“One thing, if I am to go with you, I ask in return.”
William raised one eyebrow in silent inquiry.
“Tell me, William de Bulmer, what makes a good abbot in your estimation?”
Amusement flickered then. “I am surprised you ask that of me. Nobody here, so far as I knew, felt moved to link the word good with anything I ever did, let alone the kind of prior I made at St Dunstan’s!”
“Maybe. Even so?”
“Well, I can tell you readily enough, for it’s a very simple thing. What makes a good abbot is anticipation. When times are hard, you have to have faith and vision for your community. When times are good, you have to be prudent and frugal and recognize that every pendulum swings. You have not only to see what your men need to be content now, but what they will need as times change, as they move on—as they grow more sophisticated or educated or complacent or weary or just old. You have to stay ahead of them. You have to know what they will think, what they will do, and what they are likely to say.
“It’s the same thing as makes a good mother for a family—when the children are hungry, she has the pot already bubbling; when they are tired, her feet are already on the path home from the market; when the baby starts to toddle and get adventurous, she has already mended the hole the fox made in the fence.”
John listened to this, intrigued. “I’d not have had you down as a man who gave much thought to being a good mother!”
William’s face twisted in the dry irony of something that wasn’t really a smile. “I do not give it much thought. But I know what a bad mother is.”
John regarded him thoughtfully. “I see,” he said. William shifted, uneasy, lest that should be true.
“Then, can we go?”
“It seems a good time,” John affirmed. “All is in hand here, and circumstances have kept me from becoming engrossed in matters I could not easily leave. Thanks in the main to your good work, all things temporal are well tended. As to matters spiritual, I judge myself still in a condition to be of very little use for wise counsel. This thing should have been dealt with before in any case; so yes, let’s go! Will you see to our mounts and some food for the journey? Chesterfield is three days’ ride from here at best. I’ll look for Father Chad and arrange the rest; we can start in the morning, straight after we’ve said the morrow Mass. Had you stopping places along the way already in mind?”
William hesitated. “I thought…” His eyes flickered, and he looked away for a moment, unwilling to meet his abbot’s gaze. John wondered why.
“I thought we might save some money; this dry spell looks set to continue, and the nights are warm for May. Let’s see how we get on rolled in a blanket in the hedgerow or borrow a bed in a barn somewhere.”
John shrugged, as happy with this plan as any. Inns and hostels usually smelt rank and had flea infestations. An open-air bed had much to commend it. He accepted the suggestion on face value. Not until much later when he sat in quiet meditation before Vespers did the source of William’s disquiet dawn on him. It was because he was afraid. He could not face the reception that might await him at the various religious houses that lay on their path to Chesterfield.
Chapter Four
“I found him in an alley near the market; it was just beside a bakehouse. I remember because I went to get us some bread. I was almost out of money, but I thought we could share a loaf.”
The two men picked their way along the crowded streets of the busy town, John retracing his steps with increasing confidence. Having run back and forth to provide food and water for the destitute man on the first time of visiting the place, he remembered the location of St Mary’s Gate and the alleyway beside the baker’s shop without too much trouble.
“There he is! In the exact same place where I left him! That’s too good to be true! Look, William, we’ve found him!”
The man he had seen had a considerable beard and his tonsure had a covering of dark hair by now, but John recognized him from across the street, even still wearing the same habit he had seen him in before. His face was turned toward them, but he gave no sign of recognition.
Then in the next moment John’s exultation withered into shrivelling horror as, crossing the street together, William said quietly, “Look again. It seems to me that someone else has found him first.”
As they traversed the thoroughfare and came to the mouth of the alley, hearing passing feet pause before him, the crouching beggar became very still and attentive—and wary. Standing in front of him, William and John found the impression formed as they crossed the road confirmed. They were looking down on the swollen, damaged eye sockets of a blinded man.
“Father Oswald,” said William, “it’s me.”
The man was galvanized into response by these words. He did not say anything, which seemed odd to John, nor did he smile; but he reached out filthy hands in sleeves thick with blood and dirt and stuck food scraps and turned his face eagerly toward William’s voice.
