Brother's Blood

by C. B. Hanley

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I am well, thank you. I believe it was you who carried me here when I …’

  ‘I did. But don’t worry, I would do the same for anyone.’

  Benedict allowed himself a smile. ‘I was not trying to put myself above others. But please allow me to thank you anyway.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ There was an awkward silence. Martin was aware he wasn’t very good at this kind of thing.

  ‘How lo—’

  ‘When are y—’

  They had both spoken at the same time. Martin gestured. ‘You first.’

  ‘When are you leaving? I understand that your business here is finished.’

  ‘It is. And we’re already packed – I’m just waiting for Edwin to finish talking to the abbot and then we’re off.’

  Benedict looked sad. ‘And you’re pleased about that, aren’t you?’

  ‘You bet I —’ Martin caught himself just in time. ‘I mean, yes, I am. For I need to get back to my lord, to my service.’

  ‘And I to mine.’

  ‘That was what I was going to ask you. How long must you stay here? In the infirmary, I mean?’

  ‘Another two days, Brother Durand says. Until my fever has completely gone. And in the meantime I must eat the infirmary food, which means eating more. And there is meat.’

  Martin almost laughed at the shock in Benedict’s voice. ‘Well, don’t get too used to it. You’ll be back on beans and vegetables soon enough.’

  Strangely, this made Benedict look more cheerful. ‘Yes. And back to the usual round of offices and labour.’

  Martin looked at his weedy arms. ‘Just remember – chopping wood is all about getting the rhythm. Do it like I showed you and it will get easier.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There was another silence.

  Benedict broke it this time. ‘I will pray for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes. I was just thinking selfishly – thinking that I would miss you and that it was a shame you were going. But I see that you would be unhappy here, just as I would be unhappy if I went where you were going. We each have our own path and we must be content.’

  Martin nodded. ‘Do you know what? I think you’ll make a very good monk.’

  ‘Really?’ Benedict looked like he’d been given a bag of gold. Or perhaps that was the wrong thought. He looked as though he’d been given a plate of beans and vegetables. Martin smiled to himself.

  ‘Yes. And when I turn eighteen next spring I will remember that you are doing the same and taking your vows. And I will think of you and wish you well. But now …’

  He held out his hand. Hesitantly, Benedict did the same, and Martin shook it firmly before he stood. There was something in his eye and he rubbed it hard as he walked out without looking back.

  Edwin watched the countryside go past as he sat on the horse. Villages, houses, fields, people, animals, crops … even the thought of a good harvest didn’t rouse him. Martin had tried to make conversation with him once or twice, but he’d just grunted so Martin had given up. Martin himself seemed quite happy – stretching his limbs as if he’d been in a cramped cell for a week, and looking as though he’d rush off in a whooping gallop if he didn’t have Edwin and the packhorse slowing him down. Edwin was half-tempted to tell him to go and get on with it.

  He had done his duty. That must be its own reward. He had been sent by the earl to Roche to find out who had killed Brother Alexander, and he had done just that. Moreover, he had survived the experience and could therefore expect to be given something even more difficult to do next time. He would not starve even if the harvest was bad one year, and he could afford to keep his mother in comfort so that she need not be forced to marry again if she didn’t wish. He must keep thinking of that. His own life, his own happiness, was incidental.

  Martin pointed out the castle which had now appeared in the distance, and urged his mount into a trot. But the castle could be seen for miles around and they were nowhere near Conisbrough yet, so Edwin continued to let his horse amble at its own pace. Martin realised he was getting too far ahead and came back. They were overtaken by a rider heading in the same direction who was making good speed.

  Martin reined in next to Edwin. ‘What in God’s name is the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh yes, very nothing, I can see that. You’ve been looking like you’re on your way to a funeral ever since we left. Aren’t you glad to get out of there? Didn’t you find it even slightly … suffocating?’

  Edwin made a noncommittal noise.

  ‘And that reminds me – what did you need to talk to the abbot about this morning? I thought we were all finished so I started packing. Did I miss something?’

  A little bell sounded in Edwin’s mind. This was something else he needed to keep buried, along with the awareness that he had not cared whether he lived or died when the moment had come. Nobody would understand – it would just cause puzzlement and distress. He needed to come up with something. ‘Oh, I just wanted to ask him about that book – the one that caused all the trouble.’

  As he had expected, mention of the word ‘book’ caused Martin’s eyes to glaze over and he lost interest in questioning Edwin further.

  But now Edwin’s own mind turned to the book, and the way he had felt when he was studying it. He knew, in his heart, that he could have spent the rest of his life looking at those pages, caring nothing for anyone or anything else ever again. And that was not a good way to think. If he had to bury any more secrets he wouldn’t have room for them all.

  A sigh escaped him as he recognised that they were coming into Conisbrough village. It was mid-afternoon so there weren’t many people around; most of the able-bodied were out in the fields. Robin the carpenter was there, though – he toiled in a workshop set at the side of his house. He looked up and saw Edwin, then said something to one of his smaller children who was poking around; the boy ran off with his bare little legs pumping. Edwin raised a hand in greeting as he followed Martin along the road.

