He had said what he had to say. He resumed his seat and folded his hands patiently, while their bewildered, dismayed murmurings gradually congealed and mounted into a boiling, bees-hive hum of consternation. Though not everyone was horrified, as Cadfael plainly saw. Prior Robert, just as startled as the rest, and adept at maintaining a decorous front, none the less glowed brightly behind his ivory face, drawing the obvious conclusion, and Brother Jerome, quick to interpret any message from that quarter, hugged himself with glee inside the sleeves of his habit, while his face exhibited pious sympathy and pain. Not that they had anything against Heribert, except that he continued to hold an office on which impatient subordinates were casting covetous eyes. A nice old man, of course, but out of date, and far too lax. Like a king who lives too long, and positively invites assassination. But the rest of them fluttered and panicked like hens invaded by the fox, clamouring variously:
“But, Father Abbot, surely the king will restore you!”
“Oh, Father, must you go to this council?”
“We shall be left like sheep without a shepherd!”
Prior Robert, who considered himself ideally equipped to deal with the flock of St. Peter himself, if need be, gave that complaint a brief, basilisk glare, but refrained from protest, indeed murmured his own commiseration and dismay.
“My duty and my vows are to the Church,” said Abbot Heribert sadly, “and I am bound to obey the summons, as a loyal son. If it pleases the Church to confirm me in office, I shall return to take up my customary ward here. If another is appointed in my place, I shall still return among you, if I am permitted, and live out my life as a faithful brother of this house, under our new superior.”
Cadfael thought he caught a brief, complacent flicker of a smile that passed over Robert’s face at that. It would not greatly disconcert him to have his old superior a humble brother under his rule at last.
“But clearly,” went on Abbot Heribert with humility, “I can no longer claim rights as abbot until the matter is settled, and these agreements must rest in abeyance until my return, or until another considers and pronounces on them. Is any one of them urgent?”
Brother Matthew shuffled his parchments and pondered, still shaken by the suddenness of the news. “There is no reason to hurry in the matter of the Aylwin grant, he is an old friend to our order, his offer will certainly remain open as long as need be. And the Hales fee-farm will date only from Lady Day of next year, so there’s time enough. But Master Bonel relies on the charter being sealed very soon. He is waiting to move his belongings into the house.”
“Remind me of the terms, if you will,” the abbot requested apologetically. “My mind has been full of other matters, I have forgotten just what was agreed.”
“Why, he grants to us his manor of Mallilie absolutely, with his several tenants, in return for a messuage here at the abbey—the first house on the town side of the mill-pond is vacant, and the most suitable to his household—together with keep for life for himself and his wife, and for two servants also. The details are as usual in such cases. They shall have daily two monks’ loaves and one servants’ loaf, two gallons of conventual ale and one of servants’ ale, a dish of meat such as the abbey sergeants have, on meat-days, and of fish on fish-days, from the abbot’s kitchen, and an intermissum whenever extra dainties are provided. These to be fetched by their manservant. They shall also have a dish of meat or fish daily for their two domestics. Master Bonel is also to have annually a robe such as the senior of the abbey officers receive, and his wife—she so prefers—shall have ten shillings yearly to provide a robe for herself as she chooses. There is also a provision of ten shillings yearly for linen, shoes and firing, and livery for one horse. And at the death of either, the other to retain possession of the house and receive a moiety of all the aforesaid provisions, except that if the wife be the survivor, she need not be provided with stabling for a horse. These are the terms, and I had intended to have witnesses come hither after chapter for the ratification. The justice has a clerk waiting.”
“I fear none the less,” said the abbot heavily, “that this also must wait. My rights are in abeyance.”
“It will greatly inconvenience Master Bonel,” said the cellarer anxiously. “They have already prepared to remove here, and expected to do so in the next few days. The Christmas feast is coming, and they cannot well be left in discomfort.”
