down to pat the elderly monk on his bony shoulder.
‘Drop by and tell me how you get on!’ Brother Firmin called out as Josse strode out of the door. ‘Any time . . . !’
A nobleman who had forgotten God’s law. Not much of a description, Josse thought as he marched back up to the Abbey to collect Horace. Besides which, it could apply to the majority of noble lords of Josse’s acquaintance.
There was, however, one person who might know to whom the words applied in this case; the priest who usually tended the flock in Hawkenlye and the surrounding area. Quickly putting saddle and bridle on his horse, Josse called out to Sister Martha to ask if she would kindly give him directions to Father Gilbert’s house.
The priest lived in a small, ill-furnished but scrupulously clean dwelling slightly separated from the small hamlet of Hawkenlye. When Josse put his head round the door and called out, ‘Father Gilbert? Are you in there?’ a faint voice replied from within, ‘Yes! Who is it?’
Josse advanced into the house, closing the door behind him. It was a bitterly cold morning and Josse’s first impression was that the inside of the house was no warmer than the outside, making his careful door-closing a fairly pointless gesture. He crossed a tiny scullery where a used trencher and mug lay beside a jug of water; ice had formed on the surface of the water. In the next room he found Father Gilbert, lying on a low bed and huddled into a variety of thin, insubstantial blankets. The priest appeared to be wearing every garment he possessed, which did not amount to very many.
Seeing who had come to visit him, he said joyfully, ‘Sir Josse! It’s glad I am to see you. Please, if you can spare the time, would you make up the fire?’
Turning, Josse noticed the hearth, in which two large logs were smouldering gently, giving out quite a lot of smoke but no discernible heat.
‘Of course! Er – where’s your wood supply, Father? Outside somewhere?’
‘Out of the door, down the path and on the right.’ The Father was already looking more cheerful, obviously anticipating the pleasure of some warmth.
Josse followed his directions and located the woodpile. It consisted of five or six cut and split logs and several large rounds cut, Josse thought, from an oak tree. Rolling up his sleeves and spitting on his hands, he picked up the heavy axe that had been stuck into the chopping block and set to work.
Some time later he had cut and split sufficient firewood to last for a day or two; he made a mental note to ask the Abbess if one of the Hawkenlye lay brothers could be sent each day to replenish the log supply. Then, bearing in his arms as much wood as he could carry, he went back inside.
As he relaid and lit the fire, chatting inconsequentially to Father Gilbert, it suddenly occurred to him that the priest did not know of Father Micah’s death. Indeed, how could he, bed-bound as he was, unless somebody from the Abbey had already been to see him today? And if that were the case, then surely Father Gilbert would not be lying there making feeble but courageous jokes about the icicle on the end of his nose melting at last?
Josse gave the fire another poke – the blaze was roaring away now and the room was actually starting to feel warmer – and then stood up. Approaching Father Gilbert’s bed, he said, ‘Father, I have some bad tidings. It’s Father Micah.’
To Josse’s surprise, the priest’s face fell and he said, ‘Oh, Sir Josse, not more trouble! I do not wish to appear to moan, but, really, Father Micah is only doing his job in the best way he can, according to his own beliefs, and I do think that people might—’
‘Father, I’m afraid it is a little more serious than that,’ Josse said gently. ‘There has been an accident. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Father Micah is dead.’
‘Dead!’
After the one word, muttered in a shocked whisper, Father Gilbert acted exactly as Augustus had done: he
‘Drop by and tell me how you get on!’ Brother Firmin called out as Josse strode out of the door. ‘Any time . . . !’
A nobleman who had forgotten God’s law. Not much of a description, Josse thought as he marched back up to the Abbey to collect Horace. Besides which, it could apply to the majority of noble lords of Josse’s acquaintance.
There was, however, one person who might know to whom the words applied in this case; the priest who usually tended the flock in Hawkenlye and the surrounding area. Quickly putting saddle and bridle on his horse, Josse called out to Sister Martha to ask if she would kindly give him directions to Father Gilbert’s house.
The priest lived in a small, ill-furnished but scrupulously clean dwelling slightly separated from the small hamlet of Hawkenlye. When Josse put his head round the door and called out, ‘Father Gilbert? Are you in there?’ a faint voice replied from within, ‘Yes! Who is it?’
Josse advanced into the house, closing the door behind him. It was a bitterly cold morning and Josse’s first impression was that the inside of the house was no warmer than the outside, making his careful door-closing a fairly pointless gesture. He crossed a tiny scullery where a used trencher and mug lay beside a jug of water; ice had formed on the surface of the water. In the next room he found Father Gilbert, lying on a low bed and huddled into a variety of thin, insubstantial blankets. The priest appeared to be wearing every garment he possessed, which did not amount to very many.
Seeing who had come to visit him, he said joyfully, ‘Sir Josse! It’s glad I am to see you. Please, if you can spare the time, would you make up the fire?’
Turning, Josse noticed the hearth, in which two large logs were smouldering gently, giving out quite a lot of smoke but no discernible heat.
‘Of course! Er – where’s your wood supply, Father? Outside somewhere?’
‘Out of the door, down the path and on the right.’ The Father was already looking more cheerful, obviously anticipating the pleasure of some warmth.
Josse followed his directions and located the woodpile. It consisted of five or six cut and split logs and several large rounds cut, Josse thought, from an oak tree. Rolling up his sleeves and spitting on his hands, he picked up the heavy axe that had been stuck into the chopping block and set to work.
Some time later he had cut and split sufficient firewood to last for a day or two; he made a mental note to ask the Abbess if one of the Hawkenlye lay brothers could be sent each day to replenish the log supply. Then, bearing in his arms as much wood as he could carry, he went back inside.
As he relaid and lit the fire, chatting inconsequentially to Father Gilbert, it suddenly occurred to him that the priest did not know of Father Micah’s death. Indeed, how could he, bed-bound as he was, unless somebody from the Abbey had already been to see him today? And if that were the case, then surely Father Gilbert would not be lying there making feeble but courageous jokes about the icicle on the end of his nose melting at last?
Josse gave the fire another poke – the blaze was roaring away now and the room was actually starting to feel warmer – and then stood up. Approaching Father Gilbert’s bed, he said, ‘Father, I have some bad tidings. It’s Father Micah.’
To Josse’s surprise, the priest’s face fell and he said, ‘Oh, Sir Josse, not more trouble! I do not wish to appear to moan, but, really, Father Micah is only doing his job in the best way he can, according to his own beliefs, and I do think that people might—’
‘Father, I’m afraid it is a little more serious than that,’ Josse said gently. ‘There has been an accident. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Father Micah is dead.’
‘Dead!’
After the one word, muttered in a shocked whisper, Father Gilbert acted exactly as Augustus had done: he
Similar Books
