“God in heaven!” exclaimed the other. “What sort of boy would keep a poisonous snake for a pet?”
“The son of a man like Alric Longdon.”
“I had a mouse at his age.”
“You had something more important than that.”
“Did I?”
“A proper childhood.”
They resumed their search, and it was Ralph’s turn to make a discovery. He pointed excitedly up into a tree.
“Do you see it, Gervase?”
“It is only a rope.”
“But it has a hook at the top.”
“Only to make it easier to secure it to the bough.”
“This is where he practised,” said Ralph. “I know it!”
“Did you never swing on a rope as a boy?”
“Not in this way.”
“What is so unusual about it?”
“This, Gervase.”
Ralph took the rope and looped it up before snapping it quickly in his hand. He stepped back as the hook dislodged itself from the bough and fell to the ground. Ralph grabbed it once more and moved to another tree. Aiming at a branch that stood out almost horizontally, he chuckled with glee as the hook settled firmly into place. He tested the rope then held it tight, inching his way upward with his hands as his feet made slow progress up the trunk itself. Ralph was soon ten feet from the ground and laughing his approval. Gervase now understood the purpose of the demonstration.
“The latrine at the mint!”
“Eadmer’s seat of meditation.”
“That is how the boy was taught to climb up it.”
“I must visit the little moneyer again,” said Ralph before dropping heavily to the ground. “He assures me that nothing was stolen from his mint, but Cild did not go up that foul channel simply to view the dwarf’s workplace. He was sent for a purpose.” He punched his friend’s chest. “Come with me, Gervase. Your brain is more acute than mine and you will enjoy meeting Eadmer.”
“I have business elsewhere, Ralph.”
“With whom?”
“A friend.”
He took hold of the rope and jerked it hard so that the hook was lifted off its branch and sent hurtling to the ground. Gathering it up, he coiled the rope carefully, then brandished it in front of him.
“I may need this,” he said.
Piety is its own best advertisement, and Abbot Serlo merely had to appear in the abbey church for his godliness to inspire all around him. He inhabited a higher world but was never patronizing to those of lower station; he was devout but never sanctimonious. The obedientiaries were adoring sons of their Father Abbot. Prior Baldwin could exert a powerful influence, as well. When he appeared at Vespers, he was in a mood of blithe religiosity and the monks read its meaning and rejoiced. The battle had evidently been won. On their behalf, the prior had defended the abbey against the depredations of the commissioners and the day had been his. It put a heartiness into the choral work and mellifluous sound filled the nave before soaring straight up to heaven. Bedwyn Abbey was indeed blessed. Abbot and prior were striking individuals with complementary virtues that served the house superbly well. The combination of holiness from the one and hard bargaining from the other made them invincible.
Serlo was still singing his thanks to the Lord as he returned to his lodgings after Vespers. One of his monks followed him at a discreet distance.
“Excuse me, Father Abbot,” he said deferentially.
“Brother Peter!”
“I crave a brief moment with you.”
“But you will miss your supper,” noted Serlo with paternal interest.
“Bread, fruit, and ale are being served in the refectory. Take your place there and eat.”
“My request has precedence, Father Abbot.”
Serlo invited the sacristan into his lodging and moved across to lower his bulk into the high-backed oak chair. Peter waited until the abbot was properly settled, then he knelt before him and offered up his gift. It was a solid object that was wrapped in cloth and tied with a ribbon.
“What is this, Brother Peter?”
“Proof of my dedication.”
“But we see that every day.”
“I fell from grace and I was justly disciplined,” said Peter, “but I never strayed from the path of righteousness. When my duties were neglected, this is what absorbed my time and my talents. Open it, Father Abbot.”
Serlo obeyed and his eyes strained at their moorings for an instant before running with tears. He was so moved by the beauty of the silver crucifix and by the implications of its existence that he was overcome. It was to produce such a work of art that a master-craftsman had laboured so unremittingly, stealing time wherever he could, even when he knew it might lead to stern reprimand. The crucifix was the latest and finest example of Brother Peter’s skills and it would be given pride of place on the altar. Abbot Serlo rolled his moist eyes over it and stroked the silver with reverential fingers. Like everything else in his life, it was truly a gift from God.
He put a hand on the head of the kneeling sacristan.
“Bless you, my son.”
“I put my poor abilities at the disposal of the Lord.”
“You have made me ashamed.”
“Why, Father Abbot?”
“No man should be punished for this. ”
“It made me wayward in my other duties.”
“You should have spoken up and explained, Peter.”
“That would have ruined the surprise.”
“It would have saved you a beating.”
“Pain brings me nearer to Christ,” said the other. “The hand of Brother Thaddeus nailed me up on the cross. Do not weep for me, Father Abbot. I was content.”
“Can you forgive me, Brother Peter?”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
“Can you still love and respect me?”
“More than ever.”
Abbot Serlo set the crucifix on the little table beside him and examined it afresh. Its proportions were perfect, its sheen mesmeric, its enamel figure of Jesus almost lifelike.
“It is a miracle,” he pronounced. “For so much beauty to come out of so much pain. For so much faith to triumph over so much oppression.
This crucifix is a miracle in silver. It tells the whole story of Christianity at a glance.”
Brother Peter wept tears of joy and prostrated himself in front of his abbot. He was in a state of exultation.
Gervase Bret had to ride for a couple of miles before he found what he needed. Leaping from the saddle, he checked the stone for size and shape, then reached for the rope. After tying up his cargo, he clipped the hook around the pommel of his saddle and put a foot in the stirrup once more. His horse made light of the added burden, dragging it along over grass and through bracken as if it were no more than a trailing rein. The sandstone bit and bounced its way along until they reached the wooded slope. Gervase now took over the task of heaving the object on his own, guiding it between the bushes and around the exposed roots of trees and over the recurring undulations of the terrain.
His horse cropped grass beside the stream below while its master sweated and pulled.
Gervase reached the summit and paused to catch his breath. Descent was altogether swifter. Once the sandstone was in motion again, it gathered impetus and chased him down the incline, hacking a shallow trench through the undergrowth and sending birds and animals into dramatic retreat. A stout elm finally halted its passage, but the stone was undamaged. Winding the rope around his shoulders once more, Gervase towed on. The rock seemed heavier than ever now, but he struggled bruisingly on through the denser woodland like a sinner performing an especially onerous penance. Twigs lacerated his face, bushes threshed at his shoulders, and the rope started to eat its way through his skin, yet he did not dare to stop. Only when he finally hauled the sandstone into the clearing did he take note of his aching limbs and his pounding head. Breathing stertorously, he dropped to one knee and let go of the rope. They were still there. The other pieces of sandstone were all hidden beneath their grassy disguise, but they were still in position.