‘What could he do? No more than what he did. First he cleaned the undercroft with his friends; they scrubbed and washed and scrubbed again until all the flagstones were shining and clean. Perhaps that would deflect the abbot’s rage when he heard of their drunkenness at his expense. When their master returned, they must endure his chosen punishment, but that could be days away, Milbrosa hoped, and in that time anything could happen. Perhaps by some miracle he would see a way through the problem.
‘But once a man has submitted to an orgy of dissipation and fed the beast within him, it is hard for him to forego the pleasures he has enjoyed. Thus it was with Milbrosa. He craved more wine. Only used to ordinary ale like a monk should be, the heady stuff he had stolen had created a thirst he couldn’t appease.
‘It tore at him, this lust for wine, but how could he assuage it? Sunk deep in gloom he went to the frater and ate a meal with friends. They tried to persuade him that his sole hope was to pray to God for peace and await the Abbot’s return. He should submit to his master and accept whatever penance the good Abbot Walter should impose upon him.
‘Perhaps he would have listened to them and recognised the good sense in their words, but then travellers arrived, and in among them, walking with them for security, was a messenger. Abbot Walter had, he told them, completed his business and was travelling by ship to the abbey’s possessions in the Scilly Isles, far to the west of Cornwall. He would not be coming straight back to the abbey.
‘It was enough! Instead of going to the altar and opening his heart to God, this drunken, foolish sot went down to the undercroft again with his friends. Instead of praying for help, they worshipped their own gluttony with another barrel of wine. But this time, when Milbrosa awoke, his head pounding from the alcohol, he realised that he and his friends were truly lost. The theft of one barrel was a foul crime deserving of punishment, but for this second offence the penalty must be severe. Milbrosa might even be exiled to the Scillies. Glancing about him at the bloated figures of his friends, he acknowledged that their only crime was to have followed him, and he was racked with guilt.
‘He was still drunk, the fool, but he didn’t realise it. In his drink-bleared mind he thought he was wide awake and sober. Many a sotten oaf believes himself sensible and clear-thinking when he is thrown from his tavern, and Milbrosa was like them, He was no more sober than a peasant at the end of harvest when the last of the cider barrel is gone, aye, and it was while he was in this state that he thought he saw a way out of his shame.’
Almoner Peter’s voice dropped again, and he studied his audience still more keenly. ‘He left that undercroft, my lads, and stole silently and secretly to the court. Once he was there, he hesitated. It was night-time, and although the weather was chill and ice lay all about him, the moon showed him that the whole of the abbey was asleep. Alas! If only his brothers had woken and realised the vile crime he was about to commit! His breath hung in the air like a feather, and he shuddered; he thought from the cold, but no. It was his soul rebelling against the evil of his deed. Aye, the good God tried to send him sense, to persuade him that his sins were none so foul yet that he should lose his soul if he prayed for forgiveness, but he was deaf to God’s entreaties!
‘For in the silence of that evil night, Milbrosa made his way to the abbey church, entered, and walked to the chest, where he removed some silver plates and took them away with him.’
There was a gasp, and the old monk nodded grimly, acknowledging their horror. ‘Imagine! He actually dared to go into God’s house to plunder God’s own silver. Milbrosa must have lost his mind. He ran from the church, and secreted the plate beneath his bed, before returning to the undercroft and drinking himself to oblivion. At last falling into a troubled sleep at the side of his friends, he tossed and turned. Dreams came to him, as the saints called to him to return the plate and save his soul, but to no avail. Saint Rumon himself, our patron saint, beseeched him to take back the plate and sin no more, but Milbrosa heeded none of them and pelted headlong to his doom.
‘The next morning he woke with a head still befuddled and as soon as the keeper had opened the gates, he collected the silver and made his way to the moors. There he found the travellers among whom the messenger had mingled, and offered them the silver if they would pay him for it. They agreed, for they had no idea that the stuff was stolen from the church, and before breaking his fast, Milbrosa had a full purse. He returned to the town and met with a merchant, who consented to send the money with a message to the Abbot of Buckfast asking for fresh supplies of wine, and then he made his way to his bed and flung himself on to it, wallowing in crapulous relief that he could again replenish the abbot’s stores.
‘But when he awoke hours later, he realised what he had done and he was riven with anguish. Sober once more, he knew that
