The young monk bowed.
“Come inside,” the monk said. “We will wait for the coroner.”
“Thank you,” Rowan said, walking past the monk.
“One of my brothers will bring you bread and water,” the monk said. Then he turned to face Thaddeus. “And you, Sir? Would you be seeking asylum as well?”
“Surely, you jest,” Thaddeus said, replying in Latin rather than Frankish.
The sarcastic look on the monk’s face disappeared, and he bowed.
“My apologies,” the monk said.
“We are seeking room and board for a few nights,” Thaddeus said evenly.
“Of course,” the monk replied. He bowed again, his shaggy blond hair falling into his face.
Thaddeus guessed the man was a novitiate, not quite a full-fledged monk.
“Will you tell the Abbot that Lord Gregory of Malmesbury would like to meet with him?” Thaddeus asked. He felt an immediate twinge in his stomach as he lied to this holy man in this holy place.
“Of course,” the monk replied. “Are you here for the banquet?”
“The banquet?” Thaddeus asked, lifting his chin and looking over his nose at the novitiate, a sign of haughtiness but more so the young monk couldn’t see the confusion on his face.
“Yes, my lord,” the novitiate said. “King William is here and is entertaining a Flemish noblewoman who is apparently accompanied by a relative of the late Queen Mother, Matilda.”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Thaddeus replied with a smile. “I apologize. It has been a long day. Yes, we are here for the banquet and to honor King William and his relative.”
“Very well, my lord,” the novitiate said with a bow. “Let me take you to the Abbot, Robert Losinga. I am most certain he would want to know that Sir Gregory is in our presence and procure you a cell worthy of your title.”
“Thank you,” Thaddeus said, that twinge of guilt growing with every passing second.
“Are these your servants, sir?” the monk asked.
“Yes,” Thaddeus replied.
“They may wait here if it pleases you,” the monk said, offering a hand to the cloister—a quadrangular colonnade centered by a beautiful garden.
“I will take Callixtus with me,” Thaddeus said, placing a hand on Asaf’s shoulder, and he couldn’t help seeing, through a sidelong glance, the sour look his friend gave him.
“I am sure he would be comfortable—” the monk began to say, but Thaddeus put up a hand.
“He is a monk from Malmesbury, traveling with us for safety,” he said. The young novitiate’s eyes went wide as he bowed quickly and bid Thaddeus and Asaf follow him.
Thaddeus motioned to the others to stay where they were, and they did as they were told. Even Brant.
The monk in training led Thaddeus and Asaf through the colonnade of the abbey, passing ornately carved, Romanesque columns creating rounded arches and a myriad of different doors and buildings. While everything around Winchester seemed gray and lifeless, much like the lands of Richmond, the gardens of Hyde Abbey bloomed with color, flowers of pink and purple and yellow. Bees floated freely from one flower to the next, and a great magnolia tree, its vibrant reddish-white flowers in full bloom, centered the open space of the cloister.
“This is far too extravagant for a house of God,” Asaf whispered in Greek.
“Perhaps,” Thaddeus replied, “but do you see how everything here is in bloom and vibrant while everything outside these walls looks dead? This is still a house of God.”
“What was that?” the novitiate asked.
“Nothing,” Thaddeus replied.
“What language was that you were speaking in?” the novitiate asked.
“Latin, of course,” Thaddeus replied, looking over his shoulder and glaring at Asaf with worried eyes.
“These are the chambers of Abbot Robert,” the young man said with a bow, stopping at a thick wooden door on the other side of the cloister.
“An abbot is not supposed to have a private chamber,” Asaf said to Thaddeus in Greek. “Is he greater than the others who give their lives to the Lord?”
“Calm yourself,” Thaddeus replied in the same language.
“Is there a problem?” the young monk asked with a genuine look of concern on his face.
“No,” Thaddeus replied with a smile.
The young monk knocked on the door, and a voice from inside the room bid him to enter.
