The Miracle at St. Bruno's (11 page)

All next morning we waited for the news to break. We knew it could not be long. But both Kate and I had been too shaken by it to speak of it to anyone. We hardly mentioned it to each other and when we did spoke in hushed tones.

Did Bruno know? I wondered. I couldn’t bear to think of his knowing. I knew that it meant so much to him to be the Holy Child.

I had to see Bruno. I was amazed by the strength of my feelings. I didn’t care what danger I faced. I wanted to tell him that it made no difference to me that he was the son of Keziah and a monk. In fact I felt a certain relief—although I realized what disaster this would bring to the Abbey. But I must see him; so I went out alone and I ran to the secret door, I pulled aside the ivy and entered the Abbey grounds. My heart was beating so rapidly that I felt as though I were choking. I dared not pause to think what would happen to me if I were caught there. I went to the spot where we used to meet Bruno and I hid under the clump of bushes where Kate and I used to hide, hoping, rather absurdly, that he would come. It was thus that I witnessed this terrifying scene.

I must have waited there almost half an hour, and at the end of that time he did come, but he was not alone. The monk Ambrose was with him.

I remembered him because I had seen him when Keziah had set me on the wall and I had been so bewildered by Keziah’s badinage with the monk.

It was obvious as soon as I saw Bruno that he knew. There was a strange lost look in his face. Ambrose was talking to him. They must have come here because it was an uncultivated spot in the grounds and rarely used by anyone from the Abbey.

“You cannot understand,” Ambrose was saying; and his voice came to me clearly. “I wanted to watch over you. I wanted to play my part in bringing you up. It was wrong. It was wicked. It was a form of blasphemy…but I did it because I could not bear to be parted from you.”

There was anguish in his voice which wrung my heart. I could well understand the terrible remorse and tribulation he had suffered, this man who should never have become a monk. I could picture his torturing himself in the solitude of his cell. The sinner whose actions had shut him out of paradise. Thus must Adam have felt when he had eaten of the forbidden fruit.

I was deeply moved by Brother Ambrose. I think because I remembered that my father had wanted a family; he had left the Abbey because of that, which was clearly what Ambrose should have done. Instead he had tried to have the best of both worlds—his monk’s cell and his son. I understood very well and I wanted Bruno to tell him that he did.

But Bruno was silent.

“I have suffered for my sin a million times,” went on Brother Ambrose. “But I have had great joy in watching you. Did you not sense that extra care that I gave you? Did you not feel as I did that you were my very own boy? I was jealous of your fondness for Clement, for the hours you spent with Valerian. I wanted to be the one who taught you your Greek and Latin; I wanted to cook you tidbits in my oven. And all I could do was teach you about the herbs and their healing properties and their cruel ones too. But I grudged everyone else the time they spent with you. They loved you in their way…but I was your father. I would like to hear you call me by that name…once.”

Still Bruno did not speak.

I could picture it all so clearly—the child’s growing up, the anxious father, his love for the child, his delight in him in contrast to his terrible remorse. I could understand his exultation and his suffering, and I wanted to cry out: “Bruno, speak to him tenderly. Let him know that you are glad to call him Father.”

But Bruno remained silent as though stunned.

And then the scene changed because I heard a loud coarse voice calling out: “So you are there. Father and son, eh?” And to my horror Rolf Weaver had appeared.

I shrank into the bushes. I began to think of Keziah lying on the bed naked with ropes about her ankles and prayed that the bushes would hide me. I could not imagine what my fate would be if I were detected. This man, so bestial, so crude, who was capable of acts which I did not fully understand, was a terrifying spectacle. His doublet was open almost to his waist and I could see the black hair on his chest; his face was ruddy and his black hair grew low on his forehead. He was a beast personified. He was capable of committing any cruelty, I was well aware. I marveled that Keziah could ever have found him attractive even before he had treated her so vilely. But Kate had said that women like Keziah found pleasure in a certain sort of cruelty. I remembered what she had said about his rough love play. I had seen Kate’s lips curl with disgust as she had said that. Kate knew so much that I did not. I wished that she were with me now. I could have done with the comfort she would have given me; and I wondered that I had been so bold as to come here alone. But at this moment they would not have been interested in me. Rolf Weaver had two people to torture and they occupied his attention to the exclusion of aught else.

