Wine of Violence

Chapter Twenty-Three

Brother Simeon paced in tight circles around the room, hands behind his back, face scarlet from too much anger and too much wine. Thomas watched in silence.

“How could she have embarrassed me like that? After all my years of service to Tyndal. After all I’ve done to keep the priory solvent. After the praise I have received from our Abbess for my fine annual accounts! And to do such a foul thing in front of a Saxon churl and his crude runt of a sister. For cert, the woman shows no judgement. She allows far too much familiarity from these low orders! A woman should never be put in charge of things she knows nothing about. Surely our founder never intended such a thing to happen.”

“Indeed, brother, I understood that he meant only for us to experience humility by putting a woman above us. Surely he never meant for her to actually lead us.” In fact, Thomas cared little for why Fontevraud’s founder did anything, but agreement with Simeon seemed the wisest course in his ongoing effort to gain the receiver’s confidence.

“Well said, brother. Something a man could easily see.”

Thomas held up the pitcher of wine and raised his eyebrows in a question.

Simeon glanced at his empty goblet and nodded. “Of course,” he said, taking several long swallows from the replenished supply, “Robert d’Arbrissel never was made a saint. Rome must have known he had gone too far against nature with his radical ideas.” He staggered slightly and slid with a heavy awkwardness onto the bench across the table from Thomas.

Thomas looked at Simeon, who was staring back at him with an intense but somewhat unfocused gaze, and felt pity. Here was a competent man, a man who was comfortable with responsibility but who was now being shoved aside into a secondary role after running Tyndal for years. Even though Thomas doubted the monk would lose his position as receiver or even sub-prior if the prioress found his account rolls acceptable, the prioress quite clearly intended to take back full charge of the priory. Simeon might have accepted such a change from a new prior, but never from someone he saw as an inferior. It must all seem so unnatural to a man of Simeon’s cast of mind.

“Indeed.” Thomas hesitated. “Forgive me for my bluntness, brother, but I cannot help but wonder that a man of your ability and stature ever entered the Fontevraud Order. Why not the Benedictines or the Cistercians?” Thomas glanced at his own, nearly full goblet and took a small sip.

The corners of Simeon’s eyes grew moist. “I was the youngest of too many boys. My father was of good birth but had little land and could not afford a knight’s training for all of us.” He gulped some wine. “He held the Benedictines in contempt. Too corrupt, he said, and two of my brothers were already Cistercians. He needed to put me somewhere and Fontevraud is small but powerful.” He blinked, then wiped a hand across his mouth. “Told me I could at least be in the company of queens since I wasn’t suited for that of kings.” Two large tears slid from the inside corners of his eyes and dropped from his jaw onto the table.

Thomas winced at the cruel implication of the remark but nodded sympathetically. He also knew better than to ask Simeon if the monk had felt even the slightest hint of a religious calling.

“But he never would have put me here if he had thought a woman would so humiliate his son.” Simeon sat up in brief defiance. The goblet wavered near his mouth, and a tiny rivulet of red wine slipped down his chin, dribbling onto his robe. “He died almost two years ago,” he said in a whisper.

“And you must grieve for his loss,” Thomas said, lowering his voice into concerned tones. “Surely your father must have loved you to have given you to such a powerful order.” He deliberately emphasized powerful.

Simeon swayed, took another long gulp of wine, then reached over and put his hand over Thomas’, caressing it in silence. “He hated me, you know. I knew it. He called me fat, soft like a woman. Then one day he caught me with another boy.” Simeon ran his fingertips down Thomas’s arm. “We were doing nothing more than other boys often do when manhood arrives, but he mocked me and took my clothes, saying I could walk home naked so the world would see what a slut I was.”

“Surely he must have relented. You were his son.”

“You are a sweet boy to say so,” he said, his lips and chin trembling. “No, he beat me when I got home. Called my brothers in to watch while he tied me to a bench and whipped my bare buttocks until the blood ran down my legs. Just like a woman’s courses, I remember him saying.” Then Simeon closed his eyes, his head dropped, and he slid across the table. The receiver and sub-prior of Tyndal had just passed out.

Thomas sat looking at the monk for a long time. He glanced down at his hand, which the receiver held like an overgrown child would his parent’s or a lover would his beloved’s, then gazed at the gold cup that Simeon still clutched. Perhaps this man was guilty of diverting some priory income to pay for these visible symbols of his competence in managing Tyndal. Surely no man of logic and reason would blame him for that. An ill-judged act it most assuredly was but no greater sin than men of higher authority in the Church had committed. If gold cups were the reason for the vague accusations of impropriety, luxuries that would enhance the standing of the priory amongst honored guests as much as they signified the competence of the receiver, Simeon would have little to fear. A jealous, petty monk was probably the source of the letter. As soon as he identified him, Thomas would be through with this assignment.

He felt a stab of pity as he looked at the receiver. How humiliated this proud man would be if he knew anyone had seen him in this drunken state, a small pool of drool from his open mouth puddling near his cheek. Thomas, however, would not mock him for it. He had grieved for the story he had just heard. As distant as his own father had been, he had been far kinder to his by-blow than Simeon’s was to the issue of a lawful wife. No wonder the receiver held on to his well-earned authority over the priory with such ferocity. No wonder he hated the woman who threatened to take it from him, despite her right in the doing. And, Thomas thought, looking down at the drunkenly snoring monk, no wonder he was taking solace in fine wines.

Very gently he removed the monk’s large hand from his and slipped out of the room.