Back in the days when I had brown hair, my face had no wrinkles of age and gruesome experience of living, when my eyes could see a squirrel in the autumn grass without a squint, I’ve had the pleasure of serving in the Abbey of St Mary de Pratis in Leicestershire. I was a young and foolish friar believing in God within everyone’s soul, believing people are good, just very unhappy, with this unhappiness moving them to harm others. In year 1530 I’ve had a chance to encounter the worst miracle of God, of course not for the first time in my life, but this sorrowful death has marked the turn in my beliefs and my life.
As the night was just unfolding on the late evening on November 26th, I was walking from the Abbey’s oil mill to the kitchen, strolling through the snowdrifts, feeling the cold deep in my bones, as thin cassock was not saving my body from the bites of frost. I was carrying a cask with fresh butter ghee for Abbot Pescall, who has demanded the freshest produce to be served directly to his chambers. Leftovers were passed to the rest of the monks days later, causing a few of us to suffer from stomach illnesses. All the Abbott had to say to this every divine service was “Praise the Lord”. The kitchen, full of steam from greasy cauldrons was boiling with people. The buzzing of words spread across the room, almost hurting my ears after a wintery silence of the yard. I put the cask beside the pot with beans and turned to brother Julian, who was listening to conversation rather than participating in it.
“Dear brother, what is the fuss about? I see our beloved brother Jonas is even more red than his usual self, even closer to the colour of his much-appreciated beetroot he’s been feeding us for days”.
“Have you been blind and deaf? Cardinal Wolsey has arrived at the Abbey”, said Julian, his face pale and doleful, no attention given to my light-hearted jeer. “Abbot Pescall let him in, cardinal is sick, in fever”.
“But he was just convicted of treasury to the crown, how can the Abbot allow him to be here? We may have our heads chopped off and left on the spikes nearby the Tower…”
Brother William, a right-hand man of the Abbot, entered the kitchen with his hands deep in the sleeves. His second name across the Abbey was “Errand Boy”, even though both sides of his head were silver. Brother William rose his left hand in the air “My dearest brethren! As you may have heard, our Abbey has given a haven to Sire Wolsey on this night”.
Brother Todd, an old friar that has been in the Abbey for a good dozen of years, shouted from aside a furnace “Why did the Abbot gave him shelter without asking us, his sheep? He has risked our lives, not only his own, he risked the Abbey for this traitor! If our great King Henry will see this, he will destroy the place and us with it”.
I heard mumbling in the room, many friars nodding their heads, and nod my head too.
“Did you forget the words of Saint Cyprian, brother Todd? “He who is not merciful himself cannot deserve the mercy of God”. Cardinal Wolsey is indeed in his last hours of life. Neither the Abbot nor I want to be judged by Saint Peter for being hard-hearted to the sick one”.
A quiet chuckle was heard, all the friars had the same thought in their heads (as if being hard-hearted was the biggest sin of these two), but Errand Boy shook his head and looked at me.
“Brother Martin, come here. The Abbot needs you”.
I took a step forward, but (being indecisive has always been my biggest flaw apart from curiosity) froze in front of the friar, looking straight into his eyes of jackal:
“Why does he need me, brother dear?”
“You shall be the servant of sire Wolsey”. I saw a shade of annoyance strolling down William’s face. “That is all I know, but Abbot Pescall shall tell you more. Follow me”.
With my heart dropped to my toes and uneasy feeling of grief to come spreading in my chest, I signed and left the kitchen, moving towards the tragedy.
Fighting a battle of English language, Maryia Lall is a writer of Russian origin, making her way into British literature scene after a four-years struggle of getting into local higher education. Focusing on her ethnical treasury, she tries to explore all dimensions of writing, starting from romantic poems and ending with historical and autobiographical fiction. Personal motto: “English say “do it or die”. I say, “Die, but do it”.
