CHAPTER EIGHT

Beginning Again

The year had rolled to its close. New Year’s Eve was a night of tingling frost, the stars shining sharp and bright in a cloudless sky, the moon riding clear and lovely in the heavens.

Huddled in my dressing-gown and a woollen shawl, I stood in the garden with Therese and Mother and Daddy, waiting to welcome in the New Year. The little ones had gone to bed late, and were now tucked up fast asleep, clutching their new Christmas dollies. They were snuggled in under extra blankets, their mattresses pushed close together so they could keep each other warm. I was sleepy too but would not have missed the magic of this moment for anything.

In the morning, we would wake up to windows decorated with frost flowers, all the grass and skeletal bushes in the garden would be stiff with hoar frost. The end of my nose and the tops of my ears hurt in the biting cold. I breathed out into the midnight air, and in the moonlight the impressive, ghostly cloud looked like a dragon’s breath.

Far away, but clear and sonorous on the cold, still air, the church clock began to chime midnight. Distant, but perfectly distinct, we counted the twelve strokes and then stood there a moment on the silent moonlit threshold of another year.

‘Happy New Year!’ Daddy’s cheerful voice lifted the moment from solemnity and awe to party-time. ‘Come indoors, ladies! I have some hot mulled wine and some goodies for you.’

We sat and sipped and munched by the fire, the room lit by candles at Mother’s pleading, instead of the electric light. After a while Daddy stretched and yawned. ‘I’m for bed,’ he said, in sleepy contentment.

‘I’ll follow you soon,’ said Mother. ‘Warm up the bed for me.’

He and Therese took the glasses and the plates out into the kitchen, and we could hear Daddy’s heavy tread going slowly up the narrow stairs, and the chinking of glass and crockery as Therese washed up. We heard her fill the kettle for her hot-water bottle, and then shortly after, she put her head round the door to say goodnight.

‘Goodnight, Therese,’ said Mother. ‘Thank you for washing up. Happy New Year.’

‘Happy New Year. I’ll put the hot-water bottle in your bed, ‘lissa, when I’m warm, if you’re not coming up straight away.’

I smiled my thanks, and we sat, watching the fire, Mother and I, listening to Therese’s footsteps mounting the stairs. There was no sound but the ticking of the clock and the settling of the glowing logs.

‘What are you thinking, Mother?’ I said.

She stirred in her chair and sighed. ‘It’s a funny thing,’ she said thoughtfully, looking with wide, faraway eyes into the low, red flames. ‘The thing life is fullest of is the thing we find hardest to believe in. New beginnings. The incredible gift of a fresh start. Every new year. Every new day. Every new life. What wonderful gifts! And when we spoil things, and life goes all wrong, we feel dismayed, because we find it so hard to see that we can start again. God lets us share it too, you know. Only God can give life, it’s true—make a new baby or a new year—but he gives us the power to give each other a new beginning, to forgive each other and make a fresh start when things go wrong.’

She fell silent, thinking, then she started to smile. ‘That reminds me—yes, I hadn’t thought of that for a long time. Poor Brother Tom! Oh, that was a bad evening…’

She laughed, and I looked at her impatiently. Five minutes ago I had thought I was sleepy, but I felt wide awake now. ‘Oh, come on, Mother, tell me, then! What happened?’

She glanced up at the clock and hesitated.

‘Oh, you’ve got to tell me now!’ I cried. ‘What about Brother Tom? What happened?’

‘Ssh, all right then, pipe down. I’ll tell you the story. Put another log on the fire, though, first.’

She watched me as I pushed the little apple log into the heart of the fire, then she began.

It was the year of our Lord 1316. King Edward on the throne, a year of tranquillity and kindly weather. The month of June blazed with sunshine, and the brothers got their hay in early. The elder trees were loaded with blossom, promising delicious wines for the year following and a good crop of berries to soothe coughs and colds in the autumn chills and mists. The summer continued fiercely hot and dry; the water in the well ran low and the grass withered brown and dusty, but September came with a mellow, lazy warmth, kindly mists in the mornings and long, slow, dreamy afternoons.

