Brother's Blood

by C. B. Hanley

  He listened as hard as he could, in the silence of the graveyard in the middle of the greater silence of the abbey. Speak to me, Brother Alexander, tell me something which will help me find out what happened to you. You are a holy man, so you probably don’t want revenge and retribution, but you will be able to rest easier once we know who killed you and why.

  But there was silence. Brother Alexander had no word for him from the grave. He was busy making his way through Purgatory while his earthly remains mouldered in the ground, and he had no time for Edwin. Edwin laid a hand on the turned earth, muttered a final prayer, and stood. He was on his own.

  He wasn’t on his own. He was being watched by one of the monks, whom a closer look revealed to be Brother Amandus, the guestmaster.

  ‘I did not mean to disturb you, my son. Were you praying for Brother Alexander?’

  ‘Yes, I —’

  ‘That is highly commendable of you, for you did not know him during his life. What a shame he should be cut down like that.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Did you —’

  ‘But of course every man is called to God when He wills it, and not at any other time. It is all part of His divine plan.’

  ‘Well, yes, but —’

  ‘And we will all lie here one day. Indeed, it seems likely that we will be digging a grave for Brother Richard here before too many more days have passed.’

  Edwin remembered the dreadful figure in the bed. How much longer could a man possibly survive that?

  Brother Amandus shook himself. ‘But there I go again, talking too much. It’s why Father Abbot made me guestmaster, you know – unlike many of the other brethren I have to speak as part of my duties, and I think he was tired of hearing me confess to the same fault over and over again. I shall do it again, no doubt – precept fifty-three, “not to be fond of much talking”. But now I must leave you and go to prepare the evening meal for the guests. I shall see you at the guesthouse later when you are ready to eat.’

  ‘Before you go …’

  Brother Amandus turned back.

  ‘Just out of interest, what did Brother Alexander look like? The lord abbot said he was in later middle age, but that’s all I know.’

  The guestmaster looked down at the earth. ‘I’m not sure what you want to know. He was tall, certainly – not as tall as your friend, but probably next in size after Brother Durand. Tonsured, of course, like the rest of us, with blond hair going grey. And …’ he paused for a moment, searching for the right words. ‘Thoughtful.’

  ‘Thoughtful? You mean, he cared for others?’

  ‘No – I mean, yes, of course he cared for others, but I mean he always looked like he was thinking of something. He was a very clever man, a real scholar, so perhaps he had thoughts which the rest of us couldn’t contemplate. Thoughts which were just between him and the Lord.’ He waited to see if Edwin was going to say anything else, and then inclined his head and turned away.

  Edwin watched him depart, aware that the whole day had passed and he was no nearer to solving the murder of Brother Alexander – master of the lay brothers, driver of hard bargains, traveller, writer, scholar, thinker – who lay under the ground at his feet.

  Martin made his way across the precinct as he followed the novice Benedict. The place was so eerily quiet that he didn’t like to call out and draw attention to himself, but he waved and Benedict caught the movement as he turned into the woodshed. He waved back and waited until Martin joined him.

  ‘Greetings.’ He sketched the sign of the cross in the air.

  ‘Hello, Brother. I was at a bit of a loose end so I wondered if I might help – if I might serve the abbey again by helping you chop some wood.’

  Benedict inclined his head. ‘That would be most welcome.’ He turned to go in and then seemed to stagger, resting his hand on the gatepost for support.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. I just turned around too fast in the heat of the sun. Please, come in.’

  It was late in the afternoon and the sun wasn’t that hot. Martin looked at the flushed patches on his cheeks and the over-bright eyes, but he said nothing.

