CHAPTER TWO

Who’s the Fool Now?

Stories and songs are for wet days and evenings, and for camping. You could offer me a mansion with central heating and every luxury; top quality stereo systems, colour televisions and ensuite bathrooms, and I would not exchange it for my memories of campfires under the stars.

I remember my little sisters, Mary and Beth and Cecily, dancing to the music of Irish jigs piped on a recorder, their silhouetted shapes leaping and turning in the firelight. I remember Mary’s eager smile as she stretched up towards the flying sparks that floated high in the smoke. Fire-fairies, she said they were. I remember their breathless voices as they sang ‘Father Abraham had many sons…’, hopping and jumping the actions to the song.

Round the fire, sitting on the big stones that ringed it, were friends and family. Mother and Daddy, Grandma, my uncle and auntie, Grandad sitting in his camp chair with a pink towel draped over his head to stop the midges biting him. Familiar and commonplace in the daylight, as the dusk fell and night drew on they became folk tale figures, mythological beings from another age. The kindly light of the fireglow hid the irrelevances of whether Grandma’s anorak was blue or white, or Auntie’s trousers were fashionable, and revealed different things: the kindness of Grandad’s face, and the serene wisdom of Grandma’s. Daddy’s face with its long beard looked like an Old Testament story all by itself. People think you can see more by electric light, but you can’t. You see different things, that’s all. You can see to read or do your homework or bake a cake by electric light, but you see people more truly by candlelight and firelight. ‘Technology is man-made, and has no soul,’ my mother used to say.

‘You’re a pyromaniac!’ Daddy would say to her. ‘Candles, bonfires, campfires, fires on the hearth at home. Why can’t we have central heating like everybody else?’

‘Everybody else? Who’s that?’ Mother would reply. ‘If there really is a faceless grey “they” mumbling, “There’s safety in numbers,” what is that worth to me? I need fire and earth and wind and waves as much as I need food. I’d go mad living in this wired-up, bricked-up, fenced-in concrete street if I didn’t dose myself with fire and weather and earth and sea. My soul would get pale and thin. I don’t want a pale, thin soul.’

‘Okay.’ Daddy knew when to give in. ‘No central heating.’

Our camping holiday was an important part of our dose of the elements. We used to go to a place in the Yorkshire hills, sheltered by tall, whispering trees, beside a shallow stream where brown trout swam among the stones under the dappling of sunlight shining through leaves.

Sometimes the sun shone and we lay out on the grass reading comics and books, eating peaches and French bread and chocolate. Sometimes it rained and we lay in bed at night listening to the drumming of raindrops on the canvas, careful to let nothing touch the edge of the tent. On rainy days we warmed ourselves up with mugs of tea and chips from the chip shop, and watched, as the clouds cleared, the beauty of the wet hills holding the transparent, washed loveliness of the light like cupped hands holding the eucharist.

You don’t see rainfall in a town. Oh, you can see that it’s raining and you can get wet all right, but there is not the space to see the mist of rain blowing, the approach of rainfall across a valley, the majestic breadth of the sky with its gathering fleet of clouds. In the town, it is sunny or it is not. It is cold or it is warm. The gold of autumn and the silver of the rain has no meaning. Where I live now, I have a view from the front of my house of a large rendered wall painted grey, its flat surface relieved by an extractor fan, a flat blue door and a small window. From the back I can see a clutter of washing lines, sheds and greenhouses. But I remember the holidays of my girlhood by the stream and under the stars, and I still do as Mother did and take regular doses of fire and water, earth and air, to stop my soul getting pale and thin.

Daddy always said there was not much difference between camping and staying at home for us, because we girls slept on mattresses on the floor at home, too. Five of us children in a two-bedroomed house made mattresses a practical option. On winter nights we pushed them close together and kept each other warm. So camping had no sense of hardship or roughing it for us. Grandad brought his Tilley lamp and his calor gas camping stove, and Mother had her campfire in the evening.

We sat beside the fire one evening at camp, Mother and I. Daddy was putting the three little ones to bed, telling them the story of how the sky fell on Chicken Licken, and Therese had gone with Grandma and Grandad to buy some milk. It must have been early on in the week, because I don’t think Uncle and Auntie were there that night.

‘You haven’t told me a story about Father Peregrine and the monks for ages,’ I said. It was a clear, warm night and we had spent the early part of the evening gathering brushwood and fallen branches from among the trees, for the fire which was going beautifully now.

‘I haven’t, have I? All right then. Let me think a moment.’

You remember Brother Thomas? Remember how, when Father Peregrine had been beaten and crippled, his hands maimed and broken, he struggled so hard to keep his fear and horror and grief hidden inside, and almost did; but it was Brother Thomas who plucked up the courage to put his arms round him and gave him the jog he needed to spill his grief, his misery and despair? Brother Thomas never forgot it either. He kept the memory in the tender, mysterious place at the very centre of his soul, and he had never spoken about it, because none of us can speak easily about the things that lodge in the very heart of us like that. He admired and respected his abbot for his justice and his natural authority and he loved him for the gentleness and mercy that was in him too. But at the very core of his love was the memory of Father Peregrine sobbing out his despair—‘Oh God, how shall I bear the loss of my hands?’—as Brother Thomas held him in his arms.

Well this story concerns Brother Thomas, although most people called him Tom. Even Father Peregrine did in the occasional unguarded moment. Brother Tom was, as you remember, a vital and hearty young man, who hugged life in a mighty embrace and was given more to laughter than to tears. He had a deep appreciation of wine, women, song and good food, and he found the life of a monk very, very hard—at times intolerably hard. None the less, he loved the Lord Jesus to the bottom of his soul and was determined enough to follow his calling. But he did wonder, at times, if God should ever ask of him that he be removed elsewhere, to serve over the sea, or in another monastery, whether he could bear to leave his abbot, because although it was God who called him to the monastic life, it was Father Peregrine who kept him at it, or that was the way Brother Tom saw it. Then again, as he told himself, God’s will was for him to serve in this monastery here, so maybe loving his superior was part of loving God, although… but here Brother Tom’s brain wearied of the complications of the issue: he loved his abbot, and he understood his vulnerability as well as his strength. Truly, the two of them had been through some harrowing times together. In the course of Brother Tom’s novitiate there had been an unfortunate incident with a young lady, which is a story all of its own, and had it not been for the way Father Peregrine dealt with Brother Tom and pleaded for him with the ancients of the community, Tom would have been turned out for good. Indeed, love his abbot though he might, Brother Tom caused him more trouble than all the others put together. He was on more than one occasion in disgrace for raiding the larder under cover of night, and his irrepressible streak of mischief combined with Brother Francis’ inventive sense of humour caused chaos and disapproval again and again.

