The Beautiful Thread

by Penelope Wilcock

  Hesitantly, slowly, John nodded in affirmation. “I… you mean…”

  “I mean loving the moon in the sky but leaving it there. Because even suppose you managed to bring it down, that would make earth darker not brighter, however good an idea it might have seemed when you first entertained it.”

  Again, John nodded. “Thank you. Thank you, William. There is no one else I could have –”

  A loud, impatient rapping at the door interrupted him.

  “Oh, heaven! I know that knock. Bishop’s equerry. Can you disappear into my chamber while I deal with him? In case the bishop follows hot on his heels.”

  William accepted the wisdom of discretion, but thought he had better things to do than while away the afternoon trapped for an indeterminate period of time in John’s bedchamber; so instead, he slipped out of the small door by the scribe’s desk. Outside he paused, listening for the voices within. Once satisfied that the bishop’s was included among them, he took himself off to the guesthouse to offer his help with preparations there.

  He didn’t see John for the rest of the afternoon, and the bishop dined with the abbot that evening. Since his Lordship was back, William sat in a niche at the edge of the shadowed nave during Compline, from where he could hear John but see little of him. He felt concerned for his friend. As the men trod with peaceful decorum from the choir, William stayed in his sheltering nook. When he had the cavernous building to himself, he walked over to the statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus standing, arms raised in blessing, by one of the pillars. He lifted a slender candle from the pile set out for those who came to pray, lit it from the light that burned all day beside the statue, and set it firmly in the stand.

  “John’s struggling,” he whispered. “He’s drowning. Of your great kindness, merciful Jesus, give him a breathing space. Before we all regret it. Please. There’s too much on. In your mercy – look – can’t you just get rid of the bishop?”

  He could think of nothing more to say, and after a moment’s respectful pause, began to walk away. Then he turned back, looking up at the statue’s grave, serene face. “I didn’t mean in any final sense. Although… Well, really I just meant, could you get him out of here? The bishop. Not John. Please. Please.”

  Conscious that a year away from the daily round of liturgy had not improved the fluency of his praying, William left the matter in the care of the Sacred Heart. He resolved to tuck himself into the cleft between the church wall and the chapter house in the morning – if they’d left the door open, that is – to evaluate John’s state of mind from his Chapter address.

  The next day dawned sparkling and unclouded. Keeping close to the solid, imposing wall of the church, noting that the small door had indeed been left ajar, William found his hiding place, from where he could hear remarkably clearly – the brethren shuffling in, the reading from Benedict’s Rule, and then the abbot’s voice, steady and firm, carrying conviction but, William thought, entirely devoid of joy.

  “My brothers, there’s something I want to say to you. Not very polished. Only what’s been on my mind. Something about suffering.

  “You might think a man like me has not suffered enough to deserve an opinion, and if so you’d possibly be right. My life so far has been, by comparison with many others, easy. I was never destitute, nor subject to the cruelty of human violence. Even so, I have occasionally descended into hopelessness.

  “When the example of holy suffering is held before us – Christ on the cross, or the holy martyrs – the word ‘noble’ seems to apply. So, we give thanks for ‘the noble army of martyrs’. Sawn in two, torn to pieces by lions, stoned to death… giving thanks to God, and holding their heads high in courage. Noble.

  “Well, I’ve never been anything like that, I’m not noble at all. The worst wild animal that’s ripped into my viscera has been the profoundest sense of inadequacy you can imagine. To be a failure, as a monk, as a disciple, as a man. Sometimes I’ve thought. Painful. So very painful.

  “In this, the hardest, most terrifying thing, left me in free-fall, has been a feeling of absolute pointlessness – that it was all for nothing. Not noble, but not even useful, not directed or channelled into any worthwhile endeavour. Only the result of being human, being alive. Pointless.

