The Hawk and the Dove Page 15

  ‘Thanks, Brother,’ he said heavily. ‘Yes, it would be right for me to make them welcome. Have they come with a great many servants?’

  ‘Not so many as last time, Father. Six, only. My lady’s personal maids, Sir Geoffrey’s manservants and two grooms.’

  ‘Six. I see. Very well then, see to it that their beasts are stabled and so forth, if that is not already done. My lord and lady will expect their servants to eat in the kitchens of the guest house. Would you arrange that? Thank you, Brother, I will come directly to my house to welcome them there when they are washed and rested.’

  Brother James turned to go, but Father Peregrine called him back ‘Oh—Brother, if you will: when you go into the kitchen would you ask Brother Cormac to put me aside a bite of bread and cheese or something? Tell him I shall come for it before Vespers, because I can eat next to nothing with company like this to dine.’

  Brother James set off on his errand, and Father Peregrine took refuge a little longer in the comfortable gathering of old men in the herb garden, discussing their ailments and reminiscing with Brother Edward. But at last he could put it off no longer. He bade them farewell and limped resignedly to his own dwelling to await his guests.

  As he came through the narrow passage into the cloister, he met with Brother Tom and Brother Francis, who were carrying a wooden bedstead across from the dormitory to the infirmary. Brother Fidelis had that morning put a fork through his foot in the vegetable garden, and there were too few beds to accommodate him in the infirmary. Three of the brothers had been laid low and with these three sick and the old men who lived there, the infirmary beds were filled, so Brother Francis and Brother Tom had been dispatched to find another bed.

  Father Peregrine spoke quietly to Brother Tom as they came level with him: ‘Brother Thomas, I shall need you tonight. I have guests eating with me. Directly after Vespers, please.’

  ‘I’ll be there!’ replied Tom cheerily. ‘Whoops! Mind those flowers, Francis! Glory be to God, what are you doing, man? It won’t bend.’

  ‘Move, then, I cannot get it into this passageway unless you— NO, TOM that’s my hand. Look, put it down a minute. Now then, go back a bit. There!’

  The journey with the bed through the gathering of ancients in the herb garden, and the negotiation of the doorways in the infirmary, had them doubled up with laughter, nearly cost Francis the fingers of his left hand, and vastly entertained the old men. They finally brought it to rest, intact, in the right place, then stayed on to help Brother John take in the old men to their beds as the heat of the afternoon cooled and the shadows began to lengthen.

  ‘Thanks, Brother,’ said Brother John as he and Tom eased Brother Cyprian into his bed. ‘Have you time to do one more thing for me? Brother Cyprian needs his medicine before supper. It takes a while to give it to him. Would you mind?’

  He gave Brother Tom the bottle, and Tom bent over Brother Cyprian, coaxing him to take the physic, which eased the pain of his swollen, arthritic knees and helped him sleep. The medicine was syrupy and the spoon full. It required concentration to get it into, and keep it inside, the sunken mouth. Brother Tom was intent on the task and did not see the change in the old man’s gaze from vacancy to shrewd observation.

  Brother Cyprian swallowed convulsively and slowly wiped at his mouth with his shaky, blue-veined old hand. His eyes, bright with interest now, studied Brother Tom. ‘I know thee, tha scoundrel,’ he said. Brother Tom blinked at him in surprise. ‘Aye, I do. I know the spark in thy eyes too: seen it many times. A womaniser and a thief, I’ll wager, before tha came t’us, and now too, it wouldn’t surprise me, give thee the chance.’

  Tom was speechless, and Francis, approaching from across the room, heard the remark and laughed. ‘You’re absolutely right, Brother Cyprian, scoundrel he is. You know us all. It’s the wisdom of God in you. Pray for him then, and the Lord Christ may make a saint of him yet.’

  But Brother Cyprian was wandering again, and did not respond. The Vespers bell began to ring, and Tom straightened up, shaking his head. ‘The old reprobate!’

  ‘Reprobate yourself. It’s true. He’s seen that spark that’s in your eye many times, he said so. Women I know nothing of, but light-fingered I can vouch for!’

  He ducked the hand that shot out to cuff his ear and grinned affectionately at his friend; ‘What’s more, you’ll be late for Vespers if we don’t make haste. Brother John, are you coming?’

