shoulder. “And a very fetching one, too, I see.”
Leo rather liked Brother Thaddeus, who was portly and made jokes. He was perhaps not the ideal image of a monk, but he seemed younger than many of the others, less stern-faced and joyless and grizzled.
Brother Thaddeus reached out a hand to muss up Leo’s dark hair, cut short around his ears in the monk’s tonsure, and Leo grimaced in protest.
“Hey!” he complained. That was the downside of being the youngest monk at the Priory; the others had a tendency to treat him like a child.
“It’s nearly time for dinner,” Brother Thaddeus told him. “If Brother Marcus went to the market today, perhaps there’ll be something good. Goose pies, say.”
“Hope springs eternal,” Leo intoned, and they both laughed very softly, so as not to disturb the other scribes and risk a reprimand.
***
There were no goose pies at supper, just the usual boiled grains, greens and bread, with a very little watered-down wine. Culverston Priory was a strict and stern order, as Leo knew to his cost.
The meal was eaten in silence, except for prayers.
As he ate, Brother Leo fidgeted, turning his earthenware bowl this way and that. He wanted to go back to the scriptorium.
Soon the last of the sunlight would be gone, and he would be unable to finish his angel. He really wanted to touch its hair up with gold leaf; it would look so beautiful, and perhaps even earn him praise from the Prior.
Leo looked up at the magnificent leaded glass windows of the refectory, and his breath caught in his throat.
The setting sun had caught the leftmost window, the one that depicted the first Abbot of Culverston laying out the foundations of the Priory with his own hands.
The Priory in the window was on fire.
It wasn’t real, Leo hastened to assure himself; it was just the red light of sunset that made the painted buildings seem to catch fire. But the effect was uncanny, and he couldn’t stop staring at it.
It seemed so real. He could almost see the flames moving, and for a moment he thought he could smell the smoke.
Was it possible that God had sent him a sign, after all?
And if so, what could it possibly mean? Was there going to be a real fire? But it was spring, and by the Abbot’s rules, that meant there were no fires being laid to heat the cold stone of the Priory. There was only the cooking fire in the great hearth of the kitchens, and surely that could not lay waste to the whole of the Priory.
Brother Thaddeus nudged him. “Get up,” he whispered without moving his lips. “Prayers.”
Brother Leo hastily shoved his chair back and leapt to his feet; he was the last one to stand up for prayers, a terrible rudeness.
The old Abbot gave him a mildly reproachful look, his milky eyes barely focusing on Leo. He paused for a heartbeat to let his offense sink in, then began to say the closing prayers.
There was no point in telling the Abbot what he had seen, Leo thought with an unhappy sigh. The old man could barely see his own hands in front of his face, and would not believe him in any case. The old Abbot was stern and strict, living his life by his own harsh rules, and he would not tolerate what he called ‘flights of fancy’ from his youngest monk.
Leo answered the prayers by rote, and as the other monks shuffled off down the hallway, he took the stairs that led back up to the scriptorium.
A strange urgency filled him. His heartbeat thudded against his ribs, even though there was no sign of calamity. Everything was quiet, and the Priory was still whole, the stone steps solid under his feet. But he knew the fire in the window had been a sign, and he had to do something .
The only thing he could think of was to save his manuscript. It was a glorious work, perhaps the finest illuminated gospel that the Priory had ever produced; it was the work of many hands, not just his own, and he had to save it from the fire.
He ran up the steps, earning a frown from one of the older monks,
Leo rather liked Brother Thaddeus, who was portly and made jokes. He was perhaps not the ideal image of a monk, but he seemed younger than many of the others, less stern-faced and joyless and grizzled.
Brother Thaddeus reached out a hand to muss up Leo’s dark hair, cut short around his ears in the monk’s tonsure, and Leo grimaced in protest.
“Hey!” he complained. That was the downside of being the youngest monk at the Priory; the others had a tendency to treat him like a child.
“It’s nearly time for dinner,” Brother Thaddeus told him. “If Brother Marcus went to the market today, perhaps there’ll be something good. Goose pies, say.”
“Hope springs eternal,” Leo intoned, and they both laughed very softly, so as not to disturb the other scribes and risk a reprimand.
***
There were no goose pies at supper, just the usual boiled grains, greens and bread, with a very little watered-down wine. Culverston Priory was a strict and stern order, as Leo knew to his cost.
The meal was eaten in silence, except for prayers.
As he ate, Brother Leo fidgeted, turning his earthenware bowl this way and that. He wanted to go back to the scriptorium.
Soon the last of the sunlight would be gone, and he would be unable to finish his angel. He really wanted to touch its hair up with gold leaf; it would look so beautiful, and perhaps even earn him praise from the Prior.
Leo looked up at the magnificent leaded glass windows of the refectory, and his breath caught in his throat.
The setting sun had caught the leftmost window, the one that depicted the first Abbot of Culverston laying out the foundations of the Priory with his own hands.
The Priory in the window was on fire.
It wasn’t real, Leo hastened to assure himself; it was just the red light of sunset that made the painted buildings seem to catch fire. But the effect was uncanny, and he couldn’t stop staring at it.
It seemed so real. He could almost see the flames moving, and for a moment he thought he could smell the smoke.
Was it possible that God had sent him a sign, after all?
And if so, what could it possibly mean? Was there going to be a real fire? But it was spring, and by the Abbot’s rules, that meant there were no fires being laid to heat the cold stone of the Priory. There was only the cooking fire in the great hearth of the kitchens, and surely that could not lay waste to the whole of the Priory.
Brother Thaddeus nudged him. “Get up,” he whispered without moving his lips. “Prayers.”
Brother Leo hastily shoved his chair back and leapt to his feet; he was the last one to stand up for prayers, a terrible rudeness.
The old Abbot gave him a mildly reproachful look, his milky eyes barely focusing on Leo. He paused for a heartbeat to let his offense sink in, then began to say the closing prayers.
There was no point in telling the Abbot what he had seen, Leo thought with an unhappy sigh. The old man could barely see his own hands in front of his face, and would not believe him in any case. The old Abbot was stern and strict, living his life by his own harsh rules, and he would not tolerate what he called ‘flights of fancy’ from his youngest monk.
Leo answered the prayers by rote, and as the other monks shuffled off down the hallway, he took the stairs that led back up to the scriptorium.
A strange urgency filled him. His heartbeat thudded against his ribs, even though there was no sign of calamity. Everything was quiet, and the Priory was still whole, the stone steps solid under his feet. But he knew the fire in the window had been a sign, and he had to do something .
The only thing he could think of was to save his manuscript. It was a glorious work, perhaps the finest illuminated gospel that the Priory had ever produced; it was the work of many hands, not just his own, and he had to save it from the fire.
He ran up the steps, earning a frown from one of the older monks,
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