stood a stranger in an ankle-length leather cape with a hood to protect him from the rain. He shoved open the door at once with a strength that Brother Pietro could never have resisted and entered the shelter of the entryway as he pushed the monk before him.
‘God’s peace, a very long journey is now at an end. But let’s not talk in the dark. Fetch your lamp from the receptorium, my unknown brother,’ said the stranger.
Brother Pietro did as he was told, already reassured by the fact that the stranger spoke the language of the church and knew that there was a lamp in the receptorium. The monk fumbled for a moment with the last embers in the heating pan before he managed to light a wick and insert it into an oil lamp. When he returned to the vaulted entry outside the receptorium, both he and the stranger became bathed in the light reflecting off the whitewashed walls. The stranger swept off his leather cape and shook the rain from it. Brother Pietro involuntarily caught his breath when he saw the white surcoat with the red cross. From his time in Rome he knew quite well what that meant. A Templar knight had come to Varnhem.
‘My name is Arn de Gothia and you have nothing to fear from me, brother, for I was raised here in Varnhem, and from here I once rode forth to the Holy Land. But I don’t know you; what is your name, brother?’
‘I am Brother Pietro de Siena, and I have been here only two years.’
‘So you’re new here. That’s why you have to guard the door when no one else wishes to do so. But tell me first, is Father Henri still alive?’
‘No, he died four years ago.’
‘Let us pray for his eternal bliss,’ said the Templar knight, crossing himself and bowing his head for a moment.
‘Is Brother Guilbert alive?’ the knight asked when he looked up.
‘Yes, brother, he’s an old man but he still has much vigour.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. What is our new abbot called?’
‘His name is Father Guillaume de Bourges, and he came to us three years ago.’
‘Almost two hours remain before matins, but would you please wake him and say that Arn de Gothia has come to Varnhem?’ said the knight, with what looked almost like a jocular gleam in his eyes.
‘I’d rather not, brother. Father Guillaume maintains that sleep is a gift from God which we are duty-bound to administer well,’ replied Brother Pietro uneasily, squirming with displeasure at the thought of waking Father Guillaume for a matter that might not be of sufficient urgency.
‘I understand. Go instead and wake Brother Guilbert and tell him that his apprentice Arn de Gothia is waiting in the receptorium,’ the knight said kindly, although it was still an order.
‘Brother Guilbert might also be cross…I cannot leave my post in the receptorium in the middle of this evil night,’ said Brother Pietro, attempting to wriggle out of obeying the command.
‘Ah!’ said the knight with a laugh. ‘First of all, you may confidently leave the watch to a Templar knight of the Lord; you could have no stronger replacement. Second, I swear that you will be waking that old bear Guilbert with good news. So, go now. I’ll wait here and assume your watch as best I can, I promise you.’
The Templar knight had stated his command in a way that could not be refuted. Brother Pietro nodded and scurried down the arcade towards the little courtyard that was the last open space before entering the monastery proper through another oaken door.
It was not long before the door from the monastery to the receptorium courtyard was thrown open with a bang and a familiar voice echoed down the white arcade. Brother Guilbert came striding down the hallway, holding a tar torch in his hand. He did not seem as huge as before; no longer a giant. When he spied the stranger by the door, he raised his torch to see better. Then he handed the torch to Brother Pietro and went over to embrace the stranger. Neither of them uttered a word for a long time.
‘I thought you had fallen at the battle of Tiberias, my dear Arn,’ Brother Guilbert finally said in Frankish. ‘Father Henri thought so too, and we’ve said many unnecessary prayers for your soul.’
‘Those prayers were not unnecessary, seeing as I can now thank you for them in this life, brother,’ Arn de Gothia said.
Then neither of them seemed able to say anything more, and they both had to wrestle for control so as not to express unseemly emotions. It occurred to Brother Pietro that the two men must have been very close.
‘Have you come to pray at the grave of your mother, Fru Sigrid?’ Brother Guilbert asked at last, in a tone he would use with an ordinary traveller.
‘Yes, of course I want to do that,’ replied the knight in the same tone of voice. ‘But I also have a great many other things to do here at home in Varnhem, and I must first ask your help with a number of small matters that are best done before taking on the larger tasks.’
‘You know that I’ll help you with anything. Just say the word and we’ll get started.’
‘I have twenty men and ten wagons out there in the rain. Many of the men are of an ilk that cannot so easily set foot within these walls. I also have ten heavily loaded wagons, and the first three of them would be best brought into the courtyard.’ The knight spoke rapidly, as if he were talking of commonplace things, although the wagons must be very important if they had to be protected within the cloister walls.
Without a word Brother Guilbert grabbed the torch from the younger monk’s hand and stepped into the rain outside the door of the receptorium. There was indeed a line of ten muddy wagons out there, and they must have had a difficult journey. Hunched over the reins of the oxen sat surly men who did not look to have the heart for any more travelling.
Brother Guilbert laughed when he saw them, shaking his head with a smile. Then he called to Brother Pietro and began barking orders as though he himself were a Templar knight and not a Cistercian monk.
It took less than an hour to arrange accommodations for the visitors. One of the many rules at Varnhem said that anyone who came travelling by night should be accorded the same hospitality as the Lord Himself. It was a rule that Brother Guilbert kept repeating to himself, first half in jest but with ever greater amusement when he heard from the Templar knight that perhaps smoked hams were not the best sort of delicacy to serve the men in welcome. The joke about the unsuitability of smoked hams, however, went straight over Brother Pietro’s head.
But Varnhem’s entire hospitium outside the walls was empty and dark, since few travellers had arrived during the storms of the past few days. Soon the guests were both housed and fed.
Then Brother Guilbert and Arn de Gothia pulled open the heavy gates to the cloister so that the three wagons that required protection could be driven into the courtyard next to the workshops. There the oxen were unharnessed and settled in stalls for the night.
When the work was done the rain began to taper off, and bright light was clearly visible coming through rents in the black clouds. The weather was about to change. It was still about an hour until matins.
Brother Guilbert led his guest to the church and unlocked the door. They entered without a word.
In silence Arn stopped at the baptismal font just inside the doors. He removed his wide leather cloak and placed it on the floor, then pointed with an inquiring look at the water in the font, which had no cover. He received an affirmative nod from the old monk. Arn drew his sword, dipped his fingers in the water of the font, and stroked three fingers over the flat of his sword before he slipped it back into its sheath. With more of the holy water he touched his brow, both shoulders, and his heart. Then they walked side by side up the aisle toward the altar to the spot that Brother Guilbert indicated. There they knelt and prayed in silence until they heard the monks filing in for matins. Neither of them spoke. Arn knew the monastery’s rules about the silent hours of the day as well as any monk.
By the time they began gathering for song, the storm had abated and the chirping of birds could be heard in the first light of dawn.