The Hour Before Dawn

by Penelope Wilcock

  “No!” John shook his head with vehemence. “I mean, ‘No, you would never be in the way,’ not, ‘No, you can’t come.’ I just feel so dreadfully ashamed I did not think to ask you myself, you and Mother both. What might I have avoided if—”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t start that again!” William interrupted him. “I’ve heard enough self-flagellation from you to last me the rest of my life! Besides, you’ve only just been made abbot this last month. When did you have the authority to ask her before? Or when, I might add, did you have a cellarer with the wit to put the thought into your head? So can she come or not?”

  Abbot John looked at Madeleine. “This is a fair sample of the insubordination and insufferable discourtesy I have daily to bear,” he said. “My sweet sister, of course you can come. When? Now?”

  “Father William said the cottage stands empty,” she said, trying to conceal as best she could her eagerness. “I have nothing though. Everything is gone in the fire. I have no money to live on or to pay for furnishings.”

  “St Alcuin’s used to be a charitable house and kind,” said John, “but we have this awful new cellarer’s assistant now who counts every peppercorn and sends us out to pick the tarry wool that has caught on the thorns. I don’t know if he will spare so much as a king’s shilling for your upkeep.”

  “He’s quite right.” William looked at her with mock severity. “But you may thank heaven that their real cellarer, Brother Ambrose, is a more modest man, old and indulgent. He will give you enough to furnish the house, and spare half a dozen hens from our flock, and find you an allowance for your needs. His assistant might even feel emboldened to risk his disapproval by obtaining a dress for you to travel home in, so we don’t get arrested for having kidnapped a Poor Clare. Or possibly two dresses, in case you turn out to have table manners like our Oswald. And, when I think about it, a woolen shawl and a warm cloak and a kerchief for Mass. Dear heaven, you’re going to be expensive!”

  “You—you are the cellarer’s assistant?”

  “I am. And Brother Thomas and Brother Stephen between them can make you a henhouse that will keep out Brother Reynard when he does his nightly round. Do we have an agreement? Will I have added Mother Mary Beatrix to my list of enemies now?”

  But the Reverend Mother understood. Getting into a monastic community was not usually easy: no superior stood in the way of a postulant who wanted to get out. Abbot John’s proposition relieved the abbess of the predicament in which she found herself: wanting to help and shelter Madeleine without burdening the community with a sister whose vocation rested on spurious and inadequate foundations. Her almoner proved equally helpful, having only in the past week been given three bundles of discarded clothes to distribute to the poor. Two gowns—one green, one grey—were found to fit Madeleine; a winter cloak with a torn hem that wanted only a quiet evening to repair it; a knitted shawl of coarse cream Swaledale wool; some sturdy boots; and two kerchiefs to cover her head, to drape for modesty or to keep out the chill.

  Madeleine was offered no opportunity to make her farewells after John had said Mass on the following morning; it was not the custom. Her departure would be reported to Mother Mary Brigid who, as novice mistress, needed to know, but nobody else. Postulants came, and they went; every now and then somebody lasted the course. But Mother Mary Beatrix embraced her and blessed her; then with a squeeze of the hand and a promise to hold Madeleine fast in her prayers, the abbess left her waiting for Sister Mary Cuthbert to unlock the enclosure door.

  As she stepped out of the monastery into the courtyard where William held their horses, while John made their gifts of money in thanks for the kind and generous hospitality shown them, Madeleine felt suddenly, wildly free. For an instant she could hardly catch her breath. As she quickly remembered her composure, she caught William’s eye and saw him amused—and happy because she was happy. With a sense of exhilaration, she brought her pack for him to help her fasten it behind the saddle of John’s old mare. There would always be scars and terrors of memory, but life could begin again.

  “We’ll have to wink at modesty, I fear, to get you home,” William said. “You’re as thin as a little bird; there’s nothing of you, so the palfrey’ll take you well enough riding up with Oswald. He’s under strict instructions not to dribble down the back of your neck.”