“Now,” he cried, “what does it feel like to know you’re the son of this whoresome monk and the village harlot?”

I watched Bruno’s face. It was as white as the marble face of the jeweled Madonna.

He did not speak. Ambrose had taken a step toward Rolf Weaver.

“Have a care, Monk,” cried Weaver. “By God. I’ll have you flayed alive if you raise a hand to me. Is it not enough that you have lied to your Abbot, that you have desecrated his Abbey, that you have committed the mortal sin—must you threaten the King’s man?” He laughed. “She’s a fruity wench, I grant you. So ready and willing. By God, you have only to take one look at her and you know it’s here-and-now-and-no-waiting-please-sir. That’s your mother, my boy. Wouldn’t I have liked to see them frolicking in the grass! And that’s how you were made. I don’t doubt it was a shock for the holy monk and his little piece of any-man’s-for-the-taking when they found you were on the way.”

He let out a string of words which I did not understand. I only knew that I wanted to stop my ears and get away. But I could not move for if I did I would show myself, and I was oddly enough more afraid of Bruno’s knowing that I had witnessed his shame than of what Rolf Weaver could do to me.

Then it happened. Brother Ambrose had sprung at Rolf Weaver; he had him by the throat, and the two men were rolling on the ground. Bruno stood as though unable to move, just staring at them. I saw that Brother Ambrose was on top of Rolf Weaver and, his hands still about his throat, lifted him and banged his head several times on the earth.

I stared in horror. I could see the purple color of Rolf Weaver’s face; I heard him gasping for his breath and then suddenly there was silence.

Brother Ambrose stood up; he took Bruno by the hand and slowly they walked toward the Abbey.

I cowered in the bushes for a second or so and then I ran, taking care not to pass too close to the man who lay inert on the grass.

At sundown the following day the body of Brother Ambrose hung on a gibbet at the Abbey’s Gate. My father forbade my mother, Kate and me to go near it.

He was deeply distressed, for in addition to this awful tragedy the Abbot was dead.

He said to me: “We live in terrible times, my child.”

Our house was silent for when we spoke it was in whispers. We all seemed to be waiting for what calamity could befall our community next. My father did say that he was glad of one thing. His friend Sir Thomas More at least was spared the apparently endless tragedies which resulted from the King’s desire to have his pleasure at no matter what cost. I was glad he said that only to me, and I cried out in horror that he should ever repeat to any other what he had said to me. He comforted me; he would take care, he promised—as much care as it was possible to take in this dangerous world.

The commissioners had broken the Seal and the Abbey was now the King’s. Because of the abominations which were said to have occurred within its precincts there were to be no pensions for any of the members. The Abbot, who might have been honored with a bishopric if no scandals had been discovered, fortunately for himself had died while the King’s men were in his Abbey. It was said he died of a broken heart; and I could believe it, and I guessed it must have been almost the crudest blow that could have been dealt him to learn that he had been deluded by one of his monks who had dared defile the holy crib with his bastard child; but the greatest blow was the loss of his Abbey.

All through those miserable days there was the sound of men’s voices as the packhorses were loaded with treasures and led away. Thieves were responsible for the loss of some of the treasures. They came by night and tore the beautiful vestments for the sake of the gold and silver thread in them. If they were caught they were hanged at once; but they did not care about this. There was too much to be gained.

Many of the manuscripts, the work of Brother Valerian, were piled up before the Abbey and burned. The lead on the roofs was of great value and the man who had taken over Rolf Weaver’s duties gave instructions for it to be removed.

The monks were turned adrift to find some means of making a livelihood in a world for which they were ill-fitted. Brother John and Brother James came to see my father and were immediately offered a home which they declined. “Were we to accept your offer,” they explained, “we could place you in jeopardy and as lay brothers we are not so ill-equipped as some. We have been out in the world and have done business for the Abbey and know a wool merchant in London who might give us work.”

