Page 2 of Sacred Virtues
“Please sit, Emmett de Selcey.” I indicate the chair he rose from, and he sits. His glowering darkens those pretty blue eyes of his. I perhaps shouldn’t antagonise him, but if he’s going to be so easily goaded, then it’s a sport that might amuse me while I prolong the inevitable.
I’m well aware of what happens to those who do not surrender. The charges, however false they are, have already been stated. If I resist too hard, they could be escalated, and I have no wish to be dragged from the abbey, to be killed and quartered in front of the community I’ve been serving for years.
Just then the bell rings, as I knew it would.
“Please excuse me. It’s time for Vespers and I have to lead the prayers.” I don’t, Brother Kennard could and often does when I’m otherwise engaged in abbey administration. But he doesn’t know that.
“Yes, of course,” he says, as if it’s not his job to bring about the end of our routine, our prayer, and our home. I give him the most pious and humble look I can, bowing low as I exit the room.
CHAPTER 2
EMMETT
Ibang my fist down on the table, frustration getting the better of me. It was supposed to be easy, either they surrendered or they didn’t. If they refuse, we’re supposed to withdraw. Then serious charges would be brought against them and they would be forcibly removed. But this monk, this abbot, has disappeared. After making me wait nearly an hour for him, he spends barely five minutes in the room before he leaves again, practically dismissing me. My uncle had said he’d be scared. I’ve read the reports of widespread debauchery, tables laden with the finest and richest foods, misuse of donations, lax religious practices in all monasteries. I was led to believe that the abbots were all afraid of what would happen to them, and most were more than happy to surrender the abbey and lands. I was certainly not expecting the calm I was met with, and now I’m unsettled having to wait again. When he returns I’ll make it clear what’s required of him.
I look up when the door opens, half expecting the abbot to appear but it’s his manservant.
“Will the abbot be back soon?” I ask him as he puts down another cup of mead.
“After Vespers.” The dour-faced man says. “He has requested you eat with him and that you stay tonight.”
“But what about my horse?” I don’t know about the arrangements within monasteries, do they even have horses?
“He’ll be taken care of, and I’ll have your saddle bags brought in,” the manservant replies.
“Thank you.” It looks like I’ll be here for one night, then. Which is a relief. There looked to be an inn in the small town I rode through before reaching the abbey, but this saves me the trouble of finding out if they have a room for the night. While I wait, I take a look around the small sitting room. It’s comfortable but it’s not particularly opulent. There’s a large fireplace with a wooden mantle, which holds a few simple carvings. There are benches with padded cushions along two walls and a chair placed either side of the fireplace, which tells me that Abbot Theobald entertains often. A low table and two carved chests complete the furniture in the room. Most of it is panelled to shoulder height. On one wall, above the panelling, is a tapestry depicting a scene, probably biblical, but I don’t recognise it.
I’m still contemplating it when the abbot arrives back.
“It’s Esther approaching Ahasuerus, do you like it?”
“As a tapestry or a story?” I ask, unable to help myself as I was caught off guard.
“Either,” he says and I turn towards him. Again is the small smile and the calm steady gaze that I struggle to tear myself away from. I don’t want to like the man.
I know the story, of course. Esther the Queen of Persia who petitioned the King to save her people from persecution after his advisor convinced him to kill them due to a personal affront. It seems a curious subject for a monk to have in his own quarters, and I wonder if his question was a deeper one of which I understood the symbolism. If I answer yes, then I’m showing myself to be in sympathy with what I’m here to do, which at least has some parallels with the story. If I answer no, then I show myself as unbelieving in the will of God. I’m caught in a trap, and the enigmatic expression on Theobald’s face shows me he knows that.
“It doesn’t matter what I think, it will belong to the king soon enough,” I grind out, angry that I’ve been outmaneuvered before I’ve even begun negotiations. His expression doesn’t change, which is impressive.
We’re interrupted by the servant, saving him from having to answer, which also annoys me. I need to find a way to shake his calm demeanor, make him frightened so he’ll surrender. Whilst I have no appetite for seeing people tried and executed, I’ll do what I have to.
“Thank you, Abel, we’ll be through,” he says to the servant and then gestures to the door, allowing me to precede him across the hallway to a small room with a long bench either side of a trestle table. The surface is laden with food, various meats and fish, bread and cheeses. There’s a lot, far more than we can eat. Is this the first sign of the opulence I’ve been expecting?
“This is very grand, do you eat like this every day?” I ask as I slide into one of the benches.
“Not if I don’t have company,” he says smoothly, as if I’m someone he’s invited rather than the person who will seal his fate.
“It seems like a lot.” I cast my eyes over the table, taking it all in.
“None of it will be wasted if that’s what you’re worried about.” He sounds so sincere, as if that truly was my concern. “What we don’t finish will be reused. We make pies and distribute them as alms on Saturdays.”
Again an answer I wasn’t expecting. I scowl and start to load my plate. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m hungry. He waits until I’ve finished and started to tuck into my food before taking only a couple of slices of meat and a hunk of bread. A meagre amount. I stop mid chew and look at him.
“We say grace before we eat,” he says with that amused look he keeps directing at me, like I’m a novice who doesn’t know any better. I swallow my mouthful and drop my eyes.
“Yes, of course.”
He speaks a few sentences, in Latin. It sounds melodic in his rich voice, and I wonder briefly what he would sound like reading Mass in the church, his warm tones reverberating around the vast space. The thought sends a tingle down my spine and I shake it away. When I look up he’s watching me.
