by S. D. Sykes
The brothers of Kintham Abbey felt blessed and vindicated by this exemption, as if we had been the people of Israel in the Book of Exodus, painting our doors with the blood of a male goat and waiting for the Lord God to pass over our house. They believed that our deliverance was due to the holy shield we had created about the lands of our Benedictine monastery – deploying protective measures as prescribed by the Archbishop himself. Indeed, we had received a long and thorough list of instructions from the man. We were to recite the fifteen psalms of degrees every Wednesday and Sunday in the choir. We were to make a solemn weekly procession about the walls of the monastery – with bare feet and heads bowed, as we devoutly said the Lord’s Prayer and the Hail Mary, lamenting our sins and calling for Heavenly deliverance. We were to station the statue of Saint Sebastian in the narthex of the abbey, in the hope that this saint of intercession would speak to God on our behalf.
So far these acts of penitence had appeared to protect us. Or so the other brothers firmly believed. I kept my opinion on this matter to myself, however. Kintham was a minor abbey surrounded by unimportant villages devoted to a mixture of forestry and sheep-farming. The villagers hadn’t, as yet, attended the annual fleece fairs, so the movement in and out of the parish had been limited. It seemed to me that we had been saved by our remoteness and unimportance.
* * *
When Peter and I finally returned from Stonebrook it was already evening – but instead of heading to the refectory for our supper, we hurried straight to the Chapter House to attend the Abbot’s mystery meeting. The brothers usually only went into this room for the Chapter Mass each morning after breakfast, so there was a buzz of anticipation about the cloisters and passageways. We all knew that something was afoot, since the Abbot never did anything out of the ordinary – not unless it was absolutely necessary.
We filed into this octagonal hall and sat in our allocated places on the benches about the walls – the novices and lay brothers near to the door, the older and more important monks nearer to the Abbot. Peter, not wanting to leave me on my own after my experiences in Stonebrook, asked another novice to budge along the bench, and took a seat next to mine. I will admit that I was pleased to have the benefit of his supportive presence beside me, as I felt exhausted and insubstantial after Agnes’s death – ready to slip off the bench at a moment’s notice.
I remember looking across the hall at the Abbot’s face that night, seeing his features illuminated by the bank of candlelight, while the rest of us sunk into the shadows. I could tell, by looking at the man’s pinched lips and furrowed brow, that he was annoyed to be here. At this time of night the Abbot was usually teaching Syriac to some poor unfortunate oblate.
Thankfully, I’d never been subjected to the Abbot’s enthusiasm for ancient languages, nor been a victim of his nightly prowls, as I had shared a cell with Brother Peter since I was seven, rather than sleeping with the other novices and oblates in the eastern cloister. This was a privilege secured by my family’s status, and made at their request. Perhaps they had heard rumours about the Abbot and had wanted to keep me safe from his roving eye? In any case, Peter had been unofficially engaged as my guardian within Kintham, and he had always taken his duties very seriously. We slept in the same room at night and worked together in the infirmary during the day. It was Peter, rather than the novice master Brother Thomas, who had been responsible for most of my education at Kintham. I was Peter’s pupil and he was my tutor. Sometimes I tired of his assiduous care, since he could be over-protective and hard to please, but mostly I was thankful for his friendship. I don’t think I could have stomached life at the monastery without him.
* * *
The Abbot began the meeting that night with a prayer, followed by some meaningless preamble about God’s grace, which only served to raise the anticipation among the brothers. At last he came to the point.
‘I have learnt, today, that plague has reached Fallowsden,’ he announced. When this caused a murmur, he raised his hands to silence us all. ‘Listen, please.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I am told that some of the Abbey’s tenants, a man and his three daughters, have died of the affliction. As this village is within our estate, we must accept that plague is now at our door.’
The babbled muttering returned, which the Abbot silenced this time by banging his walking stick upon the floor. It was not permitted to speak in the Chapter House, not unless the Abbot specifically asked you a question.
He continued. ‘As a result of this sad news, I’ve decided that we must end all visits to this village. In fact, I have ordered the forest gates to Fallowsden be closed, and none of the villagers allowed to leave.’
