to many hundreds not only from France, but of recent years from England, too. But for the close dependents of Archbishop Theobald it was first and foremost the mother house of that difficult colleague and ambitious and arrogant rival, Bishop Henry of Winchester.
“There was one of the brothers died there,” said Elave, standing up sturdily for the sanctity and wisdom of Cluny, “who had written on all these things, and taught in his young days, and he was revered beyond any other among the brothers, and had the most saintly name among them. He saw no wrong in pondering all these difficult matters by the test of reason, and neither did his abbot, who had sent him there from Cluny for his health. I heard him read once from Saint John’s Gospel, and speak on what he read. It was wonderful to hear. And that was but a short time before he died.”
“It is presumption to play human reason like a false light upon divine mysteries,” warned Gerbert sourly. “Faith is to be received, not taken apart by the wit of a mere man. Who was this brother?”
“He was called Pierre Abelard, a Breton. He died in the April, before we set out for Compostela in the May.”
The name had meant nothing to Elave beyond what he had seen and heard for himself, and kept wonderingly in his mind ever since. But it meant a great deal to Gerbert. He stiffened in his stall, flaring up half a head taller, as a candle suddenly rears pale and lofty when the wick flares.
“That man? Foolish, gullible soul, do you not know the man himself was twice charged and convicted of heresy? Long ago his writings on the Trinity were burned, and the writer imprisoned. And only three years ago at the Council of Sens he was again convicted of heretical writings, and condemned to have his works destroyed and end his life in perpetual imprisonment.”
It seemed that Abbot Radulfus, though less exclamatory, was equally well informed, if not better.
“A sentence which was very quickly revoked,” he remarked drily, “and the author allowed to retire peacefully into Cluny at the request of the abbot.”
Unwarily Gerbert was provoked into snapping back without due thought. “In my view no such revocation should have been granted. It was not deserved. The sentence should have stood.”
“It was issued by the Holy Father,” said the abbot gently, “who cannot err.” Whether his tongue was in his cheek at that moment Cadfael could not be sure, but the tone, though soft and reverent, stung, and was meant to sting.
“So was the sentence!” Gerbert snapped back even more unwisely. “His Holiness surely had misleading information when he withdrew it. Doubtless he made a right judgment upon such truth as was presented to him.”
Elave spoke up as if to himself, but loudly enough to carry to all ears, and with a brilliance of eye and a jut of jaw that spoke more loudly still. “Yet by very definition a thing cannot be its opposite; therefore one judgment or the other must be error. It could as well be the former as the latter.”
Who was it claimed, Cadfael reflected, startled and pleased, that he could not understand the arguments of the philosophers? This lad had kept his ears open and his mind alert all those miles to Jerusalem and back, and learned more than he’s telling. At least he’s turned Gerbert purple and closed his mouth for a moment.
A moment was enough for the abbot. This dangerous line of talk was getting out of hand. He cut it short with decision.
“The Holy Father has authority both to bind and to loose, and the same infallible will that can condemn can also with equal right absolve. There is here, it seems to me, no contradiction at all. Whatever views he may have held seven years ago, William of Lythwood died on pilgrimage, confessed and shriven, in a state of grace. There is no bar to his burial within this enclave, and he shall have what he has asked of us.”
Chapter Three
As cadfael came through the court after dinner, to return to his labors in the herb garden, he encountered Elave. The young man was just coming down the steps from the guest hall, in movement and countenance bright and vehement, like a tool honed for fine use. He was still roused and ready to be aggressive after the rough passage of his master’s body to its desired resting place, the bones of his face showed polished with tension, and his prow of a nose quested belligerently on the summer air.
“You look ready to bite,” said Cadfael, coming by design face-to-face with him.
The boy looked back at him for a moment uncertain how to respond, where even this unalarming presence was still an unknown quantity. Then he grinned, and the sharp tension eased.
“Not you, at any rate, Brother! If I showed my teeth, did I not have cause?”
“Well, at least you know our abbot all the better for it. You have what you asked. But as well keep a lock on your lips until the other one is gone. One way to be sure of saying nothing that can be taken amiss is to say nothing at all. Another is to agree with whatever the prelates say. But I doubt that would have much appeal for you.”
“It’s like threading a way between archers in ambush,” said Elave, relaxing. “For a cloistered man, Brother, you say things aside from the ordinary yourself.”
“We’re none of us as ordinary as all that. What I feel, when the divines begin talking doctrine, is that God speaks all languages, and whatever is said to him or of him in any tongue will need no interpreter. And if it’s devoutly meant, no apology. How is that hand of yours? No inflammation?”
Elave shifted the box he was carrying to his other arm, and showed the faded scar in his palm, still slightly puffed and pink round the healed punctures.
“Come round with me to my workshop, if you’ve the time to spare,” Cadfael invited, “and let me dress that again for you. And that will be the last you need think of it.” He cast a glance at the box tucked under the young man’s arm. “But you have errands to do in the town? You’ll be off to visit William’s kinsfolk.”
“They’ll need to know of his burying, tomorrow,” said Elave. “They’ll be here. There was always a good feeling among them all, never bad blood. It was Girard’s wife who kept the house for the whole family. I must go and tell them what’s arranged. But there’s no haste. I daresay once I’m up there it will be for the rest of the day and into the evening.”
They fell in amicably together, side by side, out of the court and through the rose garden, rounding the thick hedge. As soon as they entered the walled garden, the sun-warmed scent of the herbs rose to enfold them in a cloud of fragrance, every step along the gravel path between the beds stirring wave on wave of sweetness.
