spiritual advantages to achieve what he had done, than it would have been for one who had special powers.

  But that was for later.

  We talked of this wonderful thing and he promised me more and more wonder. He was eager to go over the Abbey with me, to explain what he would have and for me to offer ideas. We would build our home together, he said.

  That morning I discovered that he had engaged several servants and apart from a very few they were men and all of a kind. Although there was no physical resemblance to Clement and Eugene they reminded me of them. Then I asked myself if I thought these people resembled monks because we were in an old abbey.

  I said to Bruno: “They remind me of Clement and Eugene.”

  “It is because they were at one time monks. When they were turned out they were lost and bewildered. Now that they have heard the Abbey is occupied, and by whom, they have come back. They wish to work here.”

  I was uneasy. “They must remember it is no longer a monastery.”

  “They know full well that the King has dissolved the monasteries.”

  “Is it wise….”

  He laughed at me. “You must leave such matters to me. We are going to have a rich estate and rich estates need many workers. These men know the Abbey. They have implored me to give them work here on the land they know and have known all their lives. I could not say no to them. Besides they will work well for me.”

  “I understand that. But….”

  “I do assure you, Damask, this place now is very different from what it was under the Abbot.”

  “I think, Bruno,” I answered, “we shall have to consider our actions with care. Everyone should. How can we know what new laws will be in force?”

  He turned to me then and his face was radiant. “Here you will be in our own little world. Leave your fears to me, Damask.”

  He looked so tall and handsome, so godlike, so calm, that I felt I could safely forget any little apprehension I might have left. And that impression stayed with me when he took me into the old scriptorium and I found yet another stranger there.

  Here was indeed the monkly countenance. The skin of this man was like old parchment, the eyes embedded in wrinkles alert yet calm, the high cheekbones with the flesh stretched tightly across them, the thin mouth all suggested the scholar and stoic. I knew before Bruno introduced him as Valerian that here was yet another of the monks of the Abbey.

  “There are still some of the old manuscripts which were not destroyed by the vandals,” said Bruno. “Valerian hid them away. Now he is here to bring them out to sort them and to compile our library.”

  Yes, even on that first morning I was disturbed. But I forgot as we explored the Abbey.

  “The church tower must stay,” said Bruno. “And how could we demolish the church?”

  We went to look at it. It had been built, like so many, in the form of a crucifix and was impressive indeed for the height from the floor to the highest point of the vaulted ceiling was some fifty feet. As I stood there I could fancy I heard the chanting of the monks. My footsteps sounded noisy as I walked across the flagged floor to the five altars each dedicated to a saint—the center one to Saint Bruno who had founded the Abbey, as that other Saint Bruno had fo
unded the Carthusians; and there was the screen beyond which was the Sanctuary where any who were persecuted could find refuge.

  “How could one deliberately demolish such a place?” I asked.

  Bruno smiled at me. “We understand each other,” he said. “We will leave the church.”

  Then we went out and studied the many buildings which would be taken down to make our mansion.

  “It will be a great labor,” said Bruno, “a great and inspiring one.”

  “And we will build together like birds building a nest.”

  “A nest!” cried Bruno laughing at me. “All this glory to be compared with a straw and mud!”

  “A nest to a bird is a home, as this will be to us,” I said indignantly.

  And he laughed and kissed me; and I thought exultantly, we are just the same as any young married couple—in love with each other and the future.

  He took me into the monks’ dorter and frater. In the frater was a long refectory table and benches and at each end of the room was a stone spiral staircase leading to numerous cell-like rooms in the doors of which were grilles through which one could see inside; and each appeared to be exactly like the others. There were pallets on the floors and crucifixes on the walls, for those who had come to rob the place had not considered these worth taking away.

  “Our mansion will not be in the least modern. We must keep the architecture to this ancient Norman style,” said Bruno.

  “It must necessarily be so for we shall be using the old stone and some of these places are too interesting to change.”

  He agreed. He would not wish to change the scriptorium; and the brewhouse and bakehouse could not be improved on. At the moment we had very few servants but we should need more. He intended to make profitable use of the farm and the mill.

  “In the old days,” he told me, “these guesthouses were often full. I should not wish weary travelers to be turned away, and perhaps in time St. Bruno’s Abbey will become the Sanctuary it once was.”

  “And you will be the Abbot. What of me? Abbots cannot have wives, you know.”

  “I shall do as I please.”

  “I am certain of that,” I replied lightly.

  We went to the fishponds. There were three of them, the first flowing into the second, the second into the third.

  “There used to be enough fish to feed the whole population of the Abbey and to sell,” said Bruno. “I hope it will be the same now.”

  “You will have your Abbey, I can see.”

  “I shall have the sort of community I wish for and none shall say me nay.”

  “But in these days one must show a little care.”

  “How you harp on care.” He was faintly exasperated. “You are safe with me.”

  “I know, Bruno. As if I were afraid!”

  But I did feel uneasy.

  I told him of the night Rupert and I had buried my father’s head.

  “I wish that I had been the one to bring it to you.”

  “It was a risk,” I said. “I am thankful that Rupert was not discovered.”

  “He is in love with you,” said Bruno.

  “Yes.”

  “But you were ready to face hardship with me, little knowing that you were coming to this!”

  “It would have made no difference, Bruno,” I said. “No difference at all.”

  They were strange days. There was so much to do, so much to talk of, so much to explore.

