Blood Moon

by Stephen Wheeler

  But before she finally went up Effie turned and mouthed something at me. She did it quickly and only the once before disappearing from view, but the memory of it was seared into my brain. I caught my breath and watched them slowly ascend the stairs away from me as I tried to force the girl’s mime into recognisable words. But they made no sense. What I thought she said…that is to say, what it looked like she said was…

  Ee-ma-mum-ma.

  I mouthed the phrase several times to myself:

  ‘Ee-ma-mum-ma, Ee-ma-mum-ma.’

  No, I could make nothing intelligent of it. I wanted to run up the stairs and ask her to repeat it out loud but I knew that would probably end with her getting an even more severe beating from her bullying master than I was sure she was about to get. But I could tell from the look of urgency on her face it meant something to her, and whatever that something was, she desperately wanted me to know it.

  Chapter 4

  A NOSEBLEED

  Ee-ma-mum-ma.

  What did it mean? I found myself muttering the phrase over and over to myself. It clearly meant something to Effie, something important enough to risk her master’s displeasure in order to tell me. But for the life of me I could not make out what it meant.

  Ee-ma-mum-ma.

  Maybe I was saying it wrong. Maybe if I tried a different emphasis the meaning would leap out at me. I tried again out loud:

  ‘EE-ma-mum-ma. Ee-ma-MUM-ma. Ee-MA-mum-ma. Ee-ma-mum-MA…’

  ‘Are you all right, brother?’

  ‘Ma…ha…Eh? What?’

  I spun round to find Prior Herbert standing behind me with a curious look on his face.

  ‘Herbert. You frightened me near to death,’ I said holding my hand over my heart.

  ‘Well, we certainly wouldn’t want that, would we?’ he smirked. ‘I was merely asking if you were well. You seem a little…distracted.’

  ‘Thinking, brother, that’s all - I was thinking.’

  He shook his head. ‘No brother, you were talking - to yourself this time.’ He sighed. ‘It seems you cannot hold your tongue even when alone. Well I’m glad to have caught you. I wanted to make sure you’ll be at Chapter this morning.’

  ‘Is there any reason why I should not be?’ I said recovering myself.

  ‘No no,’ he smiled. ‘I just wanted to be sure, that’s all. Until later then.’ And with that he was gone again.

  I didn’t like that smile. Whenever Herbert was pleased with himself it usually meant bad tidings for someone else. What was he up to? And why did he want to know if I’d be in Chapter today? I was always there unless I had a pressing need to be somewhere else - a patient requiring my urgent attention. Besides, Chapter was something most monks would wish to attend since it is the one time of the day when we all come together to discuss the important business of the abbey. The rest of the time we are dispersed about our duties. Chapter is also the time when disciplinary matters are dealt with, which can on occasion be…I won’t say entertaining, but certainly distracting. Closer to heaven than the common herd we may be, but monks are still men, and since only God is perfect it is inevitable that even the most saintly among us errs on occasion. It is therefore a central tenet of our calling that we correct our transgressions if we are to progress along that spiritual journey of which I have already spoken. For “if the Devil tempted Christ in the desert, what man is there that will not be tempted?” Or so wrote Cesarius of Heisterbach.

  Anyway, the point is that Chapter is our one opportunity for us monks to own up to our faults in a spirit of true humility and that in the full scrutiny of our brother monks. This is necessary for occasionally we are not even aware that we have sinned. And where this is the case, or if we deny or refuse to self-accuse, someone else can usually be found to do it for us. We are reminded that this is done not from spite but out of compassion and as such we are not to bear a grudge against our accuser who, as it were, like the razor of God shaves us of the unsightly hair of sin. Of course, this gives plenty of scope for vexatious allegation - although no-one would suggest that a brother monk could be capable of such base motive. In any event, this was of little concern to me for I had not, so far as I was aware, been guilty of any wrongdoing recently that would attract the censure of my brother monks. I therefore went into Chapter this morning with a cheerful heart and a clear conscience.

