by Ellis Peters
“Aunt Diota has been with him over three years,” he said consideringly, “and she’s never made any complaint of him, as far as I know. I only rubbed shoulders with him on the way here, and I was thankful to him for bringing me. Not a man a servant like me could be easy with, but I minded my tongue and did what he bade me, and he was fair enough in his dealings with me.” Benet’s buoyancy returned like a gust of the western wind, blowing doubts away. “Ah, here is he as raw in his new work as I am in mine, but he sets out to cudgel his way through, and I have the good sense to worm my way in gently. Let him alone, and he’ll get his feet to the ground.”
He was right, of course, a new man comes unmeasured and uneasy into a place not yet mellowed to him, and must be given time to breathe, and listen to the breathing of others. But Cadfael went to his own work with fretting memories of a homily half frenetic dream, half judgement day, eloquently phrased, beginning with the pure air of a scarcely accessible heaven, and ending with the anatomy of a far-too-visual hell.
“…that hell which is an island, for ever circled by four seas, the guardian dragons of the condemned. The sea of bitterness, whose every wave burns more white-hot than the mainland fires of hell itself; the sea of rebellion, which at every stroke of swimmer or rower casts the fugitive back into the fire; the sea of despair, in which every barque founders, and every swimmer sinks like a stone. And last, the sea of penitence, composed of all the tears of all the damned, by which alone, for the very few, escape is possible, since a single tear of Our Lord over sinners once fell into the fiery flood, and permeated, cooled and calmed the entire ocean for such as reach the perfection of remorse…”
A narrow and terrifying mercy, thought Cadfael, stirring a balsam for the chests of the old, imperfect men in the infirmary, human and fallible like himself, and not long for this world. Hardly mercy at all!
Chapter 3
THE FIRST SMALL CLOUD that showed in the serene sky of the foregate came when Aelgar, who had always worked the field strips of the priest’s glebe, and cared for the parish bull and the parish boar, came with a grievance to Erwald the wheelwright, who was provost of the Foregate, rather in anxiety than in any spirit of rebellion, complaining that his new master had raised doubts about whether his servant was free or villein. For there was one strip in the more distant fields which was in mild dispute at the time of Father Adam’s death, and the tenure had not been agreed between priest and man when Adam died. Had he lived there would have been an amicable arrangement, since Adam certainly had no greed in his make-up, and there was a fair claim on Aelgar’s part through his mother. But Father Ailnoth, unswervingly exact, had insisted rather that the case should come to court, and further, had said outright that in the King’s court Aelgar would have no standing, since he was not free, but villein.
“And everyone knows,” said Aelgar, fretting, “that I’m a free man and always have been, but he says I have villein kin, for my uncle and my cousin have a yardland in the manor of Worthin, and hold it by customary services, and that’s the proof. And true enough, for my father’s younger brother, being landless, took the yardland gladly when it fell vacant, and agreed to do service for it, but for all that he was born free, like all my kin. It’s not that I grudge him or the church that strip, if it’s justly his, but how if he bring case to prove me a villein and no free man?”
“He’ll not do that,” said Erwald comfortably, “for it would never stand if he did. And why should he want to do you wrong? He’s a stickler for the letter of the law, you’ll find, but nothing more than that. Why, every soul in the parish would testify. I’ll tell him so, and he’ll hear reason.”
But the tale had gone round before nightfall.
The second small blot in the clear sky was an urchin with a broken head, who admitted, between sniffs and sobs, that he and a few more of his age had been playing a somewhat rumbustious ball game against the wall of the priest’s house, a clear, windowless wall well suited for the purpose, and that they had naturally made a certain amount of noise in the process. But so they had many times before, and Father Adam had never done worse than shake a tolerant fist at them, and grin, and finally shoo them away like chickens. This time a tall black figure had surged out of the house crying anathema at them and brandishing a great long staff, and even their startled speed had not been enough to bring them off without damage. Two or three had bad bruises to show for it, and this unfortunate had taken a blow on the head that all but stunned him, and left him with a broken wound that bled alarmingly for a while, as head wounds do.
“I know they can be imps of Satan,” said Erwald to Brother Cadfael, when the child had been soothed and bandaged and lugged away by an indignant mother, “and many a time I expect you and I have clouted a backside or boxed an ear, but not with a great walking-staff like that one he carries.”
“That could well have been an unlucky stroke that was never meant to land,” said Cadfael. “But I wouldn’t say he’ll ever be as easy on the scamps as Father Adam was. They’d best learn to stay out of his way, or mind their manners within reach of him.”
It was soon plain that the boys thought so, too, for there were no more noisy games outside the small house at the end of the alley, and when the tall, black-clad figure was seen stalking down the Foregate, cloak flying like a crow’s wings in time to his impetuous stride, the children melted away to safe distances, even when they were about blameless business.