Father Peregrine had so often to plead for him and bail him out, to admonish him, listen to him, talk things through with him, pray for him and have him beaten, that he wondered from time to time if it wouldn’t have been better for Tom simply to call it a day, give up struggling against the grain to be Brother Thomas, and return to farming the land with the family who had grieved to give him up. It amazed them both when Brother Tom at last came to the end of his novitiate (which was twice as long as it should have been, because of the young lady) and the community agreed to receive him for life and he made his solemn vows. Father Peregrine, who did not trust Tom out of his sight for too long, gave him the job of being the abbot’s esquire, his own personal attendant. Brother Tom cleaned his house for him, waited on him at table, and did for him those tasks that his broken hands could not accomplish, for example, shaving him, buckling his belt, and fastening his sandals and tunic. Things went reasonably well for a while after he took his vows. The consideration that he was now a fully professed Benedictine monk had a sobering effect on Brother Tom, and he spent nearly six weeks after his solemn profession affecting an unnatural dignity that made Father Peregrine smile, and drew derision from Brother Francis who had made his own life vows three months previously and was now recovered from the awe and apprehension that went with it.

It didn’t last. As inevitably as the flowering of bluebells in the spring came the temptations of the flesh that regularly assailed Brother Thomas. After a week of fasting and praying, and scourging himself mercilessly in the privacy of his cell, he stole the key to the cellar, sat down by the biggest cask of wine he could find and got blind drunk. Brother Cormac discovered him there, and attempted to remonstrate with him, unwisely as it turned out, for black gloom had descended on the miscreant by then and Brother Cormac got nothing but a bloody nose for his pains. Brother Andrew, Cormac’s superior in the kitchen, reported the matter to Father Peregrine in bristling indignation, and Father Peregrine, mortally weary of Tom’s misdemeanours and exasperated beyond measure, had them souse him with a bucket of cold water and lock him up in the abbey prisons to sober up overnight.

Red-eyed, sneezing and penitent, Brother Thomas was brought to stand before the Community Chapter Meeting in the morning and receive his penance, which in these rare and unhappy circumstances was the standard one of a flogging.

Father Peregrine hated to see a man flogged, and he was upset as well as angry with Brother Tom, so spoke with more heat than he might normally do as Brother Thomas knelt down before him: ‘Brother Thomas, you are a fool. You have the goodwill of this community and you spit on it. You have the trust of this community and you throw it away. You’re a fool, Brother, because goodwill does not last for ever. You betray our trust, you betray your vocation, you betray the good name of this house with your silly capers. You are a fool!’

He glared at Brother Tom, and Tom humbly bent his aching head before his abbot’s wrath. Both of them felt sick at heart, because in each of them the love for the other hurt like a splinter, like a sharp thorn. Father Peregrine was angry with Tom because he loved him, because he wanted him to be true to his vocation, because he didn’t want to give the word to have him flogged. And Tom was ashamed and miserable because he’d failed again, because his abbot had spent so much time and kindness on him and he’d let him down once more.

Brother Clement, chosen for the job because he worked in the scriptorium and library, and therefore had little to do with Brother Tom and was as impartial towards him as any of the brothers could be, stood with the scourge in his hand. Brother Tom unfastened his tunic and undershirt, and bent low as he knelt before them, exposing his back to be beaten. Peregrine sat in his stall, his eyes downcast, the slight frown of distress that he could not help belying the sternness of his face.

‘Father…’ Brother Clement hesitated. Brother Tom’s back was already a mass of purple welts where he had used the scourge savagely on himself in his battle against temptation.

‘Ah, no!’ said Peregrine, seeing it. ‘Let that be finished with, Brother. No, no, I’ve no stomach to lay wound upon wound. Let him be. Resume your place, Brother Thomas. For your penance you may eat only dry bread and water these three days, and that you must take on your knees in the refectory, set apart from the brethren.’

It was on the third of these three days that Brother Tom came in to the abbot’s lodging to sweep the floor and generally tidy up, and found Father Peregrine seated at his table, thoughtfully gnawing his lip as he frowned at a letter he was holding in his hand. He glanced up briefly at Brother Tom, grunted a response to Tom’s pleasant ‘God give you good day, Father’, and went back to the perusal of his letter.

Brother Tom, as he swept the room, watched out of the corner of his eye as his abbot laid the letter down at last, and sat deep in thought for a while, then picked it up again and looked at it once more. It was written in an elegant hand on the finest vellum.

‘The cunning devil!’ Peregrine announced suddenly. ‘Here, read this, Brother. ’Tis from Prior William of St Dunstan’s Priory. You know, the Augustinian house. He invites me, in terms of the most friendly courtesy, to take part in a conference—a debate—concerning the nature of God, whether his supreme manifestation be in justice or in mercy.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Tom, reaching out his hand for the document.

‘Only that he hates me like poison, and that St Dunstan’s Priory is three days’ ride to the southwest, and his conference begins in three days’ time. If Prior William bids us to conference he’s up to no good somewhere. It’s not like him to waste the substance of his house on hospitality if he can help it, and he doesn’t intend me to be there for sure. It means leaving on the instant and riding half the night to be there in time. Why this sudden interest in the mercy and justice of God in any case? It never troubled his mind before that I recall.

‘No… he’s up to something and he counts on my absence to work it. He’s a manipulator of minds and a good politician, but he’s no theologian. Whatever he’s cooking up, he wants me out of it because he knows I’ll have the better of him in theological debate.’

