Blood Moon

by Stephen Wheeler

  He came fully into the room and stood in the glow of my oil lamp looking rather nervous. ‘Forgive the intrusion, master. I…I have not been sleeping well lately.’

  I smiled cheerfully. ‘Another one. Well I can give you something for that.’ I went to my shelf of concoctions.

  ‘Another one, master?’

  ‘The new man from Shouldham, Eusebius, was having similar problems.’

  I noticed he flinched at my words, and waited.

  ‘It’s not a potion I need, master,’ he said at last.

  ‘No?’ I stopped fumbling around my shelves and waited, but he seemed hesitant to speak. ‘Timothy, there is no need to be shy. Whatever you say to me here will go no further, you know that. And I have been a doctor for many more years than you have been alive. Whatever it is that is troubling you I am sure to have come across it before and will not shock me.’

  His frown deepened distorting that clear brow of his. It pained me to see God’s perfection so deformed. They all had it - the mother, the daughters, the sons - an unusual beauty of countenance that is rare and precious that lifted the heart whenever I saw one of them. I waited, smiling affably, until he was ready to speak.

  ‘Master, do you believe that on the Day of Judgement we will atone for our sins here on earth?’

  ‘That is what Christ taught us,’ I nodded. ‘But you are a young man with many years ahead of you before you have to worry on that score. Plenty of time to correct any misdeeds you may, or may imagine you have, committed.’

  His frown deepened. ‘Mis-thoughts as well as misdeeds?’

  ‘Those too,’ I nodded wondering where this was going.

  He looked at me shyly. ‘What about unnatural thoughts, master?’

  Ah. That I hadn’t anticipated. But then, with Timothy’s particular physical attributes it is not hard to see the opportunities to stray are more plentiful than for most.

  ‘What does your novice master say?’ I prompted gently.

  ‘Brother Solomon counsels patience.’

  I nodded. ‘Solomon is a wise man. Timothy, we are all God’s children, all of us human with human feelings and failings. Perhaps you should simply try to avoid situations where you might be tempted -’

  ‘No, you do not understand, master,’ he said, his cheeks colouring. ‘It is not I who is tempted.’

  I brightened at his words. ‘Oh well, in that case, you need not worry. Just be sure to keep company at all times and not be alone. Strength is in the many.’

  ‘That is not always easy when one is lying…so close.’

  ‘You mean it is someone in your own dormitory? In the novices’ hall?’

  He lowered his head. ‘At night he whispers, telling me things I do not wish to hear. I try to stop my ears and sleep but he wakes me again with more words.’ He looked at me in anguish. ‘Oh master, such words.’

  I cupped my chin thoughtfully. I knew, of course, that such things went on in the cloister and that the young, because of their innocence or curiosity, were especially vulnerable. And if it is an older man then he can be hard to resist. Friendship can be mistaken for something more intimate. The problem is always present in a community such as ours devoid as it is entirely of female contact. That is this very reason the novices have their own dormitory so that a closer eye can be kept on them. But they cannot be watched every minute of the day and night. My duty, however, was clear: To preserve this child’s innocence if I possibly could - if it wasn’t already too late.

  ‘Listen to me Timothy, you must tell me of whom you speak. I promise it will go no further but if I am to help you I have to know the source of the problem.’ I forced a laugh. ‘After all, you wouldn’t want me to chop off your left foot if the wart is on the right, would you?’

  He smiled briefly at my poor attempt at humour, but then frowned again. ‘I do not wish to get anyone into trouble, master.’

  ‘You are a good and generous young man. What possible trouble could you cause?’

  He lowered his eyes. ‘It is the one you mentioned earlier, master. The new one.’

  ‘Eusebius?’ I nodded. Of course. Why did I not guess this earlier? It made sense. His obsession with Our Lady; his lack of sleep - even his nosebleeds were all symptomatic of a troubled mind. It seemed from what Timothy was saying that Eusebius’s problems were more than just religious.

