Manner of Devotion
"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."
Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments. Whichever comes first.
This chapter is rated M for violence and medical gore.
Chapter 11 - The Discipline of Saint Benedict
For the rest of his days, all Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti could truly recall of the exact moment he knew something was wrong, was the color red. It stained the floor, dripping down the steps that he ascended.
"Father! We must not touch blood!"
He did not listen to the prior. He knew it was true and he could care less. He did not touch blood – he waded in it, kneeling before Grégoire's collapsed figure. Even the laymen hired for the job (the church did not spill blood) had already stepped back with his flail, sensing something amiss when the bonds holding down the monk came loose and he lost consciousness, his head hitting the stone. The doctor had declared the young and relatively healthy Grégoire good for no less than ten strokes, but he had only made it to three.
"Don't just stand there!" the abbot shouted to the doctor. "Help me!" With his own withered hands he tore apart the bloodied shirt for the ceremony, once white, but no longer. His intention was to get the wounds in view of the doctor, but that was not what happened. The poor cloth came apart to reveal the harsh leather of a hairshirt.
The affect was instantaneous. The monks and even the bishop got to their knees, crossing themselves. "My G-d," Bishop Valerano said, "we've killed a saint."
He would not believe it. He could not believe it. He refused. Instead he reached for a pulse. He did not have the words of adequate praise for Christ when he found one. "Almost, Your Excellency, but not quite. Now we must save one, or we are all damned."
"Father," said Brother Martin, "please." He held up a change of robes.
This shook the abbot from his stupor enough to realize it might be prudent to change from his blood-soaked robe. "Thank you," he said quietly.
"The brothers – we have circulated a petition that we might fast for Brother Grégoire's recovery until he is out of danger."
Normally he would be hesitant to have an entire abbey of lethargic, hungry monks, but this time he answered with no hesitation, "Yes, of course."
He stood up from the bench outside Grégoire's cell for the first time since the door had been closed and the doctor set to work and returned to his own, where he changed his robe. The old one would probably have to be discarded. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," he said in the darkness before returning to his vigil. The bishop had said nothing, but removed his cap and was pacing nervously.
Finally the door was opened, and the abbot saw himself in, closing the door behind him. Grégoire was on his mattress, asleep or unconscious on his side. He was wearing nothing above his waist and his back was covered in bandages.
The doctor was still cleaning his hands of blood. "Father."
"Doctor. Will he live?"
"I've done all I can, Father. I've sewn him, but his flesh was weak – from the uhm, shirt, I presume." He was clearly out of his element with this, even though he had treated many punished monks. "He lost a lot of blood; probably too much. As soon as he wakes, he should drink something."
The abbot nodded numbly. "How long do you suspect he was wearing the cilicium?"
"I-I do not know, Father. There is no way to tell."
"But – it was not recently."
"No. He has scars from it on his chest. He must have been wearing it for – a year, at least." He whispered, "Father, I beg you, if I had known –"
"We would have suspended the sentence, of course. But we did not know. G-d, I did not know. Brother Grégoire, why did you prescribe your own penance? Why did you not tell me?" He looked at the still monk, and then up at the doctor. "You have my blessing for all of your work, Doctor. We will call you again for the stitches to come out, yes?"
"Yes. In two weeks. There were – a lot of them." He bowed, and excused himself as quickly as possible.
Not ready to face the bishop, his flock, or anyone else, Abbot Francesco knelt beside Grégoire. He knew of the boy's flagellant history, but Grégoire said he stopped that when he became a Benedictine. Apparently, he found a new way to torture his flesh. The abbot watched him breathe taking the young hand in his old, withered one. "What great sin have you done, to deserve this? What are you fortifying yourself against? You are no service to the Holy Spirit as a dead man, my son." He smoothed over the tangled bits of Grégoire's curly brown hair. "I swear if you are good enough to us to survive, I will do everything in my power to protect you – from the bishop, from the church." He bowed his head. "And from yourself."