He sat frowning in thought a while longer as Tom scanned the letter, then he exclaimed, ‘No, I don’t trust him! We’ll go. I want to know what he’s hatching.’

Brother Tom looked up from the letter in surprise. ‘But Father, how are you going to—I mean, can you…?’

‘Sit on a horse without falling off? Yes? Well, we shall see, shan’t we? Find Father Chad and Brother Ambrose. Have three horses saddled, prepare for ten days’ absence. Make haste. Yes, you’re coming with me. I don’t trust you out of my sight, you drunken fool.’

The preparations were quickly made. It was agreed that Father Chad, the prior, should travel with them, leaving Brother Ambrose, the wise old cellarer, who was also the sub-prior, to rule over the community in their absence.

Brother Peter, who cared for the horses, considered Father Peregrine’s situation carefully.

‘You’ve been a good enough horseman, it’ll not matter about your hands, but can you grip with your thighs? These two years near enough you’ve been limping about on a crutch. Your muscles will be wasted. Not only that, but that stiff knee. I’m not sure…. Better not to arrive plastered in mud, I would imagine. How do you feel about being tied to your saddle? No, don’t answer that. I can see by the look in your eye how you feel about it. Would it not be for the best though, truly?’

They did in the end strap him to his saddle as well as they could, and by noon they were on the road. They rode late into the night, that first night, slept under the stars in the lee of a hedge, and were on the road again before first light. The second night they begged food and lodging of a house of Poor Clares, who received them with warmth and kindness. They ate a hearty meal in the guest house there, and finished just in time to join the sisters for Compline. As they made their way to their beds, Brother Tom broke the Great Silence to whisper, ‘Shall I not attend to your hands before you go to your bed, Father? Brother Edward has given me some oil, and said I mustn’t forget to massage them every day. I neglected to do it yesterday. Will I not see to them tonight?’

Peregrine shook his head. ‘Not now. We are in silence, and we need all the sleep we can get. We must be away early. Thank you, but leave it.’

‘Father…’

‘Leave it. We are in silence.’

With a sigh, Tom abandoned the conversation. He knew his abbot well and had seen how his proud spirit had balked at being tied to his horse like baggage on a mule. Peregrine had been touchy, on his dignity, all day, and was not about to have his independence eroded any further. He carried himself stiffly, and Tom guessed how the lame leg must be aching. Father Peregrine had not ridden since his leg bone was smashed. He looked weary. Tom glanced at him anxiously and tried one last plea: ‘Father…’

‘No.’

And they went to bed.

The kindly sisters made them a food parcel for their journey, and they were on their way directly after Mass. They had made such good time the first two days that they were assured of arriving at St Dunstan’s before Vespers. Brother Tom and Father Chad rode side by side, enjoying the change of scenery and each other’s company. Father Peregrine kept a little apart from them, speaking rarely and clearly on edge. They stopped to eat and water their horses at noon, and sat awhile to let the horses crop the roadside grass.

‘Father, shall I not see to your hands?’ Brother Tom ventured again.

Three days of holding the reins of a horse had left them more awkward than ever, and it had not escaped Tom’s notice that it was with more difficulty than usual that Father Peregrine broke his bread and meat as they ate.

‘Not now. We must press on. I want to be there before evening. Prior William is a heartless, cunning fox. Whatever this conference is about, it’ll not be what it seems. He feels obliged to invite me to give credibility to his appearances, but see how he’s left it so late that I can reasonably be expected to get there late or never, without actually being able to say I was not asked in time. Depend upon it he’ll force me out of the debate in Chapter, and away from the meal table conversation if he can. Well, we shall see.’

‘He knows then, does he, that you can’t—that you no longer—that you are thus disabled, Father?’ enquired Father Chad.

‘Not from me, but yes, no doubt he knows. The only thing that takes more care to inform itself than love is hatred, and he hates me with a thoroughness that unnerves me a little, I confess. I’ve worsted him in debate before, and that he will not forgive. Anyway, enough, we must be away. We’ll not be late.’

They rode in at the large grey stone gatehouse that straddled the moat surrounding the impressive priory of St Dunstan, just after the afternoon office, dusty and tired. They were received with all civility, and news of their arrival was sent to Prior William, who came out to meet them as their horses were led away to be stabled and rubbed down.

Prior William greeted first Father Peregrine, then Father Chad with the kiss of brotherhood. Brother Tom, who carried their pack, he barely acknowledged. As the formalities of greeting were exchanged, Tom studied the prior’s face. Narrow, mobile and intelligent, with thin lips and very little colour, its most striking feature was his eyes, which were of a very pale blue beneath silver eyebrows. The premature whiteness of his hair added to the impression he gave of coldness and austerity. Tom reflected that though his lips curved in a smile as he addressed Father Peregrine, his tone as he spoke was like frostbite.

‘A chamber is being prepared for you upstairs in the north wing of the guest house, Father Columba,’ he said. His voice was as soft as a woman’s; as soft as velvet.

‘Upstairs?’ butted in Brother Tom. ‘My lord, there must be some mistake.’

‘Let it be, Brother,’ said Father Peregrine quickly, but Prior William’s attention was caught.

‘Is that inconvenient, my son?’ he asked, in his soft, gentle, dangerous woman’s voice. He turned to look at Brother Tom as he spoke, and Tom had a sudden feeling of panic, like a small, tasty animal caught in the predator’s hypnotic death stare.

‘He’s—he’s lame, my lord, as you see,’ Tom stuttered.

‘I had thought,’ the prior purred, smiling faintly, ‘that a man who could make such good time on horseback must be less disabled than I expected.’

Father Peregrine and Father Chad said nothing, but Tom was on his mettle now.

‘If that be so, my lord,’ he said, ‘why did you not send him word earlier?’

The eyelids flickered momentarily over the cold blue eyes, but the prior did not stop smiling.

‘Shall I instruct my men to prepare your chamber at ground level then?’ he asked, fixing his gaze on Peregrine. Peregrine’s face was grim as he met Prior William’s look. Like an eagle confronting a poisonous snake, thought Tom.

‘No, thank you,’ said Father Peregrine. ‘The upstairs chamber will do well.’

