The Hour Before Dawn Read online

  Text copyright © 2011 Penelope Wilcock

  This edition copyright © 2015 Lion Hudson

  The right of Penelope Wilcock to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Lion Fiction

  an imprint of

  Lion Hudson plc

  Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road

  Oxford OX2 8DR, England

  www.lionhudson.com/fiction

  ISBN 978 1 78264 150 6

  e-ISBN 978 1 78264 151 3

  This edition 2015

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover illustration © Brian Gallagher

  “Once again Penelope Wilcock drew me back into fourteenth-century monastic life with a fine mix of descriptive details and evocative language. The peaceful world of St Alcuin’s Abbey is quickly shattered by a violent tragedy and its aftermath, creating genuine heartache, tension, and spiritual angst. The timeless themes woven throughout the pages of The Hour before Dawn spoke to my heart, in particular William’s journey of faith and John’s hard-won understanding of the power of the Ascension. Even in the darkest moments of the story, hope tarries in the wings. A wonderful writer, a wonderful read!”

  Liz Curtis Higgs, New York Times best-selling author, Mine is the Night and Bad Girls of the Bible

  “The Hour before Dawn takes Penelope Wilcock’s saga of life at St Alcuin’s Abbey to the next level. The emotions are real, vivid, and raw. Gritty realism and heart-wrenching suffering are layered into this story, counterbalanced by redemptive tenderness and noble self-sacrifice. Wilcock weaves a tale of complex interpersonal relationships against the backdrop of a medieval monastery. This novel is a brilliant exploration of what it means to be human—and more importantly, what it means to be a human remade in the image of Christ.”

  Bryan M. Litfin, Professor of Theology, Moody Bible Institute; author, The Sword, The Gift, and Getting to Know the Church Fathers

  “Penelope Wilcock has created a wonderful cast of characters for her medieval series. The Hour before Dawn deals with the universal theme of evil and the Christian response, and sets the tale in a marvelously accurate fourteenth-century monastery. For the lover of medieval mysteries this is a book not to be missed.”

  Mel Starr, author, The Unquiet Bones, A Corpse at St Andrew’s Chapel, and A Trail of Ink

  “The Hour Before Dawn shows vividly how the wrenching horror of cruelty can be overcome by the unspeakable beauty of restoration. I know of no other writer who sees so clearly into the souls of her characters as does Penelope Wilcock. And sees with such humour and love. Her prose is like rich, dark chocolate poetry. This book offers a deep well of mercy and grace and forgiveness—even forgiveness of self. Drink from it.”

  Donna Fletcher Crow, author, Glastonbury: The Novel of Christian England and The Monastery Murders

  FOR

  JULIE BALMER and JEHANE HARLEN,

  friends far away

  who have encouraged and supported me

  with humour and kindness,

  patience and gentleness,

  prayed me through

  dark times and difficulties,

  walked with me in spirit,

  listened to my doubts and fears,

  reminded me of my faith

  and how well placed it is

  in a God who,

  no matter how bad things look,

  will never give up on us,

  never desert us,

  and brings us through to

  new hope, new life, new possibilities.

  The Hour Before Dawn

  In that last hour before dawn,

  when hope still lay hidden by the darkness,

  Jesus said to Mary, who had come to the tomb

  where his broken body had been left:

  “Do not cling to me,

  for I have not yet ascended to the Father;

  but go instead to my brothers and say to them,

  ‘I am returning

  to my Father and your Father,

  to my God and your God.’”

  John 20:17

  Open are the gifts of God

  Gifts of love to mind and sense

  Hidden is love’s agony

  Love’s endeavour, love’s expense.

  W. H. Vanstone

  He has stumbled on this hole

  in the bad hour before the dawn.

  William Butler Yeats

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Hour Before Dawn

  Acknowledgments and More

  The Community of St Alcuin’s Abbey

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Glossary of Terms

  Monastic Day

  Liturgical Calendar

  Acknowledgments and More

  The verse of W. H. Vanstone’s hymn included with the quotations in the front of this novel is taken from Love’s Endeavour, Love’s Expense by W. H. Vanstone, published and copyright 1977 by Darton, Longman and Todd Ltd., London, and used by permission of the publishers.

  Special thanks to Alice and Hebe Wilcock, whose tireless and ingenious researches in the field of medieval monastic and medical detail helped so much and whose intimate familiarity with the life and times of the Benedictines of St Alcuin’s Abbey saved me some unfortunate gaffes.

  And I am given to understand that Brother Conradus would like to offer his most humble and hearty thanks for the recipe he found in my Country Living magazine for sorrel and spinach quiche. He says nettles will do just as well as spinach, but you do have to pick them young—and please use only the tops.

  The Community of St Alcuin’s Abbey

  (Not all members are mentioned in The Hour before Dawn.)

