tied to his left forearm. It seemed strange, sacrilegious even, to wear the priestly vestments. Yet in only a few moments he would be a priest. More than that, he would be a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the most sacred place in all Christendom, built on the site where Jesus had been buried and risen again.
Each canon received a monthly stipend, and in return they were to live in the dormitory, eat in common and pray the canonical hours: Matins, which took place some three hours before dawn; Lauds shortly before sunrise; Prime in the early morning hours; Terce, Sext, and None over the course of the day; Vespers at sunset; and Compline just before bed. John would live at the church, but William had told him that he would have a vicar to take his place at prayers. Most of the canons did. John would thus be free to continue his work at the palace. There were only two rules that he absolutely had to obey: he must attend the services during Advent and Lent; and he must not be absent from the church for more than three months at a time without dispensation from the patriarch.
John had met the patriarch – called Amalric, like the king – in person for the first time only a few days previously. It was the patriarch’s duty to interview any candidate to become a canon. Amalric was one of the four men who had condemned John to crucifixion when he first arrived in Jerusalem, but the patriarch seemed to have no recollection of him. He had been seated at a small table in his private quarters, carving bites of meat from a roasted shoulder of pork.
‘I am John of Tatewic, Your Beatitude,’ John had declared.
The patriarch had not looked up from his dinner. ‘
Hmmm
?’
‘The candidate to be named to the vacant canon’s seat, Your Beatitude.’
Amalric had put down his knife and fork and squinted at John. ‘Come forward.’
John had crossed the room, knelt before the patriarch and kissed his ring. Amalric waved John to his feet. After examining him for a moment, the hollow-cheeked old man had gone back to his dinner. ‘How old are you?’ he asked between bites.
‘Thirty-three.’
‘And of good blood?’
‘My father was a thane – a lord – in England, as was his father and his father before him.’
‘And why do you wish to be a priest?’
‘To serve God, Your Beatitude.’
‘
Hmmm
.’ The patriarch made a sucking sound as he worked at the bits of meat stuck between his teeth. ‘I owe the King a favour, and William speaks well of you. That is enough for me. I will see that the Chapter approves you, John of Tatewic.’
John had kissed the patriarch’s ring and departed.
His attention returned to the cathedral. Amalric was still reading from the prayer book held open by an attendant. ‘O God … holiness … pour … this servant of yours … the gift of your blessing.’ He skipped entire paragraphs, reading only a word here and a phrase there. John could not tell if Amalric was simply ignorant of Latin, like so many churchmen, or if he were deliberately rushing through the service. Such things were common enough. After all, most of the congregation knew no Latin. They would not know the difference.
Amalric droned on, but John paid little attention. His scalp had begun to itch where it had been tonsured – a patch the size of a communion wafer shaved off. It was all he could do not to reach up and scratch it. He forced himself to focus on something else and found himself thinking of Zimat. Even as his hands were anointed with oil and bound, even as he stood beside the patriarch and helped him to celebrate Mass, his thoughts kept returning to her, her dark eyes and hair, the soft curve of her cheek. He had told Amalric that he was joining the priesthood to serve God, and he was. But more than that, he was joining for Zimat, so that he would not have to marry another.
When the Eucharist had been celebrated and the Creed recited, the patriarch returned to his throne, and John knelt before him.
Each canon received a monthly stipend, and in return they were to live in the dormitory, eat in common and pray the canonical hours: Matins, which took place some three hours before dawn; Lauds shortly before sunrise; Prime in the early morning hours; Terce, Sext, and None over the course of the day; Vespers at sunset; and Compline just before bed. John would live at the church, but William had told him that he would have a vicar to take his place at prayers. Most of the canons did. John would thus be free to continue his work at the palace. There were only two rules that he absolutely had to obey: he must attend the services during Advent and Lent; and he must not be absent from the church for more than three months at a time without dispensation from the patriarch.
John had met the patriarch – called Amalric, like the king – in person for the first time only a few days previously. It was the patriarch’s duty to interview any candidate to become a canon. Amalric was one of the four men who had condemned John to crucifixion when he first arrived in Jerusalem, but the patriarch seemed to have no recollection of him. He had been seated at a small table in his private quarters, carving bites of meat from a roasted shoulder of pork.
‘I am John of Tatewic, Your Beatitude,’ John had declared.
The patriarch had not looked up from his dinner. ‘
Hmmm
?’
‘The candidate to be named to the vacant canon’s seat, Your Beatitude.’
Amalric had put down his knife and fork and squinted at John. ‘Come forward.’
John had crossed the room, knelt before the patriarch and kissed his ring. Amalric waved John to his feet. After examining him for a moment, the hollow-cheeked old man had gone back to his dinner. ‘How old are you?’ he asked between bites.
‘Thirty-three.’
‘And of good blood?’
‘My father was a thane – a lord – in England, as was his father and his father before him.’
‘And why do you wish to be a priest?’
‘To serve God, Your Beatitude.’
‘
Hmmm
.’ The patriarch made a sucking sound as he worked at the bits of meat stuck between his teeth. ‘I owe the King a favour, and William speaks well of you. That is enough for me. I will see that the Chapter approves you, John of Tatewic.’
John had kissed the patriarch’s ring and departed.
His attention returned to the cathedral. Amalric was still reading from the prayer book held open by an attendant. ‘O God … holiness … pour … this servant of yours … the gift of your blessing.’ He skipped entire paragraphs, reading only a word here and a phrase there. John could not tell if Amalric was simply ignorant of Latin, like so many churchmen, or if he were deliberately rushing through the service. Such things were common enough. After all, most of the congregation knew no Latin. They would not know the difference.
Amalric droned on, but John paid little attention. His scalp had begun to itch where it had been tonsured – a patch the size of a communion wafer shaved off. It was all he could do not to reach up and scratch it. He forced himself to focus on something else and found himself thinking of Zimat. Even as his hands were anointed with oil and bound, even as he stood beside the patriarch and helped him to celebrate Mass, his thoughts kept returning to her, her dark eyes and hair, the soft curve of her cheek. He had told Amalric that he was joining the priesthood to serve God, and he was. But more than that, he was joining for Zimat, so that he would not have to marry another.
When the Eucharist had been celebrated and the Creed recited, the patriarch returned to his throne, and John knelt before him.
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