Free The Beautiful Thread by Penelope Wilcock Page B

this sounded nothing like the man of intellect and acumen he was supposed to be, John felt all too keenly aware. The bishop frowned.
    â€œHmm. I see. No doubt you have kept records of your Chapter talks? No? Why not? I was going to suggest you start there. You could move on now from these homely little encouragements to something of real calibre. Something stronger. I know you will have thought it fitting to begin gently – shrewd, very shrewd – but I judge the community would be ready now for you to beef things up a bit. Some meaty theology. Something wider and deeper. Richer. More inspiring. Something substantial.”
    Silence lengthened between them, as the bishop looked expectantly at the abbot. John wondered if he could even begin to confess that he poured his heart and soul into what he offered the community in Chapter. That there was no more to give, no more inside him, beyond what he already put before them.
    â€œOf course, your Lordship,” he said humbly. “I’ll do my best.”
    Nothing improved after that. Bishop Eric wanted to hear about John’s vision for enlarging St Alcuin’s prestige in the local community – by which he meant the aristocracy; nobody else’s esteem mattered much. What plans had he for musical development, for creating a circle of debate, for building on such reputation for scholarly achievement as they had?
    â€œI always thought,” mused the bishop, “your predecessor should have written a book. Abbot Columba was a man of real depth, true intelligence. Nobody like him. A man of stature. He had a quality of greatness about him. I should think you have your work cut out to step into his shoes. Well, never mind. I’m thinking of writing a book myself, you know. About the ethical realization of the theology of transubstantiation applied to the political structures of the nation. What do you think?”
    John swallowed. “If you do that,” he said, “it would be an honour indeed if you would permit us to make a copy for our library. Oh – have you seen our library yet? No? Well, while you are here, I’ll show you round. And I wondered if today you might like to see the work we do in the pottery. And visit our infirmary.”
    â€œThe infirmary – no,” retorted the bishop. “I am a man of too much consequence to risk contagion. And I doubt your old men in their dotage are worth examination. But it would be diverting to take a look at your little pottery.”
    The abbot smiled at him, though he did not find it easy. “I’ll ask Father Francis to take you,” he said. “Brother Thomas – would you find Father Prior and ask him to come directly .”
    The abbot’s esquire, who knew a man at the end of his rope when he saw one, vanished without a word, and returned with all speed, Francis hurrying along in his wake.
    In an ideal world, the abbot thought, Lady Florence Bonvallet would not follow hot on the heels of Bishop Eric into his life. When the community had elected him abbot, he had grasped the solemnity of the charge – a weight of spiritual responsibility that no man dare take lightly. But he had not appreciated the extent to which he would be tasked with diplomatically fending off constitutionally difficult people determined to bend him to their point of view. To resist without offending was not always easy. He acknowledged that, as he saw the bishop out of his house with a promise to see him later in the day, and opened the door to Lady Bonvallet, he felt somewhat buffeted; like a man trying to keep his feet in very slippery mud and a gale force wind.
    â€œGood morrow, my lady; come in. I trust you are well? Your mother is well? Not with you today?” He did what he could to set aside the persisting irritation at Bishop Eric’s remarks about his abbot’s Chapters, let it go, let it fade. He smiled at Lady Bonvallet. She looked at him. She herself was