“Surely,” suggested Prior Robert, “the move could be countenanced, even if the ratification must wait a while. It’s highly unlikely that any abbot appointed would wish to upset this agreement.” Since it was perfectly clear that he himself was in line for the appointment, and knew himself to be in better odour with King Stephen than his superior, he spoke with easy authority. Heribert jumped at the suggestion.
“I think such a move is permissible. Yes, Brother Matthew, you may proceed, pending final sanction, which I feel sure will be forthcoming. Reassure our guest on that point, and allow him to bring his household at once. It is only right that they should feel settled and at peace for the Christmas feast, There is no other case needing attention?”
“None, Father.” And he asked, subdued and thoughtful: “When must you set forth on this journey?”
“The day after tomorrow I should leave. I ride but slowly these days, and we shall be some days on the road. In my absence, of course, Prior Robert will be in charge of all things here.”
Abbot Heribert lifted a distrait hand in blessing, and led the way out of the chapter-house. Prior Robert, sweeping after, no doubt felt himself already in charge of all things within the pale of the Benedictine abbey of St. Peter and St. Paul of Shrewsbury, and had every intent and expectation of continuing so to his life’s end.
The brothers filed out in mourne silence, only to break out into subdued but agitated conversations as soon as they were dispersed over the great court. Heribert had been their abbot for eleven years, and an easy man to serve under, approachable, kindly, perhaps even a little too easy-going. They did not look forward to changes.
In the half-hour before High Mass at ten, Cadfael betook himself very thoughtfully to his workshop in the herb-gardens, to tend a few specifics he had brewing. The enclosure, thickly hedged and well trimmed, was beginning now to look bleached and dry with the first moderate cold, all the leaves grown elderly and lean and brown, the tenderest plants withdrawing into the warmth of the earth; but the air still bore a lingering, aromatic fragrance compounded of all the ghostly scents of summer, and inside the hut the spicy sweetness made the senses swim. Cadfael regularly took his ponderings there for privacy. He was so used to the drunken, heady air within that he barely noticed it, but at need he could distinguish every ingredient that contributed to it, and trace it to its source.
So King Stephen, after all, had not forgotten his lingering grudges, and Abbot Heribert was to be the scapegoat for Shrewsbury’s offence in holding out against his claims. Yet he was not by nature a vindictive man. Perhaps it was rather that he felt a need to flatter and court the legate, since the pope had recognised him as king of England, and given him papal backing, no negligible weapon, in the contention with the Empress Maud, the rival claimant to the throne. That determined lady would certainly not give up so easily, she would be pressing her case strongly in Rome, and even popes may change their allegiance. So Alberic of Ostia would be given every possible latitude in pursuing his plans for the reform of the Church, and Heribert might be but one sacrificial victim offered to his zeal on a platter.
Another curious theme intruded itself persistently into Cadfael’s musings. This matter of the occasional guests of the abbey, so-called, the souls who chose to abandon the working world, sometimes in their prime, and hand over their inheritance to the abbey for a soft, shielded, inactive life in a house of retirement, with food, clothing, firing, all provided without the lifting of a finger! Did they dream of it for years while they were sweating over lambing ewes, or toiling in the harvest, or working hard at a trade? A little sub-paradise where meals dropped from the sky and there was nothing to do but bask, in the summer, and toast by the fire with mulled ale in the winter? And when they got to it, how long did the enchantment last? How soon did they sicken of doing nothing, and needing to do nothing? In a man blind, lame, sick, he could understand the act. But in those hale and busy, and used to exerting body and mind? No, that he could not understand. There must be other motives. Not all men could be deceived, or deceive themselves, into mistaking idleness for blessedness. What else could provoke such an act? Want of an heir? An urge, not yet understood, to the monastic life, without the immediate courage to go all the way? Perhaps! In a man with a wife, well advanced in years and growing aware of his end, it might be so. Many a man had taken the habit and the cowl late, after children and grandchildren and the heat of a long day. The grace house and the guest status might be a stage on the way. Or was it possible that men divested themselves of their life’s work at last out of pure despite, against the world, against the unsatisfactory son, against the burden of carrying their own souls?