Brother's Blood

by C. B. Hanley

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The armarium – the book room, if you will – and everyone comes to return his book to me. On that day I noticed that one was missing, so I went out into the cloister to see who was tardy. And … and I found Brother Alexander, dead. He was sitting peacefully over his book, except that he had a knife in his back.’ He twisted his hands together, fiddling with a key which hung from his rope belt.

  ‘Whose knife?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. One of the ones used to sharpen quills in the scriptorium – there are a lot of them around and they don’t belong to anyone in particular.’

  Edwin was starting to feel desperate. Were there no distinguishing details at all which he could grasp? How was he even to start his investigation? ‘So, how many others would he have been sharing this book with? Surely he can’t have been stabbed in the middle of a group of other monks?’

  Brother Octavian looked confused. ‘Share? He wasn’t sharing with anyone. The point of lectio divina is that we each study separately, in silent contemplation. At the beginning of Lent each of the brothers is assigned a book, and he reads it throughout the year, meditates on it, prays to understand it better – all on his own. Of course, some of the novices and younger brethren need to —’

  ‘Hold on, hold on.’ Edwin held up his hand. ‘Each monk has a book of his own? How many monks do you have here?’

  ‘Sixty, including the novices.’

  Edwin stared at him in disbelief. ‘You have sixty books?’

  Brother Octavian smiled. ‘We have seventy-three.’

  Edwin could feel his jaw sagging. Seventy-three books? He hadn’t known there were that many in the kingdom. In his life he had seen three books, or at least three proper books, not including the manor and court rolls: the parish Bible, the psalter with which Father Ignatius had taught him to read, and a book with poems in which had belonged to the Lady Isabelle, the earl’s sister.

  The monk was looking at him more keenly now. ‘You can read? You are interested in books? Would you like to see them?’

  Would he! Seventy-three books? Dear Lord. But Edwin bit back his immediate yes, surprised by the first surge of real feeling he had experienced in weeks. Think. Would it do any good in his quest? Or was it just something he wanted to do? He looked around the room. Two of the elderly monks now had their heads down over some sewing work, but the others were still regarding him owlishly. Martin’s fidgeting had turned to pacing. He wasn’t doing any good here, so what harm would it do to go and look? He might be able to find out more. But wait. ‘If we leave this room, will we still be able to talk?’

  ‘Yes. Father Abbot has said that we may speak with you if you ask it, as long as we are mindful of the peace of the abbey and the sanctity of the holy offices. And the books are in the armarium, a separate room, so we can talk quietly without disturbing others at their labours.’

  Edwin rose. ‘Then yes, thank you Brother, I would very much like to see the books.’

  They left the parlour, Martin trailing behind, and made their way up part of the same edge of the cloister to a locked door. Brother Octavian took his key and let them into a long, narrow room. It had a window at the far end with real glass in it, which made strange patterns of light across the floor.

  Brother Octavian followed Edwin’s gaze. ‘A necessary expense, for no flame is permitted in here.’ He waved his arm, and Edwin looked in wonder at the shelves, floor to ceiling and running the length of the room, all holding books. Dozens of books. Laid flat, individually, on every surface. He was surrounded. Large books, small books, books in new binding, books which looked ancient. He couldn’t speak.

  The monk nodded. ‘You feel it too. Be careful there!’ This was aimed at Martin, who, in turning round in the confined space, had knocked the end of his sword against one of the shelves. He mumbled something, and the monk spoke more gently. ‘I beg your pardon. I am a man of peace, but it is my duty to look after these volumes and I must do that to the best of my ability.’

  Martin moved carefully towards Edwin. ‘Is this really serving any purpose?’

  Edwin surveyed the room. What knowledge was contained in these tomes? What learning? ‘I won’t be long, and you never know, it might be useful.’ He was fooling nobody, least of all himself. But he couldn’t leave until he’d seen at least some of them. ‘Look, I hardly need a guard in here, and I can see that you’re bored. Why don’t you go outside and find someone else to talk to, and I’ll come and find you in a while?’

  He saw Martin glance at the monk, who was now straightening a volume on a shelf, a volume that was, to Edwin’s eye, already straight. ‘My lord said I was to take care of you.’

  ‘Yes, but he also said I needed to find out what was going on. And,’ Edwin lowered his voice, ‘he’s not going to talk to me while you’re looming there like that and he’s worried you’re going to damage something.’

  Martin looked back and forth between them. ‘All right. I’ll go outside, find the stables and see that our horses have been properly cared for. And find where my armour has got to. Next time they go into the church for a service, you come outside and find me.’

  ‘Fine. They’ll have another service in the middle of the afternoon, so it can’t be that long. I’ll meet you by the stables. If you meet anyone, try and talk to them.’

  Martin nodded, and was gone. Edwin turned to the store of wonders before him and listened to Brother Octavian as he reverently took down the first volume. ‘Now, this is the Carta Caritatis …’

  Martin tried to get his bearings. Where had they come in, and how would he get back to the stables? He pushed a door and found himself in the church.

