Through the short nave, they went to a small door in the stonework. The crows knocked, opened the low door and pushed Jacques through, closing it behind him.
The Abbot appeared, his sharp blade of nose and pebbleblack eyes lending him a predatory air. With his heavily ringed hand, he indicated the chair opposite, staring at Jacques as if to take his measure. Papers were scattered across the desk, plans of some sort, edges curling upward in the damp, the smudged fingerprints of close observation distorting lines on the vellum.
The Abbot sat back in his chair. ‘Do you know what God wants?’
Startled by the suddenness of the question, Jacques answered without thinking. ‘No man does.’ Then, realising who he was addressing, ‘My humble apologies, sir. Father. Perhaps one such as yourself would have some insight a common tradesman such as myself would not aspire to. But myself, Father? I wouldn’t presume to know such a thing.’
The Abbot looked at him over spired fingers. His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know what all this is?’ He indicated to the strewn papers.
‘No, Father.’ Jacques kept his eyes down.
‘This,’ Suger said, voice dripping contempt, ‘everyone else tells me, is what God wants.’ He leaned forward, pushing papers aside, and rested his robed elbows on the desk. ‘Tell me, Le Cure, that is your name, is it not? Le Cure?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Enlighten me as to the nature of your workroom. They tell me it is a marvel to behold, though, looking at you, I can’t imagine it.’
‘There is no wonder, Father. I fear you have been misinformed. It is a workroom only, and a humble one at that.’
Suger smiled thinly. ‘Is it full of light as I have heard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is the ceiling high enough that one must hurt one’s neck to stare too long at it?’
‘I suppose that is true for some, Father.’
‘And tell me, Le Cure, tell me the very truth now for much depends on your answer. Are those sore necks caused by staring at the many high windows? In fact, is it, as I have been informed, more window than wall?’
Jacques stared at his hands, one on each trembling knee. There was no point in denying the Abbot’s information. Allowing for some exaggeration, it was all true enough. Perhaps not more window than wall, but certainly more window than seen anywhere else in this country, a much higher ceiling than usual.
He’d built it all in a frenzy when he finally made it home, bereft, his parents dead in his absence. Marie just fifteen, naive enough to marry him. In the early years of their marriage, nightmares and terror would come upon him, and he would slide from the bed to work by candlelight, concentrating on the memories in his hands; each day, a little more light seeping into the room.
Over the years, a few trusted patrons had seen for themselves what he had done. He swore them all to secrecy. But someone had talked. And now here he was with the Abbot.
‘Yes, Father. All you say is true. Though, please, Father, none of it was done with a blaspheming heart, and my wife had no part of it. In fact, she counselled me strongly against it. Spare her, for she, of the two of us, is pure at heart.’
‘And are you not, Le Cure? Pure of heart?’
‘I fear I may not be, Father. Though I have a great love of our Lord, my heart is no longer as pure as it once was.’ It was a strange feeling, to confess.
Suger took a sip of claret without taking his eyes from Jacques. ‘So, what happened, Le Cure?’ A note of scepticism had entered the Abbot’s voice. Here was not a man to treat lightly. ‘Where did you lose such purity as you imagine you have?’
‘I was at Antioch, Father.’ There, he said it.
The Abbot sat straighter in his chair, putting down the goblet and appraising Jacques with new interest. ‘After?’ he said. ‘Rebuilding?’
Jacques raised his eyes, meeting the other man’s gaze. He could do nothing now but offend if the wrong questions were asked.
‘Before,’ he said, his voice a scratching thing. ‘During, and after.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Thirteen when I left Saint Denis, twenty when I came home. My father seconded me to Lord Montagne. He took over a hundred of us, all apprentices, to build and rebuild as needed. As fodder for the Saracens, too, as it turned out.’
‘You wanted to go though, surely?’ the Abbot said. ‘I did. Though by then I was already cloistered here in the Abbey and unable to leave. What glory there must have been in such a struggle!’ He paused, head to one side. ‘Wasn’t there?’