Prior William raised one sardonic eyebrow. ‘If you are sure, my brother,’ he murmured.

‘I am sure,’ said Father Peregrine. ‘Please let us not detain you, Father Prior. I remember the way to your guest house well enough.’ The two men bowed courteously to one another, and Prior William turned his attention to another small party of men who were riding in at the gatehouse, while Father Chad, Father Peregrine and Brother Tom made their way to their lodging.

‘Father… forgive my asking…’ Father Chad hesitated, daunted by the grimness of his abbot’s look.

‘Yes?’

‘Forgive my asking you—how are you going to get up the stairs?’

‘Backwards,’ said Peregrine tersely. ‘Unobserved, please God,’ he added, with a flicker of a smile.

The stone stairway of the guest house was narrow and steep, but did not pose any great problem. Father Peregrine ascended it sitting on the steps, using his good leg to move him up one at a time, while Father Chad held the wooden crutch and Brother Tom carried their baggage. Tom could not help the grin that spread across his face at the undignified procedure, and Father Chad rebuked him. ‘Brother, for shame, it is nothing to laugh at.’

But Peregrine smiled. ‘Don’t scold him, Father Chad. There’ll be little enough to laugh at these four days if I judge right.’

Father Peregrine would not eat that evening with the company gathered after Vespers at Prior William’s table, though he insisted that Father Chad and Brother Tom go.

‘Keep your wits about you, listen to what’s said and note who’s here. I’ll see you later. I’ll sup on the remains of the bread and meat the good sisters packed us for the road. I’m too stiff and sore to keep company.’

Tom took a deep breath. ‘Father, please, when we return, will you permit me to see to your hands?’ He looked in appeal at Peregrine, and somewhere in his gut, compassion clutched him as he read the look on his abbot’s face, saw how his sense of dignity was cornered and mocked by his helplessness.

‘Thank you,’ said Peregrine quietly. ‘If you would. I can scarcely move them.’

‘After supper, then,’ said Tom, cheerfully, and turned to follow Father Chad out of the room.

‘Brother.’ His abbot stopped him. ‘You are quite welcome to say “I told you so”.’

Tom grinned at him, understanding how fragile was the dignity with which he protected his disability. ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he replied. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’

Most of the men who sat round the long, carved table in Prior William’s great hall that evening were unknown to Brother Tom, but Father Chad discreetly pointed them out.

‘Abbot Hugh from the Cistercian House to the east of our place, you know already. That’s his prior with him, whose name I forget. The dark, bearded man I know not, though judging by his habit he’s one of us. The slight, nervous fellow beside him is Abbot Roger, a Cistercian from Whitby.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Tom, nodding his head towards an enormously fat Benedictine monk, whose clean-shaven chins shook with laughter as he listened to a story his neighbour was telling him.

‘He? Do you not know him? He has stayed with us before. It is the Abbé Guillaume from Burgundy. He has known Father Abbot since childhood, I believe, and esteems him highly. An incomparable scholar and a wise and holy confessor.’

‘Mmm. Good trencher-man too, by the look of him,’ observed Brother Tom.

There were in all seven superiors of prestigious houses seated round the table. Father Robert Bishopton, the Cistercian from Fountains Abbey was there, and the abbot of St Mary’s in York. Three of them had brought their priors too, and there were half a dozen other monks of less elevated status, but of scholarly renown—rising stars. So there was a good company gathered round the magnificent oak table.

Prior William’s eyes rested meditatively on Father Chad and Brother Tom, and he drew breath as if to speak to them, but thought better of it and merely smiled at them, inclining his head in greeting. Thereafter he ignored them. They were glad of each other’s company, neither of them being much at ease among the learned and the great. They were weary, too, from three days’ hard riding and it was a relief when the meal was ended, Compline sung and they could turn in for the night. When they returned to their room in the guest house, Father Peregrine wanted to know just who was there and what was said. He heard their account of the company as Brother Tom worked over his hands, gently flexing and stretching the stiff fingers, probing and rubbing the cramped muscles. He listened, and then said, puzzled, ‘I still don’t understand why Prior William has summoned men of this calibre here to debate whether God’s mercy is greater than his justice or the other way about. If it had been Abbé Guillaume I could have understood it. The night could pass and the sun come up and he never notice if he was absorbed in debating the things of God, but Prior William… they bear the same name, but you could hardly find two men less alike. Ah, what’s he up to? I’d give my right hand to know. Not that I’d be missing much. Thank you, brother, you have eased them wonderfully. It takes a day or two to get them right again once I’ve let them get this bad. They don’t ache so much though, now.’ He yawned. ‘Forgive me, brothers, you’re falling asleep where you sit. To bed then.’

The august gathering met in the Chapter House after Mass the following morning, and there the day’s business of the community was briefly despatched and the debate began.

It quickly became clear that Prior William, whatever his reasons, wanted the group of eminent men to conclude that God’s justice outweighed his mercy. Brother Tom gazed around the room, drowsy with boredom as the men rose one by one to speak, citing the Church Fathers, the Old Testament and various Greek and Eastern philosophers he had never heard of. His attention was recaptured by Prior William’s silky voice as he began to wind up the talk for the morning. ‘It is on the cross that we see the final, ultimate vindication of God’s justice, for God must remain true to his own laws, and requires a sacrificial victim for sin. His demand, yea thirst, for vengeance of his wrath aroused by our corruption requires a victim. Victim there must be, though it be his own Son. The price must be paid. Though the fruit of the cross is mercy, yet its root is justice, for it is a fair price paid, gold laid down for the purchase of our redemption.’

There was a silence at these words; a depressed, uneasy silence, broken by Abbot Peregrine’s firm, quiet voice as he rose to his feet and stood leaning on his crutch, his hands hidden in his wide sleeves, his eyes fixed on Prior William’s face.

‘No, my brother, it is not so,’ he said. ‘The root of the cross is not justice, though its fruit be mercy, as you say. The root of the cross is love, and what is laid down is more than gold, it is blood, life: given not with the clink of dead metal, but with the groans of a man dying in agony. No yellow shine of gold, but the glisten of sweat, and of tears. Justice is an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, for every sin a sacrifice. But Christ, the sinless one, is he whose broken body suffered on the cross, and the holy God in Christ who suffered hell for our sin. That is more than justice, my lord Prior, it is love. Nor is it merely a just love. It is a merciful love.’

