London - Edward Rutherfurd [190]
In the middle of June he went quietly to Westminster Abbey, requested an interview with the abbot, and made the arrangements.
These suited him very well. Whatever objections he may have had to the life of the Abbey in his youth, they seemed less important now. Ida, he was sure, would feel its noble setting to be appropriate. As for himself, having spent a lifetime in the service of Bartholomew’s, it seemed to him that he had earned a rest. The least he could do was keep an eye on David. Their entrance to the Abbey would be secured, and their comfortable maintenance assured, by the generous donation which Sampson Bull would never have provided. It was, he concluded, providence indeed.
So it was, on a warm May night, when the spring moon was almost full, that with a clear conscience and singing heart Brother Michael went to his nephew and said: “I think you may have a vocation for the religious life. What do you think?” At this remark from the saintly man he so admired, when his own young mind was so uncertain, David could only blush with pleasure and gratefully cry: “Oh yes. I do.”
With a heart flowing with love greater than he had ever known before, good Brother Michael suggested: “If you join the great Abbey of Westminster, I will be there also with you, as your guide.”
In the happy consciousness of these events, saying nothing of his plans to anyone as yet, Brother Michael awaited the return of his brother and Ida. That Bull would be angry he had no doubt. Yet remembering how broken he had been when he had thought his son was lost, it seemed to the monk that perhaps, even at this late stage of his life, the unbelieving merchant’s heart might be softened. After all, he planned to say, Bull could at least be glad he was safe and sound in the monastery nearby – where, God knows, he can always visit him, he thought.
As for Ida, he had no doubt that seeing her stepson safe in the bosom of the Church, she would feel the same joy and gratitude as he. When a message came that they would return in June he waited, half nervous and half expectant, to give them the wonderful news.
“What have you done?”
He had never seen her like this before. Her pale, noble face had become as hard as a knight’s. Her large, brown eyes looked at him with scorn, as if he were an impertinent peasant to be cut down.
“The work of God . . .” he began.
“David a monk? How would he have children?”
“We are all the children of God,” he said, abashed.
“God has no need of my step-son,” she retorted with furious contempt. “He will marry into a noble family.”
He stared at her first in horror, then some anger. “Would you put family pride before God and your son’s happiness?”
But she cut him off abruptly. “Let others be the judge of that, you meddling old virgin,” she suddenly shouted. “Get out of this house and go back to your wretched cripples and your cell.” And, half dazed, poor Brother Michael found himself stumbling out. An hour later, after a rapid conversation with her husband in which they found themselves in the most perfect agreement, Ida left again for Bocton, taking David with her.
Yet the true humiliation of Brother Michael came that afternoon when, sitting in a bemused state in the cloister of St Bartholomew’s, he confessed his troubles to Mabel. “I can’t understand it,” he muttered, shaking his head. Mabel, sorry though she was for him, was also firm. “I tried to warn you,” she said, “about unnatural love.”
Thinking of Ida’s scornful eyes he replied sadly: “I don’t think I’m in love with her any more.”
Mabel frowned. “Her? You mean Ida?”
“Who else?” He looked up in surprise.
“Why, David! The boy. You fell in love with a boy, didn’t you, you naughty old man?” And she gave a chuckle, as though it was amusing.
So stunned was he by this outrageous and revolting proposition that Brother Michael was entirely speechless for a moment or two. Then a great rage welled up in him, but before this could take form in words, like some vast, cold chasm opening before him, into which not only the wave of his anger but the whole