They agreed on their road and travelled north into Derbyshire. The question of where they would sleep that night had determined their choice of direction: they headed for Doncaster. Their horses now well-fed and rested, an early start made it reasonable to suppose they could make that distance—just over thirty miles across country—in a day. Again William knew the Benedictine houses there better than John. There were more Cistercians than Benedictines in the north country now, but John wanted to knock only on a Benedictine door, to be sure the hospitality would be an obligation upon their hosts. He would not have either of his brothers turned away again. Living with the consequences of past misdeeds John saw as no bad thing; yet he disapproved in principle of any welcome that fell short of ordinary Christian kindness. So their road that day led to the small community of fifteen brothers at Loversall.
“I don’t suppose they will,” commented William.
“Will what?” They rode on in silence a little way, and John looked questioningly at William, who did not respond.
“Oh, I see! Love us all! No. But I expect they’ll not take exception to Oswald and me—shame about you!” John teased him cheerfully.
“Too right,” William replied. Then, “Father John…”
“Oh no. You’ve had an idea, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
“God preserve us; let’s hear it then.”
“Oswald, this concerns you and your eyes; so if you’re feeling squeamish, put your hands over your ears.”
John waited, curious as to what William had to say.
“It would take us not more than five miles out of our way to pass through Motherwell, would it?”
“That’s right,” John affirmed.
“Now, you said your sister and mother acted as midwives in their village for some years.”
“They did.” William heard the note of pride in John’s voice. Both women had considerable skill in the healing arts.
“Midwifery. I have no personal experience of this, I hasten to add. I’ve never needed the services of a midwife. I’ve strayed from the straight and narrow every day of my life, but not in the direction of siring progeny.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” replied Father John. “I should think one of you in the world is more than enough. So you don’t need a midwife, and—?”
“But midwives… I imagine they need some skill in suturing from time to time, do they not?”
Abbot John digested this thought in silence. “Yes,” he said slowly after a while; “yes, indeed they do. You are absolutely right. I would put money on Madeleine having a fair amount of experience in suturing wounds, not to mention cleaning hard-to-access mucous membranes. William, you’re a genius. D’you know, I never thought of that! You have been filled with the Holy Spirit, haven’t you?”
William cast him a withering, sidelong glance. “Anything you hadn’t thought of must be beyond human wit, you mean?”
“Uh-huh. That’s why they call me ‘superior.’ Motherwell it is. Can we make it up there by tomorrow, do you think?”
“No. Assuming we make Loversall tonight, the farthest we’ll get tomorrow is Tadcaster. That’s thirty miles and then some from Loversall. And it’s the best part of another thirty miles on from Tadcaster to Motherwell. We shan’t reach the Poor Clares until evening the day after tomorrow. I think we’ll have to beg another night’s lodging with them too. We can’t push on any quicker than that because these two mounts won’t take it—especially my poor palfrey with two of us up, even if you have both our packs. If we go for the greater distance, the horses will have to rest a day; it makes no odds. Still, we should be good for the extra night’s lodging because, thanks to my divinely inspired intelligence, I had the gumption to check the chamber before we left and picked up the money bag you left behind on the bed. I’m surprised they don’t call you ‘inferior’ if sagacity is the only criterion. What’s that you say, Oswald? I’m sorry, without being able to see your face, I cannot make head nor tail of anything you just said. Think deeply, and divulge all your deliberations over our bread at midday. On second thought, that sounds slightly revolting.”
The day was cloudy, bright and not too hot, so the horses journeyed easy. They stopped by the River Ryton, resting under the spreading canopy of a beech tree while their horses cropped the lush green grass of late spring and slaked their thirst in the shallows at the water’s edge of that stopping place.
Their reception at Loversall Abbey, at the end of a long day, proved little different from what they had encountered in Chesterfield. Weary of surliness and suspicion, Abbot John thought he would be glad to see the moors again and climb the hill that led home. They made the best of it, kept to themselves, did what they could to minimize the mess Oswald generated, and slept soundly until the rising sun roused John and William early in the morning. They were on the road again after Mass, going gently to pace their mounts on this fifth day of travelling, making steady progress toward Tadcaster, where they asked shelter at a Cistercian house, because going on to a Benedictine community meant another five miles, and their horses were already turning questingly toward every quiet green spot. The Cistercian welcome seemed markedly reserved, but the travellers were admitted to the guest house with no awkward questions. A few raised eyebrows and astute glances in William’s direction told John these men had grasped the situation; he was grateful when they chose to make no comment. For just the one night a truce could be reached, it seemed.
Chapter Five
The following day took them on the road to Motherwell. They travelled in silence, their mood conditioned by John’s palpable apprehension. While his abbot had been thanking the guest master at Tadcaster Abbey and making a gift of money in return for hospitality, William had discreetly explained to Father Oswald about Madeleine and Katelin. Oswald had listened with close attention, his face sad.
Nothing of the casual banter of the days before cheered this stretch of the journey. It merely seemed long. Tired and hungry, aching in body and low in spirit, they knocked for admittance as the first cool of evening made itself felt in the sunny afternoon. The shutter over the grating in the door slid back. “Abbot John! Father William! And someone we don’t know! God bless you. Come on in!” The men felt comforted and encouraged by the first honest kindness that had met them so far.
