Peregrine shook his head. ‘Not now. We are in silence, and we need all the sleep we can get. We must be away early. Thank you, but leave it.’
‘Father…’
‘Leave it. We are in silence.’
With a sigh, Tom abandoned the conversation. He knew his abbot well and had seen how his proud spirit had balked at being tied to his horse like baggage on a mule. Peregrine had been touchy, on his dignity, all day, and was not about to have his independence eroded any further. He carried himself stiffly, and Tom guessed how the lame leg must be aching. Father Peregrine had not ridden since his leg bone was smashed. He looked weary. Tom glanced at him anxiously and tried one last plea: ‘Father…’
‘No.’
And they went to bed.
The kindly sisters made them a food parcel for their journey, and they were on their way directly after Mass. They had made such good time the first two days that they were assured of arriving at St Dunstan’s before Vespers. Brother Tom and Father Chad rode side by side, enjoying the change of scenery and each other’s company. Father Peregrine kept a little apart from them, speaking rarely and clearly on edge. They stopped to eat and water their horses at noon, and sat awhile to let the horses crop the roadside grass.
‘Father, shall I not see to your hands?’ Brother Tom ventured again.
Three days of holding the reins of a horse had left them more awkward than ever, and it had not escaped Tom’s notice that it was with more difficulty than usual that Father Peregrine broke his bread and meat as they ate.
‘Not now. We must press on. I want to be there before evening. Prior William is a heartless, cunning fox. Whatever this conference is about, it’ll not be what it seems. He feels obliged to invite me to give credibility to his appearances, but see how he’s left it so late that I can reasonably be expected to get there late or never, without actually being able to say I was not asked in time. Depend upon it he’ll force me out of the debate in Chapter, and away from the meal table conversation if he can. Well, we shall see.’
‘He knows then, does he, that you can’t—that you no longer—that you are thus disabled, Father?’ enquired Father Chad.
‘Not from me, but yes, no doubt he knows. The only thing that takes more care to inform itself than love is hatred, and he hates me with a thoroughness that unnerves me a little, I confess. I’ve worsted him in debate before, and that he will not forgive. Anyway, enough, we must be away. We’ll not be late.’
They rode in at the large grey stone gatehouse that straddled the moat surrounding the impressive priory of St Dunstan, just after the afternoon office, dusty and tired. They were received with all civility, and news of their arrival was sent to Prior William, who came out to meet them as their horses were led away to be stabled and rubbed down.
Prior William greeted first Father Peregrine, then Father Chad with the kiss of brotherhood. Brother Tom, who carried their pack, he barely acknowledged. As the formalities of greeting were exchanged, Tom studied the prior’s face. Narrow, mobile and intelligent, with thin lips and very little colour, its most striking feature was his eyes, which were of a very pale blue beneath silver eyebrows. The premature whiteness of his hair added to the impression he gave of coldness and austerity. Tom reflected that though his lips curved in a smile as he addressed Father Peregrine, his tone as he spoke was like frostbite.
‘A chamber is being prepared for you upstairs in the north wing of the guest house, Father Columba,’ he said. His voice was as soft as a woman’s; as soft as velvet.
‘Upstairs?’ butted in Brother Tom. ‘My lord, there must be some mistake.’
‘Let it be, Brother,’ said Father Peregrine quickly, but Prior William’s attention was caught.
‘Is that inconvenient, my son?’ he asked, in his soft, gentle, dangerous woman’s voice. He turned to look at Brother Tom as he spoke, and Tom had a sudden feeling of panic, like a small, tasty animal caught in the predator’s hypnotic death stare.
‘He’s—he’s lame, my lord, as you see,’ Tom stuttered.
‘I had thought,’ the prior purred, smiling faintly, ‘that a man who could make such good time on horseback must be less disabled than I expected.’
Father Peregrine and Father Chad said nothing, but Tom was on his mettle now.
‘If that be so, my lord,’ he said, ‘why did you not send him word earlier?’
The eyelids flickered momentarily over the cold blue eyes, but the prior did not stop smiling.
