“Sir, it would be against my vow of obedience.”
“Know ye what is writ here?” John Haskewell pointed to his letter book open on the table. “It saith that thou shalt receive no women in the abbey, not even lay servants. That none including the Abbott must leave the grounds. And that all monks under four and twenty should be dismissed. Yes, Jerome of no county and no family, ye are reckoned to be but nineteen. And where wouldst thou go? What stranger should take thee in? I verily trow that thou wilt meet me and tell me of the Abbott’s doings, wilt thou not?”
I swallowed, perplexed. “Mayhap I—”
“Good lad. It is said thou art a scholar. Thou couldst be studying true knowledge at The Schools. Fore God, what dost thou learn in this place?”
“To love and be loved by God. To love all men through God. To love as God loves.”
John Haskewell’s expression was soft amused. “Thine heart has no hesitation. Even if thy path is awry.” He placed a hand on my head. “Kneel.”
I slipped from the stool and knelt.
“Do you swear to renounce Rome, to acknowledge and confess it lawful that his Highness should be Supreme Head of the Church of England?”
My mouth obeyed.
“Ye will see no women. Ye will not leave the abbey. Though thou art nineteen, will I petition Master Cromwell to see thee spared and thus not made to leave. This service have I done for no man.”
“Sir.” I rose and bowed, sicklied by this sudden alliance. “Am I not unthankful.”
The boy has ague. I drag my pallet closer to the fire, pour him a cup of meade, and bid him drink.
“Jerome, have I not got currants and barberries for the roasted conies,” he frets.
“Marry, then shall I go to the market and get them,” saith I.
“What if a customer come?”
“And pray why are ye such a woeful spirit?”
“Thou art woeful also, Jerome.”
Very heavy am I following his gaze. He looks to my jerkin stirring in the window. Faith, though the blood is washed away, I cannot lightly forget. “I wish only thou wast well.”
“Did thou stain it?” he asks.
“I pray thou take thy rest now.” Ought I let him slumber? What if he should not wake?
Downstairs, I begin to copy Confessio Amantis.
Thrice John Haskewell summoned me to meet him in secret. That final night, I waited, standing under the wrathful flutter of the willow tree I loved during the day, cudgeling my mind for some such prattle to deliver which would hint at no vice—though well I knew that once in his presence, it was hard to dissemble.
As soon as he swung down from his horse, he called, “Have ye heard any lewd communication from the other monks?”
In the dark, I could not spy the familiar dissipation under his eyes, and as he neared, the shadows made his complexion smooth, adding the charm of youth to his looks.
“Nay, John.”
He tied his horse to a tree. “I wot right well that the young oft find it hard to denounce the old believing they be worthy of pity.”
I covered a yawn. “My brothers are men of God. To me they have talked of naught improper. Therefore, again can I not confirm thy tedious suspicion.”
He had a laugh that was profuse with a music absent elsewhere in his disposition.
“And thou, Jerome?” A wet wind scattered through the branches, discharging a decay of leaves. “Thou art young”—he walked toward me, no longer merry—“and must have longing for fleshly delights.”
But did I long only for these perilous nights.
“It is not unnatural,” he continued, goatish. “Not that thee have acted upon thy desires, I accuse thee not of that, but we all have our secret sins.”
“It is true I am not free from sin,” said I, “but none of them be secret.”
He drew too close. “Thou hungerest to lie with a woman, touching the privy parts of her body, using her as a man doth his wife.”
I stepped back. “Nor am I a stranger to curiosity, nor divorced from my body but delight in its workings.”
He stepped with me and I could smell the wine. “Then art thou more inclined toward buggery, surrounded as thee are by these pedants. Do ye wish to play the woman with a man’s cock? Do the servant boys tempt thee?”
Disgusted, I made to leave. “I need not suffer these carnal-minded accusations.”
He appeared in my path. Though I was the taller was he of far greater girth. He put a hand on my shoulder as if measuring its width. “It is unkind in me to tease thee. Wisdom, thou knowest, so seldom accompanies age.”
