The Beautiful Thread

by Penelope Wilcock

  As Florence described the embroidered linen lawn of her chemise and kerchief, the sumptuous green silk velvet cotehardie, with pearls and thread of gold adorning the sleeves, then the deep red surcote with the jewelled braid edging, Rose’s eyes grew round with delight. “And on your head, my lady? Oh yes, you said – a kerchief in linen lawn over your barbet! Oh, gracious goodness, you will be perfect! A queen! I shall be serving along with my son on the day, so I’ll be able to catch a glimpse. Oh, my! So exciting!” She wisely omitted any enquiry about the attire of the bride.

  Lady Bonvallet went home happy; curious about the abbot, too – evidently a man not immune to feminine charm, which she hadn’t expected.

  Chapter

  Four

  Since he was at St Alcuin’s, so said the bishop, he might as well take advantage of the proximity of Byland Abbey to pay them a visit too. He’d just take his equerry; his other two manservants could stay here at St Alcuin’s seeing they were perfectly comfortable. He’d be away only one night.

  Abbot John had to acknowledge a twinge of jealousy that Byland got off so lightly. But then on reflection, he imagined their porter hurrying across the court at Byland to tell the abbot Bishop Eric had arrived unannounced to look into their affairs, and he thought maybe he hadn’t so much to be jealous of, after all. Yet he did wonder, with vague despair, how much longer his Lordship planned to extend his stay at St Alcuin’s. He wouldn’t still be here when the guests arrived for the wedding, surely? They wouldn’t have to try juggling the – unfortunate, as it now began to appear – designation of William as steward of the feast, with keeping him out of sight of the bishop? John refused to entertain that notion, thrusting it from him firmly. Bishop Eric would be gone. It would be all right.

  His Lordship had featured prominently at the abbot’s supper table most evenings since his arrival, and John saw this one night’s absence offered a chance to honour some among his guests who wouldn’t mix too well with ecclesiastical dignitaries: like Rose.

  This could also present an opportunity to go through final details for the wedding – the small things; where the musicians could be accommodated and any conveyances of guests with more ambitious travelling arrangements than straightforward horseback. He imagined the horses could be led up to the top pasture and put out to graze overnight, but that wouldn’t happen by itself, and it occurred to him that he might be wise to check Brother Stephen had been apprised of the idea and hadn’t planned to move all the sheep into the same field at the same time. And he thought it was time he took an interest in the extent to which the novices would be mingling with guests, if Theodore wouldn’t let them help in the kitchen because of Rose. Would they be putting their hands to anything useful at all, or had his novice master got so protective of them as to restrict their involvement to singing some complicated setting for the nuptial Mass?

  So he asked Brother Stephen the farm manager, Father Theodore the novice master, Brother Giles the guestmaster, Father Francis the prior, William, Father Gilbert the precentor, and Rose, to dine with him. He wished he might have included Brother Conradus, but saw the impracticality of his kitchener being required both to oversee the hospitality of the abbot’s house and be simultaneously the abbot’s guest. In the event, it turned out that Hannah and Gervase intended to call on him in the afternoon, so he included them as well. Yes, Hannah might recognize William, but then she’d be unlikely to have anything to do with Bishop Eric.

  All of them came to Vespers except Rose. She stayed in the kitchen to finish off community supper preparations for Conradus. Nobody had told him why the novices who usually helped out in the kitchen had been suddenly withdrawn, and monastic obedience restrained him from complaining or enquiring. He did his best, but with the ongoing daily preparations for the wedding, and more guests than usual at the abbot’s table, he accepted with relief his mother’s offer to set everything in order while he went to the evening office.

  Rose heard the brothers beginning to make their way along the cloister to the refectory after the office. She hung up her apron, washed her hands outside in the bowl by the well, and went the long way round by the lavatorium and the storehouses under the dorter in the south range overlooking the river, coming through a gap in the hedge at the corner of the buildings, into the court. Seeing Hannah and Gervase walking along from the west door of the church, with Father Francis, she hastened to join them. Conradus had told her the couple would be among the abbot’s guests, and she felt grateful to know she would not be the only woman.