  Fully professed monks

  Abbot John Hazell formerly the infirmarian

  Father Chad prior

  Brother Ambrose cellarer

  Fr. Wm. de Bulmer cellarer’s assistant (formerly an Augustinian prior)

  Father Theodore novice master

  Father Gilbert precentor

  Brother Clement overseer of the scriptorium

  Father Dominic guest master

  Brother Thomas abbot’s esquire, also involved with the farm and building repairs

  Father Francis scribe

  Father Bernard sacristan

  Brother Martin porter

  Brother Thaddeus potter

  Brother Michael infirmarian

  Brother Damien helps in the infirmary

  Brother Cormac kitchener

  Brother Richard fraterer

  Brother Stephen oversees the abbey farm

  Brother Peter ostler

  Brother Josephus acted as esquire for Father Chad between abbots; now working in the abbey school

  Brother Germanus has worked on the farm, occupied in the wood yard and gardens

  Brother Mark too old for taxing occupation, but keeps the bees

  Brother Paulinus works in the kitchen garden and orchards

  Brother Prudentius now old, helps on the farm and in the kitchen garden and orchar
ds

  Brother Fidelis now old, oversees the flower gardens

  Father James makes and mends robes, occasionally works in the scriptorium

  Brother Walafrid herbalist, oversees the brew house

  Brother Giles assists Brother Walafrid and works in the laundry

  Brother Basil old, assists the sacristan—ringing the bell for the office hours, etc.

  Fully professed monks now confined to the infirmary through frailty of old age

  Father Gerald once sacristan

  Brother Denis scribe

  Father Paul once precentor

  Brother Edward onetime infirmarian, now living in the infirmary but active enough to help there and occasionally attend Chapter and the daytime hours of worship

  Novices

  Brother Benedict assists in the infirmary

  Brother Boniface helps in the scriptorium

  Brother Cassian works in the school

  Brother Cedd helps in the scriptorium and when required in the robing room

  Brother Conradus assists in the kitchen

  Brother Felix helps Father Gilbert

  Brother Placidus helps on the farm

  Brother Robert assists in the pottery

  Members of the community mentioned in earlier stories and now deceased

  Abbot Gregory of the Resurrection

  Abbot Columba du Fayel (also known as Father Peregrine)

  Father Matthew novice master

  Brother Cyprian porter

  Father Aelred schoolmaster

  Father Lucanus novice master before Father Matthew

  Father Anselm once robe maker

  Brother Andrew kitchener

  Chapter One

  “Tom!”

  Brother Thomas thought he had never heard a monk shout so loud.

  He stopped and turned round. He had never seen Brother Martin run before, either. Brother Martin did not have the physique for running, and Brother Thomas watched in fascination. The sight was decidedly comical. He remembered that moment, afterwards, as the last time he found anything funny for a very long time.

  “Tom!” Brother Martin was puffing now and bent down to get his breath, his hands on his knees. “Tom, for the sake of all holy, make haste over to Father John’s lodging. Go now.”

  Brother Thomas asked the obvious question: “Why?”

  And when Brother Martin told him in puffs and gasps what had happened, “Oh Jesu Christe! Oh mother of God!” Tom murmured in horror and shock as he listened, then said nothing further, but turned back toward the cloister, going with all speed to the abbot’s house. Outside the door, which was closed, he stood for a moment. He realized that he needed courage to go in. He prayed, silently: God, help us now… help us now… He lifted the latch but didn’t knock.

  On a stool that stood randomly in the centre of the room, Abbot John sat as he had sunk down when he heard the news. His face was so white it looked almost green. His hand was pressed against his mouth. He stared without seeing. He responded not at all to Tom’s entrance. He was shaking all over. He was alone. Brother Martin, who had run to relay the news to him, he had sent away with a disconcerting impression of complete calm: “Will you leave me, Brother? I think I need to be by myself a little while.”

  His voice had been quiet, but his tone admitted no question of argument or remonstrance, to Brother Martin’s mind. As Martin withdrew unobtrusively, leaving his superior in privacy, it came to him that this calibre of being was what made an abbot: the capacity to stand like a rock however mighty the breaker that crashed down. Even so, amid his admiration he had the sense to recollect that Father John was human and bethought him to go in search of his abbot’s esquire.

  Brother Thomas held in his heart as something precious the privilege of his obedience: even so, there were moments when his inner being quailed before the prospect of walking so intimately close beside a man strong in spirit—and this was one of those moments. But he did not shirk it.

  Tom crossed the room to his abbot and waited, feeling the intensity of what was here, his face sober, saying nothing. John turned his head to glance at him momentarily, let his hand drop.

  “Don’t touch me,” he said abruptly. “Please don’t touch me. I think I’ll just break if you touch me.”

  And Tom stood looking at him—awkward, horrified, feeling the waves of shock and appalled sorrow for what felt like a lifetime, resisting the temptation to run away.

  “I don’t see how I will ever be able to take this in,” John eventually said. Then, “Could you just leave me alone a bit longer?”

  So Tom did. He hesitated, and then he went away.

