Monk's Hood
Authors: Ellis Peters
Monk’s
Hood
The
Third Chronicle of Brother Cadfael, of the Benedictine Abbey of Saint Peter and
Saint Paul, at Shrewsbury
Ellis Peters
ON
THIS PARTICULAR MORNING at the beginning of December, in the year 1138, Brother
Cadfael came to chapter in tranquillity of mind, prepared to be tolerant even
towards the dull, pedestrian reading of Brother Francis, and long-winded legal
haverings of Brother Benedict the sacristan. Men were variable, fallible, and to
be humoured. And the year, so stormy in its earlier months, convulsed with
siege and slaughter and disruptions, bade fair to end in calm and comparative
plenty. The tide of civil war between King Stephen and the partisans of the
Empress Maud had receded into the south-western borders, leaving Shrewsbury to
recover cautiously from having backed the weaker side and paid a bloody price
for it. And for all the hindrances to good husbandry, after a splendid summer
the harvest had been successfully gathered in, the barns were full, the mills
were busy, sheep and cattle thrived on pastures still green and lush, and the
weather continued surprisingly mild, with only a hint of frost in the early
mornings. No one was wilting with cold yet, no one yet was going hungry. It
could not last much longer, but every day counted as blessing.
And
in his own small kingdom the crop had been rich and varied, the eaves of his
workshop in the garden were hung everywhere with linen bags of dried herbs, his
jars of wine sat in plump, complacent rows, the shelves were thronging
with bottles and pots of specifics for all the ills of winter, from
snuffling colds to seized-up joints and sore and wheezing chests. It was a
better world than it had looked in the spring, and an ending that improves on
its beginning is always good news.
So
Brother Cadfael rolled contentedly to his chosen seat in the chapter-house,
conveniently retired behind one of the pillars in a dim corner, and watched
with half-sleepy benevolence as his brothers of the house filed in and took
their places: Abbot Heribert, old and gentle and anxious, sadly worn by the
troublous year now near its ending; Prior Robert Pennant, immensely tall and
patrician, ivory of face and silver of hair and brows, ever erect and stately,
as if he already balanced the mitre for which he yearned. He was neither old
nor frail, but an ageless and wiry fifty-one, though he contrived to look every
inch a patriarch sanctified by a lifetime of holiness; he had looked much the
same ten years ago, and would almost certainly change not at all in the twenty
years to come. Faithful at his heels slid Brother Jerome, his clerk, reflecting
Robert’s pleasure or displeasure like a small, warped mirror. After them came
all the other officers, sub-prior, sacristan, hospitaller, almoner, infirmarer,
the custodian of the altar of St. Mary, the cellarer, the precentor, and the
master of the novices. Decorously they composed themselves for what bade fair
to be an unremarkable day’s business.
Young
Brother Francis, who was afflicted with a nasal snuffle and somewhat sparse
Latin, made heavy weather of reading out the list of saints and martyrs to be
commemorated in prayer during the coming days, and fumbled a pious commentary
on the ministry of St. Andrew the Apostle, whose day was just past. Brother
Benedict the sacristan contrived to make it sound only fair that he, as
responsible for the upkeep of church and enclave, should have the major claim
on a sum willed jointly for that purpose and to provide lights for the altar of
the Lady Chapel, which was Brother Maurice’s province. The precentor
acknowledged the gift of a new setting for the “Sanctus,” donated by the
composer’s patron, but by the dubious enthusiasm with which he welcomed so
generous
a gift, he did not think highly of its merits, and it
was unlikely to be heard often. Brother Paul, master of the novices, had a
complaint against one of his pupils, suspected of levity beyond what was
permitted to youth and inexperience, in that the youngster had been heard singing
in the cloisters, while he was employed in copying a prayer of St. Augustine, a
secular song of scandalous import, purporting to be the lament of a Christian
pilgrim imprisoned by the Saracens, and comforting himself by hugging to his
breast the chemise given him at parting by his lover.
Brother
Cadfael’s mind jerked him back from incipient slumber to recognise and remember
the song, beautiful and poignant. He had been in that Crusade, he knew the
land, the Saracens, the haunting light and darkness of such a prison and such a
pain. He saw Brother Jerome devoutly close his eyes and suffer convulsions of
distress at the mention of a woman’s most intimate garment. Perhaps because he
had never been near enough to it to touch, thought Cadfael, still disposed to
be charitable. Consternation quivered through several of the old, innocent,
lifelong brothers, to whom half the creation was a closed and forbidden book.
Cadfael made an effort, unaccustomed at chapter, and asked mildly what defence
the youth had made.
“He
said,” Brother Paul replied fairly, “that he learned the song from his
grandfather, who fought for the Cross at the taking of Jerusalem, and he found
the tune so beautiful that it seemed to him holy. For the pilgrim who sang was
not a monastic or a soldier, but a humble person who made the long journey out
of love.”
“A
proper and sanctified love,” pointed out Brother Cadfael, using words not
entirely natural to him, for he thought of love as a self-sanctifying force,
needing no apology. “And is there anything in the words of that song to suggest
that the woman he left behind was not his wife? I remember none. And the music
is worthy of noting. It is not, surely, the purpose of our order to obliterate
or censure the sacrament of marriage, for those who have not a celibate
vocation. I think this young man may have done nothing very wrong. Should
not Brother Precentor try if he has not a gifted voice? Those
who sing at their work commonly have some need to use a God-given talent.”