“What brings you here? The sisters are in chapel. Is it Madeleine you seek? I’ll ask Mother Mistress directly after they have finished Vespers if she may have permission to come to the parlour. Let me find you a bite to eat while you’re waiting. Yes, don’t you worry. We’ll rub down the horses and see to their needs as well.”
Sister Mary Cuthbert of the rosy and dimpled cheeks and smiling eyes, one of three extern sisters, betrayed no sign of shock at Oswald’s appearance or his greeting. She took his hand in a brief squeeze of welcome and did not look away or even blink when his answering smile let loose a long drool of saliva, which he hastily wiped away with his other hand.
John could have kissed her, but he thought he’d better not.
Their mealtime routine was beginning to feel familiar. Oswald’s arduous, hawking battle with his bowl of pottage seemed almost ordinary now. They had learned already how best to help him when help was needed—when to intervene and when to let him be.
“This honey tastes beautiful,” commented John, adding some on top of the butter on his bread. “Would you like some, Father Oswald?”
“Don’t give him honey!” protested William at the same time as Oswald eagerly assented.
“Why not?” John stopped in surprise, honey dripping from the spoon.
“‘Why not?’ What d’you mean, ‘Why not?’ Because honey is sticky and—oh, my Lord! Look, he’s already got it on his sleeve, and it’s dripped all down his scapular! Why do women insist on eating sweet food? Abbot John, you must need your head seeing to! For pity’s sake! He can’t even taste it! He didn’t even know there was honey until you—”
“I know!” interrupted John. “
William, I promise you this: if ever—God forbid—you lose your eyesight or your hearing or your mind, if ever you are paralyzed or cannot speak or your hand has a tremor—in any infirmary under my jurisdiction the brothers will understand that they are there to be your eyes, your hands, your ears. They will help you reach out for the choices you would have made but no longer can. They will know what those choices are because they’ll have lived in community with you, known you and loved you. They will hold the cup steady for you, pick up the dropped spoon for you, mop up the spills for you. They will be your dignity, your comfort, your freedom, and, as far as it lies with them to be so, your happiness. While you’re waiting for that day to come, you can take your turn at doing the same for somebody else who is living your tomorrow here today. I expect these sisters have a well; and from what I’ve seen so far, I think they will not begrudge us a bowl of water. Anyway, scapulars are made for honey and soup that didn’t make it all the way. Why d’you think we have them? And women eat sweet food because it tastes good. I like honey too.”
William said nothing to this. He watched Father Oswald defiantly clinging on to his bread and butter and honey, enjoying it. The taste was not there for him anymore, but he could still smell it; and it belonged to the memory of past pleasures. John grinned at William as he watched the greasy, sugary mess transfer inexorably to Oswald’s hands and sleeves and face, and even his hair. William shook his head in disbelief as the table around Oswald’s plate began to reflect the rays of the sinking sun.
“Jesus,” said John. “It’s Jesus.”
William looked at him. “What is?”
His abbot’s eyes searched his, playfully, kindly. “This. This whole thing. Finding the grace to take what is truly awful and make it sing again. Identifying something in a ruined life that still can be sweet even if you can’t taste it anymore. Come on, William! Don’t begrudge him his bread and honey.”
“These women have taken us in,” William replied after pondering this. “They have shown us the first real friendliness of anyone. Do we not owe them some consideration? What will they think of us?”
“They will think,” said his abbot, “that we love our brother. ‘These women’ gave us the honey.”
Sister Mary Cuthbert trod purposefully into the room, bearing a large, steaming bowl of hot water. Over her arm she had a number of linen towels.
“The sisters are finished in chapel, and I’ve sent word to dear Mother,” she said briskly. “I thought you might like the chance to refresh yourselves after your supper. Are you all finished? Or would you like some more?”
They all three thanked her, Oswald’s shining face beaming in hideous but heartfelt gratitude. John began to laugh as he started the process of restoring Oswald to any kind of respectable appearance. The extent of the mess Oswald had created released the tension of his dread at meeting his sister after last time. As he tackled the mayhem, he found himself helpless with laughter. “Oh, glory, you do it!” he said to William, handing him the cloth.
Oswald sat patiently still, his face lifted to be cleaned, his hands held clear of whatever unseen chaos he had unwittingly created. As he wiped away the stickiness and the adhering crumbs, William found himself drawn in to both the comedy and the pathos of the moment. Sister Mary Cuthbert had brought enough towels. It took ten minutes, but William restored both the man and his environment to a state of complete order and cleanliness, while his abbot stood watching, leaning against the wall, his arms folded, his eyes full of laughter.
“And no, you can’t have seconds!” said William to his now perfectly respectable brother. Then, “Oswald,” he added seriously, “please will you forgive me?”
They went from the guest house to the parlour, where someone had hung a lantern on either side of the grille. Three stools stood there now. John’s lightheartedness visibly evaporated as soon as they walked through the door into the austere little room. William guided Oswald to the stool in the middle of the three. They took their seats in silence and waited.