  Prior Herbert opened the session with the usual prayer of supplication:

  ‘The Peace of the Lord be with you and may He give His blessings on these our solemn deliberations.’

  We rejoined with a resounding “Amen”, all seventy monks in unison, and sat down on the stone benches that line the walls of the chapterhouse to hear the day’s business. When all were settled Brother Michael read the daily chapter from the Rule of Saint Benedict which today was Chapter 53 – appropriately enough in light of our visitors from Norfolk, viz: Let all guests who arrive be received as Christ, because He will say: “I was a stranger and you took Me in”. Brother Michael then sat down and Prior Herbert rose to address us.

  First, he related more of the details of the war in France and the distressing news of the defeat of King John’s allies in Flanders. Prior Herbert did not linger over this for too long except to extend the hope that now that the king was back on English soil he might at last find time to devote to specifically English matters – by which we all understood he meant Hugh Northwold’s bid to be our new abbot. But for once, mercifully, even that matter was allowed to rest there rather than to rehearse the arguments yet again with all the usual acrimonious disagreements between the brothers. I presumed the reason for this self-restraint was out of courtesy for the stranger in our midst whom I’d already noted sitting at the front of the room when we filed in - a tall, rather sickly young man not above twenty summers, thin and pale of complexion. This man Prior Herbert now brought forward to present to us.

  ‘Brothers, I would ask you to welcome today into our midst Brother Eusebius.’ He extended his hand towards the young man who stood up for our inspection.

  Herbert then continued: ‘Brother Eusebius is a member of the Priory Church of the Holy Cross and Blessed Virgin at Shouldham in our neighbouring county of Norfolk. As many of you know, the canons of Shouldham are not Benedictines like us but follow instead the Rule of Saint Augustine of Hippo – hence his rather exotic attire.’

  Herbert was referring to the young man’s tunic of black wool which was unusual covered as it was in a white cloak and hood and was therefore quite different from our own robe of plain black wool. Herbert’s comment was meant as a light-hearted jest designed no doubt to put the stranger at his ease, and we duly responded with polite laughter.

  Herbert then concluded his introduction: ‘Brother Eusebius will be staying with us for a while and I hope you will welcome him into our family in the usual way.’

  At this there was a general murmur of agreement among my brothers and many went up to the stranger with “smiles and tears of joy in their eyes” as befitted such a welcome.

  I should just mention here that there is nothing unusual in having a guest religious from another order come to stay at the abbey. Monks often spend time away from their own houses and for a whole variety of reasons: For study or reflection, or simply to give the man a break from his normal routine. The monastic life, though rewarding in so many ways, is not an easy one. Some men, especially the young, find the discipline difficult. It is often the first time in their lives that they have been away from their families and homes. And however welcoming we may be, a house composed entirely of men with no female around to soften the corners of our harsh masculinity can be very intimidating, especially for a boy brought up at his mother’s side.

  There can, however, be a very different reason for such a visitation to Saint Edmunds. We are occasionally asked to host men whose behaviour has been, shall we say, problematic. Far from being intimidated by their new lives, such men are themselves disruptive to it. I speak here of those who are lucky - or perhaps unlucky -
enough to have been granted visions that are denied to the rest of us. Often these sensitive souls - Euphorics as they are called - are apt to behave in ways not entirely conducive to communal living. They may, for instance, cry out to God at inappropriate moments – during the singing of the office, say, or at night. Small communities of a dozen or so men find it difficult to accommodate such unsettling behaviour and the monk concerned is sent away to a larger house such as ours which has the space and numbers to absorb such unsettling behaviour without restraining it.

  Of course, the cause of such disruption may be nothing to do with spiritual sensitivity but something else entirely. I well remember the unfortunate incident a year or two back when Gaspard, our pet billy-goat which used to have free range of the cloister, one night got into the dormitory while the monks were asleep. What with the late hour when the mind is at its most susceptible, one or two of our more sensitive brethren reacted badly to the invasion. To be fair, it was the height of the Interdict when nerves were already frayed and we were feeling somewhat cast adrift in a Godless world. In the terror of the midnight hour when all manner of evil stalks the land, they glimpsed the horns and the cloven feet, felt Gaspard’s beard and hot breath on their cheeks and came to the inevitable conclusion. The eviscerated remains of poor Gaspard were discovered next morning strewn across the cloister garth. To this day some of my brothers still maintain that the Devil was vanquished that night.

