Maurontius shifted on his seat after another in a long string of bounces and stuck his head out the window. “God’s teeth, man! You do not haul a cartload of turnips,” he shouted, his good mood dissipating a little more with each successive jolt. “Could you not try to miss the bumps?”
“Apologies, Excellency,” said the driver, as one of the wheels slid off a large rock and into a rut with a thud, throwing the bishop against the side of the interior. “Stream flooded across the road a day past and left rocks in the way. Should be clear up ahead and smooth from there.”
“See that it is.” Maurontius settled back in his seat.
All happy thoughts of his tryst gone, the cleric brooded on his mission.
The Church was changing.
Intrigue was afoot at the Vatican and could prove dangerous. A faction of cardinals felt their power slipping away and were using fear as a means to restoring order. Aligned more stridently with the strictest teachings of Saint Paul on matters of morality, they had the ear of the Holy Father and sought to divide their subordinates to keep control. It mattered not what Maurontius thought about it all, only what he said and did.
“Where do your loyalties lie?” Bayard asked him one afternoon. “Are you with Anacletus in Rome or with Innocent in France?”
Maurontius had been unnerved by the question, and knew he must be prudent enough to answer truthfully, but chose his words with caution.
“You already know the answer. Even though Innocent was elected, I serve whoever resides in the Papal Palace,” he had replied. “For now, that is His Holiness, Pope Anacletus. And that is whom you serve as well. There is no confusion on that matter, Eminence.”
“Anacletus sits in Rome because they say Innocent was not canonically elected.”
“I am conversant as to the situation, Excellency. This schism among the cardinals has Anacletus living in fear for his life. He sits uneasily on his throne.” Bayard was an Anacletus loyalist and unaware that Maurontius secretly favored Innocent, and had covertly visited him at Cluny several times.
Clearing the flood debris, the carriage settled into a smooth rhythm, its gentle rocking putting the bishop in a drowsy state. He must have dozed off, for he suddenly awakened to the door being opened and the driver turning down the small step for the bishop to step out.
“Excellency,” said Prior Alwyn, as Maurontius emerged.
✞ ✞ ✞
“Murdered! You are certain?” The bishop leaned in close to the prior, his nostrils flaring, his face red. The air was thick in the small chamber. Prior Alwyn, his arms tucked in his sleeves, watched the animated bishop as he began to pace the floor. Brother Anselm sat motionless on a bench in the corner, uttering not a word. The old monk rose as if to leave. Alwyn stayed him with a hand on his shoulder.
“There can be no question to the matter.” Alwyn’s tone was flat and filled with resignation. “Our poor brother was brutally attacked and left for dead. Townsmen found him and brought him here. ”
“You mean this occurred off monastery grounds?” Maurontius stopped his pacing. “To what purpose?”
“We do not yet know. But, is that not better than to have the sanctity of our house corrupted?”
“The nave must needs still be cleansed. How came he to be without at such an hour. He should have been fast to his bed.”
The prior shrugged his shoulders, pensive for a moment. There was no easy way to say such a thing.
“That is not the least of it. He endured a most unholy act.”
The bishop’s eyes darted back and forth until Alwyn saw the light of recognition flood in.
“Are you saying he died committing an act of lust?” said Maurontius. His voice was even and measured, his teeth clenched.
“He died in a state of grace having confessed his sins!” Alwyn’s declaration filled the room. Listening to his thundering heart, the prior took a deep breath to balance his humors. “I believe the act was perpetrated on him, that he was an unwilling participant. Indications are he was rendered unconscious first.”
“Did he name his attacker?”
“He did not. Brothers Remigius and Rhonwellt concur his wounds indicate he was approached from behind. He would not have seen his enemy.”
“Have you put thought as to a culprit?”
“Many know it, he was not well-regarded among the brothers.”
“Surely you do not…?”
“I merely say it could have been anyone from priory or town.”
Maurontius lapsed into a deep silence. Alwyn watched the muscles of the bishop’s face play out the full range of his concern: furrowed brow; thin, pressed lips; a slight tic in his cheek under one eye. His cheery countenance, so evident upon arrival, had wholly flown, replaced by a seething rage only too familiar to Alwyn. It had been the bane of the man since being a novice. Maurontius would not want word of these incidents to reach the cardinal’s ears, or further, until tidy solutions could be rendered in place. Alwyn wished it were not so, but he knew Maurontius’ concern lie with his own future and had naught to do with the welfare of the monks or the priory. And it made Alwyn grievously sad.
“This book,” Mauontius said, at last. “How come you to have so rare a tome here at Saint Cattwg’s? Why did I not know of this?”
“You are usually so very busy with the happenings at Sherborne that you rarely have time for the insignificant affairs of our small priory.” Alwyn made no attempt to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “However, you did sign a request to Durham Abbey to borrow the book last year on one of your rare visits to us.”
“It is no where in my mind that I signed such a request.”
“As I recall, there were many things requiring your attention on that particular visit, and you seldom read that to which you affix your seal.”
Maurontius narrowed his eyes, a tic working the corner of his mouth.