Through the hot summer and on into the golden September days, the old brothers whose last days were spent in the peace of the infirmary were brought out to sit and doze among the herbs in the physic garden, and there they sunned themselves, lulled to drowsiness by the hum of the bees and the fragrance of the herbs, caressed by the almost imperceptible breeze.

Abbot Peregrine had ruled his flock at St Alcuin’s Abbey for twelve years now, and the brothers loved him for his gentleness, humour and wisdom, and respected him for the courage and strength that lay beneath. He was in his fifty-seventh year now. The remains of his crisp, black curls were grey. All traces of youth’s softness had gone now from his face, which left it more hawk-like and eager than ever. Age had done nothing, however, to dim his disconcerting grey eyes—they had lost none of their directness and urgent power.

Brother Cormac, Brother Theodore and Brother Thaddeus were all fully fledged, dignified monks now, and Gerard Plumley had become Brother Bernard, which Brother Tom said was a radical improvement. Tom himself was these days employed as the abbot’s personal attendant. He helped Peregrine with the impossibilities of shaving and fastening his sandals and his belt, and he cleaned the abbot’s house. He also waited at table for Peregrine when visitors came to the abbey, to cut his food and serve his guests with food and wine. Father Peregrine’s maimed hands could not perform either of these tasks with any reliable outcome, and it was in any case the customary thing in those days for the abbot of a monastery to have at least one or two personal servants.

Brother Tom had been fully professed almost eight years now. He was just approaching his thirtieth birthday, the end of his tenth year in the community, but he was still not master of his irrepressible nature, and could be as undisciplined as a schoolboy in the company of Brother Francis, whose composed and urbane exterior hid a spirit as mischievous as Tom’s own.

There was a new generation of novices—Brother Richard, Brother Damian, Brother Josephus, and Brother James, who had just had his clothing ceremony and was bursting with delight at being allowed to wear the habit of the order. The novitiate was still watched over by Father Matthew’s stern and exacting authority, though he was feeling his age now.

In the kitchens, Brother Andrew still ruled, with the help of Brother Cormac and young Brother Damian. Brother Michael had gone to work with Brother John in the infirmary, where his thoughtfulness and gentleness did excellent service. Although Brother Edward was more than eighty years old now, and as light and wrinkled as a withered leaf, he was still officially the infirmarian. His heart and wind were still as sound as a bell, and his mind still sharp and clear, but his sight and hearing were growing dim, and he relied more and more on Brother John and Brother Michael in the infirmary work. In the afternoons he was allowed to drowse in the sun in the herb gardens outside the infirmary in the company of the other old men, of whom he was no longer the youngest.

On this particular day, Brother Edward was sitting with Brother Cyprian to keep an eye on him lest his usual peaceful docility should erupt into one of his occasional, unpredictable fits of eccentric behaviour. Brother Cyprian had for years been the porter of the abbey—a wise, discreet and kindly man, whose job had given him a wealth of insight into human nature—but he was very old now, toothless and senile and incontinent. Brother Martin had replaced him as porter, and Brother Cyprian now dreamed and wandered and slept, propped with pillows in his chair, his veined and freckled old hands resting on the woollen rug that Brother Michael had carefully tucked around him. The experience of a lifetime was not all lost, however, and from time to time he would interrupt his vacant staring and the rhythmic chewing of his gums, to narrow his eyes thoughtfully and utter with typical Yorkshire bluntness a surprisingly shrewd and observant comment about his brothers in the monastic life.

Father Peregrine had been to the infirmary for Brother John to exercise and massage his stiff, misshapen hands, and he stopped in the garden to talk to the old brothers, telling Brother Edward news he had just received of his daughter Melissa.

‘Edward, she has another child, a baby boy. She says both she and the infant are thriving.’

Melissa had been married eight years to her wool merchant, Ranulf Langton, and they had recently moved to Yorkshire, where the fleeces of the abbeys’ flocks were renowned throughout Europe. Ranulf’s business was prospering, they were comfortably and happily settled, and Melissa had just sent word to Father Peregrine of the birth of her fourth child, a boy, Benedict.

Peregrine glowed with pride as he spoke of her, and Brother Edward nodded and smiled obligingly as he heard the details of her letter lovingly recounted. They neither of them noticed Brother Cyprian’s unfocused gaze sharpen until he was looking with close attention at Peregrine’s face, disfigured and scarred but somehow beautiful with the joy of his love as he told Edward his happy news.

