N THE LAST HOUR OF DUSK St. Mark’s Abbey lay peacefully under an orange sky. ‘I will guard my ways, that I may not sin with my tongue,’ sang the Psalmist. For the brothers of the abbey the words took shape in their hearts as they moved from evening prayers through the long undercroft, eyes turned inward.

It was the generation after Arthur.

The bell tower rang four times in the gathering darkness, and as the last peal ended, the hands that pulled the bell rope leaned upon the balustrade of the belfry. Weathered by much work, the hands belonged to a monk of aquiline face with hooded eyes and dark hair.

Brother Ciaran of the black locks was known to all the brothers of the abbey. His eyes hinted to a zealotry held in check by his own skeptical demeanor. Now they scanned the courtyard of the Abbey. 

Brother Lawrence shuffled across the stone-paved yard toward the stables to feed the two old mares, gifts of King Leodegrance. Brother Finn lugged water from the well for the evening meal. A torch burned in the scriptorium window. It was near the hour of rest and Brother Asprey was working even so. A regular habit of late. Now that it came to mind—had Asprey been in attendance during the evening service?

The abbot would have to be told, but Ciaran was not without consideration for the younger monk. He descended the steps of the bell-tower and went into the scriptorium. His long fingers pressed lightly on the door and it swung noiselessly open. There was the young monk Asprey, his mind removed from Earth, adoring the golden page over which he labored. Ciaran approached silently. He waited until a change in the air told Asprey of his presence. 

The young monk bolted up from his chair. Ciaran felt a sly pleasure, one he carefully kept unconscious. He had perfected denial over long years. 

“Brother Asprey, it is the hour of rest.”

“I know Brother Ciaran, yes…of course…I was very close to having the…” the word abandoned him. Asprey smiled nervously. “I do so enjoy the work here, Brother Ciaran,” he said. “A few spare moments more of good work.”

His voice quaked at this last phrasing. He had not meant it so vainly as it sounded.

“I know this already. But I fear your love is overmuch.”

No small dread overcame Asprey’s face. “Do not take me from the work just yet, Brother Ciaran,” he pleaded. 

“I do not take you from it. You do not take yourself from it and so force others to help you. Remind me, Brother Asprey, the words from the reading tonight?” 

Asprey’s eyes trembled, unfocused. “The words of St. Matthew, the very same which I colored tonight. They are mother and father to me.”

“And yet you do not recall the words of your mother and father. I have no doubt of your growing skills with the pen, and your love of scripture, Brother Asprey, but what of prayer and your brothers? You are ordered to care for them also, and obey them, and to pray.”

“Ciaran is certainly correct in this, Brother Asprey,” said a new voice. Ciaran turned to see the figure framed in the light of the the doorway. The habit the brother wore was large and shapeless, draped flowingly over the man’s sturdy build.

“And you must certainly never miss another evening prayer, unless for some task given by a superior. You have been here long enough to know that well.”

“Brother Ellias.” said Ciaran, his voice toneless.

“The Abbot has asked for us both, Brother Ciaran.”

“In his quarters?”

“In the chapel.”

“I will come shortly.”

Ellias moved into the room. “I believe Brother Asprey is in need of fresh air. And greater devotion to prayer, as no doubt you have told him.” He walked to the young monk and briefly placed a strong hand on his shoulder. “Go,” he said sternly, but Ciaran knew the softness of Ellias’s mind. He was excusing the boy.

Asprey obeyed stoically. The door clanged loudly behind him as he left.

Ciaran smiled kindly to hide his annoyance.

“Your mercy is misguided, Brother Ellias.”

“No, no. Your impatience is misplaced. It will not help him. He was only a novice two years ago, and the third year is a hard one. I remember yours as well, in the same year as my admittance here.”

“As do I. But the rhythm of this life carried us through that season, and to stray from prayer is to risk disaster.”

“Surely we agree as much. But the carrot before the stick… otherwise we break the spirit, Brother Ciaran.”