When they entered the room, Thaddeus knew Asaf’s blood would be boiling. Even as a defrocked cleric, the excess that many of the hierarchy in the church experienced irritated Asaf. Hand stitched tapestries of the Virgin Mary and Christ and the travels of the Apostle Paul hung from one wall while a shelf with several books stood against another. A table stood next to the bookshelf, a chalice, plate, and pitcher of gold sitting atop it. The window behind the abbot’s desk was made of stained glass, and the desk itself was dark, made from ebony, and sturdy with piles of parchment and scrolls strewn across its surface.
The Abbot was an elderly man, very frail looking even though Thaddeus could tell that he carried extra weight around his belly. He knew that would frustrate Asaf as well. His white hair, growing around a liver-spotted tonsure, seemed a little messy for an abbot and the man stared at the two with tired, lazy eyes. He leaned forward and squinted.
“All this opulence,” Asaf whispered in Greek, “and he can’t even see it.”
“Father Abbot,” the novitiate said with a bow.
“What is it?” the Abbot replied, his voice slow and slurred as if he spoke with food in his mouth.
“This is Lord Gregory of Malmesbury, and he wishes lodging in our humble abbey,” the novitiate said.
“Our abbey is anything but humble,” Abbot Robert said.
“Too true, Father Abbot,” Thaddeus said with a bow. He looked at Asaf who also, reluctantly, bowed.
“And why are you in Winchester, Sir Gregory?” the Abbot asked, the saggy skin around his jaws moving like a hound’s jowls.
“Firstly, we came—Brother Callixtus and I—to see the progress of the new cathedral,” Thaddeus replied.
“Callixtus?” the Abbot asked. “An odd name.”
“It is Roman,” Asaf replied, flatly. “My father had an infatuation with all things Roman.”
“I would have changed it the moment I got the chance,” the Abbot said with a scoffing laugh.
“Yes, well,” Thaddeus said, speaking before Asaf’s mouth could get him in trouble, “the second reason we are here is to honor King William while he is in England … and entertaining a relative from Flanders nonetheless.”
“Ah, yes,” the Abbot said with a nod. “I suppose a minor manor lord might be invited to something like this.”
Abbot Robert was ripe with backhanded compliments and, even though Thaddeus felt himself an even-tempered man most days, he could feel his face grow hot. And, if rumors he had heard were true, this man simply bought his way into the position of Abbot … and then he bought his son into the same position at another abbey.
“Of course, you may stay,” Abbot Robert said with a wave of a thin and frail hand. “Just stay out of my monks’ ways. They have much to do and no time to tend to lesser nobles who decide to show up whenever they want.”
“You are too kind,” Thaddeus said with a bow and then let the novitiate lead them out of the room.
“I apologize, my lord,” the novitiate said. “Father Abbot Robert has become a bit short in his old age. And it seems that this visiting noblewoman has set him on edge. I do not know why.”
“His monks,” Asaf seethed as they followed the novitiate to their room.
“Peace, brother,” Thaddeus said. Then he addressed the novitiate. “No need to apologize. My father is the same way. What do you think has made him on edge?”
“I don’t know,” the novitiate said. “Ever since this Flemish lady has arrived, he has been very irritable.”
The young monk lowered his head and his voice
.
“Truth be told,” he whispered, “I think Abbot Robert is always a little precarious because many of us know how he received his election. But he has been extra grumpy. And, if I am being honest, things have seemed strange in the city recently. It is a big city, my lord, so there is crime enough, but it seems worse. You saw that man asking for asylum. That seems to be a daily occurrence lately.”
“Truly?” Thaddeus asked, looking at Asaf over his shoulder.
“Yes,” the novitiate continued, “and the weather has been off. The animals have been off. I don’t know what it is, my lord.”
“A witch,” Asaf muttered.
“What was that, brother Callixtus?” the novitiate asked.
“Nothing,” Asaf replied.
They returned outside, and the novitiate led Thaddeus and his companions to the west range, up a flight of stairs, and to the monastery’s dormitory. Brant curled his nose when they walked past two sick people, lying in cots while several of the resident monks tended to them. Thaddeus shook his head. The man was truly heartless.
