Vow of Sanctity (6 page)

There were other niches, each one occupied by a seated, black-robed figure, dry darkened skin stretched over dead bones, rusty habits hanging about them.

‘All former abbots according to the records,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘They had new habits a hundred years ago. I think they were supposed to be kept here as an honour, but the custom died out ages ago. In the 1500s. Rather touching to think of them all grouped here together while above them the life of the monastery goes on.’

‘Very touching,’ Sister Joan said dryly. Her breath was still coming in little gasps. ‘Shall we go?’

‘I can turn on the light again if it goes out,’ Brother Cuthbert said helpfully. ‘However – since we’re not really supposed to be here because the air can alter the temperature we’d better leave, I suppose.’

The horrid boy sounded positively regretful, she thought indignantly, as she walked rapidly ahead of him to where the curving steps began.

‘The cloister walk is just above us,’ said Brother Cuthbert,
following. ‘That’s the bit that joins the main house to the back of the church and –’

‘How did you find me?’ she interrupted.

‘Father Abbot told me to come over to the church to meet you. When I got here the sacristy door was open –’

‘How did you get here?’ she interposed.

‘Along the cloister walk.’ Brother Cuthbert closed the door to the crypt and gave her a slightly bewildered look. ‘There’s a door at the right of the altar in the old choir stalls where the community sits. Why?’

‘I just wondered,’ she said feebly, remembering to genuflect as they came into the church again and turned briefly to acknowledge the altar. ‘I thought I heard someone in the sacristy.’

‘Brother Jacob is the sacristan but he’s been in the refectory all the time since mass,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘Mind you, he’s getting on a bit, so it’s likely he left the door ajar before mass and nobody bothered to close it. Is it important?’

‘No,’ said Sister Joan, wondering if she was speaking the truth. ‘No, of course not. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Are you ready to row me across?’

‘Any time you’re ready, Sister.’ He sounded gallant. ‘Father Abbot says you are going to do some painting of the outside of the church. It’s really the community’s chapel but it’s been years since there was a Catholic church over on the mainland, so now it serves both functions. On what mornings were you thinking of coming?’

‘Tomorrow and after that it depends on the weather and how fast I’m getting on, but if I could get hold of a small boat I could row myself across.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ he said quickly. ‘Honestly, Sister, I’m not much use in the community except for fetching and carrying and doing a bit of luting, so it makes a nice change to have a regular task.’

‘A bit of luting.’ She shot him an amused glance as they walked down to the shore. ‘Yes, one could describe it as that. Where did you learn to play so well?’

‘Royal College of Music.’ He looked suddenly shy. ‘I got a scholarship. The tutors thought I ought to take it up professionally, but I never wanted to play in public. I mean,
can you really see me as a member of an orchestra? It’s daft. Coming to Loch Morag was the best thing I ever did. I came on a hiking trip and stayed on. It’s a grand life.’

They had reached the boat and she stepped down into it cautiously from the slippery wooden wharf.

‘I hope those old abbots didn’t give you a shock.’ He took up the oars. ‘I don’t mind them myself, but they are a mite creepy, I suppose. And you were actually touching one, you know.’

‘Don’t remind me,’ she said. ‘The light went out and I was feeling along the wall for a switch and –’

‘They can’t hurt you, Sister.’ He spoke reassuringly as if he were years older than she was. ‘The dead must be the most harmless creatures on earth.’

‘Yes. I know.’ She spoke sombrely, her eyes on the rippling waters as the oars parted them. The dead were indeed harmless, but the hand she had grasped in the darkness of the crypt had been warm, full-fleshed – and alive.

Mondays were pale blue days, Sister Joan thought, when she woke up the next morning. As a small child she had seen time as great swathes of colour – orange for Tuesdays, honey-brown for Wednesdays, green for Thursdays – and Monday had been the palest of blues, clouds stretched across the sky like crisp linen on a washing-line. In that respect Scotland wasn’t disappointing her. When she stepped outside the retreat the pristine freshness of the air went to her head like wine and she found herself singing her first Ave aloud, a song that broke into laughter when a small, inquisitive bird swooped down from above, peered into her face, and took off again, adding its own cry to the melody.