He remained standing as Prior William rose to his feet to confront him. ‘Are you suggesting,’ purred the velvet voice, ‘that God is not just?’

Peregrine shook his head. ‘No. How should we know justice if God were not just? But I do say this: God’s justice is subordinate to his love, for his justice is a property of his character, but his love is his essential self. For do not the Scriptures say, “God is love,” but never, “God is justice”?’

Brother Tom had no idea which of them was right, if either, and was not sure what the point of the argument was anyway, but Prior William’s smooth, disturbing voice, that spoke of victims and wrath and vengeance and gold and corruption, made him feel a bit sick. He felt on firmer ground with Father Peregrine’s talk of suffering, merciful love, and to judge by the atmosphere of the meeting, he was not the only one.

Abbé Guillaume rose to speak, and the two men broke the look that locked them in combat and resumed their seats to hear him.

‘Le bon Dieu, yes he is charité. But he is perfection, is he not? And is not perfection the essence of justice? The precise, appropriate purity of verité—n’est-ce pas? Is not justice as we conceive of it none other than that which approximates to perfection? Eh bien, in the incomprehensible perfection of God, where all is a radiance of pure light, all crookedness is made straight, is not love swallowed up in the manifestation par excellence of justice—that is perfection?’

‘No!’ Peregrine was on his feet again, his eyes burning. ‘No, good brother. For God loves me, even me; and though Satan parades my sins and weakness before me, yet am I saved by the love of God in Christ Jesus, from which nothing can separate me. Justice would separate me from the love of God. By my sins do I justly perish. But I am redeemed, reborn, recreated; I am held and sheltered and restored by the love of God. Mon père, I cannot call that justice. It is grace, free grace. It is the most prodigal generosity. It is all mercy.’

Brother Tom glanced across the Chapter House at Prior William. The prior was gently caressing his chin with his hand, and his eyes were fixed on Father Peregrine with a cold, calculating, thoughtful look. Tom had never before seen such pure hatred, unmixed with passion or anger or any such agitation. Ruthless, single hatred. He shivered. The company murmured assent to Peregrine’s assertion, but Père Guillaume took it serenely. To him, winning or losing was immaterial. He saw debate as a lovely thing in itself, a sculpture of truth chiselled out by the cut and thrust of argument. He was well content.

It was at this point that the Chapter Meeting broke for High Mass, and Tom sighed with relief to be able to stretch his stiff limbs and move again. After the suffocating boredom of the morning’s debate, the liturgy with its colour and music seemed like a night out at the inn. Despondency descended on him as they returned to the Chapter House to pursue the debate after Mass. He decided that four days of this would be more than he could endure, and resolved to make himself scarce after the midday meal.

Meanwhile, the talk batted to and fro, concerning the perfection of justice, the perfection of mercy, the essence of perfection, whether or not perfect mercy is a form of justice, the essence of God—all substantiated by long quotations in Latin which Tom couldn’t understand properly, and references to bits of the Athanasian Creed which he couldn’t remember. Eventually he dozed off to sleep.

He cheered up considerably at lunch time. The table was laden with the choicest roast fowls in rich sauces, vegetables beautifully prepared, dishes of fruit and cheese—a feast to make a man’s mouth water. The normal rule of silence was suspended on this occasion, so that the talk might continue on an informal basis. Brother Tom didn’t care what they talked about. There was enough food here for him to eat as much as he wanted for once in his life, and as soon as the long Latin grace was said, he applied himself to it with great relish.

The men who sat down to eat were divided roughly according to status. Prior William presided at the head of his table among the scholarly and eminent men he had invited to conference. Lower down the table were those like Father Chad, men of importance but not of the first rank—abbots’ priors mainly. Brother Tom sat with the small fry at the end of the table; young monks like himself who were their abbots’ esquires. He felt a little uneasy at being separated from his abbot. Once again he had not had chance to attend to his hands, nor opportunity to speak to the lay brothers who served at table here, to ask them to help Father Peregrine with his food. Still, his abbot had common sense enough, and was used to coping with these situations. No doubt he would prefer to avoid having attention drawn to his disability.

Brother Tom investigated the wine that had been poured for him. Like him, the young men among whom he was seated were used to watered ale at table, and his neighbour turned to him with a smile of pure contentment as he set down his elegant, silver goblet. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is like the fire in the heart of a ruby. I think I could find a vocation to this community with very little persuading.’ It was good wine, clear and dark and smooth. A glow of well-being spread through Brother Tom.

‘Faith, yes, I could see off a barrel of this,’ he replied happily. ‘But it would take more than that to tempt me to live my life in the chill of that miserable icicle of a man.’

His neighbour laughed and glanced up the table towards Prior William. ‘Endearing, isn’t he? Never mind, he knows where to purchase his victuals. Have you tried this cheese?’

Though there was a fair number of men there, they were used to eating in silence; not only without talk, but without unnecessary scrape and clatter. Their conversation was a discreet hum of sound, and it was easy enough for Prior William to raise his smooth, soft voice just sufficiently loud to be heard by all the company: ‘Ah… I crave your pardon, Father Columba. It had never occurred to me that the mutilation of your hands would render you so… incapable. What an oversight! You are used perhaps to having your food cut up for you?’

Brother Tom’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth and slowly sank down to his plate again. The morsel of cheese he was holding dropped from his fingers forgotten. He watched Peregrine’s mortification as the attention of the whole table was inevitably turned towards him. He had spilt some of his food, but not much, and had been struggling with his knife to cut a piece of meat. It was unwise to attempt it, but he was hungry and the food was delicious. The knife had turned in his awkward grasp, and there was gravy splashed on his hands and on the fine linen tablecloth. Brother Tom looked anxiously at Prior William as he reclined in his graceful chair, holding Peregrine in the cool taunting of his gaze.

‘Don’t,’ whispered Tom. ‘Oh, please don’t.’ It was unbearable.

