woman's critical
eye."
"Nay,
not yet!" Thomas reached out in genuine supplication. "Your words
have struck fear in my heart. If this priory has brought grief to mortals, I
question whether I dare approach the gates without meeting with evil
spirits."
"Do
not be alarmed. My remark was but a common complaint amongst men who have no
wives but see so many eligible women encloistered. Take my words as the poor
jests they were. The wine made me forget that becoming a nun is a holier choice
than wedding a man like me."
"I
hope one of those who chose God did not betray your hopes..."
The
glover shoved the nearly full wine pitcher toward Thomas. "I will not
offend your ears with the meaningless speech of a sinful man, Brother. Please
finish this and remember me in your prayers." With that, he dropped a coin
into the monk's hand, bowed, and disappeared through the crowd.
Thomas
hit the table with clenched fist. "I have let myself be fooled by a boyish
face," he growled. "I should have pressed him harder. Surely this glover
has some quarrel with the priory. Does it involve a woman?" He stared at
the coin the man had donated to him. It was not the meager offering of those
given to the token gestures of superficial faith. "No one who fears for
his soul, like this man may, plans to steal a nun for his bed. Nay, if Master
Bernard and Sayer have some plot together, it must mean profit for them both.
After all, the glover is a merchant and the roofer is a rogue."
Growing
gloomy with frustration, the monk tilted the pitcher and contemplated the large
quantity of wine remaining. Quickly, he downed what was in his cup, poured
another, and listened to the raucous joyfulness that filled Amesbury's best
hostel.
Had
Thomas been possessed of a more selfish nature, he might have viewed such merry
crowds with envy. Were he a man of greater faith, he would have leapt upon this
table and screamed abuse at the people, describing how they would look as they
tottered on the maw of Hell. He was neither, however, and all he could feel was
distance from any kind of happiness, a profound melancholy that he blamed only
on himself.
"I
have failed," he muttered, finishing the wine he had just poured and
replenishing his cup. Now that the glover had escaped him, he felt defeated and
did not know what he should do next. Without a clear purpose to occupy his
thoughts, Thomas grew increasingly uneasy sitting in the inn. "I should
never have come here," he said to his crudely wrought mazer.
In
his days as a clerk, he had often partaken of an inn's particular joys. The
darkness of his prison may have dimmed the shimmering lure of enjoyable ale and
willing women, but Thomas would never pretend his past had been other than what
it was or that he had become a monk as penance. Perhaps, he thought with some
bitterness, he was too sober to find the women here as attractive as they had
seemed when he and Giles had shared them.
He
finished the cup, poured another, then another, and tried to force such
memories away. He did not succeed. With the energy of some dark will, the past
roared back into his soul. Even his normally quiescent flesh had inexplicably
hardened, mocking his long impotence.
Thomas
summoned the serving wench. With only a brief glance at the coin in his open
hand, she put another pitcher in front of him. He drank deeply.
A
voice began to hiss in his ear. Was it his dead father? "No son of mine
would ever release his seed in another man's body," it echoed with
contempt. Thomas shook his head and the voice faded, replaced by laughter.
Surely that belonged to the Prince of Darkness.
"We
haven't seen any of your vocation for some time, Brother."
Thomas
looked up.
The
innkeeper stood over him. As the man bent his head in the direction of a woman
beside him, his grin seemed unnaturally wide.
Thomas
turned his head carefully from one side to the other. "I am a monk,"
he enunciated carefully.
The
pair disappeared.
He
finished his cup and poured more
eye."
"Nay,
not yet!" Thomas reached out in genuine supplication. "Your words
have struck fear in my heart. If this priory has brought grief to mortals, I
question whether I dare approach the gates without meeting with evil
spirits."
"Do
not be alarmed. My remark was but a common complaint amongst men who have no
wives but see so many eligible women encloistered. Take my words as the poor
jests they were. The wine made me forget that becoming a nun is a holier choice
than wedding a man like me."
"I
hope one of those who chose God did not betray your hopes..."
The
glover shoved the nearly full wine pitcher toward Thomas. "I will not
offend your ears with the meaningless speech of a sinful man, Brother. Please
finish this and remember me in your prayers." With that, he dropped a coin
into the monk's hand, bowed, and disappeared through the crowd.
Thomas
hit the table with clenched fist. "I have let myself be fooled by a boyish
face," he growled. "I should have pressed him harder. Surely this glover
has some quarrel with the priory. Does it involve a woman?" He stared at
the coin the man had donated to him. It was not the meager offering of those
given to the token gestures of superficial faith. "No one who fears for
his soul, like this man may, plans to steal a nun for his bed. Nay, if Master
Bernard and Sayer have some plot together, it must mean profit for them both.
After all, the glover is a merchant and the roofer is a rogue."
Growing
gloomy with frustration, the monk tilted the pitcher and contemplated the large
quantity of wine remaining. Quickly, he downed what was in his cup, poured
another, and listened to the raucous joyfulness that filled Amesbury's best
hostel.
Had
Thomas been possessed of a more selfish nature, he might have viewed such merry
crowds with envy. Were he a man of greater faith, he would have leapt upon this
table and screamed abuse at the people, describing how they would look as they
tottered on the maw of Hell. He was neither, however, and all he could feel was
distance from any kind of happiness, a profound melancholy that he blamed only
on himself.
"I
have failed," he muttered, finishing the wine he had just poured and
replenishing his cup. Now that the glover had escaped him, he felt defeated and
did not know what he should do next. Without a clear purpose to occupy his
thoughts, Thomas grew increasingly uneasy sitting in the inn. "I should
never have come here," he said to his crudely wrought mazer.
In
his days as a clerk, he had often partaken of an inn's particular joys. The
darkness of his prison may have dimmed the shimmering lure of enjoyable ale and
willing women, but Thomas would never pretend his past had been other than what
it was or that he had become a monk as penance. Perhaps, he thought with some
bitterness, he was too sober to find the women here as attractive as they had
seemed when he and Giles had shared them.
He
finished the cup, poured another, then another, and tried to force such
memories away. He did not succeed. With the energy of some dark will, the past
roared back into his soul. Even his normally quiescent flesh had inexplicably
hardened, mocking his long impotence.
Thomas
summoned the serving wench. With only a brief glance at the coin in his open
hand, she put another pitcher in front of him. He drank deeply.
A
voice began to hiss in his ear. Was it his dead father? "No son of mine
would ever release his seed in another man's body," it echoed with
contempt. Thomas shook his head and the voice faded, replaced by laughter.
Surely that belonged to the Prince of Darkness.
"We
haven't seen any of your vocation for some time, Brother."
Thomas
looked up.
The
innkeeper stood over him. As the man bent his head in the direction of a woman
beside him, his grin seemed unnaturally wide.
Thomas
turned his head carefully from one side to the other. "I am a monk,"
he enunciated carefully.
The
pair disappeared.
He
finished his cup and poured more
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