My master seemed far too amiable, and it struck me that he was biding his time before tackling unpleasant matters.
‘Tanners invoke St Bartholomew, as we know. St John, plunged into a cauldron of burning oil, is the patron of candle-makers. Our St Sebastian is well known to be mighty in times of pestilence. St Apollinia heals toothaches, St Blaise cures sore throats, St Corneille protects the farmer’s oxen, St Gall his chickens, St Anthony his pigs!’
My master smiled. ‘Yes, though I have to wonder, dear brother, if these sainted men had intended their torment to be the vehicle by which a chicken lays a greater number of eggs, or indeed, the obesity of a pig is profitably increased.’
I knew my master frowned upon the ritual worship of saints which, in most instances, only replaced the worship of pagan gods, and tended to exceed veneration for the Lord himself.
The master of music seemed to miss Andre’s point, however, and looked around him, absently motioning his pupil to his side. The boy stepped down, and made his way to his teacher. He was no older than me, though shorter, with thick black hair encroaching upon his tonsure. He did not smile, but fixed me with an unusually intense stare; perhaps curiosity, perhaps dislike.
‘This is Anselmo de Aosta, our monastery’s voice.’
The boy bowed humbly, crossing himself devoutly with his left hand.
‘He is also not without talents as a translator. It is a fact that I may lose him to the library. Obedience . . .’
‘Anselmo,’ my master bowed his head with respect, ‘you are named after one of the finest doctors of the church, may you honour him. So you are not only a fine singer, but also a translator?’
‘I am also composing a new mass in honour of our Lady,’ he said in his lilting voice.
‘Exceptional!’ Andre exclaimed, obviously impressed and I, God forgive me, felt a twinge of jealousy.
‘I saw some of your works this morning. Your translation of Aristotle is enlightening! Where did you learn Greek?’ my master asked, cunningly.
‘My mother is Greek, and I have studied the classic pagans since I was old enough to read.’
‘I see.’
‘We have been fortunate to have had two young geniuses,’ Brother Sacar added.
‘Two! That is fortunate indeed, in such a small abbey. Who is the other?’
‘The other . . . is unwell I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, the novice! Yes of course.’
The monk gave him a blank look, ‘Novice?’
‘The young boy who was not at the dinner last evening.’
‘Oh . . . yes, yes,’ he hesitated a moment.
‘Is he also a fine singer?’
‘Well . . .’ the brother trailed off, ‘he was a very special child, weak, but gifted.’
‘You say, was . . .?’ my master asked. ‘Has he died?’
‘Oh, no!’ Brother Sacar explained, in an anxious way, ‘I mean, he was special as a child. He is now a young man, not much older than your scribe, though his qualities remain exceptional, even as a young man. That is what I meant.’
‘Yes, I see,’ my master said, then hastened to add, ‘perhaps I might have a look at him in a medical capacity?’
‘Oh, that is indeed a most generous offer,’ he appeared ruffled, ‘one that is sure to be welcomed by Brother Asa of Roussillon.’
‘The infirmarian?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Of course, Asa. Well then, I shall seek him out,’ my master concluded, rubbing his hands together. ‘Where may we find him at this time of the day?’
‘In the infirmary or the herbarium. Sometimes he goes out in search of plants in the forests around the abbey. Other times you may see him tending his garden. Here in this abbey we are never idle, preceptor.’
‘Thank you, brother. I have enjoyed our conversation, and may I end it by saying once again that I believe your music to be truly remarkable.’ In a grave tone, ‘May God see fit to end this inquiry quickly and expediently in your favour.’
The monk nodded, ‘Thank you, preceptor. No one knows the ways of God, but God himself. However, I must tell you that your words soothe my uneasy spirit.’ He moved in the direction of the south ambulatory but something stopped him because he turned around as though he had forgotten something. ‘Preceptor,’ he said, ‘the death of our dear Brother Ezekiel has shaken our community, but there have been other things . . . no doubt the abbot has told you.’ At this point he sent the boy away, watching him leave before continuing more desperately than before. ‘Perhaps I am committing a sin against the rule, but I am afraid. I am afraid for the future of our community.’