‘I rarely get a chance to go in to chapter these days, master. I’m always here in the infirmary taking care of my charges. I don’t get much time to read histories either.’
‘You may read mine in due course - that’s if I’m ever left in peace to get on with it.’
‘I look forward to it. Well now, what are we to do with all this writing material? It’s an awful lot of parchment, not to mention the ink. I wouldn’t want you spilling it over your bed. These sheets are a gift from a generous benefactress and made from the very finest Flemish cambric.’
‘I won’t spill any ink, Gilbert. Do you think I’m a child?’
‘Well, we’ll see. You may keep it for now. But do please be careful what you do with it.’
Never heard of Abbot Samson? What do they teach in that novice school these days? That’s the trouble with the modern generation, no sense of history. Samson of Tottington wasn’t just any abbot; he was this abbey’s greatest abbot. As well as providing us with all that new masonry he all but saved this abbey - literally - at a time when our debts threatened to overwhelm us. His financial acumen was second to none. “To each who has will be given and from him who has nothing, even that will be taken away.” I’ll quote that at young Gilbert next time I see him.
Of course, there’s more to a man than his abilities. There’s his moral character, too. That I feel less qualified to comment upon. Indeed, I had great cause to question his moral rigour in the course of the days that followed as you will discover as you read on in these notes. Besides, these aspects of the man have been covered far more eloquently than I ever could by my dear friend and fellow monk, Jocelin of Brackland. What I can say is that Samson was nobody’s fool. Indeed, his intellect shone plainly for anyone to see - a fact I can best illustrate by recounting a discussion we had on the afternoon of that first day:
It has long been accepted by learned thinkers as far back as Aristotle that the Earth is a sphere despite what experience and commonsense tells us. I have not seen convincing proof of this - indeed, I do not see how “proof” of such a thing can be demonstrated. However, I am willing to concede it is so since so many great minds insist that it is. But flat or round Samson had at least to agree that the Earth is at the centre of the universe and not, as Aristarchus of Samos would have it, the sun at the centre with the Earth spinning around it.
‘If the Earth was constantly moving,’ I told him confidently, ‘then everything upon it would fly off - like shit off a shovel.’
To demonstrate the point I threw the apple I was eating high into the air and caught it as it fell back down again. ‘You see? If we were truly in motion I could not have caught the apple for while it was in the air the Earth would have moved on and the apple would have landed behind me - ergo, the Earth must be static,’ and I took a decisive bite out my apple confident that I had won the point.
Samson thought about this for a moment. Then he said, ‘Give me your apple.’
By now there wasn’t much more than the core left but I gave it to him anyway. First he merely repeated my action of throwing it in the air a few times and catching it again. But then he did something extraordinary. He suddenly dug his heels hard into the flanks of his mule making the startled creature bolt forward while continuing to throw the apple core up into the air. I thought for a moment that he’d lost his senses. He certainly made a comical spectacle wobbling along the road like a fat child on a hobby-horse. When he got a hundred feet away he turned round and did the same thing coming back.
‘There,’ he said, red-faced and breathless. ‘Did you see? The apple followed me all the way along the road. It did not fall behind me even though I was moving.’
‘Of course it did,’ I retorted. ‘You deliberately threw it ahead of you so that it couldn’t fall behind.’ But I was no longer certain of my ground. As for Samson, he merely handed me back my apple-core with a knowing grin. Furious, I threw the revolting thing in the dust.
Chapter 4
SAINT GEORGE’S AND THE DRAGON
So now I knew the destination of this mysterious adventure we were set upon but not yet its purpose. That I presumed would be revealed as we progressed. Acre Priory I knew only by reputation never having been there myself. It is a Cluniac house, which is to say it follows the interpretation of the Rule as devised by its mother abbey of Cluny in Burgundy, a stricter and more elaborate reading than the plain Benedictine office practised at Bury. Normally I would look forward to such a visit - we monks so rarely get the opportunity to travel. If only I didn’t have this nagging apprehension of what we might find when we got there. But we were not there yet and would not be so this day if Samson’s calculation was correct. That meant we would have to break our journey and the most likely place for that I guessed would be the Norfolk borough of Thetford.
