Friar Tuck

Friar Tuck ~ Chapter 1

The three primeval unities: One Divinity; one truth; one point of liberty.

Fountaindale Abbey, Advent 1199.
   The arched oak door banged open with an almighty crash. The silently dining monks sprang to their feet, ready to run.
   "Brother Michael Tuck.” The Sub-Prior swept in with a tight grin. “The Abbot wishes to see you. Right now.”
   Under his tonsure of nut-brown hair, Tuck's auburn eyes turned dark with dread.
   "I've never seen the Sub so happy. You're in for it, Tuck. Stay steady.” The friendly whisper from one of his brothers set Tuck's hands trembling.
   The brethren sat, muttering in annoyance and relief, while Tuck slid out between their bald pates to answer his summons.
   Early twilight hazed golden-marine through the open cloisters as the Sub-Prior hurried Tuck towards the chapter house. Tuck scuttled along, scrambling for his wits. They fairly raced across the empty scriptorium, then down a tight corridor to the Abbot's office. The Sub-Prior knocked two loud raps, shot Tuck a withering glance, then flung open the door.
   The Abbot of Fountaindale Abbey sat bolt upright behind a broad desk of plain timber, deeply engaged with a large, curling letter. A purple ribbon hung from its cracked wax seal. The flame-topped tallows of a three-armed candelabrum guttered high on the right, fluttering warm yellow light over the old stone walls. The Sub-Prior stopped just inside the door, and nodded for Tuck to advance alone.
   The Abbot folded his letter with a snap.
   "Brother Michael.” The Abbot cut Tuck to the quick with a flash of his stern blue eyes. “You know why you are here. Please explain yourself.”
   Tuck's excuses turned to dust on his tongue. He had no idea which of his mischiefs had been discovered. Mindful of past successes with this tactic, Tuck adopted his best shamed-face.
   "Father Abbot, a wicked devil tempted me, and I was not strong enough to resist. I beg your forgiveness.”
   “Your confession will help you in heaven, Brother Michael, but not here.” The Abbot's prayer-sharpened gaze turned over every stone in Tuck's soul. “My forgiveness is not what you need.”
   Tuck's toes tingled in alarm. The Abbot usually went for sensational rollickings, not grim resignation.
   "Father, actually, I'm not sure what-.”
   "Stealing from the Abbey stores.”
   "Oh, but Father Abbot!” Tuck's voice quaked with relief. “I haven't stolen from the stores.”
   The Abbot cast a blistering look over Tuck's shoulder.
   "Brother Michael,” the Sub-Prior spoke up loud and clear, “I personally witnessed you, this morning, passing Abbey supplies to peasants over the back gate.”
   The words pierced Tuck's ears like hate-driven nails.
   He'd almost forgotten. On his way to the kitchen after Matins, he'd come across a half-frozen little family begging at the Abbey gate. Moved by their need, he'd not thought twice about sharing from the brethren's surplus. Of course, he hadn't asked permission, but never imagined it theft. Stealing from the Abbey was stealing from God.
   Tuck's guts twisted.
   "Father Abbot,” Tuck appealed with all his heart, “those people had nothing. This harsh winter-.”
   "This winter has been harsh on us all.” Sadness shaded the Abbot's voice.
   Tuck quailed.
   Practiced at finessing misdeeds, justifying goodness flummoxed him. He'd expected punishment for the brewery behind the chicken coop, or helping a brother slip out at night, but not this.
   The Abbot stood to pronounce judgment, a dour crease on his brow. "Brother Michael Tuck, for robbing Fountaindale, you are sentenced to 50 strikes of the lash, and immediate expulsion.”
   Tuck couldn't breathe. He'd lost everything, ruined by an act of charity.
   "Father-.” Tears leaked from Tuck's eyes.
   "Michael, I will not hear your appeal.” The Abbot held up a broad, flat hand. “You are no longer a coenobite of this Abbey. You are a gyrovague, a vagrant monk, of no interest to me. May Our Lady show you the mercy I cannot.” The Abbot stared down at his desk, implacable.
   The Sub-Prior approached from behind, righteous satisfaction ringing in every step.
   "But Father-.”
   "Father Abbot has spoken.” The Sub-Prior took a tight grip of Tuck's elbow. “Brother Michael, come with me.”
   Tuck wanted to throw off the Sub-Prior's grasping hand, but shame sucked the air from his lungs, leaving him too weak to resist.
   In charge of rich holdings and a ready labour force, Abbots often ensured monthly returns before heavenly rewards. Fountaindale's Abbot was one of the honest few, a true spiritual Father. To be judged a thief by the man, curdled Tuck's soul.
   The brethren gathered in witness on the far side of the whipping yard. Their habits hung ghostly in the cold slanting dusk, faces obscured under full cowls. Tuck wanted to call to his friends. Fear of none answering, deadened his tongue.
   Disaster tore at Tuck's heart.
   As one of Fountaindale's coenobites, Tuck enjoyed close-knit community, a strong roof over his head and at least two proper meals a day. Life at the Abbey had filled all his future.
   Expelled, he had only his habit to protect him from the wicked winds of the world. Rootless and unwarranted, vagrant monks were notorious for living by wit first, and sanctity second. Tuck would be cursed out of every tower and town in Christendom.
   Tuck's thoughts focused in immediate terror of the lash as a stout pair of brothers tied his hands to the time-worn whipping post.

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