‘Shall I instruct my men to prepare your chamber at ground level then?’ he asked, fixing his gaze on Peregrine. Peregrine’s face was grim as he met Prior William’s look. Like an eagle confronting a poisonous snake, thought Tom.
‘No, thank you,’ said Father Peregrine. ‘The upstairs chamber will do well.’
Prior William raised one sardonic eyebrow. ‘If you are sure, my brother,’ he murmured.
‘I am sure,’ said Father Peregrine. ‘Please let us not detain you, Father Prior. I remember the way to your guest house well enough.’ The two men bowed courteously to one another, and Prior William turned his attention to another small party of men who were riding in at the gatehouse, while Father Chad, Father Peregrine and Brother Tom made their way to their lodging.
‘Father… forgive my asking…’ Father Chad hesitated, daunted by the grimness of his abbot’s look.
‘Yes?’
‘Forgive my asking you—how are you going to get up the stairs?’
‘Backwards,’ said Peregrine tersely. ‘Unobserved, please God,’ he added, with a flicker of a smile.
The stone stairway of the guest house was narrow and steep, but did not pose any great problem. Father Peregrine ascended it sitting on the steps, using his good leg to move him up one at a time, while Father Chad held the wooden crutch and Brother Tom carried their baggage. Tom could not help the grin that spread across his face at the undignified procedure, and Father Chad rebuked him. ‘Brother, for shame, it is nothing to laugh at.’
But Peregrine smiled. ‘Don’t scold him, Father Chad. There’ll be little enough to laugh at these four days if I judge right.’
Father Peregrine would not eat that evening with the company gathered after Vespers at Prior William’s table, though he insisted that Father Chad and Brother Tom go.
‘Keep your wits about you, listen to what’s said and note who’s here. I’ll see you later. I’ll sup on the remains of the bread and meat the good sisters packed us for the road. I’m too stiff and sore to keep company.’
Tom took a deep breath. ‘Father, please, when we return, will you permit me to see to your hands?’ He looked in appeal at Peregrine, and somewhere in his gut, compassion clutched him as he read the look on his abbot’s face, saw how his sense of dignity was cornered and mocked by his helplessness.
‘Thank you,’ said Peregrine quietly. ‘If you would. I can scarcely move them.’
‘After supper, then,’ said Tom, cheerfully, and turned to follow Father Chad out of the room.
‘Brother.’ His abbot stopped him. ‘You are quite welcome to say “I told you so”.’
Tom grinned at him, understanding how fragile was the dignity with which he protected his disability. ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he replied. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’
Most of the men who sat round the long, carved table in Prior William’s great hall that evening were unknown to Brother Tom, but Father Chad discreetly pointed them out.
‘Abbot Hugh from the Cistercian House to the east of our place, you know already. That’s his prior with him, whose name I forget. The dark, bearded man I know not, though judging by his habit he’s one of us. The slight, nervous fellow beside him is Abbot Roger, a Cistercian from Whitby.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Tom, nodding his head towards an enormously fat Benedictine monk, whose clean-shaven chins shook with laughter as he listened to a story his neighbour was telling him.
‘He? Do you not know him? He has stayed with us before. It is the Abbé Guillaume from Burg
undy. He has known Father Abbot since childhood, I believe, and esteems him highly. An incomparable scholar and a wise and holy confessor.’
‘Mmm. Good trencher-man too, by the look of him,’ observed Brother Tom.
There were in all seven superiors of prestigious houses seated round the table. Father Robert Bishopton, the Cistercian from Fountains Abbey was there, and the abbot of St Mary’s in York. Three of them had brought their priors too, and there were half a dozen other monks of less elevated status, but of scholarly renown—rising stars. So there was a good company gathered round the magnificent oak table.
