After a little more conversation about the state of the world, and especially the concerns about the political unrest in the country, the infirmarian walked in his stately fashion back to his hospital. Though its primary function was to treat the occupants of the priory, the small population of only eighteen brothers and a score of lay brothers provided relatively little work for the doctor. However, much of his labour went on the treatment of visitors, who came with a variety of ailments, seeking relief both from his medicines and through the miraculous water from St Beornwyn’s spring. Though some of these supplicants were common folk, the reputation of the priory for its medical care was such that a considerable income was obtained from rich merchants and manor-lords who came from all over the Midlands, the Marches and the West Country.
Once inside his infirmary, which was a long, low building, roofed in slate like the rest of the priory, Brother Louis went to the room at one end, which acted as his office and dispensary. A table and two chairs represented his consulting room, the rest of the chamber being given over to cabinets and shelves filled with various herbs and drugs, together with his paraphernalia for rolling pills and mixing tinctures. He poured a small quantity of a reddish liquid from a flask into a small earthenware cup and went into the main ward, which had half a dozen low beds, each consisting of a straw mattress resting on a low wooden plinth. Beyond was a short corridor leading to four cubicles, used either for patients wealthy enough to pay for a private room or those who were very sick. Only two were in use at the moment, one for a fat burgess from Hereford with a disfiguring skin disease of his neck, and the other for a wealthy fish merchant of Bristol suffering from weeping ulcers of his legs. The main ward contained only one patient and it was to that bed which Louis now went, holding up his cup of medicine as if it were a Communion chalice.
‘Drink this down, John,’ he commanded imperiously. ‘It will settle your mind after your disturbance of last night.’
‘It was no disturbance, Louis, it was a message from Heaven telling me to expect grave news!’ quavered the old man indignantly.
‘Just take this sedative, John, then get some sleep,’ urged the infirmarian impatiently. ‘You should be fit enough to attend compline later today.’
With this admonition, he walked away towards the private cubicles, where his bedside manner improved markedly as he enquired solicitously after the health of the two rich patients.
At St Oswald’s they subscribed to the tenets of the Benedictine Order, founded by the great man many centuries earlier, but they did not adhere as strictly to the rules as did the Cistercians or the Cluniacs, who had diverged from them because of their perception that the Benedictines had gone soft. Though, as in all monastic establishments, there were nine offices each day devoted to praising God, this small priory had compromised by joining several services together, so that they were actually only held on five occasions. That morning, terce, sext, nones and High Mass had been combined into a forty-minute observance that ended in plenty of time for midday dinner.
The black-robed monks trooped into their refectory and sat at the three oak tables set in a U-shape. At the centre of the top table sat Prior Paul, with his sub-prior, Matthew, on his right, and Pierre, the sacristan, on his left. The prior often ate alone in his house, but today he ate with his flock, anxious to hear if any of them had picked up any gossip from the lay brothers about the army that lay over the horizon.
‘The dray-man who brought that special ale up from Ross said he saw no signs at all on his journey,’ offered the cellarer, Jude, as one of the servants placed a trencher of roast pork with beans and cabbage on the table before him.
‘Yet there are reports of some peasants fleeing with their belongings on the road from the west towards Hereford,’ contributed Arnulf, the hospitaller, who tended to get most news of the outside world because of his dealings with the visitors who stayed in his guest-house.
The conversation lapsed as the serving men hurried in with more food, placing thick slabs of yesterday’s bread before each member, loaded with meat and vegetables. These trenchers used to be laid directly on the scrubbed boards of the tables, but recently the brothers had become sophisticated enough to lay them on pewter platters. Another servant came around with a jug of wine and yet another with a large pitcher of ale, and soon the community was tucking in to an abundance of food and drink, far removed from the Spartan origins of the monastic movement.
As Prior Paul slowly ate his meal, he looked around at his brethren and wondered what some of them were thinking. In spite of his bland, amiable appearance, he was an astute judge of men, as well as being an able administrator. He was well aware that his deputy, Brother Matthew, hungered after his own position as prior and was no doubt patiently – or perhaps, impatiently – waiting for his death or retirement to a hermitage. However, Paul was only sixty years of age and had no intention of handing over the reins for some time yet.
He looked across at the sub-prior now, studying his cadaveric face and his unbending and humourless manner. A large Roman nose with deep furrows on each side of his mouth suggested that life at St Oswald’s would not be so comfortable under his authoritarian direction.
On his other side, Brother Pierre, the sacristan, sat fastidiously picking at his food with his eating knife and delicately washing his fingers in a bowl of rosewater set before him. Dedicated to his task of administering all the physical aspects of the priory church, his nature was tarnished by his permanent disdain for all things English, his French origins oozing from every pore. He had come two years earlier from a large monastery on the Loire and made no secret of the fact that he hoped to be recalled there before his life amongst the barbarians became intolerable.
The other Frenchman, the infirmarian, Louis, sat at the top of one of the side tables. Thankfully, Paul knew that his Gallic tendencies were not as blatantly obvious as those of Pierre, but his rather aloof and sarcastic manner was born of his pride in his professional background, as he never let an opportunity pass to remind his fellows that he had trained at the most eminent centre of medical learning in Europe.
