when there weren't any physical ties to that time? He always planned to ask the question when he met a real Midwestern medievalist, but they all proved more interested in talking about the paper he read. He'd been quite proud of it. The Monastic Rule in History and Memory: Creative Contradictions. There were some vociferous disagreeing voices during question time, which was always good. The essay was to be printed in the proceedings, they assured him he'd have a copy any month now. He had enjoyed the conference. In the evenings, when there were no discussions or lectures, the Brits had tended to stick together in the bar, exchanging university gossip and bemoaning the transatlantic inability to brew a proper cup of tea. It was on one such evening that James had mentioned the Chapter of St Cloud. They were at their table as usual, James and Dominic, Claire Althorpe, and Stuart Tanner from Aberdeen. They had been listening to an address about monastic filiation that afternoon, maybe that was what brought it on.
'I assume you've heard of the Chapter of St Cloud?' James asked, 'French order, grew from an abbey founded in 550. Joined the Cistercians in the twelfth century, founded abbeys in England and all over the place, the usual story. Except that it still exists. A student of mine was going to write a thesis on its history, but he decided against it at the last moment. Went for teacher's training instead.' James grimaced. 'But you know, a history of the chapter has not been written yet. So there it is, up for grabs.'
'Why don't you write it yourself, James?' Claire had asked.
'Not my thing, dear,' he had shaken his head, 'No, this is stuff for an up and coming young academic to make his mark with.' James had never learned to modify his speech on feminist principles, and Claire had winced, but only a little.
'St Cloud was Clovis's grandson, wasn't he?' Stuart had said, 'I know my Merovingians. I wouldn't be much good at the later stuff, though.'
Dominic hadn't said much then. But the name stuck in his mind, and when he got home he had, idly at first, then with more sense of purpose, started to find out about the chapter. James had been right when he said it still existed, but only up to a point. There apparently still was an organisation calling itself the Chapter of St Cloud, Le Chapitre de St Cloud in France, though how much it had to do with the original order was unclear. But as a medievalist, he was more interested in the earlier centuries anyway. After he moved house, Dominic had seriously started to research the history of the chapter, from the founding of the first abbey onward. It was mentioned in secondary sources fairly often, but very little in the historiography of the monastic orders. Dominic had started to wonder why historians had kept away from it. There was little material for the early years, but that hadn't stopped people writing books about things whose existence was even more doubtfully documented - the Holy Grail sprang to mind. And it wasn't as if the chapter had been insignificant, some respectable scholars had emerged from behind its walls. Every student of medieval thought knew Thomas of St Cloud's De Vita Sancta, mostly in James Sutherland's translation, and religious historians still read Judith of Paris. But something stopped earlier students of the chapter from getting very far, and no book about it ever appeared.
Dominic dished up his supper and took it through to eat on the settee. He put an end to the repeating Miserere and put on a Tallis CD instead. Maybe that friendly linguist would be in the library again tomorrow. It had been nice talking to someone new, he hadn't proved very good at making friends in this new town so far. He hadn't asked her name, he now realised, nor she his. How typical.
6
The prior stood looking out of the window, his back to the young sister who had come to report to him. This part of the Chapterhouse overlooked the apple orchard, and he could see the abbot there enjoying the dappled sun, as yet unaware of any threat to his peace. If only it could stay that way!
'You are sure, Sarah?' he asked.
'Oh yes. It's gone beyond a proposal now. I spoke to him in the library today. He thinks he's not making much progress, but he's gone too far to stop.'
'Then we must make him stop.' Already his mind was looking for ways and means. This wasn't the first time they had been confronted with something like this, and usually it was easily dealt with. 'Could you scupper his chances with the Press?'
'I could try,' she said doubtfully, 'But that would not eliminate the risk, you know. It's an attractive project, on the face of it. He would take it to another publisher, and then I would not be there to keep an eye on it.'
Sarah was advisory editor to the local university press. Recently, a proposal had been received for a history of the Chapter of St Cloud. Their chapter. And for a variety of reasons, none of them were eager to ever see it in print. The prior was taking this very seriously.
'What does he know?'
'The usual stuff. He has read that old book of Poole's. He knows James Sutherland personally,' Sarah replied, 'And he has reached the point where he starts to find it strange that there isn't more to be found.'
'Will that discourage him sufficiently?'
'I'm afraid not. I think this one is good at what he does.'
The dangerous ones always were. That's what made them dangerous. The prior had rather hoped a little discouragement would go a long a way. But he had to make sure.
'We'll have him watched,' he told Sister Sarah, 'See what we can do about it.' Even to her, one of the most trusted, he would not give away too much of his thoughts.
'Do you want me to talk to him again?'
'I don't think so. Let him live in ignorance for a while.'
'All right. I'll send Lucas and Joseph to see you about this.'
Sarah left. The prior followed a moment later, knowing he had better inform the abbot of this development.
'Trouble brewing, my son?' the abbot asked, when he joined him in the orchard. The old man still had a sharp mind, he didn't miss much.
'Father,' the prior inclined his head politely, 'Just another inquisitive historian.'
'You think he is a threat?' The abbot did not appear to be much troubled.
'One that will be taken care of, I assure you.' As it always had been.
'What's his name?'
'Walsingham. Dominic Walsingham.'
7
Claire added her Ford Ka to the motley collection of cars parked in the drive and contemplated the house. It looked like something that should be administered by English Heritage, with its façade practically unaltered since it was built, and the handsome wings added in a later century harmonising rather than clashing with the original building. Architecture wasn't her strong point, but she knew she liked this. As she was getting her bags from the boot, Simon came running down the steps to catch her in his arms. That was one of the things she loved about him, that he would give her a full-on snog even though he knew half his family must be watching. He wasn't easily embarrassed.
'Ciao cara, I'm so glad you're here.' He took one of her bags, and together they walked up to the front door, where his mother was waiting, a smile on her face. 'Hello Anna,' Claire said, kissing her on both cheeks, 'Good to see you again.' She marvelled again at how young Anna looked, more like Simon's sister than his mother. And she was always so unruffled and smartly turned out, you wouldn't say she was raising three adolescents either. Sometimes Claire felt like a frump in comparison.
'I've put you in