  ‘I will speak to your novice master. Do not worry, I will be discreet. I will not mention our conversation, merely introduce the subject as if it were from my own observations.’ I smiled encouragingly. ‘Rest assured you will not be bothered again.’

  ‘Did I do wrong in telling you, master?’

  ‘No Timothy, you did not do wrong. You did exactly right. You have saved your own soul and possibly that of your brother, too.’

  He smiled with relief. ‘That was what I was hoping you’d say, master.’

  I made the sign of the cross above his head. ‘Go in peace, my son, in the knowledge that all will be well.’

  Anyone other than Timothy I might have delayed helping, but the child had had enough tragedy in his life and deserved a little of my time. And Eusebius was also my responsibility, however reluctantly. I could spare a little time to sort out what was surely just a matter of separating the two young men in their dormitory. I therefore sought out his novice master first thing the next morning.

  Solomon was a kindly soul who had been doing the job of novice master for as long as I could remember. Wise by name and wise by nature, he was an old man now but his patience and understanding of the young far exceeded that of anyone younger, or indeed older. I found him in the herb garden engaged in his other great passion, horticulture - another pastime requiring patience and understanding. When he saw me he stopped hoeing and wiped his pate with a rag.

  ‘The garden is looking beautiful, brother, if a little bare,’ I told him. ‘You achieve miracles when the ground is so hard and offers such little promise.’

  ‘Autumn is the time of consolidation, brother. The trees shed their leaves and draw in their sap in readiness for the next season of growth. The little plants sleep in the soil ready to awaken when the time is ripe and they can achieve God’s design for them to fill the world with fruitfulness and joy. These things cannot be rushed.’

  We walked a little to the furthest side of his garden. I had forgotten just how reinvigorating can be a stroll in a quiet garden, refreshingly so after so much that had been going on lately.

  ‘Good habits are not achieved with blows,’ said Solomon. ‘The weak need gentleness from others, kindness, compassion and loving forbearance – or so thought Saint Anselm of Canterbury.’

  ‘And you agree with him?’

  ‘We are all vulnerable to doubts and temptations, brother, the young especially who are often restless and fearful. It is what the Devil hopes to exploit. In this place he sometimes shows us the delights that we once enjoyed or have yet to enjoy and tries to tempt us.’ He smiled. ‘I know why you are here, brother. I saw young Timothy returning to the dormitory last evening.’

  ‘And are we right to give in to those temptations? Or should we cut them out like a canker?’

  He considered for a moment. ‘The question is, I suppose, how deep should we cut? Is your eye so keen that you know when to stay the knife? Too little and the canker returns. Too deep you kill the plant.’ He stopped and looked at me. ‘You were never one of my novices, Walter, but even you were young and innocent once yourself. Can you remember asking me if God watches us every minute of the day, even when we are sitting on the latrine?’

  ‘I asked you that?’ I said, amazed.

  ‘You did. You were always a very literal child.’

  I laughed. ‘Hardly a child. My childhood was squandered in too many medical schools.’

  ‘You were still a child to me, twenty years my junior. But since you can’t remember asking the question you won’t remember my answer.’

  ‘Yes I can. You told me that God loves us for our faults as well as o
ur virtues. He does not look away when we blush.’

  We walked on. ‘But the Devil is subtler than that. He sours the air by suggesting that sins committed within these walls are natural and inevitable in the young and would be cancelled out merely by virtue of their monastic vows. Defeating him is not achieved by mutilating the soul but by showing compassion and forgiveness.’

  ‘There are some here who may not agree with you.’

  ‘Then they must take charge. But while these delicates are in my hands they will not be choked or cut down before their tender shoots have had a chance to reach the light.’ He bent down, picked up a small pot of apparently bare earth and held it out to me. ‘It’s Meadowsweet. Put it on your shelf, nurture it and next year you will be rewarded with a pretty yellow flower. The stem and leaves are also useful medicine.’

  I took the pot from him gratefully.

