Brother Andrew (obviously the working title)
by Natania Barron
 

    Brother Andrew was stooped over in the garden, gently pulling at weeds that were growing between the roses.  His forehead was slick with perspiration, his tonsured hair hanging in darkened sections by his temples and neck.  Large hands, still young and dexterous, worked wonders on the small patch of earth before him, and soon the roses had plenty of room to breathe.
    Leaning back on his calves, and dragging a soiled hand across his forehead, young Brother Andrew squinted up into the bright clouded sky.  The sun seemed to loom behind the expanse of cloud cover, just enough to illuminate the day.  He smiled, thankful that God had provided a day without rain so he could weed the rose beds and not be hindered with mud.  Brother Andrew had always been fascinated with roses, for he felt they were a gift to him.  As a child, growing up in the North, he had fallen madly in love with the flower, enchanted by its soft petals and mystical fragrance.  He had always prayed for an abbey with roses.
    “Brother Andrew,” came a voice from behind him.  It was the voice of Father Fredrico.  His words were thick with an Italian accent, and his voice low and raspy.  It was a voice not for giving homilies or chanting, mused Brother Andrew, but suited better for putting the fear of God into people.
    Immediately Brother Andrew stood to his feet, wiping his hands on his habit.  “Father Fredrico,” he said, his own accent giving away his Northern roots.  His r’s were too hard, and he knew it agitated Father Fredrico.  “God bless you on this most beautiful day!”
    “Ehm,” said Father Fredrico, his large nostrils flaring at the appearance of the monk.  Immediately, he drew his handkerchief to his hawk-like nose, and his cold blue eyes opened wide.  “You stink of the pigs, Brother Andrew, and it is an embarrassment.  Must you dawdle in the garden all day?  There is much to be done.  Father Antonio wishes to speak with you.”
    “Father Antonio?” asked Brother Andrew, craning his neck toward the abbey.  “Father Antonio to speak with me?  What could it be for?”
    Father Fredrico’s thick lids closed halfway, bored and unamused.  “Need you ask questions?  Your speech rattles in my ears, Andrew.  Father Antonio wishes to speak with you, that is all you need to know.”
    Andrew straightened his collar and nodded, gesturing straight ahead, toward the abbey and Father Antonio’s quarters.  “Lead the way, Father Fredrico, and I shall follow.”
    The sky began to darken as they walked toward the abby of Ap-Awn-Nuir and toward Father Fredrico.  For Andrew, the northern Scot, the weather was certainly not uncommon, and he pulled his hood over his head as the rain began to softly fall.  He smiled, glad that his roses would get an appropriate amount of rain, which he believed was God’s way of smiling at the simple toil of his hands.
    As they entered the nave of the abbey, and crossed themselves with holy water, genuflecting before the altar, Father Fredrico whispered, “You know the way,” and left down to the chapel toward the right.  Father Antonio’s study was built off the chapter room, toward the north of the abbey.  It was a simple room, for Father Antonio was a simple man.  It was plain stone, with a large wooden desk, made by the carpenter, Jasper, in town.  A bookshelf was by the window, and pale light drifted in.  Large yellow wax candles always burned in Father Antonio’s study, but there was no fire.
    “Father Antonio?” asked Andrew, as he stood by the door, knocking softly.
    “Andrew,” came the old voice of Father Antonio, the abbot, worn with age.  “Come in, please.  The door is open.”
    Pushing on the weathered and grainy surface of the old door, Andrew blinked into the dimness of Father Antonio’s study.  The smell of fresh parchment and incense filled his nose, and made his eyes begin to water.
    “God bless you, Andrew,” said Father Antonio, rising from his chair behind his desk.  Parchment papers were scattered, documents mostly, and records.  He hobbled to the front of his desk, and held out his hand.  Andrew took the hand gently and kissed his ring, kneeling down.  Smiling up at the old man, Andrew’s eyes shone.  Father Antonio had aged considerably even in the few years that Andrew had been a Brother at Ap-Awn-Nuir’s Rose Abbey.  The old abbot’s eyes were still bright, but wrinkled flesh hung all about his soft brown eyes, and down his cheeks.  His mouth was hardly more than a puckered line of flesh, and his brow rose high into sparse hair, dotted with age.  Underneath his habit, still, Andrew could tell he was so very slight, so thin, like his long fingers that he held now in his hand.
    “God bless you, Father,” said Andrew, kissing Father Antonio’s hand again.
    “You may rise, my child,” said Father Antonio, laying a gentle hand upon Andrew’s head for a moment.
    Andrew rose, and smiled.  Andrew was nearly a head taller than Father Antonio, and he was not a man of great height.  He was bulky and earthy, not lean and beautiful like Father Fredrico or some of the other monks.  “Father Fredrico told me you wished to see me?”
    “Yes, yes, indeed,” said Father Antonio, hobbling to the side of his desk and snatching up his cane.  “Andrew, will you walk with me?”
    Andrew nodded, and followed Father Antonio out the door and into the abbey.  They walked together in silence down the nave and into the Lady Chapel, where     Father Antonio and Andrew took a moment to pray.
    Then, Father Antonio spoke to Andrew.  “Your roses are looking magnificent, Andrew, truly radiant.  The work you have done here in the abbey has been a great attestant to your gifts from God.”
    The roses aren’t mine, with all respect, Father Antonio.  It is God who makes them grow; I only weed them and sing to them, it is all that I can do.  God sends the rain,” said Andrew shyly.
    "That he does,” said the old pater, sighing, and folding his hands on his lap.  “But also, you are remarkable yourself.  God has given you a light, Andrew, and I think the roses can see that, in their own way.  When Father Ulrich used to do the gardening around the chapel, he was constantly frustrated with the soil here, and stubbornly told me they would never grow.  It disturbed me that the Abbey of the Rose, Rose Abbey, would have no roses.  It has been a joy to see roses, of all colors and shade, spring to life here.”
    Andrew was silent, flattered and thankful for Father Antonio’s words.