  When Brother Thomas opened the door to them, Hannah was happily describing the detail of her wedding gown – blue, with thread of gold laid down on it in intricate patterns – while Rose listened with every appearance of admiration and delight, asking about the posy of flowers Hannah would carry, who would be minding the children, and whether Hannah intended to wear a crown of flowers over her cap and veil.

  She managed to find a tactful moment to break away, allowing the abbot to take her hands in welcome. She smiled up into his face, saying what a privilege she felt it to be invited to his table, mentioning that she had just received word her husband Gavin would be free as she had hoped, to help serve at the wedding, then take her home the day after.

  “I heard so much about you from our boy, in his letters home, before I came.” Her voice, low and melodic, sounded comfortable and gentle as she took the opportunity to express these thoughts that had been on her heart. “He told us you are wonderful, Father John, and I think, having met you, I must surely agree. I am so glad for the chance to spend these days with him, side by side, setting about work we both love and understand. Thank you for taking such good care of him; it is clear he is flourishing here. Thank you for allowing me to come. Thank you for this invitation tonight.” Then, gently, she withdrew her hands from his.

  But his eyes cherished hers as he looked down at her, and his face relaxed into softness as he listened to these words. “I am so glad you came, Rose,” he said simply. “Sit by me tonight.”

  For propriety, in the social ordering of things, the abbot ought to have invited Gervase Bonvallet to sit at his right and Hannah at his left. Francis, seeing that he sat Rose where Gervase should go, had to think quickly. William thought quicker, and slid into the place where Hannah should have gone – at John’s left hand. Francis immediately saw why. If the place had been left vacant, Gervase would have gravitated there, as the brothers of the community courteously stood back in deference to his choice or invitation. Whoever sat at John’s left would be treated to a prolonged contemplation upon John’s attitude to whoever sat on the abbot’s right, should that individual absorb a significant proportion of his attention. If William blocked that place, it increased the chances of someone lower down the table distracting other guests from the sphere of interaction around the abbot. The move made William look presumptuous, but he didn’t care too much about that; and the prior gave silent thanks.

  So Father Francis smilingly invited Gervase to sit beside William, and himself took the place next to Rose, with Hannah the other side of him. He left the other men to dispose themselves as they saw fit. Theodore (Francis wished he’d make an effort and try not to look quite so long-faced) quietly took the seat beside Hannah. Brother Stephen, glad of some interesting and jolly company, sat next to Gervase. He’d been in conversation with him about farming earlier in the day. Brother Giles the guestmaster sat next to Stephen, and that left the place at the foot of the table to Father Gilbert the precentor – with Theo on his left and Giles on his right.

  The abbot said their grace, and Brother Thomas waited upon them in the usual way.

  Though the time was much occupied with strategic discussion of forthcoming hospitality arrangements, John also found time to talk to Rose about matters nearer to their hearts.

  “Tell me about your family, Rose,” he said to her quietly, once the essentials concerning accommodation of guests and their mounts and conveyances had been agreed. She felt honoured that he sho
uld turn aside from the necessary planning of important events, to take notice of the insignificant detail of her humble life. He makes me feel so special, she thought; what a kind and considerate man. Gavin will love to meet him.

  So she described her home to him – the small house with its big family tumbling around; the garden rioting with flowers and keeping them in beans and greens, in leeks and onions and garlic. She told him about the bee skeps, how they stood in a quiet corner; about the ferocious rooster and the gentle one, the brown hens and the white goat – “From Switzerland, my husband says, these goats come. But where is that – Switzerland?”

  She talked of her children, the ones who were married and those still at home – “And I know I should let them go, Father John; it’s natural they should make their way in the world: but how happy it makes me to have them close about me. I love their company.”

  He listened, his face loving and gentle, drinking in what she told him of simple, ordinary family life; nobody important, nothing arrogant or imposing or weighty, just the threads of kindness and belonging from which peace is woven. He forgot where he was, forgot to pay attention to his other guests, as he listened to her.