The
precentor, startled and prompted, and none too lavishly provided with singers
to be moulded, obligingly opined that he would be interested to hear the novice
sing. Prior Robert knotted his austere brows, and frowned down his patrician
nose; if it had rested with him, the errant youth would have been awarded a
hard penance. But the master of novices was no great enthusiast for the lavish
use of the discipline, and seemed content to have a good construction put on
his pupil’s lapse.
“It
is true that he has shown as earnest and willing, Father Abbot, and has been
with us but a short time. It is easy to forget oneself at moments of
concentration, and his copying is careful and devoted.”
The
singer got away with a light penance that would not keep him on his knees long
enough to rise from them stiffly. Abbot Heribert was always inclined to be
lenient, and this morning he appeared more than usually preoccupied and
distracted. They were drawing near the end of the day’s affairs. The abbot rose
as if to put an end to the chapter.
“There
are here a few documents to be sealed,” said Brother Matthew the cellarer,
rustling parchments in haste, for it seemed to him that the abbot had turned
absent-minded, and lost sight of this duty. “There is the matter of the
fee-farm of Hales, and the grant made by Walter Aylwin, and also the guestship
agreement with Gervase Bonel and his wife, to whom we are allotting the first
house beyond the mill-pond. Master Bonel wishes to move in as soon as may be,
before the Christmas feast…”
“Yes,
yes, I have not forgotten.” Abbot Heribert looked small, dignified but
resigned, standing before them with a scroll of his own gripped in both hands.
“There is something I have to announce to you all. These necessary documents
cannot be sealed today, for sufficient reason. It may well be that they are now
beyond my competence, and I no longer have the right to conclude any agreement
for this community.
I have here an instruction which was
delivered to me yesterday, from Westminster, from the king’s court. You all
know that Pope Innocent has acknowledged King Stephen’s claim to the throne of
this realm, and in his support has sent over a legate with full powers,
Alberic, cardinal-bishop of Ostia. The cardinal proposes to hold a legatine
council in London for the reform of the church, and I am summoned to attend, to
account for my stewardship as abbot of this convent. The terms make clear,”
said Heribert, firmly and sadly, “that my tenure is at the disposal of the
legate. We have lived through a troubled year, and been tossed between two
claimants to the throne of our land. It is not a secret, and I acknowledge it,
that his Grace, when he was here in the summer, held me in no great favour,
since in the confusion of the times I did not see my way clear, and was slow to
accept his sovereignty. Therefore I now regard my abbacy as suspended, until or
unless the legatine council confirms me in office. I cannot ratify any
documents or agreements in the name of our house. Whatever is now uncompleted
must remain uncompleted until a firm appointment has been made. I cannot
trespass on what may well be another’s field.”
He
had said what he had to say. He resumed his seat and folded his hands
patiently, while their bewildered, dismayed murmurings gradually congealed and
mounted into a boiling, bees’-hive hum of consternation. Though not everyone
was horrified, as Cadfael plainly saw. Prior Robert, just as startled as the
rest, and adept at maintaining a decorous front, none the less glowed brightly
behind his ivory face, drawing the obvious conclusion, and Brother Jerome,
quick to interpret any message from that quarter, hugged himself with glee
inside the sleeves of his habit, while his face exhibited pious sympathy and
pain. Not that they had anything against Heribert, except that he continued to
hold an office on which impatient subordinates were casting covetous eyes. A
nice old man, of course, but out of date, and far too lax. Like a king who
lives too long, and positively invites assassination. But the rest of them fluttered
and panicked like hens invaded by the fox, clamouring variously:
“But,
Father Abbot, surely the king will restore you!”
“Oh,
Father, must you go to this council?”
“We
shall be left like sheep without a shepherd!”
Prior
Robert, who considered himself ideally equipped to deal with the flock of St.
Peter himself, if need be, gave that complaint a brief, basilisk glare, but
refrained from protest, indeed murmured his own commiseration and dismay.
“My
duty and my vows are to the Church,” said Abbot Heribert sadly, “and I am bound
to obey the summons, as a loyal son. If it pleases the Church to confirm me in
office, I shall return to take up my customary ward here. If another is
appointed in my place, I shall still return among you, if I am permitted, and
live out my life as a faithful brother of this house, under our new superior.”
Cadfael
thought he caught a brief, complacent flicker of a smile that passed over
Robert’s face at that. It would not greatly disconcert him to have his old
superior a humble brother under his rule at last.
“But
clearly,” went on Abbot Heribert with humility, “I can no longer claim rights
as abbot until the matter is settled, and these agreements must rest in
abeyance until my return, or until another considers and pronounces on them. Is
any one of them urgent?”
Brother
Matthew shuffled his parchments and pondered, still shaken by the suddenness of
the news. “There is no reason to hurry in the matter of the Aylwin grant, he is
an old friend to our order, his offer will certainly remain open as long as
need be. And the Hales fee-farm will date only from Lady Day of next year, so
there’s time enough. But Master Bonel relies on the charter being sealed very
soon. He is waiting to move his belongings into the house.”