‘I don’t know what ‘appened to thee,’ interrupted Brother Cyprian suddenly, his red-rimmed old eyes looking acutely at Peregrine, taking in his scarred face and hands and the crutch he leaned on. ‘Knocked all about by t’ look o’ thee. Eh, but tha was an aggravating, strutting peacock when tha came! Aye, smile! Go on, laugh if tha will, but ‘tis true! Tha thought thyself a king on thy throne. Knocked thee off, did they? Aye, well, never mind, lad. Learned thee a bit o’ sense, I can see that.’

He blinked the reptilian lids of his hooded old eyes and chuckled to himself. Father Peregrine stood looking at him, startled, amused and not sure how to respond, but the old man had retreated into his own world, chewing and gazing. Presently he slipped into a doze, and his mouth fell ajar as the toothless jaw slackened.

‘Father—’ Young Brother James’ voice at his elbow claimed Peregrine’s attention. ‘There is a party of folk asking hospitality for the night whom Brother Martin thinks you would maybe wish to greet.’

Father Peregrine turned away from Brother Cyprian, still smiling.

‘Did he give you a name?’

‘Yes, Father, he bids me tell you it is Sir Geoffrey and Lady Agnes d’Ebassier.’

A shadow of weariness clouded Father Peregrine’s face. The names were those of a wealthy Norman baron and his wife, landowners from just south of Yorkshire. They stayed from time to time at St Alcuin’s to break the journey to Scotland, where Lady Agnes’ brother-in-law owned some excellent hunting and fishing territory. Sir Geoffrey and his lady were deeply pious, good people, generous benefactors whose gifts were more than helpful to the finances of the abbey, but they were not easy guests. They liked to think of St Alcuin’s as home from home and felt entitled to drop in unannounced at any time as their gifts of money to the brothers were so frequent and so large. This could be awkward at times, and besides this their keen consciousness of their own social standing and the rigid formality of their manners imposed a strain even on themselves. Father Peregrine found it exhausting. He looked at Brother James, the joy of his letter and his amusement at Brother Cyprian had suddenly evaporated. He felt the first tightenings of his shoulders and neck that would develop inevitably into a thundering headache as the evening drew on.

‘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 but 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 enquiringly 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.

‘Father, I beg your pardon—’ Peregrine opened his eyes at the sound of Brother James’ apologetic voice. ‘I’m sorry, but another visitor has arrived and is asking to see you.’

‘Oh, no!’ he groaned. ‘Oh, Brother, no! Who is it?’

‘It’s a woman with a little baby—I forget the exact name she gave. A Melissa Langforth? Thornton? Something like—’

‘Melissa!’ Father Peregrine’s face lit with happiness and he snatched his hand out of Brother Michael’s and, stooping, fumbled on the floor for the crutch that lay beside him. ‘She’s my—she’s my—she’s a relative of mine,’ he said to Brother James as he limped out of the room with jerky haste to find her.

She was walking down the cobbled path to meet him, and she laughed at his eagerness and joy as he greeted her.

‘Welcome, daughter, oh welcome! We heard your joyful news, dear heart, but I never thought to see you so soon. So this is the littlest, a son. Bless him, look at that yawn! By the saints, what a great, cavernous mouth he has on him! And a roar like a lion, I’ll be bound. But come, dearest, let me find you a place in the guest house where you can rest and be comfortable. You must be mortally weary; you should not have travelled so soon. Would to God that all our visitors were as welcome as you!’

She stayed with them for a week, and she would sit in the gardens outside the infirmary, her baby on her knee, talking to Uncle Edward, and the old brothers who sat out in the sun with him, and to Peregrine when he could snatch the time. It was one of those brief spells of complete happiness that come once in a rare while, an unlooked for gift of God, when the forces of darkness, of sorrow and temptation seem miraculously held back, a breathing-space in the battle.

On the third day of her visit, Peregrine stole an afternoon to be with her, and they sat together in the deepening golden peace of the afternoon sun, Melissa suckling her child and telling all the news from home.