As the prior’s eye roved over the other monks, almost a score in number, he mused on the fact that he knew many of their secrets. At least two of them regularly visited women in the nearby village. and he suspected another of attending cockfights. Though the monks were supposed to be confined to the priory, many of them had reason to leave during the day, to supervise work in the fields or travel about the nearby countryside collecting alms from other villages. Twice a year a retinue of brothers carried the feretory around the district, the ornate reliquary that usually rested on the altar of the church. This heavy embellished and gilded box contained the skull-cap and some bones of the blessed St Beornwyn and was hawked around the hamlets and churches of the area to collect donations for the priory, accompanied by the monks chanting and ringing handbells.
In the relaxed atmosphere of St Oswald’s, there was no code of silence at meals, as was usually enforced by the Cistercians and other stricter orders. There was hardly noisy chatter, but certainly plenty of subdued conversation as the brothers worked their way through their ample meal. The main topic of conversation was the threat from the advancing army, now not many miles away, and this continuing anxiety led Prior Paul to ask Louis, Matthew, Jude and Pierre to come to his parlour after the meal.
An hour later, they sat on stools before his desk, the prior’s secretary standing discreetly in the background.
‘We need to decide what preparations we should make should this rebellion overtake us,’ began Paul. The seriousness of the situation had by now caused even his habitual smile to fade somewhat. ‘Though it seems that these brigands have halted their advance, we cannot expect it to be other than a temporary reprieve.’
The thin lips of the sub-prior pursed in disagreement. He never missed a chance to contradict his superior.
‘One can hardly call their leader a “brigand”,’ he complained. ‘This Glendower is a l
anded gentleman of mature years, a qualified lawyer and one who, in the past, has given loyal service to King Henry.’
The physician, Louis, nodded his agreement. ‘I have heard from France that he is well looked upon there – and that he has been offered military assistance by the royal court in Paris.’
Pierre snorted in disgust. ‘Some gentleman! He has rebelled against his king and for five years he has rampaged throughout Wales, sacking and burning towns. He has killed thousands and God alone knows what damage he has done to religious houses!’
The prior held up a placating hand. ‘The politics of the matter are none of our concern, but our survival and the protection of our community and property most certainly are. We need to plan how we might best limit the damage should Glendower’s army overrun us.’
‘Damage has already been done, just because of the threat of this rebellion to the countryside,’ snapped the sub-prior. ‘We heard from Brother Arnulf at the chapter meeting this morning that the value of donations from pilgrims and supplicants has decreased appreciably in the past few weeks. People are becoming afraid to travel here, as we are in the path of this Welsh army advancing into England itself.’
The infirmarian nodded his agreement. ‘Several of our wealthy patrons who were due to come for my treatment have sent messages to say that they are remaining at home until all trouble has passed.’
The prior shrugged. ‘There is little we can do about an advancing army, save pray earnestly to God in the hope that He will divert it. However, we have treasure and valuables here which would be the first target of a despoiling horde.’
Brother Jude, whose mind worked more slowly than the sharper Frenchmen, frowned as he mulled over his superior’s comment. ‘You mean we should bury our money and hide our silver chalices and patens?’
Prior Paul nodded. ‘Perhaps not actually in a hole in the earth, but certainly in a good hiding place. We must think about this now, so that if Glendower’s rabble come close, we can rapidly hide our treasure away somewhere.’
They discussed this for several minutes and eventually came up with a provisional plan to use an old stone coffin in the crypt beneath the chancel. This crypt had not been used for a century, as the infrequent burials of deceased monks were now made in a plot alongside the church, near the chapter house.
‘We will keep this to ourselves for the time being,’ ordered Paul. ‘The lay brothers need not be made aware of it, as they might be forced by these rebels to disclose the hiding place.’
‘May God give me strength to keep this secret myself, if I am subjected to violence and torture!’ said Pierre fervently.
‘What about our saint’s reliquary?’ asked the cellarer. ‘The outside is finely chased with gold and silver, and there’s a heavy gold band around the relic itself.’
The prior nodded again as he agreed with Jude. ‘The reliquary is too large to conceal, but we must preserve the skull-cap. Indeed, that is our most prized possession and must be kept safe at all costs.’
The object in question was kept on the high altar, but an hour after the prior’s meeting it was being used in the chancel of the church. A dozen pilgrims and supplicants were gathered in the empty nave, having come to the priory either indifferent to, or ignorant of, the presence of a hostile army just over the horizon. Most of them had some ailment, ranging from weeping skin ulcers to severe arthritis, but a few were ordinary pilgrims, curious about the well-known cult of St Beornwyn.
Today it was the turn of Brother Louis, the infirmarian, to administer the cures. Half a dozen of the monks occupied the quire stalls on each side of the chancel, providing harmonious chanting while Louis went to the altar. With repeated genuflection, he opened the gilded doors of the reliquary and removed the most precious fragment of their beloved Beornwyn, which lay amongst other parts of her skeleton.
