Brother Andrew and The Message

Brother Andrew And The Message.

Age has slowly worn me down in body but my mind is still strong and as
I sit, reading though the diary that has been my constant companion
though out my adult life, memories of the past come flooding back to
me.

There was much confusion amongst the members of our order in the early
part of the twelfth century. Many changes were being forced onto all
holy orders such as ours and not by the leadership of our church alone.
Things had started changing for us in England when William I, known now
as 'the conqueror', at Hastings had defeated our King and great leader,
Harold. William had laid down a series of new rules and had also
started taxing religious groups in such a way that we had hardly been
able to feed ourselves in the manner to which we were accustomed.

His son, William II also known as William Rufus because of his ruddy
complexion, had continued this taxation policy. He had also demanded
that all members of the clergy, whether they be poor monks or rich
archbishops, should respect the common laws of England before the laws
of our Good Lord God. King Henry I followed similar ideas but it was
not until Henry II made his friend Thomas Beckett archbishop of
Canterbury that things really went wrong for all religious groups
throughout the land. These Royal ideas had caused much dissent amongst
all religious people and now things were getting worse instead of
better. Henry II had quarrelled with his archbishop, and had banished
him from the country.

During this period of exile, Archbishop Beckett had been stirring
trouble with the King and to make matters worse, the Pope, Alexander
III, had entered the argument, trying to act as a mediator but in doing
so, he had made things worse by constantly changing sides. This had
confused not only Henry and Thomas but most of England and much of the
continent as well.

Now to make matters worse for our small community, we have a mysterious
visitor to our order. We are told that he carries a message of great
import and we are to congregate in the chapel one hour before our
evening prayers, to hear what this message is. Rumours are spreading
amongst the brothers that range from possible closure of the order to
imprisonment of its members for treason, although none are really being
taken seriously.

And now, the time is here for us to listen to the words of this
messenger but something is wrong. The door to the chapel, which is left
open at all times so that all may pray in peace and privacy, is shut
tight and none can gain entry at present. We have spent some minutes
banging on the door and twisting the handle in an effort to gain entry
but to no avail. No one answers our calls and the whole building has an
eerie silence to it.

Abbott Peter, the leader of our small community, has asked that I fetch
a ladder and ascend the tower where I, being the smallest here, may
possibly squeeze past the large bell that hangs there and then gain
entrance to the chapel to open the door. Only the Abbot is of a similar
size to myself and, because of his rank, it would be most unseemly for
him to ascend the ladder.

The height of the tower frightens me more than anything and as I climb
the rungs of the ladder, I have my eyes tightly closed and my heart is
full of prayer. The top of the ladder seems very far away but one
glance downwards is enough to convince me that it is closer than the
ground and getting closer with every upward step.

The top of the tower is very narrow and the bell is large. Even being
so small, it is a tight squeeze for me to pass but eventually I am
crouched on the great beams that support the bells huge weight. My
breath is loud in my ears as I pause to recover from the climb and then
I peer downwards into the darkness below. The daylight is fading
rapidly and the interior of the chapel is too dark to allow me any
information as to what might be waiting for me below.

I can see no movement nor hear any sound but I am convinced that
something or someone waits in the darkness below. Once more, my faith
and my prayers to our Lord strengthened my resolve and I slowly work my
way down through the levels of beams that form the basic strength and
support for the tower. On finally reaching ground level, I immediately
offer up a prayer of thanks giving and then peer around into the
darkness.

My eyes see nothing at all but my mind his full of half seen things
that flicker and twist in the gloom around me. I know that these things
are only tricks of my frightened imagination but even praying aloud
does not completely rid me of my fears. Moving carefully, I make my way
through the darkness of this familiar building, until I reach the small
altar where I know that there are candles and a flint with which to
light them. Reaching out, I carefully feel round the woven cloth that
covers the altar but after only a few seconds, I realise that the whole
flat surface is bare. No candles, no large brass candlesticks, no brass
plate. Nothing but the altar cloth and, now as I continue to feel my
way round it, I realise that this is twisted and uneven.

Puzzled, I shuffle across the stone flagged floor until I reach the
wall and then make my way slowly round to the door. Once I reach there,
pulling back the two large, iron bolts was work of only a couple of
seconds then a good heave on the handle and the door swings open.
Abbott Peter and the other brothers are crowded round the doorway now;
all carrying candles which cast a flickering glow in the gathering
gloom of evening.

