contemplation, but when I politely coughed to announce our presence at his door, the old monk started as if pricked.
Abbot Thurstan looked up from his book, blinked away the effects of his slumber, and recognized who it was who darkened his door.
“Ah, Master Hugh. What news?” He pointed to a chair and bench. “Be seated… be seated, and tell me what you have learned this day.”
I did. I had learned little enough, so the recitation did not take long. The day’s events had raised as many questions as answers. I tried some of the questions on the abbot.
“Who are the abbey explorators?”
“Prior Philip and Brother Eustace see to locking the abbey doors at night,” he replied.
“How old is Sir Richard Cyne?”
“Sir Richard?” The old abbot stammered at this abrupt change of subject, then continued. “Not so old as me… few men are. Has two grown sons. Wife died when plague came twenty years past. Lost a daughter then, also.”
I glanced toward Arthur and he smiled knowingly in return. ’Twas a stout young man we had seen standing at the upper window of Sir Richard’s house. One of the sons, surely, but knowledge of this would do us no good in discovering the felon who murdered John Whytyng.
Monks have no supper when days grow short, but visitors in the guest house are fed from the abbot’s kitchen. So when Arthur and I entered our lodging the lay brother assigned to attend us told us that he would soon return with our meal.’Twas but a simple pease pottage, but flavored with a few bits of pork, and with a maslin loaf the supper was most satisfactory. I could not say the same for the abbey’s ale. The monk in charge of brewing the abbey’s ale was ill chosen. Perhaps this is by Abbot Thurstan’s design. A man seldom finds himself in trouble for drinking too little ale, and no monk of Eynsham Abbey was likely to imbibe too much of the foul stuff Arthur and I found in the ewer.
Night comes quickly in the days past Martinmas. The feeble light of a cresset gave illumination to our guest chamber. Was I at home in Bampton, I would light another cresset and read from one of my books, perhaps the gospel of St. John. Next year I might read from my own Bible. But I was not in Galen House, I had no book, the night was chill, and so I was about to surrender to the darkness and seek my bed when it occurred to me that on such a night, when darkness came early to Eynsham, was John Whytyng slain. If poachers were to blame, might they not seek the abbey fishpond again? No man knew of what Arthur and I had found beside the fishpond but for Brother Gerleys, Abbot Thurstan, and the novices.
I told Arthur of my plan. “That reeve,” he replied, “said folk was most likely to take fish from abbey ponds come Whitsuntide, but days is long then. A man would need to wait ’till near the middle of the night, else he’d be seen. Not so after Martinmas.”
The abbey church bell had just rung for compline when Arthur and I left the guest house. We walked silently, hesitantly, past the southern end of the dormitory. I did not much fear discovery. The monks would all be in their choir stalls. Our progress was slow because we had only the light of stars to guide us, the moon not yet being risen. If some men were seeking the abbey’s fish I wanted to be upon them before they could hear us approach.
I found the pond, saw the stars reflected in its mirror-like surface, and together Arthur and I followed the bank until we were near the place where we had found the novice’s boot.
I whispered to Arthur that we should seat ourselves againstthe base of a beech tree which grew nearby at the verge of the wood. It seemed to me that if poachers wished to take abbey fish at this season they would do so soon after compline, while the monks slept, and before they awoke for vigils. What man would willingly forsake a warm bed in this season if he could complete his mischief and return to his home before the coldest part of the
Abbot Thurstan looked up from his book, blinked away the effects of his slumber, and recognized who it was who darkened his door.
“Ah, Master Hugh. What news?” He pointed to a chair and bench. “Be seated… be seated, and tell me what you have learned this day.”
I did. I had learned little enough, so the recitation did not take long. The day’s events had raised as many questions as answers. I tried some of the questions on the abbot.
“Who are the abbey explorators?”
“Prior Philip and Brother Eustace see to locking the abbey doors at night,” he replied.
“How old is Sir Richard Cyne?”
“Sir Richard?” The old abbot stammered at this abrupt change of subject, then continued. “Not so old as me… few men are. Has two grown sons. Wife died when plague came twenty years past. Lost a daughter then, also.”
I glanced toward Arthur and he smiled knowingly in return. ’Twas a stout young man we had seen standing at the upper window of Sir Richard’s house. One of the sons, surely, but knowledge of this would do us no good in discovering the felon who murdered John Whytyng.
Monks have no supper when days grow short, but visitors in the guest house are fed from the abbot’s kitchen. So when Arthur and I entered our lodging the lay brother assigned to attend us told us that he would soon return with our meal.’Twas but a simple pease pottage, but flavored with a few bits of pork, and with a maslin loaf the supper was most satisfactory. I could not say the same for the abbey’s ale. The monk in charge of brewing the abbey’s ale was ill chosen. Perhaps this is by Abbot Thurstan’s design. A man seldom finds himself in trouble for drinking too little ale, and no monk of Eynsham Abbey was likely to imbibe too much of the foul stuff Arthur and I found in the ewer.
Night comes quickly in the days past Martinmas. The feeble light of a cresset gave illumination to our guest chamber. Was I at home in Bampton, I would light another cresset and read from one of my books, perhaps the gospel of St. John. Next year I might read from my own Bible. But I was not in Galen House, I had no book, the night was chill, and so I was about to surrender to the darkness and seek my bed when it occurred to me that on such a night, when darkness came early to Eynsham, was John Whytyng slain. If poachers were to blame, might they not seek the abbey fishpond again? No man knew of what Arthur and I had found beside the fishpond but for Brother Gerleys, Abbot Thurstan, and the novices.
I told Arthur of my plan. “That reeve,” he replied, “said folk was most likely to take fish from abbey ponds come Whitsuntide, but days is long then. A man would need to wait ’till near the middle of the night, else he’d be seen. Not so after Martinmas.”
The abbey church bell had just rung for compline when Arthur and I left the guest house. We walked silently, hesitantly, past the southern end of the dormitory. I did not much fear discovery. The monks would all be in their choir stalls. Our progress was slow because we had only the light of stars to guide us, the moon not yet being risen. If some men were seeking the abbey’s fish I wanted to be upon them before they could hear us approach.
I found the pond, saw the stars reflected in its mirror-like surface, and together Arthur and I followed the bank until we were near the place where we had found the novice’s boot.
I whispered to Arthur that we should seat ourselves againstthe base of a beech tree which grew nearby at the verge of the wood. It seemed to me that if poachers wished to take abbey fish at this season they would do so soon after compline, while the monks slept, and before they awoke for vigils. What man would willingly forsake a warm bed in this season if he could complete his mischief and return to his home before the coldest part of the
Similar Books