“I am tired. What is it thou desireth to know?”
“What letter did the Abbott read on the Memorial of Francis of Assisi?”
I allowed my puzzlement to show. “The letter by the Bishop of Rome?”
“It is true then. The Abbott remains loyal to the old church.”
“No, the Abbott is a true servant to the King. On what charge could thee accuse him?”
“Did thou not sayeth, Brother, that thou wast troubled by a ceremony that the Abbot held exalting the Bishop of Rome? The charge is treason.”
“Thou dost mangle my words!”
“My poor child.” He smiled. “Have ye not bethought that there are those within these walls who are dissatisfied with the Abbott?”
Never had I the occasion to consider. “Then wherefore have need of me, if there are these others?”
“The King has no wish to see his abbots dead. And I wot the Abbott is a kindly man for all his papish folly. Thou couldst save him from a traitor’s death. Tell me that he has frequented taverns or mayhap dallied in a maiden’s lap, and instead of the rope, he will be deemed unfit to have charge of the abbey.”
I shook my head.
“Then will he die.” He shrugged away, sourish. “Fear not, when the abbey falls, I will see thee rewarded.”
“My vows of chastity, obedience and poverty are my reward—I seek no more than that.”
He laughed. “Without these walls thou wilt be broken ere thee hast lived an hour. Think how simple it was for a stranger to gain thy trust—to become intimate with thee?”
“But thou art not a stranger. And I know thou wouldst not see an unjust murder done. For thou knowest he is as a father to me—John!” I took him by the shoulder, directing to me his scent, his gaze, the very pith of him which was to remain to me unknown.
Mine eyes met his and I felt my spirit overcome by his practiced malaise.
“Verily,” I choked, letting go, “I have known that thou wert mine enemy.”
“Yet didst thou wish to love as God loves, loving even thine enemy,” he mocked, then became intent, “Jerome, would thou not desire to save thy father’s life?”
I stared at my tormentor in new confusion.
“Ye must know him for thy father, but it cannot be proved unless thee admit thou art his bastard. You fool, why dost thee think thou art favored?”
I pulled away and began to run. He knocked me down and when I caught back my breath, I found him kneeling at my side.
“Dost thou know who told me of the pope’s letter? The Subprior.” He smiled. “How easily you are surprised, little monk. Worry not, he too wilt suffer the traitor’s reward. Unless thou wouldst say that thy father hast sinned. Even to say that he hast gone hawking—”
The brush had scraped my hands and feet bloody. I stood, grieved but fixed. “I should trust thee, a servant of Cromwell, that he is my father? Thou may knowest me and aread my frailty. Yea, my heart may be transparent and easy to guile—marry, to thee it is nothing but a child’s toy. But thou knowest not the purity of the Abbott.”
“Verily I see that thou art a proud child and thy pride wilt not permit thee to see his life spared.”
I brushed the mud from my robe. “I trust in God’s merciful goodness that nothing will hap to him.”
The Royal Commissioners ransacked the Abbot’s rooms in the morning, searching through his papers for evidence
of treason against the King. After Lauds, I was about to wander back to my cell, when I was summoned to meet the Abbott in the Lady’s Chapel. Though well I knew I would not find consolation in solitude, I fretted he had discovered my disloyalty.
“My son,” he quoth then fell silent.
I prostrated myself before him, then sat by his side. Immediately, his accustomed bulk was of comfort.
“Abbott, I pray thou wilt submit unto John Haskewell and resign thy place.”
“And what should become of ye, aged and young, were I to do so? I must away to be examined by Cromwell and Parliament, and I trust to God that I can see our abbey spared from suppression yet again.”
“Abbott, prithee let me accompany thee to see Master Cromwell.”
“Nay my son, the Prior and the Subprior already go.”
“Abbott, I beseech thee to surrender. I know not what John Haskewell will do to thee.”
“I may suffer worldly harm, but shall I suffer far less in the hereafter.”
I was confounded by his sweet resolution and bowed mine head. “Yes, Abbott. Always am I helped forward by thine example.”