‘Perhaps you would prefer to have your food cut up for you?’ purred the spiteful voice. The pale eyes watched him relentlessly. The eyebrows were raised and the lips curved in their mirthless smile. Father Peregrine returned his gaze, his face flushed, his jaw clenched. The men nearest them stirred uncomfortably and tried in vain to keep their conversation going.

Father Peregrine looked down a moment at his food. Then he looked back at Prior William. The pale blue eyes shone with malicious mockery. ‘Father Columba?’ he prompted. Brother Tom held his breath.

‘Yes, please,’ said Peregrine humbly. ‘I would be grateful for that assistance.’

Tom’s breath sighed out of him as the tension was broken. He felt like standing on his chair and cheering. ‘What a man! What a man! To so humble himself to that cruel devil!’ he rejoiced inside. But his rejoicing was numbed when he saw how Peregrine’s hand was shaking as he reached out for his goblet of wine. It had cost him dear.

‘Oh! Alas!’ came the hateful, gentle voice again. ‘Father Columba has spilt his wine now. You do normally feed yourself, Father? I never thought to ask.’

‘I do,’ said Peregrine, almost inaudibly.

‘Ah well, never mind,’ the prior’s voice persisted. ‘The boy will mop up the mess you have made. Boy! See the mess he has made: there… yes and there. And there. Thank you. Replenish his wine.’

The cut food was replaced in front of Father Peregrine, and he murmured his thanks but scarcely touched it after that. His wine he drained like medicine, and he drank heavily throughout the rest of the meal, speaking to no one, his confidence shattered. And all the while, those pale, malevolent eyes returned to look at him complacently. The company rose from their meal in time for the afternoon office of None. Peregrine swayed as he tried to stand, and leaned on the table for support. Brother Tom hastened to his side.

‘Are you not well, Father Columba?’ came the heartless voice. ‘Perhaps you have taken a little too much wine? We shall quite understand if you wish to be excused from the Office.’

‘Oh shut up,’ muttered Brother Tom under his breath, and he took his abbot’s arm and looked round for Father Chad.

Between them, he and Father Chad manoeuvred their abbot and his crutch out of the prior’s house and back across the cloister to the guest house. They were kindly ignored by the other guests, and Brother Tom was relieved to catch a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Prior William departing for chapel.

‘Now for the stairs,’ said Father Chad dubiously, as they came to the guest house door. Peregrine raised his head.

‘Chad, go to chapel,’ he ordered abruptly. ‘I don’t trust that weasel out of my sight and hearing. Go to chapel. I’ll join you later.’

But he leaned on Brother Tom as he spoke, and his speech was very slurred. Tom doubted very much if he would be going anywhere but his bed, although getting him there would be another matter.

Some of his escapades with Brother Francis proved good practice for this occasion for it was not easy manhandling a man, both lame and dead drunk, backwards up the narrow stairway. Peregrine complicated matters by refusing point-blank to relinquish his crutch, which he clung to as the last symbol of his independence.

They made it though, and Tom helped him into his chamber, where he collapsed onto a chair and sat staring moodily at nothing.

‘Let me unfasten your boots, Father. I think maybe a sleep would do you good,’ suggested Brother Tom, and squatted at Peregrine’s feet to untie the thongs that laced his boots.

Resting his hand on his abbot’s knee, he looked up into his face at the bleary, unfocused eyes and uncharacteristic sag, and could not resist a grin. ‘Faith, man, you have drunk well,’ he said. Peregrine looked at him morosely, and nodded in assent.

‘Who’s the fool now?’ he said bitterly.

But Tom’s look of amusement and affection penetrated the fog of alcohol and misery that enveloped him, and he managed a lopsided smile.

Brother Tom coaxed him into his bed, where he slept like the dead until morning.

The next day, in the Chapter meeting, Father Peregrine was determined to make up for the ground he had lost by his absence from the previous afternoon’s debate. Père Guillaume spoke of all the Old Testament history in which God’s justice was the sign of his presence, the manifestation of his love. He spoke with impressive and detailed knowledge, and Prior William sat nodding with satisfaction in his chair as he heard him. But when Peregrine stood to speak, their eyes were all upon him. His absence had not gone unremarked the day before, and the men were curious to know what he would say now; how he would conduct himself, having last left their midst too drunk to walk alone.

‘It is true, what you say, Abbé Guillaume,’ he said. ‘It is true that judgement and authority, the instruments of justice on earth, are authenticated by the command of God. It is true that God shapes the lives of men in the ways of justice, and that the righteous find expression of his Spirit in the paths of justice and of peace. But justice is a path, yes a way; it is not a home. It is a framework, or a setting, but it was made to carry another jewel. Justice, like John the Baptist, is the forerunner, clears the road, for the coming of the Christ himself. And when he comes, he is compassion. He is love. Remember the words of the psalmist “Hodie si vocem ejus audientis, nolite obdurare corda vestra.” Harden not your hearts. Today, if you want to hear the Lord’s voice, harden not your hearts. Oh God forbid that our lives display the sterile correctness of men who have learned what justice is, but never tasted mercy.’

The gathering of men listened spellbound to the urgency of his voice, as he clung like a terrier to a rat to his insistence on God’s merciful love as the one, central, all-supporting fact of life.

The prior watched him without emotion, biding his time. In debate this man was magnificent, but he was not invulnerable, it seemed. There were other ways of discrediting him. Prior William smiled complacently as they went in to eat after the midday Office. He waited his moment with pitiless detachment. There was entertainment to be derived from seeing this accomplished and scholarly aristocrat grow increasingly uneasy as he tried to ignore the sadistic patience of his host, tried not to lose his nerve under that unpleasantly speculative gaze. There was pleasure in the waiting, but not too long. Once grace was said, the men were seated and the meal was underway, the cruel, gentle voice began.

‘Oh, but we mustn’t forget to cut your food up for you, Father Columba. Ah, it is done. Can you manage—or not really? Alas, how thoughtless of me to provide insufficiently for you. Look, Father Columba, you have dropped a piece of meat. It seems a shame to soil your garments so, does it not? Perhaps you should have a towel tied about you, as a child does who is learning to eat, yes? That would answer your requirements, would it not? Fetch a towel, boy, a large one, and tie it about him.’