The dark-haired monk shook his head. “The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. You measure others as you measure yourself, Ellias, but not all came here from a hard life of war and found respite in everyday labors and the quiet of prayer. We knew well what we rejected in coming here. But these younger men—they do not understand the graces they are given. They’ve tasted little of worldly pleasures and are as likely to stray on a Sunday between the pages of Holy Writ as on the road among harlots. You are too forgiving to your older self, and so forgive kindly even when penance is due.”

“A young man needs friends even in the world of the abbey, brother. Christ would have us lift his spirit with an encouraging word, not tie up greater burdens for his back. Pleasure in the beauties of Holy Writ are among the pleasures I myself enjoy. Beauty is not to be stricken off for the cloister.”

Ciaran walked to the work table as if he were about to chastise the illumined book directly.

“You may think me a critic, but I assure you, I am well aware of the limits of law. I do not simply insist on the Rule for myself, but that I might not lose one of the flock, as Our Lord Himself prayed.” 

“Nor would I. Our hearts are one in this. Come—we have kept the Abbot.”

“Very well.” Ciaran lingered, his fingers hovering over the illuminated page. The sweep of the gold letters moved like a river under the eye. Its beauty mesmerized with the contrast of gold, red, and green lettering.

“A thing of beauty,” said Ellias simply. “Asprey’s skill with colors is unmatched so far as I have seen.”

“Tremendous praise from you,” said Ciaran. “If only the beauty did not distract from the words themselves.”

“Beauty is for the soul as much as the word. The word also is but a painting of the meaning. Some feel the beauty keenly.”

“Too keenly,” said Ciaran. “Perhaps you will feel the edge of that blade one day.”

“I have felt sinful pleasures.”

“Not pleasure itself, but the ache of desire. You left behind a courtly world emptied of its grandeur. Even Arthur’s court was but a mere glimpse of true heavenly beauty. But one day you will see that thing that will grow in your breast, till uprooting it will nearly break you.”

“God keep us all,” came the stolid reply. And the two men left the scriptorium.

***

HE ABBEY HAD BEEN BUILT twenty years past, the work of Irish missionaries. In those days a pious harvest swept the land, nurtured by the peace of Arthur. The druids had been slain, their altars destroyed, and foundations laid for a Christian throne. But as unhappy skies are wont to stay too long, a gray pall loomed over Britain. It was ten years since Arthur’s death by treachery, and few joined the Abbey while the strivings of little kings kept war fires flickering.

The two monks went into the chapel, and not finding the abbot there, they went to his cell.

Ciaran knocked lightly with the back of two fingers on the door. Behind the veil of wood came a muffled reply. Ellias entered first. 

The Abbot was resting in his chair, old fingers draped over the arms. His head was bowed as if listening. 

“Hello my sons,” he said. “Are you praying?”

“Yes, father Abbot,” said Ciaran. The two men stood to either side, watching the frail but potent figure. Hubert’s eyes drifted to a point before him. They fixed upon it, gleamed intensely, then dimmed with weariness. His hand touched his temple.

“I fight the devil, friends. Night and day he assails me. Let no man say idly that were he to live again, he would live more righteously than before. As chaplain to my great lord Leodegrance, I could have said and done more to warn him of the ways of the true enemy, and we might have guessed Mordred’s treachery.”

Ciaran said nothing, but Ellias after a short silence spoke his mind.

“Surely, father abbott, that was long enough ago. You should rest and not belabor these past thoughts.” Ellias’s broad frame vanished in the candlelit dark.

“Your voice reassures me, Ellias. It ever had the gift of strength. But you speak no wisdom. Much darkness is among us since Arthur’s death. This is my night of reckoning, my garden of Gethsemane—woe to me if I leave it unfinished!”

Ciaran kneeled and gripped the chair. “You called us, Father?” His voice was calm with a note to remind him.

“We have received a letter.” The Abbot slowly drew out a parchment, half-concealed in the folds of his habit. “From the priest of Saint Alban’s. Father Bartholomew—an old companion. A worthy priest. A strange man in many ways.”