‘Glory? No. I saw my companions die frozen in the snow, others of disease and starvation. My friends driven to commit evil by desperation. I saw Bartholomew with all his fine talk of a Holy Lance, and then I saw the fields littered with the bodies of those who believed in him.’ Jacques wiped at his eyes. ‘Forgive me, Father. I understand that God is your life, as he is mine, but I am bound by the souls of my dead companions to tell you that, though I saw many things in my time at Antioch, I only ever saw the hand of God once.’
Suger reared back in his chair. ‘God is in all things at all times! You blaspheme, Le Cure. Do you understand the consequences of what you are saying…and who you are saying it to?’
Jacques met the Abbot’s outrage with a boldness born of anger. ‘If it is as you say, Father, and God is in all things, then the God who attended Antioch is not one I am able to love.’
Silence grew, thick as a hedgerow, between them. Jacques was powerless and unwilling to take his words back or make excuses. Marie was right. He was a fool who should have died at Antioch.
The Abbot tapped a finger against the tabletop. ‘Where was the once?’
‘Pardon, Father?’
‘You said you saw the hand of God once while you were there. Where?’
‘Have you heard of the cave church of Saint Peter, Father?’
‘Of course.’
‘They say it is the oldest in all the Holy Land. We were rebuilding it after the siege. All of us, Saracens and Christians, all of us with any skill at masonry.’ Jacques smiled. ‘There were so few of us left by then, you see. One afternoon, we had finished the facade and were inside sheltering from a rainstorm when the sun came out and shone through the high windows. It shone equally on all of us, infidel and Christian alike. The Saracen captives had shown us so much, were generous with their building knowledge, far in advance of our own. We spoke the same language with our hands, if not with our voices. Did you know there was a language in stone, Father?’
Suger motioned impatiently for Jacques to continue.
‘We had become friends of sorts, Abib and I. We were sitting, resting, and a sharp blade of sunlight came through and lit up that ancient altar like nothing I’d ever seen before. I looked at Abib and he looked at me. It was as if God had reached down and touched us both. That was God.’ He sighed, spreading his hands before him. ‘And then it was over. And I came home.’
‘What happened to your friend? Abib, did you say?’
Jacques closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘One of the priests there made us crucify the Saracens when the building was complete. He followed us out into the fields, had us under guard, and watched as we put our fellow masons to the cross. Abib begged me. He begged. He had a family, children.’ Jacques opened his eyes and met those of Suger’s. ‘I don’t know, Father…I don’t know where God was then. Do you?’
Suger betrayed nothing of his thoughts. The Abbot could not, as a man of the Church, condone any of what had been said.
Jacques felt a finger of fear along his spine, his bravado showing itself as futile.
‘Tell me, Le Cure, as a mason who has supposedly built something of amazement to others in a simple workshop, what do you think of our Abbey?’ Suger offered Jacques a cup of water. ‘Think on it a moment before you answer. Nothing you say will give offence. No, no, I am quite serious in what I say. I am interested only in your ideas. If they displease me, we shall imagine them never said. We have no scribe and no-one listens at the door.’ As
if to prove his words, the Abbot stood and walked to the door, opening it wide and looking up and down the passage.
Jacques heard water dripping somewhere in the distance; felt chilled to the bone, weary with choices. He had never thought to be asked such a question, yet on all the Church days he had attended, he had thought of nothing but the answer.
‘Well?’ the Abbot asked, with the air of a man who had waited long enough.
There on Jacques’s shoulder lay the phantom warmth of a rough hand, by his ear the reassuring voice of a friend. Inshallah. His doubts fell away.
‘I would bring light in, Father, the light of God that it might shine on and uplift His people. Windows, using the new coloured glass, telling the stories in pictures so the illiterate might glory in his word. If you really want the truth, Father, your Church is dull. Dull, damp and killing to the true spirit of our Lord.’ In his excitement the words tumbled out. ‘I don’t know how you, yourself, cannot see this! His house should lift us up. Up towards heaven that we might see him clearly. I saw it at Antioch, in the Saracen buildings, the colours and the majesty of it, all illuminated.’ He turned to face the astonished Abbot standing motionless in the corner of the room. ‘Imagine the Saracen techniques in stone adapted to our own faith, our images. It would be, it would be…’ His words had run out, a blush crept up his neck.