‘But what about the poor souls who are stuck there? What are they to do?’ The voice belonged to Brother James. The oldest monk in the abbey. Probably the only man who might have dared to speak out in these circumstances. ‘Are we to abandon them to a death without the sacraments? Is this the act of a true Christian?’
The murmuring started again, and only stopped when the Abbot banged his stick upon the stone floor for a second time. The silver tip created a harsh and resounding echo about the cold walls. ‘Perhaps you would like to move to Fallowsden, Brother James?’ suggested the Abbot. ‘That way you may serve these people yourself.’
Brother James frowned at this. ‘I’m a very old man, Father Abbot,’ he protested. ‘I would only be a burden to these people. I can hardly see my hand in front of my face. Might not a younger man go?’ He looked about the room, squinting into the shadows in the hope that somebody would come forward.
The muttering rose yet again, combined this time with a little nervous laughter at James’s suggestion and subsequent excuse for not going himself. In any case, it was soon evident that nobody wanted to volunteer to take up this position.
The Abbot struck the floor again. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘It is God’s decision that the village must be isolated. I have spent most of this day in prayer and meditation and God himself has told me how to proceed. We will not visit Fallowsden, nor will we suffer any of their number to come amongst us.’
It was the cellarer, Brother Wilfred’s turn to speak out. ‘But I wonder if we have enough provisions, Father Abbot?’ he asked. ‘Most of our wheat flour comes from that village. And our supplies are already low until the next harvest.’
‘It is your job to find alternatives,’ replied the Abbot. ‘I expect you to plan our meals with your usual exactitude.’ Brother Wilfred pulled a face which did not go unmissed by the Abbot. ‘We are about to endure the evils of Pestilence,’ he warned. ‘You have all heard the stories yourself, and read the letters we have received from the Archbishop and from the King. We have been blessed, thus far, in being spared from these sufferings. But now it seems that plague has arrived, and so it is our Christian duty to keep ourselves safe. If we invite sickness into this monastery, then we risk the very future of our brotherhood. We are already a shrinking band, with fewer oblates and novices coming to us each year. With a spate of deaths, we may find ourselves subsumed under the auspices of a larger Abbey. And then, who will tend with due care to the spiritual needs of our villages? For the sake of those poor souls, we must keep ourselves safe.’
This was something of a long speech from the Abbot, who usually kept away from any flourishes of oratory at these meetings, preferring instead to rush through proceedings, after the reading of a chapter from the Rule of St Benedict. In fact, he seemed to have exhausted himself.
‘Are we allowed to visit Stonebrook?’ inquired another monk. It was Brother Louis, the sacrist. ‘There is no plague in that village. Perhaps we may purchase flour at their mill instead?’
‘The older monks may visit Stonebrook,’ said the Abbot. ‘But only if it is absolutely necessary. From now on all the novices and oblates are confined to the monastery.’
At the name of Stonebrook I started to shake, as if all of the emotions that I’d been holding back all day attempted to escape in one overpowering surge.
&n
bsp; Brother Peter laid a hand upon my shoulder and whispered into my ear. ‘Take control of yourself, Oswald. People will see.’
It was a little late for this warning, however. Brother Cuthbert, a short-tempered and fastidious monk, turned around from the bench in front of us. ‘Is the boy unwell?’ he asked Peter in a loud whisper.
‘No,’ said Peter. ‘Brother Oswald is just a little tired, that’s all.’
Cuthbert narrowed his eyes. ‘Has he been near to Fallowsden recently?’
Peter sat up straight. He could be intimidating when required. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘The boy hasn’t been anywhere near that village.’
Brother Cuthbert turned back to face the Abbot. ‘I hope you’re telling the truth, Peter,’ he said. ‘Because I’m told that the Plague starts with a shivering fever.’
‘Brother Oswald does not have the Plague,’ said Peter, leaning forward to hiss into Cuthbert’s ear. ‘Don’t you dare to make such a suggestion.’
‘Says you,’ said Brother Cuthbert, turning around once again to throw me one of his condescending glances. ‘How are we to know the boy isn’t sick?’
