“Penelope Wilcock has created a wonderful cast of characters to fill the marvellously accurate fourteenth-century monastery in her medieval series. For the lover of medieval mysteries this is a series not to be missed.”
Mel Starr, author of The Chronicles of Hugh de Singleton
Other titles in the Hawk and the Dove series:
The Hawk and the Dove
The Wounds of God
The Long Fall
The Hardest Thing to Do
The Hour Before Dawn
Remember Me
The Breath of Peace
The Beautiful Thread
A Day and a Life (coming June 2016)
Text copyright © 2016 Penelope Wilcock
This edition copyright © 2016 Lion Hudson
The right of Penelope Wilcock to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Monarch Books
an imprint of
Lion Hudson plc
Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road,
Oxford OX2 8DR, England
www.lionhudson.com/fiction
ISBN 978 1 78264 145 2
e-ISBN 978 1 78264 146 9
First edition 2015
Acknowledgments
Scripture quotations marked KJV taken from The Authorized (King James) Version. Rights in the Authorized Version are vested in the Crown. Reproduced by permission of the Crown’s patentee, Cambridge University Press.
Cover image © Brian Gallagher
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This one is
For Rosie, who has a glint of mischief in her eye, even when she is
being kind and forbearing.
For Grace, whose undeterred patience, tolerance and compassion is
a wonder to us all.
For Hebe, whose soul walks in bare feet, the Earth’s friend, wisdom
and quietness her native territory.
For Alice, honest, loyal, true; who has the absolute humility of the
real artist.
For Fi, who tells me that “No” is not a bad thing to say, and who
feels her way to the heart of things.
For Tony, who always looks for the best, and covers my shortcomings
with gentleness, goes on believing in me when my hope runs out.
And for Harvey Richardson, who was kind to me.
By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.
Jesus of Nazareth: John 13:35, KJV
This is my simple religion. There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple; the philosophy is kindness.
The Dalai Lama
Attachment to being right creates suffering. When you have a choice to be right, or to be kind, choose kind and watch your suffering disappear.
Dr Wayne Dyer
There are three ways to ultimate success:
The first way is to be kind.
The second way is to be kind.
The third way is to be kind.
Fred Rogers
Life goes by fast. Enjoy it. Calm down. It’s all funny.
Joan Rivers
In your hearts enthrone him; there let him subdue
all that is not holy, all that is not true.
Look to him, your Saviour, in temptation’s hour;
let his will enfold you in its light and power.
Caroline M. Noel
And be ye kind one to another…
Ephesians 4:32, KJV
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Community of St Alcuin’s Abbey
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Glossary and Explanatory Notes
Monastic Day
Liturgical Calendar
The Community of St Alcuin’s Abbey
(Not all members are mentioned in The Beautiful Thread)
Fully professed monks
Abbot John Hazell once the abbey’s infirmarian
Father Francis prior
Brother Cormac ellarer
Father Theodore novice master
Father Gilbert precentor
Father Clement overseer of the scriptorium
Father Dominic guest master
Brother Thomas abbot’s esquire, also involved with the farm and building repairs
Father Bernard sacristan
Father Gerard almoner
Brother Martin porter
Brother Thaddeus potter
Brother Michael infirmarian
Brother Damian teaches in the school
Brother Conradus kitchener
Brother Richard fraterer
Brother Stephen oversees the abbey farm
Brother Peter ostler
Brother Josephus teaches in the abbey school
Father James makes and mends robes, occasionally works in the scriptorium
Brother Germanus works on the farm, in the wood yard and gardens
Brother Walafrid herbalist, oversees the brew house
Brother Giles assists Brother Walafrid and works in laundry
Brother Mark too old for taxing occupation, but keeps the bees
Brother Paulinus works in the kitchen garden and orchards
Brother Prudentius now old, helps on the farm and in the kitchen garden and orchards
Brother Fidelis now old, oversees the flower gardens
Brother Basil old, assists the sacristan – ringing the bell for the office hours, etc.