The days at this time of the year are very short and once the sun goes down the temperature drops away rapidly, so it was with relief when I saw the first signs of our goal. It was still only early afternoon yet the light was already fading fast and it was only just possible to make out the spire of the Priory of Our Lady of Thetford in the distance. That I presumed was where we were heading. The only other place that we might have gone to was the nunnery of Saint George and Saint Gregory. But that was a house for women. Of the two the priory seemed the more likely.
We stopped briefly by the cross at Barnham which marks the town’s southern limits and offered a prayer of thanksgiving for our safe deliverance before heading down the final mile towards the town. I noticed as we did so that Samson quickened his pace perhaps in anticipation of the welcome he expected from the prior and the warmth of a good log fire. But as we reached the bottom of the hill, instead of crossing over the river into the town proper Samson abruptly turned his mule’s head to the right and started in through the gates of the nunnery.
‘Are we not going to the priory, father?’
‘No. We will be staying with the Sisters of Saint George tonight. Odell, the prioress, is expecting us.’ He saw the surprised expression on my face and explained: ‘Saint George’s is a daughter house of the abbey. It would make more sense for us to go there than to the priory.’
‘Won’t the prior be offended if we ignore him?’
‘We won’t ignore him. We will pay a courtesy call tomorrow before we leave.’
I bowed. ‘Your wisdom in this as in all things, father.’
In truth I was quite pleased to be going to the nunnery. I had never been to Saint George’s before but I knew its history. Originally a male foundation of canons it was never big enough to be successful. Due to extreme poverty the canons were soon forced to withdraw and were replaced by Benedictine nuns who still occupy the site. These, too, were too few in number to maintain themselves adequately and have to be supported by weekly supplies from our cellars at Bury. So I suppose it made sense, as the abbot said, for us to go to the nunnery rather than the Cluniacs since we would be consuming our own produce.
In point of fact I very nearly did come here once in rather less happy circumstances. This was during the trouble over the supposed boy-martyr, Matthew the miller’s son about which I have written elsewhere. I say “very nearly” came, I was actually on my way with a cartload of weekly provisions when I was attacked and nearly killed on the road by my old enemy, Geoffrey de Saye of hateful memory. That time I didn’t make it to Thetford having had to return to Bury to prosecute my case against the said fiend Geoffrey. It is an omission I have always regretted. And if I am honest I will admit to another reason for preferring the convent over the priory. Nuns tend to fuss over one rather more than monks do. A little bit of feminine pampering would make a pleasant change - in the most chaste of senses of course.
We dismounted just inside the gates and handed our mounts over to the gatekeeper just as three of the sisters, their habits billowing behind them, descended upon us like a trio of agitated magpies. They all dropped to their knees before Samson begging for his blessing which he gave freely offering eac
h in turn his hand.
‘Sisters Benjamin, Agnes and Monica-Jerome,’ he beamed. ‘Raise yourselves up please, the ground is sodden. You know Master Walter of Ixworth our brother physician?’
Smiling broadly, each of them cupped my hand as though it were their most treasured possession.
‘Sister Benjamin is guest-master here,’ Samson explained indicating the only fully-professed of the three, a handsome if severe-looking woman in her middling years of life.
‘Father Abbot,’ frowned Benjamin with concern. ‘God be praised you have arrived at last! We feared the worst when the weather closed in. The prioress sends her apologies for not being here in person but will greet you properly at supper.’
‘No doubt she will be at vespers,’ nodded Samson, and indeed the fluting of female voices could be heard coming from the direction of the priory church.
‘Come,’ said Sister Benjamin. ‘Let us get you inside. You must be tired after your journey. I hope you won’t mind Father Abbot but we have put you in the chamberlain’s lodge. Master Walter, you will be in the guest wing. I hope this meets with your approval.’