‘Truly wondrous?’ said Suger.
‘Forgive me, Father. Yes, I truly think it could be.’
‘So, the unbeliever has a faith after all.’ Suger came around the desk and seated himself again. ‘I was beginning to wonder, Le Cure.’ He gestured again at the papers strewn haphazard across the table. ‘They all tell me it can’t be done. I have cast far and wide for a mason who would dare to build such a thing, and all they bring me is low ceilings, round archways, tiny windows good only for swallows to swoop. You can see for yourself the disrepair into which our Abbey has fallen under my predecessor. Every year, more pilgrims come to Saint Denis. Every feast day, bigger crowds.’
‘I have seen the crowding and the danger for myself, Father.’
‘Danger, indeed! If anyone knew how close the western entrance was to complete collapse, I daresay there would be far less pilgrims attending, faithful or no. It will have to be rebuilt, the whole western end, the nave, we need more chapels and more light. A bigger entrance…’
‘Or perhaps, entrances?’
‘Of course, Le Cure! And windows, high and bright. Higher than anyone has seen before.’ A knocking at the door interrupted. The Abbot put a finger to his lips. ‘Come in.’
A tonsured monk entered. ‘Forgive my interruption, Father. Supper is ready in the cloister if you wish to partake.’
‘Thank you, John.’
The door closed, the ebullient mood of moments before broken.
‘I can make a model, show how it can be constructed. There are new ways to support the weight of the stone, new frameworks. I would need skilled men, but I can teach them,’ Jacques said.
‘A model, you say. Good. You have two days.’
‘Two days? That is hardly long enough. I will have no time to sleep.’ The words were out of his mouth before he’d thought to catch them. Jacques felt weak at how freely he had spoken with this man, how close he had come to a noose.
‘This is God’s work, Le Cure. Never forget we are His servants. Do you think our Lord took time for sleep on the six days? Three days then, and you will present yourself here at the Abbey. Ask for John, he will bring you straight to me. I want the utmost secrecy for now. Tell no-one. If anyone enquires, tell them we are looking at replacing some pavestones. God willing, you and I may do great things together. Great things for the glory of our Lord. Who knows?’ Suger put a hand to Jacques’s shoulder and ushered him out the door.
Out in the courtyard, Jacques’s energy deserted him, and he took a long breath. It felt like his first since entering the Abbey. He leant against the rough wall, palms caressing the stone absently. A cloud shifted in the perfect sky, the weak sun breaking through bathing his upturned face.
The Recipe for Jam
Late afternoon light slanted across the paddocks, gifting shimmering crowns to the orderly rows of the orchard. Up by the house, the view over the farm still gave Del pause after so many years. He set down two buckets of late fruit in the deepening shade by the back step, wiping his boots before going inside. From long habit, he washed his hands under the tap by the door and banged the dust from his hat against his good knee.
On entering the kitchen, unease prickled the hair on his arms, though at first he couldn’t put his finger on the cause. The room seemed as familiar as ever. The big wooden table with its mismatched chairs looked the same as it had for the last fifty-odd years, and the worn linoleum he’d not got around to replacing still curled in one corner.
A raw patch high on the wall alerted him. Four ragged holes in the plaster still fresh where it had come away. Marjorie’s shelf was missing. Del wondered whether he should have seen this coming. He threw his hat none too gently towards the table, and it skidded against a jar, which he managed to catch before it hit the floor. The private foolishness of his awkward dance only caused his irritation to rise. Damn the woman! He examined the jar in his hand, the label declaring it peach, best in show, dated this year.