When they rose the next morning for Vigils, Prior Pullo, who had the last watch, reported that Grégoire had briefly woken enough to take water and some soup, but had said nothing. Nonetheless there was much rejoicing, and they all broke their fast together, though they ate in silence.
The abbot was on his way to visit Grégoire's cell after Sext when he was called to inspect gifts for the abbey. He came to the door keep to find baskets of goods – cheeses, milk, fresh fruit and vegetables. "From the villagers," said the doorkeeper. "They've been leaving them all day, for Brother Grégoire."
"Who told them?" he said.
"I don't know, Father. No one's been in or out all day." He shrugged. "Perhaps they suspect something because he's not been visiting the people for the last few days. They might think he is ill or something."
He nodded. "Bring the baskets inside. And if anyone comes to ask, tell them nothing. We do not want idle rumors."
"Of course, Father."
In the evening, Grégoire woke again. The abbot was watching this time. It was obvious the monk was in too much pain to speak, but again they forced him to drink broth, and a bit of the milk from the villagers. They called the doctor again, and he prescribed a mix of items mashed in water for him to drink.
The abbot spent much of his time in the chapel. The weight on his soul pressed down on his chest, making it almost hard to breathe.
"Father." It was Brother Marcus. "I was changing his sheets because they were soaked and –"
"And what?"
The monk held up the white sheet. The blood stains formed a broken cross, but a cross nonetheless. The abbot rose quickly and pulled the sheet away from him. "Say nothing of this."
"But Father –"
"Nothing. No talk of miracles."
"There is already talk of miracles."
"No more talk, then. I forbid it." He put his hand on the shoulder of the confused monk. "Trust me. It is better for Brother Grégoire if he is not spoken of in this manner. No good will come of it."
The monk nodded and left. The abbot went to the cellars, and burned the sheet. "Don't do this to yourself," he said to Grégoire afterwards. "You will bring a whirlwind down on your head." Grégoire had no response; his eyes weren't open. "When you wake, I will tell you everything terrible of this world. You must protect your own soul from it, and not in this manner."
Sadly, there were abbey matters that could not be stalled any longer, and on the third day, he returned to the paperwork and the mundane parts of being the abbot of a large monastery. It was then that the bishop, who had no doubt been plagued by thoughts of his own, intruded.
"I am to report to the Archbishop."
"Please do not," the abbot said. "I beg of you. Let Brother Grégoire speak for himself first."
"He should at least hear."
"There is too much to hear. It is all talk."
"If Grégoire is a saint –"
"I don't want to hear that word!" the abbot shouted. "I have told people not to speak it – why don't they listen to me?"
"Do you believe it?"
He looked away. "It is not the point. If it goes beyond these walls it will go straight to Rome, and Brother Grégoire will never hear the end of it. The church always needs another saint."
"And you think that is a bad thing?"
"You forget, Your Excellency, that I was once Archbishop of Oviedo, and before that, a bishop in Rome. I will not have him sent to the wolves. He is just a young monk who is overzealous in the mortification of the flesh. Besides, it is useless to even speak of sainthood before he's been dead decades, except for political gain." He eyed the bishop. "Do not report to the Archbishop."
"I must."
"Then do not say anything of significance. The investigation is ongoing. That is not a lie."
"I will say as I please, Father Abbot."
He went to leave, but the abbot said to his departing back, "I will do everything to protect my charge, even if it means going against you."
"You overstep yourself, Father."
"Perhaps. You are a bishop and a friend of the new Archbishop – who was once a bishop under me. You may do as you please, Your Excellency. And I will do everything I can to save the soul I almost destroyed."
The bishop did not respond as he left. The abbot put his head in his hands and wept, only to be interrupted by Brother Martin storming in without knocking. "Father – he is awake."
It took all of Abbot Francesco's strength to compose himself to kneel beside the bedding of Brother Grégoire, who was being helped to finish off the last of his daily tonic.
"You may speak," the abbot said. "The excommunication is lifted. Your penance is more than done, Brother Grégoire."