‘I’m sure whatever you have decided will be fine,’ Samson answered for both of us.
Despite our protestations, the two novices insisted on heaving our heavy bags over their shoulders and then staggered off under the weight into the night. Samson and Sister Benjamin followed Sister Agnes in one direction while Sister Monica-Jerome led me in another.
The room she showed me into was small and sparsely-furnished but perfectly adequate for my needs. It contained a bed, a prie-dieu and a dresser with a ewer upon it already filled with steaming hot water - a luxury in itself. Also some towels, a little vase of flowers from heaven knew where, a large crucifix over the bed and a small brass hand-bell. The room was lit by several candles and warmed by a brazier that must have been alight for most of the afternoon - a degree of comfort unknown in the abbey where usually only one room is provided with a fire and that only on extremely cold days. Yes, I thought, I am going to enjoy this.
Having deposited my bag on the bed Monica-Jerome smiled up at me revealing a set of comically protruding front teeth at which I tried not to smile. Despite this imperfection she had a lovely smile, warm, friendly and welcoming.
‘Supper will be served shortly in the refectory, brother,’ she lisped.
‘That’s very kind of you, sister.’
She blushed and beamed back at me as though I had just paid her the greatest compliment. I smiled, amused.
‘Have you been here long, sister?’
‘Since I was a girl.’
‘Not very long at all then,’ I flattered her. She giggled behind her hand. ‘Are there many of you here?’
‘Ten at present including us four novices.’
‘So few? But Saint George’s is legendry, especially your work with the poor. There is also a school I believe. Which is your area of expertise, I wonder? Now don’t tell me. I’m guessing the school.’
Her face lit up at that. ‘We all do a little of everything. But you are right, I do like to teach. Yes, I think I can say I enjoy that the most, although I’m not very good.’
‘I’m sure you are an excellent teacher.’
Monica-Jerome blushed again.
‘Thank you, sister. I’ll take over now.’
I looked up to see Sister Benjamin standing in the doorway. Neither of us had noticed her arrive but Sister Monica-Jerome instantly jettisoned her smile, bobbed obediently and darted for the door.
‘Er, thank you sister,’ I called after her. She turned and managed one last smile before disappearing.
Sister Benjamin now stood with her toes upon the very threshold, her hands locked securely beneath her scapular. She looked round the room like a general surveying a battlefield. ‘You have everything you need, brother.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘I’m sure all is perfection, thank you sister.’
She nodded. ‘If you have any further requirements please do not hesitate to ring that bell.’ She pointed to the hand-bell on the dresser. ‘I heard Monica-Jerome telling you about supper. Sister Ellen will beat the board in the courtyard when it is ready. The refectory is out this door, across the courtyard and to your left.’ She indicated the direction with the flat of her hand. ‘You can’t miss it.’
‘Sister Ellen, courtyard, refectory - got it,’ I smiled.
She nodded curtly and started to withdraw.
‘Erm, forgive my asking, sister,’ I added hastily, ‘but did I hear Father Abbot correctly, that you are the guest-master here?’
She returned to the threshold. ‘We make no allowance for our sex here at Saint George’s, brother. We nuns fulfil most functions ourselves.’
‘And clearly very well,’ I said giving her my most obsequious smile.
A twitch of satisfaction puckered her lip. ‘We do our best to make use of God’s gifts, brother. And you, I take it, are the abbey’s physician?’
‘For my sins.’
She nodded. ‘A noble calling. It is a pity you will not be here longer than one night. I should very much welcome the opportunity to compare notes. Among my other duties I am also in charge of the dispensary.’
‘You are medically trained too?’ I beamed.
‘Not trained exactly, but one picks things up as one goes along. One acquires expertise.’
‘And most thoroughly I’m sure,’ I smiled.
