The Hawk and the Dove Page 2

  It was the usual thing, when the abbot of the monastery died, for the brothers to elect from among their number the new lord abbot. The brothers of St Alcuin’s prayed hard, and the more senior of the brethren spent long hours in counsel; but though they prayed long and considered earnestly, they came reluctantly to the conclusion that there was no brother among them with the necessary qualities of leadership to follow in Father Gregory’s footsteps. So they appealed to the bishop to choose them a new superior from among the brothers of another monastery, and said they would abide by his choice and accept whomever he sent to rule over them.

  Before too long, word came from the bishop that he would himself be presenting their new superior to them. Since he had to travel through their part of the world on his return home to Northumbria from a conference with the king in London, he would visit them on his way, bringing their new abbot with him. The abbey reverberated with excitement, all except for Father Chad, who dreaded playing host to both a bishop and an abbot.

  Great-uncle Edward did his best to encourage him; ‘Put a brave face on it. Father Prior! Chin up, never say die. ’Tis only one night when all’s said and done, then you’ll be back to your cosy nook by the warming-room flues and leave this windy barn to the new man, God help him. The bishop gives you his name in that letter, does he?’

  Father Chad looked at the letter from the bishop, not that he needed to. He had read and re-read it a dozen times this morning, and knew the contents of it near enough by heart now; but he ran his finger down the script to make sure.

  ‘Here. Father Columba, the sub-prior from St Peter’s near Ely. He says very little about him. We shall have to wait and see.’

  ‘Ely? I was born and bred on the fens near Ely. My nephew took the cowl at St Peter’s. I wonder… Columba, you say? Columba the dove. No. No, wouldn’t be him. No sane man would have named that lad after a dove!’

  ‘You’ll eat with us, Edward, when they come tonight?’ Father Chad tried to sound casually friendly, but Edward knew panic when he saw it.

  ‘I shall count myself honoured. I’ll go now and get my chores done early. There’s old Father Lucanus suffering with the pain in his shoulder and neck again. I must spend some time with him, give him a rub with aromatics. It eases the ache wonderfully.’ Brother Edward stood up slowly and strolled across the bare, comfortless room to the great oak door. He paused in the doorway and looked back. Father Chad still sat in the imposing carved chair, staring gloomily at the letter on the huge, heavy table before him.

  ‘Time and the hour outrun the longest day, Father Chad,’ said Brother Edward consolingly. ‘It’ll be over before you know it.’

  He set off to the infirmary, well content with the prospect of being among the first to have a good look at the new abbot.

  ‘Columba.’ He tried out the sound of the name, thoughtfully. ‘Columba. Irishman, maybe? We shall see.’

  When a man entered as a brother in the monastic life (my mother explained) he had done with the world and its ways and set out as though on a brand new life to try and live in every way, with a single heart, for God. He took three vows; one of poverty, that he would never have anything to call his own again; one of chastity, that he would never have a wife or a girlfriend, but all women would be like sisters to him, just as all men would be like brothers; and one of obedience, that he would submit to the authority of the abbot of the community, and obey his word in everything. When he made his first vows after six months as a novice, the monk would be clothed in the habit of the order, which was a long robe—black for the Benedictines—with a separate hood called a cowl, and wide sleeves and a leather belt.

  To show that he really had finished with all the trappings of his old life, the monk was given a new name by his abbot, as if he were a brand new person. The abbot usually tried to pick something appropriate to the man’s character or background. Great-uncle Edward had been christened Edward as a baby, after King Edward the Confessor, who was a good and holy king. When he entered the religious life, his abbot said he should keep the same name, since no one could hope to be more devoted to the Lord Jesus than King Edward had been. And now the man the bishop was bringing was Columba, named after the Irish Saint. Columba, the dove, the bird that represents gentleness and kindness and simplicity, as well as being a symbol of the Holy Spirit of God.

  After Vespers Brother Edward hurried with anticipation to the abbot’s lodging to meet their distinguished supper guests, who had ridden in an hour ago and been welcomed to the guest house.