  ‘I thought young Timothy was looking a bit peaky when he returned last night. You are the doctor but I prescribed a little more air for his lungs. That is why I moved him from his usual place in the dormitory to the other side of the room by a window where the air is more plentiful. I’m sure he will sleep more soundly there.’

  I smiled. ‘You are a good and wise man, Dom Solomon.’

  ‘We can only follow where Christ leads, Master Walter.’

  I next sought out Eusebius. I was still his mentor and it was my duty to correct any errors. I found him seated in his usual place beneath the statue of Our Lady. Today he had another huge volume on his lap and was engrossed reading it. I slowed my pace uncertain how to make the correct approach on so delicate a subject. I did not want to be too direct and embarrass the boy but nor did I want to be so circumspect as to be obscure. Striking the right balance was not going to be easy. I wasn’t sure that I was equal to the task.

  I put on my most avuncular smile. ‘Good day to you, my son,’ I said glancing at the tome he had on his lap. ‘What are you reading today? Ah - the letters of Saint Anselm of Canterbury. Very apt. Anselm was much influenced by the founder of your own rule, Saint Augustine of Hippo.’

  He was looking at me expectantly. There was nothing for it but to plunge straight in:

  ‘Eusebius, I -’

  ‘Master, do you believe that the Devil wishes to capture all men for himself and that he particularly wishes to seduce us monks who by our lives are vulnerable to his jaws?’

  I drew back. ‘Erm, well yes I suppose so. Feelings of restlessness and discontent are natural in the young. Is that…how you feel, my son?’ Maybe this was going to be easier than I thought.

  He frowned. ‘I do think sometimes the Evil One is trying to tempt me. Sometimes he puts thoughts into my head that I wish were not there. Thoughts that are…unworthy.’ He lowered his eyes.

  Bless the boy - he really was trying to confess. My heart was filled. I determined to ease his burden if I possibly could:

  ‘Brother, I have to tell you that I know of your affliction.’

  He didn’t look up. ‘Do you master?’

  I nodded. ‘Indeed I do. And I understand. Well no - I sympathize at least. I wish to put your mind at rest that we are all here to help you. It is not unknown for a young man to have thoughts such as yours. Your solution is in prayer. But in addition to prayer there must be…forbearance.’

  ‘Forbearance?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Forbearance - or perhaps restraint is a better word. A good word, yes, very apt under the erm…’

  I was not finding this at all easy. But once again Eusebius eased my burden, blessed boy. He looked at me shyly.

  ‘You are speaking of Timothy. Is that why his bed has been moved?’

  ‘That was not my doing – but I approve. And it will help you both.’ I sighed with relief. ‘You must see you are being unfair to Timothy.’

  He nodded. ‘I have been keeping him awake at night.’

  ‘Have you?’ I squirmed uncomfortably on the bench. ‘Eusebius, I have spoken to Dom Solomon - a good and knowledgeable man. He is far more experienced on the subject than I am. He is your best guide. Consult with him. And in the meantime you have my blessing. Yes indeed.’ I tapped him perfunctorily on the shoulder. ‘Good. Excellent. Well, I’m glad we’ve had this little chat. Go in peace, brother.’

  I made the sign of the cross over his head just as I had over Timothy’s and rose to leave feeling I had done my duty. If he knew there were people there to support him he might find the strength to help himself. But I could at least satisfy myself that I had a better understanding of the boy now. What I had thought was a purely religious fervour I could see it was something far more down to earth. Rather more human. I must say that the revelation came as something of a relief. Now that I saw the true nature of his problem, while he was not out of the woods, at least it was manageable given the right precautions and he would have no gentler and understanding a manager than old Solomon. I hurried away feeling rather pleased with myself at a good job well done.