“It has been many a year since one of ours has gone to St. Alban’s,” said Ellias.

“To our detriment,” said Hubert. “I myself used to visit every Pentecost, but since it sits on King Lludd’s land, there is no need to foster new jealousies in him. This abbey once belonged to him.”

“What does Bartholomew write?” asked Ellias, watching Ciaran scan the brief page. “A boy’s death” Ciaran said bluntly. “Bartholomew fears a demonic possession. No doubt a retribution for their fathers’ ways in witchcraft.”

“That is a harsh judgment,” said Ellias.

“But correct,” replied the monk, handing over the letter. Ellias read aloud.

My Lord Abbot,

We of St Alban's have met with no small trouble, and I am in great need of help. It has happened that one of my parishioners, a man called Hova, has lost his son. In the earliest hours of the morning his wife came and woke me, and I could make nothing from her grief-stricken tale. When shortly I came with her to Hova’s household I saw his dead son laid upon the bed, utterly gashed and mutilated, nigh bloodless. The villagers have heard what befell Hova’s son, and what is more Hova has told them what he did not tell me: that it was a creature of demonic powers that killed his son, though of a nature that he recognized. I fear for the future of this parish if indeed we are beset with a dark power. Please advise us. We await a returning message and messenger.

Father Bartholomew

Ellias looked to the Abbot. Hubert’s countenance told him that the old monk was deeply troubled.

“I must send them one of you,” said Hubert.

“It is not a task to be relished,” said Ciaran. “Saint Alban’s had a dark reputation in my father’s time, even after the church was built. I will go if you desire it, Lord Abbot, but it is an ill thing.”

“I wish for Ellias to go,” said Hubert, letting the words hang in the air.

Ellias bristled. “I have done with that world, Lord Abbot. It is why I came here. Let another man go.”

Hubert sighed. “You are not going out into the world the same as you did before, Ellias. This is a task of spiritual strength, as well as physical. I may well send Ciaran, but you must not recoil so violently. I have often thought you would do well to encounter ‘the world’, as you say, again. Too many hours you spend in menial work and you are not so diligent as the others with prayer.”

“Forgive me Lord Abbot,” said Ellias.

Ciaran smiled inwardly. What the abbot said was not strictly true, but he understood the fatherly need to prod the son into action.

“Surely, father abbot,” said Ellias more hesitantly. “Prayer will drive back the dark.”

“No, not only. As a man of valor you understand the effectiveness of action, and also now, I trust, the prayers of good men. When Christ lived among us he lived as we did, and we read as often of his actions as we hear his words. Presently I feel strongly that which I’ve long suspected—a spiritual shriveling of the good, and the return to evil ways among the common folk. It was inevitable.”

The Abbot suddenly stood. Ciaran hurried to help him.

“My decision is made. Ellias, you will go to Saint Alban's. You must be the shepherd to these sheep.”

“Father Abbot, I am not suited to shepherding men. Please send Ciaran—he measures the hearts of men to a nicety and searches out the truth of things. I have ever trusted to the good will of others and, absent that, the sword as a final reckoning, which I have now forsworn.”

Leaning on his crutch, Hubert gripped Ellias’s arm as in a vise. His eyes were adamant. “It is no longer my wish, but my command to you as your spiritual father. The world remembers you and hungers for you. Use every weapon, but let them be of the Spirit. You may yet have need of your soldier’s training, but even in the midst of the fight, think only of the Lord’s own struggle.”

The Abbot’s strength suddenly ebbed, and both men had to help him to his cot. He sat upright and bade them leave. Ciaran spoke.

“Forgive me, Father Abbot, it has occurred to me just now that Ellias will no doubt be in need of some help.”

“You wish to go with him now?”

“No, Father Abbot, rather I was thinking of young Brother Asprey,” Ciaran finished.

Hubert nodded.

“It is something to be considered. Tomorrow we will decide. Now leave me to my sleep,” he motioned them out.

When the door had closed and they had gone some steps down the undercroft, the younger monk gave Ellias a quizzical look. “Measured to a nicety? That was richly said.”

