The Breath of Peace by Penelope Wilcock Page A

the flames after putting the supper things away, she had asked him to tell her something of how he came to monastic life. She trod cautiously, not wanting to arouse all over again the antagonisms of the morning; but she felt that if she could understand him a little better, grasp what motivated him, perhaps they would blunder less easily into the spats that scratched and tore and wearied them both.
    â€˜I worked for my father then. He was a spice merchant, and he also dealt in unusual hides. I learned from him about buying and selling, trade routes, assessing the quality of animal skins, seeking out trustworthy suppliers. It stood me in good stead later on.
    â€˜But at seventeen, I only knew I was trapped. He paid me no wages, so I had no means to move out of our home, which suited him well – I was a hard grafter, and learned quick. I was useful to him, I think, though he never said so.
    â€˜Nothing in our life was happy, but I did like going to Mass at St Dunstan’s. The priory church rose up cool and lofty, airy, very pale stone – and we had the most beautiful glass in the windows there. I loved the music of the chant, and watching the smoke of the incense rising through the shafts of sunbeams. Everything seemed so calm and measured and under control. So much of what happened to me had to do with being hot and frightened and panicking. And there was so much ugliness in our house. Faces ugly with anger thrust into my face, and I dared not even look away. Ugly fists and ugly threats. The priory showed me beauty… the music, the silences, the silver chalice, the peaceful statue of the Virgin and child. It became a refuge in my mind.
    â€˜Everything came to an end at home when I finally stood up to my father – well, if you can call it that. I evaded him hitting me, that’s all. He was in his cups – completely drunk, not just a bit tipsy – and I’d passed my curfew for coming in. Even just thinking back to it, I can see him so clear all these years on: swaying, clutching on to the table, shouting after me, commanding me to give account of myself as I started to climb the stairs. I went back and stood before him – it wasn’t a wise thing to disregard his summons – and he raved on at me a while, spittle flying into my face and all the usual insults. And when he was done shouting he raised his hand to hit me. And suddenly I’d had enough. I stepped back, and he lost his balance in lunging at me. He fell over the stool and barked his shin on it. He was just staggering back to his feet and I was just weighing up whether taking refuge in my chamber would be enough or if I had to get out of the house until morning, when my mother caught me such a crack on the side of my head with one of the fire-irons I’m surprised she didn’t kill me. It caught me off guard, slewed me right over, knocked me onto the floor. And my father let out a great bellow of laughter, and grabbed it from her, and clubbed every inch of me with it. It was all I could do to stay curled up tight and protect my head so I could take it on my back and my legs and not get my nose broken or my skull split or an eye put out. Eventually he’d had his fun, and kicked me and told me to get out. I did. I walked out of the house – with him shouting after me, because he’d meant for me to go to my bed.
    â€˜I spent the night curled up in someone’s hay barn, waiting for everything to stop hurting, which it did not. In the morning I went to the priory and begged them to take me in.
    â€˜The prior – a lazy, decadent brute, but tolerably cunning – wanted to know what gift my family would give them and I said, none. So he wanted some word of my good character from my father or my employer, and I explained he wouldn’t be getting it. I told him I’d been beaten until I could no longer stomach it, and beseeched him to take me. He laughed at me, asked me what made me think