But they were one in spirit, each striving to create order in a world he knew was bent on chaos.
Brother Rigaud sighed. “I should check to be certain that the provisions have been properly unloaded. At the last stop, one of the lay brothers stored the holy water and chrism with the cook pots, as if they were some sort of spice for the meat sauce.”
Brother James nodded. “One can never be too vigilant. I shall go and supervise the setting up of the camp for the brothers. The sleeping area should be more centrally placed. I have noticed that a number of the women of these towns have no respect for the brothers’ monastic status. They seem to think that because the lay brothers don’t shave their beards, they have taken no vow of chastity. The temptation offered by such
women might prove spiritually fatal to a man allowed to make his bed too far from the support and guidance of his friends.”
The two men parted, each intent on his own duty. Brother James set out for the field near the monastery that had been allotted to the lay brothers. His thoughts were totally occupied with the organization of the sleeping arrangements in relation to the drainage of the field and other sanitary considerations. He hoped the land would be of a proper slope that he would not have to decide between the health of the men’s souls and that of their bodies.
The woman at first simply passed through his vision without registering on his mind. But something—a gesture, the tilt of her head—made him stop and turn, blessing himself in panic. He saw only the edge of a skirt vanishing around a corner.
Brother James closed his eyes. A ghost, it had to have been, or a trick of the light. She was dead, long ago. Cruelly and horribly slain. It was impossible for her to be here now. With God all things are possible , he amended. But he saw no reason for God to have resurrected her. Not her.
No. He took a deep breath. It’s only the pilgrimage, the people, he thought, those old knights who still wore their swords. He’d been in the cloister more than twenty years now. Being once again among the worldly simply brought back too many memories. That was all it was, a memory rooted out from his mind and accidentally rerouted past his eyes.
He blessed himself once again and without realizing it, muttered a charm from his childhood meant to keep away bad dreams. He forced his thoughts and his feet back in the direction of the job at hand.
Brother Rigaud was having his own vision from the long-ago. His path had taken him past the pilgrim hostel just as one of the guests was coming out.
“Rigaud!” the pilgrim cried. “Rigaud, you old bastard! I can’t believe it! You here, as well. Saint Patrick’s pulsating purgatory, it’s good to be all together again.”
Rigaud was forced to stop as he was caught in the grip of a
bear hug by a man a head taller than he. Feebly, he tried to push away.
“ Benedicite , Gaucher,” he said in resignation. “I take it from the cross on your cloak that you have become a pilgrim. I suppose it’s never too late. And what you mean by ‘all together again,’ I fear to even ask.”
Gaucher ignored his old comrade’s lack of enthusiasm. “The four of us, of course,” he answered. “Now all five! Wait until the others see you.”
“The others?” Rigaud cringed. “Hugh. Rufus. You can’t mean old Norbert is still alive?”
“A lot more so than you!” a voice boomed from behind him. “Look at you, face as smooth as a girl’s and skirts to your ankles. You look a fair fanfelu! ”
Rigaud wriggled himself out of Gaucher’s grasp and started to back away. “You can’t say things like that to me anymore, Norbert,” he said evenly. “I have become a man of God, and when you insult me, you insult Him.”
Norbert shook his head. “You never were much sport, Rigaud,” he said sadly. “Come along, hike up your skirts, come in and have a few bowls of ale with us.”
“Yes, come in, Rigaud!”
Brother Rigaud sighed. “I should check to be certain that the provisions have been properly unloaded. At the last stop, one of the lay brothers stored the holy water and chrism with the cook pots, as if they were some sort of spice for the meat sauce.”
Brother James nodded. “One can never be too vigilant. I shall go and supervise the setting up of the camp for the brothers. The sleeping area should be more centrally placed. I have noticed that a number of the women of these towns have no respect for the brothers’ monastic status. They seem to think that because the lay brothers don’t shave their beards, they have taken no vow of chastity. The temptation offered by such
women might prove spiritually fatal to a man allowed to make his bed too far from the support and guidance of his friends.”
The two men parted, each intent on his own duty. Brother James set out for the field near the monastery that had been allotted to the lay brothers. His thoughts were totally occupied with the organization of the sleeping arrangements in relation to the drainage of the field and other sanitary considerations. He hoped the land would be of a proper slope that he would not have to decide between the health of the men’s souls and that of their bodies.
The woman at first simply passed through his vision without registering on his mind. But something—a gesture, the tilt of her head—made him stop and turn, blessing himself in panic. He saw only the edge of a skirt vanishing around a corner.
Brother James closed his eyes. A ghost, it had to have been, or a trick of the light. She was dead, long ago. Cruelly and horribly slain. It was impossible for her to be here now. With God all things are possible , he amended. But he saw no reason for God to have resurrected her. Not her.
No. He took a deep breath. It’s only the pilgrimage, the people, he thought, those old knights who still wore their swords. He’d been in the cloister more than twenty years now. Being once again among the worldly simply brought back too many memories. That was all it was, a memory rooted out from his mind and accidentally rerouted past his eyes.
He blessed himself once again and without realizing it, muttered a charm from his childhood meant to keep away bad dreams. He forced his thoughts and his feet back in the direction of the job at hand.
Brother Rigaud was having his own vision from the long-ago. His path had taken him past the pilgrim hostel just as one of the guests was coming out.
“Rigaud!” the pilgrim cried. “Rigaud, you old bastard! I can’t believe it! You here, as well. Saint Patrick’s pulsating purgatory, it’s good to be all together again.”
Rigaud was forced to stop as he was caught in the grip of a
bear hug by a man a head taller than he. Feebly, he tried to push away.
“ Benedicite , Gaucher,” he said in resignation. “I take it from the cross on your cloak that you have become a pilgrim. I suppose it’s never too late. And what you mean by ‘all together again,’ I fear to even ask.”
Gaucher ignored his old comrade’s lack of enthusiasm. “The four of us, of course,” he answered. “Now all five! Wait until the others see you.”
“The others?” Rigaud cringed. “Hugh. Rufus. You can’t mean old Norbert is still alive?”
“A lot more so than you!” a voice boomed from behind him. “Look at you, face as smooth as a girl’s and skirts to your ankles. You look a fair fanfelu! ”
Rigaud wriggled himself out of Gaucher’s grasp and started to back away. “You can’t say things like that to me anymore, Norbert,” he said evenly. “I have become a man of God, and when you insult me, you insult Him.”
Norbert shook his head. “You never were much sport, Rigaud,” he said sadly. “Come along, hike up your skirts, come in and have a few bowls of ale with us.”
“Yes, come in, Rigaud!”
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