Chapter
Twenty-Eight

The day the abbot informed Colin that the community had accepted him as a postulant, he thought his heart would hardly contain the excitement and pride. Up until that point, his accommodation was in the guesthouse, his meetings with Father Theodore were in the small parlour in the west range, and the only other part of the cloister he’d been into was the abbot’s house. He’d been in the church, of course, but only the nave. He hadn’t gone beyond the parish side of the altar.

Tonight, as darkness falls, he thinks back on that day, reliving it vividly. Abbot John had explained everything to him, how the next morning he would come before the community at Chapter to beg admittance. There he must prostrate himself, asking to be received. The abbot had assured him it was not that there was any doubt about him – they’d already been asked and said yes – but this was the procedure to follow. He floated through that day, and yet it seemed like a lifetime. Through the night he hardly slept a wink. In the morning, so excited he felt sick, he had waited nervously in the guesthouse until the bell rang for the morrow Mass. There in the church, Father Theodore had come to find him after the blessing at the end, and led him through to the chapter house, and there the adventure had begun.

Once admitted, the novices took charge of him, taking him with them at the point they left the Chapter meeting, showing him the novitiate room where they had their teaching circle. Looking back tonight, he lingers on that memory. He remembers it so clearly, walking in through the door for the first time; the comfortable, pervasive smell of woodsmoke, the study desks and shelves stacked with books, the circle of low benches and stools, the statue of St Benedict over in the corner, the crucifix up on the wall, the morning sun shining in to fill the room with light.

Not that they’d let him stand gazing long. They wanted to show him his cell. It was next to Brother Cedd’s. It didn’t need much of a tour. Rectangular, small, plain, it had a lancet window set too high in the wall to see out. There was a low, narrow bed of basic plank frame, with linen sheets and a wool blanket – and, he would later discover, a straw mattress like those favoured by the poor. On the whitewashed wall, above the prie-dieu against the wall opposite the bed, a crucifix hung on a nail. A basic nightstand stood beside the bed, and Brother Cassian lifted aside its small linen curtain to show him the pot inside for night-time use. Cassian also pulled the scourge out from beneath the bed for him to see, then pushed it back with his foot saying, with a grin, “But not yet. Make up your mind about the life before you start belabouring yourself. Don’t go wild.”

Other than that, a wooden chest of modest size was provided for storing his clothes, a hook on the door for his cloak and, against the wall below the window, a stool and table of practical size so he could study. The floor was of bare, scrubbed boards.

To some men, so small, austere a room seemed dauntingly penitential. To Colin, who had never had his own room and had to share a bed with his brother, it felt like giddy luxury. He wondered if he might be lonely there all night by himself; and thought, on balance, no.

And that is how it began. He has been very tired, sometimes, in these first few weeks – so much to learn and remember, so much to get wrong. But the friendly hands of the novices steer him to where he should be. Brother Cedd, especially, he has appreciated. A quiet, unassuming lad, sleeping in the next cell, they have emerged together often. In silence of course, but it has surprised Colin to discover the extent to which warmth and kindness can be expressed without words, and how close it is possible to feel to someone without needing lengthy conversation.

Tonight, he leaves the church, briefly visits the reredorter, then ascends the stairs to the cells. From his own cell he fetches his candle and lights it from one of those burning in the hallway just nearby. Brother Robert made this sturdy holder for it, here in the abbey’s pottery – he knows; Robert pointed it out and told him so, with some pride. It’s a bit wonky, but not a bad effort for a novice potter.

Once he’s been clothed, he will sleep in his habit, setting aside his scapular, belt, and cowl. He gets into the feel of it now, in these weeks of preparation, wearing his undershirt and tunic, taking off his hose and shoes and belt. He kneels down to pray at the prie-dieu, then climbs into bed. He can extinguish the candle, because he won’t have to get up for Nocturns until he’s clothed as a novice. After that, he’ll have to leave it burning so he can see what he’s doing when the sacristan wakes them for Matins. That’s why the candleholders are so solid and stout; to guard against any possibility of falling over. And he’s been told he must always and only put it on the wall shelf made for it set into the corner angle, not too low. It’s to minimize the likelihood of anything falling onto the flame – a letter, a shirt sleeve – anything that could burn. Too many monasteries have gone up in flames.

Here in the south range, the light of the rising moon shines in on this clear night. The windows have glass – which feels very modern and aristocratic; those of the home he left behind had horn panes upstairs and just shutters below. The glass is uneven; it’s not possible to really see the stars. But the lower half of the window will open – and then you can. So he latches it open, because he loves the starlight.

After that, he climbs into bed and lies there thinking. His mind explores the idea of the scourge beneath his bed. Really? Will he ever do that? Should he? Might he even want to so subdue his flesh? Under what circumstances? If he’d been in Brother Damian’s cell tonight he’d have got the picture.

Faintly, from somewhere nearby, he hears someone beginning to snore. Then he hears quiet feet pass his door, and the latch of the adjacent cell. Brother Cedd. What happened? Why did he go? Colin wonders if he’ll ever find out. Brother Cedd is self-contained, reserved, certainly not chatty. He has never shown any inclination to bare his heart to Colin. Would it be permissible to ask him? Probably not.

