yarn and wooden-soled shoes and slavering wolves.
The castle cook revived my body and spirit. A good meal almost always performs that miracle. There was this day a leg of mutton, a coney pie and a ham, with mushroom tarts, a compost and cooked, spiced apples.
Thus refreshed, I went about manor business for the afternoon. It was my duty to inspect Lord Gilbert’s manor each day. This day there was plowing to oversee and the manuring of a field ready to be planted to barley. As dusk settled on the town, I joined the stream of residents walking to the Church of St Beornwald for the lighting of the great Paschal Candle and the commencement of the Easter Vigil. My soul was drawn to remain, but duty demanded otherwise. I stood at the rear of the nave while the great candle was lit, then quietly made my way out through the porch into the darkening churchyard.
The two archers were at the blind before me, and John Holcutt appeared soon after. This night was colder, and the waning moon appeared in the east an hour later. We shivered in the cold and waited for the moon to rise. When it did it was often obscured as a thickening body of clouds drifted from north to south across the town and meadow.
At dawn the clouds thickened more, and in the growing light I could see what only the touch on my face had told me ’til then: snowflakes drifted across the meadow. But the lamb lay as it had been for two days.
My knees were stiff with cold and it was with some discomfort that I stood and stretched. I remember my father, who rarely complained of anything, lamenting aching joints when winter came. Was I become my father already?
We four peered over the screen at the undisturbed lamb, stamping our feet to drive out the cold. This exercise was not successful.
Neither was the watch over the dead lamb, so I called it off. I told John and the archers that, unless the wolf gave more sign, we would no longer seek it, but hope that it had traveled to some far county.
I walked, stiffly at first, like an old man, back to the castle and my chamber. I wished to clean myself before Easter Mass, so asked for a bucket of hot water to be brought. I would not eat. It is my custom to fast before mass, as was once customary, but now seems an uncommon privation.
I had laid the blue yarn found in Alan’s scalp on my table. My eyes fell upon it as I awaited my bucket of hot water. I picked it up, sat on my bench, and twirled it mindlessly. I had contemplated that thread many times but was no nearer to its significance, if it had any, to the beadle’s death and his missing shoes.
While I toyed with the yarn I heard a soft rapping on my door. I bid the maker enter, and Alice atte Bridge pushed open the door. Her right shoulder sagged under the weight of a bucket of steaming water.
So it was that the girl saw me twisting the blue yarn about a finger. She stood watching, awaiting instructions.
“Any place will do, Alice,” I nodded at the bucket. She took me at my word and dropped her burden in the middle of my chamber, still watching the blue yarn. The girl turned slowly to leave, obviously curious about the yarn. I found myself eager to explain to her – to anyone – its importance. So I told her of finding Alan the beadle, which news she had surely heard already, and of the pale blue yarn found in his hair, and his missing shoes. I did not ask her if she knew of a garment of that shade. I should have. Alice seems incapable of falsehood. I might have been spared a brawl in a darkened road and a thump across my skull.
I dismissed her and went to scrubbing myself, attempting to wash away cobwebs of sleep as well as dirt, so as to prepare my soul and body for the celebration of our Lord’s resurrection. I was more successful with body than with spirit, for had I not been standing for the mass I should have fallen asleep during Thomas de Bowlegh’s homily. This message, I thought, was not one of his best. But perhaps his discourse lost its power at my
The castle cook revived my body and spirit. A good meal almost always performs that miracle. There was this day a leg of mutton, a coney pie and a ham, with mushroom tarts, a compost and cooked, spiced apples.
Thus refreshed, I went about manor business for the afternoon. It was my duty to inspect Lord Gilbert’s manor each day. This day there was plowing to oversee and the manuring of a field ready to be planted to barley. As dusk settled on the town, I joined the stream of residents walking to the Church of St Beornwald for the lighting of the great Paschal Candle and the commencement of the Easter Vigil. My soul was drawn to remain, but duty demanded otherwise. I stood at the rear of the nave while the great candle was lit, then quietly made my way out through the porch into the darkening churchyard.
The two archers were at the blind before me, and John Holcutt appeared soon after. This night was colder, and the waning moon appeared in the east an hour later. We shivered in the cold and waited for the moon to rise. When it did it was often obscured as a thickening body of clouds drifted from north to south across the town and meadow.
At dawn the clouds thickened more, and in the growing light I could see what only the touch on my face had told me ’til then: snowflakes drifted across the meadow. But the lamb lay as it had been for two days.
My knees were stiff with cold and it was with some discomfort that I stood and stretched. I remember my father, who rarely complained of anything, lamenting aching joints when winter came. Was I become my father already?
We four peered over the screen at the undisturbed lamb, stamping our feet to drive out the cold. This exercise was not successful.
Neither was the watch over the dead lamb, so I called it off. I told John and the archers that, unless the wolf gave more sign, we would no longer seek it, but hope that it had traveled to some far county.
I walked, stiffly at first, like an old man, back to the castle and my chamber. I wished to clean myself before Easter Mass, so asked for a bucket of hot water to be brought. I would not eat. It is my custom to fast before mass, as was once customary, but now seems an uncommon privation.
I had laid the blue yarn found in Alan’s scalp on my table. My eyes fell upon it as I awaited my bucket of hot water. I picked it up, sat on my bench, and twirled it mindlessly. I had contemplated that thread many times but was no nearer to its significance, if it had any, to the beadle’s death and his missing shoes.
While I toyed with the yarn I heard a soft rapping on my door. I bid the maker enter, and Alice atte Bridge pushed open the door. Her right shoulder sagged under the weight of a bucket of steaming water.
So it was that the girl saw me twisting the blue yarn about a finger. She stood watching, awaiting instructions.
“Any place will do, Alice,” I nodded at the bucket. She took me at my word and dropped her burden in the middle of my chamber, still watching the blue yarn. The girl turned slowly to leave, obviously curious about the yarn. I found myself eager to explain to her – to anyone – its importance. So I told her of finding Alan the beadle, which news she had surely heard already, and of the pale blue yarn found in his hair, and his missing shoes. I did not ask her if she knew of a garment of that shade. I should have. Alice seems incapable of falsehood. I might have been spared a brawl in a darkened road and a thump across my skull.
I dismissed her and went to scrubbing myself, attempting to wash away cobwebs of sleep as well as dirt, so as to prepare my soul and body for the celebration of our Lord’s resurrection. I was more successful with body than with spirit, for had I not been standing for the mass I should have fallen asleep during Thomas de Bowlegh’s homily. This message, I thought, was not one of his best. But perhaps his discourse lost its power at my
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