Free The Beautiful Thread by Penelope Wilcock Page A

of God, I am so very sorry. I never thought. I… oh, dear. What can I possibly do to make this better?”
    â€œKill me now?” suggested his abbot. “Oh, forget it, Francis, never mind. No – please don’t faff about kneeling and making apology. We’re late already, and I’ve had enough.”
    Then, recalling the bishop’s equerry’s exhortations and thinking there might be something in what he said, John took a deep breath, and smiled at Francis. “His Lordship looks cheerful enough, at any rate. The whole Visitation’s going remarkably smoothly so far. He was very encouraging to our novices today. Odd, that. William didn’t seem to like him in the least. Hadn’t a good word to say for him.”
    â€œAye, well – that’s nowt fresh, is it?” said Brother Tom. “William has a jaundiced and suspicious view of the whole human race. I’d not set too much store by his opinions if I were you. Come on, Father John. Let’s go to chapel. I’ll clear this lot up later.”
    John nodded. Still determined to be cheerful and put the awful evening behind him, he asked, “Did you get the bracken you wanted? Did the day go well?”
    â€œIt did,” responded his esquire. “We’ll need to go at least once more, though. We got what we could stack on the small cart, but it’s only half what we need, if that. I’ll find a chance when there’s a quiet moment later in the week.”
    A quiet moment , thought the abbot. Remind me what those are, again . But he knew it would sound sour, so he didn’t say it. They went into the peaceful vaulted shadows of the abbey church, and he felt more glad than he could say to let the gentle measure of Compline’s chanting take his day down to rest.
    * * *
    After Chapter, the abbot received Bishop Eric in his lodging. Respectfully, he invited his Visitor to be seated, and offered refreshment from the jug of small beer Brother Thomas had judged suitable to partake at this time of day. The bishop enquired and, discovering it not to be wine, decided not to bother.
    â€œI am getting the drift of your spiritual teaching among the brethren, Abbot John,” began the bishop. “I like your friendly, conversational, familiar style. A good stratagem – especially with the novices. Makes them feel comfortable and at ease, no doubt – the homely approach. Yes – yes, I can see there is merit in it. To draw upon personal experience; a simple faith, a simple Gospel. Just believe and all will be well; no need to think, just keep on from day to day.”
    John did not recognize in this description anything he could recall having said, but could see such a comment would hardly be welcome. Besides, the bishop was only warming up.
    â€œBut now,” went on his Lordship, “perhaps the time has come to dig deeper. You have been in post for – what – eighteen months? During that time no doubt you have made extensive study in theology, maybe even begun to write a book. Have you?”
    John could hardly begin to frame a reply to this. The last eighteen months. Turmoil. Struggle. The turbulent days of William’s brief residence with them. The anguish of his mother’s death and the outrage of Madeleine’s violation. The inner turmoil of trying to find his feet in navigating some kind of compassionate passage through William’s departure and marriage, trying to hold on to at least the hem of Christ’s garment of integrity and truth, not lose his way in monastic vocation in making himself spacious enough to accept William as his brother-in-law. The massive loss – then restoration – of the community’s income. The last eighteen months… write a book? He could now.
    â€œI…” He could see Bishop Eric waiting upon his reply. “I have never imagined myself as a writer,” he said. “I… don’t know.” That