For some few seconds, none spoke and then the Abbott pushed gently past
me.

"Why was the door bolted Andrew? Who is in here?"

Before I can answer, the other brothers have started to push through
the doorway and I turned to follow Peter towards the altar. He has
stopped a few paces in front of me and in the couple of seconds I take
to reach him, I can see that he is staring at the empty expanse of the
alter top. His mouth is open as though he has started to speak but
found he had nothing to say, now he turns to me and swallows
loudly.

"We've been robbed, someone has stolen from us. See, the candlesticks
and plates are gone."

He turns back to the crowd of brothers who have now all followed us
in.

"Outside all of you, search the area and catch this foul thief who
would steal from the house of God."

The brothers are gone from view in seconds, leaving the Abbott and I
alone. The chapel is now lit only by the single candle that the Abbott
holds and after staring around for a few seconds longer, I make my way
over to the small cupboard in the corner where a supply of spare altar
candles is stored.

Taking out four, I light them and place them in a row down the centre
of the altar and in doing so I have made a somewhat startling
discovery. The altar cloth is, as I suspected earlier, twisted
partially and is tucked under itself in one corner as though it has
been thrown in place hurriedly. Not only that but it is not the cloth
that is normally spread there. This one is of a totally different
design although still of a similar type of material. The pattern is of
a much more intricate design and it appears to be new.

"I feel my Lord Abbott, that there is more to this than a mere robbery.
If the chapel had truly been robbed, why would the thief take away the
old altar cloth and then replace it with a new and better quality
one?"

The Abbott stares at me momentarily and then shrugs, as though this
mystery is something that holds no importance.

" That's not something to concern us but we should search thoroughly to
ensure that this thief is brought to justice immediately. To steal from
the house of God is the most foul of all sins and this person must be
punished severely."

With that, he turns and heads for the door, calling over his shoulder
for me to follow him. After a moment of hesitation, I do so but my mind
is searching for answers to questions that it has not yet asked.

I want to ask him how he thinks the thief has escaped from inside the
chapel and managed to bolt the only door from the inside in doing so
but my mind is in a whirl and the chance passes as more questions fill
my mind.

As I reach the door, yet another question enters my head and before I
can stop myself, I catch hold of the Abbott's robe and ask it of
him.

"Where is the messenger to whose presence we were summoned this
evening, my Lord Abbott and what was the message he was to convey to us
that was of such importance? Surely we should seek his assistance in
this matter."

The Abbott turns and faces me, pulling his sleeve from my grasp as he
does so.

"He has had to leave at short notice and continue his journey. He has
many other Holy chapters to visit and has left me to pass along the
message to the brothers here. I shall do so as soon as all are returned
to us. God willing they will bring back this foul thief, or better yet
his body. None that robs the church is worthy of life."

These were hardly the words I would have expected from a man of God but
I knew that our Abbott had been brought up in a harsh world and had no
doubt learnt a hard lesson in doing so.
-------------------------------------
It is late into the night now, the brothers returned empty handed
earlier, dejected at they're own failure. We gathered in the chapel and
spent an hour in prayer, asking that this foul deed be punished on the
thief in a just manner. We have settled into our cots for a few short
hours of sleep and private contemplation. Something in my head has kept
me awake and eventually, I rise and pull my habit on before moving
silently to the door. A few hours of prayer will do me more good than a
restless night and so I make my way across the courtyard towards the
chapel.

Before entering, a thought strikes me and I turn aside to where the
ladder had been placed when I had climbed into the tower. The moon is
full and the stars bright now and I can clearly see the small dents
where the foot of the ladder had been placed. As I am about to turn
away again, I realise that I am seeing more than I should. Instead of
two dents as I would have expected, there are four and suddenly I know
how the thief, if there had ever been one, had escaped from inside a
locked building.

Before entering the chapel, the thief as I had to consider him at the
moment, had fetched the ladder from the barn and stood it against the
tower. That side of the tower is hidden from sight under normal
circumstances, as it is on the opposite side of the building to the
area where we spend most of our working day. It could have stood there
for most of the day and not been noticed. It would then be a simple
matter for the thief to lock the door, steal everything worth taking
and then escape down the ladder. The locked door would prevent anyone
entering quietly and catching him at his foul deed and his descent down
the ladder with the stolen items would be unobserved. From the ladder
to the hedge and freedom is only a matter of a few short paces. Had he
come out of the door of the chapel, he would have been in full view of
any of the brothers working in the vegetable gardens and the hue and
cry would have been raised immediately.