‘It’s good to be alive!’ she exclaimed.

The fears of the previous day had receded and assumed more sensible proportions. Monks were human, she had reasoned, and the presence of a female, albeit a nun, had roused one to curiosity. Perhaps the one who had watched her disapproved of women on the island and had found a way of frightening her off. At that thought she set her jaw in what her family had come to recognize as ‘Joan’s obstinate look’, and resumed her devotions more circumspectly. It was rather a nasty trick for a religious to play, her thoughts ran on, but on the other hand her own besetting sin was that of impulsiveness. She had had no business to go poking around in the crypt.

Having settled the mystery to her own satisfaction she completed her chores, gathered together her painting materials and made her way cautiously down the stone steps and the scree below to the shore of the loch. There were several boats on it this morning, the boatmen crouched over
their fishing lines. Away on the horizon the sun had risen, gilding the dark rocks and making the surface of the water glisten with a million dancing motes.

‘Good morning, Brother Cuthbert!’ She hailed him
cheerfully
as she spotted him further along, pulling his boat into shallower water, apparently in blissful disregard of the fact that his legs were soaked almost to the knees and the skirt of his habit clung to his shins like a wet dishrag.

‘It’s a day for rejoicing indeed,’ he returned. ‘Sometimes I think God sends us these days in autumn so that we can remember them when the winter comes. Father Abbot says you may paint what you wish inside or outside the church and you may leave your things in the scriptorium. You won’t want to lug everything over and back again every time you come.’

‘That’s very kind of him.’ She jumped into the boat and sat down, surprising a look of admiring astonishment on Brother Cuthbert’s face.

‘My word, Sister, you’re spry for …’ His voice trailed away.

‘For my age?’ She grinned at him. ‘Strictly between
ourselves
, Brother Cuthbert, I’m in my mid-thirties, so I do wish you’d stop treating me as if I were a senile old lady.’

‘Sorry, Sister.’ He grinned back companionably.

‘Granted,’ she told him, and chuckled for no reason but that it was a fine morning and he reminded her of one of her own brothers.

When they reached the wharf he carried the painting easel and folding-stool and tucked the case where she stored paints and canvas and palette under his arm, holding them above water level but getting his habit more disreputable as he scrambled through the shallows. Tying up the boat, having made a somewhat neater landing, Sister Joan looked round her with the anticipation of pleasure.

In this clear light the grass was rainbowed and the grey stones of the little church had a warm patina that made her fingers ache to capture it in paint.

‘The scriptorium is at the back of the main house,’ Brother Cuthbert informed her when they had reached the church. ‘It’s sort of stuck on next to the kitchens. Just go in when you feel like it. There won’t be anyone there at this time of day and, of course, you can leave your stuff there when you’re ready for
me to row you back.’

‘I’m causing you a lot of work,’ Sister Joan said. She spoke somewhat absently, her fingertips itching to start.

‘Glad of it,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘I’ll be back later then.’

She nodded, her gaze riveted on the church with the pre-Gothic arches, the low, square tower at the end. She would make several sketches, she decided, and then work two of them up into paintings – the church in summer daylight with the wild herbs springing about its foot and the church as she imagined it would be on an evening with candleglow gilding the windows and scattering gold over the snow.

Jacob had teased her that her work was stuck in the romantic period, that only cameras were for literal representation. His own work was brilliant, spiky, often difficult to interpret. She wondered if it had mellowed in the years since they had gone their separate ways. Had he reverted completely, found a pretty Jewess who could give him Jewish children? She hoped so. Jacob had been a man who needed another person to complete him.

An hour later she had half a dozen rough sketches on her pad. She smoothed out the shadows with her fingers, realizing that she was thirsty. Perhaps there was a tap or spring around where she could drink. At any rate she’d take a look at the scriptorium since she needed to leave her heavy equipment there. The next day she would begin to translate her sketches on to the canvas, starting with the summer background.