  Chapter 18

  KING JOHN

  With Eusebius’ problem resolved I could hope at last to have time to concentrate fully on the de Grays. But it was not to be. Suddenly there was no more time for anything for all at once the king was upon us. Carts and people and animals had begun arriving at the abbey ahead of King John himself. There was the usual vast baggage train of court personnel and paraphernalia – clerks, scribes, chaplains, ushers, cofferers, cooks, saddlers, armourers, smiths, carpenters, wheelwrights, leather-workers, yeomen, tent-makers, fletchers, minstrels, heralds together with those essential items of personal comfort that John could not do without: His bed, his tapestries, his windows, even his latrine seat and, I was amused to note, his bath. All this vast panoply of goods and people accompanied the king wherever he went be it on pilgrimage or to war. In my mind’s eye I can still see them now. It seemed at the time as though an occupying army had suddenly invaded our peaceful community - as, indeed, it had.

  Even so, it wasn’t as bad as the first time he visited the abbey. Then it had been a great pageant with the newly enthroned King John looking young and splendid and eager to win his subjects’ approval. It had also been a gloriously sunny day in June then, not this dull November morn, and he had cantered in on a splendid steed at the head of an army and supported by all the great men of church and state. This time a tired, middle-aged and portly John limped into town escorted by just a few of the lesser magnates among them, I was dismayed to note, Geoffrey de Saye who must have ridden out specially to meet him. But what drew my attention most was his personal escort for it consisted almost entirely of foreign mercenaries – Flemings, Bergundians, Genoans. It seemed Peter the cellarer had been right and the king could no longer trust his own people to protect him.

  He did, however, have one enthusiastic supporter waiting for him. Obsequious as ever, Prior Herbert was waiting at the south gate to greet his monarch and make his supplication on bended knee. No-one was ever quite sure where Herbert’s true loyalties lay but rather like the reeds in the River Lark they were forever bending this way and that with the prevailing political current. Mine wasn’t the only lip that day that curled with contempt.

  Once within the abbey walls the royal party was quickly escorted to the freshly-scrubbed and appointed abbot’s palace. But there was no great banquet of welcome this time or a triumphant address to the burgesses of the town. Instead a diminished and subdued King John ate with us quietly in the monks’ refectory. I sat with my old friend Jocelin, still alive then though in his seventh decade and going blind. I wondered if he remembered the last occasion we broke bread with our sovereign. Poor Jocelin; he could no longer see well enough to write, which was a great pity for writing was his joy so cruelly snatched away from him. Nor would Herbert allow him an amanuensis for all our scribes were busy on far more important work than the vain scribblings of one aging monk – or so he said. What observations Jocelin may have had after he finished his famous Chronicle would have, alas, to remain locked within his wise old hea
d.

  ‘What do you think?’ I muttered to him as I leaned across the table for a jug of cider.

  Jocelin squinted at the dais. ‘He’s l-looking tired.’

  Indeed he was, tired and old beyond his years. For a man not yet fifty John could easily pass for a decade more with grey lacing his beard and that once lustrous auburn hair thinning. That’s what comes of having to be constantly on the move never spending more than a day or two in one place. His father, good King Henry, had become bow-legged in old age and suffering, it was rumoured, from an anal fistula – none of which surprised me for all are symptomatic of too many hours spent in the saddle. As to the reason the king was here at all, it soon became clear that Joseph had been right and he let it be known he wished to settle the question of who was to be our next abbot. To this end John’s herald announced his desire to enter the chapterhouse the following day and address the assembled brothers.

  Now why, you may ask, should the election of an abbot so much matter to the monarch that he should bring his entire court half way across England in order to personally oversee it? The answer is that abbots and bishops are more than just clerics but also politicians, businessmen and administrators. As Baron of the Liberty of Saint Edmund, our abbot sits on the King’s Council and personally holds sway over half the county of Suffolk, the richest and most populous shire in the land. The man who holds this post is very powerful indeed, custodian of that great office though he may only be. And while in theory it is for the monks of Bury to choose their pastor, no king since the Conqueror has permitted the position to be filled without his approval. The secret is to divine the king’s preferred candidate beforehand and to make sure this name is included on the shortlist from which the king can make his final decision. Or if he has no favourite at least make sure there is none that is abhorrent to him – that, I believe, is how Abbot Samson was chosen.