and entered the scriptorium.
It was deserted. After dinner, most of the monks had one of their rare hours of leisure, and nobody chose to spend it sitting stiffly at a desk, especially since the light was already fading into the purple-gray hues of twilight. Candles were another luxury that the Abbot would not condone; they were only burned in Church, not for monks to read or write by. They had oil lamps, but their dim, flickering light was not strong enough for drawing.
Leo hurried to his own desk. He lifted the manuscript, checking that the ink was dry, then closed it slowly, careful not to crease the pages. It was heavy, bound in leather, a substantial weight.
Where could he put it, so that it would be safe? Then, almost as an afterthought, he wondered where he could hide to be safe himself.
Full of worry and doubt, he clasped the manuscript against his chest and ran downstairs.
Still everything was quiet. The only sound was the echo of his own hurried footsteps, but the stillness only increased his sense of urgency. He nearly cannoned into one of the oldest monks, who gave him a deathly glare.
“I’m sorry,” Leo panted and kept running, not wanting to hear what the old man had to say to him.
He made it outside the stone walls of the main building, the heavy side door clanging shut behind him.
Wildly, he looked back and forth, his heartbeat thudding heavily.
Where could he go?
He could not just run away from the monastery. Like all the other monks, Leo had sworn a vow that he would never leave the monastic life. If it turned out that there was no disaster about to happen, and his omen had been a trick of the Devil, he would be breaking that vow, and be punished severely. And even if he was willing to take that risk, there was nowhere he could go; his father would not welcome him, and he had never traveled anywhere else.
No, he had to find a place to hide within the walls of Culverston.
As Leo passed by the stables, he thought for a moment of hiding there, but there were too many people about, and the horses seemed nervous, whickering loudly as he walked by. He wondered if they, too, could feel that something was about to happen.
Finally, he found himself a hiding place in the wash house, a small building near the gates that was used for washing the monks’ linen, their habits and underclothes. Today wasn’t laundry day, and it was empty, except for the huge copper kettle and the wooden clothes press.
Hugging the heavy manuscript to his chest, Leo sat down in a corner with his back against the damp stone wall. The wash house smelled like soap and lavender, and that familiar scent helped to calm him down just a little.
He felt very alone. He wished he could have told someone what he had seen, but he did not think that even Brother Thaddeus would have believed him.
Suddenly, a loud pealing broke the silence. It was the priory bells, ringing from the clock tower. Leo recognized the sound immediately, since the bells rang for every church service throughout the day, but there was something strange about them now. There was no melody to the ringing, no order.
Were the bells ringing for Vespers? No, it was still too early, Leo thought.
The ringing went on and on, the bells jangling wildly, discordantly.
Now he could hear yelling, a loud roar of voices that didn’t sound like any of the monks he knew.
Leo huddled against the stone wall and pulled the hood of his robe over his head.
He didn’t know what was happening, and he was scared.
Outside, many people were running around, but Leo couldn’t make anything of what they were yelling. When he did catch words, they didn’t sound like Saxon, or even Latin.
It was still dark. He inched closer to the wash house’s tiny, grimy window, but the only light he could see outside was torches.
No fire, then. But why was everyone running around?
Someone yelled nearby, a desperate wordless cry that ended in a horrible gurgle.
Leo shrank back from the window,
It was deserted. After dinner, most of the monks had one of their rare hours of leisure, and nobody chose to spend it sitting stiffly at a desk, especially since the light was already fading into the purple-gray hues of twilight. Candles were another luxury that the Abbot would not condone; they were only burned in Church, not for monks to read or write by. They had oil lamps, but their dim, flickering light was not strong enough for drawing.
Leo hurried to his own desk. He lifted the manuscript, checking that the ink was dry, then closed it slowly, careful not to crease the pages. It was heavy, bound in leather, a substantial weight.
Where could he put it, so that it would be safe? Then, almost as an afterthought, he wondered where he could hide to be safe himself.
Full of worry and doubt, he clasped the manuscript against his chest and ran downstairs.
Still everything was quiet. The only sound was the echo of his own hurried footsteps, but the stillness only increased his sense of urgency. He nearly cannoned into one of the oldest monks, who gave him a deathly glare.
“I’m sorry,” Leo panted and kept running, not wanting to hear what the old man had to say to him.
He made it outside the stone walls of the main building, the heavy side door clanging shut behind him.
Wildly, he looked back and forth, his heartbeat thudding heavily.
Where could he go?
He could not just run away from the monastery. Like all the other monks, Leo had sworn a vow that he would never leave the monastic life. If it turned out that there was no disaster about to happen, and his omen had been a trick of the Devil, he would be breaking that vow, and be punished severely. And even if he was willing to take that risk, there was nowhere he could go; his father would not welcome him, and he had never traveled anywhere else.
No, he had to find a place to hide within the walls of Culverston.
As Leo passed by the stables, he thought for a moment of hiding there, but there were too many people about, and the horses seemed nervous, whickering loudly as he walked by. He wondered if they, too, could feel that something was about to happen.
Finally, he found himself a hiding place in the wash house, a small building near the gates that was used for washing the monks’ linen, their habits and underclothes. Today wasn’t laundry day, and it was empty, except for the huge copper kettle and the wooden clothes press.
Hugging the heavy manuscript to his chest, Leo sat down in a corner with his back against the damp stone wall. The wash house smelled like soap and lavender, and that familiar scent helped to calm him down just a little.
He felt very alone. He wished he could have told someone what he had seen, but he did not think that even Brother Thaddeus would have believed him.
Suddenly, a loud pealing broke the silence. It was the priory bells, ringing from the clock tower. Leo recognized the sound immediately, since the bells rang for every church service throughout the day, but there was something strange about them now. There was no melody to the ringing, no order.
Were the bells ringing for Vespers? No, it was still too early, Leo thought.
The ringing went on and on, the bells jangling wildly, discordantly.
Now he could hear yelling, a loud roar of voices that didn’t sound like any of the monks he knew.
Leo huddled against the stone wall and pulled the hood of his robe over his head.
He didn’t know what was happening, and he was scared.
Outside, many people were running around, but Leo couldn’t make anything of what they were yelling. When he did catch words, they didn’t sound like Saxon, or even Latin.
It was still dark. He inched closer to the wash house’s tiny, grimy window, but the only light he could see outside was torches.
No fire, then. But why was everyone running around?
Someone yelled nearby, a desperate wordless cry that ended in a horrible gurgle.
Leo shrank back from the window,
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