  Francis sprang into action, managing to captivate Hannah with gently playful chat, teasing her with suggestions of including some goats among her bridesmaids, laughing together about the flowers they might wear – and whether over one ear, around or between their horns, and whether they could be trusted not to eat them at least until Mass had begun. He kept a weather eye on Gervase, thankful that Brother Stephen had him engrossed in evaluation of livestock and the going price of wool.

  Theodore sat in silence, his face sober and grave. Courteously he passed the butter or the gravy jug or whatever he saw was needed, but he said nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  The repast Conradus had conjured for them, knowing his mother would be among the abbot’s guests, went beyond delicious. Appreciation of the tastiness and artistry of the dishes brought to the table occupied attention to some degree, and recaptured Rose into general conversation; but this only went so far. That she had become the polestar of John’s particular world became painfully evident. Francis, without turning his head or ceasing to smile, managed to lift his gaze and catch Brother Tom’s eye at sufficient length to signal something extra was required. Tom worked on a rough (but serviceable) rule of thumb: when things get awkward, give them so much to drink they notice little and forget most of that. He put this into effect.

  Hannah got distinctly flirtatious – and Francis deflected this adroitly and with grace. He was used to it. Nearly every girl who visited St Alcuin’s fell for the prior’s smile.

  Gervase became loud and boastful, enlarging on his plans to outdo his brothers in every possible respect. The insecurities and anxiety he felt about forthcoming ostracism from his social circle slipped into view.

  Theodore, having drunk his wine without speaking, put his finger across the beaker top when Brother Thomas offered more, in firm refusal. John didn’t notice what anyone gave him, and went on chatting happily to Rose, who sipped her wine appreciatively, her cheeks slightly flushed, lifting her face to thank Brother Tom with a smile when he offered her more (but she shook her head; no). Brother Stephen drank well and, as Gervase grew increasingly tedious in his resentment, began to nod off to sleep. It had been a long day. Nobody knew what was going on in Brother Giles’s head, because Father Gilbert waxed so very loquacious Giles never got a chance to say anything. But he heard more than he’d ever wished to know about Mass settings, the correct production of the voice and the challenges of polyphony.

  William sat, half-smiling, watchful, quiet. He let Tom fill his cup – once – but forestalled refreshment by not drinking any of the first serving. He allowed his face to display interest, amusement, involvement, as though the body language of his abbot included him in the conversation with Rose; which it did not.

  Eventually Father Theodore lifted his head and directed his gaze the length of the table, past Stephen and Gervase to William, who caught his glance, took note of the silent plea, and acknowledged it with an almost imperceptible nod. William laid aside his napkin and rose from the table.

  “I am up at first light to make myself useful,” he said, “so must bid you goodnight, Father John. I’ll come in to Compline, but…”

  He stepped away from them towards the door, standing at a little distance, making it evident he expected the abbot to offer him the courtesy of a farewell.

  John looked up, surprised, said to Rose: “Of your kindness, excuse me”, then left his place and crossed the room to William, who reached out both hands and took him gently by the upper arms. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said clearly and distinctly. “It has been a delight to be at your table in good company, as it always is.”

  He leaned forward and kissed John on each cheek, saying as he did so, in an undertone one shade above silence, “You cannot afford to fall in love with a married woman in plain view. I’m serious, John. Let it go.”

  Then with a friendly smile and a sketch of a bow, he took his leave.

  John stood transfixed, gazing after him, and when he moved back to his table of guests, his eyes were lowered and his face flushed. Tom guessed accurately what the import of that inaudible murmur must have been, from the expression of complete mortification on his abbot’s face, and felt profoundly grateful to William. He had spent the last half hour wondering if this unenviable task was going to end in his own lap.

  Conversation around the table ceased. Theodore sat with his head bent. The others looked at the abbot. The cheerful expansiveness of a few moments before had vanished from John’s manner.