It feels right, though, to have him back. Home, perhaps, is the place your feet take you – where you can’t help but return; the place you are most yourself, in the loneliness of living. The place you belong.

An audacious idea comes to him. Greatly daring – he is not allowed to do this – he slips out of bed, creeps to the door, opens it as silently as he can, looks along the corridor both ways to be sure it is deserted, then taps lightly, just with his fingernails, not his knuckles, on the door of Brother Cedd’s cell. Again. The small sound of movement inside ceases. His heart hammering in his throat – he knows this is entirely forbidden – his resolve evaporating, he taps once more. This time, the latch is quietly lifted within, and the door opens a fraction to reveal the warm glow of candlelight and Brother Cedd’s surprised face checking if that really is someone knocking at his cell. Seeing Colin standing there, he opens the door a little more, his expression enquiring – Yes? – though he does not speak.

“Are you all right?” whispers Colin, and Brother Cedd’s face relaxes into a smile. He nods, gives Colin a thumbs-up sign. “Thank you,” he mouths silently.

As Colin returns to his own cell, outside the night wind is rising, blowing from the moor, and there’s a distant rumble of thunder. Climbing back into bed, he curls onto his side, tugging the blanket up to keep the draft off his neck. He pictures Cedd’s face, happy, no tell-tale signs of tears, his smile communicating appreciation of Colin’s friendly gesture. That’s all right, then. Gradually, peacefully, he drifts off to sleep.

Shutting the door on the day as he comes in from the cloister to his house, the abbot takes the lantern, its light still burning, down from its safe hook jutting from the wall. Holding it so he can see, he considers the things half done awaiting his attention on the big table. Letters. Lists. Books for preparing the school catechetics class. But hey, who cares? It’ll wait – all of it. The hours of the Silence, in truth, are meant for prayer and dreaming, not for work. This is God’s time. And besides, he feels too happy. He wants to lie on his bed in the quiet dark and savour the joy of Cedd returning.

So he leaves the work lie until the morning, and carries the light through into his chamber. He sets it on the chest while he takes off his sandals, and his belt with his pocket, his rosary, his knife. He takes off his scapular and his cowl. Simple human in an ordinary black wool tunic, he kneels down to pray. And tonight his prayers are mainly, “Thank you… thank you… thank you…” Because a time comes to set formulae aside and reach out your hands to the God who is really there.

Then he reaches for the candle, blows it out, pinches the wick. He knows he shouldn’t do this, knows he should use a snuffer. But there’s a way – if you don’t purse your lips and stream the air, if you just open your mouth and extinguish it with a small puff like the one God breathed into the clay he shaped to make Adam a living being – it’s perfectly possible to do it without spraying the wax. He’s always careful.

It’s not easy, being abbot; sometimes it asks all he’s got and a bit more that he has to have on account from Father God. But as he lays himself down on the straw mattress, moulded by this time surprisingly comfortably to his body’s shape, contentment possesses him body and soul. He’s tired, but it’s been a good day.

As Brother Tom closes the door to his cell, its familiar paradox makes itself felt. Its small dimensions make it feel safe and intimate; here he lets down his guard entirely, touches the presence of his Master. Yet the austerity of its simplicity lends a quality oddly spacious. As he knows from long experience, infinity can fit into this humble, whitewashed room.

He prefers to kneel on the floor by his bed, not at the prie-dieu. He stretches his arms across the blanket, his palms upraised. He does not speak aloud, but his soul calls out to God. Look upon me… forgive me my sins… keep me close to thee… keep me in thy way… humble me… purify me… may I be always and always thy man, thy son, thy servant… watch over me this night… into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit… thou hast redeemed me, Lord, I belong to thee…

He’s meant to keep the light burning, but he doesn’t; he likes the restful dark. The bed creaks as he gets into it. He’s putting on weight. Brother Conradus’s doing, is that. Nobody got fat when Cormac was cook.

He lies in the coolness of night, his window ajar. Across the valley he hears the high, unmistakable yapping of a vixen, and he smiles, thinking of William setting down a bowl of bread and milk and abstracted scraps for his hungry fox. By heaven, how that man has changed. Thank God his brushes with death came to nothing. It just shows, you never know what’s round the corner – there’s always hope. Nobody is beyond redemption.

He wonders how things went between Abbot John and Brother Cedd. That’s the great thing about John – you can trust him with people. He gets the best out of men. You couldn’t call him a soft touch, but he hasn’t a mean bone in his body. Kind, is John. He makes a good shepherd. Ooh – better tell him Nightmare’s in the stable, and William will be up to fetch her back in the morning.

Tom draws in his breath in a yawn, and enjoys the feeling of stretching out, relaxing comfortably after a long day, a long ride. Cedd. He thinks about Brother Cedd. Help him find his niche… peace be to his soul… may he – But he’s asleep before his mind completes its sentence.

Ten miles away, at Caldbeck, their guests gone, the board cleared, the chores done, ashes swept over the embers and the beasts all abed, William and Madeleine stand there, just the two of them in the almost darkness, his arms around her.

She whispers, “Will you make love to me?”

“Oh…” He rubs the side of his face tenderly, slowly, against the top of her head. “With all my heart,” he says.

Now the abbey is wrapped in peace, withdrawn into Great Silence.

Good night. Go well. God be with you. Joy is there in the journeying. Keep the faith.