The Beautiful Thread

The Beautiful Thread (vol. 8 in The Hawk and the Dove series), releases on the 19^th of February (don’t buy it, Deb Sokell, I’ve got it on pre-order for you), along with the new edition of The Breath of Peace.

Some of you will have read The Breath of Peace in its original edition, but I thought you might like to read a snippet from The Beautiful Thread to see if you like it – so far it hasn’t got the usual ‘Look Inside’ thing available on Amazon, though I expect they’ll get round to it at some point. The Beautiful Thread is all about kindness as a central characteristic of Gospel living. In the story, Abbot John and his new cellarer Brother Cormac have to juggle the rigours of a bishop’s Visitation (like an official Church inspection) with the preparations for a large wedding taking place at St Alcuins – Brother Damian’s sister Hannah is marrying into an aristocratic family. They draft in William to help Cormac with the complexities of it all; unfortunately it turns out the bishop likes William no better than most people. And then there’s Brother Conradus’s mother Rose – who appears briefly in this extract:

The five visits to St Alcuins Florence Bonvallet had made in the course of the week, Abbot John had dodged and left her to his prior. Mostly he had been required to be with his Bishop Visitor.

Some of the time he had been struggling to cram in urgent correspondence and the preparation of homilies and Chapter addresses.

Late at night and early in the morning he had been approving, signing off and stamping with his seal, the prodigious accumulation of bills associated with the torrent of extra guests into the abbey. 
But on one occasion he had been guilty of catching sight of Florence as he came out of his house, and simply legging it as fast as he could in the other direction, pretending he hadn’t seen her.

 Today he felt he owed it as much to Father Francis as to the Bonvallets to accept some share of the responsibility himself, and offer her an hour of his time – or better still, half an hour.

Brother Martin told him she had gone to the refectory, to check on the condition of the tables and their cloths, to be sure the frater had no vermin, to determine the placing of those guests of sufficient status to be indoors and seated, to decide where to situate the harpist. She also found herself in two minds about the minstrels; the simplest thing would be to give them a spot outside; let the harpist entertain the people of refinement and substance, and everyone else could enjoy the juggling and acrobatics, the more boisterous music of dubious ballads about wedding nights, and the hurdy-gurdy. On the other hand, even her more elegant guests had a taste to be amused, so she acknowledged the existence of an argument to give them a brief spot in the refectory.

She asked the abbot his opinion on the matter, and he won himself the sourest look imaginable by enquiring what Hannah’s and Gervase’s preferences might be. And now she stood, regal and imposing, one hand on her hip and the other thoughtfully rubbing her chin, as her gaze swept the room, missing nothing. John noticed that someone had made a fine job of waxing the tabletops and buffing them to a glossy finish.

            ‘There’s a mouse!’ observed Lady Bonvallet, in cold disbelief. She looked at him accusingly. Earlier on in this acquaintanceship, the abbot had felt constrained to please her if he could, to offer their best and remedy any faults she detected. By this time, reduced to counting the days and heartily looking forward to the first sunrise of Hannah’s married life, he limited his efforts to remaining both patient and civil.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We do have mice. We keep a cat, but she misses some.’

‘Then get another one,’ she responded. The abbot’s jaw tightened, but he did not reply.

‘You know how I want the tables set out? The top table at the far end there, the others flanking the long walls – then the harpist at the bottom, there.’

‘Aye, I do. I believe you had a word with our fraterer, Brother Richard, on the matter. I’m not your man, really, Lady Bonvallet. It’s not I who will be arranging the furniture for your family wedding.’

Florence’s mouth compressed into a tight, twisted rune of displeasure. The abbot sounded distinctly unco-operative. She fixed him with a frosty look, and drew breath to speak, but the far door – that led most directly to the kitchen – opened, and in walked Rose, cheerful and pleasant.

‘Yes?’ Florence re-directed her attention to the interruption.

Rose, smiling, curtsied. ‘Good morrow, your Ladyship. My son told me you were here. We thought the wedding day might be such a press and bustle of people, and since we have some of the sweetmeats ready and two of the subtleties are complete, we wondered if you might like to be the first to have a quick peep.’

 Her eyes sparkled with fun. Though she spoke respectfully, she made the suggestion sound enticing and delightful. She put some of the magic back. Watching Florence’s face change, seeing it light with eagerness and interest, John felt ashamed. A lifetime dedicated to the pursuit of prayer and humility had evidently not taught him the sweetness of manner that seemed to come naturally to Rose.

‘May I have your permission, Father John,’ Rose then asked him, ‘to take Lady Bonvallet through the cloister to the kitchen? I know it is a liberty, not something for everyday. But I think it might mean a lot to her.’

Florence, who had taken a step forward, it never occurring to her to seek the abbot’s permission, paused and looked at him. She read effortlessly the softening of his face, the tenderness with which he regarded Rose and heard her request. She could see that whatever Rose asked, the answer was never going to be ‘no’ from Abbot John. Her eyebrows rose slightly in astonishment.

Intrigued, she watched as the whole demeanour of his body changed; the obstinate rigidity of a moment before melted away.

‘Conradus is with you?’ he ascertained. ‘Then, yes; certainly.’

Making a mental note to get Rose on her side about the mice, Florence followed this interesting and unexpected person into the kitchen to see what they had made. Not much about this wedding so far had made her happy; but she had to admit, the sweetmeats were the daintiest creations imaginable. They let her taste one of each kind, and she had to pronounce them delectable. The dragon’s head was ready, and they showed her how the body would be formed of artfully stacked shortbreads – ‘But they must be crisp and the butter quite fresh, your Ladyship, so we’ll be making them the day after tomorrow.’

Brother Conradus, bursting with pride, showed her the subtleties he had made – the chalice and paten on the altar with gilded glory raying at the back; and a crenelated abbey with open doors revealing a host of tiny pastry people. Florence peered closer. ‘How did you make their eyes?’

‘Poppy seeds, my lady,’ he said with a smile. Then, the question he could contain no longer: ‘Do . . . do you like them?’

Lady Florence Bonvallet looked at the short, plump brother with his ruddy cheeks and shining dark eyes (exactly like his mother), anxiously awaiting her verdict; and in spite of herself she couldn’t help smiling back. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘I think what you’ve made is magnificent. The best I’ve ever seen. It makes me feel better about the whole thing.’

As she escorted Florence away from the monastery kitchen, Rose asked her softly: ‘Forgive me if I am too forward, or if it’s a secret, your Ladyship; I’m just dying to know – what will you be wearing?’

As Florence described the embroidered linen lawn of her chemise and kerchief, the sumptuous green silk velvet cotehardie, with pearls and thread of gold adorning the sleeves, then the deep red surcote with the jeweled braid edging, Rose’s eyes grew round with delight. ‘And on your head, my lady? Oh yes, you said – a kerchief in linen lawn over your barbet! Oh, gracious goodness, you will be perfect! A queen! I shall be serving along with my son on the day, so I’ll be able to catch a glimpse. Oh, my! So exciting!’ She wisely omitted any enquiry about the attire of the bride.

Lady Bonvallet went home happy; curious about the abbot, too – evidently a man not immune to feminine charm, which she hadn’t expected.

:0)

I do hope you like it.