    “I am old, Andrew,” said Father Antonio.  “And getting older.  I feel the breath in me going stale, my child, and I pray for you every day that when I am gone you will continue in the way you have been taught, that you never lose the gifts you have.”
    Finding his throat tight with the prospect of tears, Andrew blinked over to Father Antonio, surprised and touched.
    “I have grown to love Ap-Awn-Nuir, Andrew,” said Father Antonio, his watery eyes fixed on the sculpture of the Virgin, embracing the infant Jesus.  “When I came here, I was a fiery youth, much like yourself, fresh in the teachings of the Holy Church and far from my homeland.  I knew little of the strange language of this island, and even less of their customs.  I felt an outsider, but knew  God had brought me here for a purpose.  I have seen three generations come and go now, and I have seen many a birth and death.  I love the people of Ap-Awn-Nuir as my own children.”
    Andrew listened intently as the old priest closed his eyes and drew a long breath.  “But there are those who no longer feel the love for Ap-Awn-Nuir that I do,” continued Father Antonio.  “And I fear things will change once I am gone.  I received word from the Archbishop today that it is Father Fredrico who will take my     place upon my death.  I had hoped it would be you, I had hoped I could hold on longer, but I cannot.
    “And so,” said the abbot, “since there is little in my control save the Brothers of the Rose, for I know God has all the knowledge beyond, I have made a decision, and just this morning God showed me my judgment was true.
    “You may have seen the new lord of Ap-Awn-Nuir, Andrew, a Norman named Fitzroy.  He lives up on Dulamour, and is the cousin of the previous lord of Ap-Awn-Nuir, Duchaise.  He is . . . a good man, I suppose, when all is said and done.  He has a good heart, but often his vices get in the way of his ruling.  Lord Fitzroy knows little of Ap-Awn-Nuir, having grown up in Normandy and Brittany all of his life.  Moreover, he is to marry the Lady Bianca, from London, the daughter of Lord Musgrove and his wife, an Italian, the Lady Maria Musgrove, a cousin of mine.  He has requested that one of the Brothers of the Rose take up residence in Dulamour with him and his new wife, as well as his servants and workers.  There you will serve Mass and take confession.”
    Andrew had followed the conversation perfectly until Father Antonio referenced him.  “Me?” he asked in a harsh whisper.
    “Yes, Andrew, I wish for you to take the assignment.  It may be long term and it may be short term, but it is of the utmost importance.  Bianca is of blood to me, and I baptized her myself, many years ago.  I promised her mother, my cousin, that I would watch over her if ever I had the power.  I trust you will, Andrew.”
    Andrew swallowed the lump in his throat, and reached up to scratch his neck.  He glanced at his hands, with dirt shoved underneath the fingernails.
    “And I trust you will still return to the Abbey of the Rose to tend the roses from time to time.  I am told that Dulamour has quite the talented gardener, as well, one of the Cooper boys, Eadric.  I am sure the two of you will be able to transform Dulamour to its former glory.”
    “When am I to leave?” asked Andrew, his gaze rising to the window, as rain dripped from the sill.  “There is much . . . I had planned to do . . . but, if this is your wish, Father Antonio, and God’s, I shall do as you ask with all my heart.”
    “Good!” said Father Antonio, turning to Andrew, and taking the monk’s hand in his, squeezing with what strength he had.  “I still wish for them to attend church at the abbey once a month, for High Mass, but there is a chapel at Dulamour that will serve well.  If Fitzroy wishes, he may require the addition of other monks.  It will be up to you, and no one else to decide who they may be.”
    Andrew drew a long breath, and brushed some of the hair out of his eyes.  The eyes of the Virgin looked at him with calm and peace, and he admired the peaceful face of the Divine Infant before saying, “What may happen, I commend it to God’s will.  He has always steered me straight, no matter what misfortune or fortune I suffered through.”
    Father Antonio smiled, and stroked the crucifix about his neck.  “What was your clan, up in Scotland?”
    Surprised, Andrew answered quickly, “Stuart, Father.  I was born Andrew Christian Stuart.”
    “Stuart, then,” said Father Antonio.  “I don’t know much about the North, or your clans.   You Scots are about as far removed from me as I could imagine, but you are hearty folk nonetheless.  I trust you will use what you have, your heartiness, to forge ahead.  There’s something to be said about where you come from, you mustn’t forget that.”
    “Yes, father,” said Andrew, bowing his head.  He was very silent.
    “God’s will is a funny thing,” said the old priest, looking straight at Andrew.  “Our hearts may wish for something with intense fervor.  But at times we must learn to put aside that which we desire to better do the will of God.  You will see your home again someday, Andrew.  I pray you will every day, for I was never able to return home . . .  But carry Alba in your heart, my child, and it will never fail you.”

    Andrew filled his satchel with his few belongings; some parchment rolls, a bag of a few coins he’d found while digging in the church gardens, seeds and trinkets, nothing extraordinary.  He had a spare cloak, and a rosary, but one thing he took with him was special.  It was something wrapped in a swatch of cloth, crisscrossed with the design of a Scottish tartan--the tartan of the Stuart family.  Andrew took the cloth, dingy and fraying with time, and he held it to his nose, inhaling the familiar smell. Tears stung his eyes for a moment, but there was a job at hand.  He unwrapped the precious cloth and looked upon a short dagger, beautifuly ornamented with ancient Celtic knotwork--a work of the devil, Father Fredrico would say.
    There was an abrupt knock on the door, a very formal knock.  Andrew tossed rewrapped the dagger and shoved it into his bag.
    Wiping his eyes with the cuffs of his sleeves, he answered, “Come in, please.”
    The door opened slowly at first, and then with more purpose, as a small man entered, clad in a long green cloak.  He didn’t look very English--he was in fact a Norman--and he had large black eyes that regarded the monk before him with curiosity.  A small line of a mustache, the color of mahogany, lined his young upper lip, and a rough growth of stubble shadowed his jaw.  Tossing his cloak over his shoulder, his wiry frame revealed, the man bowed low, “God bless you, brother.”