  “When I reflect on this, a picture of Christ on the cross comes to mind – ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ It seems even he encountered that terrible state of meaninglessness, where what you thought it was all for simply evaporates. And then, his words, ‘I am thirsty.’ The unadorned human condition, taken down below the embellishment of values, beneath the complication of mission, without the dignity of significance. Just thirsty.

  “Obviously, there are no options beyond living through such times. If I look at myself and see no achievement worth mentioning, see only one great big immovable disappointment of a man, aspiration deflates.

  “But my job here is not to share around a counsel of despair. That wouldn’t be very helpful, would it? So gazing into it bleakly, I have to pull out of it something to place into your hands – your hearts – because you trusted me. You made me your abbot, and that means it’s my job to come up with something. I hope I’m not speaking too frankly. As you can probably tell, I haven’t prepared this.”

  Outside in the morning air, William listened carefully. Inside, in the gathering of Brothers, Tom raised his head and looked across the room at his abbot, concern in his face. This didn’t sound too good. But John, his hands held loosely in his lap within the big sleeves of his habit, sitting quietly straight, did not meet anyone’s gaze. His eyes seemed to see nothing.

  “And I prayed, ‘Help me, Jesus’, as I so often do. It’s never let me down, you see, that prayer; never once. ‘Oh, help me, Jesus.’

  “And what came to mind was two thoughts that have threaded through the last few weeks, for one reason and another. I’m sorry; I’m not putting this well, am I? Anyway: the first is that whatever’s going on in my own life – whether my faith is soaring and I’m overflowing with inspiration, or whether I’m in despair; whether others look up to me or I am disregarded, of no account – whatever – I have the option to be kind. It’s a small thing, you would think, would you not, to be kind? Well, it is in the sense that you don’t have to be rich or important, or very bright, to be kind. Even a little child can be kind. Even a dog. But it’s no small thing to be on the receiving end of kindness. And the withholding of simple kindness is a root of bitterness and the seed of war; it causes the most terrible suffering. To look without compassion on another’s life; to be unkind. Making the choice to be kind prays ‘Thy kingdom come’, even when you feel past praying and past caring.

  “Kindness, I have found, for all it is small and ordinary, has a way of leading me out of safe territory. There’s nothing like kindness for compromising righteousness and getting my religion and propriety all in a muddled knot. Kindness makes hay of many plans. But it is, I have come to believe, the currency of Christ’s kingdom, the stuff out of which new hope can be made. Where we push a sprig of it into the earth in whatever place we are, life springs anew.

  “So when all light is gone and the horrible sense of pointlessness overwhelms me, showing me my own inadequacy, I can at least make the choice to be kind; and that’s my prayer, my creed, my way of anchoring myself to Christ.

  “And the other thing – it caught my attention when someone said it to me a few days ago – is about offering the gift of happiness. That having the power to make someone happy might be seen almost as a charism. Like working miracles. Like healing.

  “In one sense, of course, you cannot make anybody happy. Each of us is responsible for developing contentment and gratitude, appreciation, as a state of mind. Happiness – we all know this – is not a destination to be reached or a goal to be achieved; it’s the choice you make, the path you tread, the attitude you embrace. And that’s no small thing, either. Happy people make the world happy, are good to be around, lift others up. Cheerfulness; it’s
a kingdom thing: ‘Rejoice in the Lord always.’

  “But a friendly word, reaching out to include someone, knowing their taste in food and offering a nibble of something they enjoy – even leaving them in peace, sometimes; there are so many ways to offer ordinary everyday gifts of happiness.

  “So I thought, between choosing kindness and offering happiness, I could find enough to be going on with, a ladder up out of inadequacy and despair. It didn’t matter what I’d been or done, or who I was or who cared, who saw or who knew. I could still do it. The thing is, when I feel really low, vision and inspiration are beyond me. But, you know, even when almost everything seems too much to manage, perhaps I can at least try to be kind. And I thought, that could give some meaning, something worthwhile, even to the most impoverished life. Even to mine. Sort of life compost, kindness and the giving of happiness could be; something in which faith and meaning could potentially thrive. It is only a small thing – I understand that. But sometimes I have to hope it will be enough.”