  Then he asked her seriously: “Are you at ease with that, Madeleine? John and I meant to take turns to ride old Bess, but it’s only twenty miles. He and I could both walk, and you could ride his mare with no companion if you’d rather.”

  Grateful at his concern for what she might need and feel, Madeleine thanked him with honest warmth. It was his sensitivity in giving her a choice that made the difference. She smiled at him, and as their eyes met she knew she had a friend.

  Chapter Six

  “You two,” said Brother Cormac with (as he pointed out to them quite forcibly) all charity and evangelical forbearance, “are nothing but gannets. You are the most horrible specimens of fallen humanity imaginable. Gluttony on legs, both of you! You make Brother Stephen’s fattest sow look like a starved refugee in flight from Skellig Michael. Here am I, striving against all opposition to set an uplifting example to this overweight novice let loose on our kitchen with his fixation for pastry and fancy ways with a pigeon breast, and do you support my efforts to guide him into some kind of monastic abstinence and restraint? No. You hang around here at all times of the day like seagulls following the plow. What is it now?”

  “We only wondered if you had some of those mushroom pasties left over from the midday meal,” Father Francis began pitifully, “but if you think we’d be setting a bad example to Brother Conradus…”

  “… we’d be willing to settle for your usual stodge—bread and honey or anything,” Brother Tom hastily concluded, not liking the direction Father Francis seemed to be taking.

  “You can’t have the pasties. There are some, but our abbot’s back, bringing an entourage with him, who will all have to be fed.”

  “John’s back? Since when? Who’s he brought? Ye saints and little fishes! Why did no one think to tell me? I’d better take his pasties straight over and wait on his table!”

  “It’s not what you’d call a formal gathering, by all accounts.” Cormac went to find the tray of pasties. “Oh, look—these two are a bit misshapen; I doubt they’d be missed. William de Bulmer has returned in one piece, avoiding suicide and every other attempt on his life. They have gathered up another stray monk, sans eyes and tongue and the Lord only knows what else. And Father John has brought his sister back to live in Peartree Cottage.”

  “Can I come too?” asked Francis as Brother Cormac stacked the tasty savouries of Brother Conradus’s making to be taken to the abbot’s lodging. “I mean, that’s a lot of pasties to carry on one platter. And no doubt they’ll be wanting a jug of ale as well.”

  “Aye, and some of this apple cake; I think we’d best all go!”

  So it was that their abbot, having made his way home not long before Vespers, taking it in turns with William to ride or walk while Madeleine rode with Oswald on William’s grey palfrey, found his lodging besieged by a deputation of his brothers bearing refreshments and agog with curiosity.

  “God bless you, brothers, we haven’t even washed or barely set down our packs! By heaven, word travels fast in this house! My sister, Madeleine, I think you all know—she has been here many times to stay before. And this is Father Oswald, who will be part of this community. He’s another delinquent reprobate of the house of St Dunstan—what did you say, William? You wager I can’t spell that? I certainly can! But he, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, though undeniably depraved is not a patch on his prior when it comes to rank villainy. And we’ve weathered him; so Father Oswald should fit right in. Sadly, he cannot eat these delectable tidbits you’ve brought us because they’d choke him. Brother Cormac, Father Francis, if you would take him across to the kitchen and find him some soup or some bread and milk
, that would be better. He’ll need an apron or a cloth, if you’ll kindly provide one. He has no tongue, and that makes it tricky to eat. I would come with you, but I have one more task to attend to before the light fades or the Vespers bell starts to ring. Father Oswald, these are your new brothers: Father Francis, currently helping in the guest house; Brother Thomas, who is my esquire; Brother Cormac, who keeps our pastry chef under control in the kitchen.”

  Oswald stood and, with all senses alert, took into both his hands first Francis’s warm dry, gentle hand, then Tom’s brawny hand with the rough knuckles and callused palm, then Cormac’s long, bony hand.