She packed away her pad and pencils and lugged easel and stool in the direction Brother Cuthbert had indicated. Over the low wall she could see some of the monks busy among the vegetables. Bent over hoes and spades they never lifted their heads.

The main building was fortress-like with its
uncompromisingly
square design. Only an occasional slit of window broke the solid surface of stone. She guessed there was probably a central yard with a well in it and the inner windows looking out on it. Despite modern concessions the monastery was still a very private place. Her nose led her to the back where a couple of doors stood wide with the unmistakable smells of cabbage and onions wafting through them.

A youngish monk – she guessed a lay brother – came to the open door. His sleeves were rolled above muscular forearms and he was holding a large pan.

‘The scriptorium?’ she ventured.

The lay brother nodded towards the left where a stone building jutted out.

‘Thank you, Brother.’

Walking away she was conscious of a not altogether approving scrutiny at her back. Evidently the abbot was more go-ahead in his attitude than some of his community.

The scriptorium was deserted, the shelves that lined one wall crammed with books, a podium in one corner holding a huge, illuminated manuscript with a fine brass chain locking it down. Presumably a tradition from the olden days, since she figured it was highly unlikely for anyone to try stealing the heavy tome with its steel-bound leather covers. There were a few high-backed, hard chairs and some filled, unlit oil lamps, and against another wall a long table on which bottles of coloured inks and pens were ranged alongside large sheets of paper on which someone or other had been practising the ancient art of lettering.

A further door in the corner led, to her relief, into a small lavatory, with a washbasin. When she turned the tap water trickled out, reluctant but clear. She scooped some into her hand and quenched her thirst.

Footsteps sounded in the long apartment beyond. Sister Joan hastily pulled the door closer, feeling a sudden shyness. Emerging from a lavatory was nothing to be embarrassed about, she reasoned, but on the other hand she had no desire to disrupt the quiet monastic routine by any sudden appearances.

The footsteps paused uncertainly. She had a sense of someone looking round, and then, through the crack left between door and wall, issued a long sigh – no, more of a groan, she thought uneasily.

It wasn’t repeated and, after a moment, she heard the footsteps retreating again. Somewhere a door closed.

She waited a moment more and then came out into the scriptorium again, looking about as she did so. Nothing had been disturbed. She frowned, hearing again in her mind that
long-drawn-out heavy sigh. The footsteps had been heavy. Someone wearing boots? The monks she had seen wore sandals but she supposed that for some tasks they wore sturdier footwear. But what had brought one of them in here? Had she been watched and followed again?

‘Sister, you’re getting neurotic,’ she muttered aloud,
frowning
impatiently at the illuminated manuscript on its stand.

Something had been changed. The open page of the
manuscript
had displayed square cut characters in a mixture of red, gold and blue. She had noticed the initial letter B with a butterfly skittering about it. The initial letter now was a D, and instead of a butterfly there was the head of a horse drawn in black ink dappled with gold. She went closer, bending over the manuscript. Perhaps it was the custom to turn a page every day. Carefully she turned back the heavily decorated vellum. No, the letter A was five pages before this one. She smoothed the page down again and wrinkled up her nose in puzzlement.

‘Sister, we’re not supposed to touch that.’

The monk who had directed her here stood in the doorway, his face and tone highly disapproving. He had exchanged the pan he’d been carrying for a tray which he now set down carefully on the end of the long table. There were some biscuits, a couple of apples and a jug of water and glass on it.

‘Someone just did,’ Sister Joan said. ‘While I was in the lavatory I heard someone come in. They – whoever it was – turned forward five pages.’

‘Only Father Abbot touches the Morag manuscript, and he never turns five pages at once,’ the monk said. ‘I brought you some lunch, Sister.’

‘Thank you. The Morag manuscript, you said?’

‘It’s what it’s known as but it’s a Book of Hours that some sixteenth-century laird had made for him by the brothers here. It has the story of Black Morag in it, with prayers for her soul.’

‘Does this page tell that story?’ She indicated the manuscript and the other came over to look, still holding himself at a little distance as if he feared she might suddenly leap forward and bite him.