It was a bowl-shaped calvarium, the top of the skull of the beautiful saint, which had been embellished with a wide band of heavy gold around the circumference, into which a repetitive motif of butterflies had been engraved.
Turning, Brother Louis held the relic high above his head and, as the chanting changed, began intoning a litany of Latin prayers. The small congregation in the nave dropped to their knees on the cold flagstones and crossed themselves, murmuring their own prayers as the infirmarian advanced towards the holy well, placed beneath the chancel arch, at the foot of the steps leading up to the presbytery.
It was an ornate structure of pink marble standing head high, the base carved with cherubim and seraphim. The upper part was a large alabaster statue of St Beornwyn herself, gazing down benignly into a large marble bowl shaped like a seashell, lying at the foot of the edifice. Just above the bowl, a kneeling angel held a pitcher under his arm, from which a small cascade of water fell into the bowl, almost filling it until the excess ran off through an overflow. The water passed into a conduit under the church and reappeared at a much more mundane spring in the outer courtyard, where it was used for everyday purposes in the priory and also for bathing the feet or other afflicted parts of supplicants who desired external treatment of their diseases.
Louis stood before the fountain and, with a stately bow, bent and held the ornate skull under the jet of water until it was half full.
The first supplicant who had come for a cure moved forward and kneeled before the priest, who with a sonorous stream of Latin, blessed the limpid fluid in the skull. Then bending, Brother Louis held it to the lips of the pilgrim who took a sip, or rather a gulp, as he was determined to get his money’s worth. This was repeated for each of the supplicants who were waiting patiently in the nave, and after much genuflection and mumbling of prayers, they lined up again before the infirmarian, who gave them a general blessing and then directed them to seek further diagnosis and treatment at the infirmary, if they so wished. Though he did not say it directly, there was a tacit understanding that such additional medical care would come at a price, though, to be fair, this was graded according to their apparent means and for those who were sick but obviously near-destitute, the treatment was free.
Later, one of the supplicants took advantage of this invitation and sought out Louis in his consulting room. A rotund cloth merchant from Evesham, he was suffering from severe flatulence and pains in his belly after eating. After examining him, which included prodding his corpulent belly, Louis suspected that much of his problem was due to overweight, but produced an earthenware pot, sealed with a wooden stopper.
‘At the end of each meal, swallow as much of this as would fill half an eggshell,’ he commanded. ‘And cut down drastically on your victuals, especially fatty pork and other greasy food.’
Handing the jar to the merchant, he told him to return when it was all used, or go to an apothecary in Evesham and buy more. He handed the man a slip of parchment on which were written some cabalistic marks, as a prescription for the apothecary.
Gratefully, the clothier departed, placing a liberal pile of silver pennies on Louis’s table. Before he left, he enquired about the saint who, he hoped, would work miracles upon his belly, aided by the infirmarian’s mixture of chalk, valerian and peppermint.
‘How did this priory come to be established in such a lonely place?’ he asked.
The infirmarian was quite willing to engage in conversation with this intelligent and liberal fellow.
‘It is said that a healing well has been here since time immemorial,’ he said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Even in the time of those Ancient Britons that we read about in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s famous book, people came from far and wide to drink and wash in its waters. There are several such wells along the Malvern hills, but this one has the best reputation.’
‘But why did this one have a Benedictine house placed over it?’ persisted the inquisitive merchant.
‘Before the Normans came, a daughter of the Earl of Hereford suffered from the falling sickness, which was cured by the waters of this spring,’ replied Louis. ‘The Earl was so impressed that he granted
not only twenty hides of land here, but also gave a generous endowment for the priory.’
‘But why dedicated to St Oswald and St Beornwyn?’ asked the merchant.
‘The earl was influenced by his confessor, a Benedictine monk, who came from the Shire of York and was devoted to the memory of St Oswald, so the priory is named after him. Oswald was King of Northumbria in ancient times and, although a ferocious soldier, became a saint after his death in battle at Oswestry, because he had converted the pagan Northumbrians to the way of Christ.’
The clothier’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. ‘So why is the church dedicated to this St Beornwyn? Who was she?’
Brother Louis, ever an impatient man, was beginning to get a irritated by the merchant’s persistence, thinking that he was demanding a lot for his silver pennies. However, he decided to humour him one last time.
‘Several hundred years after Oswald’s death, which was a violent dismemberment, the same thing happened to a devout virgin in a church dedicated to St Oswald near Whitby. She was horribly mutilated by Viking berserkers on one of their raids upon the Northumbrian coast, and for her virtue and martyrdom she was herself elevated to sainthood. Some two hundred years ago, some of her bones were given to this church as holy relics.’
Satisfied at last, the clothier ambled away clutching his pot of stomach medicine and with a sigh of relief, the infirmarian rose and went into the ward where Brother John was sitting up on his pallet. After a perfunctory examination, Louis stood back and told the old monk that there was no reason why he should not rejoin his fellow monks.
‘You can eat in the frater and sleep in the dorter as usual,’ he declared. ‘Tomorrow you can go back to your duties in the scriptorium. Doing your usual tasks will keep your mind off your strange delusions.’
The False Virgin Page 24