Andrew, still in his own thoughts, furrowed his pale brows at the man.  “God bless you as well, sir.  May I have ask who you are?”
    “Oh!” said the man, running a hand through his dark hair and smiling mischievously.  “I’m Paquin,” he said, bowing again, with a little flair to his hand.  “I am Lord Fitzroy’s personal servant and . . . head carpenter.  We’re a little understaffed, you see, and he didn’t have anyone else to send to fetch you today so I volunteered.”
    “Thank you, I think,” said Andrew, drawing tight the string on his satchel and tossing it over his shoulder.
    Paquin laughed, scratching his long narrow nose, “Do pardon me for the informality, but, time is wasting, and the wedding is in just a week.”
    “The wedding?” asked Andrew.
    “Yes, Lord Fitzroy and the Lady Bianca . . .”
    “I had thought . . ."
    “How silly, they  haven’t met yet.  The Lady Bianca is to arrive tonight, you see, tonight!  It wouldn’t do without a monk there to bless her arrival and . . . all the other things monks are supposed to do, after all.”
    Andrew walked to his simple little window and put his hand gently on the sill, looking out into the dreary day.  June was fast approaching, and the roses would soon be in full bloom.  He would not see them, he had the feeling, not for some time.
    “Very well,” said Andrew, pinning his cloak securely.  “I’ve a horse the abbey has provided for the journey up to Dulamour in exchange for the generous offering Fitzroy has given the church.”
    The monk was about to say something more when he noticed that Paquin was staring at him, rather astonished.  He bit his lip, uncomfortable, “What is it?”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” said the peculiar carpenter.  He laughed, then, rather merrily, before he finally explained, “You see, it is that peculiar way in which you talk, monk, a very peculiar way indeed!  Where are you from?  Sometimes I find it right near impossible to understand a word you’re saying.  Lord Fitzroy said you were from way north?”
    “Yes, north,” said Andrew, rather impatiently.  “I am a Scot, Monsieur Paquin, a Scot.”
    Paquin blinked blankly at Andrew, “Ah, one of those rustic folk.”
    Andrew raised an eyebrow at Paquin, “Let us go, then.”

    The way to Dulamour was all uphill, rising high up past the town of Ap-Awn-Nuir into the forests.  The road was wide, freshly widened, as work on Dulamour had begun with Lord Fitzroy’s occupation.  The way was rather smooth, but tiring for the horses, but the trip took no longer than three hours from the Abbey of the Rose.  Paquin was a good enough rider on his pony, the small man bobbed up and down, whistling most of the way.  Andrew was quiet, brooding.  He hadn’t said his farewells to Father Antonio, and it nagged at his mind.  He could still hear the words of Father Antonio to him, echoing.
    Dulamour rose through the mists, a giant fortress in the dense woods.  Andrew stared in amazement for it was grander even than the abbey he had known for years of his life, and grander still than the church he remembered from his youth.  He squinted his eyes ahead, the breath from his chest coming heavily, clouds of moisture coming from his mouth and nose.
    “It is magnificent,” said Andrew, shaking his head.
    Paquin shrugged, “I see you monks rarely do any traveling.  You’ve been how long in Ap-Awn-Nuir?”
    Andrew checked his horse, “Four years.”
    “And you’ve never made the journey to Dulamour?  How unfortunate.  Dulamour is a rather nice place, for England, at any rate--and much more lovely on the inside than outside, if you take my opinion for anything.  Wonderfully built and being improved every day, as well,” said the carpenter with a smile.
    “Are . . . are there any roses?” asked the young monk.
    “What?”
    “Roses,” repeated Andrew, dulling down his accent.
    “Ah, les roses,” said Paquin in French.  “Oui.  Quite a few, actually.  Eadric, our gardener, does wonders with them.  You fancy the flower?”
    “A bit, yes,” said Andrew, shyly.
    “Enough chatting,” said Paquin with a nod, “let’s keep moving.”

    Brother Andrew and Paquin were met at the great oak door, stained and weathered to nearly a black shade, by a slight young woman who the monk recognized immediately as Enid Cooper.  She looked worn, and very tired.  Her large, pale eyes shone out of her gaunt face, and her long flaxen hair fell lazily about her shoulders.  He was surprised by her condition at first, but then recalled the recent struggles she’d endured with her departure from her family.  From the looks of things, it had taken quite a toll on her.
    “Brother Andrew,” said Enid softly, opening the door wider.  She was dressed beautifully, that was for certain, and the long green dress fell well about her, accentuating what good qualities her figure had.  “It is good to see you again, welcome to Dulamour,” said the girl, her eyes brightening.
    Enid knelt and crossed herself, and Brother Andrew was stricken with a sudden sadness.  “Enid,” he said, taking her hand gently and helping her stand, “I had forgotten you had been hired by Lord Fitzroy.  It is a joy to see you again, and I look forward to your beautiful singing.”
    “Thank you, Brother Andrew,” she said, a hint of a smile creeping upon her face.
    Paquin winked at Enid, “Will you be a dear and show the monk about, En?
    “Of course, Mister Paquin,” said Enid, not meeting the eye of the carpenter.
    “Good, good,” replied Paquin, strutting his little self past Enid, and winking at her again.  “I have business.”
    When Paquin’s fast and furious footsteps ceased, going down the hall, Enid ushered Brother Andrew into the main hallway, and began the tour.  She spoke with a bored sort of ease, as if she was used to the life and luxury of Dulamour.  Enid’s eyes didn’t seem to see the rooms she showed Brother Andrew, rather they only seemed to look.  Certainly, young Miss Cooper was a very learned tour guide, but this confused the young monk.
    “Enid,” he said as they left the kitchen, and entered the grand dining hall.  “If I am not mistaken, you have only been a Dulamour a little shy of two weeks, and yet you conduct yourself with such familiarity.”