“I beg thee not to worry, child, by God’s grace shall I be wonderfully delivered. And thee must to Oxford. It is for this I have called thee.”
“Oxford? No, by this light, I will stay here until thou returnest.”
“Jerome, because thou hast shown thyself to be a scholar of worth, wilt thou study at Gloucester College. This day shalt thou go.”
“I had thought it was decided we had best wait till next year?”
“It hast been made possible. I trust thy wit and discretion on this matter.”
I put up mine hood.
“Yes, my son?”
“My father . . .” I kept mine eyes low. “Thou saith he wast a bumptious man?”
“Oh, a waggish, vainglorious fellow.”
“What did he—did he know of me?”
“He did not know of thee until long after thy birth. But when he learned of thy mother’s death did he repent his former life and take orders.”
“He is a monk?”
“O aye, he is an abbot.”
“Oh let me come! I will tell such lies the ears of heaven will bleed but thou shalt be spared!”
He smiled but did not look upon me. “Thou must to Oxford. This is my wish.”
My eyes watered sharp. “But what shall I do without thee?”
His hand took up mine. This was the hand that had first lifted me from my heart’s poverty. “Suffer we, my son?”
“Yes,” I said, “we suffer much.”
“I trust we never suffer alone, and in that lies our salvation, in that lies the heart of God.”
Men seized the Abbott, taking him to where their saddlebags were stuffed with our jewels and gold plate. John Haskewell was the last to mount, shouting: “Ye are no longer monks. Your servants are dismissed. Marston Abbey is now the property of the King.” Never did he look in my direction.
Before nightfall, the townsfolk, divers of whom we brothers had tended when sick, fed when hungry, counseled when vexed, descended on the monastery, stripping the roof and pillaging relics, taking books with which to wipe their arses. I gathered what volumes I could and straightaway rode to Oxford. I wept to abandon such dear familiarity.
The boy has a fever and begs me not to give him burnt dung with honey. I tell him next he will bid me put a turnip up his nose. I say if he is good I will get him a hot codling.
By my troth, I thought I had grown weary of meddling with this world for whose wickedness there is no remedy, but now by this blood-guilt am I more than lost, now am I damned. And here do I dally in needless contemplation when I shouldst be making haste to the market to buy lavender, sage, marjoram, rose and rue to make a mixture for the boy’s head. And a baked apple and those berries . . . But for what? Belike he shalt not live beyond this night, and perchance he should, am I no guide for the innocent. It is merciful to let him die, and ease his suffering.
I approach the pallet where he is sleeping, his cheek rose with heat, and think how easy t’would be to grant him everlasting sleep.
When I had word that the Abbott was being taken back to Marston, I made haste to return. It had felt unnatural to study in a walled garden of bluebells and wander the verdant hedges of Oxford with such sorrow pressing in.
I knew not then that the Abbot had had a brief trial, heard not before his peers in Parliament, but by a jury of Cromwell’s false friends who had found him guilty of treason.
As I rode up, the deserted abbey was first reflected in the pond. Our roof had gone. I walked about the ruins, then saw on the hill next to The Tower, a hastily erected gallows where three ropes hung. There stood I in my dread.
Shaking sick, I prayed in what was left of the nave. Twas almost dark when I walked mine horse under the abbey gate, and there I did see where they had piked the Abbot’s head.
So cumbrous was mine horror upon the gore that wast my father’s face, twas the full desolation of mine heart. It was then that God left me.
Yesterday I was upstairs when I heard the boy welcome a customer. As I came down the winding stair, saw I a man bent over the boy whose countenance recalled to me John Haskewell. I stepped back into the shadow of the stair and listened to him cajole the boy, then inquire for a copy of Confessio Amantis. Doubtless it was he. It couldst not have been another. Always will I know that unsparing voice. When he left, I flew down, and bid the boy to close the shop.
“I must go out this night,” said I.
“Can I come with you?” he asked.
“Nay, thou shalt eat thy supper and off to bed.”