  His friend sounded bleak and enduring, William thought, as he concluded with complete absence of élan: “There’s no big scholarship there, no expositions or dissertations or any of that. It just seemed useful to me; and so I thought it might be to you as well. Anyway, let’s keep silence a moment.”

  Chapter

  Five

  “My lord bishop has a particular request for dinner, since all these folk are gathering and this will be his last night here – it is a dish he relishes and it gives much amusement among the guests. He thought it might prove some pleasant entertainment and lift everyone’s spirits to a jocular mood – saintliness smiles, remember!”

  “What does he want?” asked Cormac, his tone cautious and the smile LePrique was looking for entirely lacking.

  “It’s an outdoor repast,” explained the equerry, “just right for a summer evening. It cannot be served indoors because of the ring of fire. Goose roast alive is the delicacy.”

  “You’ve lost me.” Cormac gaped at him. “You can’t… how can you…?”

  “Oh!” Brainard chuckled. “The dish is new to you? I’m sure your Brother Conradus will be familiar with it – his grandfather was the king’s pastry cook, you know! Brother Conradus will have all the little tricks and flourishes at his disposal. It’s quite simple. You pluck a goose while it yet lives, then you butter and lard it well. A duck will do, but there’s more meat on a goose. You set it within a ring of fires, supplied with a bowl of water with salt and spikenel in it. He should have plenty of space about him, or the smoke will asphyxiate him and he will roast too quick. Don’t be too hasty to get the fire ablaze, nor yet dally in kindling it – he mustn’t get away! As he starts to roast, he’ll walk about – seeking an escape you see, this is the merriment. Finding no refuge from the heat, he will drink the water to cool his inward parts, and the dose in it will cause his guts to loosen and void. The cook must watch over all, damping the bird’s head with a sponge from time to time. Eventually he will run mad as his body cooks and he finds no respite. You must look for the moment he stumbles, for this is a sign that his heart is failing – and haste is needed then to take him to the table before he dies, else he will not still live when you pull off his parts one by one, to eat him up before he is dead.”

  In utter silence the two men in the checker heard this description. William, so white his skin seemed almost green, swallowed convulsively and pressed the back of his trembling hand firmly against his mouth. Cormac’s eyes swam with tears; then his horror crystallized into concentrated fury.

  “Smile!” urged the equerry, looking from one to the other of them. “Trust me, it is the greatest delicacy – once you try it you’ll thank me!”

  William tore his gaze from the smiling man and looked to St Alcuin’s new cellarer – then despite the waves of dizzy nausea threatening to engulf him, he lurched forward with alacrity, alarm writ large across his face, into the space between the two men.

  “Oh, for mercy’s sake – he’s not worth – nay! Cormac! Brother Cormac! No! Don’t hit him, man! Great Queen of Heaven, have you taken leave of your –”

  His presence of mind served its purpose inasmuch as Brother Cormac’s fist slammed into the side of William’s nose and not its intended target. The combination of trying to move too quickly while he was overcome with nausea, the sudden blow, and cracking his head against the table as he fell, left William in a crumpled heap at Cormac’s feet, momentarily completely unconscious.

  The equerry stepped back, his mouth dropped open in astonishment. As Cormac’s adamantine blue gaze fixed him, he stepped back again, into the wall this time, turned and fled into the sunshine, bumping against the doorpost in his flight, throwing one startled glance of apprehension back over his shoulder as he hastened away, no longer smiling.

  “Roast alive? By my soul, I’ll roast him alive if he darkens my door again,” muttered Cormac, dropping down on one knee to see what could be done for the collateral beneficiary of his ire.