  Edwin supposed they would go straight to the castle, which meant he wouldn’t stop at home, but as he neared the cottage he saw his mother come out into the street, the carpenter’s boy dragging her by the hand. Beside her was another woman, but it wasn’t Cecily, it was …

  He pulled so hard on the reins that the horse shied. Martin nosed his own mount back so they were side by side. ‘What …?’

  Dear Lord, he was seeing things now. He wiped his sleeve across his tired eyes and looked again.

  She was still there.

  Martin sounded incredulous. ‘Is that …?’

  Edwin passed the reins to him, his hands shaking so much that he could barely grasp them. He put both legs over one side of the horse and thumped down to the ground. He wasn’t sure if his legs would hold him up. They did. He tried walking. It worked.

  As he got closer, he was convinced that she was going to disappear. This was a trick, a cruel trick that someone was playing on him. And if she was really here, surely a husband was about to appear?

  He didn’t care. He reached her and enfolded her in his arms.

  She was real. She was here. They were together. Tears streamed down his face. He stood back and held her at arm’s length, to look at her. She was crying as well. He touched her face gently, and then embraced her again.

  His mother, also weeping, was trying to say something to him, but he didn’t hear it. He wanted this moment to last forever. He would never let her go.

  ‘Edwin. Edwin!’ It was Martin’s voice, but he couldn’t listen to Martin just now. Couldn’t he see? Didn’t he understand?

  ‘Martin. I’m glad to see you safe,’ Edwin heard his mother say.

  ‘Mistress,’ replied Martin. ‘This, I take it, is the girl he’s been talking about?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And not married?’

  ‘No. Praise be to God.’

  ‘Well, well. He deserves a rewa
rd.’

  ‘Did you … were you successful?’

  ‘Yes. Keep Edwin here for now. When he’s ready, tell him I’ve taken the horses; I’ll report to my lord for both of us. He probably won’t be all that interested in the details anyway so he may not want to talk to Edwin just now. If he’s wanted, I’ll send for him.’

  ‘If that happens, I’ll make sure he comes, don’t worry.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Martin …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you for keeping him safe. For bringing him back to me.’

  ‘Just doing my duty, mistress.’

  And now Edwin’s mother was joining in the embrace and shepherding them all into the cottage. He was home.

  Some time later, Edwin sat at the table in his home. His home, where he had lived all his life, but which was now different, because it had Alys in it. She was still there – she had not vanished. But even now he kept reaching out to touch her hand, just to make sure. She did not seem to mind, brushing her fingers against his and smiling as she looked into his eyes.

  Everything had been explained to him, though he thought he’d probably want to hear it again before he understood it properly. For now he kept going back to the two main points.

  ‘You’re not married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you want to marry me?’

  She laughed and took his face in her hands. ‘Yes, Edwin, yes, I want to marry you.’

  Mother patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Edwin. Alys is here, we have kept her safe and you will be married in a couple of weeks once Father Ignatius has made it public for all to hear.’

  ‘A couple of weeks?’ If she’d said years he couldn’t have been more dismayed.

  ‘Yes. And even though you’re betrothed I think you’ll have to sleep elsewhere until then. William and Cecily will have you, I’m sure.’

  ‘But …’ he took Alys’s hand once more. ‘You’ll still be here? You won’t go anywhere?’

  She looked in his eyes. ‘I will be here.’

  Mother’s comment about lovebirds was drowned out by a knocking at the door. The door was open, as it always was in fine weather, so Edwin turned to see who was there.

  It was Martin. And he had a distressed expression on his face. ‘Edwin, I’m sorry …’

  Edwin jumped to his feet. ‘What is it?’

  Martin seemed out of breath. Had he run? ‘Orders … from my lord …’

  ‘Come in, Martin, and sit down.’ It was his mother, taking charge.

  Martin obeyed and then looked at each of them in turn. ‘My lord has received word this afternoon. Prince Louis has recovered from his defeat at Lincoln and is still in England, in the south. A huge French fleet is being built across the Channel and will sail within a few weeks. There is going to be another invasion. We are marching.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. All is chaos at the castle – we are preparing. My lord’s other retainers will be summoned and will catch him up. But he is riding tomorrow and we are both going with him.’ He had an agonised expression as he looked from Alys to Edwin and then back again. ‘Your pardon, mistress. I’m Martin, squire to my lord the earl.’

  Edwin watched as she stood and curtseyed. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’

  And then everyone looked at Edwin. There was silence.

  A massive feeling of relief washed over Edwin. For a moment there he had thought that the lord earl was going to rescind his permission to marry. Thank God, he had not. And what was an invasion compared to that?

  He smiled. He reached out and took Alys’s hand in both of his, the hand he would hold forever.

  ‘Let’s get married now.’

