“I see,” he murmured uncomfortably.
Thomas wondered how long this would take, and more to the point, how soon he could eat. God forgive him, but this was part of a prior’s occupation he truly detested—passing judgment on men who were surely no more flawed than he was.
And naturally, God had seen fit, in some kind of penitential jest, to send him Garth de Ware today. Brother Garth came to him at least once a fortnight with some or other imagined sin for which he felt he owed contrition.
This week it was lust.
The prior rubbed his hand over his face. By the morose look in Garth’s eyes, he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain that any normal, warm-blooded male of his age naturally felt the stirrings of the body. Nor, he feared, would Garth be content with a stern lecture. Nay, Garth was one of those rare, irritating fanatics who insisted on harsh self-punishment. Something had happened in Garth’s past to make him believe he was unworthy, and nothing on heaven or earth could convince him otherwise. Thank God the prior had locked away the monastery scourge, or Garth would doubtless insist on a daily flogging.
Garth stared up at him expectantly, and though the youth knelt humbly enough before him, Prior Thomas had to remind himself that the young man was his underling. Garth de Ware’s countenance was anything but humble. His steady, noble gaze marked him as the son of a lord. His was the face of a man born to power, a face that commanded respect, led armies, and doled out justice.
When Garth had first come to the monastery, though his spirit seemed somehow lost, his body was strong and fit. He’d been a striking youth. Now, apathy had ruined the lad’s appetite and, in the prior’s opinion, left him too spare. Garth’s was by nature a warrior’s body, not fashioned for the inertia of a monk’s life, no matter how readily his mind adapted. The lad was literally wasting away.
Thomas ran a palm over his own round belly and expelled a weary puff of air. Above all, the prior liked order—lengths of wool that made exactly two cassocks, jongleur’s verses with happy endings, just enough of last year’s wine to last till the new barrels were ready, all loose ends tied. Such things were incontrovertible proof that God was in his heaven. Garth de Ware? He was an anomaly, a reminder that perhaps all was not right with the world.
What had brought Garth to God’s fold, the prior couldn’t guess. It was the one subject the lad would never broach. But it was apparent the young man simply didn’t belong here. His own parents said as much, inquiring frequently after Garth in the hopes he’d change his mind about the monastery.
It wasn’t that Garth wasn’t fit for the church. He certainly possessed the fear of God, love of Christ, and devotion to mankind required of a man of the cloth. But with his keen intellect and noble ties, he was better suited to the position of castle chaplain or abbot or even bishop, some office requiring frequent contact with the secular world.
The prior feared the seclusion of the monastery was slowly draining the life from Garth de Ware.
Still, Garth did as he was told, and his father, Lord James de Ware, supplied the monks with a generous annual oblation. Prior Thomas supposed it was none of his affair whether the young man’s calling was true or not.
He cleared his throat and tried his best to mold the cheery crinkles of his bald forehead into stern furrows. He’d have to choose his words carefully. Garth would indubitably castrate himself if he thought it a seemly punishment for the sin of lust.
It truly was a shame the lad was not of the in seculo clergy, those who worked “in the world,” for though the church officially frowned on such a thing, a goodly number of such clergy possessed concubines, wives, and even offspring. Clearly, they never grappled with the sin of lust.
“Let me see. You say you cried out her name?” he asked, steepling his fingers importantly.
The young man’s gaze hardened. “Aye, Father.”
“So your tongue shares the blame of your sin?”
“Aye.”
The prior nodded, pacing thoughtfully. “Then it’s fitting that your tongue bear the punishment.” He clasped his hands before him. “I will have your vow of silence for…a fortnight.”
He let his gaze slide over Garth’s face, gauging the severity of the sentence. It was often difficult to tell how much chastisement the lad felt he deserved.
Thankfully, Garth lowered his eyes in acceptance. Then he pressed a holy kiss to the prior’s ring and silently excused himself from the office.
After he’d gone, Prior Thomas heaved a relieved sigh and clapped the matter from his hands. He’d made the right decision, and, he thought rather selfishly, he’d earned several days’ respite from the youth’s self-reproaching tongue.
As it turned out, his timing couldn’t have been better. By week’s end, an eminent visitor would arrive at the monastery, a man who would change Garth’s life forever. And because the lad was sworn to silence, there wasn’t a blessed thing he could say about it.
The late morning rays of Friday’s sun slanted down in wide diagonal bars between the columns of the monastery’s inner courtyard, alternately casting Garth in light and shadow as he walked the long, open hallway, beating the dust from his cassock.
What had happened to make the prior call Garth to his office so urgently? He’d been halfway through copying the third verse of Psalms when he’d been summoned.
He hoped it wasn’t bad tidings. It was difficult being away from his family. He seldom saw them more than twice a year. His father wasn’t a young man anymore. His mother always seemed tinier and more fragile than he remembered. His brother Duncan’s wife was expecting their second child. A hundred unpleasant things could have happened.
Bracing himself for the worst, he knocked lightly upon the prior’s door. Prior Thomas swung the portal wide almost before Garth had lowered his hand. A broad smile wreathed the old man’s face. Not bad news then. Garth offered up a silent prayer of thanks.
Then he spotted the visitor.
Garth had had the dubious pleasure of meeting the distinguished Abbot only once before, but it was hard to forget the man. He was as gaunt and terrifying as the tortured saints featured in Bible illuminations. And though the Abbot wore a mask of long-suffering humility, the controlled voracity tarnishing his lowered eyes told a different tale. The man was well aware of his own immense power.
“Garth, come in, come in,” the prior said, ushering him in hastily. “The Abbot graces us with his presence.” He added in a whispered aside. “Don’t worry. I told him about your vow of silence.”
Garth scowled. The Abbot was the last person he wanted to know about his sin. Such an elevated man of the cloth had no sympathy for human weakness, particularly lust. It had probably been years since the Abbot was aroused by anything, if ever.
Mortified by his own sacrilegious thoughts, Garth hung his head and knelt before the Abbot. He dutifully bent to kiss the Abbot’s ring, repressing a grimace. The man’s hands were as bony and cold as a month-old corpse.
“Garth,” Prior Thomas continued when Garth had risen again, “the Abbot brings wonderful news.”
The Abbot smiled blandly. Garth suspected he’d smile like that even if he brought news of Christ’s second coming.
Prior Thomas rubbed his pudgy hands together briskly enough to start a fire. “A marvelous opportunity has arisen. It seems Castle Wendeville has need of a resident chaplain.” He winked and confided, “It’s the keep where the Abbot himself has served on many a Sabbath.” The priest rocked up on his toes. “But since the Abbot has his own holding now…well.” The prior could barely contain his excitement. “Of course, it will require some responsibility—the delivery of sermons, translating books and so forth, blessings, burials, all the ecclesiastical duties for a noble household of modest size. And, well…” He steepled his hands before him.