  That being said, there are genuine religious sensitives and such men are to be venerated and cosseted. Often a period away from their own houses and the guide of a sympathetic chaplain will still their troubled minds and give them the strength to return to their communities refreshed and repaired in body and soul. If not then they may decide to move on, perhaps to a different order or possibly out of the cloister altogether. I wondered if this young man was one such.

  The business of the day concluded we awaited the Verba mea which marked the end of Chapter for today and we could all return to our daily tasks. But then Prior Herbert held up his hand once more for silence.

  ‘Brothers, before we disperse there is the small matter of our customary discipline at this hour.’

  Oh dear, I’d feared as much. That smirk on Herbert’s face when we spoke earlier - someone was for it.

  Herbert recited the usual formula: ‘He who is in error having grievously sinned against God and Saint Edmund step forward and receive due punishment according to the tenets of our order.’

  We waited. No-one moved.

  Herbert continued: ‘He who has knowingly sinned should freely admit his fault now - or be exposed by others.’

  Still no-one moved.

  Herbert clearly had someone in his sights and I pitied the poor fellow. Whoever he was he must be hoping that another will step into the breach - there’s usually someone who will volunteer. Brother Mathias, for instance, was forever admitting to the most trifling foibles. Last week he accused himself of not chewing his food the required fifty times. But not today, it seemed. We waited on, the tension becoming oppressive. I leaned forward a little in my seat and glanced surreptitiously along the line of brothers to see if anyone either side of me was about to rise, but no-one seemed to be. I leaned back again.

  ‘Very well,’ said Herbert at last, ‘then I must name him myself.’ And then I heard the words that every monk dreads: ‘Master Walter de Ixworth, step forward please.’

  My jaw fell open. Me? Surely there was some mistake. I looked around the house but every eye was avoiding mine. No, it seemed I had not misheard. It was me all right. But what had I done? My mind raced but I could think of nothing.

  ‘Master Walter – if you please,’ said Herbert again, more forcefully this time and fixed me with his eye.

  Involuntarily I felt myself begin to rise desperately trying to think and slowly made my way to the front where Prior Herbert was waiting with the expression on his face hovering between sadness and satisfaction.

  ‘Brother Walter de Ixworth,’ he intoned loud enough for the furthest and deafest among us to hear, ‘confess your sin before your brothers, receive your due punishment and beg forgiveness of our lord God who knows all that is in our hearts.’

  God may well know it, but I did not. My lips moved but no sensible sound emerged.

  Herbert leaned forward and whispered in my ear, ‘Tongue-tied at last, brother?’

  No, surely that wasn’t it? Not the business in the courtyard with Onethumb? That minor infringement didn’t deserve the punishment it appeared I was about to receive for I now saw behind Herbert’s chair the bundle of willow rods used to beat transgressors. That particular penalty is usually reserved only for serious offences such as fighting, murder or sodomy. But it seemed Herbert was determined to use it on me. From the expression on his face I’d almost say he was enjoying the prospect.

  ‘Kneel brother if you please, and remove your robe.’ He signalled to the subprior to hand him the rods.

  Still confused and in a state of shock, I obeyed pulling my habit over my head so that I was dressed now only in my shift and braies. I thanked God it was not summer or I might well be completely naked before my fellows. I knew what I was supposed to do next: Confess the sin for which I was indicted. But confess to what?

  ‘Brother Prior,’ I announced at last. ‘I do freely confess that I am a woeful sinner and humbly beg forgiveness,’ and then added quietly, ‘if you could just remind me what exactly it is I have done?’

