Free The Beautiful Thread by Penelope Wilcock

over the cheese. A contented satiety settled on the company. John felt cautiously pleased. This was going well. As conversation around the table momentarily ceased, Francis said quietly, “ Un ange passe .”
    Hubert looked across at him with the lopsided smile of a well-lubricated wit.
    â€œ C’est peut-être l’Abbé Bé ,” he said meaningfully.
    â€œ Puéril ,” responded Francis with a grin.
    What? thought John.
    â€œ Ou – le Père Plexe? ” offered Percival.
    Francis grimaced, moved his hand in a so-so gesture. “ Religieux ,” he said, “ mais dubitative. ” 1
    John looked from man to man. They were all grinning. Presumably he should be as well. He wasn’t sure what to do. Latin, he knew passably well. Greek, he could just about master. But of French he had only a smattering, and that mostly what he’d picked up from Peregrine’s colourful muttering in the infirmary.
    â€œ Eh bien, peut-être ça c’est le Père Missif ,” suggested Brainard, smiling broadly.
    â€œ Un peu trop laxiste ,” responded the bishop.
    â€œ Ou bien, la Mère Itante ,” said Hubert – and his brother chimed in, “ qui a bien gagnée sa place au ciel! ”
    The palms of John’s hands began to sweat, and his belly tightened until he felt sick.
    â€œ L’Abbé Casse? ” put forward the bishop; and, “ Un drôle d’oiseau! ” said Father Gilbert with a smile.
    â€œCome on, Father!” LePrique turned the sunshine of his smile upon the abbot. “You give us one!” John’s mouth went dry.
    â€œ La Soeur Titude, enfin? ” LePrique roared with laughter at this contribution from Father Francis. And Gilbert came back at him: “ Mais on n’a jamais été sûr d’elle! ”
    â€œ Ou, l’Abbé Névole? ” Percival now. His brother answered with: “ Oui – car celui-ci ne demande jamais rien! ” And they were laughing. They were all laughing, and snatching small glances in the direction of the abbot wondering why he wasn’t laughing too.
    â€œ L’Abbé Nédiction ,” said Francis, raising his goblet as if he were making a toast. And every single one of them (except John) immediately roared as one: “Ameeeeeennnn!!”
    â€œAhhhh… Heheheh…” The bishop leaned forward to catch John’s eye as the laughter subsided. “Not amused, Father John? Oh, come, come, come! Don’t disapprove of us!”
    Frozen, John looked back at him. He had no idea what to say. But Brainard stepped in. “Did you know,” he said, “it has been put forward that people who smile actually live longer? A scowling demeanour is actually bad for your health! A smile can melt away –”
    â€œYes, yes, Brainard,” interrupted the bishop. “Very good. No doubt it can. But maybe – oh, hark; there’s the Compline bell.”
    â€œAnd time we were on the road,” said Percival.
    John registered that he was trembling so badly that he found it hard to rise convincingly from the table to take leave of them with all due courtesy; but he did it somehow, Francis sending the occasional worried glance in his direction.
    Fading light and the call to worship kept all farewells brief. The bishop hurried away to make use of the reredorter before Compline began. Father Gilbert, as hebdomedarian, excused himself and set off to the choir.
    Francis, Tom and John stood in the abbot’s house as the bell tolled, beside the table cluttered with left-over food, goblets, crumpled napkins and plates.
    â€œWhat happened?” asked Francis softly. Brother Tom darted a glance at John, permitting himself a small, rueful smile. “I think,” he said, “our abbot may not speak French. As neither do I.”
    Involuntarily, Francis’s hand rose to his mouth in horror. “I… oh, John! Holy mother