Remember Me (13 page)

“Father,” he said softly, on impulse, “would you hear my confession?

“Just a minute.” He went and shut the door. Returning to sit at Oswald's side, he saw that his friend sat with compassion clear on his face, ready to hear his trouble. Something in him recoiled from the unwanted intimacy inherent in the interaction, but without allowing himself second thoughts, he took his seat again and told Oswald simply, briefly, holding nothing back, everything about himself and Madeleine. He felt palpitations of panic at what he was doing, but he told him of the agony of loving her and the dust and ashes that monastic obedience had become. He made no excuses, no attempt to justify himself. He did not describe in any detail what had happened in Madeleine's house that night in July or the sweetness of his stolen kiss in the oratory, but he did not leave those things out. “So I have betrayed my abbot and betrayed this house's kindness. I have betrayed my vocation and sinned against my God, and I could not confess it, for fear of being flung out. Will you… will you absolve me?”

He wished Oswald would just say the words of absolution and it would be done. Instead, Oswald asked him, painstakingly framing the words, “Have you let this love go?”

“What?” said William. It was completely incomprehensible. Oswald took his hand and asked the question again… and again… as he traced the letters of his words on William's palm.

“Oh,” said William, light dawning. “No. No, I have not. I could sooner let my soul go and watch it fall to hell.” He wondered with a sudden clutch of fright if that was in fact precisely what he'd done.

“What would you have forgiven?” Oswald traced
what forgive
on William's upheld palm.

William swallowed. “I cannot renounce it, Father,” he said. “I cannot let it go. I am sorry that I had not the forbearance to hold it in my heart only. I'm sorry I went behind John's back to give physical expression to something neither Madeleine nor I can have. I'm sorry I could not wait in patience for something that almost certainly will never have its day, never come to me. I'm sorry for the lies and that I have to keep the truth concealed from John. I'm sorry for having created the situation. But I'm not sorry for the love.”

Oswald released William's hand and groped for the beaker of drinking water that stood on the small table at his side. He dipped his fingers in it and shook the water in the general direction of his friend. “
Asperges me, Domine
…” He pronounced the absolution, and as he said the familiar if undistinguishable words, William's mind raced, in turmoil. What had he done? How safe would this information be? This man was lonely, and bored, and not completely incapable of speech. He tried to pay attention to the spiritual depth of what was happening and failed completely. But he took it in all seriousness and knew enough about Oswald's own history to be sure he would be neither shocked nor surprised.

“Would you give me penance?” he asked.

He could not understand Oswald's reply at all, and after another unsuccessful attempt, Oswald reached for his hand again.

William watched the finger of his brother trace the words on his palm:
Go… on… living.
Then Oswald folded William's hand shut and returned it to his lap. Evidently he thought the situation itself provided penance enough.

“Thank you, my brother,” said William quietly. He wanted to secure Oswald's promise that he would keep this confidence, stress to him that not a hint of this must reach anyone, but he restrained himself. He would not stoop so low as to insult his brother, a priest of the church, with the suggestion that he might break the sacred silence of the confessional, even if he doubted his steadfastness as a friend. “Thank you. I must go now, but I'll come back soon.” Even as he said the words he knew he'd added another lie to the ones from which Oswald had only just that minute absolved him. He would come back when he had to, when guilt pushed him to it, when he couldn't put off a visit any longer. And it was past what he could imagine of himself that he would come back sooner. The familiarity of shame at who he was settled round him as he made his farewell and finally walked away.

Anxiety fretted at him lest Oswald not keep his confidence. He knew Oswald well enough that it would not surprise him at all if he did not. He felt ashamed of his own insufficiency as a friend, his lack of charity as a monk, his cynicism as a man. He walked into the checker feeling thoroughly at odds with himself and the whole of the world.

Brother Ambrose looked up from the table over which he was bent, making up bundles of garden twine. “Oh—there you are, Father. Our abbot was looking for you. I said I'd send you over when you got back. Been at the infirmary?”

