“What do you think of the abbot?” he asked. He was feeling light-headed.

“What do you mean?”

Beauvoir wasn’t sure what he meant.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“You’re one of the abbot’s men, aren’t you?” he asked. Grabbing at whatever questions surfaced.

“I am.”

“Why? Why not join with the prior?”

The monk starting kicking a stone and Beauvoir focused on that as it danced and jumped along the dirt path. The door into the monastery seemed a long way off. And suddenly he wished he was back in the Blessed Chapel. Where it was calm and peaceful. Listening to the monotone chants. Clinging to the chants.

No chaos there. No thoughts, no decisions. No raw emotions.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“Frère Mathieu was a gifted musician,” Frère Bernard was saying. “He turned our vocation of singing chants into something sublime. He was a great teacher and a natural leader. He gave our lives new meaning and purpose. He breathed life into the abbey.”

“Then why wasn’t he abbot?”

It was working. Beauvoir followed his breath, and the monk’s quiet voice, back into his own body.

“Perhaps he should have been. But Dom Philippe was elected.”

“Over Frère Mathieu?”

“No. Frère Mathieu didn’t run.”

“Did Dom Philippe get in by acclamation?”

“No. The prior at the time ran. Most expected him to win since it was a natural progression. The prior almost always became the abbot.”

“And who was the prior at the time?” Beauvoir’s mind was working again. Taking things in, and churning rational questions back out. But the fist in his belly remained.

“I was.”

Beauvoir wasn’t sure he heard right. “You were the prior?”

“Yes. And Dom Philippe was just plain old Frère Philippe. A regular monk.”

“It must have been humiliating.”

Frère Bernard smiled. “We try not to personalize these things. It was God’s will.”

“And that makes it better? I’d rather be humiliated by men than God himself.”

Bernard chose not to answer.

“So you go back to being a regular monk, and the abbot appoints his friend as prior. Frère Mathieu.”

Bernard nodded, and absently took a handful of blueberries from his basket.

“Did you resent the new prior?” asked Beauvoir, helping himself to some of the berries.

“Not at all. It turned out to be an inspired choice. The former abbot and I were a good team. But I wouldn’t have been as good a prior to Dom Philippe as Frère Mathieu proved. It worked well for many years.”

“So you had to suck it up.”

“You have a singular way of putting things.”

“You should hear what I’m not saying,” Beauvoir said and saw Frère Bernard smile. “Have you heard that the prior was considering replacing Frère Antoine as soloist?”

“With Frère Luc? Yes. It was a rumor spread by Frère Luc, and apparently believed by him, but no one else.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t true?”

“The prior could be difficult. I think,” Frère Bernard shot Beauvoir a glance, “you might call him an asshole.”

“I’m hurt.”

“But he knew music. Gregorian chant was more than just music to him. It was his path to the Divine. He would rather die than do anything to undermine the choir or the chants.”

Frère Bernard walked on, apparently unaware of what he’d said. But Beauvoir tucked it away.

“Frère Antoine should be soloist,” said the monk, nibbling at more berries. “He has a magnificent voice.”

“Better than Luc’s?”

“Far better. Frère Luc’s is better technically. He can control it. It has a beautiful tone but there’s nothing divine there. It’s like seeing a painting of a person, instead of the real thing. It’s missing a dimension.”

Frère Bernard’s opinion of Luc’s voice was almost exactly the same as Frère Antoine’s.

Still, the young monk had been convinced and convincing.

“If Luc was right,” ventured Beauvoir, “what would the reaction have been?”

Bernard thought about that for a moment.

“I think people would have wondered.”

“Wondered what?”

Now Frère Bernard was distinctly uncomfortable. He popped more berries into his mouth. The basket, once overflowing, had been reduced to a puddle of blueberries.