Fully professed monks now confined to the infirmary through frailty of old age
Father Gerald once sacristan
Brother Denis once a scribe
Father Paul once precentor
Brother Edward onetime infirmarian, now living in the infirmary but active enough to help there and occasionally attend Chapter and the daytime hours of worship
Novices
Brother Benedict main assistant in the infirmary
Brother Boniface helps in the scriptorium
Brother Cassian works in the school
Brother Cedd helps in the scriptorium and when required in the robing room
Brother Felix helps Father Gilbert
Brother Placidus helps on the farm
Brother Robert assists in the pottery
Members of the community mentioned in earlier stories and now deceased
Abbot Gregory of the Resurrection
Abbot Columba du Fayel (also known as Father Peregrine)
Father Matthew novice master
Brother Andrew kitchener
Brother Cyprian porter
Father Aelred schoolmaster
Father Lucanus novice master before Father Matthew
Father Anselm once robe-maker
Chapter
One
William stared uncomprehending at the ceiling. Bewildered, he half raised himself on his elbows and turned his head towards the window where the early sun flooded through in such glory this May morning that it had awoken him. He sat up completely, in consternation now, his heart racin
g. This was not his cell. Moments ago he had been immersed in an exceedingly pleasant dream enjoying an interlude of sublimely conjugal sweetness with Madeleine, and now… This was not his cottage, either. For one fleeting instant he wondered if he was going mad, if he had dreamed his entire marriage; then he remembered where he was. Relief flooded over him. St Alcuin’s guesthouse. He had come to help Cormac with the complications that had arisen from the bishop’s visit coinciding with this infernal wedding.
Allowing himself to sink back, trembling, onto his uncompromising monastic pillow, he wondered bitterly why he seemed to have been doomed to spend his entire life in a perpetual panic.
He let no more than a few moments pass. Self-pity feeds on itself and is futile. He kicked the blanket off and swung his legs over the edge of the low bedframe.
Unsure of the time, he padded downstairs to the garderobe and lavatorium. Nobody about. They must be in chapel, then. Often the guestmaster would stay at his post, but William guessed Brother Dominic must be taking advantage of the days remaining before visitors began to trickle in for the wedding. And the bishop. Best not forget him. But for the moment, Dominic probably judged William knew his way round well enough, and had gone to chapel. Putting his head round the refectory door, he saw a pewter plate set out on the table, a basket of bread rolls, a covered dish presumably containing butter, a flagon of ale, a beaker, a napkin. They’d not forgotten him, then.
As he loped up the stairs again to dress properly, he heard the Mass bell begin tolling, which let him know the time of day. He wondered what to do about that. Abbot John had in private given him Eucharist, but in the community setting he was as good as excommunicated, having broken his vows and walked out on them to marry Madeleine. Such things were not – ever – outlived. Best leave them to it and stick with Vespers and Compline. Or maybe go to the parish Mass later on, let folk assume he’d made his communion elsewhere earlier. Or…
Then, impatient at the uneasiness of it all, he shrugged the deliberations away and came out into the daylight. Now would be as good a time as any to prowl quietly round the kitchens, the stores, the stables, the scriptorium – take a look at the level of provision, judge if things looked healthy and well in hand. He wanted to see the infirmary (but that would not be unattended) and the sacristy (but that meant passing through the church within possible sight of the choir). Obviously he wanted to cast an eye over the books in the checker, but that would be locked. At least, he assumed Brother Cormac locked up when he left it empty. There was too much money and information in there not to turn a key against prying eyes and pilfering fingers. Brother Cormac… Abbot John had appointed him to the obedience of cellarer at William’s recommendation. Was it turning out well? He dearly hoped so.
An hour later, having entered and inspected every storehouse and place of work he thought might be available and empty, satisfied that all seemed in good order, William made his way to the abbot’s house. Though his quiet, thorough searches had taken him into the cloister, he walked round to the door in the front range. Here in the abbey court guests would congregate. Across the greensward here they approached the church through its great west door. This door to the abbot’s house was a public entrance, for visitors. The cloister door was for the community; and William no longer had a right to that entrance.
Knocking and, as expected, finding no answer – they would be in Chapter now – William tried the latch and found the door unbolted. This was a trusting place. And maybe kindness earned the freedom to trust. The village loved its abbey, and all who knew them held these brothers in high esteem. They were good men. It was like John to leave his door open for anyone who wanted to come in.
William stood quite still in the abbot’s atelier, breathing the familiar scents of woodsmoke, beeswax, stone, herbs. He felt the movement of love in the private depths of his heart, for this man and this place; this community.
He sat down quietly on one of the two chairs close to the swept hearth. Sunlight diffused softly through the small windows. He watched motes of dust drift, catching the brightness of its rays. He allowed memories of this room in the abbot’s house to emerge and float up inside him, some of healing, some of harsh agony. All of them of formation and transformation, the making of his soul. Without moving he let the ghosts of the past parade. He had no regret for his place here, but the bonds of affection… no; deeper than that – belonging, love… their roots grew into the living tissue of his being… or into the stonework of this house of prayer… depending how you looked at it…
The sharp click of the latch to the cloister door curtailed his musing. He looked up, and rose to his feet as Brother Tom the abbot’s esquire came into the room.
“I hope I’m not presumptuous, barging in like this –” he began, but got no further, finding himself wrapped in Tom’s hearty embrace of welcome: “Eh, but it’s grand to have thee back!”