  ‘Well, well!’ murmured Brother Edward, as his new abbot entered the room: for it was indeed the son of his sister Melissa, whom he had not seen for years.

  ‘Columba!’ Edward chuckled to himself. ‘Meek and gentle dove, eh? Well, I shall be very surprised…’

  The new abbot, whom Edward had known since babyhood, was certainly no dove. His mother, dead now, had been a proud, noble lady, and his father was a rich and powerful Norman aristocrat with a face as proud as an eagle and a grip on all that was his as fierce as the grip of an eagle’s talons. When their child was born, he had a little beaky nose like a bird of prey, and a flashing dark eye quite startling in a pink baby face. His mother, laughing, called him Peregrine, and well named he was, for like a hawk he grew: fierce, proud and arrogant, with a piercing look and a hawk’s beak nose. Great-grandmother Melissa said I favoured him in my looks, even all these years later.

  This Peregrine had two older brothers. The elder of the two, Geoffroi, took charge of the farming side of his father’s estate. Emmanuel, the second brother, went for a soldier. Peregrine, youngest, stubbornest, fiercest of the three, surprised them all by losing his proud, stubborn heart to Jesus, turning his back on the world and entering as a novice at St Peter’s Abbey near Ely, to try the monastic life as a Benedictine brother.

  Of course, it’s one thing to love Jesus and quite another to follow him; and poverty, chastity and obedience sat about as comfortably on Peregrine as his hair shirt. Still, the brothers saw promise in him, and as much from stubbornness as anything else he grimly struggled through his novitiate year, finally making his vows and being professed as Brother Columba—a name which showed either that his abbot had a wry sense of humour or else that he had greater faith than most men and no sense of humour at all.

  Peregrine was a good scholar and a devout monk, and he was ordained a priest, too. He was also a brilliant philosopher, and had inherited from his father a shrewd business mind and unmistakable qualities of leadership. He was not a popular man, because although he was just and upright and true, there was precious little compassion or gentleness about him. The fight to discipline himself, to attain all the spiritual and intellectual targets he set himself, occupied all his energies, leaving nothing to help him learn the gentler art of loving, much less of allowing himself to be loved. Still, he was valued for his abilities, even if he inspired little affection, and he was given several positions of responsibility.

  When the bishop consulted the abbot of St Peter’s, to see if their community had anyone who could be sent to St Alcuin’s to serve as abbot, Father Columba had only recently been made sub-prior. The abbot of St Peter’s suggested him at once, and so Peregrine was sent, at the beginning of his forty-fifth year, as Lord Abbot to the monastery of St Alcuin in the north of Yorkshire. The bishop was satisfied that Peregrine would serve them well. He had listened to the advice of the abbot of St Peter’s, who knew the monks in his care better than they knew themselves:

  ‘He’s ruthless with himself, always has been. Drives the men under him hard too; but he’s fair-minded, unfailingly courteous and astute, nobody’s fool. He’s a solitary man. I’ve wondered, sometimes, if he’s lonely, but it’s hard to say. Just your stiff, formal, courtly French nobleman, I think. We’ll not break our hearts to see him go, and yet I shall be sorry in a way to lose him. There’s a shining, honourable love of God about him that’s a rare thing to see. Abbot Columba. Yes, he’ll wear it well.’

  So th
e bishop brought him to St Alcuin’s, and Brother Edward watched with amused sympathy as the prior greeted them. The nails of Chad’s fingers were bitten to the quick, and his left eye was twitching as he welcomed them with the kiss of peace and played host to them at the abbot’s table. The senior brethren of the abbey dined with them, as did the bishop’s chaplain.

  Mingled in the company, Brother Edward was able to study his nephew well. Father Columba had seemed pleased to see his uncle again, embracing him with a smile of pleasure and surprise, the sudden, vivid smile that Edward remembered in him as a boy irradiating his features with unexpected warmth.