  Epilogue

  Brother Richard stood in the dawn light and watched in silence as the door to the cell was opened. The anchorite’s dwelling where the penitent was to spend the rest of his days had been constructed against the outside of the church, a narrow slit cut in the stone wall of the church itself so that he would be able to see the altar but nothing else. From his position among the brethren Brother Richard could see inside the cell: it contained a mattress and blanket, a wooden stool and a kneeler for prayer. The door had no handle on the inside, but a lock on the outside; it had a small, high barred window through which air and light could pass; it had a trapdoor at the bottom which would open wide enough for a bowl, a jug or a slops bucket to be passed in and out.

  That was all.

  The man who had once been Brother Octavian was being brought forward by two of the brethren. He was sunk in misery and they were virtually dragging him. As they approached, the monks bowed their heads and the prior began to read out the relevant sections of the Rule. The abbot must employ the surgeon’s knife; he must drive out the wicked from among his flock for fear that one diseased sheep may infect the whole flock.

  The penitent began to struggle as he approached the door. ‘Please, Father Abbot, please, don’t put me in there. I will atone, I will do anything …’ The brothers held him firmly.

  None of the brethren may associate with him in companionship or in conversation. He is to be left alone to remain in penitent grief as he reflects on his terrible sentence.

  He twisted in their grip and his voice rose. ‘Please, Father. At least let me have something to read, to study. That way I …’ They pushed him into the cell. The door began to close.

  He is to be handed over to bodily death, so that his spirit may be saved … his food should be taken alone … neither he nor the food that is given him shall receive a blessing from anyone who passes by.

  As the key turned in the lock, Brother Richard heard screaming. ‘Please, Father, please – let me have the book! The book!’ The voice became muffled, and thumps sounded on the door, along with a noise Brother Richard thought to be sobbing. He stared straight ahead.

  The abbot, who would leave that very day for his journey across the sea, nodded to the two lay brothers who were standing by, and they began to seal up the gap around the door with mortar. The noise from within became even more indistinct.

  If any brother takes it upon himself to associate with an excommunicated brother in any way, or to talk with him, or to send him a message, he must likewise undergo the punishment of excommunication.

  The prior moved on to the funeral service, his deep voice intoning the words which indicated that the man inside the cell was dead to the world, and each of the monks crossed himself before moving on. Brother Richard could hear the thumping until he was quite some distance away.

  The abbot, allowing that the brethren would be feeling some emotion and would not immediately be ready for divine service, had arranged matters so that there was an hour of spare time before they would assemble in the church. He had given them permission to walk, to pray, to contemplate, and even to speak if it were done discreetly and with reverence.

  Brother Richard did not feel like talking – although by now he was well able to, and had even resumed singing during services – and nor did he wish to go to the library, now his domain after his appointment as precentor. Instead he let his feet take him around to the monks’ graveyard.

  He knelt in the space between the two newest graves, the one containing his brother, and the other that had been meant for him, but which now housed the mortal remains of young Brother Eugenius. He prayed that they would both find peace and that their paths through Purgatory would be short. He prayed for any family that Brother Eugenius might have had, who would mourn the loss of their son or brother.

  He turned his mind to Alexander. During the time of his illness, his bad dream, he had heard Alexander crying out to him. At the time he hadn’t understood why, but now he knew it was because he was in his grave too early. He had not finished his life’s work and was leaving this earth with his tasks incomplete. He was also asking for forgiveness: he had broken the Rule and kept a private possession, kept it for years for no reason other than that he did not want to share it. For that he would s
uffer, but he had not deserved to be murdered for it.

  But at least since the truth had been discovered, Alexander’s blood cried out to him no more. He was at peace. One day Richard would join him again, but not for some time. He himself owed it to the abbot, to the Order and to the miracle of his cure to live longer, to atone for his own and his brother’s sins, and to do God’s work on this earth.

  Brother Richard thought of the man who, by all accounts, had effected the miracle. He put his hand up to his face as he recalled the terrifying, awful sensation of his face cracking open. But the suffering had been alleviated thereby, and he gave thanks. The abbot had asked the man to stay, but he had returned to his duties in the outside world. And those duties were likely to be onerous, for there was war throughout the land. Father Abbot had received many letters over the past year and asked the brethren to pray for those affected. Thank the Lord the fighting had stayed away from Roche and the lands nearby, but in other places people were being killed, tortured, their money and goods stolen. The Benedictine abbey of St Albans, where Alexander might have ended his days had matters turned out differently, had been raided and robbed on several occasions by men of both sides.

  And the young man whose face he couldn’t quite recall was heading out into all this. Into danger. Brother Richard asked the soul of his departed brother to intercede for him with the angels and saints, and together they prayed to the Lord to watch over Edwin and to keep him safe during the troubles to come.

  Historical Note

  The Cistercian Order of monks arrived in Britain in 1128, and by the time of this book in 1217 they had a large number of houses spread across England and into Scotland. Roche Abbey was one of a group of influential Cistercian monasteries in Yorkshire, having been founded in 1147 on land donated by two local lords on either side of the Maltby Beck. By 1217 all the original wooden buildings had been rebuilt in stone, which was sourced from the local quarry, and the abbey must have been a fine sight.