Del went outside and stalked around to the heap out the back of the house where they’d put all sorts of unwanted items, waiting for enough to gather to make it worth a trip to the tip. In truth, as often as things were taken out there, others mysteriously made their way back inside. He wasn’t sure if it had been Marjorie’s idea or his own to start this halfway point between the useful and the not—Marjorie’s probably. She had a way of going ahead and doing things, rationalising later.
Sure enough, the timber shelf had been tossed there, the nails still bright. He lifted it gingerly, mindful of snakes who liked to make a home amid the debris. Years ago, he’d been heading to the house for lunch and heard a scream, rushed to find his wife out here with her apron held over her face and a tiger snake making for the back paddock. He’d cut it cleanly in half with a long-handled shovel.
‘Why in God’s name have you got that apron over your head with a snake about the place?’ he’d asked.
‘I thought it might not see me, I suppose.’
Del looked at her, standing with her green dress backlit against the sun, the line of her thigh under the sheer fabric trembling slightly. A slow grin spread across his face. ‘Lucky for you, he didn’t think you were a tree.’
She laughed, head thrown back to the light and her arms held out towards him. ‘You must think it’s the silliest thing I’ve done.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’d have to think hard.’
All the rest of that day, as Del went about the endless chores of the farm, he’d thought about the incident and smiled. Marjorie could do that for him, hand him a picture to carry in his head that he could take out at any time, like a coin to polish.
Now, he balanced the rough timber of the shelf in both hands and studied the patches where he’d sanded too quickly, impatient to be finished with the building and furnishing of the house so he could tend to the fields, bend to the seasons.
They had built the house high up here on the ridge, far enough away from his uncle and aunt’s that they might feel it a private world of their own. At first, there had been only the two main rooms and an outhouse; one half of the structure comprising the kitchen, with its long timber-framed window running above the sink, and the other a plain square bedroom, more glass than wall, looking down the valley towards the river. When he had protested the expense, Marjorie had said she would rather have a small house with big windows than a mansion with none. Without her knowing, he’d ordered the largest panes he could find, putting up with the ribbing from his mates about indulging her.
‘Begin as you mean to go on, mate.’
It hadn’t mattered a jot. Del wanted to get it right from the start. They’d lived in the back room at
his uncle’s all winter, whispering their plans to each other in the night. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d been grateful to save the money. The building taking shape before them, their own home, gave their relationship fresh oxygen, as though they’d been underwater for too long and were finally coming up for air.
The day before they moved in, Del had sat on the grass outside and looked out across the fields, feeling all the splintered pieces of his world slide in tandem to make a perfect shape. His wife, his house, and the surety of inheriting his uncle’s farm. There was not one thing to add to the frame in his mind that could make anything better than it was in that moment, and he told her so when she brought out steaming cups of tea. She rested her head against his shoulder, making him feel more capable than he believed himself to be.
‘There is one thing, Del. That would make it perfect.’
‘What’s that?’ He’d thought she’d say children, or perhaps a puppy.
‘A shelf.’
‘A shelf? There’s plenty of shelves already.’
‘Another one.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Come.’ She spilled tea as she jumped to her feet, holding out a hand to him. ‘I’ll show you.’
Del followed her into the empty kitchen and watched her reach high up the wall. He weighed his words before speaking. ‘It’s too high. You won’t reach things easily.’
‘I don’t care. I want a shelf right there, an open one. A plank, really. That’s all. Just a simple thing.’
‘Why there?’
She smiled at him. ‘You’ll see.’
He put it up the following day as his uncle grumped about lugging furniture, glad to have his own house back but sour at all the heavy lifting he was having to do while his nephew fooled around with a bit of wood.
‘No good there,’ his uncle said once it was nailed in place. ‘Too high. She won’t reach anything without a stool.’
‘It’s what she wants.’
His uncle had stomped down the hill, muttering about whipped dogs and the end of days.
Their life fell into a gentle rhythm once they settled in. Without the fear of being overheard, they adjusted to one another’s ways, his wife proving to be compliant in many things and not at all in others. Navigating these waters was a delicate dance he never quite grasped. In any disagreement when he felt under pressure of losing ground, his gaze would settle on the high empty shelf.
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