    “You learn fast when there is little to do,” admitted Enid, with a little shrug.  She tossed her hair over her slender shoulder and smiled at Brother Andrew.      “Mistress Bianca has  yet to arrive.  Master Fitzroy is simply mad with her lateness, but nothing can be done.  The news is that her ship was late to sail from port, when she left Italy on her last trip home.  She went from Italy to London--she may arrive today.  When she arrives, I will have plenty to do.  But for now I have just been . . . getting used to it here.”
    Brother Andrew was astonished.  Never had he heard Enid speak so many words to anyone.  He blinked in wonder at the lovely little creature beside him who fiddled with the lace of her bodice and innocently watched him.  “Indeed, you will have much to do,” he said finally.  “As will I.  Do you know where I am to stay?”
    “Ah, yes,” said Enid.  “Follow me.”
    Enid led the monk down a dark hallway, built of dark gray stone, and down a flight of stairs.  He frowned, noting that now they would be below ground level, and he would not have the pleasure of an open window  to write by.  Andrew felt his heart sink, as deeper down they walked, until at last, they reached the end of the hall.
A large door rose before them, constructed with thick iron latches and ruddy wood, smoothed with time.  Enid took a key from her pocket and clicked open the latch, gesturing Andrew inside.
    He saw a simple room, devoid of cheer or personality, with one window, perhaps six feet up, the size and width of his forearm.  A bed, better befitting a pig, consisted of hay and a sheet, with a few furs tossed haphazardly over it.  There was also a crate which had been whittled away until it served the purpose of a desk, and a few yellow candles.  On the good side, there was a large fireplace, which was well cleaned, and a stock of good wood beside it.  Andrew sighed, and put down his pack, shivering in the chilly room.
    “It isn’t much,” admitted Enid, noting the look of surprise on the monk’s face.  “At least, not compared to Miss Bianca’s room, or even to Marie, the housekeeper's.  It is next to mine.  Mine is a little bigger and it has another window--you are more than welcome to take it if you like.”
    Brother Andrew laughed, and shook his head vehemently.  “No, no, sweet Enid, think nothing of that sort.  I am a monk, and it is my lot in life to live with the simplicity that God provides for me.  I’m sure with a few flowers and a tapestry or two this room will rival the Great Hall.”
    Enid nodded, “There are stairs beside my room.”  She paused a minute, squinting toward the window in Brother Andrew’s room, “Stairs that go right up to Miss Bianca’s room, should she need me during the night.  There is also a bell, that runs the length of the linen chute, that both of us can hear.  Marie lives on the first floor, and Paquin and the other workers live in the west wing.  Eadric lives with the stablehands in a little cottage by the stables.  Lord Fitzroy said we will have others living on this floor soon, as he’s hiring a few cooks and some seamstresses as soon as Miss Bianca arrives.”
    From the hallway, both Andrew and Enid heard the furious ringing of a bell.  Enid’s blue eyes shot wide, and she put her hand on her throat.
    “Sounds as if Miss Bianca’s bell is ringing,” said Brother Andrew with a smile.
    “I’m so frightened,” said Enid, her voice hoarse.   “But I must go.  I am sure we will have a grand dinner tonight, and you will be summoned.  Gi--Lord Fitzroy wishes to make the best of impressions on Mistress Bianca.  I shall see you then.”
    Enid, trembling, left the room, and Brother Andrew sighed.  It took him nearly an hour to unpack, for his mind was on other things.  The room was frightfully cold, but he dared not start a fire just yet.  Arranging what little he had, he stepped back and looked at his room.  It felt so alien, so cold.  Fingering the crucifix dangling about his neck, he slowly sat down in his bed, and closed his eyes, and began to pray.  He prayed so hard, and so desperately, and so completely, he did not hear someone knocking on the door until the door shook with the force of it.
    “Brother Andrew!” called an unfamiliar voice, “are you all right in there?”
    Brother Andrew startled, rushing to the door and undoing the latch.  He hadn’t remembered locking it, or shutting it.  Swallowing a lump in his throat, he took a deep breath and opened the door.
    “God bless you, Brother Andrew,” said the boy on the other side of the door.  He had curly red-haired, and freckles, and had dark brown eyes that were round and filled with mischief.  The boy was rather underfed, but had a look about him that was distinguished.  Still lanky, and on his way to being tall, he still held himself well.   The boy smiled a toothy smile at the young monk.
    “Yes, may I help you?”
    Sticking his head in the door, the boy quirked an eyebrow at the monk and shifted his eyes about the room.  “What were you doing in here, levitating?”
    “Praying,” said the monk, watching the red-haired boy with amusement.  “Who might you be?”
    “My name is Francis,” said the boy, straightening up, and bowing.  “Francis Laduc, I am a cousin of Lord Fitzroy, and his messenger.  Everyone calls me Freck, though.”
    “Freck?”
    Freck laughed, and pointed to his face.  “The freckles.”
    “Ah,” said the monk, “does Lord Fitzroy wish to speak with me?”
    “Yes,” said Freck, “Mistress Bianca has arrived, and the wedding is to be soon, I believe.  There’s lots to be talked about!”
    Freck turned on his heel and headed down the hallway.  Brother Andrew had to hop along behind him to keep the pace, and he forgot to lock his door in the process and excitement.
    The whole of Dulamour was pulsing with energy, and as Brother Andrew and Freck entered the main hall, there was met with dozens of people.  Brother Andrew was astounded, not only at the amount of people, but at the decorations.  It had only been a few hours since he had passed through this very room, and he was certain there hadn’t been any sort of decorations whatsoever.  He stopped to admire some of the lanterns  strung high on the ceiling, and he felt Freck pulling on his sleeve.
    “Come, Brother,” said Freck, rolling his eyes.  “There will be time to admire the decorations at dinner.  For now, we must go to see Fitzroy!”