  Now, as Father Columba ate and talked, unmoved by the eyes of the brethren upon him, Brother Edward observed him thoughtfully. He looked at the piercing intelligence of the dark eyes, the controlled intensity of his manner, the impatient movements of his hands. ‘Like his father, Frenchman to the core,’ thought Edward. ‘Henri always talked more with his hands than with words. He’s grown as imperious and autocratic as his father too. Columba, my eye! They should have stuck with Peregrine. Dear me, yes. Poor old Chad. This man is going to come as a shock after Abbot Gregory.’

  Brother Edward thought it was a huge joke that his nephew Peregrine had been renamed Columba, and he was still chuckling at the thought of it the next day as he made the beds and washed and shaved the aged brothers in his care in the infirmary. Brother John, who was his assistant, asked him what he was laughing at, and Edward told him how their new abbot had been Peregrine, the bird of prey, before he became Columba, the dove. Brother John grinned at the incongruity. Word got round, and it was not long before it was the joke of the whole community, and the new abbot was called ‘Father Peregrine’ behind his back, and ‘Father Columba’ to his face and to visitors.

  The brothers of St Alcuin’s found their new superior rather unapproachable, his remote and reserved courtesy contrasting unfavourably with Father Gregory’s kindness. They found Father Peregrine’s imperious face and noble carriage intimidating, though they were cautiously proud of him, too. He proved to be a good and competent abbot, and ruled over his monastery with justice and integrity, commanding the respect and loyalty of the brothers, who would not, in any case, have dared to question his aristocratic authority.

  A year went by, and the brothers began to grow accustomed to their new superior. Another year and they had almost forgotten what it was like before he came. It was Easter, two years after Father Peregrine had come to be their abbot. Easter, the greatest feast of the Christian year, and all the local people had come up to the abbey, and the guest house was full of pilgrims come to celebrate the feast of the Resurrection. So many people, so many processions, so much music! So many preparations to be made by the singers, the readers, those who served at the altar and those who served in the guest house, not to mention those who worked in the kitchens and the stables. The abbey was bursting with guests, neighbours, relatives and strangers.

  The Easter Vigil was mysterious and beautiful, with the imagery of fire and water and the Paschal candle lit in the great, vaulted dimness of the abbey church. Brother Gilbert the precentor’s voice mounted joyfully in the triumphant beauty of the Exultet; all the bells rang out for the risen Lord, and the voices of the choirboys from the abbey school soared with heart-breaking loveliness in the music declaring the risen life of Jesus. Easter Day itself was radiant with sunshine for once, as well as celebration. Oh, the joyful splendour of a church crammed full of people, a thundering of voices singing ‘Credo—I believe.’

  The newest of the novices, Brother Thomas, known to the other novices as Brother Tom, who had just two weeks ago taken his first vows, stood almost dazed, transported by the beauty of the celebration. He had been in the community only six months, having entered once his father’s harvest was safely gathered in, in the autumn of 1305. His father, a big, strapping, red-faced man, a Yorkshire farmer born and bred, had accompanied him to the abbey. His mother they had left in tears at home. She had only two children, both sons, and they were her whole life. In addition to this, the farm could ill do without the sons’ labour and management. But God calls whom he will, and devout Christians both, the lad’s parents respected and supported his wish to try the religious life.

  With an almost oppressive sense of awe, the two men had entered through the little portal set in the massive gates of the abbey enclosure. They were put at their ease again by the kindly welcome of Brother Cyprian, the old porter, who had chatted comfortably to them as he escorted them to the abbot’s lodging. His broad Yorkshire accent was something of home in this imposing place. ‘Tha munnot fear Father Abbot, lad. He’s not an easy man, but he’s a good man for all that. Tha mun speak up for thyself, for he’ll not bite thee. Through here, this is our refectory. Through yon door into t’ cloister, aye, that’s it…. Now then, here we are, this is Father’s house.’