Presently the door in the convent wall, on the other side of the room, opened. John half stood, but sat down again as Madeleine came in with averted eyes and stony expression, taking her seat without coming to the grille to greet them. She didn’t even look at them. Her face was pale and formidably pensive. She had grown thin. John felt decidedly unsure of his welcome.
“Wes hal, brother.” She used the old country greeting as the nervous silence continued. She directed her words to John, but her tone did not embody the kindness of the Old English words, which meant be thou whole. She looked at him then for the first time, her eyes dark and unfriendly. “You asked to see me.”
Oswald remained completely still, his face watchful, his whole body reading the uneasy atmosphere of the interaction. William looked at the floor. He felt wretched for John, but thought that in this one he had neither place nor power to intervene.
John stood up and went to the grille. Madeleine did not move except that she appeared almost imperceptibly to lean backwards. She did not want him close.
He had put his hands to the bars, but fearing that this might seem too insistent and intrusive, he moved them to rest lightly on the wooden beam in which the iron railings were set. For a brief moment he wondered whether to pursue the usual courtesies of asking after her health and how everything was going, but he quickly recognized the pointlessness of trying to initiate any such exchange. She sat steadfastly on her stool, enduring being there, staring straight ahead, but not at him. “Madeleine,” he said, “we need your help.”
He had her attention then. With a slight, puzzled frown she said, “My help? With what?”
“My brothers here are new to our community,” he explained. “They were Augustinians from a priory near Chesterfield. Their house was torched and the brothers killed—trapped in the fire. These two escaped. Father William, who was their prior—that’s their superior, for theirs was a priory, not an abbey—found his way to us. He travelled through the same country as I did on my way home from the university at Cambridge, and at the same time. Mercifully he reached us, and we took him in. Father Oswald I met in Chesterfield, destitute, on my travels home from the university. I could not take him with me. No, forgive me; that’s not true. I did not take him with me, for I was in haste to return before Easter and did not want to be slowed by the difficulty, for those who might offer me lifts, of an extra body to accommodate. I left him in Chesterfield, but I told Father William I had seen him. Since I reached home, my feet have hardly touched the ground; there has been so much to learn and tackle from the start. And I have been… the news of what had befallen you and Mother… it… I was… oh, never mind it, I am not excusing myself. I was remiss, and if I had not been, this would never have happened.
“After I came to see you here last time, Father William approached me to ask if we might go back to Chesterfield to search for the brother I left behind. So we went, and by God’s grace we found him. But, Madeleine, they have hurt him grievously—cut out most of his tongue and put out his eyes, as you see. He has been living in the mire and muck of the street, left to see to his wounds by himself with nobody to help him. I thank God he is in no worse state, but he cannot be left as he is now. Sister, I have never stitched anyone’s eyelids. I have watched surgery but never done it. I do not have the experience I need, and I am afraid of hurting him. His sockets are mucky from the street. Father William thought that you might have the skills to help us. I know you are not eager to see me, but I don’t know of anywhere else to turn.”
Madeleine listened carefully to this, and William raised his head to watch her response. When John stopped speaking, she looked at her brother very levelly.
“What a pity you did not go back,” she said coldly. Involuntarily, as he saw John flinch, both of William’s hands tightened into fists, not in aggression but in unbearable tension. He felt the hurt of her words harrow their way through every level of John’s soul, so that for a moment he could not answer.
Th
en, “I did go back, Madeleine,” he said quietly, humbly. “But can we leave me and my shortcomings to one side for now? I am not unaware of my faults and my omissions. Will you help us? Have you the skills?”
Madeleine sat without moving a moment longer. William saw in her face a deep reluctance, as if wherever her soul had hidden away it had no desire at all to be drawn forth into the turbulence of human need and frailty. Finally, “Let me see,” she said. She stood, crossed the room to lift the lantern down from its hook, and came forward to the grille. She was standing so close to John then, but she did not touch him or smile at him or even look at him. She stood waiting for Oswald to come forward to her, her face closed and remote.
The parlour was not a big room. Only six short, hesitating, shuffling steps took Oswald to the grille, holding his hands before him, groping as he moved toward her voice. William moved with him, his hand cupped under Oswald’s elbow to steer him to the right place.
“Don’t do it like that,” said Madeleine calmly, observing their progress toward her. William’s eyes met hers as they came to the grille. John thought somewhere in one universe or another he heard the clash of steel on steel as two swords met.
“Like what?” asked William in a voice entirely devoid of warmth.
“When you walk with a blind man, you should let him take your arm, and you lead him. At the moment, you’re taking his arm and steering him. He can’t see where to go, so you are making him too vulnerable, in reality as well as in how he feels. If you let him take your arm instead, he will feel more secure, and you will progress more effectively.”
“Thank you,” said William. “I shall remember,” he added in a voice like frostbite.
As Oswald stood at the grille, Madeleine paused one final moment, in which she seemed to be summoning the reserves of her spirit for this encounter. Then she put her left hand through the railings and took hold of Oswald’s chin, holding the lantern high so she could see as she moved his face to this angle and that.
The Hour Before Dawn Page 14