  Herbert exploded with fury. He swished the rods through the air several times to flex his wrist thus making a pleasant, if unnerving, whistling sound as they passed my ear.

  ‘Brother, you compound one transgression with another,’ spat Herbert. ‘You know your sin. Contrition should be your watchword now. Contrition.’

  ‘Oh I am contrite, brother,’ I agreed. ‘Erm - perhaps if I knew the name of my accuser I might better repent the sin?’

  ‘I accuse you, brother,’ he growled.

  ‘For speaking out loud?’

  Herbert snorted with contempt. ‘No, not for speaking out loud, brother. For consorting with a woman, the Lady Adelle de Gray.’

  His voice rose as he spoke these last words eliciting a few genuine gasps of horror from my brother monks. Put like that I suppose it did sound shocking. It is absolutely the worst crime in the calendar for a monk to have any dealings with a woman within the bounds of the abbey. In this case there were mitigating circumstances which given the chance I might have been able to explain. But it didn’t look as though I was going to get the chance.

  ‘Do you deny it brother? Before you answer I warn you, there is a witness.’

  A witness? Ah yes: Brother Gregor. No doubt he would have gone straight to Herbert with the news.

  ‘I don’t deny that I visited the lady,’ I began awkwardly, ‘but -’

  ‘You hear that, brothers? Brother Walter does not deny visiting the woman alone in her bedchamber while her husband was absent,’ interrupted Herbert.

  More murmurings of disapproval. Herbert was clearly savouring every moment. I couldn’t help thinking he had been looking for a reason to do this ever since he lost his battle with my mother. This was his way of paying her back. Well, he was about to have satisfaction at last. The “crime” having been admitted, he raised the bundle of canes high above my shoulders and I braced myself for the blow. But before he could bring them down again there came a commotion from the opposite side of the chamber. A cry of anguish rang out with brothers rushing from their seats. We all turned to look and we saw that at the centre of the upheaval was Brother Eusebius.

  In the confusion that followed I remained on my knees while Herbert jiggled his collection of canes impatiently not knowing what to do. But the focus had already shifted from him to the side where a crowd of monks had surrounded Eusebius. Even from my kneeling position I could see that blood was pouring from the young man’s face. Being the only medic present it was clearly my place to deal with the situation. But equally clearly as a pen
itent about to be punished I could do nothing without permission of the prior. Several of my brother monks pleaded with Herbert to release me so that I could attend to the patient. Herbert looked on the verge of apoplexy. Finally he conceded defeat. He made a rapid sign of the cross:

  ‘Brother Walter, consider yourself absolved – this time. Oh, do what you can for the boy.’

  So saying, he stormed out of the chapterhouse hurling from him the bundle of rods that clattered harmlessly against the wall.

  Chapter 5

  BROTHER EUSEBIUS

  ‘How are you feeling now, my son?’

  ‘Still a little light-headed, master.’

  I chuckled. ‘Hardly surprising since it is from your head that the blood escaped. Half its weight is now lying on the floor of the chapterhouse!’

  Eusebius looked alarmed.

  ‘I jest, brother,’ I reassured him. ‘Where blood is concerned a little goes a long way. Come, lie down and raise your feet. We will soon put the colour back into your cheeks.’

  We were in my laboratorium where I’d taken Eusebius to recover. If I thought he looked pallid before the nosebleed, he looked almost ghostlike now. But I was confident that with a little rest he’d be fine. Nosebleeds are a not an uncommon event in religious houses. They are particularly frequent among younger men new to a life of austerity. The sudden change in diet in particular disrupts the balance of the body’s humours resulting in a build-up of surplus blood which is then expelled through the most convenient orifice – in this case, the nose. When this happens, the initial treatment is to sit the patient down and place something cold and dry on the forehead – something like the large iron key which is what I had used on the boy in the chapterhouse. This temporarily cools the hot and moist blood thus stemming the flow. But it is only a temporary solution. The excess blood would have to be siphoned off later using either leaches or a drain in the arm. But it is a simple enough procedure with no lasting ill effects.