John glanced at William, taken aback that he did not come down to his brother’s level, did not touch him or take his hand to make connection with the poor man in his blindness. He saw that William was looking very closely at the mutilated man, frowning as he scrutinized his face. Oswald’s lips were swollen and crusty, and blood had dried in clots and rivulets into his beard. Sores had been created at the corners of his mouth by a constant trickle of saliva that Oswald periodically raised his hand to wipe away.
Slowly William squatted down in front of him. “Speak to me,” he said softly. And then John understood.
Oswald spoke, but he produced no human speech—only a guttural moaning that formed no words.
“Oh holy Jesus! Oh sweet mother of God! What have they done to him?” gasped John as he bent over the man. Oswald reacted sharply to his voice, which he clearly recognized at once. He had not forgotten John. He reached out his hands toward them, groping to make contact.
“Put out his eyes and cut out his tongue, as I think you can see,” said William. “And God only knows what else we shall discover in due course.”
As William spoke, John knelt down before the crouching man and let the questing hands find him. Horror jolted through him in waves that left him cold and trembling. The bright sunshine of the day seemed only pitiless now. “Oh, why? Why did I not come back? How could I have left him? Why ever did I not come back?”
As he allowed the man to cling to him, moaning out his incomprehensible words, his face searching blindly toward John, his hands clutching at him desperately, tears streamed down John’s face.
“Oh, why did I not come back?”
“You did come back,” said William. “You are here.”
Blowing out his breath in an effort to regain calm, John brushed his tears away.
The maimed beggar continued to cling to him, gripping the folds of John’s cloak tightly, pouring out words that neither man could understand.
“Just a minute. Steady, my brother; it’s all right; we shall not leave you. Wait while I sort myself out.”
John blew his nose and wiped his tears away, his hands still trembling. Then he pushed his handkerchief back into his pocket, and William watched the remorse and distress receding to be dealt with later as John brought his skills and experience to the situation.
“Let’s have a look at you.” John’s voice, kind and sane, disciplined into composure again, spoke reassurance.
“Open your mouth,” he said gently. “Let me see. Well, that has healed fairly clean at least. Hold still now, very still. I want to look at your eyes. I will not hurt you, but you must keep still. These are sore and swollen, and that’s pus oozing there. You’ve got quite a bit of dirt in the sockets I think, my brother. How could you not, out on the street like this? They need cleaning and soothing. I think you will need bandages, maybe eye patches. I have never cared for an eye socket before; we will have to learn together. But we can take care of you and make you comfortable.
“This is strange, William. How has he su
rvived? Has someone helped him? The blood loss when someone’s tongue is cut out is phenomenal. The shock of losing both eyes and tongue could result in death by itself.”
“His mouth looks burned to me. I think they did something to stem the bleeding. Can you see? Probably not in this alley; it’s not the best place for light. Maybe he was just lucky, if that’s the right word.”
“But why would anyone do this? Is it simply the viciousness of human nature—because he was vulnerable here on the street?”
“No.” William shook his head. “He will have been recognized. Oswald was my almoner. We were not known for giving freely. There will have been many he turned away.” He straightened up and stood watching as John took Oswald’s hands in his left hand, keeping that gentle contact as he continued to look carefully at Oswald’s eyes and mouth, his right hand touching lightly to help him feel and see what had happened as he explored and examined. Oswald was quiet now, his face turned toward John in mute attention.
“Well, he was no angel,” William observed drily, watching, “but he didn’t deserve this.”
“We have to get this poor soul to shelter,” said John firmly. He turned to look up at William. “Where is the nearest Benedictine house from here?” He frowned. “What? William, how do you make your eyes kind of flicker like that when you don’t like what’s said to you?” A look of amusement passed through William’s face, and John could never figure out how he did that either: how he could smile but not smile. “Well?” he pushed him.
“There is a house ten miles north of here,” William replied. “It lies barely a half mile out of our journey home. St Olave’s at Holmehurst.”