‘Because I say so,’ said Peter. ‘I’m the infirmarer of this monastery. And he is in my care.’
Brother Cuthbert laughed in response. ‘We all know of the extra care and attention you bestow upon that boy, Peter. Some of us wonder if this is entirely proper?’
Peter put his hand onto Cuthbert’s shoulder and let his fingers dig into the black wool of his habit. ‘Keep your sordid insinuations to yourself,’ he said.
‘Or what?’ said Cuthbert, trying to shake off Peter’s hand.
The exchange had come to the Abbot’s attention. ‘What is going on over there?’ he shouted, peering across the heads of the other monks. ‘There is supposed to be silence in this Chapter House.’
Peter released Brother Cuthbert’s shoulder and bowed his head. ‘My apologies, Father Abbot,’ he called out. ‘Brother Cuthbert was complimenting your leadership in these trying times.’
The Abbot huffed at this answer, unmoved by this clumsy flattery. ‘Thank you, Brother Peter,’ came his reply. ‘These are, indeed, trying times, so we must all pray for God’s guidance.’ With this, the Abbot rose to his feet, muttered the words of a Hail Mary and then left the room to its confusion.
* * *
That night, Peter gave me a draught of lavender and chamomile, and wrapped my body in a thick blanket. I had stopped shaking, though I still felt cold and nauseous.
‘Don’t be frightened about the Plague,’ said Peter, as he placed a candle next to my bed. ‘We’ll be safe inside the monastery.’
I turned over – not wanting to look at his face. ‘I’m not worried about plague,’ I said.
‘Is it the girl, then?’ asked Peter, with a sigh. ‘Is that what all this shaking and agitation is about?’
‘Don’t mock me,’ I replied. ‘You didn’t watch her drown.’
‘I’m not mocking you,’ said Peter, as he sat down next to me on the bed – the frame creaking at his additional weight.
‘Agnes wouldn’t let me help her,’ I said. ‘She just spat some words at me, as if we’d never met before.’
‘What words?’
I hesitated before answering. ‘Keep away from me, priest.’
Peter took a deep breath. ‘Those were her exact words?’
‘Yes.’
He thought for a while. ‘Did you mention this to anybody in Stonebrook?’ he asked me.
I hesitated again. ‘No. I was afraid that they might misunderstand.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ he replied. ‘At least you showed some sense in the end. These people can be so ignorant, Oswald. So easily inflamed.’ He paused. ‘You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve been told in Confession. It is no wonder that the Abbey can never get a priest to stay in Stonebrook for long. Take that red-haired girl, for instance. Rose Brunham. A true beggar’s mistress.’
I turned back over to face Peter. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
He ignored this question. ‘Or the tales I’ve heard about Maud Woodstock,’ he continued. ‘Unbelievable.’
‘I liked her.’
Peter puffed a laugh. ‘Oh yes. I saw you smiling at Mistress Woodstock when we left the village, Oswald.’ He leant forward to stare me in the eye. ‘She might have a pretty face, but be warned. The woman is a she-wolf. A termagant.’
‘I disagree,’ I replied, making sure not to look away. ‘Maud Woodstock has courage. John Roach only raised the Hue and Cry at her insistence.’
Peter drew back and laughed again. ‘That sounds like her,’ he said. ‘Always telling people what to do.’
‘Roach didn’t care that Agnes had been attacked, Brother Peter,’ I retorted, irritated by his criticism of Maud. ‘That’s why she became involved. Did you know that there are five women missing already from Stonebrook? And Roach has never looked for one of them.’
Peter shrugged this away. ‘There could be any number of reasons why those women have disappeared,’ he said, lifting his leather flask to his lips and taking a long sip of the contents. For a moment I caught the strong perfume of mead as the nutmeg, cinnamon and honey invaded my nostrils.
‘Are you going to say that they ran away to London as well?’ I said. ‘Because that’s John Roach’s theory.’
Peter put the flask down. ‘I’m not discussing this with you tonight, Oswald,’ he said. ‘You’re too tired and emotional.’ He stood up to walk away, but I put my hand out and grabbed his arm.
