Alys Clare: Heart of Ice

The mood at Hawkenlye Abbey was festive. A short spell of very cold weather had covered the pond in the Vale with almost a hand’s breadth of ice and, in the spirit of turning an affliction into a gift, the monks and lay brothers were trying to teach themselves to slide across the ice on their sandalled feet without falling over. Brother Augustus recalled having once been told that tying deer-bone blades to the feet increased the speed at which it was possible to glide across the ice and he was busy experimenting; so far he had only a sore thumb and a large bruise on his backside to show for his troubles.

Word spread quickly that there was fun to be had in Hawkenlye Vale and soon others, at first children but then their older sisters and brothers and their parents as well, began to arrive and clamoured to be allowed to join in. The local people were in the middle of a cold, miserable and desperately poor winter, there was never enough to eat and Christmas was a dim memory; nobody needed any encouragement to stop what they were doing and remember what it was to be playful and carefree. Old Brother Firmin, who felt it was one thing for the brethren to risk life, limb and death by drowning but quite another for outsiders to do so, cast suspicious looks at the ice and shook his head dubiously. Brother Saul, observing the disappointed faces of the onlookers, said he would test the ice by walking the Abbey’s hefty cob across it once or twice. With the eyes of the growing crowd upon him, he did so; once, twice across the pond and two or three times along its length, he led the patient horse and listened somewhat nervously for the first sound of cracking ice.

No such sound came. With a grin, Saul called out, ‘The ice is strong. Come and try your skills!’

Catching the air of celebration, Brother Erse asked permission to make a fire and, using birch shavings and some seasoned odds and ends of wood from his carpentry bench to get it started, soon had a good blaze going. Brother Augustus abandoned his experiments with the bone skates and, with Brother Adrian, set about preparing a large pot of thin but nourishing broth whose chief ingredients were the carcases of three or four fowl scrounged from the Abbey’s kitchen, some onions, some garlic, several large handfuls of barley and a big bunch of dried herbs. They suspended the pot over Brother Erse’s fire and soon an appetising smell was wafting out over the pond; very quickly a line of hungry children (and not a few of their parents) formed beside Erse’s fire. More monks came to help and the broth was ladled into the rough earthenware mugs that the brethren kept for the use of pilgrims coming to the shrine in the Vale. The monks imposed order on the queue and started handing out the broth to the visitors. Sounds of laughter and merriment floated up to the Abbey; before long, some of the nuns came down to the Vale to find out what was going on.

Among them was Sister Caliste, who worked in the infirmary under Sister Euphemia, one of the most senior of the nuns. Sister Caliste reported back to the infirmarer, who in turn told the Abbess Helewise. Just as the sun was setting, the Abbess went to see for herself.

Brother Firmin, watching her face as her grey eyes looked slowly from one end of the pond to the other, taking in the cheerful, red-cheeked people struggling to keep their balance and laughing loudly when inevitably they failed, waited apprehensively for her to speak. ‘I am sorry, my lady Abbess, not to have asked for your permission,’ he began, ‘but in truth-’

She held up a hand and, with a smile, interrupted him. ‘No need to apologise, Brother Firmin,’ she said. ‘I do not think any permission was necessary; there is nothing wrong with making people happy on a cold winter’s day.’ Her glance lighted on the remains of the broth in its blackened pot. ‘And, in charity, how could the sternest heart object to the provision of hot broth to hungry people?’

Brother Firmin decided her question was rhetorical and kept his peace.

The Abbess put a light hand on his arm. ‘Sister Euphemia will not thank us if there are too many broken limbs to be treated,’ she said, ‘but, otherwise, you and the brethren have done splendidly. Carry on, Brother Firmin.’ With another smile, she gave him a quick nod of approval and, turning, set out along the path that led back up to the Abbey.

Brother Firmin could not be sure — his eyesight was not what it had been — but he saw his dignified superior stop and turn as she left the pond’s shore and he was pretty sure she gave the frozen water and the happy revellers a very wistful look.

There were two more days of fun and games on the ice. Then overnight a thaw set in and the next morning the ice had begun to melt. The pond was declared strictly out of bounds and everyone went back to work.

In the middle of the afternoon, Brothers Adrian and Micah were sent off along the path that ran alongside the pond to repair a large hole that had been opened up by the frost and which Brother Firmin had declared might be dangerous; ‘Some poor innocent soul,’ he suggested, ‘might come a-hopping and a-skipping along the track, all unsuspecting, and catch their foot in that great crack and, what with the water being so near, it could be very dangerous.’

Adrian forbore to point out that even if this poor unsuspecting person did fall in the pond, then the mishap would be unlikely to prove fatal, the pond being only as deep as the length of a man’s forearm just there where the crack in the path snaked its way across the packed earth. Micah was about to remark that it was rare for visitors to the Vale to hop or skip but, catching sight of Brother Firmin’s careworn and concerned face, he changed his mind. ‘Of course, Brother,’ he said gently, ‘Adrian and I will see to it straight away. Don’t you worry; there won’t be any nasty accidents.’

The two monks collected some tools and set off along the track, remarking to each other — softly, since they did not want to hurt his feelings — on Brother Firmin’s engaging little ways and his general resemblance to a fussy old mother hen. They found the crack in the path and were just rolling up their sleeves and spitting on their palms in preparation for beginning their excavating, digging and filling work when something in the water a few paces along the bank caught Micah’s eye.

He hurried off to have a closer look. Then, as soon as he saw what it was, he paled and, in a voice that sounded as if there was a strong hand at his throat, said in a hoarse whisper, ‘Adrian, run for help. God help us all, but it looks as though Brother Firmin was right — there’s some poor soul face-down in our pond and I reckon he’s drowned!’

Two brothers raced back along the track with Brother Adrian, carrying a hurdle between them. With gentle hands, the four monks pulled and dragged at the sodden clothing until they managed to get a good enough grip to haul the body out of the pond. Even this short immersion turned their hands blue with cold; the waters of the pond had, after all, only lately thawed. The body was laid on the hurdle and, with one monk at each corner, they bore the dripping burden back to the settlement by the chapel. Brother Firmin was deeply distressed — ‘If only I had noticed that crack sooner! Oh, but it is all my fault!’ — and it was left to Brother Saul to take charge. ‘You four, take the corpse up to the infirmary,’ he said quietly, very aware of the dead body so close by, ‘and I’ll go on ahead and warn Sister Euphemia.’

Shortly afterwards, Sister Euphemia was standing in a curtained recess at one end of the long infirmary, watching while two of her nursing nuns began carefully to remove the clothing from the corpse in preparation for washing it. Not a pauper, the infirmarer mused to herself, nor yet a rich man, if these garments are a guide; the cloak, tunic and hose are quite new but of poor quality. A young man, she thought, looking at the dead face, not yet twenty, I would guess, and no doubt just beginning to make his way in the world. God bless him, he’ll advance no further in this world.