  If he were being honest with himself, Martin would have preferred just to get on with the task without speaking. But that was not his purpose in coming here: he had to make sure he didn’t let Edwin down again, and so far Benedict was the only person in the abbey he’d managed to strike up a conversation with which hadn’t ended badly. So he discarded his tunic and started. As he got into a rhythm – place the log, lift the axe, bring it down, thump, repeat – he considered his next move. Once he had an armful of split logs he swung the axe into the chopping block to hold it and started picking them up while he watched Benedict. He was working as he had done the other day, with little strength and no pattern, which was just going to wear him out.

  Martin waited until Benedict had succeeded, at the third try, in splitting a log and then stopped for breath.

  ‘Do you mind if I show you a different way to do it?’

  Benedict considered. ‘I am here to learn in all things, so please do.’

  ‘You’ve got to get into more of a steady pace. You need to be able to make the same movement over and over and over again, smoothly. That way you’ll do it better and you’ll be able to carry on for longer. Look.’ He demonstrated, and then stood back to let Benedict have a go. ‘That’s better, but just hold the axe a bit more …’ he adjusted the novice’s hands. ‘Now, bring it up – yes, a bit further – no, that’s too far – yes, about there. As it falls, try to let the weight of it do some of the work, so it’s not all coming from your arms.’

  This time the log split cleanly and Benedict smiled. He needed a lot more practice, but it was a start. Martin got back to work himself and resumed the conversation.

  ‘So, how long have you been here?’

  The novice looked confused. ‘You just came in with me.’

  ‘No, I mean, here at the abbey. How long have you been a novice?’

  Benedict’s face cleared. ‘Oh. I see. Almost three years. I shall take my final vows next spring, once I turn eighteen. I can’t wait.’

  He’s the same age as me, thought Martin. What an age to be giving up on life and shutting yourself away. Why does he want to do it?

  ‘You must know most of the other brothers quite well by now.’

  Benedict placed another log but did not make a move to lift his axe. ‘I suppose so. Some better than others, of course – I have been studying with Brother Jordan, the novicemaster, but I also know Brother Octavian, who tells me what to read, and Brother Walter, the sacrist who prepares the church for each service. I hope one day to be allocated such a holy task.’

  ‘But for now it’s chopping wood, eh?’

  Benedict looked down at the log on the block and made an attempt to lift the axe over his head. The spots on his cheeks looked even redder as his white arms rose, and he seemed struck by exhaustion. The axe came down and missed the wood completely. ‘It’s God’s work, and I must obey.’ He sounded miserable. ‘I would rather be praying.’

  I bet you would, thought Martin. Now he needed to move forward with his plan. As he added his wood to the stack of split logs, he turned and asked casually over his shoulder, ‘And Brother Alexander? Did you know him?’

  The reaction was as violent as it was unexpected. ‘Him! He had no business here!’

  Martin turned in surprise to see Benedict looking animated, his arms waving in front of him, his eyes almost wild. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked, keeping one eye on the discarded axe at the novice’s feet.

  ‘He had studied with heathens – had the temerity to say to Father Abbot that he had learned much from them! How can he claim to serve God as a brother of this house when he has consorted with those who deny Our Lord? How can he live with himself without confessing his sin? How —’

  He was spluttering, almost spitting in the grip of his emotion. Martin stepped forward and put a hand on his sh
oulder. He felt the thin bones, barely covered with flesh, through the fabric of the habit. ‘Calm yourself, Brother. Here, sit in the shade a moment.’

  Benedict started to protest that he needed to get on with his labours, but Martin propelled him firmly towards the fence where there was a patch of shadow, and pushed him down into a sitting position. He had no wine or ale to offer, but he picked up his tunic from the ground and used it to wipe the sweat from the other’s brow. He was hot to the touch. Too hot.

  ‘I heard that Brother Alexander had travelled,’ he mentioned carefully when he was sure Benedict was breathing more easily, ‘but I didn’t know where.’