The conversation at the head of the table had ceased in the embarrassment of this baiting, and the men occupied themselves self-consciously with their food. Father Peregrine withdrew his hands from sight and hid them in his lap, protected from view by the wide sleeves of his habit. Mute and still, he waited for the next gibe as the boy came towards him with the towel, and Prior William leaned forward to speak again, his victory shining softly in his eyes.

‘Mais non, laissez-le tranquil, mon père. Ca suffit,’ murmured Abbé Guillaume unhappily, but the prior did not heed him.

‘Thanks, lad. There now, here is the towel. Shall he not tie it about you, my friend?’

Peregrine looked round at the boy standing there with the cloth in his hands and then at the sophisticated men who sat hushed in unwilling fascination at the sight of him caught in his clumsiness and helplessness. It was more than he could bear.

‘No!’ The harsh pain of his cry splintered the tension of the atmosphere. Tom thought the loneliness of it would have bruised a heart of stone, but it did nothing to disturb Prior William’s placid smile. He scarcely even blinked. Peregrine groped on the floor for the crutch that lay beside him, and pushing back his chair with a violence that sent it crashing to the ground, he stumbled blindly to the door. One of the serving-boys assisted him in his ineffectual struggle with the latch, and he escaped.

Brother Tom sat frozen in his seat, appalled. The prior looked down the length of the table at him, his eyebrows raised, his eyes mocking. ‘He seems a temperamental, unstable man, your lord,’ he remarked in the silence. ‘Does he ever complete a meal both sober and in good humour? Or have I said something to upset him?’

The blood was pounding in Tom’s ears like thunder. He stared, speechless with rage, at this cruel, smiling man. His heart remembered those weeping words from long ago, ‘Oh God, how shall I bear the loss of my hands?’. And he lost his temper.

Slowly, he rose in his place. Father Chad took one look at him and buried his head in his hands. Brother Tom walked with measured deliberation to the head of the table, and stood looking down at the prior, who returned his look with scornful amusement.

Tom took a deep breath, and with an effort kept himself from shouting. ‘It is easy, easy, sir,’ he said, his voice unsteady with restrained rage, ‘to humiliate a man and make him look foolish. Why, all it takes is this…’ Quick as lightning, Tom shot out his arm, seized the prior by his silver hair and smacked his head down into his dinner. He stood shaking with anger, oblivious to the murmurs of some and the stunned silence of others. Prior William lifted his dripping face from the table. His left eyebrow was decorated with a blob of parsley sauce. The boy who held the towel hurried to his side.

‘It’s not so easy to win a debate, nor to humble yourself before another man!’ Tom bellowed at him. ‘That takes intellect and courage. You, my lord, have made it plain that you have neither!’ He stood glaring at him for a moment, then said in contempt, ‘Ah, you sicken me. I would rather be the cockroach that crawls on the floor in the house where my abbot is master than be the greatest of those who serve under you.’

It might even then not have been so bad had not Father Roger from Whitby added a quiet ‘Amen’. That was the last straw.

‘Take him away,’ snapped Prior William, his face a mask of fury behind the remnants of sauce. ‘Let him cool his head in the prisons until his master is in a fit state to give permission for his flogging. I had heard the Benedictine houses were sliding into decadence, but now I see it with my own eyes.’

It was not until after the afternoon’s discussions had been concluded and Vespers said that Father Peregrine caught up with Father Chad.

‘Where’s Brother Thomas?’ he asked, with some trepidation. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘I regret he made a spectacle of himself at the table after you left, Father.’ Father Chad shook his head sadly. ‘He pushed my lord prior’s face down into his dinner. He said it took no more than that to humiliate a man and make him look foolish. He said it took courage to humble oneself before another man, and intellect to win a debate, and that my lord prior had neither. His implication was that you, Father, have both, though he left that unsaid.’

He raised his face to look at his superior, sorry and ashamed, but Peregrine was grinning at him incredulously.

‘He did so? He said that? Well God bless him. That redeems a few insults. Courage to humble oneself and intellect to win in debate. And I was about to run away. What have they done with him then?’

‘He was confined in the prison, Father, until you should be with us again to give permission for his flogging.’

‘Flogging for what? Not I! They’ll not lay a finger on him!’

The confrontation came in the Chapter meeting the following morning, as part of the business before the theological debate. Brother Tom, dishevelled and defiant, was brought to stand before the gathering to face the prior enthroned on his high-backed, intricately-carved chair on its dais. Prior William regarded him with cold dislike (as much charity as a man bears towards the slug on his salad, thought Tom).

‘You deserve to be flogged, you young fool,’ said the suave, smooth voice, ‘for your gross and brutish manners. You give your permission, I am sure, Father Columba, for his beating?’

The velvet voice permitted itself a shade of triumph. He had caught them. Disgraced them. Discredited them. But Father Peregrine replied, ‘I do not.’ He rose to his feet. ‘In my house,’ he said, ‘we do not flog a man for loyalty, nor for love, however inadvisedly expressed. We treasure it. However, neither do we permit discourtesy and violence to go unchecked. Brother Thomas, you must ask his forgiveness.’

Brother Tom looked at his abbot, who returned his look calmly, confident of his authority with his own. Tom knelt before the prior.

‘Father, I humbly confess my fault of grave discourtesy and unseemly violence. I ask God’s forgiveness for my offence, and yours, my lord.’

Prior William looked down at Brother Tom, his pale eyes bulging with rage. He had no idea how they’d done it, but they’d turned the tables on him somehow. For how can you humiliate a man who humbles himself, or disgrace a man who willingly kneels? There stood that insufferable cripple, with the bearing of a king, and there knelt his loutish boy, humbly begging forgiveness, with not even a trace of cynicism or rebellion to his voice that one could fasten on to condemn.

‘You are forgiven. Go in peace,’ the prior spat out, after the custom of his house. The beautiful words almost choked him. ‘Go to hell’ would have been more in line with the look on his face.

