The Blood of Alexandria

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‘You know, Brother Aelric,’ Benedict told me this morning, ‘you may be up for canonisation.’

I grunted and carried on looking at the draft manifesto one of King Aldfrith’s clerks had given me to correct. It was dire stuff. Latin has no aorist, and you can’t use participles to supply the lack. And that was probably the most literate error.

I think the Abbot mistook my silence. He brightened his voice, adding, ‘Of course, I would never dream of wishing you called out of this life. For all your great age, the work you do for us here makes you irreplaceable’ – he repeated the word ‘irreplaceable’, and emphasised it – ‘but the common people are already calling you a saint.’

I’m now alone in my little cell, and free to think again. Benedict is a good man. I’m grateful for the refuge he gave me in his monastery, no questions asked. I’m particularly grateful at the moment for the stove he’s had brought in to keep the afternoon chill away. If you think I was upset by his reference to the inevitable, you’re as mistaken as he was. At ninety-six, that is something you’ve had plenty of time to consider. And Saint Aelric! It may not make death any less of the darkness it probably is. But it does have a nice sound.

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