“Yes. What's the matter with him? Father John I mean.”

Brother Ambrose perceived that the brief glimpse of sunshine he'd seen this morning had clouded over again.

“I think, Father—though I can't swear to it—that he's not as enamoured of your system of lists and checks as you might have been hoping.”

A quick grimace of exasperation flashed before William suppressed it. He sighed.

“Oh, all right—I'll go and find out what's wrong with him. Why not waste the tail end of the day? The rest of it's gone.”

Meanwhile, in the abbot's house Brother Thomas had returned from his labours on the farm, pleasantly aching from hard work, tired and hungry enough to be looking forward to his supper and an evening with his feet up in conversation with his brothers.

“Day go well?” his abbot inquired, barely waiting for a reply before continuing. “Oh, I have yet
another
of these confounded lists—can you help me with it, please? I must learn to be a bit more methodical myself. I've got notes here and there. If you could take the tablet and the stylus and write down the guests as I tell you their names, I'll look through this pile of letters to check who's coming and when—I mean, I did send word to the guesthouse as each letter came in (or you did, to be accurate)—I can't see why Father William can't simply check with Father Dominic. Anyway, are you ready?”

Not without effort Tom resigned himself to a further demanding chore before the day could end. He obediently took the wax tablet and stood waiting with the stylus poised in his hand.

“Sir Geoffrey and Lady Agnes d'Ebassier are coming to visit for just a few days on their way to Scotland toward the end of this month, with all their retinue, so that's worth making a note of. Sometime during Advent there will be visits from the families of the lads in the novitiate—they're bound to want to come. But between Michaelmas and All Hallows there is no one much expected except the prior and novice master from St Mary's in York who want to see Father Theodore and—”

“Hold on!” Tom interrupted him.

“What?”

“You're going too fast. I've only got as far as ‘Sir Geoffrey.' I haven't even written down ‘and Lady Agnes d'Ebassier' yet. By the time I get to the next one I'll have forgotten what you said. And… well, to be honest, I'm not that grand at writing. How do you spell ‘Geoffrey'? I think it has more than one
f
, doesn't it?”

“What? Not ‘Sir Geoffrey and Lady Agnes d'Ebassier' for mercy's sake!”

“But—that's who you said.”

“Oh, God in heaven grant me patience! Look—Tom, you just write ‘d'Ebassier', Who else is it likely to be? Holy saints, this is going to take up the whole of the rest of the day! Never mind—just give it to me; I'll do it myself. Give it to me! No, truly!”

Looking more than a little hurt, Brother Thomas surrendered the tablet to his superior, then he heard a quick, sharp knock on the door from the abbey court, and he knew who that was.

William did him the courtesy of a quick glance and a nod as he came into the room and gave his attention to the abbot.

“You asked to see me?” His tone was brusque.

Here we go
, thought Brother Thomas,
flint on flint
.

“I am cumbered about by your confounded lists!” John stood with the tablet in his hands, wishing the only thing written on it was not a misspelling of Sir Geoffrey. “I got rid of the last blasted list to the checker this morning, only to find myself saddled with the task of making another one—of every guest I can think of who's ever likely to visit me between now until I die or Christ comes again.”

“Oh. How far have you got?”

He held out his hand for the tablet. John moved his thumb to cover the name and pressed it down hard and kept it there.

“I haven't got anywhere with it. I've only just started. It may amaze you to know this, but I do have some other things to do. Brother Thomas tells them at the guesthouse every time we hear someone will be coming. Can't you go and infest them with your infernal plague of lists?”

William's eyes flickered as he regarded his abbot in silence, and that annoyed John even more.

“Well?”

“But you agreed—” William tried to sound more patient than he felt.

“I know I did!” John snapped back. “And I can't have been thinking straight! You can take your wax tablets and shove 'em up—” He stopped abruptly.

Brother Tom turned away from this conversation and occupied himself with some pointless activity that required him to bend down to the hearth. If either of them saw his amusement, he thought the consequences could be dire.