The man who had claimed asylum was there as well—Rowan, if Thaddeus remembered correctly. He had a face—square and flat with a nose that had obviously been broken several times—that showed several days of black stubble. It was dirty, as well, and the brown that smeared a part of his brow and cheek was most likely dried blood. His tattered shirt revealed hard worked muscles. He wrung his hands as he sat at the edge of his cot, and when he saw Thaddeus, he eyed the man nervously.
“What a ridiculous notion,” Brant whispered to himself.
“What’s that?” Thaddeus asked.
“Asylum,” Brant replied. “He’s a murderer. He should die. He admitted it. A sheriff should be able to march in here and take him without question.”
“We don’t know all the details,” Thaddeus said.
“Further proof that these Normans are weak,” Brant said, and then, in a lowered voice he clearly didn’t think Thaddeus could hear, added, “as well as you.”
“We only have one separate cell available, my lord,” the novitiate said, pointing to several rooms at the end of the dormitory, one of which had its door open. “I do apologize.”
“It is all right,” Thaddeus replied. “I will share my cell with Callixtus. My servants will sleep in a cot with your brother monks if that’s okay?”
“Of course, my lord,” the novitiate said with a bow.
“What do you think you are doing?” Brant asked when the novitiate left, his voice hard but low so that the monks, infirmed, and asylum seeker wouldn’t hear him.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Thaddeus said with a smile.
“You mean for me to sleep in the open space with the sickly, a murderer, and monks?” Brant asked, his face turning red again.
“Where else should you sleep?” Thaddeus asked. “You are a simple servant—at least while we are here. Do you really think you should sleep in the private cell? Gunnar, Alden, and Jarvis will be in the common room with you.”
“As they should be,” Brant said. “They are …”
“Dogs?” Gunnar interrupted.
“If you would like to sleep in the private cell,” Thaddeus said, still smiling, “you could sleep on the floor.”
“Dogs sleep on the floor,” Brant muttered.
The thane seemed all haughtiness and pomp, but Thaddeus watched as the man’s eyes trailed up to one of the small windows in the room and the crucifix that hung next to it. He looked nervous and turned away quickly, rubbing his face and groaning as he sat down at the edge of his cot. When the monks prayed over the sick, he looked away and cursed under his breath, and when the asylum-seeker looked at him, he growled.
“What are you looking at?” Brant hissed, and then muttered. “This is not even worthy of dogs.”
“Do not forget, thane,” Thaddeus said, “that our Lord Christ Jesus often spoke of the least and lowliest of men. The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.”
Brant gave him a squinted look of anger but didn’t say anything.
Later that evening, the six men took supper in the dining room with the rest of the monks of the abbey. Brant protested loudly, but Thaddeus forced him into going. They ended up sitting next to the man named Rowan—the murderer—and the man avoided eye contact, especially with Brant.
The Father Abbot sat at the head of the room. He stood before supper and prayed, everyone responding in kind as he asked for it; everyone except for Brant.
“This isn’t fit for dogs either,” Brant said, almost gagging as he threw his piece of hard bread into a bowl of brown broth. Some of its contents spilled onto the table. “I am going to an alehouse.”
“No,” Thaddeus said, grabbing the thane’s arm and keeping him in his seat.
Thaddeus couldn’t help seeing Rowan watching, nervously.
“You will sit, and you will eat,” Thaddeus whispered in the thane’s ear, “and you will do it with apparent joy.”
“Take your hand off me,” Brant hissed back. “I don’t take orders from you.”
“Here, in this place, you do,” Thaddeus replied. “Do you wish to help your lord regain his country or not?”
The thane turned to look at Thaddeus, and their eyes met. He had stared into many eyes. He even heard, once, that the eyes were a window into a man’s soul. That might have been true. This man’s eyes showed hate. Just the way they looked at him, glared at him, glimmered in the light.
Thaddeus watched Brant’s hands as they repeatedly squeezed into fists. The thane wanted to hit him, and a part of Thaddeus wanted him to act on his anger, it would give him an excuse to put the man in his place. But then Thaddeus admonished himself silently. That was a prideful coward’s thoughts.