“The book is a pharmacoepia,” the prior continued, undaunted. “For a while now, Brother Anselm has been compiling a new work based on the Medica and the Leechbook of Bald. Brother Mark had been the major illuminator on the project, while other of our scribes have been at work on the text.” The prior automatically crossed himself upon mentioning the name of the dead brother.
“The priory realizes significant income from the copying of documents and the production of manuscripts,” said Maurontius. “You allow this deviation from work vital to the survival of this house for a project that reeks of pride and vanity?”
“It is not pride,” Anselm snapped from his silence, suddenly visible and animated. “I have been called by God!”
“A prideful statement in itself, brother. You have been called,” said the bishop, his face reddening and voice tense, “to serve this house. If you are called by God at all, it is to do that.”
“The brothers,” said the prior, “are most diligent in their regular duties, Excellency. They labor at this on their own time. It is why the project is taking so long.”
“A monk’s time,” Maurontius answered, “is never his own, Brother Prior. But I take your meaning.”
“Entertain no further worry, Excellency. The book shall be found.”
Saying nothing, the bishop rounded the desk and fell into the prior’s sturdy chair. He steepled his fingers in thought. “Brother, leave us,” he said, regarding Anselm as though he had just entered the room. “I have private business with your prior.”
Anselm glanced at Prior Alwyn who answered with an imperceptible bob of his head. Only the prior knew Anselm would not leave simply at the bishop’s command, but would wait for the prior to concur. The aged monk rose, bowed to the bishop and exited.
A long moment ensued before either man spoke.
Alwyn broke the silence. “Well?”
Maurontius glanced up, the question in his eyes.
“Why are you here, Excellency?”
Maurontius leaned back in the chair, his elbow resting on the arm, his chin cradled by his thumb while his index finger curled over his li
ps. He cast a penetrating stare toward the prior.
“Luxuria ratione sexus.”
The priors brows shot heavenward. “Surely not.”
Maurontius nodded, one brow lifted, his lips thin. “Bayard has adopted it as his new crusade. It is commonly known that there are those among us bedeviled by unnatural desires. It has long plagued our ranks and is an unfortunate result of our confinement together.”
“I take exception,” Alwyn replied. “Does Bayard truly believe that the brothers of Saint Cattwg’s have given themselves over completely to carnal lusts and become reprobates?”
“Be content. It is not only Saint Cattwg’s on which he has cast his attention.”
“You cannot imagine my abundant relief at hearing that,” spat Alwyn with even more sarcasm, spreading his arms wide like the crucified Christ. “Why this sudden urgency towards a thing that has been with us since the beginning?”
“Peccatum contra naturam.” said the bishop. “The church now considers it a sin against nature.”
“The church has always considered it thus,” said Alwyn, letting his arms fall to his sides with a slap. “Yet the practice has endured under its roof, in the shadows, for all time.”
“Carnal acts are forbidden by the Rule.”
“And yet, it has not stopped men from committing the sin.” The prior sank onto a stool. “Cravings of the flesh are strong and not so easily overcome even though we are men of God.” He grew quiet. He knew the struggle well.
“Bayard is most insistent that houses comply or changes will be made to assure it.” Maurontius placed his hands on the desk and pushed himself up and leaned forward toward the prior. “Your position here could be at stake, old friend.”
“His Eminence has his own agenda. It is common knowledge,” parried Alwyn. He stood and began to pace back and forth in front of the desk. “The Cardinal sought to have his cousin, Brother Birinus, named prior at Saint Cattwg’s, and I would not put it past him to try to have me removed to pave the way for Birinus to succeed.”
Maurontius leaned forward. “Hush, Alwyn, your words are disrespectful, and I will not condone it.”
“Then tell me I am wrong—if you can.”
“Bayard believes some of things you espouse to be heresy.” Maurontius paused as the words sunk into Alwyn’s mind. “I have all I can do to defend you. He does not press the issue because you are a small out-of-the-way priory. Do not presume too much upon our friendship,” said Maurontius. “Bayard has much power in Rome and the ear of the Holy Father. Do not commit an offense he cannot ignore. You would do well not to run afoul of him. The result could be harsh indeed.”
Prior Alwyn turned and faced the small window set high in the stone wall and stared as though it were low enough to look out of. He fought to contain the bitter taste of betrayal in his throat, knowing he must choose his words more carefully. The bishop was ambitious and known to be powerful in the halls of the Vatican. There, friendships were valued only as a commodity to be bought and sold for the realization of unrestrained ambition and greed. His old friend and brother would not hesitate to denounce him if it would advance his position. Even though the prior knew closely guarded secrets about the bishop’s lusty youth that could surely pose a danger to the fragile power structure he had built over the years, Alwyn knew he must be cautious.
He heard the bishop’s voice behind him. “Did the advent of my obtaining the miter really cause such change between us, brother? Am I not still Maurontius to you?”
The prior turned with a deliberateness that revealed his true affection. “You will always be Maurontius, in my heart. But even you must admit that it is different now between us. In my mind, you are still my young novice and I your confessor, together in devoted service to God. But that was long ago. You are now my superior whom I must obey, and that has created a significant difference in what we are to each other. Would that it were not so. But it is, and we must abide by its verity and make the best of it.”