Benjamin grunted. Having established her credentials, she came the closest yet to a smile. ‘Well, if there is nothing else, I’ll bid you good evening brother.’ She started again to retreat.
‘I say, these are excellent,’ I said darting over to the flowers on the dresser. ‘Where on earth did you manage to find cornflowers in January? It is surely a miracle.’
‘Lace,’ Benjamin sniffed. ‘They’re not genuine. The work of Sister Angelina.’
‘But extraordinary quality, quite extraordinary. Please give Sister Angelina my compliments. She has a real talent.’
‘God-given like all talents, brother. But I will tell her.’
‘In fact the entire room is most charming,’ I continued. ‘It must have taken you most of the day to prepare.’
‘Most of the -?’ Benjamin very nearly overstepped the threshold. ‘Brother, it has taken the best part of a week to prepare for Father Abbot’s visit. Not that I’m complaining,’ she added quickly, ‘we see him so rarely, such a busy man doing God’s good work.’
‘I’m sure father abbot is most appreciative, sister. I will make it my business to let him know exactly whom he has to thank.’
She grunted with satisfaction. ‘I’ll leave you then. Don’t forget to listen for that supper board.’
‘I’ll try not to, sister - and thank you.’
Well, that settled one question. If Sister Benjamin knew of Samson’s visit for a week then it must have been arranged some time before that, well before that letter from the king. Nothing about this trip was as spontaneous as it seemed.
Chapter 5
RALF
Despite Sister Benjamin’s very clear and precise instructions I still managed to miss hearing the clatter-board when it sounded and had to run to the refectory slipping on the icy gravel as I went. To make matters worse I got completely lost in the maze of buildings and contrived to enter the hall - breathless and dishevelled - through the wrong door and had to squeeze past the nuns seated at their trestle-tables to get to the front. To their credit the good sisters took my buffoonery in good part - indeed, they seemed to find the whole business rather entertaining not least Sister Monica-Jerome who hid her giggles along with her teeth behind her hand.
Abbot Samson, alas, was not so easily amused and he glowered at me from the high-table where he was sitting beside a rather grand-looking nun whom I took to be the prioress.
‘Sorry father,’ I muttered as I mounted the dais.
‘It’s not me you should be apologizing to,’ he growled indicating the pri
oress.
‘Do not alarm yourself, brother,’ the lady smiled kindly. ‘I doubt if my girls have had this much excitement in years. This isn’t stuffy Edmundsbury you know. No ceremony here. Come, sit beside me out of the abbot’s glare,’ and she patted the bench next to her.
I was warming to the lady already. She evidently wasn’t intimidated by the presence of so great a man as the Abbot of Bury. But I was forgetting, they must know each other very well. Certainly few others could have gotten away with that degree of familiarity. And as for referring to the nuns as “my girls” - how could anyone not smile at that?
Introductions such as they were over, we settled down to await the arrival of the food. And what a feast it promised to be. There was fish and game and pies and eggs in a spiced sauce, chicken roasted in honey, fruit and all manner of confections all borne aloft by an army of servants. To a monk used to one plain meal a day it was all rather overwhelming. If this was how Samson ate when away from the abbey I could quite see how he acquired his wide girth. But I couldn’t help thinking that all this preparation suggested yet again that this was no casual last-minute arrangement.
My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a third guest, an elderly priest by the look of his garb and evidently blind since he was being led in by a middle-aged servant woman. He took a minute to find his place at the end of the table aided by this servant who fussed over him with fingerbowls and towels and napkins, much to his evident irritation. When at last he was settled and she had left him alone he sat silently staring into the distance in that disconcerting way the blind have of looking without actually seeing. I turned to our hostess expecting an introduction or at least an acknowledgement of the man’s presence but Mother Odell was too engrossed in conversation with the abbot seeming to have noticed the new guest. Who was he, I wondered? The nuns’ confessor perhaps? His being blind I thought it incumbent upon me to make the first approach. I leaned across.
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