  After Vespers the brothers ate together in the refectory. Then there was an hour of relaxation before Compline, when they were free to rest and converse, sitting in the community room which was lit by a fire in winter and the last rays of the evening sun now at the end of the summer.

  Brother Cormac came in late from his last chores in the kitchen, to snatch a little company and conversation. He crossed the room to where Brother Tom and Brother Francis sat in dispute with Brother Giles and Brother Basil as to the best method of tickling trout. ‘Ought you not to have been helping Father Abbot with his guests tonight, Tom?’ Cormac asked in surprise.

  Brother Tom froze in his seat and looked at Cormac, wide-eyed and utterly still. He took a deep breath. ‘Holy saints! I forgot! Did no one stay from the kitchen when they took the food over?’

  Cormac shook his head. ‘No. They assumed you were on your way, I suppose.’

  Tom gulped. ‘He’ll have my blood! He can’t do a thing! Not pour the wine, nor serve them, nor even manage his own food. Oh I’m for it now.’

  ‘Would his guests not help?’ asked Brother Giles.

  Tom shook his head. ‘No, that’s not the point. You know what our abbot is, as formal and particular as they come when it’s a question of courtesy and hospitality. He’d as soon ask them to clean out the cows as pour the wine. Oh… oh, how could I forget? Who are his guests, Cormac, do you know?’

  Cormac grinned at him. ‘Yes, I do. His guests are Sir Geoffrey and Lady Agnes d‘Ebassier.’

  Tom closed his eyes and groaned, then he opened them to stare hopelessly at Brother Cormac. ‘What in the name of heaven am I going to do about this?’ he asked.

  ‘Could you not go over now?’ suggested Brother Francis tentatively, but Tom withered him with a look. ‘That would add insult to injury, I think. No, I’ll just have to go and kiss the ground after Compline and hope he doesn’t break my head with his crutch. Ah, by all that’s holy, why me?’

  They had no more heart for conversation, and after a few desultory exchanges sat in silence, listening to the anxious drumming of Tom’s fingers on the side of the bench. And at last the sand in the hour glass ran out. Brother Basil got creakily to his feet and shuffled off to chapel to ring the Compline bell.

  Father Peregrine walked to the guest house with his distinguished visitors.

  ‘God give you good night, Sir Geoffrey, and my lady,’ he said. ‘It is an honour and a pleasure to be your host once more.’ (‘And God forgive me the lie,’ he added silently.) After exchanging a few more pleasantries, their conversation was ended by the ringing of the Office bell. Father Peregrine took his leave of them and set off for Compline. Lady Agnes lingered a moment to watch him go, then followed her husband in to the guest house.

  ‘He is such a dear man,’ she said dreamily as she closed the great oak door behind her, ‘so courteous, but so natural. He makes one feel so at home; so… wanted.’ She paused a moment, then added wistfully, ‘He truly listens.’

  ‘What? Oh yes, good fellow,’ barked Sir Geoffrey absently.

  The dear man, meanwhile, was limping with angry jerks across the cloister towards the chapel, his mouth and jaw set hard. ‘I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him,’ he was thinking.

  He had waited and waited for Brother Tom to arrive after the lay servants from the kitchen had brought the food in dishes ready to be served, and departed leaving him stranded with his guests. Their visit, unannounced as it was, had found him rather unprepared, and he had not invited any of the brothers to eat with them, so there was no one to serve the food b
ut himself and his two aristocratic guests. Eventually, unable to delay the meal any longer, he turned to Lady Agnes with a disarming smile and said ‘Madam, I am in a little difficulty. Our brother who would normally wait upon us has evidently been detained. I would gladly wait upon you myself but… as you see, I cannot. It distresses me to ask it, my lady, but I wonder—would you be so kind as to serve our food?’

  Lady Agnes, having never lifted a finger to do anything for herself since the day she was born, was quite taken with the idea. Lifting the lids from the dishes, she sniffed with appreciation the fragrant steam, and proceeded gaily to serve the two men and herself.

  Father Peregrine’s heart sank as she placed before him a mighty portion of food. His head ached as if it would split open. Inwardly cursing his intended humility in having only one brother to wait upon him he smiled radiantly at Sir Geoffrey: ‘My lord, could you—would you—I must ask you to pour our wine. I regret, that also is beyond me.’

