Excerpt:
The college chaplain walked into Erasmus’ bedchamber without knocking, to find the shutters closed and Erasmus sitting in the corner, bent double.
“Come to the Dolphin.”
“Not to church, chaplain?”
“You’ve had enough solemnity. You need light and you need noise.”
They went down to the alehouse, the chaplain marching ahead and Erasmus shambling along behind. The alehouse was small and made smaller still by the bodies stuffed into it, warm with victory songs. A student shouted each verse from the broadsheet in his hand, and the crowd sang it back to him. The chaplain ploughed through them until he reached the alewife. A Master’s student was talking earnestly to her about Jesus.
“Move, Cranmer,” the chaplain barked. “We want ale.”
Cranmer frowned but obeyed, so Erasmus and the chaplain could have their ale.
“Look at them,” Erasmus said, after the singing died down. “Acting like they’re the conquerors of the world. The victory is nothing to do with them! We’re surrounded by plague, and now war with France means we can’t even have decent wine.”
The chaplain shrugged. “It’s not as if they could afford decent wine anyway.”
“We slaughter our brothers in Christ and then we pay for the privilege,” Erasmus remarked bitterly. “Kings count each penny before they give it to a scholar, but when it’s war, lo! A miracle! The coffer, it has no bottom!”
The chaplain smiled grimly. “You’re right about that, but there’s nothing you can do. You can shake your fist at the black clouds all you like. You still need shelter from their downpour.” He took a loud slurp of ale, which made Erasmus frown at his manners. “You need to stop treating your students like they’re your sons. You will teach so many, over the course of your life. It’s only a matter of time until one of them falls into a river, or goes off to war, or dies of consumption on Christmas Day. Get attached to them and you’ll spend half your life weeping. And that does your living students no good, no good at all.”
Erasmus stared at his ale. Even in his grief, he had remembered to bring his pewter cup: the tankards here were tar-stiffened leather jugs. “You would not tell a father to keep his sons away from him.”
“A father has no choice. Besides, a father only has so many sons. Remember the parable of the sower. Some seed falls on the path: it comes to nothing. Some falls on rocky ground: it comes to nothing. Some falls into thorny ground: it does not bear fruit. But enough falls onto good soil. It must bring such a harvest to make up for the lost potential. Just close your eyes and sow the seeds and if they grow, they grow.”
“You’re a chaplain,” Erasmus pointed out. “You have no business being a cynic. You should tell me to love and mourn and love again, because if I teach the gospel that I love then it follows that I love those I teach. I don’t recall our Saviour saying: ‘Love thy neighbour, unless it be an inconvenience to thee.’”
“How many boys do you think I’ve buried over the years? You could drive yourself mad thinking of all the talent that dies every year. You can’t sit around and think of all that could have been while your students wait for your help. Accept that God did not intend for Alexander Stewart to blossom. Then let him go. You have too much to accomplish to give other men the power to break you.” The chaplain’s gaze darted to Erasmus’ cup. “Are you going to drink that, or what?”
Erasmus shook his head and left without another word. Behind him, the victory songs resumed with a cheer.
CF Kirkham-Sandy