    Through the main hall went the monk and the messenger, until they came into the east wing, Fitzroy’s wing.  The architecture was beautiful, and rather fresh.  Cathedral ceilings rose in the hallways, and large, brilliantly carved doors adorned room entrances to the left and r ight.  Large torches burned bright, and marble floors underfoot were black and smooth, recently polished.
    The last set of doors were highlighted with gold leaf, and a giant moniker “L.G.F.” was carved in the middle.
    “Lord Gilles Fitzroy,” said Freck with a nod of his chin.  He knocked softly upon the door.
    Someone stirred from within, and then, “Come in.”
    Freck pushed open the large doors with all the strength he had, grunting the whole way through.  “Ah, there we are,” he said when he finally got the door open.      “Takes a bit, they’re still new, and a little stiff!”
    Nudging in the monk, Freck announced as Brother Andrew stepped through the great arch to Fitzroy’s personal quarters, “Brother Andrew of the Rose.”
     The eyes that Andrew met were still eyes, large eyes, flecked with intense green.  Fitzroy looked drawn, haggard, even frightened.  He had the look of a scared rabbit about him, and the young monk was immediately taken aback.  He watched the Norman lord rise, and then, before he could utter a welcome or a greeting, fall to his knees before him.
    Andrew stared down at Fitzroy, clasping the hem of his robe, and noticed that his shoulders were shaking.  Freck had vanished, and the door slowly shut, leaving the monk and the lord alone.
    A thousand possibilities of what to say flickered through Brother Andrew’s mind, but nothing seemed appropriate.  As a young monk he had rarely seen this sort of abandoned reverence, this prostrated humility, and he was a bit baffled.  Yet, impulse struck him to comfort this man who he didn’t know and had only rarely seen.     He knelt down next to the lord, and put his hand on his shoulder.
    “Why, whatever is the matter, Lord Fitzroy?” Brother Andrew heard himself saying.
    Fitzroy looked up with tearstained eyes, rimmed in red and burning with an intense fire within.  “I am so glad you came, thank God.”
    “Yes, thank God,” said Andrew, smiling just a little, and patting Fitzroy on the back.  “God has ways of bringing people together, in a way, to help each other.”
    Fitzroy stood suddenly, his strong frame quick and sturdy.  “I’m . . . sorry.  I am just a little overwhelmed.  I’ve been in here all day long  waiting for you to arrive.  I just couldn’t . . . couldn’t see her until I spoke with you.”
    Brother Andrew nodded, “Well, I’m sorry to take so long to meet you, but I was getting myself settled in.  I was showed around by a lovely--”
    “Would you like a seat?” asked Fitzroy, nervously wringing his hands together.  “Here, come sit by the window.”
    The monk looked around, taking in the rather eccentric lay of the room.  Fitzroy had a  unique taste, it seemed; somewhere between the hanging swords, ill made tapestries, and animal skins of various sizes and placements, were suits of armor--two or three in fact--and what appeared to be, hundreds of pieces of clothing.  These clothes came in every color Andrew could imagine, and were draped over all the furniture in the room.  Remnants of meals remained on the floor and by the bed.  The fire burned very low.  A falcon, masked and tied, sat in the corner on a perch, and moved its head toward the young monk as he walked across the room.
    Andrew sat in a wooden chair by the window, but not before shooing a cat from the seat.  The monk sat calmly, though inside he felt anything but.  Watching as Fitzroy fretted about the room, Andrew prayed.
    “Quite a bonny view you have here,” said Andrew, gesturing to the window.  Fitzroy’s room was a staggering achievement in architecture.  It was built facing the west, with a large arch window, curtained.  The view was whimsical, as it was high enough to be above the tree line, and to see a direct view of the land, all the way down to the village.  It was miles, but it was high enough that Andrew could see the edge of beloved Ap-Awn-Nuir.
    Fitzroy looked up from his frantic pacing.  His long fingered hands were linked together, and his bright eyes squinted toward the monk.  “Bonny?  My, monk, you’ve a strange way of turning a phrase.  I hadn’t realized you still spoke with such a brogue.”
    “It’s a burr,” corrected the monk, raising a finger.  “In Ireland--”
    “Have you been to Ireland?” asked Fitzroy, leaning on the frame of the window.  So much for turning a phrase, thought Andrew, how about turning a subject?
    “No, my lord,” said Andrew, patiently.  “I’m from Alba--”
    “Ireland is a fantastic place, Andrew, fantastic.  The green is so fresh, and the air is so clean.  And the mist!  Ah, the mist is amazing.  You really should visit there if you get the chance.”
    Andrew blinked at the lord, and then arranged the cuffs of his tunic.  “If I ever get the chance, but there, it is a brogue not a--”
    “Burr?”
    He had been listening.  Andrew smiled.  “Yes.”
    Fitzroy put his leg up on the window sill, and put his elbow on his knee.  He gazed silently over the expanse.  A quiet breeze lifted up the curtain, and it brought the smell of roses with it.
    “I didn’t bring you here to talk about accents and adventures,” said the lord, with a hint of blame in his voice.  Andrew bit his lip.  This Fitzroy was a strange man indeed.  “I need you here, for the duration of my time at Dulamour.  I am not a moral man, monk, that is truth.  I need for you to steer me right.”  When Fitzroy looked at Andrew, there was sadness in his eyes, regret, and the monk felt pity for him.
    Andrew picked his words slowly, “I can help to steer you, Lord Fitzroy, but if you are truly to change, that is the work of God, and the work of your heart.”
    Fitzroy glanced at the monk thoughtfully, standing straight and moving from the window.  He went to the fireplace, and took something from the hearth.  It was a rose, long dead, but preserved dry and fragile.  From the looks of it, Andrew could tell it was a rose that came from the Abbey of the Rose.
    The lord regarded the rose as if it were a holy relic.  “Monk,” he began.  “I have fallen in love with a girl--a woman--and it is a grave mistake.  There is no room for love in my world.  The lady Bianca and I are to wed in less than a week.  I have never met her.  I pray I will learn to love her, but I have another matter . . .”
