red-golden head.
And between us, with much cursing and harrying of the sluggish Rochester folk, with cajolery well mingled with dire threats of bloody violence, we did just that.
Chapter Six
Iwas astounded to discover that the abbot of Boxley was a man I had known more than twenty years ago. He had undertaken a long and dangerous journey with me in Germany, and between us we had discovered the whereabouts of the captive King Richard and helped to secure his release and return to England. I had been a mere stripling then and even King Richard was now long dead, but the abbot – although become frail and very elderly, and entirely bald but for a few silver wisps of what had been his tonsure – was still hale and whole and delighted to see me, and he remembered our German adventure with startling clarity.
Abbot John welcomed us to Boxley with true Christian kindness late that October afternoon and while I washed the dust of the road off my face and hands, he set his monks to finding nourishment and accommodation for the two hundred and thirty-three Rochester townspeople.
We had had the Devil’s own luck on the five-mile journey from the wood outside Rochester to Boxley – or God’s mighty hand had shielded us on our pilgrimage to His House, if you prefer – for we got into the trees just in time. As the last of the stragglers entered itsbosky sanctuary, I saw two dozen King’s cavalry come cantering over the pasture to investigate the dead men-at-arms and their horses standing forlornly beside the bodies.
Cass stood at the edge of the wood, ready to discourage them with his bow if they came too close, but they evidently decided it was a wiser course to loot the bodies of their fallen comrades, collect up the horses and report back to their commanders, than to follow our trail into what might be an archers’ trap. I thanked God for it anyway and the rest of the journey was uneventful, despite it taking several hours to travel a distance I could have covered on foot in half that time. We saw no one but a few shepherd boys with their flocks.
Nevertheless, we were now safe at Boxley, and the abbot was insisting I dine with him and tell him everything that had happened to me in the past two decades of my life.
For a man of God, an elderly and doddering one at that, living in seclusion in the tranquil Kent countryside, the abbot had a surprisingly good grasp of the events of the wider world. His table was lavish, too, which I much appreciated after several days of little but greasy mutton broth.
He told me with sadness that the abbot of Robertsbridge, his great friend and our companion on the German adventure, had died a few years ago.
‘Alas, he was called far too soon,’ my host said solemnly. ‘He cannot have been much more than eighty-nine years of age. And yet it seems that God had more need of him than I.’
I commiserated with the abbot and then I told him a little of my exploits over the past twenty years.
‘You have seen too much of battle, my young friend,’ he said, when I had finished. ‘Too much killing hollows out a man, leaves him empty inside, like a dry leather cup. His soul leaves his body and wanders the universe and all that can fill the bodily void is blood and yet more blood. Take care that you do not end up in that condition,my son. Take very great care. I shall pray for you and for your preservation from sin.’
I thanked him and told him that I wished for nothing more than to lay down my sword and be at peace, but my duty to my lord forbade it.
‘You could renounce the world, my son – many a fighting man has done it. Why, the abbey here would welcome you as a brother should you choose to embrace the way of Christ and forsake the sword. Or you might look for a House nearer to your home. You could spend the rest of your life in the service of God and perhaps – forgive me if I presume too much – atone for some of the innocent blood you may have spilled.’
For a moment then,
And between us, with much cursing and harrying of the sluggish Rochester folk, with cajolery well mingled with dire threats of bloody violence, we did just that.
Chapter Six
Iwas astounded to discover that the abbot of Boxley was a man I had known more than twenty years ago. He had undertaken a long and dangerous journey with me in Germany, and between us we had discovered the whereabouts of the captive King Richard and helped to secure his release and return to England. I had been a mere stripling then and even King Richard was now long dead, but the abbot – although become frail and very elderly, and entirely bald but for a few silver wisps of what had been his tonsure – was still hale and whole and delighted to see me, and he remembered our German adventure with startling clarity.
Abbot John welcomed us to Boxley with true Christian kindness late that October afternoon and while I washed the dust of the road off my face and hands, he set his monks to finding nourishment and accommodation for the two hundred and thirty-three Rochester townspeople.
We had had the Devil’s own luck on the five-mile journey from the wood outside Rochester to Boxley – or God’s mighty hand had shielded us on our pilgrimage to His House, if you prefer – for we got into the trees just in time. As the last of the stragglers entered itsbosky sanctuary, I saw two dozen King’s cavalry come cantering over the pasture to investigate the dead men-at-arms and their horses standing forlornly beside the bodies.
Cass stood at the edge of the wood, ready to discourage them with his bow if they came too close, but they evidently decided it was a wiser course to loot the bodies of their fallen comrades, collect up the horses and report back to their commanders, than to follow our trail into what might be an archers’ trap. I thanked God for it anyway and the rest of the journey was uneventful, despite it taking several hours to travel a distance I could have covered on foot in half that time. We saw no one but a few shepherd boys with their flocks.
Nevertheless, we were now safe at Boxley, and the abbot was insisting I dine with him and tell him everything that had happened to me in the past two decades of my life.
For a man of God, an elderly and doddering one at that, living in seclusion in the tranquil Kent countryside, the abbot had a surprisingly good grasp of the events of the wider world. His table was lavish, too, which I much appreciated after several days of little but greasy mutton broth.
He told me with sadness that the abbot of Robertsbridge, his great friend and our companion on the German adventure, had died a few years ago.
‘Alas, he was called far too soon,’ my host said solemnly. ‘He cannot have been much more than eighty-nine years of age. And yet it seems that God had more need of him than I.’
I commiserated with the abbot and then I told him a little of my exploits over the past twenty years.
‘You have seen too much of battle, my young friend,’ he said, when I had finished. ‘Too much killing hollows out a man, leaves him empty inside, like a dry leather cup. His soul leaves his body and wanders the universe and all that can fill the bodily void is blood and yet more blood. Take care that you do not end up in that condition,my son. Take very great care. I shall pray for you and for your preservation from sin.’
I thanked him and told him that I wished for nothing more than to lay down my sword and be at peace, but my duty to my lord forbade it.
‘You could renounce the world, my son – many a fighting man has done it. Why, the abbey here would welcome you as a brother should you choose to embrace the way of Christ and forsake the sword. Or you might look for a House nearer to your home. You could spend the rest of your life in the service of God and perhaps – forgive me if I presume too much – atone for some of the innocent blood you may have spilled.’
For a moment then,
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