Peregrine spoke again. ‘I recommend for your penance, my son, that you be returned to your cell, for it seems I cannot guarantee your self-control when you are provoked to anger. I suggest you fast there on bread and water until we return home.’

‘So be it,’ snapped the prior, and irritably dismissed Brother Tom with his long, white, bejewelled hand.

So Tom finished the week as he had begun it, fasting on bread and water, in narrow escape of a severe beating. There were three prison cells, grim stone hovels, their only light the rays of the morning sun shining through the small barred window set in each of the heavy doors. In the cell adjoining his was one of the local men, a farmer, kept there until his family should pay off an outstanding debt to the priory, for right of way across the canons’ land. He and Tom whiled away some of the hours of their imprisonment in talk. They could converse tolerably well if they raised their voices and stood with their faces up against the barred apertures in the cell doors.

‘He’s a grasping old tyrant, is the prior,’ the farmer ruminated, when he had told Tom the story of his troubles and his debt. ‘Well, that’s plain enough. Look at this conference, up to his tricks again. “Enough” is a word beyond his understanding.’

‘What? I thought this business was all theology, spiritual stuff.’

‘Spiritual? God save us, nothing’s spiritual here but the servants’ wages. No, he wants the fishing rights of the river.’

‘Fishing? What has that to do with his conference?’ Tom was bewildered.

‘Justice and mercy, isn’t it, all this talk? Am I right? Ah, I thought so. Well, young man, justice, in Prior William’s terms, is that all the fishing of the whole stretch of the river that runs through his lands, four miles of it, nigh on, is his. He can turn off any of the villagers who seek a little fishing there, and fine any poachers. Mercy means that a man of the cloth like him should look kindly on the rights the villagers have enjoyed for years, and let them have a little pleasure and a few fish dinners at his expense. Now then: which is a man of God? Just or merciful? Prior William’s notion is to have justice win the day, so he can lean on the Bishop to back him up when he petitions the sheriff to enforce his fishing prohibition. Eh? Are you still there?’

‘I’m here, but… stone the crows! The greedy old…! Is it true what you say? Fishing!’

‘Aye well, you monks eat a lot of fish.’ The farmer chuckled appreciatively at Tom’s indignant snort.

‘Any road, that’s the story. Eh up, here comes my vegetable broth and your dry bread. Mother of God, you must have almost a quarter pound there. Is it a feast day?’

Father Peregrine also finished the conference lightheaded with hunger, surviving the nightmarish meals where, for the glory of God, he humbled himself to be tied in a towel like a child. He also finished triumphant in debate, having established beyond all doubt in the minds of his hearers what they should have known anyway, that it is mercy which is the power of God.

So Prior William, having spent hand over fist on hospitality to prove the opposite point, lost his case (he later had his suit rejected by the Bishop, and lost his fishing rights too). He did not come out to bid Father Peregrine farewell on the morning they left, Tom having been released from imprisonment, eaten heartily and shaved his abbot with loving care.

But as they rode out, Abbé Guillaume hailed them from across the court where his own party were making ready. He came running breathlessly.

‘Adieu, mon frère,’ he said, taking Peregrine’s hand tenderly. ‘It is an honour to have engagé in debate with you once more.’

Peregrine bent down in his saddle and gave the abbé the kiss of brotherhood. He stood, still clinging to Father Peregrine’s hand, his chins quivering with emotion.

‘Qui se humiliaverit, exaltabitur, non? The man who humbles himself is exalted. God will not forget. Moi non plus. Adieu.’ And he kissed the twisted hand. Standing back from them he waved in salute.

‘Adieu, Frère Thomas! Would I were loved by our young brothers as well as your abbé is loved by you! Adieu, Père Chad! Au revoir!’

They rode home with almost the same urgency of their outward journey, thundering across the moorland turf of the last few miles, Peregrine longing for the haven of his own community. When they arrived, they were greeted by the porter opening the gate with the news that there were distinguished guests staying in the guest house, Sir Geoffrey and Lady Agnes d’Ebassier. Father Peregrine shook his head. ‘Father Chad, you and Brother Ambrose must be their hosts tonight. I’m not eating with anyone—I’m too hungry.’

Mother pushed the wood together on the fire. A little flame sprang up out of its dying glow. Sitting on the stone in the firelight, wrapped in a shawl, the folds of her blue skirt falling around her feet and her unruly hair tumbling down her back, she looked as though she didn’t belong in this century any more than Peregrine did.

‘That was a horrible, horrible man,’ I said. ‘Nobody could behave like that.’

‘Don’t you think so?’ She was still not satisfied with her fire, and rearranged it until it was burning well again. ‘That’s better.’

‘Well, I’ve never met anyone like it.’

Mother sat crouched on her stone, her chin in her hand, watching the fire. The flames illuminated her face. Around us, dusk was deepening into night. ‘Cruelty,’ she said, turning her head to look at me, ‘is part of human nature. An acorn is like an oak. The small, acceptable cruelties you and I might get away with are not much different from Prior William’s spite.’

‘How depressing,’ I said gloomily. ‘I don’t want to be like him.’

‘Well, that’s all right. When you have no mercy to give, you can always ask for more. For all our cruelty and heartlessness there is a prayer, “Lord Jesus, have mercy on me, a sinner.” His mercy takes root in us. Grows like a weed if you give him the chance. Where’s your father? Not still putting Cecily to bed?’

‘No, here he comes. Oh good, he’s got a bottle of wine! And Therese has some crisps.’

Mother smiled and stretched out her feet to the fire’s warmth. ‘Songs and stories and wine by a campfire… people who stay in hotels don’t know what they’re missing.’

‘Mother,’ I said, as I reached my hand out for the plastic beaker of wine Daddy offered me, ‘—thank you, Daddy—what was that you said about Brother Tom and a young lady?’

‘I said he got into trouble in his novitiate year, after he’d taken his first vows.’

‘Will you tell me that story?’

‘Some day. Not tonight. Remind me another evening.’

I did remind her, every evening we were at camp, but the little ones stayed up later and later, playing in the stream and singing songs round the fire, so there were no more stories until the holiday was over and we were home again.