Prior William’s eyes rested meditatively on Father Chad and Brother Tom, and he drew breath as if to speak to them, but thought better of it and merely smiled at them, inclining his head in greeting. Thereafter he ignored them. They were glad of each other’s company, neither of them being much at ease among the learned and the great. They were weary, too, from three days’ hard riding and it was a relief when the meal was ended, Compline sung and they could turn in for the night. When they returned to their room in the guest house, Father Peregrine wanted to know just who was there and what was said. He heard their account of the company as Brother Tom worked over his hands, gently flexing and stretching the stiff fingers, probing and rubbing the cramped muscles. He listened, and then said, puzzled, ‘I still don’t understand why Prior William has summoned men of this calibre here to debate whether God’s mercy is greater than his justice or the other way about. If it had been Abbé Guillaume I could have understood it. The night could pass and the sun come up and he never notice if he was absorbed in debating the things of God, but Prior William… they bear the same name, but you could hardly find two men less alike. Ah, what’s he up to? I’d give my right hand to know. Not that I’d be missing much. Thank you, brother, you have eased them wonderfully. It takes a day or two to get them right again once I’ve let them get this bad. They don’t ache so much though, now.’ He yawned. ‘Forgive me, brothers, you’re falling asleep where you sit. To bed then.’
The august gathering met in the Chapter House after Mass the following morning, and there the day’s business of the community was briefly despatched and the debate began.
It quickly became clear that Prior William, whatever his reasons, wanted the group of eminent men to conclude that God’s justice outweighed his mercy. Brother Tom gazed around the room, drowsy with boredom as the men rose one by one to speak, citing the Church Fathers, the Old Testament and various Greek and Eastern philosophers he had never heard of. His attention was recaptured by Prior William’s silky voice as he began to wind up the talk for the morning. ‘It is on the cross that we see the final, ultimate vindication of God’s justice, for God must remain true to his own laws, and requires a sacrificial victim for sin. His demand, yea thirst, for vengeance of his wrath aroused by our corruption requires a victim. Victim there must be, though it be his own Son. The price must be paid. Though the fruit of the cross is mercy, yet its root is justice, for it is a fair price paid, gold laid down for the purchase of our redemption.’
There was a silence at these words; a depressed, uneasy silence, broken by Abbot Peregrine’s firm, quiet voice as he rose to his feet and stood leaning on his crutch, his hands hidden in his wide sleeves, his eyes fixed on Prior William’s face.
‘No, my brother, it is not so,’ he said. ‘The root of the cross is not justice, though its fruit be mercy, as you say. The root of the cross is love, and what is laid down is more than gold, it is blood, life: given not with the clink of dead metal, but with the groans of a man dying in agony. No yellow shine of gold, but the glisten of sweat, and of tears. Justice is an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, for every sin a sacrifice. But Christ, the sinless one, is he whose broken body suffered on the cross, and the holy God in Christ who suffered hell for our sin. That is more than justice, my lord Prior, it is love. Nor is it merely a just love. It is a merciful love.’
He remained standing as Prior William rose to his feet to confront him. ‘Are you suggesting,’ purred the velvet voice, ‘that God is not just?’
Peregrine shook his head. ‘No. How should we know justice if God were not just? But I do say this: God’s justice is subordinate to his love, for his justice is a property of his character, but his love is his essential self. For do not the Scriptures say, “God is love,” but never, “God is justice”?’
Brother Tom had no idea which of them was right, if either, and was not sure what the point of the argument was anyway, but Prior William’s smooth, disturbing voice, that spoke of victims and wrath and vengeance and gold and corruption, made him feel a bit sick. He felt on firmer ground with Father Peregrine’s talk of suffering, merciful love, and to judge by the atmosphere of the meeting, he was not the only one.
Abbé Guillaume rose to speak, and the two men broke the look that locked them in combat and resumed their seats to hear him.
‘Le bon Dieu, yes he is charité. But he is perfection, is he not? And is not perfection the essence of justice? The precise, appropriate purity of verité—n’est-ce pas? Is not justice as we conceive of it none other than that which approximates to perfection? Eh bien, in the incomprehensible perfection of God, where all is a radiance of pure light, all crookedness is made straight, is not love swallowed up in the manifestation par excellence of justice—that is perfection?’