  Benedict looked at him, not as wildly as he had done, but still not calm. ‘I heard that he went initially to Paris, but that he did not find the masters there to his liking, so he went south over the mountains, through the kingdoms there and then into the Moorish lands, where he studied with Saracens. Saracens! How could he …’

  Martin was also appalled that anyone could meet Saracens without wanting to kill them in battle, but saying that out loud wasn’t going to help. Think of something to keep him talking. ‘But he came back. He came back with more knowledge, and then he came here to use that knowledge.’

  The bright eyes were staring beyond him. ‘He came back with more than knowledge.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Benedict leaned in towards him, and Martin could feel the heat radiating off his body. ‘Treasure!’

  ‘What?’

  Benedict nodded vehemently. ‘Yes. He brought back treasure with him. Brother Walter heard him say so.’

  Martin thought rapidly. He had to go and put this all before Edwin, but even he could see the implications. He shook his head to try and clear it. ‘What kind of treasure?’

  ‘I – I don’t know. But, given his heathenish tendencies, I wouldn’t put it past him to have taken Moorish gold or something. He didn’t belong here, I tell you!’

  He was getting agitated again. Martin put out a hand. ‘Look, you sit there, and I’ll finish the wood for you. Just rest, just – stay there.’

  But Benedict was already struggling to his feet, mumbling that he had to do God’s work, and staggering over to his chopping block. Martin didn’t feel that he could use physical force to stop him, not here, not a monk, even though he was only a novice. He would keep an eye on him.

  Benedict had managed to split one log by the time Martin had done four, and he was placing another as Martin picked up all his pieces and carried them over to the stack. Then there was a strange sighing noise, and Martin whipped round just in time to see the novice collapse to the ground, where he lay unmoving.

  Chapter Eight

  The smell of cooking assailed Edwin’s nostrils as he left the graveyard and made his way back into the main precinct. He would appreciate an evening meal, although he would remember to pray for poor Brother Richard who would eat nothing.

  Edwin poked his head around the gate of the woodshed as he passed it, but there was nobody there, so perhaps Martin was already on his way back to the guesthouse. Edwin wondered if he had found out anything else. He hoped so, for he was getting very short on ideas of what to do next. He slowed as he passed the main door of the church, and wandered inside. It was empty, it being not yet time for the next service – which one would that be? Vespers? – so he took the opportunity to kneel in the cool silence and pray. Although his head was swimming so much that he wasn’t really praying coherently – more just letting everything spill out of his mind in a confused heap, in the hope that the Lord might help him to make sense of it all.

  After some while he realised that he was not alone in the church; he could hear a sound coming from one of the side chapels rather than from outside. At first he couldn’t make out what it was, so he stood and crept forward as quietly as he could. He shivered as he remembered his shock of the night before when he thought he had seen a ghost, but this was no spirit – it was a real man, a choir monk, kneeling before the small altar in a side chapel and clearly in great distress. The sound that Edwin had heard was the monk trying to swallow his sobs.

  Edwin was in a dilemma. He could not bring himself to interrupt a man in such need of speaking with the Lord privately, but what if it had some bearing on the murder of Brother Alexander? For why else would a monk be crying like that unless he had done something wrong? He seemed to be begging for something, and maybe that something was forgiveness. Edwin craned his neck to try and see more, to identify the man at least, but the monk had his back to him and all he could see was a bit of dark hair around the tonsure. He felt frustration rising. Why were they all so difficult to tell apart? All he could work out was that it wasn’t one of the novices, who were untonsured, it wasn’t the infirmarer, who was completely bald, and he was fairly sure it wasn’t one of the very elderly brothers who had greying or white hair. But that still left, what, the other forty or so choir monks? He had to move forward, he had to talk to the man.

  He didn’t move.

  Eventually he gave up and backed away into the main body of the church, and then out the door into the evening sunshine.

  On his way to the guesthouse he saw Brother Helias, presumably making his way back from the cellarer’s office for his own evening meal. As Edwin greeted him he mentally crossed the cellarer off his list, firstly as he didn’t think the weeping monk could have got out so quickly, and certainly not without having some signs of his distress around his eyes, and secondly as he had forgotten that Brother Helias had reddish hair not dissimilar to his own.