    Raising his eyebrows, Andrew linked his fingers together.  “Do explain, lord Fitzroy.”
    “This love of mine, she is with child.”
    Andrew folded his hands and uttered a silent prayer.  When he was finished, he looked up at Lord Fitzroy.  He knew, beyond a doubt, that this woman would be someone he knew.  The rose was proof she was from Ap-Awn-Nuir.
    “May I inquire after her name?” asked Andrew.  Fitzroy hesitated, and the monk said, “Worry not, I will not utter it to another.  But as your guide, I need to know the details in order help you--and no doubt, to help her.  All of Ap-Awn-Nuir is my business, including Dulamour and its residents.”
    Fitzroy sank down into a large, plush chair.  He had turned a sickly gray color, and his hands were shaking.  “There have been many, monk, whom I have brought with child in my day.  I am not exactly a young man.  But this one is different.  I cannot bear to live my life away from her, or this child she is to bear me.  I know I cannot marry her, but I have arranged for her to stay here, at Dulamour.  At least, this way, she can have some sense of security for herself and our child.”
    Andrew hesitated to ask the question, but he did anyway, “Are you--certain this child is yours?  There--”
    Burying his hands in his head, Fitzroy drew a deep breath, “The child is mine, monk.  I am her only . . .”
    “Yes, I see,” said the monk, still calm.  The breeze from outside moved the tapestries gently.  “Her name, please,” begged Andrew.
    Fitzroy’s breath came harshly.  He drew a hand through his dark hair, and his eyes looked up at Andrew, tormented.  “Enid.  Enid Cooper.”
    Andrew drew a sharp breath, as all came painfully clear to him.  Enid’s appearance, her episode weeks before, her sudden service to Fitzroy, her unwillingness to talk even to Sister Beatrice.
    “Well,” began Andrew, his mind racing for answers, and his heart pounding in his throat.  He had always loved Enid, perhaps more than he was supposed to, and part of him wanted to slay Fitzroy right there and then.  But he kept composed.  “I cannot tell you what to do, Lord Fitzroy, for the choice is up to you.  But, I would say you owe that girl a great deal.  Her name will be ruined, her family disgraced--”
    “No one will know,” said Fitzroy, panic in his eyes.  “I have . . . I think I can marry her to someone; the miller.  I’ll pay her dowry and whatnot.  What think you to that?”
    “If it is your will,” sighed Andrew, though he knew he was powerless to do anything else.  The lord’s will was final, and there was nothing to be done once his mind was made up.  “Have you spoken to the miller about it?”
    “Indeed.  His wife died in childbirth last year, and he’s three children of his own, young children, to take care of,” he said.  “He’s got one sister who acts as a nanny, but no wife, and you can tell.  He’s just . . . lonely.  They’ll live right here in the castle, too, and--”
    “Do pardon me, lord,” said Andrew, bowing his head slightly.  “But, do you intend on--on--continuing your relationship with the girl while she is married and you are married?  I don’t know how things are done in France, but the Church--”
    “Even some things,” Fitzroy said, jutting out his chin, and narrowing his eyes, “are between God and me.  The Church need not interfere.”
    Andrew opened his mouth to say something, but wisdom told him to let it be for now.  He clenched his fists together, and closed his eyes, breathing slowly.  God was using him, it seemed, but in ways he’d never imagined.
    “Yet still,” said Fitzroy, taking a turn about the room.  He stopped by the fireplace, and stood, looking deep into the embers burning out.  “I have decided to make you chaplain, Brother Andrew.  From what I heard from Rose Abbey, you were intended to become a priest anyway, and you’ve the scholarly background I need for my chaplain.  I had contemplated Father Witherspoon, or Father Mallais, but neither of them really seem to be the sort of dedicated clergyman that I need.  You are scholarly, are you not?”
    Andrew knit his eyebrows, and nodded, “If you mean to ask if I am well schooled, yes, I am.  I have been educated in many facets of--”
    “Good, then when the time comes you will be the resident teacher here, as well, when the children are grown,” said Lord Fitzroy.
    There was an awkward silence.  Andrew stuttered, “Than--thank you, Lord Fitzroy.  The honor will be mine.  I pray--”
    “Yes, now, I think it’s time that I prepared myself for the meeting with the Lady Bianca.  There is a feast tonight, as I’m sure you are aware.  You are to have the seat of honor, to my right, and my wife-to-be and her family will be seated with us at the head table.  Be prompt.”  Fitzroy was already at the door before Andrew could make answer, “Freck, in here!”
    Freck appeared at the door.
    “Show the chaplain to his room, and get him into something a little cleaner please,” said the lord, not even attempting to keep his voice down.  “How go the preparations for dinner?”
    “Fine, fine, everything’s fine, cousin,” said Freck, grinning ear to ear.  “Chef’s got the fires burning, that for sure, with plenty of--”
    “Good, you may leave now, chaplain,” said the lord.
    Andrew stood, hesitated, and then made his leave of the lord.  He made a courteous bow, but he was baffled altogether.  What sort of life drives a man to such peculiar habits and vanity, wondered Andrew as the door abruptly shut behind him.  He found himself next to Freck again.
    Freck laughed, “The Abbey sent down some garments for you to wear, something a little more--regal.”
    Looking down at his modest habit, Andrew was puzzled.  Yes, perhaps it had seen a bit of wear that day, from all the travel, but the outfit was worse for wear.  He certainly had worn clothes much less regal before, and had no problem.  But Fitzroy wanted things his way, and Andrew could see that already.
    “Well, if it is Lord Fitzroy’s wish, I shall oblige,” said the chaplain, reluctantly.
    Freck laughed again, and started down the hallway.
 

    Andrew never imagined so many people were at Dulamour.  It was the feast of St. Winifred.  The Great Hall was a mosaic of color and movement, people in every hue imaginable, some with jewelry flashing; banners listless from the roof, cascaded down to the floor; servants in drab bustled about; and in the middle of this was the poor, confused new chaplain of Dulamour, clutching to his prayer book as if it were the last tangible thing on the earth.