“Perfect. Let’s go there then. What’s the matter?”
William moved his hand in a vague, irritable gesture of dismissal. “’Tis only a matter of a few months since their abbot denied me shelter in the roundest possible terms. Threatened to set his dogs on me if ever I darkened his door again.”
John stood up. “Did he so! Who is their abbot?”
“Robert Chesham.”
“Why is he keeping dogs?”
William shrugged. “He’s your modern Benedictine. Very sophisticated—or thinks he is. Rides to hounds and likes to go hawking with his friends in the aristocracy. Sees Nursia as very rustic and a far cry from fourteenth-century Chesterfield. He’s not into the simple living your Columba held so dear.”
“Very elegant. Well, I don’t care if he keeps parrots and monkeys so long as he’ll have us too. Anyway, you’re a Benedictine now, so he doesn’t have to like you, but he’ll have to take you in. And Oswald will be a Benedictine before the fortnight’s out. In the meantime he could be anything, so no need to take offense at him. We’ll set out for Holmehurst directly. Don’t look so skeptical; it’ll be all right.”
William went back for their horses, and John noticed that even crossing the street he looked as cautious and wary as a fox. When he returned, John helped Oswald to his feet. “He’d better ride up behind you; that’s a better mount than my swaybacked old mare. Not that there’s much of either one of you, but even so.”
The evening sun lay warm on the pale stone of the gatehouse as they rode up to the entrance of St Olave’s. As they came to a halt, William and John looked at each other.
“Well, I’m not going to knock. I tell you, it’s barely four months since they told me to get out of here and never come back, and my guess is they told Oswald the same. It’s you who will have to ask.”
Oswald commented on this. Neither of them understood him, but he seemed to be affirming William’s remarks.
“Hold the reins for me then, and I’ll see what they will do for us.”
John knocked at the postern door in the great gates, which were shut, and at once their porter came out to him, smiling a welcome.
“God give you good day, Brother Porter,” said John courteously. “I am seeking lodging for a night for myself and my brothers. I am Abbot John Hazell of St Alcuin’s Abbey, north of York. My friends are also brothers of that house.”
“Come in; you are right welcome, friend!” beamed the porter, grasping John’s arm in hospitable goodwill. “My name is Brother Justin. Have you travelled far?”
“We are returning from Chesterfield,” began John, but Brother Justin was no longer listening. His eyes had fallen upon William and whoever was seated behind him on his grey palfrey. He froze completely, staring at William, whose gaze, eyebrows lifted in sardonic inquiry, met his steadily.
The porter whirled about, asking John bluntly, “You have taken William de Bulmer into your house? You took him in?”
All of John’s life had been bedded in a context of harmonious relationships. His childhood home had been happy, and his friendships with the other village lads had been cordial, and his work as infirmarian at St Alcuin’s brought him gratitude as well as fulfillment. As William and Oswald sat on the horse waiting for him to manage the porter’s appalled response, he suddenly had a glimpse into the vulnerability of human existence: how much we depend upon the kindness and goodwill of others.
“He came to our house seeking shelter after the tragic fire at St Dunstan’s priory,” said John evenly. “He was well known to us and had offered hospitality to our brothers in the past.”
“Aye,” replied the porter, “we know! Our prior was there as witness to that hospitality; it has not been forgotten.”
John looked at the ground for a moment, embarrassed by the candid hostility and distressed for William and Oswald. He raised his eyes again to meet the porter’s expression of frank indignation. “Well,” he said softly, “he was grateful that we made space for him, and he is proving to be a wonderful asset to our community—both loving and remarkably able. We appreciate him. What’s past is past; ours is to forgive, if I’ve read the Gospel right. Yours too, Brother Porter: same Gospel.”
Nobody who lacks character and determination is ever elected abbot. Brother Justin noted the steel in John’s gaze as it held his, though John’s stance remained relaxed and friendly.
“May we come in?” Something in the way John said it communicated an expectation rather than a plea, but the porter remained reluctant.