‘No!’ Peregrine was on his feet again, his eyes burning. ‘No, good brother. For God loves me, even me; and though Satan parades my sins and weakness before me, yet am I saved by the love of God in Christ Jesus, from which nothing can separate me. Justice would separate me from the love of God. By my sins do I justly perish. But I am redeemed, reborn, recreated; I am held and sheltered and restored by the love of God. Mon père, I cannot call that justice. It is grace, free grace. It is the most prodigal generosity. It is all mercy.’
Brother Tom glanced across the Chapter House at Prior William. The prior was gently caressing his chin with his hand, and his eyes were fixed on Father Peregrine with a cold, calculating, thoughtful look. Tom had never before seen such pure hatred, unmixed with passion or anger or any such agitation. Ruthless, single hatred. He shivered. The company murmured assent to Peregrine’s assertion, but Père Guillaume took it serenely. To him, winning or losing was immaterial. He saw debate as a lovely thing in itself, a sculpture of truth chiselled out by the cut and thrust of argument. He was well content.
It was at this point that the Chapter Meeting broke for High Mass, and Tom sighed with relief to be able to stretch his stiff limbs and move again. After the suffocating boredom of the morning’s debate, the liturgy with its colour and music seemed like a night out at the inn. Despondency descended on him as they returned to the Chapter House to pursue the debate after Mass. He decided that four days of this would be more than he could endure, and resolved to make himself scarce after the midday meal.
Meanwhile, the talk batted to and fro, concerning the perfection of justice, the perfection of mercy, the essence of perfection, whether or not perfect mercy is a form of justice, the essence of God—all substantiated by long quotations in Latin which Tom couldn’t understand properly, and references to bits of the Athanasian Creed which he couldn’t remember. Eventually he dozed off to sleep.
He cheered up considerably at lunch time. The table was laden with the choicest roast fowls in rich sauces, vegetables beautifully prepared, dishes of fruit and cheese—a feast to make a man’s mouth water. The normal rule of silence was suspended on this occasion, so that the talk might continue on an informal basis. Brother Tom didn’t care what they talked about. There was enough food here for him to eat as much as he wanted for once in his life, and as soon as the long Latin grace was said, he applied himself to it with great relish.
The men who sat down to eat were divided roughly according to status. Prior William presided at the head of his table among the scholarly and eminent men he had invited to conference. Lower down the table were those like Father Chad, men of imp
ortance but not of the first rank—abbots’ priors mainly. Brother Tom sat with the small fry at the end of the table; young monks like himself who were their abbots’ esquires. He felt a little uneasy at being separated from his abbot. Once again he had not had chance to attend to his hands, nor opportunity to speak to the lay brothers who served at table here, to ask them to help Father Peregrine with his food. Still, his abbot had common sense enough, and was used to coping with these situations. No doubt he would prefer to avoid having attention drawn to his disability.
Brother Tom investigated the wine that had been poured for him. Like him, the young men among whom he was seated were used to watered ale at table, and his neighbour turned to him with a smile of pure contentment as he set down his elegant, silver goblet. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is like the fire in the heart of a ruby. I think I could find a vocation to this community with very little persuading.’ It was good wine, clear and dark and smooth. A glow of well-being spread through Brother Tom.
‘Faith, yes, I could see off a barrel of this,’ he replied happily. ‘But it would take more than that to tempt me to live my life in the chill of that miserable icicle of a man.’
His neighbour laughed and glanced up the table towards Prior William. ‘Endearing, isn’t he? Never mind, he knows where to purchase his victuals. Have you tried this cheese?’
Though there was a fair number of men there, they were used to eating in silence; not only without talk, but without unnecessary scrape and clatter. Their conversation was a discreet hum of sound, and it was easy enough for Prior William to raise his smooth, soft voice just sufficiently loud to be heard by all the company: ‘Ah… I crave your pardon, Father Columba. It had never occurred to me that the mutilation of your hands would render you so… incapable. What an oversight! You are used perhaps to having your food cut up for you?’
The Wounds of God Page 3
