The Stone Rose Read Online Free PDF Page B

to her being out without Izabel, when a movement in the choir caught her attention. ‘Look, Irene.’ She pointed, and Father Jerome, it could be no other, stalked through the vestry door and into the transept. His dome of a head was held high, his eyes shone with conviction and his countenance alone was fierce enough to put the fear of God into all who looked upon him. Gwenn exchanged glances with Irene, and the woman’s strange warning went right out of her head. She was used to the comfortable friendliness of Father Mark, the local priest. Father Jerome did not look comfortable, nor did he look friendly. He exuded power. He looked more powerful even than the bishop, and he was not at all what Gwenn had been expecting. The Black Monk looked – she searched for the word – warlike.
    Like most of those in the nave, Gwenn had been drawn to the church because the monk’s reputation had preceded him. A member of the Benedictine Order, and addressed as Father rather than Brother because of his position as a consecrated priest, Father Jerome was famed for his powers of oratory. Today, as part of the Lady Day celebrations, Father Jerome was condescending to speak in the Breton tongue, so all would be able to understand him. It was a rare privilege to be permitted to understand a man of the Church. Most services were held in Latin, God’s special language. Churchmen spoke and wrote in that exclusive tongue, and the simple folk were not expected to understand it. Gwenn was reasonably familiar with Latin, because she had sat in on Raymond’s lessons, but Gwenn’s knowledge was exceptional. Normally, understanding was reserved for the higher orders. People attended church for fear of God, or because it was expected of them, or because it was a good place to meet their friends. In Vannes the townsfolk were drawn to the cathedral because they loved Father Mark.
    When it became known that Father Jerome was prepared to spread God’s word in the language of the people, the townsfolk had been intrigued. It did not matter that he was reputed to be uncompromising and hard on sinners. He was going to speak in Breton – in their own dialect. Gwenn had been looking forward to hearing what the Benedictine had to say, but now that she had seen him, and noticed the unfriendly looks on the faces of some of the congregation, doubt stirred within her.
    Tall and stately as a king’s champion, Father Jerome gathered his habit into his hand and strode onto the platform. It was odd seeing him in Father Mark’s place, odd seeing his fierce eyes glare at the assembly when Father Mark and their own bishop usually smiled gentle blessings on everyone. Father Jerome did not look like a man who would understand the common failings of the congregation. He did not look like a man who would understand the meaning of the word mercy, or, for that matter, like a man who would forgive people their sins. Gwenn felt depressed, and though it was ridiculous, she felt as though Father Jerome had stolen the joy out of the day. He looked like a man who would steal the joy from everything.
    No one in the crowd was moving. Would they dare? No one so much as coughed. Father Jerome’s eyes shone like lamps over the people of Vannes. A sparrow chirped from its vantage point on a crossbeam, and a spasm crossed the monk’s severe features. Despite Gwenn’s growing sense of unease, an irreverent thought bubbled up. Rather than blessing the birds of the air, Father Jerome would have that sparrow in a pot, for daring to spoil his performance.
    ‘Brothers and sisters,’ he began, ‘we are gathered here on the day that Our Lady received the glad tidings from the Angel of the Lord...’
    Gwenn did not like the monk’s voice any more than his face. It was high for a man of his build and stature, high and scratchy; but she had to acknowledge it was penetrating, which for a preacher was no doubt a good thing. And with those beacons instead of eyes... Doubtless Father Jerome