  “He cannot see and though he can speak to you, at first you’re not likely to get what he’s saying,” remarked William. “But he is not deaf, and what wits he ever had are still intact: so nobody will need to speak to him loudly and slowly.”

  Francis laughed. “Will you come with us then to the kitchen, Father Oswald? You’ll be hungry after your journey, and it seems unfair to have you standing by while these three wolf down all those pasties.”

  “Oh—” added William as Oswald put out his hand to be led away, “when you walk with a blind man, you should let him take your arm, and you lead him. If you take his arm and steer him, he being unable to see where to go, you make him too vulnerable, in reality as well as in how he feels. If you let him take your arm instead, he will feel more secure and you will progress more effectively. Isn’t that right, Mistress Hazell?”

  Madeleine nodded emphatically, her eyes full of laughter. “’Tis exactly so,” she said, watching with approval as Cormac held the door open and Oswald passed through with confidence, having taken Francis’s arm.

  “So,” said Abbot John, “I know you are itching to see Peartree Cottage, Madeleine. There is just time to go and take a quick look before Vespers. Will you come with us, Brother Thomas? William thinks there may be some small repairs to be done, and you’ll be our handiest man for that.”

  “You three go ahead—you can see the garden anyway—while I run across to the checker and fetch the key,” William said. “I’ll be with you in no time.”

  The close came within the boundary of the outer wall, itself bounded with a low wall separating it from the greensward around the church. Madeleine saw at once she would be safe there: no one could come to the close without entering through the great gates at the porter’s permission. Because they were enclosed in this way, the gardens as well as the houses were small, and they were few. Those who had bought corrodies lived in them, and someone had recently died. Peartree Cottage, as its name suggested, had an ancient fruit tree, its bark silver-lichened, its twigs and branches gnarled and twisty, growing at the front.

  “Yes, this gate needs repair, which is what William said,” John remarked. They examined it together.

  “The hinge has rusted; the wood isn’t rotten. That’s easily repaired,” said Brother Tom.

  “He also volunteered you to make a henhouse.”

  “Did he so? Father William is making very free with my time!” But Tom did not look as though he minded.

  Madeleine had slipped into the little garden at the front and was examining its plants with delight. “We have a whole pharmacy here!” she exclaimed. “Somebody knew what they were doing!”

  From the checker William came walking, his light, swift step only slightly wearied by their trek home. “Your key, good madam. Will you let us in?” He gave it into her hand, and, excited, she unlocked the house.

  The low doorway with its pointed arch gave directly into the main room of the cottage. The substantial fireplace had been swept clean of ashes, but the cooking irons still hung from their nails on the walls, the pot was still hanging from its chain. A table and two stools were there and, on the board, two pewter plates, two wooden bowls, two earthenware beakers of Brother Thaddeus’s making, a candlestick with a candle half-burned still in it, a knife, and a handful of spoons—some wood, some horn. “That candle is beeswax, not tallow,” said Madeleine contentedly.

  A ladder staircase led up out of this room, and Madeleine climbed it into the bedroom, where a wooden bedstead stood against the chimney wall, with no mattress, but a blanket folded neatly on its boards. A wooden chest stood under the little window and a chamber pot under the bed. “This is perfect… perfect!” she whispered.

  “If you go to the infirmary in the morning, Brother Michael will help you make a mattress,” John said.

  They went carefully down the narrow staircase, and Madeleine unlatched the door at the back of the room. It led into a small scullery, where a stone floor and a capacious stone sink, with a wooden pail and an earthenware pitcher left in it, provided a place for washing. From there a door opened into the garden behind the cottage, where two apple trees grew, and a profusion of herbs.

  “The henhouse could go right there!” Madeleine whipped around, her eyes alight, for Brother Tom’s agreement. “At your service, my lady,” he said.

  “Friends, by the light I think the Vespers bell will soon be rung,” said Abbot John after he felt the garden had been adequately inspected. “Madeleine, we can come again tomorrow. You can keep the key anyway.”