“Who else is it you’ve got up there, then?” he asked suspiciously. And at that John saw red.
“Since you ask,” he replied, and his tone was different now—distinctly cold and clipped, “it is another brother of St Dunstan’s. Another who met your frigid welcome before. We came back to search for him, knowing him to have been left destitute. We found him on the street, with his eyes put out and his tongue cut off, left to the mercy of cruel and violent men because his Christian brothers found themselves too pure and too nice to bear his company. That’s a sin of commission resting on a sin of omission by my calculation, and I am not favourably impressed. Seems to me it is a virtue these men can bear your company, never mind what you may think of them! At least you sleep safe at night and can swallow your food and see the light of day. Now will you let us in, or am I asking you to fetch your superior out here to speak with me?”
William slipped down from the horse and stepped quietly to his side. “Leave it, Father,” he murmured. “If I am not welcome, I think I can make my own way home. If only they will take you in with Oswald, so he can be made comfortable for this night at least.”
John didn’t even look at him. “You will not ride home alone!” he answered shortly. “We can care for one mutilated man in our infirmary, but I see no point in adding a second.”
“Come in, come in—let me open the way!” Flustered, Brother Justin averted his eyes and turned away, hurrying back in through the postern door to unlatch the big gate. “You can tie up your horses here,” he said hastily as they came through; he evidently intended them to pass no farther. “Make yourselves comfortable yonder in the lodge. I think I’d better tell Abbot Robert you are here. I’ll not keep you long.”
In silence John hitched his old mare to the iron ring in the wall. “I hope she fouls his entrancew
ay good and proper!” he muttered as William led his palfrey to the adjacent tethering ring. William shook his head, amusement gleaming in his face. “It’s all right. I understand. I had it coming, and I have to live with it.”
John laughed shortly. “Yea, verily, evil swine that you are!” he mocked him gently. “But I need you at my side, for you’ve kept me together in the bitter valley of these last weeks. I don’t know what I should have done without you.”
Again came the subliminal luminescence that did William most of the time for a smile. “I don’t doubt you would have coped. You’re sturdy-made. Look out, here comes Abbot Robert, just as promised! I’ll get Oswald down: that’ll give them food for thought. Come on down, my brother: look pitiful and earn us some supper and a night’s lodging. If they give our abbot any grief, you talk to ’em!”
Oswald smiled, which in his present condition was an alarming sight in itself. He dismounted unaided and put out his hand to find William, who said to him, “I’m here” and let Oswald find his own way to his side.
Abbot Robert arrived at the entrance arch where they stood. A burly man in his mid-fifties, his face bore the story of the years in hard lines and clever eyes. He looked like a man who would stand no nonsense, and he threw one chilly glance at William before addressing his attention to John. “Father John, welcome! We have not met before. Brother Justin here tells me you need one night’s lodging.” He spoke pleasantly, but he emphasized one. John was a peaceable man, but he had fire about him too, and he did not take kindly to this.
“Aye; one, for our necessity,” he said, “and then we shall be glad to go.”
Abbot Robert’s eyelids flickered slightly as he took in this reply.
“Father, may I speak?” murmured William submissively in his abbot’s ear; and thinking of his usual manner of conducting himself, John wondered if there was no end to his tactical wiliness. “Certainly,” he affirmed.
“Father Robert…” William’s voice conveyed nothing of either its habitual mockery or the dangerous softness it could sometimes employ; neither did it allow Abbot Robert to see the vulnerability he exposed to John and his brothers at St Alcuin’s. He spoke with the humble and seemingly guileless simplicity of an artful child who knows how to get his own way. “I have by God’s grace been given a new beginning with the good brothers of St Alcuin’s, who are true Christians indeed and a credit to their Lord, for they have taken me in. By their kindness I have been shown a better way. By their example I have seen what a monk may be. So you need fear no bad influence from me if I stay in your house this one night. I know you do not think the same as the brothers of St Alcuin’s; but I hope you will find in your heart the kindness to let us stay.”
The Hour Before Dawn Page 11