She lifted up the baby, drunken and replete, eyes drowsing shut, a dribble of white milk trickling from his slack mouth. Holding him up to her with his head nestled on her shoulder, she stroked his back as they talked. The baby gave a huge, satisfied belch, which made them all smile.

‘Father, would you like to hold him?’ she said.

Peregrine looked at her, and looked down at his hands, and then at Melissa again, and the wistfulness and sadness in his eyes went through her like a knife.

‘Of course you can hold him!’ she exclaimed. ‘Here, I’ll lay him on your lap, so; rest his head on your hand.’ Gently she straightened Peregrine’s fingers under the downy head. The baby looked up at him, and gurgled and smiled—the little, confiding noises of baby conversation, the endearing, dimpled, toothless smile of innocent happiness.

Peregrine gently stroked the delicate skin of the child’s forehead, smiling back at his grandson, his face radiant with vulnerable tenderness.

‘Thus was Jesus,’ he whispered, ‘and thus all the little ones whom Herod butchered. Oh, God protect you in this world, dear one. God keep you safe from harm.’

Melissa watched the tiny, pink hand grip round Peregrine’s scarred, twisted fingers, and sadness welled up in her for sorrow to come, for the inevitable harshness and pain.

‘You can’t ask that, Father, and you know it, of all people,’ she said gently. ‘But let him travel through life with his hand gripping Jesus’ scarred hand as tight as it now grips yours, and the storms will not vanquish him.’

The baby yawned hugely, and Peregrine looked up at Melissa, delighted. ‘Wearied by theology, God save him, at eight weeks old! Oh Melissa, you have brought me joy!’

She came and stood beside him, leaning against him, her arm resting around his neck, her fingertips stroking absently, tracing the scar on his face as she smiled down at her baby son.

‘It’s a wonderful, wonderful, sacred thing; this perfect little life, a new beginning born out of my body, out of Ranulf’s and my love. It must be hard, to live without family life. Did you never think you missed your way, maybe, being a monk?’

‘Missed my way? No, not me. Did I choose it, or did God choose me? I would make the same choice again tomorrow. Although… sometimes my skin is hungry for tenderness of touch as you touch me now. Yes, that I miss: but no one is guaranteed that loving tenderness, and look, I have found it in the cloister, where others starve for it among their own kin, at their own hearthside.’

A sudden grimace of distress crossed the baby’s face, and he opened his gums wide in a trembling cry of protest. Melissa stooped and lifted him, held him against her, patting and rocking him gently. He drew his knees up and cried again, then belched enormously, and relaxed, content.

‘He is not yet baptised, Father. I saved that for you. Will you baptise him for me this week?’

‘Need you ask? I am honoured! Benedict, you said you were naming him, did you not? What brought that on?’

‘Well I wanted him to be named after you, but Peregrine is such an outlandish, ridiculous name, and none of the brothers here ever call you Columba—your kitchen brother says you may coo over the baby, but you’re still no dove. So I didn’t know what to choose. But I’ve been reading the Rule of Life that St Benedict wrote, and all he says the abbot should be sounds just like you, so I thought Benedict would do, because his Rule has shaped your life.’

Peregrine said nothing for a moment. She could not read his expression. His eyes were very bright in his lean, intent face as he looked at her.

‘That is all right, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Yes. Oh yes. I was just a bit overcome by the compliment you’ve just paid me. There, Brother Basil is ringing the Vespers bell.’ He raised his voice. ‘Wake up, Edward!’

Brother Edward started awake from his peaceful doze.

‘Eh? What is it? Vespers already? Forgive me, Melissa, sleeping. My old age overwhelms what manners I ever had, these days.’

He yawned and stood slowly. The three of them walked together up the cobbled path, Melissa holding her baby close and peaceful against her: four generations. At the guest house they parted company, and Melissa went in to lay her drowsy baby in his bed.

Peregrine and Edward continued together to the chapel.

‘God has been so generous to me, Edward. The sin of my youth is covered by his forgiving love, and all that is left of it is his gift of a daughter, and grandchildren. His generosity is more than I can comprehend.’

They entered together the cool dimness of the chapel and went each to his own stall.