Maurontius gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Alwyn, you seem tired.”
“I have seen over seventy summers, Excellency, and am in the twilight of my years. Of course I am tired. But soon, God willing, my journey will be over. For some reason The Almighty has seen fit to let me live much longer than is reasonable.”
“Nonsense.” Maurontius traversed the space between them and placed his hands on the aged prior's shoulders. Alwyn looked closely to find traces of his old friend in the face before him.
“There are others here who could help you by taking some of your duties,” said Maurontius. “Brother Birinus is capable.”
“Birinus again,” muttered the prior.
“Alright, if not Birinus, then Brother Remigius. There is no sub-prior here. Consider an assistant. Whoever is sub-prior will be a logical candidate for the one who will eventually replace you. Give it some thought, Alwyn. I will help in any way that I can.”
“Thank you, Excellency,” replied the prior. “That is most thoughtful, but I am sure that your extensive responsibilities keep you far too busy to be concerned with the brothers here at Saint Cattwg’s.”
“Alwyn, Saint Cattwg’s is my concern, as are you, brother. I am what stands between you and the cardinal, and he stands between us and the pontiff. It is his job to satisfy the Holy Father. It is my job to see that Bayard is content. And it is your job to see that I am happy. It really is that simple, Alwyn. Do as I say, and all will be well.”
Prior Alwyn' shoulders slumped as he sighed, “What would you have me do?”
“Nothing very dramatic. Just keep an eye on things. Discourage the brother's from forming bonds that could go too deep and stray from the filial. If you notice closeness that could be suspect, change their routines and separate them. You do not have to accuse them of anything. Just do what must be done to discourage the intimacy, and to avert Papal scrutiny.”
“But, Excellency, many of our brothers have been separated from their kin since they were children and were sent here to live among us. We have become family, truly brothers. We are all they have. There are genuine love bonds that are formed here. Our love of Christ is reflected in our love for each other. It is as innocent as it is beautiful. Our intimacy is our strength. Love is not always carnal.” The last was said with pointed emphasis.
“And it is up to you to see that it is not. Do you understand?” There was something more than emphasis in the bishop’s words.
The prior nodded but said nothing.
“Alwyn, I understand the nature of the bonds that can be formed within these walls. Truly. I do. And I know that, for the most part, they are not tainted. We take a vow of celibacy. That is the real issue here. It is what the Church expects of us. That we keep our bodies and our minds clean and pure, for the glory of God, according to the scriptures.”
Oh, the hypocrisy! He forgets how well I know him and that he has likely just come from the bed of a mistress or whore. “Ah, the scriptures,” sighed the prior, out loud. “Must the scriptures always be used to justify everything? They are ambiguous at best, and were written for another people entirely. It is so easy to pick and choose the way we translate a word or a phrase in order to slightly alter its meaning. We've been debating their essence for centuries. Reading them the way we want them to read. In Greek it is one way, in Latin another. But always to justify our actions, for good or ill.”
“How can you dispute the scriptures? They are the inviolate word of God.”
“I do not dispute the scriptures. I say that only God can know the true meaning of any of them. And because of that fact, Maurontius, we have been twisting and kneading the inviolate word of God since the beginning of the Church, constantly massaging it for our own purposes until it has come close to losing all meaning. We are in jeopardy of forgetting how to look at God and life with our hearts instead of through the eyes of those telling us how to do it.”
“Alwyn, you have been struggling with this crisis of faith almost from the moment w
e met.”
“This is no crisis of faith,” the prior said with a sigh. “I believe, and I know what I believe. There is no doubt. My only quarrel is with the Church telling me how to do it. Christ directed us to love one another. But there is no mention as to what is proper and what is not with regard to that. The brothers here have forsaken their very lives and fortunes to live here together in service to God. Why do we insist in denying them some affection and companionship while in that service? Even Jesus had his brothers about him. ”
“Do not presume to compare what you speak of to the relationship of The Master and His Disciples! Alwyn, you blaspheme grievously. You chance losing your very soul! We do not speak sub-rosa here and if your words were overheard you could be accused of heresy and I could not stop it. We are old friends, however my power to protect is not unlimited. And the fact of this murder and its heinous circumstances will do nothing to strengthen your position.”
Seven
Rhonwellt sped along the path from the refectory to the scriptorium, sandals slapping against his heels, his haste occasioned by a desire to spend an hour at his writing desk before compline. The chaos of the past day had kept him from the serenity he found there and he longed for a brief respite to clear his mind. The evening was yet dry but foreboding clouds, illuminated by a half-moon, sliding by on a slight breeze, portended rain to come.
All was quiet in the cloister. As Rhonwellt and his brothers took their turns sitting vigil with the body in the presbytery, an air of sadness had settled over the grounds like a brychan. Woven into the warp were threads of horror at the manner of Brother Mark’s demise forming a stripe of fear that the culprit still roamed at large, perhaps even amongst them in their own compound. Yet they pushed on through their daily duties, striving for some semblance of normalcy with limited success.
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