  ‘What? Oh, by all means, Father!’ the baron blustered, embarrassed by Peregrine’s disability and his own failure to notice the need. Father Peregrine put him at his ease with another dazzling smile, and they began their meal. They talked of this and that, Lady Agnes asking after various of the brothers, and Sir Geoffrey enlarging on his plans to stock his sister-in-law’s larder with venison and fish as part of his holiday relaxation.

  He was just in the middle of a long and tedious anecdote which was mainly designed to show off his prowess as a huntsman, when his wife interrupted him: ‘I beg your pardon, my dear, for breaking in upon your story. Father, I am so sorry. I did not think. I can see you are having trouble with your meal. I hope you will not mind my asking—would you like me—will you permit me—to cut some of that meat for you?’

  Sir Geoffrey cleared his throat and took a deep drink of his wine. ‘Good stuff, this, very good,’ he mumbled.

  Peregrine looked at Lady Agnes, his face burning. Her eyes were fixed on him in anxious appeal, fearing that she had made an indiscretion. He smiled at her. It was the costliest smile of his life. ‘That would be very good of you, my lady,’ he said, ‘the brother who waits on us would normally cut my food for me.’

  Lady Agnes relaxed under the kindness of his smile, happy to have said the right thing after all.

  ‘Do carry on with your story, dear,’ she said. ‘You were just saying how the boar broke suddenly from the undergrowth, right at your feet.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Hmmph. Great big fellow. Glittering eyes and massive shoulders. Well, of course, there was only one thing to do….’

  Peregrine submitted to having his food cut for him, and struggled to eat it, conscious of the lady’s eyes on him, trying not to spill anything, trying to hurry, trying at the same time to convey rapt attention to the interminable tale, glad that at least somebody was talking and he did not have to think of anything to say himself.

  All things come to an end, and the meal was over at last. Having taken his leave of Sir Geoffrey and Lady Agnes, he came in to Compline, trembling with fury and humiliation, sick with the throbbing pain in his head.

  Brother Tom watched him come in. Father Peregrine did not so much as glance in Tom’s direction, but sat down in his stall with elaborate composure, looking straight ahead, giving nothing away. Brother Tom, looking at the set line of his superior’s mouth, was as apprehensive as he was remorseful.

  The chant rose and fell in the shadows of the evening, lovely in its peace. The tranquillity of the Office concluded in the blessing, and the brothers slipped away in silence to their beds.

  Father Peregrine remained where he was in his stall, looking straight ahead. He neither moved nor spoke as Brother Tom, who also stayed behind, stood reluctantly and walked slowly across the chapel to face him. Tom waited. At last Father Peregrine’s gaze shifted to look him in the eye. Brother Tom looked down, unable to endure the anger that was turned on him.

  ‘Where were you?’ said Peregrine coldly.

  Brother Tom looked up, but only for a pleading instant. His head bent, he mumbled almost inaudibly, ‘I forgot. I just forgot. Oh, Father, I’m—’

  ‘You forgot?’ Peregrine leaned forward, shaking. ‘You forgot? I have just spent the most humiliating and embarrassing evening of my life and you can come and face me here and tell me you just forgot? No, don’t you kneel to me, I don’t want to hear your apologies, Brother.’

  ‘Father, I—’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? I had to ask Lady Agnes to serve us at table and Sir Geoffrey to pour our wine. Brother, you—’ He broke off, white with rage, glaring at poor Tom. ‘Oh, go to your bed, get out of my sight,’ he concluded, spitting out the words with biting anger.

  Brother Tom turned to go, took two steps, but stopped and turned back again. He stood at the entrance to the abbot’s stall a moment, and then knelt there before him. ‘I cannot go,’ he said miserably. ‘It is the Rule, Father. The Rule for you as well as me. Do not let the sun go down on your anger. Be reconciled. I… oh, Father, I’m sorry. I’ll never, never do it again. Forgive me, I—’

  ‘Again? Again! As I live, you will not! Brother Thomas—’ He stopped and looked at him, Tom finding the courage somehow to meet his eyes. ‘Can you not imagine what it is like to be imprisoned by these useless, useless hands? To be the object of the pity of those… those… of Sir Geoffrey and his wife?’

