the horses! Stable them!’
He seemed scarcely more than a child, thin and frail-looking, looking more like sixteen than the eighteen necessary to qualify for the novitiate. I removed the pannier containing my papers, handing it to Mark, and the boy led the animals away. After a few paces he turned and looked back at us, and in so doing he slipped in a mess of dog turds and went over backwards, landing on the earth with a crash. The horses stirred anxiously and there was a ripple of laughter round the courtyard. Prior Mortimus’s face reddened with anger. He crossed to the boy, who was pulling himself to his feet, and pushed him over to land again in the dog mess, bringing more laughter.
‘God’s wounds, Whelplay, you are an oaf,’ the prior shouted. ‘Would ye have the king’s commissioner’s horses running loose in the courtyard?’
‘No, Master Prior,’ the boy replied in a trembling voice. ‘I beg pardon.’
I stepped forward, taking Chancery’s reins with one hand and offering my other arm to help the boy up, avoiding the dog shit on his robe.
‘The horses will panic with all this disturbance,’ I said mildly.
‘Do not distress yourself, lad; such accidents happen to everyone.’ I handed him the reins and with a glance at the prior’s face, which had gone red with anger, he led the animals away. I turned back to the prior. ‘Now, sir, if you would lead the way.’
The Scotsman glared at me. His face was puce now. ‘With respect, sir, I am responsible for discipline in this house. The king has ordered many changes in our life here, and our younger brethren especially need to be taught obedience.’
‘You have problems in getting the brethren to obey Lord Cromwell’s new injunctions?’
‘No, sir, I do not. So long as I am allowed to use discipline.’
‘For slipping in a dog’s mess?’ I said mildly. ‘Would it not be better to discipline those dogs, keep them out of the yard?’
The prior looked ready to argue, then suddenly let out a harsh bark of laughter.
‘You’re right, sir, but the abbot won’t have the dogs shut up. He likes them kept fit for when he goes hunting.’ As he spoke I watched the colour of his face fading from purple to its previous red. I reflected that he must be a man of unusually high choler.
‘Hunting. I wonder what St Benedict would have said to that?’
‘The abbot has his own rules,’ the prior said meaningfully.
He led us past the row of outbuildings. Ahead I saw a fine two-storey house set in a rose garden, a well-built gentleman’s residence which would not have looked out of place in Chancery Lane. We passed the stables and through the open doors I saw the boy leading Chancery into a stall. He turned, giving me a strange, intent look. We passed the brewery and the forge, whose red glow looked inviting in the cold. Next to it was a large outhouse with blocks of stone, carved and ornamented, visible through the open doors. Outside a trestle table was drawn up, on which plans had been laid out, and a grey-bearded man in a mason’s apron stood with arms folded beside two monks who were arguing intently.
‘It c-cannot be done, Brother,’ the older monk said firmly. He was a short, plump man of around forty, with a fringe of curly black hair beneath his tonsure, a round pale face and hard little dark eyes. Fat little fingers waved over the plans. ‘If we use Caen stone it w-will exhaust your entire annual budget for the next three years.’
‘It can’t be done cheaper,’ the mason said. ‘Not if it’s done properly.’
‘It must be done properly,’ the other monk said emphatically in a deep, rich voice. ‘Otherwise the whole symmetry of the church is destroyed, the eye would immediately be led to the different facing. If you can’t agree, Master Bursar, I must take it to the abbot.’
‘Take it then, it’ll do you no good.’ He broke off as he saw us,
He seemed scarcely more than a child, thin and frail-looking, looking more like sixteen than the eighteen necessary to qualify for the novitiate. I removed the pannier containing my papers, handing it to Mark, and the boy led the animals away. After a few paces he turned and looked back at us, and in so doing he slipped in a mess of dog turds and went over backwards, landing on the earth with a crash. The horses stirred anxiously and there was a ripple of laughter round the courtyard. Prior Mortimus’s face reddened with anger. He crossed to the boy, who was pulling himself to his feet, and pushed him over to land again in the dog mess, bringing more laughter.
‘God’s wounds, Whelplay, you are an oaf,’ the prior shouted. ‘Would ye have the king’s commissioner’s horses running loose in the courtyard?’
‘No, Master Prior,’ the boy replied in a trembling voice. ‘I beg pardon.’
I stepped forward, taking Chancery’s reins with one hand and offering my other arm to help the boy up, avoiding the dog shit on his robe.
‘The horses will panic with all this disturbance,’ I said mildly.
‘Do not distress yourself, lad; such accidents happen to everyone.’ I handed him the reins and with a glance at the prior’s face, which had gone red with anger, he led the animals away. I turned back to the prior. ‘Now, sir, if you would lead the way.’
The Scotsman glared at me. His face was puce now. ‘With respect, sir, I am responsible for discipline in this house. The king has ordered many changes in our life here, and our younger brethren especially need to be taught obedience.’
‘You have problems in getting the brethren to obey Lord Cromwell’s new injunctions?’
‘No, sir, I do not. So long as I am allowed to use discipline.’
‘For slipping in a dog’s mess?’ I said mildly. ‘Would it not be better to discipline those dogs, keep them out of the yard?’
The prior looked ready to argue, then suddenly let out a harsh bark of laughter.
‘You’re right, sir, but the abbot won’t have the dogs shut up. He likes them kept fit for when he goes hunting.’ As he spoke I watched the colour of his face fading from purple to its previous red. I reflected that he must be a man of unusually high choler.
‘Hunting. I wonder what St Benedict would have said to that?’
‘The abbot has his own rules,’ the prior said meaningfully.
He led us past the row of outbuildings. Ahead I saw a fine two-storey house set in a rose garden, a well-built gentleman’s residence which would not have looked out of place in Chancery Lane. We passed the stables and through the open doors I saw the boy leading Chancery into a stall. He turned, giving me a strange, intent look. We passed the brewery and the forge, whose red glow looked inviting in the cold. Next to it was a large outhouse with blocks of stone, carved and ornamented, visible through the open doors. Outside a trestle table was drawn up, on which plans had been laid out, and a grey-bearded man in a mason’s apron stood with arms folded beside two monks who were arguing intently.
‘It c-cannot be done, Brother,’ the older monk said firmly. He was a short, plump man of around forty, with a fringe of curly black hair beneath his tonsure, a round pale face and hard little dark eyes. Fat little fingers waved over the plans. ‘If we use Caen stone it w-will exhaust your entire annual budget for the next three years.’
‘It can’t be done cheaper,’ the mason said. ‘Not if it’s done properly.’
‘It must be done properly,’ the other monk said emphatically in a deep, rich voice. ‘Otherwise the whole symmetry of the church is destroyed, the eye would immediately be led to the different facing. If you can’t agree, Master Bursar, I must take it to the abbot.’
‘Take it then, it’ll do you no good.’ He broke off as he saw us,
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