    Dressed in a chaplain’s garment, a black chasuble over a white and gold dalmatic, Andrew was hardly recognizable; even his habit was changed, now a dark blue, peeping out the bottom by his feet.  New sandals, and even a peculiar ring--given to him, so he was told, by Fitzroy, as a token of friendship--made Andrew feel like a life-sized up chess figurine.  As Andrew watched the guests gather and take their seats, he felt completely alone, and utterly fabricated.  His new clothes were horribly abrasive, and he felt as if his back were breaking into hives.  Even the prospect of delicious dinner delicacies did nothing to cheer up Andrew, as he sunk lower and lower into his seat.  Why hadn’t Father Antonio mentioned he was to be chaplain?  Even more, why hadn’t he mentioned about his initiation into the priesthood?  Slowly taking one of his hands from his prayer book, he stiffly reached out to sip the wine that had been served.  It was heavily spiced, and made his stomach turn immediately.
    The noise was deafening.  Laughter from his right, yelling at his left, dogs yapping, pots crashing, servants calling to one another, and the clatter of feet against wood.  Andrew’s eyes dazzled at the pageantry, but he cringed at the alien feeling of it all.  He had only seen the inside of an Abbey, or the inside of a modest hut.  This was far from his experience, and the more he was inside of it, the more he loathed it.
    A trumpet sounded, shrill against the lulling din.  Andrew’s heart pounded in his chest, for one moment he thought the trumpet was sounding the Apocalypse.
    It was Freck’s voice that rose through the hall, now that the guests had all quieted.  There was the sound of the swishing of skirts, as everyone got to their feet.
    “I present to you, the lord of Dulamour Castle, Lord Fitzroy!” cried Freck, dressed himself  like a fine page.  He gestured, and the large oak doors that were the lord’s private entrance to the hall, opened wide.
    “And his future wife,” continued Freck, “The most gracious Lady Bianca.”
    There appeared Fitzroy, scrubbed down and well-attired in dark green and scarlet, with a thin circlet about his head.  He looked proud and gay, that moment, and Andrew was captivated by the bold figure he saw, forgetting the fretting man he had so recently encountered a few hours before.
    On his arm, presumably, was the Lady Bianca.  Andrew squinted, though he knew it was improper to do so, so he could see the lady better.  What he saw surprised him.  He had expected her to be a bird-like creature, frail and all eyes, like Enid, but with that air of noble breeding, which more often than not, gave way to an ill constitution and sickness.  But the Lady Bianca was none of these things.  She was dark, and strong, even earthy.  He attested it to her Italian background.   Her long hair, deepest auburn, was plaited around her head, and up into an intricate wimple with a sheer yellow veil.  Eyes, bright and alive, looked to be an ochre brown, framed by thick, dark, brows.  Her form was rounded, not slight, and she carried herself with great dignity.  Sharp shoulders, and ample hips, made her appear twice the woman most of the ladies in the hall were.  And her dress!  What magnificence.  It was the same color as her wimple, pale yellow, trimmed in white, and it made her look like a goddess.  Andrew recalled pictures in a edition of a history book on the Romans--one of their sculptures, that is what Bianca looked like.  A veritable Venus.
    Fitzroy looked happy, observed Andrew, but he wondered how much was show, and how much was truth?
    Behind Bianca walked Enid, looking miserable as usual.  Her eyes were downcast, and in spite of her lovely dress and beautiful hair arrangement, she seemed washed out.  Next to Bianca, Enid appeared like a pale reflection of feminine beauty.  Knowing what he knew, Andrew choked back a lump in his throat.  He wanted to embrace Enid, to smooth her hair, to have her cry, and tell her God would provide for her.  But now was not the time.
    Presumably, those behind Bianca and Fitzroy were her family members and their respective servants.  There was nothing particular of note to her family or their servants.  Andrew knew not their faces, and they merely looked like all the other well decorated guests at the feast.
    “Welcome to the feast!” cried Fitzroy, hastily letting go of Bianca’s hand, and clapping his in the air.  There was raucous applause.  For a newly installed lord, he seemed to already have quite a grip on his people.
    The servants were dismissed from their parties.  Andrew watched as Enid, meek and frail looking, scampered out of the hall.  No doubt she had a place to eat, with all the other servants, in the cold pantry, away from the wonder of the Great Hall.
    Fitzroy and Lady Bianca, with the rest of the newly arrived bride-to-be’s family, all made their way to the head table, and stood.  Andrew found he was standing, but had no recollection of actually doing so.  His prayer book was still in hand.
    When Fitzroy had situated himself before his grand chair, he raised his hands, and quieted the guests.
    “Honored guests and friends,” said Fitzroy, embracing the crowd with his eyes.  He raised his glass, “This feast is given in honor of my new bride, the Lady Bianca, who has traveled hence for days upon end, with her family.  She is to be your lady, and I pray in time, your friend as well.”  Here, he turned to Bianca, and smiled at her.  Andrew bit his lip.  There was a hollow formality in Fitzroy’s eyes.  “Lady Bianca, I welcome you to my home with my whole heart.”
Lady Bianca, her mouth curving in a slight smile, curtseyed.  The guests applauded.
    “Now, chaplain!” called Fitzroy, and at first Andrew did not respond.  He looked, round-eyed at the lord.
    “Yes, my lord,” was Andrew’s quiet response.
    “Please, if you would, engage us in a prayer before the feast.”
    Andrew shifted.  The weight of his new garments felt heavy upon his entire body, and the itching had not relented on his back.  He drew a long breath, and with trembling fingers, flipped through the prayer book.  All the eyes of the court were on him, and immediately, with that realization, sweat sprang to his brow.
    “Really,” whispered Fitzroy, directly in Andrew’s ear, “Anything will do, chaplain.”
    Andrew swallowed hard.  He found the words on the page were blurred from the sweat getting into his eyes, and reading was now useless.  Praying for strength, he decided to forgo a familiar prayer, and make one himself.