  He shut his eyes and leaned back wearily in his stall. ‘God forgives you, and so do I, Brother,’ he said flatly, after a moment. ‘Go to bed.’

  But Tom, hesitantly, stretched out his hand, which was muscular and brown and workmanlike, with blunt, strong fingers. He closed it gently over Peregrine’s hands.

  ‘Please don’t say useless,’ he whispered. ‘You don’t know how… ask Cormac, ask Theodore… not useless… so much I—I don’t know how to say it, I… no… not useless. Oh, Father, I’m sorry.’

  But his abbot did not move or speak, and Tom withdrew his hand and crept wretchedly to bed.

  Peregrine sat, completely still, weary and frustrated as the anger ebbed away. The events of the day flowed through his mind. He thought of Brother Cyprian: ‘Tha thought thyself a king on thy throne. Knocked thee off, did they?’ Of Lady Agnes, smiling, happily and inexpertly dismembering a fat roast fowl, and the touch of Tom’s hand on his own, ‘Not useless… not useless….’

  He opened his eyes. The chapel was all but dark now, but he could still make out the shape of the figure on the great cross.

  ‘What imprisons me, then? My hands or my pride?’ he thought sadly. He remembered his words to Tom: ‘The most humiliating and embarrassing evening of my life….’ Gazing at the cross, he shook his head. He thought of Jesus, blindfolded by the soldiers, beaten and mocked. ‘Prophesy then, prophet! Which of us hit you?’ Father Peregrine groaned in his shame and bent over, burying his face in his mutilated hands.

  ‘Oh… oh, Brother Thomas, forgive my pride,’ he murmured. Holy Jesus, crucified one, if my hands are useless, what are yours? Oh… oh no… forgive….’

  After a while he straightened himself and sat looking at the dim shape of the cross, emptied and tired.

  ‘Aggravating, strutting peacock…’ Brother Cyprian’s words came back to him, and he began to smile. ‘Amen,’ he said, ruefully.

  He stood up, bowed in reverence to the real presence of Christ, and went to his bed.

  In the morning, Brother Tom came to shave him, after the morning Office of Prime, and was much relieved to be greeted with the usual friendliness. He stood at the table, assembling soap and blade and water, while Father Peregrine sat in his chair and waited. After he had been waiting a few moments, struck by the intense quietness, he turned his head to look at Brother Tom. He watched with curiosity as Tom stood very still, the linen towel in his hand, his eyes closed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Father Peregrine.

  Brother Tom started guiltily and opened his eyes. ‘I—I was praying,’ he said, flushing slightly as Peregrine continued to look e
nquiringly at him; ‘I was praying I’d not cut you.’

  Father Peregrine burst out laughing. ‘Oh, forgive me, Brother! Am I so intimidating? It was in haste and anger I spoke last night. My pride was wounded.’ As Tom tucked the towel round his neck, Peregrine leaned back in the chair looking up at him. ‘My pride can do with some denting,’ he said quietly. ‘But, Brother— for the love of God, don’t forget again.’

  Brother Tom bent over him, and shaved him carefully—it was quite an art shaving that scarred face—then dried Peregrine’s face and throat and stood back to survey his handiwork.

  ‘Brother Cyprian’, said Peregrine with a wry smile, ‘described me yesterday as an aggravating, strutting peacock. He said I thought of myself as a king on his throne.’

  Brother Tom grinned as he contemplated him. ‘Well, I’ll not tell you what he called me! There, you look beautiful, my lord. I’ll clear these things away now and be gone. I’ll see you at the midday meal. Without fail, I stake my life.’

  It was with a sense of sweet relief that Father Peregrine bid God speed to his guests after the noon meal, and he stood in the abbey courtyard to watch them go, his hand raised to his eyes against the sunshine, absorbing the still, gentle warmth of the mid-September afternoon. Then he let his hand fall and made his way slowly to the infirmary, where Brother Michael worked on his hands for a while with the aromatic oils. Father Peregrine closed his eyes and relaxed. After all these years, the sensations in his hands were still odd; they were in places numb, in others tingling or painful to touch. Still, all in all it was a soothing and comforting thing, Brother Michael’s quietness and the gentle firmness of his touch.