  They trooped back into the cottage, and Brother Tom went through to the front to check again what he would need for the gate. John crossed the room to the fireplace to look up the chimney. “I did have it swept!” said William instantly.

  “This is so timely,” John said. Turning back to them, his face happy, he was almost knocked off his feet by his sister’s sudden embrace. “Thank you, my brother, thank you, thank you!” She hugged him tight as he held her close to him. “My sister, my dear little sister,” he murmured. “I love you so much.”

  William had turned his back on this scene of family tenderness and was counting the spoons on the table and checking that the drinking vessels were not cracked or chipped when he felt a tap on his shoulder. “This was your idea, Brother.” He turned and found himself looking into her eyes, shining with happiness. “God reward you! God reward you!” As she suddenly, shyly hugged him and released him again, he laughed, saying, “Yes, I think he just did!”

  “And you will feel safe here—even sleeping alone?” John asked.

  “It’s a tight little cottage, all of stone and no thatch. I have a key. It’s walled at the back, and the abbey gates are shut at night. What’s to be afraid of? Thank you, my brother. I shall be safe here. And now there’s your Vespers bell.”

  “Stay in the guest house tonight, and we will make you comfortable in your cottage tomorrow,” said John as they walked from the close the short distance to the church.

  “Adam, how will I ever repay this?”

  “You don’t have to even think—”

  “She most certainly does!” cut in William. “With your permission, Father Abbot! If you can be of assistance to Brother Walafrid, we shall be grateful, Madeleine—especially if you can make a better bottle of wine than his present weird concoctions. You have already made an elegant job of sewing Oswald’s eyes, which none of us could do, so for a start I think this is us repaying you. A surgeon’s fees are not cheap. Another midwife is always welcome for the village also, and that’s obviously not something we offer at present—well, only for the ewes. I understand you can keep accounts. I sorely need some help, especially around Lady Day and Michaelmas when we get the rents in. We shall work your fingers to the bone. We shall keep you up late and get you up early. Think you not for a moment this cottage comes unearned, for it does not! There is more work to put your hand to than you can possibly imagine. I don’t know how we did without you!”

  They parted from Madeleine in the nave of the church where a few devout villagers sat in the benches here and there. Tom walked ahead into the choir, but William paused, bending his head close to hear his abbot’s quiet words as the two of them went around the parish altar into the choir together. “My friend, you are a genius. What a kind touch of healing that was. God bless you. I owe you so much.”

  “N
ay, idiot; I owe you my life,” William’s reply was audible only to John as he left his abbot’s side to take his seat in his stall.

  As he sat down, he saw John had paused and was looking at him. He recognized in a flash that the word idiot would not do, however affectionately meant. John had become his friend, but he was his abbot first.

  In a discreet gesture he smote his breast. “Mea culpa,” he murmured respectfully, and his abbot nodded and walked on to his stall.

  The whole community could see that their abbot had returned to them in a different frame of mind. They observed him at Vespers and at Compline, and they saw he had found peace. A sense of well-being and relief spread through them all. Without question they had loved him and upheld him in the extremity of his grief; but when the leader of a community loses hope and courage, the ripples spread to the edges and back again. The bleeding away of vitality does not confine itself to the man. A lightness travelled through the common life that suppertime as the brothers rejoiced in their abbot coming home to them whole again.

  On the following morning, the eve of Pentecost, Father Chad read to them the chapter of the day—a portion of a long chapter spread over four days, on the tools of the spiritual craft.

  Father Chad picked up where the reader of the day before had left off, reminding the brothers that they must be faithful in obeying every day what God had laid upon them: loving holy chastity, never indulging in hatred of anybody at all, never allowing bitterness to take root in their souls, not giving way to jealousy or entertaining themselves by picking fights with each other. They were to run away from any conceitedness and smug pride, treat the senior monks with profound respect and be gentle with the young ones. They were to pray especially for those who disliked them or with whom they never could get on. If any quarrel did arise between them, both the Rule and the Bible laid down that they must not let the sun set without making their peace. And they should never, ever despair of God’s mercy.