“Oh, dear, I'm sorry, brother.” John made himself speak more calmly. “It just makes so much more work out of every blessed thing.”

A thunderous knocking at the cloister door made all three of them jump.

“
Mater Dei!
For heaven's sake! What
now
?”

Before Brother Tom could rise to answer it, Abbot John was across the room and had the door yanked open. “Whatever do you think you're doing, brother? Does ‘quiet' mean anything to you? What are you trying to do? Knock the door down or raise the blessed dead?”

Chastened, Brother Benedict, who stood on the step, smote his breast. “
Mea culpa
. But Father, please—can you come—I can't find Brother Michael and I think Father Oswald is dead.”

It took only a split second for his abbot to gather his wits, in which time Brother Thomas had taken the tablet and stylus out of his unresisting hands.

Abbot John had worked in the infirmary all his adult life. When a matter of life and death was brought before him, he did not delay to discuss it or ask any questions. Lifting his hand to the novice's shoulder to turn him round, he set him off along the cloister as he stepped forward to accompany him.

“Father William,” he said as an afterthought, looking back, “do you want to come with us?”

William did not. The thought of it made him feel queasy, but he followed them nevertheless.

“I'm so sorry,” John said as he strode along beside the novice. “Forgive my impatience, Brother Benedict—I was rude to you. You can tell me what's happened as we go.”

By the time they reached the infirmary, Brother Michael was already kneeling by Father Oswald's body on the floor where it had fallen. What had happened was simple and not unexpected. The men in the infirmary took their supper before the rest of the community, to allow the brothers who worked there the opportunity to eat with the others in the frater later on. Brother Michael had gone outside in haste to get their washing in before the damps of the evening undid the good work of the afternoon sunshine. This left Brother Benedict and Martin, their assistant from the village, to serve the suppers. Three of the old men in the infirmary needed spoon-feeding and could not drink without help. Father Oswald could look after himself, though supervision was advisable. He had mastered the art of eating remarkably well, but the danger of choking remained an everpresent threat.

And this time he had lost the battle—in the few minutes that Michael attended to the washing and Benedict and Martin fed mashed beans and gravy and rich red wine, with gentle patience, to the frail and ancient inhabitants under their care.

It would have taken only a few short minutes. Martin heard him choking and thought little of it; Father Oswald needed to hawk and cough his way through every meal. Then he heard the crash of him falling and the chair and table falling, too, and the bowl and beaker smashing as they hit the ground. He left what he was doing, put his head round the door, panicked, and called out for Brother Benedict, who had come at a run but didn't know what to do. The sight of Father Oswald, his hands to his throat as he fought ineffectually for breath, his face contused purple and his body thrashing on the ground, frightened them both.

Brother Benedict told Martin to find Brother Michael at once, and he was glad to leave in obedience to this instruction. The novice had found the courage to pick his way through the wreckage and kneel by the choking, writhing body, trying (without success) to tip him forward. He gave him an experimental thump on the back, which made no difference at all. He hit him again, harder, and harder again, and Father Oswald fell limp. Relieved, Brother Benedict thought he had solved the problem at first. But when he spoke Oswald's name, no response came. Terrified then, he turned the man's head so he could see his face. Purple still, it sagged unresponsive. It was hard to tell, partly because he had never seen a dead man before and partly because Father Oswald had no eyes, but Brother Benedict thought he might be dead. Without waiting to see if Martin had found Brother Michael, he scrambled to his feet and did the only thing he could think of. He ran for Father John.

Abbot John did not run, but he put on a fair turn of speed as he walked along the path to the infirmary. William kept his pace with ease, but Brother Benedict had to trot.

They arrived at the doorway of Oswald's room to find Michael kneeling at Oswald's side checking for signs of life, but it was evident that help had come too late. John stopped in the doorway, the other two men behind him. He turned to the novice. Benedict's face looked pale and pinched with fear. He felt responsible.