Seeing that they were adamant my father insisted that they take a well-filled purse and they went on their way.

Later that day I was in my father’s study and we were talking of the terrible thing which had befallen St. Bruno’s, when Simon Caseman joined us. My father was saying that he greatly wished that the Brothers had stayed when we saw two monks coming across the lawn. My father hurried down to meet them, followed by Simon Caseman and myself.

The monks told my father that they were Brother Clement and Brother Eugene and they had worked respectively in the Abbey’s bake and brew houses. Now they were bewildered and did not know where to go. There was an unworldliness about the pair which moved me deeply; to turn them into the world would be like sending two lambs among wolves.

My father immediately offered them work in our kitchens and brewhouse. When they wore fustian doublets and trunk hose they would look exactly like other servants, he said, and it would be wise not to mention whence they had come.

Simon Caseman was alarmed. He assured my father that taking in dispossessed monks might be construed as an act of treachery to the King. My father was aware of this but he demanded to know how he could turn such men away. I believe that he would have taken in all the monks as he had tried to take in John and James, if they had not all scattered before he was able to do so.

It was later the same day that Bruno appeared. I was walking with my father in the garden and we were talking of the terrible debacle and what it would mean to those men who had passed the greater part of their lives in the Abbey suddenly to be thrust out into the world.

“There may well be more of them to join Clement and Eugene,” he was saying when we saw Bruno.

“Bruno!” I cried. “Oh, I am so relieved to see you. I have been thinking of you all the time.”

My father looked surprised and with a little shock I realized that he did not know Bruno.

I said: “Father, this is he who was found in the Christmas crib.”

“My poor boy,” cried my father. “And where will you go now?”

Bruno replied: “I must find a roof to shelter me until a time when I no longer need it.”

I thought it a strange reply but nothing Bruno did had ever been ordinary.

My father said: “You have your roof. You will stay here.”

“Thank you,” replied Bruno. “I shall make sure that you do not regret this day.”

I was happier than I had been for a long time as we took Bruno into the house. He was given a room. We could not expect him to sleep in the servants’ quarters, I told my father, and when we were alone I explained my acquaintance with Bruno and told him about the ivy-covered door.

“You did wrong,” said my father, “but perhaps there was a purpose in it. Damask, that boy still believes that there is a divinity within him.”

He was right. No one could treat Bruno as a servant. My father told the household that he came to us from people who were his friends. He was to share lessons with us.

He accepted this; he had lost none of that arrogance which overawed both Kate and me and exasperated her so much.

He insisted that Keziah had lied under torture and so had Ambrose. Everything that had happened, he said he had foreseen. It was all part of a divine plan and we should see it unfold in time; and although when I was alone I believed that he reasoned thus because he could not endure to do otherwise, when I was with him I half-believed him.

The King’s men left and because they had taken the lead from the church roof owls and bats began to nest there. The rotting corpses were removed from the gibbets by my father’s orders and given decent burial. We trembled for several weeks after that for fear it should be construed as an act of treason while we waited for someone to come and claim the Abbey and its lands. But no one came.

The Abbey remained, like the skeleton of some great monster, to remind us of a way of life that had now passed and gone forever.

T
HERE WAS CHANGE EVERYWHERE.
It was unsafe to go out after dark because the lanes and woods abounded with robbers who would not hesitate to maim or even kill for the sake of a little money. Beggars and vagabonds had in the past been sure of a meal and often shelter under the monastic roofs; these benefits no longer existed. Added to the beggars were those monks who had been deprived of the only life they understood. They must either beg or starve. It was true that some could work but few wished to take monks into their household as my father had done, for Simon Caseman was right when he said this could be construed as an act of treason.

Brother Clement settled in easily and one would not have guessed that he had lived the greater part of his life in the Abbey. Sometimes he would burst into song in a rich baritone voice as he worked; and we had never tasted such cob loaves or manchets as came from his oven. Brother Eugene was equally content in the brewhouse; he made slow gin and dandelion and elder flower wine; and was constantly experimenting with berries to improve his brew. When they discovered that Bruno was in the house they could not hide their delight; and I knew his identity could not be kept a secret.