"Then why do I feel otherwise, Father?"
"That blame lies with us, Brother. How long were you wearing the cilicium?"
Grégoire was not in the most alert of states, and paused before answering. "It must be – three years now, as much as I could stand it."
"And for what sin were you repenting, Brother Grégoire?"
"Violating my oath of celibacy, Father Abbot."
"You only did this once? The time you confessed to me of in Munich?"
Grégoire nodded.
"You confessed and were forgiven." The abbot sighed. "Brother, you have given yourself to G-d, body and soul. It is not for you to decide when you are forgiven. The only thing you are guilty of is not understanding the extent of G-d's Grace. Not something many grapple with, but dangerous nonetheless."
Grégoire closed his eyes and said nothing.
"You are to wear an undershirt until you are fully healed of your wounds. Everything else, we will leave to G-d until you recover. Now rest, Brother."
But Grégoire was already asleep.
When Grégoire was ready to stand and walk again, there was no lack of offers to help him to the chapel. The abbot and the bishop watched as he uneasily took his first steps out of his cell in a week, one hand on the wall and the other arm being held up by Brother Martin. Whether the monks following him were doing it in brotherhood or in worship was debatable, but he seemed unaware of it. He only gazed at the gifts lined up along the wall in confusion.
"From the villagers, Brother Grégoire," Prior Pullo explained. "You have been missed."
He nodded, not completely comprehending.
The reading for the day was from the Letters to the Corinthians. The abbot wondered if there was anyone who could not help but be distracted. Grégoire himself was nodding off at various points, and did not break bread with them, already exhausted. The next day he made it to two services, and it seemed as though he was on his way to finally mending. Still he said little unless spoken to, either because he was distracted by pain or addled by his experiences.
"Do you remember anything between your injuries and when I spoke to you days later?" the abbot said in privacy.
"I remember ... an anvil. And fire."
"Brimstone?"
"No. Just fire." He played with his rosary. "Am I still to write to my brother?"
"It will be sorted out in time," the abbot assured him. "There is no need to worry of it now."
"I would like to see the ocean. May I have leave to sit outside?"
"Of course, Brother Grégoire."
The next day the weather was fine, and the brothers helped him venture outside the abbey doors and sat him in a chair overlooking the coast. He was on the other side of the abbey, and therefore not there to hear the procession with the arrival of the Archbishop of Oviedo.
The Archbishop was a Spanish native and a Dominican, like Bishop Valerano. He had been bishop when the abbot was assigned to the post of Archbishop, a requested transfer from Rome, and had been raised when the abbot requested another transfer to a monastery. The Archbishop still looked to the abbot with some reverence as he listened to all of the facts of the case, repeated to him again, including all that had occurred since the writing of the bishop's letter to him.
"If all you say is true," he concluded, "then he must go to Rome."
"No," the abbot said. "Please, Your Excellency. He is my charge and I do not believe it best for him."
"Surely a pilgrimage, at least," the bishop suggested.
"He has already made a pilgrimage to Rome, some years ago," the abbot said. "He still wears the cross purchased at St. Peter's Square."
The Archbishop rubbed his chin. "What does the brother think?"
"He is not aware of it. He is not in a condition to comprehend it, I think. His wounds are still very great." The abbot also knew that Grégoire would humbly bow to the authority of the Archbishop. His mind was weakened and confused.
"With respect, Father, I do not come rushing for every monk who disobeys your Rule," the Archbishop said. "Let him come and speak for himself."
G-d Save him, the abbot prayed. I am throwing him to their den. But still the hierarchy had to be respected, and he requested that Grégoire be retrieved. After some time, the monk entered, his shuffle lopsided.
"Please," the Archbishop said. "Be seated, Brother Grégoire."
Hesitating at first, Grégoire took the wooden seat across from the abbot's chair, in which the Archbishop sat while the others stood.
"Brother Grégoire," the Archbishop began, "upon reviewing your case, we believe it is in your best interest to make a pilgrimage to Rome as soon as you are able, and perhaps be transferred to a monastery in the Papal lands."