    “Dear Lord,” he began, and it sounded like a cry for help.  A few of the younger ladies tittered.  Andrew bit his lip, and began again. “Dear Lord.”  Here he closed his eyes, and bowed his head.  “Thank you for this gracious day you have given us, in spite of the rain.  We pray for the blessed union of Lord Fitzroy and the Lady Bianca, may it be a marriage of joy and happiness.  We thank you for the gift of food, that today such a bountiful feast is laid out before us that we are allowed to partake in it,” he paused and added, “may we be tempted not by gluttony... We pray for this all in the name of your son, the Blessed Jesus Christ.  Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated a few of the guests.
    Now that he had an audience, Andrew felt moved to say a few more words; but there was no time.  In what seemed to be the flap of a bird’s wing, all those in attendance assumed their seats and began drinking, talking, and eating.  A minstrel and a jester appeared from the corridor.  Music ensued, and laughter.
Andrew, still standing, slowly felt his knees give way, and he sat down once again.  He looked to his left.  A spindly old man sat there, and he seemed to be sleeping.  Frowning, Andrew arranged his habit and folded his hands.  Fitzroy was chatting amicably with Lady Bianca, and everyone seemed very much occupied.
    “Nice bit of a prayer there, brother,” said a voice.  Andrew looked to his left to see the old man addressing him.  He was an Italian, by his dress and his accent, and he had an air of dignity about him, dignity and humility.  There was no hair on his head, save for a few tufts by his ears, and he was dressed almost completely in black--except for a pair of red hose.  A large brooch with an eagle on it pinned his cloak into place.  His face was angular and all his features seemed elongated--nose, eyes, cheekbones, and a small mouth like a wrinkled raisin.  The texture of his skin looked like aged leather.
    “Thank you,” said Andrew, forcing something of a smile.
    The old Italian raised a hand to his chest and said, “Since we are to share the plate at dinner, I think I should introduce myself.  I am Lord Paulo Machelli, the uncle of fair Bianca there.  Since her father has passed, I am sitting in his stead as her guardian.”
Machelli, Andrew recalled, was Father Antonio’s name.  This brought a faint smile of remembrance to his lips, and he regarded the old man with kind eyes.
    “Then it is your cousin who is my abbot,” said Andrew in his gentle manner.
    Lord Machelli laughed, and nodded.  “Yes, Antonio.  Yes, yes, I wonder how he is these days?”
    “Living well in the winter of his days,” said Andrew, but his eyes said more, and Lord Machelli saw the meaning there.
    There was a moment’s silence as a servant filled up their wine glasses to the brim, and another set out some bread before them.  Lord Machelli took no time in taking his share of bread.  He arranged it on their plate with his long, old fingers.  A piece for himself and a piece for Andrew.
    “How long were you traveling for?” asked Andrew, more out of courtesy than interest.
    “It wasn’t so bad,”said Lord Machelli with a shrug.  “My family and I, we are frequently in London.  In my youth it was still overrun by the Saxon hoards and all the strange barbarian folk about, but now that it is in the hands of the more civilized Normans, I enjoy it, and travel abroad, much more.  We’ve been in London for nearly two months.  A few weeks on the road is all.  Although, I must admit, the chariot design is still as uncomfortable as all hell.  Pardon me.”
    Andrew wasn’t sure what to think of this man who spoke in paragraphs.  Andrew was a man of simple questions and simple answers--he was a simple man in most ways imaginable.  The man with the scarlet hose was not.  Andrew watched as the old man’s eyes caressed the form of a few of the serving wenches and he began to gather more insight about the man.
    “I am glad you have come,” said Andrew, sipping his wine.  “Lord Fitzroy has awaited your arrival for quite some time now.”  Andrew was confused, for Machelli’s timeframe seemed very different from the one Enid had recounted earlier that day--apparently, their tardiness was an act of showmanship, not really a genuine problem.
    Now it was Lord Machelli’s turn to watch Andrew.  Andrew felt his mouth go dry, and the horrific thought of having mistakenly committing some unspeakable Italian taboo came to his mind.  He tried to look calm, but he could feel cold sweat trickling down his back.
    “Why do you speak so strange?” asked Lord Machelli, and Andrew felt relieved.
    “I come from the North,” said Andrew simply, his tone implying he did not wish to speak of it more.
    “Funny, I hadn’t noticed it when you said the prayer.  What an uncivil accent.”
    “Father Fredrico of the Abbey thinks the same thing,” said Andrew in a breath.  He felt the heat rise in his face.  “I admit it sounds quite different from the language you speak.”
    Lord Machelli was very silent all throughout the meal.  Frequently, Andrew would comment on certain courses, certain spices--but the lord remained quiet.  Sometimes he would nod.  Other times he would not.  Eventually, Andrew gave up altogether trying to make conversation with this man who, presumably, disliked him merely for his accent.  He refused to recognize his station, and adhered only to an ancient code of clerical respect.
With the last course, Fitzroy stood up, smiling brightly.  His high cheekbones were kissed by the glow of wine, and though he was not yet inebriated, he had a certain laxity of gait that made him appear quite spry.
    “And now,” said Fitzroy, covering his mouth with his hand a moment to stifle a laugh.  “I bring to you, from the far off reaches of Normandy, a brilliant friend and entertainer--a troubadour, for those of you from Normandy, or a bard for the more insular folk.  His name is Bren.  Bren, where are you--stand up!”
    A thin man, slender like a pole, stood up from one of the further off tables.  His hair was a shocking yellow, brighter than the eye of a daisy, and he had quite a growth of whiskers on his pointed chin.  Dressed all in green, his limbs were cocked at strange angles as he awkwardly stood.
    “Here, my lord,” said Bren the Bard, with a bright laugh.  He stooped a little, and retrieved a harp from behind his chair.  “You would that I told a tale?”
    Andrew took a deep breath and turned his attention to the bard.  He swallowed with effort.  This was going to be his new life.