hand. “Still, I haven’t given up on talking dad into loaning us some sheep.”
‘”Maybe if you went home for Christmas he’d more amenable to your bringing a truckload back,” Felicity suggested.
Corin shook his head. “It’s more than just a few sheep or one holiday. I’ll probably go for Mum’s sake, but it’s…”
“His dad’s, um, well—difficult,” Nick tried to help.
Corin shot is friend an ironic look. “Difficult I could handle. He’s fixated. I’m supposed to follow in his footsteps. Be a sheep farmer.” He shook his head. “He’s sure this ‘priest thing’, as he calls it, is a passing fancy.”
Felicity nodded. The source of Corin’s moodiness was clear, but she could sympathize with the father, too. “That probably means he has a deep love for the land and wants to pass it on to his son. I can understand that.”
This time Corin made no attempt to suppress his growl. “Love doesn’t enter into it. Grasping control is more like—not wanting the farm to go to my great, great something grandfather’s line. There was some silly family squabble about a hundred years ago and he’s still living it.”
“So maybe it would be best not to bother your father about sheep for the pageant,” Felicity suggested.
“I don’t know. I think in some strange way he might be flattered. Show him his world can be important to mine.” He shrugged and executed one of the swift mood changes Felicity was becoming familiar with. “I can but hope.”
Antony, who had wandered a way across the weedy expanse during that exchange, spoke from beneath the stage, “If you got the sheep early they might be able to graze down some of this undergrowth.” Felicity wasn’t certain whether Antony was being helpful or ironic but was glad enough to leave the uneasy subject of Corin’s family problems, although she could sympathize. Her mother hardly understood her calling.
Glancing at the notes she had been jotting in a small notebook Felicity shared her thoughts about tiki torches along the path, which Corin and Nick heartily endorsed, “Yes, and we could line the rim of the quarry with torches, too. That would be brilliant!”
“And be sure any publicity advises the audience to bring their own chairs,” she added.
“And blankets.” Yes, this time Felicity was certain Antony was being ironic. Talk about sub-subliminal humor.
But he had a point, in spite of her enthusiasm, she had to admit that the cold was penetrating. Abandoning her center stage stance she descended the stairs and linked her arm through Antony’s. “Right. Time for a pot of tea. I really should buckle down to writing my essay. Why don’t you bring your books over and we can have a cozy afternoon with our heads in the Middle Ages.”
Abandoning Nick and Corin to continue their scheming, Antony and Felicity strolled back arm-in-arm, chatting about their work: Antony’s script on Rolle’s time in Hampole and Felicity’s essay on the medieval practice of translating religious works written in vernacular English into Latin. “It seems so backward,” she mused, “until one considers that Latin was the
lingua franca
of Europe in the Middle Ages, so a work appearing in Latin meant it could travel anywhere. For those with the ability to read, that is, of course.”
Antony nodded. “And it gave the work literary respectability. It was also considered a way of preserving a work’s orthodoxy—keeping it out of the hands of the
hoi polloi
who might be more likely to run to heresy than an educated Churchman.”
“Right. One hopes.”
“Let’s stop by my room. I’ll get my books on Rolle. And I have a volume on some
Cloud
translations you might not have seen—they talk about Methley’s translation into Latin.”
“Great! It would feel good to make some really solid progress this afternoon,” Felicity agreed.
It sounded like a good plan, but when they entered the bungalow Felicity was met with the astounding sight of
‘”Maybe if you went home for Christmas he’d more amenable to your bringing a truckload back,” Felicity suggested.
Corin shook his head. “It’s more than just a few sheep or one holiday. I’ll probably go for Mum’s sake, but it’s…”
“His dad’s, um, well—difficult,” Nick tried to help.
Corin shot is friend an ironic look. “Difficult I could handle. He’s fixated. I’m supposed to follow in his footsteps. Be a sheep farmer.” He shook his head. “He’s sure this ‘priest thing’, as he calls it, is a passing fancy.”
Felicity nodded. The source of Corin’s moodiness was clear, but she could sympathize with the father, too. “That probably means he has a deep love for the land and wants to pass it on to his son. I can understand that.”
This time Corin made no attempt to suppress his growl. “Love doesn’t enter into it. Grasping control is more like—not wanting the farm to go to my great, great something grandfather’s line. There was some silly family squabble about a hundred years ago and he’s still living it.”
“So maybe it would be best not to bother your father about sheep for the pageant,” Felicity suggested.
“I don’t know. I think in some strange way he might be flattered. Show him his world can be important to mine.” He shrugged and executed one of the swift mood changes Felicity was becoming familiar with. “I can but hope.”
Antony, who had wandered a way across the weedy expanse during that exchange, spoke from beneath the stage, “If you got the sheep early they might be able to graze down some of this undergrowth.” Felicity wasn’t certain whether Antony was being helpful or ironic but was glad enough to leave the uneasy subject of Corin’s family problems, although she could sympathize. Her mother hardly understood her calling.
Glancing at the notes she had been jotting in a small notebook Felicity shared her thoughts about tiki torches along the path, which Corin and Nick heartily endorsed, “Yes, and we could line the rim of the quarry with torches, too. That would be brilliant!”
“And be sure any publicity advises the audience to bring their own chairs,” she added.
“And blankets.” Yes, this time Felicity was certain Antony was being ironic. Talk about sub-subliminal humor.
But he had a point, in spite of her enthusiasm, she had to admit that the cold was penetrating. Abandoning her center stage stance she descended the stairs and linked her arm through Antony’s. “Right. Time for a pot of tea. I really should buckle down to writing my essay. Why don’t you bring your books over and we can have a cozy afternoon with our heads in the Middle Ages.”
Abandoning Nick and Corin to continue their scheming, Antony and Felicity strolled back arm-in-arm, chatting about their work: Antony’s script on Rolle’s time in Hampole and Felicity’s essay on the medieval practice of translating religious works written in vernacular English into Latin. “It seems so backward,” she mused, “until one considers that Latin was the
lingua franca
of Europe in the Middle Ages, so a work appearing in Latin meant it could travel anywhere. For those with the ability to read, that is, of course.”
Antony nodded. “And it gave the work literary respectability. It was also considered a way of preserving a work’s orthodoxy—keeping it out of the hands of the
hoi polloi
who might be more likely to run to heresy than an educated Churchman.”
“Right. One hopes.”
“Let’s stop by my room. I’ll get my books on Rolle. And I have a volume on some
Cloud
translations you might not have seen—they talk about Methley’s translation into Latin.”
“Great! It would feel good to make some really solid progress this afternoon,” Felicity agreed.
It sounded like a good plan, but when they entered the bungalow Felicity was met with the astounding sight of
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