“Clean up your mess,” Thaddeus repeated.
His eyes protested, but Brant did as he was told.
Supper was a quiet affair and quick. When the monks were dismissed, Thaddeus and his companions retired to the dormitory.
“Will they be all right out there?” Thaddeus asked, sitting at the edge of the bed while Asaf sat on a chair at the cell’s desk.
“Brant is a rat turd,” Asaf said. “He will never be all right.”
“There is something more to that man,” Thaddeus said. “He is so full of hate.”
“Most men are full of hate,” Asaf replied. “You just don’t see it as much as I do.”
“Will he do something stupid?” Thaddeus asked.
“Probably,” Asaf replied. “But Gunnar is with him, though.”
“The monks are probably in the scriptorium, yes?” Thaddeus asked.
“Some of them, yes,” Asaf replied.
“Do you miss it?” Thaddeus asked.
“What?” Asaf replied.
“This,” Thaddeus said, holding out his hands as if to present the whole abbey.
“Do I miss copying words for hours on end?” Asaf replied, a hint of irritation in his voice. But then he shrugged. “A little, I suppose. The silence was peaceful. I never enjoyed copying someone else’s words, though. I found great joy, however, in writing my own.”
“Truly?” Thaddeus asked.
“As Christ is my witness,” Asaf replied.
“Were the words you wrote about our Lord,” Thaddeus asked, “or about his Word?”
“Sometimes both,” Asaf replied. “But other times they were just stories.”
“Stories?” Thaddeus asked.
“Yes, stories,” Asaf replied. “Made up stories … tales with some ulterior meaning. Like Aesop’s fables, or Virgil’s Aeneid, or even Christ’s parables.”
“All these years,” Thaddeus said, “and I never knew that. Do you still have some of the stories you had written?”
“I do,” Asaf said.
The defrocked cleric stared at the only window. Thaddeus rarely saw his friend smile anymore, but he was doing so now. It was a good memory, those stories. It had to have been a memory from a simpler time. Truth be told, Thaddeus als
o wished for a simpler time, so many years ago.
Chapter 15
THE NOVITIATE WHO had welcomed them when they first came to the Abbey came to retrieve Thaddeus in the morning after they all broke their fast.
“I am sorry to bother you, my lord,” the novitiate said, “but yesterday, you said you had been invited to the banquet in honor of the visiting Flemish noblewoman and, yet, you were not on the guest list when the Father Abbot checked with the castle.”
Thaddeus’ stomach started to sink. They had been found out. Was the novitiate leading him to Norman guards?
“So, the Father Abbot took it upon himself to let the chancellor know of the error,” the novitiate said. He handed Thaddeus a rolled pieced of parchment. “Here is your invitation, my lord.”
Thaddeus grabbed the invitation with a quick bow and a smile.
“Thank you,” he said. “I will have to thank the Father Abbot personally.”
The novitiate bowed and turned to walk away.
“Can I ask a question?” Thaddeus asked.
“Of course, my lord,” the novitiate said, bowing.
“The man who came seeking asylum yesterday?”
“What about him, my lord?” the novitiate asked.
“Is he a local man, a villager?”
“I do not know, my lord,” the novitiate replied.
“Does this sort of thing happen often?” Thaddeus asked.
“Oddly enough, my lord, it has been happening quite often,” the novitiate replied, “recently.”
“What will happen to him?” Thaddeus asked.
“He will stay here until the sheriff comes to get him,” the novitiate replied. “He may be here a year or more, my lord. Who knows? It depends on his crime and, since he is a murderer, it depends on who he killed. Will that be all, my lord?”
“Yes, thank you,” Thaddeus said.
Thaddeus walked through the dormitory and jerked his head sideways when he made eye contact with Gunnar.
“Meet with me in the cell,” he said, “and help me tell the others.”
All five of his companions did as they were asked.
“We have received an invitation to a banquet the King is throwing,” Thaddeus said.
“When is it?” Brant asked.
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