Bloodstone(47)

Athelstan bowed as Eleanor Remiet and Isabella Velours approached. Both women wore thick woollen cloaks, ermine-lined hoods and elegant gloves which stretched past the wrist.

‘Ladies,’ Athelstan pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown, ‘I have tempted the cold enough. I need some warmth.’

They walked back into the cloisters and crossed the yard into the buttery where fresh bread was being sliced for the waiting platters from the refectory. Isabella, gossiping about this and that, thankfully fell silent as she crammed her mouth with bread smeared with honey. Athelstan chose his slice holding the cold, grey gaze of Eleanor Remiet, who’d hardly spoken a word.

‘You’ve been here since when?’ Athelstan broke the uncomfortable silence.

‘Since Advent began. We will return to my house in Havering once Epiphany has come and gone, though Abbot Walter says Christmas is not over until the Baptism of the Lord and the commencement of the Hilary Term.’

Athelstan questioned her about her life at Havering. Eleanor’s replies were quick and curt. She told him how Isabella was the daughter of the abbot’s only beloved sibling, namely herself. Isabella’s father had died so she, Eleanor, had become her official guardian. Athelstan sensed the woman’s deep dislike of him from her clipped tone, the way her eyes kept looking him up and down.

‘You’re not overfond of priests or friars, are you, Mistress?’

‘Brother Athelstan, once you’ve met one you have met them all.’

‘Except for Uncle Walter,’ Isabella broke in and trilled volubly about the gifts she expected at Christmas.

Athelstan listened and wondered how a young woman could be so spoilt and empty-headed. A pampered life, Athelstan reflected, but Eleanor Remiet is different. The woman’s face was harsh and severe, yet Athelstan could detect, beneath the layers of age and hardship how, in her youth, Eleanor must have been a most remarkable beauty.

‘You’ll stay here long, Brother?’

‘I hope not.’

‘You should go.’

‘Is that a warning?’

‘Yes, Brother.’ She divided a piece of bread with her long, delicate fingers. ‘It is a warning. This is a field of blood. We are in the world of men.’ She paused. Isabella rose and went across to help herself to ale from a barrel on a trestle near the door.

‘Isabella hardly hears what others say let alone understands,’ she remarked. ‘You be careful, Brother. The old soldiers who are being slaughtered here? Kilverby, whose fingers were in every juicy pie? They’ve all gone. The Passio Christi has disappeared.’ She popped a piece of honeyed bread into her mouth. ‘The root grows silently but eventually it erupts through the soil and harvest time always comes.’ She rose, brushing the crumbs from her cloak. ‘So yes, Brother, I think you should go before the evil flourishing here entangles you.’ She nodded brusquely and walked over to Isabella, now gossiping loudly with the lay brother who supervised the refectory.

Athelstan stood reflecting on what she’d said, finished his bread and left. He decided to stay in the precincts. The day was greying and the bells would soon toll for the next hour of divine office. He went across to the library and scriptorium; he stood just within the doorway revelling in the sights and smells. For Athelstan this was heaven. Shelves, lecterns and racks all crammed with books of every size bound in calfskin or leather. Capped candles, judicially placed, glittered in the polished oaken woodwork and silver chains kept precious volumes secured to their shelf or ledge. The windows on either side were sealed with thick painted glass, now clouded by the poor light though some colours still glowed, springing to life in the reflection from the candle flame. Down the centre of the scrubbed, pave-stoned floor ranged long tables interspersed by the occasional high stool and sloping desk where monks worked at copying or illuminating manuscripts drawn from a cluster of pigeon-hole boxes attached to the walls. Covered braziers, perforated with holes, exuded warmth and a sweet fragrance from the herb pouches disintegrating between the glowing coals. Other sweet odours, ravishing in the memories they provoked, mixed and swirled: ink, paper, paints, sandalwood, vellum freshly honed, wax soft and melting. A hive of learning, the scribes busy with pens or delicate brushes. Athelstan recalled his own days as a novice in the rare world of books, of cleaning a piece of vellum until it glowed white and innocent as a newly baptized soul.

‘Brother Athelstan?’ Richer was standing before him, his delicate, handsome face all concerned.

Athelstan blinked, shook his head and apologized. Richer demanded that he join him. He took Athelstan down past the tables, pointing out the different books and manuscripts: theological tracts by Aquinas, Anselm and Albert the Great; the writings of the early Fathers, Origen, Tertullian, Boethius and Eusebius. The abbey’s collection of Books of Hours bequeathed by the rich and powerful. The works of the Ancients: Aristotle, Plato, Cicero and Lactantius. By the time they’d reached the end of the library, Athelstan had recovered his wits. The distractions of that beautiful, well-endowed scholars’ paradise faded as he followed Richer into the scriptorium. The room was richly furnished with lecterns, shelves and pigeon boxes. Two glowing triptychs adorned either wall depicting St Jerome studying the Bible in his cave at Bethlehem. The far wall was dominated by a huge crucifix with a twisted figure of the crucified Christ beneath the shuttered window. Athelstan, however, was more concerned with the great desk littered with manuscripts and books. Richer had apparently pulled across large sheets of blank vellum together with a napkin from a nearby lavarium to hide what he’d been working on. Athelstan moved towards the table. Richer stepped quickly into his path.