The boy was angry and in a manner peeved began to rekindle the fire, making more dirt than flame.
I followed John Haskewell until he stopped outside a tavern. I stayed out of the light then laggardly went in after him.
Most of the Royal Commissioners of the Suppression hadst sith been rewarded, granted lands, knighted excepting Cromwell who was beheaded by King Henry for marrying him unto the unhandsome Queen Anne. For near on thirty years, I heard nothing of John Haskewell but that some vitriol launched by him against the King’s favorite had him turned off in disgrace.
Time had ravaged him. He had sith grown stout and pilgarlic, though now hadst he a thick beard. A singlewoman accosted him but he was too whittled for a dalliance and kept at the ale, jesting with any buffoon who wouldst harken. In a dark corner, recalling the treasuring safety of the abbey, those hours given over to abundant study, I drank myself merry.
When finally he left the tavern, I was fast upon him. Without thought, I, once Brother Jerome of Marston Abbey, resolved to do a murder. As he walked down a darkened alley, I struck the old knave until he staggered and fell.
“Devil take thee!” he swore. “What dost thou want of me?”
I kicked him until I could no longer.
“Look at me,” I said and knelt in the muck, roasting in my scorn, pulling his face to mine. “Dost thou know me thou villainous toad?” I smashed his face into the ground.
“Sir,” he tried blindly to crawl away, “whatere harm thee thinkst I have done I swear I have not!”
“Likely there is much blood on your conscience.” I kicked him again and he fell flat. “But this night do I avenge my father’s murder.”
He cursed foully, then seemed to swoon.
I tried to shake him awake. “Do you remember Brother Jerome?”
“Who is’t,” he slurred awake, “who is’t thou thinkst I murdered? Tell me a name . . .”
“Thou art to blame for the death of Abbot Wendover.” I put my knife to his throat.
He began to sob and cough up blood. “Nay, have mercy upon me, sir.” His weeping marked through the filth down his pitted face. “O God, after thy great goodness . . .”
The knife went from mine hand. As he prayed, I could not do it. Yet too late was it for mercy.
“Get to thy feet, swine.” I tried to raise him up but he
could not stand.
“Brother . . .” He lolled at my feet.
“Get ye home. Get up!”
His eyes slung back his head. “Dost thou know me?”
I knelt again. “I am Jerome. Thou art John—art thou not?”
He began to still. “Long I to go to God,” he muttered, his eyes searching backward into the darkness of his skull.
I drew his head onto my lap. On his forehead, I marked a cross with my thumb, and prayed: “Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help thee with the grace of the Holy Spirit. . . . May the Lord who frees thou from sin save thee and raise thee up. Through this holy anointing, may the Lord pardon thee what sins thou hast committed . . .”
And there on my knees did he die.
Night has come and the baked apple with which I did seek to beguile the boy has grown cold. All around his head is a halo of damp. He hath caught so bad a fever he is almost dead.
“Jerome? Thirsty.”
“Here.” I kneel next to my pallet, lifting a cup of tea to his lips.
“Do not go.”
“Pick up thy spirits. I will stay by thee.”
“Jesu, am I weary.”
“Ay”—I put a cool cloth over his forehead—“we are weary with our burthen.”
Mayhap this boy is not for the world of men and well I know I am not worthy to guide him. Yet sweet Lord, take him not. I will not promise Thee that I can again conjure the pure faith of my youth—forgive me that at least—but let me find a way near Thee.
Make me a clean heart. Renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from thy presence, and take not thine holy Spirit from me. O God, in the most corrupt of centuries, hear my prayer.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The latin phrase “O saeculum corruptissimum” or “the most corrupt of centuries” comes from a letter by a sixteenth-century monk Robert Joseph and is cited in The Division of Christendom: Christianity in the Sixteenth Century by Hans Joachim Hillerbrand.
ETERNAL THANKS
To Denise Shannon whose luminous patience, generosity, and literary divination is unparalleled.
The Man Who Shot Out My Eye Is Dead Page 18