The twenty-foot waves crashed onto the deck of the ship, The Orion, which was carrying Xavier and Anatole to Bordeaux. The day had been fine when they left Leith but the winds had strengthened as night had fallen. After midnight a full-blown storm unleashed itself on the hapless vessel.
The two monks were below in the hold with the rest of the deckhands. Anything that wasn’t secured slid or rolled around the deck. The sound of the wind around the rigging above was deafening as was the break of the waves on the deck.
The crew couldn't walk around for fear of stumbling into each other or even worse-a bucket of slops. Men were lying in their bunks trying to sleep to take their minds away from being seasick.
There was an almighty bang, and a huge crack appeared in the hull. Water came rolling into the hold. Men screamed in panic and, being disoriented, ran in all directions searching for the stairs.
Luckily for Anatole and Xavier their bunks were beneath the stairs so it was a case of pulling themselves up the steps by the handrails, which was difficult due to the water spilling down from the deck as the hatch was hanging open.
When they were out on deck, there came another crash as one of the main masts smashed onto the deck beside the bow.
“Abandon ship!” men yelled, as they lowered small rowboats over the side. But the waves were so ferocious that the small vessels flipped over and were swept away.
A huge wave crashed over Xavier and Anatole sweeping them close to the side; they grabbed hold of the rigging to prevent them from going overboard.
Then, with the ship sinking fast, a giant crack appeared under where the mast had fallen, and the bow disappeared below the sea. Xavier and Anatole were tossed into the raging water as the ship lurched backward and sank.
The savage winds carried away the cries as the two monks clung to a part of mast which had drifted toward them amid the swirling sea. The water was icy and had numbed their limbs. Anatole looked up and saw the heavens moving up and down. He prayed aloud, something he swore he would never do again. Xavier joined in, shouting over the howling wind.
After what seemed like hours, with the winds dropping, Anatole saw a star bouncing on the waves. The cold must have numbed his brain, he thought. But the star got bigger and bigger until it turned into a ship.
“Xavier! Xavier!” Anatole shouted. “Look, we’re saved.”
The two frozen men were pulled from their watery hell.
The French ship, La Blanc Colombe, made its way into Boulogne Harbour with an extra cargo: two drying and happy monks—thanks to the cognac which the crew had supplied. Any signs of the storm had long since abated, and the sea was now calm.
After the ship docked, the pair shook hands with their rescuers and made their way into the town.
The crew gave them extra clothes and a few coins to see them on their way.
In a tavern with two foaming tankards of ale in front of them the monks pondered their future.
“I have been thinking Xavier, with being saved by praying out there I would like to go back to the monastic way of life,” said Anatole.
“Yes, I agree,” said Xavier, taking a drink from his tankard.
A maid brought ham and bread over to their table.
“But where do we go?” Xavier asked, after she had gone.
“We would need to change our names in case news of what happened in Arbroath has reached France,” he continued.
“How about going back to Tiron; back to the abbey beside Chartres?” Anatole said.
“Yes, back to where the Order came from, that’s it Anatole, that’s where we’ll go.”
They finished their ales and ate the food, then headed out into the night. They came across a tavern which advertised rooms, so they used the last of their money and bedded down for the night before setting out on foot to Chartres.
The Journey took the best part of a week, following the coast west and then heading inland toward Paris. They slept in barns or outside in hedgerows and woods. Berries and wild mushrooms, they knew were safe passed as sustenance. They had to beg, however, when there was no food.
“My feet have very painful blisters,” said Anatole as they walked along a dusty track beside a wheat field.
“Mine too, but I look upon it as my penance for straying from the path.” Xavier said with conviction.
When they knocked on the Abbey gates, they were tired, hungry and filthy. Xavier told the monk who answered that they were pilgrims who had come from afar to join the Order. As the gates closed, they were asked to wait.
After a while the monk came back, and escorted them to the lavatorium in the cloister to wash.
Then, in the refectory they were given bread and cheese. In the Abbots House Gregory, the Abbot introduced himself.
“Brother Marcus tells me you want to join the Order.”
“Yes,” replied Xavier, “we have travelled from England. My name is Robert, and this is John,”
he said, pointing at Anatole.
“Why this abbey, there are many in England?”
“Because we both have family ties in England and we thought it would be better for them and us if it were France,” answered Xavier.
“Do you understand what it is to be a monk?” Gregory asked.
“We are both practicing Catholics and prepared for monastic life,” said Anatole.
“Very well, you understand you must give up all possessions.”
“Yes, we have done this,” said Xavier.
A trial of three weeks will be given to you and then, if all is well, you will be installed as novices.”
After the talk they were shown around the Abbey, then appointed beds in the dormitory and given the grey habits of the Order.
“Well Anatole, I'm better now I’m back in the confines of an abbey,” admitted Xavier, when they were alone.
“Yes, we’re back on the righteous path,” agreed Anatole.