  Katelin Hazell was neither a heretic nor a witch. She was not lewd, and she was not a blasphemer. When the priest of her village warned his parishioners, in dark and meaning tones, “When a woman thinks alone, she thinks evil,” he spoke ignorantly and made himself the mouthpiece of others.

  Katelin’s daughter, Madeleine, was no more a witch or heretic than her mother. She was strong in spirit, and she stood straight and spoke straight, it was true, but that should not have told against her. When Madeleine had a point to make, she would look a man in the eyes as well as a woman, and that never weighed in her favour. Her wit was too clever, and rumour had it she knew how to read and her mother had taught her, but nobody ever proved that.

  Even while Katelin’s man, Jude, still lived, the village saw him little, for he was a soldier, which took him away in the king’s service more than it left him in peace with his family at home. As well as her daughter, Katelin had a son, Adam. But he had gone north to the hills to live as a monk on the edge of the moors somewhere, and people talked. Two women together looked like a coven, frankly—especially two women who stood straight and needed no help and talked as cleverly and forthright as men. And ’twas said they could read, both of them, and who had taught them, with no men in the house, if not the very Devil himself? Besides that, why had their men left them like that? Why could they not abide their women’s company? Everyone knew that witches could turn men into beasts by their magic acts. Katelin said her man had died in the war; she said her son had gone into a monastery. Who knew but she spoke lie upon lie? And… she kept goats. True, they were she-goats for the most part in her flock. But folks had seen her huge sneering billy with the yellow slotted eyes, standing proud on the manure heap and looking down on his harem and spraying into the wind with a great stink. Sometimes the Devil took the form of a goat when he presided at the witches’ sabbaths, where they worked great evil with their books and their herbs, their chickens and their wicked plots and their foul knowledge.

  And why did she live up on the hill in that cottage alone? If she thought herself too good for the village, that looked bad enough—but maybe it was something far more sinister? Some said they had seen her standing in the moonlight, singing, combing her long silver hair as she stood in that garden. How brazen was that? To let her hair down and comb it, outdoors! Why did she stand there like that in the garden? Whom did she hope to attract? Perhaps it was the Devil goat she sought to lure into her house off the manure heap, for concupiscence, for the satisfying of her filthy, insatiable lusts?

  It was true, folks knew it well, that no murder or theft, no adultery or violence could be blamed on Katelin or Madeleine—at least not directly. If they were witches, they were blessing-witches, but they belonged no less to the Devil if they were. They healed with simples, with poultices and tisanes when folk came to them for help, but who was to say they had not polluted the plants and the vials of physic with charms and incantations? What was Katelin singing in the night garden under the crescent of the moon? It sounded like the Salve Regina, but maybe it was a foul perversion of the sacred original.

  And Madeleine, with her long-tailed, laughing eyes—what was she working, what was she plotting? Those who brought their ulcers and boils and coughs to her she could make well; yet she was no priest, but only a woman! Whose power had she invoked?

  When a baby was comi
ng, sometimes the other village women would send for Katelin and Madeleine to help, and they had herbs to help the pain. If a woman carrying a child began her pains too early, sometimes Katelin’s herbs and her advice could avert the loss. They knew herbs to help knit broken bones and herbs to soothe skin irritations and herbs to help pains in the gut and bad wind. Either one of the women would look at the urine of a sick man to read its meaning or touch his wrist or his neck to feel his pulses, which the priest never did when someone called him in to pray for the sick. They had about them all the signs of cunning-folk.

  When someone died, they would come, the two of them, if they were called upon—but who knew why? Was it merely what it seemed—to wash and to lay out the dead, to comfort folk prostrated with grief, to calm and support and help them through? Or were they most cunning of all in those times, making use of the grief of God-fearing honest families to work their own loathsome schemes, sucking the souls of the dead out of corpses when no one was looking?

  Why did they love the stars as well as the wholesome sun? Was it not because the hare is also a magical creature and a worshipper of the moon? Perhaps on her nightly prowl the old woman might take the form of a hare or fly through the air. Perhaps it was she who was to blame when Goodwife Smith’s best spotted fowl mysteriously stopped laying and within the week fell dead. Might it have been Madeleine’s shadow falling on the milk that curdled it so quickly? When they killed a rooster, was it only for the pot—or were they up to some gruesome practice that would make your flesh crawl if only you knew?

  They had been seen—both of them—smelling the fragrance of flowers, their eyes closed and the pleasure of it plain on their faces. They’d been seen standing together listening in rapture to the singing of some blackbird or robin or wren. They never dressed in scarlet—unless their undergarments secretly were—but they wore blue and green dresses of their own dyeing, never grey, and even their brown cloaks were rich russet. Everyone knew how the Devil slips down secret channels of colour and music and scent, slips secretly into the soul, like an insect into the ear of a sleeping man. And sometimes they had been seen laughing and laughing and laughing—laughing until they were helpless with laughter and had to hold onto each other. And for what good reason could that possibly be—one of them of an age that her womb was shriveled and dry, the other with no man of her own and never had one?