Motes of dust floated in the rays of sun that slanted through the narrow windows. The brothers’ voices lifted in the sixty-second psalm. Peregrine closed his eyes and allowed his soul to be lifted on the beauty of the chant. ‘Is this worship,’ he wondered, ‘or is it self-indulgence?’

He joined in the singing of the sixty-third psalm: ‘Quaniam melior est misericordia tua super vitas, labia mea laudabunt te …—For your loving-kindness is better than life itself: my lips shall speak your praise…’

He opened his eyes, and his gaze fell on the great wooden crucifix, and then his attention was caught by a movement. Brother James, the newest of the new generation of novices, was still struggling with endless rules and regulations, and was creeping in late, standing wretchedly with downcast eyes, in the place of shame set apart for late-comers. Little darts of disapproval were flying his way from Father Matthew, who had seen him, too. Ah, well, life goes on…

‘Quia fuisti adjutor meus. Et in velamento alarum tuarum exultabo…—Because you have been my helper, therefore in the shadow of your wings I rejoice…’

‘Bear up, Brother James, three months now and you’ll be professed, God willing, and then it will be me you have to deal with, and not Father Matthew. God grant I may not be over-indulgent with you, because you are undisciplined for all your heart’s in the right place…’

Father Matthew, perfecting his withering look at the unfortunate Brother James, flared his nostrils and inhaled more dust than he had bargained for, which caused him to sneeze, violently. Peregrine lowered his head, glad that the cowl hid his face, burying his delighted grin in the pages of his breviary:

‘Gloria Patri et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto…’

Repentantly, Peregrine composed his face, and gave his attention to the prayers. Wise old Benedict had laid down in his Rule of Life that at the first Office of the day and in the evening at Vespers, the abbot should pray aloud the Lord’s Prayer, so that the day should begin and end with the remembrance that we are forgiven, and must in our turn forgive, and so all differences between the brethren be laid to rest.

Abbot Peregrine raised his head and led the prayer in his firm, clear voice:

‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…’

Then the Office was ended, and the brothers were dispersing quietly. Brother James came and knelt before Peregrine, humbly awaiting penance.

‘Say a Miserere, my son, and try to be in good time tomorrow,’ said Father Peregrine mildly.

With a light heart he set on his way to meet Melissa and Brother Edward at his house for supper, and smiled at the sight of Brother Tom, hastening ahead of him, anxious not to be late.

‘And that’s all,’ said Mother firmly, looking at the clock. ‘There are plenty of other stories, though, to keep us going in the New Year.’

She smiled and stretched and yawned, and uncurled reluctantly from her armchair.

‘Bed time, I think, my darling. Happy New Year.’

We took one candle to light our way upstairs, and blowing out the other one, left the dying fire, its embers faintly illuminating the night.

Shivering in the unheated bedroom, I decided it was too cold to wash and clean my teeth, so I slipped off my dressing-gown and crept quietly into my bed, careful not to disturb my sleeping sisters. It was warm and cosy under the blankets; Therese had left me the hot-water bottle there. I lay for a long time in the darkness, listening to my sisters’ regular, peaceful breathing, punctuated by the little sighs and murmurs of sleep: thinking, remembering, imagining… and then finally thinking drifted into dreaming, and I was asleep.

Those are some of the stories then, that Mother told me the year I turned fifteen, so many years ago now: stories of my long ago grandfather, Peregrine du Fayel, and his Uncle Edward, and his daughter Melissa, named for Melissa du Fayel, Peregrine’s mother. Down the ladder of seven hundred years they have climbed, preserved by grandmother and mother and daughter, told at the firesides of our family through all those generations. My mother, my wonderful, magical mother, weaver of dreams, with her dark, compelling eyes, her wild mane of hair, and the soft blue folds of her skirt: she made them come alive for me, and they fed my hungry soul, and they changed everything for me. They have been stored away in the garden of my imagination, walled away since I was a young girl, until I have opened the green door and taken you in to wander in the garden. And the stories were there waiting, surprisingly fresh to my memory after all…. Well, but Peregrine was unforgettable, wasn’t he? So now I have told some of them to you. I hope, I really hope, they fed your hunger too. I wish you had known my mother, for she would have told them better than I; but there it is. Like you, I make the best of what I can do.