It certainly could not be said that Father Ailnoth neglected his duties. He was meticulous in observing the hours, and let nothing interrupt his saying of the office, he preached somewhat stern sermons, conducted his services reverently, visited the sick, exhorted the backsliding. His comfort to the ailing was austere, even chilling, and his penances heavier than those to which his flock was accustomed, but he did all that his cure required of him. He also took jealous care of all the perquisites of his office, tithe and tilth, to the extent that one of his neighbours in the fields was complaining of having half his headland ploughed up, and Aelgar was protesting that he had been ordered to plough more closely, for the waste of ground was blameworthy.
The few boys who had been learning a smattering of letters from Father Adam, and had continued their lessons under his successor, grew less and less willing to attend, and muttered to their parents that they were beaten now for the least error, let alone a real offence.
“It was a mistake,” said Brother Jerome loftily, “ever to let them run wild, as Father Adam did. They feel a proper curb now as affliction, instead of fair usage. What says the Rule on this head? That boys or youths who cannot yet understand how great a punishment excommunication is, must be punished for their offences either by fasting, or by sharp stripes, for their own good. The priest does very properly by them.”
“I cannot regard a simple mistake in letters,” retorted Brother Paul, up in arms for lads no older than his own charges, “as an offence. Offence argues a will to offend, and these children answer as best they know, having no will but to do well.”
“The offence,” said Jerome pompously, “is in the neglect and inattention which caused them to be imperfect in answering. Those who attend diligently will be able to answer without fault.”
“Not when they are already afraid,” snapped Brother Paul, and fled the argument for fear of his own temper. Jerome had a way of presenting his pious face as a target, and Paul, who like most big, powerful men could be astonishingly gentle and tender with the helpless, like his youngest pupils, was only too well aware of what his fists could do to an opponent of his own size, let alone a puny creature like Jerome.
*
It was more than a week before the matter came to the notice of Abbot Radulfus, and even then it was a relatively minor complaint that set the affair in motion. For Father Ailnoth had publicly accused Jordan Achard, the Foregate baker, of delivering short-weight loaves, and Jordan, rightly pricked in his professional pride, meant to rebut the charge at all costs.
“And a lucky man
he is,” said Erwald the provost heartily, “that he’s charged with the one thing every soul in the Foregate will swear is false, for he gives just measure and always has, if he does nothing else justly in his life. If he’d been charged with fathering one or two of the recent bastards in these parts, he’d have had good cause to sing very low. But he bakes good bread, and never cheats on the weight. And how the priest came by this error is a mystery, but Jordan wants blood for it, and he has a fluent mouth on him that might well speak up usefully for others less bold.”
So it was that the provost of the Foregate, backed by Jordan the baker and one or two more of the notables of the parish, came to ask audience of Abbot Radulfus in chapter on the eighteenth day of December.
*
“I have asked you here into private with me,” said the abbot, when they had withdrawn at his request into the parlour in his lodging, “so that the daily duties of the brothers may not be disrupted. For I see that you have much to discuss, and I would like you to speak freely. Now we have time enough. Master Provost, you have my attention. I desire the prosperity and happiness of the Foregate, as you do.”
His very use of the courtesy title, to which Erwald had no official right, was meant as an invitation, and as such accepted.
“Father Abbot,” began Erwald earnestly, “we are come to you thus because we are not altogether easy at the rule of our new priest. Father Ailnoth has his duties in the church, and performs them faithfully, and there we have no complaint of him. But where he moves among us in the parish we are not happy with his dealings. He has called into question whether Aelgar, who works for him, is villein or free, and has not asked of us, who know very well he is a free man. He has also caused Aelgar to plough up a part of the headland of his neighbour Eadwin, without Eadwin’s knowledge or leave. He has accused Master Jordan, here, of giving short weight, while all of us here know that is false. Jordan is known for good bread and good measure.”
“That is truth,” said Jordan emphatically. “I rent my bakery ovens from the abbey, it is on your land I work, you have known me for years, that I take pride in my bread.”
“You have that right,” agreed Radulfus, “it is good bread. Go on, Master Provost, there is more to tell.”
“My lord, there is,” said Erwald, very gravely now. “You may have heard with what strict dealing Father Ailnoth keeps his school. The same severity he uses towards the boys of the parish, wherever he sees them gathered, if they put a foot aside—and you know that the young are liable to folly. He is too free with his blows, he has done violence where it was not called for, not by our measure. The children are afraid of him. That is not good, though not everyone has patience with children. But the women are frightened, too. He preaches such dire things, they are afraid of hell.”
“There is no need to fear,” said the abbot, “unless by reason of a consciousness of sin. I do not think we have here in the parish such great sinners.”
“No, my lord, but women are tender and easily frightened. They look within for sins they may have committed, unknowing. They are no longer sure what is sin and what is not, so they dare not breathe without wondering if they do wrong. But there is more still.”
“I am listening,” said the abbot.
“My lord, there’s a decent poor man of this parish, Centwin, whose wife Elen bore a very weakly child, a boy, four days ago. It was about Sext when the baby was born, and it was so small and feeble, they were sure it must die, and Centwin ran quickly to the priest’s house, and begged him to come and baptise the boy before he died, that his soul might be saved. And Father Ailnoth sent out word that he was at his devotions, and could not come until he had completed the office. Centwin begged him, but he would not interrupt his prayers. And when he did go, Father, the baby was dead.”