  “Thank you for your company, good people, and my brothers,” he said politely, but he sounded distracted and discomfited. He no longer seemed inclined to look anyone in the eye. And then the Compline bell began to ring.

  “You are as always welcome to join us for the office.” He offered the remark generally. The flush subsided from his face, but still he kept close custody of his eyes, and his manner had become noticeably reserved. His guests arose from the table immediately, Father Francis and Father Theodore first, then the others – Brother Stephen with a dig in the ribs from Brother Giles – and finally Rose; sensing that they had perhaps unwittingly outstayed their welcome.

  It was the prior who took care of the farewell courtesies due to Gervase and Hannah, positioning himself so that he physically blocked the space between them and the abbot. Brother Giles tripped on an uneven flagstone in the floor, and the resulting amusement from Brother Stephen and concern from Father Gilbert filled their attention. Rose hesitated, wondering what had happened, and if she should say something or just leave. John stood where he was beside the table, resting his fingertips on the board, his gaze averted; and then he recollected himself and made the effort to smile and come out of himself.

  “Rose, I am so glad you came to help us. Brother Conradus is honestly treasured in this house. His gentle and generous spirit is as much valued by us as his wonderful skills in the kitchen. Thank you for taking the time to make the journey here to help him, and for all you have done, and for supping with us tonight. With the wedding right upon us and the bishop back tomorrow, the next few days will be somewhat breathless. In case my time is taken up and our paths cross little, let me say thank you now, for your willingness to come and help us out.”

  She stepped forward to stand before him, inclining her head modestly, blushing a little. She took his hand in hers.

  For a moment, she closed her other hand around his, then released him. Brother Tom, observing this exchange, saw she meant no more than a gracious acknowledgment of his thanks; just a thoroughly pleasant, sweet-natured woman, who probably had every tradesman in her village wound round her little finger, yet somehow without making other women – or her husband – jealous at all. Father Francis lingered at the door to see her out into the abbey court after Hannah and Gervase. The brothers of the community took the other do
or, into the cloister.

  “Should I clear these things away after Compline now, Father?” Tom asked when Francis, leaving, had closed one door and he the other.

  “Yes,” his abbot responded abruptly. Then he drew breath to speak. “Brother Thomas –” he hesitated, but he made himself look at his esquire.

  Tom smiled at him, and the kindness and understanding in his face deepened John’s embarrassment even further. “Happens to us all,” said Tom, shrugging. “Only human.” He laid down on the table the folded towel he had been holding, and turned away toward the cloister door. “Coming?” he asked. Shaking his head in the confusion of this sudden evolution of circumstances, John followed him in silence, and they walked along the shadowed cloister together with the last few men making their way into the chapel. Quietly and without rush, all found their places. The abbot gave the knock and the community rose for Compline.

  The blessing and the Salve Regina closed the day, after which the community entered the grand silence until the morrow Mass had been said in the morning. Tom followed John the length of the cloister back to the abbot’s house.

  Without even a glance over his shoulder at his esquire, John strode purposefully across the room to his inner chamber, which he entered, closing the door quietly but firmly behind him. In the privacy of his bedchamber, he unbuckled his belt, stripped himself of his clothes, and knelt naked on the stone floor, reaching under the bed for the scourge that lay there, as a scourge lay beneath every bed in every cell. Grasping it in his right hand, John laid about his back, chastising himself savagely, until he felt so unbearably sore and bruised that he had no room for any other preoccupation in even the smallest corner of his soul.

  In the main hall of the abbot’s house, Brother Thomas made sure the fire was safe, stacked the pots, folded and piled the napkins and gathered the knives and spoons. He knew well the sound of a scourge, even through a closed door. He drew his breath in through his teeth, and a little grimace of sympathy clouded his face. “Ow!” he said softly. It took him three trips to the kitchen to clear all away. When he had gathered the last few things, he stood listening, briefly. “For mercy’s sake stop, man!” he murmured. His face was troubled as he let himself out of the house, and closed the door quietly behind him.