  Brother Helias nodded to him and was about to pass by. Edwin wondered if he might know anything about the weeping monk in the church. ‘Brother, may I speak with you please? Privately?’

  Brother Helias inclined his head and indicated the nearby guesthouse. As they reached the building Edwin stood back to let the monk enter first. To his surprise he heard Sir Philip addressing the new arrival in a low hiss. ‘I thought we agreed only to talk while we were in the …’ He saw Edwin and bit back his words, turning away.

  The merchant Aylwin rose as they entered, and greeted them. ‘Brother Helias, do you have any idea of how long it is going to take the lord abbot to appoint a new master of the lay brothers? I need to speak to him really quite urgently about this year’s wool, and while I am kicking my heels here I am not out doing business elsewhere, which is …’

  Brother Helias held up a hand. ‘Peace, Master Aylwin. I appreciate your business concerns, but the appointment of such a key obedientiary cannot be rushed. Father Abbot needs to consider carefully who will be best for the position, and to pray for guidance.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘As soon as I am aware of the identity of the new master of the lay brothers, I will make sure you are informed. Now,’ he turned to Edwin, ‘what was it you wanted to ask me, my son?’

  Edwin had forgotten that they wouldn’t be alone in the guesthouse, and he didn’t feel comfortable airing before others what was probably a private matter for the monk concerned. ‘Oh, er, it can wait, Brother. I don’t want to make you late for your meal.’ He tried to give Brother Helias a significant look to indicate the reason for his change of heart, but he wasn’t sure it worked.

  After Brother Helias had left, Edwin sat down at the table where Brother Amandus was setting out the meal. Edwin saw that there was egg and cheese to add to the normal beans and vegetables, maybe because it was Sunday, he guessed, and thought that Martin would be pleased. Come to think of it, where was Martin?

  Martin swore out loud as he saw Benedict crumple to the ground; he dropped the wood he was carrying and ran over, throwing himself down next to the still form and turning him on to his back.

  ‘Brother, Brother, can you hear me? Are you all right?’ He tapped the side of Benedict’s face. ‘Wake up.’

  Benedict made no reply and Martin wasn’t sure he was breathing. That wasn’t good, was it? And should his eyelids be fluttering like that? Well, there was only one thing to do
. He put his arms under the prone man and lifted him, standing up as he did so. He was immediately thrown off balance by how light Benedict was. Dear Lord, he weighed nothing! Regaining himself, Martin clasped the unconscious novice to him as he hurried out of the woodshed and in the direction of the infirmary.

  He should have guessed that the sight of a panicked stranger carrying what looked like the body of a dead novice would cause much alarm, and he was soon surrounded by an anxious crowd of monks and lay brothers.

  He brushed them off as he thrust his way through. ‘He’s not dead – taking him to the infirmary – will be easier if I carry him —’

  One of the white monks took charge, shooing the others away and telling a lay brother to fetch Brother Jordan to the infirmary, whoever he was.

  Martin tried not to think of the welcome which was going to await him as he kicked the door open and burst into the building. And indeed Brother Durand’s face turned purple as he saw who entered.

  ‘I told you not to – what in God’s name have you done?’

  ‘Nothing! I have done nothing! But you have to help him.’ Martin moved to the nearest spare bed and knelt to lay Benedict on it. As Martin watched he took in a breath, and Martin sagged with relief.

  He felt himself being pushed aside by the infirmarer, and stood hovering at the end of the bed.

  ‘What did you do to him?’ Brother Durand thundered as he knelt to examine Benedict, looking for any signs of a wound.

  ‘I told you, nothing. I was helping him chop wood and he just fell over and I couldn’t wake him, so I thought —’

  ‘Don’t lie to me! Don’t tell me that something just happened to assail him while you just happened to be nearby —’