The small, chill silence seemed to bring down a looming darkness on the panelled room.
“Father, he would not give the child Christian burial, because it was not baptised. He said it could not come within the hallowed ground, though he would say what prayers he could at its burial—which was in a grave outside the pale. The place I can show.”
Abbot Radulfus said with infinite heaviness: “He was within his rights.”
“His rights! What of the child’s rights? It might have been christen soul if he had come when he was called for.”
“He was within his rights,” said Radulfus again, inexorably but with deep detestation. “The office is sacrosanct.”
“So is the newborn soul,” said Erwald, remorselessly eloquent.
“You say well. And God hears us both. There can and shall be dispensation. If you have more to tell, go on, tell me all.”
“My lord, there was a girl of this parish—Eluned—very beautiful. Not like other girls, wild as a hare. Everyone knew her. God knows she never harmed a soul but herself, the creature! My lord, she could not say no to men. Time and again she went with this one or that, but always she came back, as wild returning as going, in tears, and made her confession, and swore amendment. And meant it! But she never could keep it, a lad would look at her and sigh… Father Adam always took her back, confessed her, gave her penance, and afterwards absolution. He knew she could not help it. And she as kind a creature to man or child or beast as ever breathed—too kind!”
The abbot sat still and silent, foreseeing what was to come.
“Last month she bore a child. When she was delivered and recovered she came, as she always came, mad with shame, to make her confession. He refused her countenance. He told her she had broken every promise of amendment, and so she had, but still… He would not give her penance, because he would not take her word, and so he refused her absolution. And when she came humbly to enter the church and hear Mass, he turned her away, and shut the door against her. Publicly and loudly he did it, in front of all.”
There was a long and deep silence before the abbot asked, perforce: “What became of her?” For clearly she was already in the past, an outcast shade.
“They took her out of the mill-pond, my lord. By good fortune she had drifted down to the brook, and those who drew her out were from the town, and did not know her, so they took her with them back to their own parish, and the priest of Saint Chad’s has buried her. It was not clear how she came to drown, it was taken for accident.”
Though of course everyone knew it was none. That was clear in look and voice. Despair is deadly sin. Then what of the record of those who deal out despair?
“Leave all this in my hands,” said Abbot Radulfus. “I will speak to Father Ailnoth.”
*
There was no trace of guilt, trepidation or want of assurance in the long, austere, handsome face that confronted Abbot Radulfus across the desk in his parlour, after Mass. The man stood quite erect and still, with hands folded at ease and face invincibly calm.
“Father Abbot, if I may speak freely, the souls of my cure had been long neglected, to their own ruin. The garden is full of weeds, they starve and strangle the good grain. I am pledged to do whatever is needed to bring a clean crop, and so I must and will endeavour. I can do no other. The child spared will be the man spoiled. As for the matter of Eadwin’s headland, it has been shown me that I have removed his boundary stone. That was in error, and the error has been made good. I have replaced the stone and drawn my own bounds short of it. I would not possess myself of one hand’s breadth of land that belonged to another man.”
And that was surely truth. Not a hand’s breadth of land nor a penny in money. Nor let go of one or the other that belonged to him. The bare razor of justice was his measure.
“I am less concerned for a yard of headland,” said the abbot drily, “than for matters that touch a man’s being even more nearly. Your man Aelgar was born free, is free man now, and so are his uncle and cousin, and if they take steps to assert it there will be no man query it hereafter. They assumed such customary duties as they do by way of payment for a piece of land, there is no disfranchisement, no more than when a man pays in mon
ey.”
“So I have found by enquiry,” said Ailnoth imperturbably, “and have said as much to him.”
“Then that was properly done. But it would have been better to enquire first and accuse afterwards.”
“My lord, no just man should resent the appeal to justice. I am new among these people, I heard of the kinsmen’s land, that it was held by villein service. It was my duty to find out the truth, and it was honest to speak first to the man himself.”
Which was true enough, if not kindly, and it seemed he had acknowledged the truth against himself, once established, with the same steely integrity. But what is to be done with such a man, among the common, fallible run of humanity? Radulfus went on to graver matters.
“The child that was born to the man Centwin and his wife, and lived barely an hour… The man came to you, urging haste, since the baby was very feeble and likely to die. You did not go with him to give it Christian baptism, and since your ministration came too late, as I hear, you denied the infant burial in consecrated ground. Why did you not go at once when you were called, and with all haste?”
“Because I had but just begun the office. My lord, I never have broken off my devotions according to my vows, and never will, for any cause, though it were my own death. Until I had completed the act of worship I could not go. As soon as it was ended, I did go. I could not know the child would die so soon. But if I had known, still I could not have cut short the worship I owe.”
“There are other obligations you owe no less,” said Radulfus with some asperity. “There are times when it is needful to make a choice between duties, and yours, I think, is first to the souls of those within your care. You chose rather the perfection of your own personal worship, and consigned the child to a grave outside the pale. Was that well done?”