Remember Me by Penelope Wilcock Page B

about Conradus had been shorter than he thought it could have been, and he did not want to return to other matters until he had sorted this thing out.
    He found William in the checker haggling with a cordwainer over a better price for winter boots. John nodded good day to Brother Ambrose and gestured to him to remain seated and carry on as normal, then moved a miscellany of items from a stool to a small unoccupied space on the counter running the length of the room along the wall opposite the door. He sat on the stool and waited quietly, watching William. The tradesman didn’t stand a chance. He went away looking crestfallen, with a good order that he had clearly needed, but at a price that would leave him working long hours for very little profit at all. William bade him a formal, brief, courteous farewell, then turned to his abbot.
    â€œI’m so sorry, Father John,” he said. “I had not meant to keep you waiting.”
    â€œYou haven’t,” replied John, thinking how different was William’s demeanour from the days that seemed so long ago now, when they travelled to Motherwell and brought Madeleine home, and Oswald. The glimpse into the warm and vivid personality he had caught was lost; William had retreated behind locked shutters, it seemed.
    â€œI just came to see if you could spare the time to see me now. I was finished earlier than I thought.”
    William readily assented and, without bothering with any parting pleasantry to Brother Ambrose, left the checker with his abbot.
    â€œI thought you pushed that cobbler a bit hard,” John remarked.
    â€œYes,” said William, “that’s my job. I’m here to make our finances work, to earn us money and save us money and keep our coffers protected and full.”
    John did not reply immediately. Then he ventured, “You do that well, and I am—we all are—grateful. But there are other currencies than money. If you take care to accrue goodwill, it is a standby when money fails, and it sweetens life and oils the wheels of trade relationships even when there is money in the bank.”
    William had no answer for this. It had not occurred to him to think along these lines.
    They reached the abbot’s lodge in silence. William leaned forward to open the door, then stood aside respectfully to allow his superior to precede him. John felt uneasy. He thought Cormac was right. There was nothing to complain of: William was punctiliously polite. But his manner had no warmth; it was closed and guarded.
    â€œSit you down,” said John, and indicated the chairs by the hearth. The two men sat down together.
    William looked at him, waiting. John tried to think of some general conversation to ease the way into what he wanted to say and could not. So, “Brother Conradus has been to see me,” he said, and William looked immediately wary.
    There’s something, thought John, something with these kitchen brothers… something these men are choosing not to tell me.
    â€œHe is concerned for you.”
    â€œOh?” William’s face and tone remained studiedly neutral.
    â€œYes. He says that he believes you to be extremely unhappy. He preferred not to enlarge further on why. I am assuming that the cause of your unhappiness is what I think it is. Would there be anything else?”
    â€œThere is nothing else,” said William. His words sounded very final.
    John nodded. “Then I am sorry you are unhappy, but there is nothing, I think, that you or I can do. In due course, time will heal that sadness. To renounce a love is not an easy thing.”
    â€œNo,” said William.
    John nodded again. He persisted, “Brother Conradus also told me that he believes you feel… let me see… ‘afraid’, he said, and ‘full of shame’ and ‘not worth very much’. And he said he thought there had been times when you had been treated with contempt.”
    He looked for, and saw,