The Key

72

News of Brother Gardener’s breakdown swept through the Citadel, spreading like the virus everybody feared it might be. Rumours ignited in the refectories and deflected thoughts away from prayer and study, plucking at existing tensions and reawakening fears that, now the Sacrament had deserted the mountain, a biblical plague was about to descend upon them all.

Athanasius was in the Abbot’s study when he heard of it. Ever since the explosion he had spent several hours there every day, trying to stay on top of the numerous communiques, press clippings and memos that kept the Citadel informed of what was going on in the wider world outside. Lately they had made for gloomy reading.

He threw most of the cuttings away, balling them up as soon as he had read them and dropping them into a basket by his side that served the large fire that had stood cold since the old Abbot’s death. He only came here for privacy. The basket was almost full and he made a mental note to tell the cooks to come and help themselves, as they always needed kindling for the refectory fires. He screwed up the last clipping and was about to rise and venture back into the mountain when a light tap on the door announced the arrival of today’s dispatches.

The monk who brought them was Brother Osgood, a slight, nervy, rodenty monk who had only recently been promoted out of the grey cloaks of the novitiate to the brown cloaks of the Administrata. He crossed the room in silence, the muscles in his jaw tight with tension, and laid the stack of documents, bound with a single dark green ribbon, on the desk. Athanasius spotted the letter on top. It was handwritten and addressed to ‘Brother Peacock’. He reached for it instinctively, eager to see what it contained, but stopped himself as he realized Osgood was still hovering.

‘Something the matter?’

‘Brother Gardener has been taken ill,’ Osgood replied, one hand scratching the back of the other. ‘Some say it is a form of plague that attacks the skin. He has been taken to the infirmary.’

‘Thank you. I will go and see him when I have finished here.’

Osgood nodded but made no move to leave. He cleared his throat and stared down at his clasped hands. ‘Do you think it could be? Plague, I mean. Only, with the blight in the garden and what happened to the Sancti, people are beginning to wonder.’

‘What are they beginning to wonder?’

‘They’re beginning to wonder if we have displeased God in some way and are now being punished for it.’

Athanasius thought back to all that he had witnessed high in the chapel at the top of the mountain. ‘Maybe we have.’ He looked up and saw fear flit across Osgood’s face. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Brother Gardener is exhausted and deeply distressed about the blight. I’m sure whatever ails him has more to do with that than with God’s displeasure. And I’m sure it isn’t catching.’ He nodded at Osgood’s fingers, still nervously scratching. ‘When others talk of fleas, one is apt to scratch. Go back to your duties and do not let gossip and rumour drive away your good sense. Here — ’ he nodded at the basket full of discarded paper — ‘take this to the kitchen and give it to the hearth master. Never forget that today’s news soon becomes tomorrow’s firelighters.’

Osgood smiled, picked up the basket and hurried from the room. The moment the door closed, Athanasius grabbed the envelope and ripped it open, moving across to the fireplace as he read the contents. Then he screwed it up, dropped it in the cold grate and set light to it, watching as the flame turned the dangerous words to ashes in the grate, before brushing them to dust with his hand.

Tonight the note had said.

He stood and quickly left the room, thinking about everything else it had said as he wiped the ash from his hand and headed to the infirmary.