That only left the mystery of the changed altar cloth and I now have
time to take a closer look at the new one. As I had noticed earlier,
the cloth is of good quality, as only befitted it's use on the Lords
table and was of an exquisitely beautiful and expensive design. Many
years of work must have gone into its manufacture. Normally, such a
cloth would have been used only on major feast days but our order is a
poor one and we have only one altar cloth.

Two candles are now burning on the altar, as is always the case here
and they cast an area of shadow on the floor round the altar in such a
way that my feet are in almost total darkness. Lifting one of the
candles, I kneel and look carefully at the flagstones in front of the
altar. There is nothing to be seen and nor is there anything on either
side but when I reach the back of the altar, things change. A dark
stain, almost itself like a shadow, is spread out onto the floor.
Touching it, I find it is cold and sticky almost to the point of being
dry.

Lifting the cloth, I peer fearfully underneath and then rear back in
horror at my find, dropping the candle as I do so.

Seconds spent in wild prayer have steadied my pounding heart and I pick
up the fallen candle and re-light it from its twin atop the altar. Now
with a heavy sigh and a deep breath, I kneel again and lift back the
cloth once more, rolling it back atop the altar to give a clearer view
of the horror beneath.

The body is that of a well-dressed man of perhaps thirty years,
although the shock and pain etched into his face make him appear much
older at first glance. The side of his head has been smashed wickedly
and the blood from the wound has seeped out from under the edge of the
altar, causing the stain I had taken for a shadow. He is folded into
the space and when I reach in to pull him out, I find the weapon that
has been used to end his life. One of the missing candle sticks lies on
the floor behind him. Now he is laid in plain view and I reach into the
space behind where he'd lain and pull out my other finds. The old altar
cloth is wrapped tightly round the rest of the missing brass work from
the altar and the reason for it being hidden is obvious. A large area
of it is covered in blood. The murdered man must have fallen across the
Lords table when he was struck.

Returning to my examination of the body, I soon realise that this is
the missing messenger. On his left hand was a large ring which held the
Royal seal and clutched tightly in the same hand is a velum scroll of
the highest quality.

Prizing it loose has taken some minutes but at last it is free and I
can spread it open on the altar and read its contents.

The letter is addressed to the Abbott and is almost as horrifying to me
as the discovery of the murdered man had been. After reading it twice,
I feel the need for serious prayer and a chance to think about what I
should do next. Moving away from the altar to my normal position at the
back of the chapel, I lower myself to my knees and begin to pray for
guidance from our good Lord.

I have hardly started my prayers when I hear a faint noise and turning,
I see the door swing silently open. Hardly daring to breathe, I watch
as the familiar figure passes me and walks round to the back of the
altar. He is carrying a bucket of water, no doubt with the intention of
wiping away the blood. Discovering that the body has been moved and
therefore discovered the figure stands suddenly upright, placing the
bucket on the floor as he does so and now he turns and peers through
the gloom in my general direction.

"Who's there, what's the meaning of this?"

Standing, I move slowly into the light before speaking.

"The letter makes interesting reading. Meddling in affairs of state is
a treasonous crime but plotting to murder the King is a crime that no
man can forgive. As much as all Christian men love our archbishop
Beckett, even he would not go so far as to murder the King in order to
enable himself to return to this country. If you felt so strongly, you
should have joined him in exile. As it is, murdering the Kings
messenger will certainly mean your own death and then you will have to
face the highest court of all. You will at last stand in front of the
good Lord and there will have the chance to ask His forgiveness. May He
have mercy on your soul because surely no man will have."

The silent figure in front of me, now faced with total ruin and the
wrath of the church and the God he has served all his life, seems to
crumble to half his normal size. I walk the few paces to where the rope
for the great bell hangs and pull heavily on it until the bell start
its deep booming ring. After a few moments, I stop and wait in the
silence beside the dejected figure of the Abbott until the other
brothers arrive to find out why their sleep has been disturbed.

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