  We did not leave our little world during those days. As long as Bruno was with me I was happy. I was eager to run my own household. Should I have a stillroom to compare with my mother’s, a garden like hers?

  I would rather be with Bruno, listening to his plans. We often talked of the children we would have, and I gleaned that Bruno greatly desired to have a son.

  We were so close at such times of the day and close indeed at night; it was only when I would see that fanatical gleam in his eyes that I felt him moving away from me. Sometimes I think he sensed a certain disbelief but was determined to dispel it, to force me to accept what he wished me to; and this made me uneasy for I knew myself well enough to be sure that I could not be made to accept what I did not believe.

  But that was not for the moment.

  We were happy, discovering each other. We had passion, the ecstasy we shared at night beneath the Abbot’s vaulted ceiling; and we had a great plan; we were going to make a home.

  Just over a week after my wedding day when I was settling into my new home and no longer awoke with a sense of wonder and had to tell myself this had really happened, a messenger came from Caseman Court to say that my mother was in childbirth and asking for me. I hastily donned a cloak and walked to my old home. Would she have sent for me, I asked myself, if all had been going well?

  Poor Mother, I thought, who had been so unworthy of my beloved father and married almost before he was cold in his grave. So many memories from my childhood kept crowding into my mind as I made my way back to her: the tenderness she had bestowed on me; those days when I had gathered wild flowers for her and she had shown me how to arrange them; the excitement when roses like the musk had been introduced into the country. Now they all seemed endearing.

  I reached the gate where the bold brass letters CASEMAN COURT stood out arrogantly. I crossed the lawn where the gorgeous peacock, followed by the drab peahen, strutted on the grass and I was reminded poignantly of the days when I had fed them pulse, and Father had laughed to watch and asked me if I did not think there was something entirely stupid about the peacock and was he not an example to all of us not to be overproud of the gifts which only God could give us?

  The servants looked at me curiously when I came into the hall. I could imagine the gossip there must be about what was going on at the Abbey. We must be careful, I thought apprehensively.

  I demanded: “How is my mother?”

  “It’s a hard birth, Mistress,” said one of the maids with a curtsy.

  I ran up the stairs; as I reached the gallery Simon Caseman came out of a room.

  “So you came,” he said.

  “Of course I came. What is happening?”

  “She has given birth to a boy but that is not all.”

  “You mean…it is not going as it should?”

  “I think there is another child. The first is healthy. It will live.”

  “I was thinking of my mother.”

  “It is an ordeal for her. She has had such anxieties lately.” He looked at me reproachfully. “She has worried about your strange marriage.”

  “There was no need. But I do understand her fears. When she announced her marriage to me, I was uneasy for her.”

  The midwife called out something and we went into the room where my mother lay.

  “Two little boys,” said the midwife. “And for the life of me I can’t tell one from the other.”

  “Two!” cried Simon, and I sensed his exultation.

  “And their mother?” I asked.

  “ ’Tas been a trying time for her. But she’ll pull through. Exhausted she were but she opened her eyes and said, ‘A boy!’ And, poor soul, that was what she wanted. I said to her, ‘Not one boy, my dear lady, that wasn’t enough for you. You’ve got two of them—and for twins I’ve never seen such big ’uns. ’Twas small wonder they made such a to-do about coming out.”

  “May I see my mother?” I asked.

  “Bless you, Mistress, it’s what she wants. She’s asked for you time and time again.”

  I went into the room. My mother lay back on her pillows, her hair disordered. On her face was a smile of triumphant woman.

  “Mother,” I said kneeling by the bed, “you have given birth to healthy twins.”

  She nodded and smiled.

  “You should rest now,” I said.

  She smiled at me, then her expression changed. “Damask, are you happy?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  A shadow passed across her face. “It was all so strange. I never knew the like. Your father was
distressed.”

  “My father is in heaven, Mother,” I said. “And I believe that he rejoices in my marriage.”

  “Your stepfather is uneasy. He fears all may not be as it should.”

  “Tell him to keep his fears for his own affairs, Mother.” Then because I saw that the conflict between us hurt her, I went on quickly: “You should be content now that you have two little boys to care for. You will, however, not be able to spend so much time in your garden.”

  She smiled. Pleasant normal conversation—that was what she wanted. If anything was inclined to worry her she preferred to thrust it to one side.

  When I came out of her room Simon Caseman was waiting for me. “I wish to have a word with you before you leave, Damask.”

  I followed him into the room which had been my father’s study. Many times had we sat there looking out over the lawns to the river. Many subjects had we discussed. I felt a pang of nostalgia for the old days and a longing to be able to talk to him again. I would have discussed my misgivings with him; I could even have talked with him of Bruno.

  “I want to know what is happening at the Abbey,” Simon Caseman said. “I heard strange rumors.”

  “What rumors are these?” I hoped my voice did not betray the alarm I felt.

  “That some of the monks have returned.”

  I said cautiously, “Clement and Eugene, who worked for my father, have places in our household.”

  “Monks!” he said, his eyes narrowing. “And others too. All monks.”

  “The lands are extensive,” I said. “There is the farm which of course must be productive. If there are one or two monks there it is because there are many seeking work.”

  “I trust,” he said, “that you are not becoming involved in lawlessness.”

  “I do not understand you.”

  “St. Bruno’s was disbanded. It would be unwise to found it again even if it is under the name of Kingsman.”

  “Many abbeys have become as manor houses since the King and his ministers have bestowed them, I take it you have no objection to that?”