Philippa Carr: The Miracle at St. Bruno's

My wits came to my aid. I said quickly: “I was thinking to what purpose we could put this place. The building is so solid. It could make an excellent buttery.”

“You have suddenly decided this?”

“I have been thinking of it for some time. I am constantly thinking of how we can put these places to good use.”

“Doesn’t the present buttery suffice?”

“It is scarcely adequate now that there are so many people here. I daresay that in the future you will be entertaining even more.”

I was trying to sound matter-of-fact.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s true.”

“Then what do you think of the idea?”

He was studying me intently and his eyes still held that cold snakelike quality. “It’s worth considering,” he said.

I felt a great relief flooding over me. I believed I had convinced him that I had been inspecting the monks’ dorter for this domestic reason.

I went to the bakehouse. Clement was there with two of his scullions and when he saw that I wished to speak to him alone he sent them off to scour some pans in readiness for the day’s cooking.

“Tomorrow,” I said, “Lady Remus will be here. She is bringing Mistress Catherine home.”

“Ah, I shall be glad to see the young mistress home. I’ll make some of her favorite marchpane. There is no one that appreciates it but her now that Mistress Honey has left us.”

“And for Lady Remus?”

“There shall be a game pie and I’ll work the Remus coat of arms in paste for her. There’ll be bacon and sucking pig. Those are favorites of hers.”

“You will know how best to please her. Clement,” I went on, “you must prepare almost as much food now as you did in the old days.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“Do you regret the old days, Clement?”

He narrowed his eyes, looking back. “This present day suits me well, Mistress.”

“Do you ever go into the dorter, Clement?”

He shook his head. “Not since that day when the heretic”—he crossed himself—“Simon Caseman informed against us and almost took us to death.”

“Before that did you go to your own cell and imagine the old days were back?”

He nodded, smiling.

“I was looking at the old cells not long ago. I thought we might make a buttery there. Those thick walls make it very cool. What do you think, Clement?”

“What does the master think?”

It was always so. They seemed afraid to express an opinion without Bruno’s approval.

“I spoke to him of it. He thought it an excellent notion. Would you come and look at it some time and give me your opinion?”

There was nothing Clement liked so much as to be asked for an opinion. His face creased into smiles.

“When would that be, Mistress?”

“There is no time like the present. Could you meet me there in half an hour?”

He was delighted. I waited below for him. It felt different going up those stairs with him lumbering behind me.

“One of these must have been your cell, Clement.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Which one was yours?”

He led me along the landing.

“They are so much alike, can you be sure?” I asked.

“I’d always count,” he said. “Number seven, that was mine.”

“And who was next to you?”

“Brother Thomas that way. Brother Arnold there.”

“I daresay you can remember the names of most of them.”

“We were many years together.”

“I have heard you talk of some of them. Eugene now…where was he?”

“He was there. And next to him was Valerian and then Thomas and Eugene.”

“Where did you say Ambrose was?”

“Ambrose? I didn’t say.” He crossed himself again. “I said Eugene. But Ambrose was here opposite me. I used to hear him, praying in the night.”

I hastily counted to myself. Seventh from the end was Ambrose’s cell.

“Well,” I said, “what do you think of my idea of the buttery?”

He thought it excellent. I had to listen to his views on storing salted meats for he thought these cells would be ideal for that purpose.

“The thick stone walls keep out the heat,” he said. “I could keep salt pig in here for a very long time.”

I listened; I agreed; and I longed to be rid of him; for now that I knew which was Ambrose’s cell I was eager to get to work. I came back that afternoon. It took me an hour to examine the cell. Then I discovered that behind the crucifix which hung on the wall, one of the slabs was loose.

I removed it. Behind it was a cavity and in this I found Ambrose’s confession.

I took it to my bedchamber. I shut myself in. It began:

“I, Brother Ambrose of St. Bruno’s Abbey, have committed mortal sin and have imperiled my immortal soul.”

It was the cry of a man in torment and I was deeply moved by the suffering he had obviously endured. He had written it all down: his dreams and longings, his erotic imaginings in that cell as he lay there on his hard pallet. He wrote of his great desire to purge his soul of lust and the hours he spent in prayer and penance. And then the coming of Keziah; the temptation which had been too great to resist; the hours of remorse that followed. The torment of the hair shirt and the lacerations of his flesh. He had indulged it; he would crucify it. But the sin was committed and then he knew that that sin was to bear fruit.

Doubly he had sinned. He had broken from the enclosed state; he had had speech with the witch of the woods, he had agreed to her monstrous plan to deceive the Abbot and everyone in St. Bruno’s. And this he had done for yet another temptation had come to him—to watch over his son, to see him educated and raised to greatness. Again he had been unable to resist.

He would never expiate his sin; he was doomed to eternal damnation, so he had plunged headlong into sin and loved this son with the idolatry which should have been given only to God.

This confession he had made. It was for the generations to come. No one should read it while his beloved son lived for all must believe him to be divine.

He was guilty of lust and deceit; he would burn forever in hell but great pleasure had been his in the woman who tempted him and the son who was the result of their lustful union.

I folded it carefully and locked it in a sandalwood box which my father had given me years ago.

Soon I would tell Bruno that I had proof of what had happened at his birth not only from his great-grandmother, who had told me when she was dying, but by this confession of his father’s.

But I must delay this until after Kate’s return to Remus.

WHEN KATE ARRIVED NEXT day I thought she seemed more subdued than usual. Catherine was quiet too. I fancied that she was resentful toward Kate, which was strange; generally they were in harmony for they shared a gay and carefree outlook on life.

When I took Kate to her bedchamber she said she must talk to me soon. Where could we go for quiet?

I suggested the winter parlor.

“I will be with you in fifteen minutes,” she told me.

I went straight to Catherine’s room. She was standing at her window staring moodily out.

“Cat dear, what is wrong?” I asked.

She turned around and flung herself into my arms. I comforted her. “Whatever it is I daresay we can do something about it.”

“It is Aunt Kate. She says we may not marry. She says that we must separate and forget and she has come to talk to you about it. How dare she! We shall not accept it. We shall….”

“Catherine, what are you speaking of? Marry whom? You are only a child.”

“I am nearly seventeen, Mother. Old enough to know that I want more than anything on earth to marry Carey.”

“Carey! But you and he….”