  Cautiously, he looked around before taking another step. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself by interrupting anything. But the place was empty – of course, the monks were about their tasks at the moment, and they’d be back here for the next office, as Edwin had said. What a pain it must be to have to come to church five or six times a day. How did they ever get anything else done? But he supposed that was what they were here for – most of them would be the younger sons of noble and gentle families who would have no inheritance, and who had inexplicably chosen the cloister over the idea of fighting as someone’s household knight. They weren’t cut out for the real world.

  He tried to orient himself. The high altar was to his right, so he must have come into the south transept. The main door would be to the west … yes, there it was.

  As he stepped out into the open space of the church he became aware that he was not alone; over in one of the side chapels he could hear someone praying. He peered in and saw a monk kneeling before a statue of the Blessed Virgin, his hands clasped in supplication. Martin couldn’t make out the words, but he sounded like he was either desperate or in pain. Martin stepped away as quietly as he could and made his way to the main west door.

  He found himself outside the main monastery building but still within the precinct. Right, yes, the guesthouse where they were staying was one of those buildings over there, and the stables were further up back towards the gatehouse. He set off through the precinct, wondering how anyone got used to it being so quiet. It was like watching a load of ghosts, all those figures in brown or white robes gliding round without talking to each other. Back at the castle the outer ward was a hive of activity with men shouting and bawling, or at least greeting each other. This was just wrong. He didn’t like it. But he stayed silent all the same.

  He reached the stables and entered. After his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he walked down the stalls to find the horses they had left; Brother William had taken both mules back with him, so that meant less to worry about. Edwin’s palfrey and the packhorse were together, and Martin was pleased to see they had been well cared for; they had been recently groomed, their hooves were clean and they had racks of sweet new hay. Now, where was his armour? His own mount was in a stall towards the end, but as he stepped in it he jumped, for a man in a brown robe was alrea
dy there, stroking the roan’s neck.

  Immediately his hand flew to his sword hilt and he felt the panic rising as it had done on the road. ‘What are you doing here? Get away from him.’

  The monk – Martin assumed he was a monk or he wouldn’t be here, although he did have a beard as well which was odd – stepped back. He inclined his head without speaking.

  Martin, realising that the horses must have been cared for by someone, knew he had over-reacted, but still he went to check the courser over. It appeared to be fine. He turned back to the monk, who was still standing there. ‘Are you a groom?’

  The monk shook his head.

  ‘Well then, stay away from my horse. He’s from my lord earl’s own stable, and he’s a knight’s mount, not one of the mules or hobbledehoys which you probably keep here. Understand?’

  The monk bowed and left, still without speaking.

  The horse was becoming agitated and Martin realised it was probably reacting to him. Why couldn’t he calm down? A good commander is in control of himself. What would Sir Geoffrey say if he could see him now? Think. What had he come in for? He looked around for his pack – yes, there it was, in the corner of the stall. He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.

  There was one other fairly decent horse in the stable, which he stopped to look at as he went by. It had a poultice strapped to one leg, and Martin recalled that the visiting knight’s mount was lame. He considered taking a closer look, but the knight had seemed fairly short-tempered and you didn’t want to antagonise men like that, not until you knew their proper rank and position, anyway, so he hefted the armour bag on his shoulder and made his way out.

  Once he’d taken it back to the guesthouse and dropped it by his bed, he thought it might be nearly time for nones, the mid-afternoon service. On his way back to the stables to meet Edwin he shook his head again at the utter, overwhelming quiet. How did they bear it? He felt it pressing in on him like a weight.

  At that moment the silence was shattered by a scream, a long-drawn-out howl of agony. Everyone in the precinct stopped dead, except Martin, who drew his sword and ran towards the sound.

  Chapter Four

  Edwin couldn’t believe how soon the bell sounded to call the monks to the service of nones. Brother Octavian shut, with regret, the volume of Gregory the Great’s Dialogues they had been looking at, ushered Edwin out of the room and locked it.

  ‘I must join my brothers at the day stairs.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for showing me the books. Perhaps if I have time …’

  The monk smiled. ‘It’s rare to have a visitor who shows such an interest. If we can arrange it then I would be happy to show you more of the books.’

  Edwin thanked him and headed back out to the cloister walkway. He stood politely to one side as the aged brothers shuffled out of the parlour, and then passed another who looked nearly as old. This one was harassed-looking and calling behind him.

  ‘Roger! Gerald! Matthew! Stop writing now and hurry, or you’ll be late!’

  Three very young-looking men, no more than boys, wearing the white robes of monks but without the tonsures, rushed past Edwin, and then there was quiet. The sound of the bell was replaced by chanting coming from the direction of the church. Edwin wandered into the cloister, realising that he’d forgotten, in his excitement about the books, to ask Brother Octavian either anything about the writings of Daniel of Morley or where Brother Alexander had been sitting when he’d been found. He would certainly need to check on the latter point, so he could work out who might have seen anything.

  He sat down. The books. Never had his mind been opened to such wonder as it had been in the last hour. He was filled with it, bursting with it. The possibilities for learning were endless. He could happily spend the rest of his days reading and contemplating and thinking and reading again.