Grégoire instinctively looked up at his abbot, who quietly shook his head. "Your ... Your Excellency. I have – already been to Rome."
"Not everyone makes the journey but once. Some people even live there. Like your Father Abbot, before his residency here." The Archbishop continued, "You should consider what is the best interest of your soul, Brother Grégoire. You will consider it for as long as you need to decide. Do you understand?"
"I –" He was struggling to keep his eyes open. "I – Father?"
"Yes?"
Grégoire motioned for him to come over, and whispered in his ear. Alarmed, the abbot put his hand against Grégoire's forehead. "Excuse us, your Excellencies. Brother Grégoire is not well."
"What did he say?" the bishop insisted as the abbot raised Grégoire from his seat.
"He said he needed to be ill, Your Excellency," the abbot said. "That is your answer for now. Be satisfied with it."
The doctor was called as the brothers tried to soothe Grégoire's raging fever with cold cloths. The abbot refused to leave his side, and said his prayers in the cell with Grégoire instead of with the chorus. "I have failed you again, Brother."
Finally the doctor arrived, and this time the abbot did not leave the room, and saw the extent of the damage himself. The lacing had gone bad, and his wounds were infected, and had to be reopened and sewn all over again. The abbot silently questioned the competency of this local surgeon, but now it was not an issue. There was no one else in the area, and Grégoire could not be moved. When the doctor cut the old lacing, the wounds reopened and blood poured out with a foul stench. Grégoire, fortunately, was unconscious.
L-rd, how much blood must You take from him? The abbot prayed, aiding the doctor with more clean towels and water until he was finished.
"If the fever breaks, he will live," the doctor said. "If it doesn't, he won't." He paused. "Father, you do not look well."
I am a tormented man. "I am an old man. Old men do not look well."
"You should rest, Father."
"I will rest when I can find some," he answered.
Grégoire survived the night, and for that they were all grateful, but his fever did not break. It would occasionally go down and he would have moments of coherency, but otherwise, he was incapacitated.
Abbot Francesco had not slept at all when he entered his own office to find Bishop Valerano and the Archbishop poring over unfamiliar documents. "What is going on here?"
"Father, it is good to see you. We require your signature."
He took a seat and the scroll was passed to him. He read the Latin in disbelief. "This is a transfer. You expect me to sign this? He is not well enough to stand! He might not live!"
"There are arrangements for his body to be interred in Rome."
"His body will not be interred in Rome!" he shouted, then retreated at his outburst. He was so tired. "When he came to this monastery he said that he wished that his body be returned to England to be buried with his family. Unless he is well enough to testify that he has changed his mind, I will honor his wishes. As for the transfer to Rome, it is hardly time to think about that."
"Do you intend to challenge this?"
He knew a threat when he heard one, however quietly it was spoken. After all, the blood of Roman senators coursed through his veins. "I will challenge it, yes. Apparently you have both forgotten that the broken monk you see before you is not without his own alliances, church and family." He looked up at the bishop. "Yes, I am from that Chiaramonti family."
Bishop Valerano turned to the Archbishop, who nodded. "His brother is the Vicar of Christ." They both crossed themselves.
"I will reassess the situation when Grégoire is well," he said. "If he is well. If he dies, G-d help us all, because I am sure we are all damned for this."
With that, he excused himself, and returned to his vigil beside Brother Grégoire. The other monks had found excuses to abandon their chores and were camped outside the cell. The abbot knelt beside him and kissed Grégoire's hand. "If you are going to work any more miracles, Brother Grégoire, work one for yourself."
There was a knock on the door. "Come."
It was the doorkeeper, Brother Pedro. "Father, there is a couple at the abbey gates."
"Villagers?"
"No, Father. They speak only broken Spanish. It is a man and wife and they are armed."
"Armed?"
"Yes," he said. "They say they are Brother Grégoire's relatives."
...Next Chapter – Grégoire's Cousins