And then Abbot John was with them: “God love you, it’s so good to see you, William! So kind of you to come. Man, but it brings my heart joy to see the glare of those baleful eyes once again! Did you sleep well? Have you breakfasted? No? But they put something out for you? We haven’t left you to starve? When did you get in – last night? I looked for you at Compline. Brother Thomas – if it’s not too much trouble, would you fetch over some bread and cheese and ale for William to break his fast here – I’m getting somewhat of a sense of urgency about the tasks before us and we have much to discuss. Thank you, Brother, thank you. Now then – let’s bring your chair to my table here. That’s right. So. You’ll be pleased with me – I’ve a sheaf of lists and plans to keep us enthralled through the morning. What d’you want to talk about first? Cormac’s progress? The wedding? The bishop? Or have you news of your own? All is well with you and Madeleine?”
William sat down in his chair, the baleful eyes regarding his brother-in-law with a glow of pure happiness. It felt good to be back.
“I’ve given the place a quick once-over while you were in chapel,” he said. “Bishops and their Visitations are a familiar hell. So tell me about the wedding.”
“Very well, then. Let me relate but a little and you will quickly grasp – this is set fair to be the wedding of the century. Not like yours – a man, his wife and a witness. Oh no. We are expecting upwards of a hundred and fifty guests, despite my striving to keep the numbers down. A party of minstrels has been ordered – with jugglers, so I’m promised. We have a harpist coming, and talk of flutes, lutes, drums and horns. I’ve said an absolute no to wrestling but yes to skittles. And no to apple-bobbing because what apples we have left we shall need to raid impressively to feed them all.
“The banns are read, no objections. Unless you count the profound opposition of the bridegroom’s mother.”
“Who is – ?”
“Nobody in particular – it’s not so much who she is as what she thinks she is – and the lip-curling lack of esteem with which she regards poor Hannah. Not that she need think we’d be putting ourselves out for them to this extent if Hannah were not Brother Damian’s sister.
“Damian’s father is a freeman, has about fourteen acres of his own land – put to barley, oats, peas, a few sheep and his house cows. The usual chickens and a pig of course; and then you’ve maybe seen Hannah out and about with her goats on the moor. She takes them to browse. Her family are good people. Cheerful, intelligent, kind. Hannah’s mother Margery’s a sensible woman, and her father works hard. There’s another lad – Peter – and the father’s Walter. Walter Mitchell. Honest, capable, pretty much what you’d expect if you know Brother Damian.
“But the lad Hannah’s set her heart on – Gervase Bonvallet – is born of a tribe with rather more airs and graces. Florence is his mother, comes with a very keen sense of her place in the world. Father is Cecil, and Gervase has two brothers, Hubert and Percival. The Bonvallets are farmers, same as the Mitchells, but the difference is that Cecil has a knighthood, two hundred acres, and plenty in store.
“The way Florence se
es it, Hannah would do very well as a serving wench, but she’s no choice at all for a Bonvallet bride. A comely enough lass in a common way, but decidedly too rustic for Florence’s tastes. We’ve been all through it. Florence has argued and protested, stormed and pleaded, said this marriage has ruined her life’s work and will take her down to an early grave. She has no quarrel with Hannah as… er… a playmate for young Gervase; Hannah’s clean of lice and diseases, she’s a fresh and pleasant, sweet-natured girl. It’s just that Florence can’t envisage her as a Bonvallet. She imagined an altogether more delicate and gently born helpmeet when it comes to the family name.”
William listened to this with interest and amusement. “I see,” he said. “And what about the menfolk? Sir Cecil? Walter? They like each other? Or do they oppose the match?”
John shrugged. “Up here in the hills – well, who is there? Sir Cecil has his head screwed on. Walter’s a good farmer, and an honest man. Hannah may not be an aspirational catch, but her family will bring no shame or trouble. They aren’t brawlers or drinkers. They do well with what they have. In this decade of wet summers when food has been so scarce, Walter’s had meat salted away, grain in store, dried fruits aplenty. He’s got through where others have starved – and helped his neighbours too. He’s a shrewd man. And Sir Cecil’s no fool; he respects ability.
“The lads of both families all grew up together of course, they’re good friends. Margery is proud as punch, thinks Hannah has an excellent catch in Gervase – as so she does. It’s only Florence; but when I say ‘only’… Well, Florence… still, you’ll meet her maybe.”
“And the wedding is in a fortnight’s time, you tell me?”
“It is.”
“All provisions in? Well prepared? Ready for the onslaught?”
John hesitated, evidently unsure.
“Well… we are; yes, we are. Thanks to the legacy from Mother Cottingham, we’ve been comfortably off this last year. We took heed of all you told us we lacked, and have set about stocking up with everything needed to bump up our earnings. Even in times when others are struggling under money troubles and failed harvests, we seem to be getting through without feeling the pinch too badly.”