  What Brother Thomas remembered most of his first meeting with Abbot Peregrine (apart from the dark grey eyes that looked as if they could read his mind) was the quick, eloquent gesturing of his hands, the way he drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table as he looked at Tom and weighed him up. In the abbot’s hands all his vitality, his restless energy seemed concentrated, and the lad was fascinated by the long, fine, strong, restless fingers, so different from his own. He looked down at his own hands, broad and work-hard, rough and weathered already at nineteen years old, and reposeful with the peace you so often see in a farmer’s hands. They rested on his thighs as he listened to his father discussing him with the abbot.

  ‘… and you can spare him, from the farm?’ the abbot was asking his father, probing. ‘Only two sons, you say? You can afford to let one of them go?’

  The farmer met the abbot’s questioning gaze. ‘He’s not cut out for the land, not this one, Father. Neither use nor ornament to me is this lad, when his heart’s elsewhere. Any road, we shall see. I’d not wonder if the fire dies down before long. He’s a mighty trencherman—well, look at him, he’s built like an ox, both of my lads are—and he’ll leave a few broken hearts behind him among the lasses when he’s gone. To be honest with you, I cannot see him creeping about in silence or telling beads on his knees. As demure and quiet as young ladies are some of your brothers here, and that my lad will never be. But let him try it if he will. There’s always a welcome for him with his mother and me should it all come to nothing.’

  This was the longest, most personal speech the farmer had ever made, and he took out his linen handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead as he finished. A smile twitched the corners of the abbot’s mouth. He was amused by the description of his monks. He was himself inclined to be irritable with the more timid and submissive men. The abbot turned his gaze on the farmer’s son, who returned it calmly, but felt somehow belittled and exposed by the aristocratic amusement with which he was regarded.

  ‘He thinks I am a peasant, and beneath him,’ he thought, somewhat resentfully, and stoutly endured the abbot’s scrutiny.

  ‘What say you then, my son?’ asked Father Peregrine. ‘Your father has little hope of your staying the course, it seems. It is a hard life. I shall think no less of you if you wish to change your mind.’

  The abbot’s aloof, ironic manner nettled the lad; the educated voice with its slight French inflection grated on him. He spoke up impulsively, with some heat. ‘I doubt you could think much less of me than you do now, my lord, anyway. I am a common working man, not of your kind.’

  ‘Eh, then. Now, now!’ expostulated his father. ‘That’s uncivil, lad! Mind who you’re talking to!’ But the abbot ignored him and looked steadily at the young man, serious now.

  ‘Well, then? You are minded to enter with us?’

  ‘I am, my lord.’

  And standing here in the sunshine and soaring music of Easter Day, Brother Thomas was glad and sure, at peace to his very soul. This was where he belonged.

  ‘Credo in unum Deum—I believe in one God—oh, yes!’

  The next da
y, Easter Monday, most of the guests were leaving, and there was much coming and going, saddling of horses, saying of goodbyes. It was next to impossible to find anyone or get anything done. The place was in turmoil. After Vespers, as the sun was sinking, Brother Edward was sent with a message in search of Father Matthew, the novice master.

  Edward went into the great abbey church, determined that this would be his last task before he sat down wearily for a bite to eat with the other brothers—and then Compline and bed. He was fairly confident he would find Father Matthew in the sacristy adjoining the choir, making sure Brother Thomas knew how to set out vessels and vestments for the Mass in the morning, putting ready the Communion bread, and marking the places in the holy books for the celebrant.

  Brother Edward cut through the Lady chapel—the quickest way—and although by this hour it was all but dark in the church, he walked swiftly: partly because he was in a hurry, and partly because this was his home and he knew his way about as well in dusk as in daylight.

  He was striding purposefully up the little aisle, peering ahead to see if he could make out a glimmer of light from the sacristy that would indicate Father Matthew’s presence within, when unexpectedly he drove his foot into a bulky obstacle across his path, and all but lost his balance. From the floor came a deep, inhuman groan of agony, like an animal, like something in the torment of hell.