‘There’s something else I need to tell you,’ I said.
Peter looked back at me wearily. ‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’ he asked. ‘I think we’ve both had enough for one day.’
‘No, it can’t,’ I said, pushing back the blanket, and sitting up. ‘I found out something else about Agnes Wheeler today,’ I told Peter, finding that my heart was beating faster even at the mention of her name. ‘I should have told you earlier. But I couldn’t find the words.’
‘Oh yes?’
I hesitated, still uncertain that I wanted to tell Peter this story. ‘My brother William was Agnes’s father,’ I admitted.
‘What?’ Peter immediately stiffened. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Her mother, Beatrice Wheeler. I was called to the family cottage, after Agnes’s body was laid out. Beatrice told me herself.’
Peter pulled at the mole on his neck. ‘Well, I’ve never heard that story before,’ he said. ‘Not even in the Confessional.’
‘That’s because Beatrice has kept it secret for years,’ I replied. ‘Even from William himself.’
Peter grunted a laugh. ‘Well, if that’s the case, then I very much doubt that the story is true.’
‘Why would Beatrice Wheeler lie about something like that?’
Peter groaned and shook his head. ‘Because the woman wants some money from you, Oswald. That’s why. She wants you to feel even more guilty about Agnes than you do already.’
‘She didn’t ask for any money.’
Peter gave another puff of scornful laughter. ‘She will do. Don’t you worry,’ he said, before patting me on the shoulder in that condescending manner that really irritated me. ‘I just told you what the people of Stonebrook are like, Oswald. They lie without shame.’
I pushed his hand away. ‘I think Beatrice Wheeler was telling the truth.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘She asked me to write to William and tell him about Agnes. Why would she ask me to do that, if her story were a lie?’
‘Well, I hope you refused,’ he said, now looking exasperated. When I didn’t answer, he continued. ‘God’s bones, Oswald! Whatever next?’ Peter started to pace the room. ‘Are you completely senseless?’ he added. ‘You, of all people, know what William’s temper is like.’
‘But what if Agnes is his daughter?’ I whispered.
Peter approached again and now made the point of looming over me. ‘And how do you th
ink William would receive this news?’ he asked me, lowering his head to breathe fumes into my face. ‘Tell me that?’
‘I don’t know,’ I stammered.
‘Exactly,’ he replied. ‘And what would you write?’ I shrugged, trying to turn my nostrils away from the stink of his breath. ‘Dear William, I’m writing to tell you that you have a bastard daughter in Stonebrook. You probably don’t remember fathering this child… but just in case you do, I’m sorry to say that I accidentally killed her today.’
I shrank further away, unable to answer.
Sensing that he had upset me, Peter put his hand upon my shoulder again and softened his voice. ‘Oswald. Please listen to me. You must not write to William. It would only anger him unnecessarily. This woman’s story is almost certainly a lie.’
‘But what if it isn’t?’ I said, looking up into his face and feeling tears budding in the corners of each eye. ‘Not only have I killed an innocent girl. She is also my own flesh and blood.’
As tears rolled down my cheeks, Peter took a seat beside me again. ‘Come on, Oswald,’ he said, patting my hand lightly. ‘Don’t be upset.’
‘I can’t forgive myself,’ I sobbed.
‘But you didn’t kill her,’ he answered, now locking me in an embrace. It was firm and comforting and so very welcome. ‘The girl’s death was an accident,’ he said. ‘You know that, and so does everybody else.’
‘I’m not sure some of the villagers would agree,’ I said, now weeping like a child.
‘Who cares what they think?’
‘You should have seen their faces, Brother Peter,’ I said. ‘They didn’t openly accuse me, but I knew what they were thinking.’
Peter kissed the top of my head. ‘Oh Oswald,’ he sighed. ‘What am I to do with you?’ When my tears had soaked into his habit and I could cry no more, he settled me back into bed and pulled the blanket over my shoulder. ‘Go back to sleep now,’ he whispered as he stroked the hair from my forehead. ‘Let this be forgotten. I won’t wake you tonight for Matins or Prime. Rest your eyes until the morning.’