They left the shower rooms and Gamache followed Frère Bernard down the quiet corridor. Toward the closed door at the end. Not the one into the Blessed Chapel. But the other end.
Frère Bernard pulled on the handle and they stepped into a bright new day.
They were, in fact, in a huge walled enclosure. With goats and sheep, chickens and ducks. Frère Bernard took a reed basket for himself and handed one to Gamache.
The air was fresh, cool, and felt good after the heat of the shower. Over the high wall he could see pine trees, and hear birds and the soft lapping of water on rocks.
“Excusez-moi,” said Bernard to the chicken before taking her egg. “Merci.”
Gamache also burrowed his large hand under the chickens, and found the warm eggs. He placed them carefully in his basket.
“Merci,” he said to each chicken.
“Peace appeared to have been restored, Chief Inspector,” said Bernard as he moved from hen to hen. “But Saint-Gilbert didn’t feel the same. There was tension. Some of the monks wanted to capitalize on our popularity. Arguing it was clearly God’s will, and it would be wicked to turn our backs on such an opportunity.”
“And others?”
“They argued that God had been generous enough, and we needed to accept what He’d given with humility. That this was a test. That fame was a serpent, masquerading as a friend. This was our temptation and we needed to reject it.”
“Where did Frère Mathieu stand?”
Bernard came to a large duck and stroked her head, whispering words Gamache couldn’t hear but recognized as endearments. Then Frère Bernard kissed the top of her head and moved on. Without taking away any of her eggs.
“With the abbot. They were best friends, two halves of a whole. Dom Philippe the aesthetic, the prior a man of action. Together they led the monastery. Without the abbot there would never have been a recording. He supported it completely. Helped with the connections with the outside world. Was as joyful about it as the rest.”
“And the prior?”
“It was his baby. He was the undisputed leader of the choir and the recording. He chose the music, the arrangements, the soloists, the order in which they’d be recorded. It was all done in a single morning, in the Blessed Chapel, using an old tape machine the abbot borrowed on a trip to the abbey at Saint-Benoit-du-lac.”
It was, Gamache knew from listening to the CD many times, not of good quality. But that added a sort of sheen to it, a legitimacy. No digital editing, no multiple tracks. No tricks or fakery. It was real.
And it was beautiful. It had captured what Frère Bernard had described. When people listened it was as though they too belonged. Were less alone. Were still individuals, but part of a community. Part of everything. People, animals, trees, rocks. There was suddenly no distinction.
It felt as though the Gregorian chants entered people’s bodies and rearranged their DNA, so that they were part of everything around them. There was no anger, no competition, no winners or losers. Everything was splendid and everything was equal.
And everyone was at peace.
No wonder people wanted more. Cried for more. Demanded more. Showed up at the monastery, and pounded on the door, almost hysterical to be let in. And given more.
And the monks had refused.
Bernard had been quiet for a few moments, walking slowly around the perimeter of the enclosure.
“Tell me,” said Gamache. There was more, he knew. There was always more. Bernard had followed him into the showers, with one purpose. To tell Gamache something, and so far while interesting, this wasn’t it.
There was more.
“It was the vow of silence.”
Gamache waited, then finally prodded. “Go on.”
Frère Bernard hesitated, trying to find the words to explain something that didn’t exist in the outside world. “Our vow of silence isn’t absolute. It’s also known as a rule of silence. We’re allowed to talk to each other sometimes, but it disturbs the peace of the abbey, and the peace of the monk. Silence is seen as both voluntary and deeply spiritual.”
“But you are allowed to talk?”
“Our tongues aren’t cut out when we sign up,” said the monk with a smile. “But it isn’t encouraged. A chatty man would never make a monk. There’re times of the day where quiet is more important. Night, for instance. That’s called the Great Silence. Some monasteries have relaxed the vow of silence, but here at Saint-Gilbert we try to maintain a great silence most of the day.”
Great silence, thought Gamache. That was what he’d experienced a few hours ago, when he’d risen and walked into the corridor. It had felt like a void into which he might fall. And if he had, what would he have met there?
“The greater the silence the louder the voice of God?” asked Gamache.
“Well, the better chance we have of hearing it. Some of the monks wanted the vow lifted so that we could go into the world and speak to people about the music. Maybe do concerts. We were getting all sorts of invitations. There was even a rumor that we’d been invited to the Vatican, but the abbot had declined.”
“How did people feel about that?”
“Some were angry. Some were relieved.”
“Some supported the abbot, and some didn’t?”
Bernard nodded. “You have to understand, an abbot is more than a boss. Our allegiance isn’t to the bishop or archbishop. It’s to the abbot. And the abbey. We elect him and he keeps that job until he either dies or steps down. He’s our pope.”
“And is he considered infallible?”
Bernard stopped walking and crossed his arms, laying his free hand protectively and instinctively on the eggs.
“No. But the happiest abbeys are where the monks don’t question their abbot. And the best abbots are open to suggestions. Discuss everything in Chapter. Then they make a decision. And everyone accepts. It’s seen as an act of humility and of grace. It’s not about winning or losing, but voicing your opinion. And letting God and the community decide.”
“But that stopped happening here.”
Bernard nodded.
“Was there someone who started this campaign to end the vow of silence? A voice for the dissenters?”
Again, Bernard nodded. This was what he’d wanted to say.
“Frère Mathieu,” said Bernard, at last. He looked miserable. “The prior wanted the vow of silence lifted. It led to terrible rows. He was a forceful man. Used to getting what he wanted. Up until then what he wanted and what the abbot wanted were the same thing. But not anymore.”
“And Frère Mathieu didn’t submit?” asked Gamache.
“Not at all. And slowly other monks saw that the walls didn’t crumble if they too didn’t submit. If they continued to fight, and even disobeyed. The arguments escalated, became more vocal.”
“In a silent community?”
Bernard smiled. “You’d be surprised how many ways there are to get your message across. Far more powerful, and insulting, than words. A turned back in a monastery is like dropping the f-bomb. A rolled eye is a nuclear attack.”
“And by yesterday morning?” asked Gamache.
“By yesterday morning the monastery had been laid to waste. Except that the bodies were still walking and the walls still standing. But Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups was dead in every other way.”
Gamache thought about that for a moment, then thanking Frère Bernard he handed him his basket of eggs and left the enclosure, returning to the dim monastery.
The peace had been not simply shattered, but murdered. Something precious had been destroyed. And then a rock had landed on Frère Mathieu’s head. Shattering it too.
As he’d left Frère Bernard, Gamache had paused at the door to ask one last question.
“And you, mon frère? Where did you stand?”
“With Dom Philippe,” he said without hesitation. “I’m one of the abbot’s men.”
The abbot’s men, thought the Chief as he and Beauvoir entered the silent breakfast hall a few minutes later. Many of the monks were already there, but none looked in their direction.
The abbot’s men. The prior’s men.
A civil war, fought with glances and small gestures. And silence.