‘My Latin isn’t very good,’ he said, ‘but I think that’s the page, yes. The title letter has the horse’s head.’

‘The horse on which she rode into the loch after the Vikings
went away.’

‘She lost her mind, poor soul,’ the monk said quickly, as if Sister Joan had uttered some personal criticism. ‘I must get back to my duties. Leave the jug and glass here and I’ll collect it later.’

Not to save her trouble, Sister Joan reflected as he went out again, but to keep dangerous females out of his kitchen. The notion that she might be regarded as a dangerous temptation made her want to giggle.

Crossing herself, murmuring a grace, she set to on the biscuits and the apples, demolishing the lot and drinking a couple of glasses of the cold water. There was certainly a well somewhere on the island. The monks were almost entirely self-supporting. She wondered how large the community was – no more than twenty, surely, and probably fewer since the abbot had mentioned the lack of novices.

And had it been the abbot who had crept in to turn the illuminated pages and then sigh deeply? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps her too vivid imagination was playing tricks but she was sure that the person who had turned over the pages was the same person who had watched her during mass and spied on her through the peep-hole in the antechamber.

The problem had no solution because she wasn’t even certain if there was a real problem at all. If anyone particularly wished to speak to her there didn’t seem to be anything in the rule to forbid it. These were not Trappists, vowed to silence. She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and went out again, leaving her painting equipment but carrying her sketch book and case of pencils.

As she walked towards the church one of the figures leaning over a spade beyond the enclosure wall stuck it into the earth and came striding after her.

‘Would you be wanting to go back now, Sister?’ Brother Cuthbert wiped his hot face with the sleeve of his habit and smeared soil across his brow.

‘If it isn’t a trouble?’

‘Not a bit of trouble,’ he assured her. ‘To tell you the truth, Brother John will be delighted to be rid of me. I’m always rooting up what ought to stay in the ground and leaving weeds to flourish. You found the scriptorium?’

‘And left most of my things there. I’ve finished some preliminary sketches, and tomorrow I want to start translating them on to canvas. When is it possible to walk across on the stepping stones?’

‘Only when there’s a freak tide and that only happens a couple of times a month these days,’ he informed her. ‘They’re not really stones either, but the sheared off tops of fossilized tree trunks. Thousands of years ago the loch was much narrower and there was a long strip of land with trees on it that joined our land to the shore, but the sea ate it away and the trees fossilized. The water there used to be very low indeed and someone had the idea of shearing off the trunks and reinforcing them with iron to provide some kind of causeway, but the tides changed and now the water’s hardly ever low.’

‘So it wouldn’t be safe for me to try it?’

‘Not a bit safe, Sister,’ he said firmly. ‘Anyway I enjoy rowing. Watch your step now.’

‘The pot,’ said Sister Joan, nimbly boarding the small vessel, ‘ought not to call the kettle black.’

‘I’ve yet to do penance for getting my habit soaked,’ he said ruefully, glancing down at his sea-rusted garments. ‘As Father Abbot is always telling me it’s a sin against holy poverty to be careless about one’s clothes. The trouble is that it’s not easy to find a penance that isn’t pure pleasure for me to do. I mean, can you imagine doing anything more satisfying than praying?’

Sister Joan, who had always considered it would be more of a penance to be forbidden to pray, concurred with enthusiasm and they gained the shore in high good humour.

‘See you tomorrow morning. God bless, Sister.’ He pulled away strongly as she alighted, judging her distance nicely and landing on a solid tussock of grass-grown earth with reeds pointing the way to heaven all around. The loch was almost deserted now, the fishermen having presumably gone home for a meal, and only the diminishing shape of Brother Cuthbert in his boat peopled the solitude. Sister Joan moved higher up the dry ground and sat down with her back against the cliff. This was a wonderful place to meditate in, with the sky arching overhead and the loch spreading its ruffled
waters like pleated silk before her. Had it been thus, she mused, in Galilee when the fishermen had sat, sharing bread, each busy with his own thoughts, all waiting for the young man with the intense gaze who widened horizons every time He came by?