  Why in the name of all holy am I lying on the floor? was William’s first thought on opening his eyes. Gathering his wits with an effort, finding Brother Cormac squatting in penitent concern at his side, he relocated himself into present reality. Dizzy and sick, he struggled to a sitting position, halted for a moment by the room still whirling around him. He focused hard on quelling the insistent waves of nausea. In his experience vomiting improved few situations. It took him a full minute to get his bearings properly, but once he had, he began to struggle groggily to his feet, shaking his head free of lingering giddiness. He clutched the table, swaying, willing himself back into clarity.

  Cormac rose to his feet as William did, anxious for his wellbeing. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I never intended…”

  Ignoring the throbbing pain now asserting itself, and the rapidly diminishing vision in his left eye as it began to swell shut, William raised his head with a final shake and looked at Brother Cormac. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve had worse. But I suspect I had better apprise your abbot of this. LePrique will have run to his master and all hell will break loose here any minute now. What you must do – and quickly; go right now – is find Francis and make him stop whatever he’s doing, without exception, to come here. Run through with him all we have in hand and make quite certain he has grasped at least the basics. Be sure, now. My guess is that within the hour neither you nor I will be free to work on it any more. Hop to it, Cormac. His Lordship will be here breathing fire once this comes to light.”

  He was right. The equerry, boiling over with outrage and indignation, intercepted his reverend mentor in the act of sitting down to a light snack required to fortify him across the distance stretching between his breakfast and the midday meal.

  That prelate heard with astonished displeasure LePrique’s excited narrative of barbarism and irrational, unwonted – entirely unpredictable – violence. His full lips parted in perplexity as he contemplated the recountal that St Alcuin’s cellarer had lunged at his manservant in a rage, intending to knock him unconscious, just because that harmless and well-meaning peon had faithfully represented his Lordship’s requested preference for a poultry supper. A dull purple flush suffused his jowls above the tucked-in linen napkin. His brows knitted in stupefaction. What?

  “By the grace of God,” burbled on the incensed equerry, “that man who keeps hanging about was on the scene – he stepped in and took the blow, or by my estimation I –”

  “What man?” cut in the angry bishop.

  “Why, that – you must have seen him, your Lordship, he crops up everywhere – that bearded fellow. Dresses like a merchant. Lanky. Pads about like a fox. Unnerving, somehow. Long, sallow face. Late middle age. White hair. And the most disquieting blue – no, green – no, grey – very penetrating – eyes.”

  As he enlarged on his description, a new dawn of insight began to clear in the bishop’s expression. For a moment the incomprehensible brawling LePrique had just depicted was dislodged from his thoughts
as the question began to form – “This man… His name, LePrique? What is his name?”

  “I… ooh… er… I don’t think I know, your Lordship. He hasn’t been introduced. He’s not one of the brothers. He’s just… sort of… there. Here. Around. I don’t know who he is.”

  The bishop ripped the napkin from his neck. “Really?” he said. “Well, I think I do. The character you just delineated fits one man and one man only that I ever knew. That’s William de Bulmer. The very devil! What’s he doing here? Maggot! Where is he? In the checker, you say? Well? What are you waiting for?”

  Brother Dominic, bringing honey cakes and a dish of hot milk as instructed, was not a little nonplussed to find himself bearing them in just as his Lordship was impatiently hustling his equerry out of the guesthouse door.

  The bishop surged across the abbey court to the checker, Brainard trotting alongside. They steamed in with all haste, but to their chagrin found only Father What’s-his-name – the prior – at the cellarer’s post.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” The bishop did not beat about the bush. “Where’s your cellarer? Unless – LePrique – was this the man who tried to hit you?”

  Francis’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. He’d had but the sketchiest outline from Cormac, but had the wit to discern an emergency when it was presented to him, and got himself to the checker with all haste. “My lord?” he said, convincingly taken aback.

  “Not you?” With a gesture of exasperation the bishop dismissed this particular line of enquiry – for now. It was, in any case, merely a sideshow, until he had caught up with his principal target.