“But not uncalled for.”

“If I say things as I see them, perhaps I have the gift of Nathanael, a true Israelite in whom there was nothing false.”

“I cannot defeat you at wordplay. Or history.”

“Ah, but these are days of the sword again, for you. In that respect I cannot defeat you.”

“No, I will not recover the sword—and surely you did not take Hubert’s words to mean the action of steel.”

“You do not know the abbot as well as you might, Ellias. He did not rule it out, and you must keep that in mind if the need presents itself. We are lambs for the slaughter before beast as well as man.”

“You are nearly a man of the sword yourself, carrying that argument,” said Ellias.

“It is not unheard of for a monk,” said Ciaran.

When they reached the refectory Ciaran stopped. “Be sure you take Maple and not Cherry, who has a cold.”

“That surprises me. I’d prefer to take Cherry. Perhaps you can pay me a visit in a few weeks and bring her to me.”

“We will see.”

“Tell Brother Lawrence I’ll leave before daybreak. I will spend the evening alone in prayer before the Presence.”

“You choose wisely. You go to a dark place from the looks of things. But I have no doubt you will manage.”

“So you say.” And with that, the two men parted ways. As Ellias ascended the stairs to his cell his thoughts returned to a night ten years past.

***

HE FIRE HAD BEEN WARM in the halls of King Meliartes, but he’d shunned it for the chapel. Ever more he sought the presence of the sacrament. There Abbot Hubert found him as his fellow warriors feasted.

“Let me not disturb your prayers, my son,” he said as Ellias rose to greet him.

“I have prayed long, Father.”

“Men pray long, but saints do not cease praying.”

“I would be a saint if I might. My heart is ever to be close to Our Lord. But the life of a knight is a hard one.”

“Why not leave it?”

The thought had struck him like a gust of cold wind. He’d bristled at first, but though his thoughts resisted, his spirit had been drawn.

“The life of a monk is not for me, Father.”

“It is not for anyone. Whatever path you may take, holiness will ask more than you are willing to give at first. But think anew. What kind of life do you lead now? You ride from house to house, seeking harbor with friendly lords who need men killed or threatened. Do you wonder that your heart seeks peace? Justice will be done by those called to it, but I discern that your heart is elsewhere.”

Ellias remembered Hubert’s face, cragged and vigorous; he had loved him like a brother even then. But ten years had done much to the old Abbot. It sometimes happens that a man will keep his youth into old age then sharply decline. So it was with Hubert. The fall of Arthur and the following wars had aged him. His stature and holiness had secured the protection of King Meliartes during the days of chaos. But the Abbey held a careful balance, resting as it did upon the borders of Meliartes’s kingdom and that of his rival, King Lludd—a scion of old pagans who’d opposed Arthur’s rise. Raids were frequent and the divisions of the land had placed Saint Alban's and other parishes in uncertainty. Their folk still looked to Abbot Hubert as in the days of Arthur, but if ever Lludd suspected their motives, he might bar the Abbey monks entry. It was this dilemma that gave Hubert many wakeful nights and kept the monks safe within the walls of the Abbey.

Now Ellias must cross the border, courting vagabonds and suspicious soldiers only to seek a more dreadful danger—the shadow that haunted the forests of Saint Alban's. As he knelt to pray that night, he heard a knock at his door. “Come in,” he said.

Asprey’s face appeared. “I am sorry you are leaving, Brother Ellias,” he whispered. “I know it is not the hour to converse, but I feared you would leave before I saw you.”

“But you are coming with me, Asprey. Didn’t you know?” Ellias grinned as surprise and then joy came over the youth’s face.

“Is it so?”

“Ciaran and I have asked the Abbot to give his leave. I am certain he will do so.”

“Thank you, Ellias! It’s the best news I’ve heard in a long while.” There were tears in the boy’s eyes. He must be truly miserable, thought Ellias.

“Return to your cell, Asprey, and say your prayers with sincerity. Where we go, we shall need them.”