  The chanting continued, a pleasant background to the peace of the cloister. He could almost forget why he was here …

  But he couldn’t forget why he was here. He needed to do his duty to his lord. And he was supposed to be meeting Martin by the stables.

  Reluctantly he stood and made his way across the grass and back towards the door by which he’d originally entered the building. He found himself in the passageway. Was this it? Yes, he was sure it was, for there was the staircase and the walkway, and the second door ahead of him which led back out into the precinct.

  As he moved forward something on the stairs caught his eye and he stopped. He bent to pick it up – a small piece of metal in a V-shape, about an inch long, with an inlaid design of some kind. One of the monks had presumably dropped it on his way up or down to the office, though Edwin couldn’t immediately work out what it was. He’d ask Brother Amandus about it when he got the chance. He slipped it into his purse and continued on his way.

  The precinct was deserted, as he might have expected while there was a service going on. He wasn’t quite sure where the stables were, but he recalled they had been near the gatehouse, which he could see over the top of the other buildings, so he headed that way. Eventually the smell told him he was in the right place, and he looked around for Martin. Odd – he wasn’t there.

  He looked inside the stables but there was nobody there. Puzzled, he walked back to the main gate and roused the elderly monk who had admitted them that morning, who was now dozing on a bench in the sun outside his little porter’s lodge.

  ‘Excuse me, Brother.’

  His voice sounded shockingly loud in the silence of the precinct, but it had no effect on the slumbering old man.

  ‘Excuse me, Brother.’ Edwin tried a little louder, and also patted the monk on his shoulder.

  This time he woke up. ‘Eh? What? Who’s there?’

  ‘Benedicte, Brother. I’m one of the guests who arrived this morning. I’m looking for my companion.’

  Brother – Thurstan, was it? – blinked in the sunlight. ‘You’re one of the boys who came this morning with Brother William.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m looking for my friend – the OTHER ONE WHO CAME WITH ME. Have you seen him?’ Edwin glanced round the precinct again, but there was still no sign of him.

  ‘What’s that you say? Stop mumbling. All the young men nowadays, they mumble. Anyway, where’s the other one who came with you?’

  Edwin sighed. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said NEVER – oh, it doesn’t matter. Thank you, Brother. I said THANK YOU Brother.’

  Brother Thurstan nodded amiably and settled back to his nap.

  The guesthouse, thought Edwin, I haven’t tried there yet. Maybe he’s gone to find something there.

  But Martin wasn’t in the guesthouse either. Edwin stood in puzzlement. Where in the Lord’s name could he be?

  Martin ran with his sword in his hand in the direction of where the scream had come from. He paused, faced with several stone buildings which all looked similar. One of them was the abbot’s house, wasn’t it? Where they’d been earlier? But it hadn’t come from there, surely. He wished Sir Geoffrey was here.

  The cry came again, nearer this time, allowing him to locate it. He burst through the nearest open door.

  He was in a large, long room with beds on either side and a table in the middle. It looked a little like the guest quarters. The noise was coming from the far end so he strode towards it. Was someone else being murdered? Dear God, what if it was Edwin?

  ‘STOP!’

  Martin skidded to a halt at the authority of the voice. A monk had stepped round from behind a screen which hid something at the end of the room. Martin didn’t think he was a monk he’d seen before – this one was tall and completely bald. In his hands he held a bowl.

  The bowl was full to the brim with blood.

  The monk moved towards him, and Martin raised his sword. From behind the screen came groans and cries.

  ‘Put that down. You are in a house of God!’

  Martin didn’t move. ‘You put that down first.’


  The monk looked at him in surprise, and then at the blood he carried. Enlightenment dawned. ‘Ah, I see.’ He put the bowl down on the table and folded his arms. He looked steadily at Martin until he sheathed his sword. Only then did the monk speak again.

  ‘I am Brother Durand, the infirmarer. And you are?’

  The infirmarer? Ah … Martin made the best of it and bowed. ‘Martin Dubois, squire to my lord the Earl Warenne, and here at his orders.’

  ‘Here to invade my infirmary?’

  Martin felt his cheeks grow red. ‘No. Well, what I mean is – I heard a scream. And someone here has already been murdered …’

  Brother Durand looked at him steadily until he faltered into silence. Martin felt the eyes boring into him. ‘Murdered, yes, but not here and not by me. And even then that would give you no excuse, no authority, to come running in here under arms.’

  Martin said nothing and looked at his feet.

  ‘Not that I need to explain myself to you, but the cries you heard were from Brother Richard, who has an abscess of the tooth. He needed bleeding, and I needed to examine his face and jaw. He screamed as I probed.’

  ‘I, er …’

  ‘So, if that is all, I have matters to attend to. While you are here at the abbey, you will not set foot in this infirmary again unless I give my permission, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Brother.’

  ‘Good. Now go.’

  It was only after Martin had left the building that he started to think of all the things he should have said, the actions he should have taken. He, senior squire to one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, thrown out of the room like a child! Why, he had a good mind to —

  ‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Where have you been?’ Edwin appeared beside him.

  ‘Where have you been, you mean. You’re supposed to be here to sort this out so we can leave again, not spend your time looking at books and talking to men too feeble to hold a sword or so weak they cry with the toothache.’