coat.
“There are other men,” I replied, “who may wear fur coats, or coats lined in fur.”
“Be against the law did they do so,” Arthur said.
“Abbots and priors may wear fur coats.”
“An’ not only abbots an’ priors, I hear,” Arthur said.
’Tis surely true that most Benedictines own more than the two habits and two cowls permitted them in the Rule of St. Benedict. In their defense they remind folk that the esteemed St. Benedict, the founder of their order, lived in Italy, where cold winds blow less frequently and vigorously than in England.
How long would a tuft of fur remain impaled upon a thorn? A few days? A fortnight? Half a year? It seemed to me that if a monk or knight sought berries he would do so when the fruit came ripe – well before such a man would don a fur-lined garment to fend off the cold. The thought caused me to wish that my own fur coat was upon my shoulders rather than within my chest at Galen House.
I placed the scrap of fur in my pouch, stepped carefully to avoid the brambles which had spread to the meadow, and turned toward the abbey. Arthur followed.
W e were nearly to the guest house when I saw two women pass through the abbey gate. Our path to the guest house brought us close to these visitors. Close enough that I could identify them as the comely lass and her older companion who the day before had been cutting straw in the wheatfield. Just inside the gate, in the outer court, is the abbey laundry. The women entered this building as Arthur and I watched.
The lay brother assigned to serve us met us at the door to the guest house and announced when he saw us that our dinner was ready. He had been watching the women enter the laundry. I nodded toward the disappearing females and asked the man who they were.
“Juliana an’ Maude.”
“The abbey employs them to do its laundry?”
“Aye… well, not exactly. Simon atte Pond is commissioned for the work. His servants do it, ’course.”
“And these two are among his servants?”
“Servant an’ daughter, which, to Simon an’ his wife Alyce, is much the same thing.”
“Which is which?”
“Juliana Chator is servant. She’s the old ’un with the sharp tongue. Maude’s the reeve’s daughter, wearin’ the fine cotehardie. Abbey’s no place for such a lass.”
“Why so?”
“An ugly old harridan like Juliana’s not likely to cause a monk to lose sleep of a night if he remembers her face when he takes to his bed, but Maude… how does a man, even one who’s taken vows, forget such a lass?”
His point was well taken.
’Twas a fast day. Our dinner was a pike in balloc broth, a pottage of raisins, and a wheaten loaf with honey. The abbot, and perhaps the prior, would dine upon similar fare, but no doubt inthe refectory the monks consumed but a bowl of pottage and a maslin loaf, washed down with a pint of the abbey’s foul ale. No flesh of a four-legged animal is to be consumed in the refectory. So said St. Benedict in the Rule. But abbots dine in their own chamber, so do not heed the ordinance, and monks alternate taking meals in the misericord, where meat is not proscribed. So perhaps some few monks consumed pike this day.
As I ate, it occurred to me that, among the monks of Eynsham Abbey, there must be more than a few who hoped that their brothers would choose them to replace Abbot Thurstan when he died, if for no other reason than the reward of dining from the abbot’s kitchen. Prior Philip was likely the foremost of these pretenders.
Consuming the pike caused my mind to return to the fishpond. Simon atte Pond told me that he had heard no poachers near the abbey fishponds since shortly after Lammastide. No doubt such miscreants would keep silence, but casting even a small net into a pond will be heard for some distance on a still night. I wondered if the reeve, no longer a young man, might not hear sounds in the night as well as a youth.
I explained my thought to Arthur, then sent him to the
“There are other men,” I replied, “who may wear fur coats, or coats lined in fur.”
“Be against the law did they do so,” Arthur said.
“Abbots and priors may wear fur coats.”
“An’ not only abbots an’ priors, I hear,” Arthur said.
’Tis surely true that most Benedictines own more than the two habits and two cowls permitted them in the Rule of St. Benedict. In their defense they remind folk that the esteemed St. Benedict, the founder of their order, lived in Italy, where cold winds blow less frequently and vigorously than in England.
How long would a tuft of fur remain impaled upon a thorn? A few days? A fortnight? Half a year? It seemed to me that if a monk or knight sought berries he would do so when the fruit came ripe – well before such a man would don a fur-lined garment to fend off the cold. The thought caused me to wish that my own fur coat was upon my shoulders rather than within my chest at Galen House.
I placed the scrap of fur in my pouch, stepped carefully to avoid the brambles which had spread to the meadow, and turned toward the abbey. Arthur followed.
W e were nearly to the guest house when I saw two women pass through the abbey gate. Our path to the guest house brought us close to these visitors. Close enough that I could identify them as the comely lass and her older companion who the day before had been cutting straw in the wheatfield. Just inside the gate, in the outer court, is the abbey laundry. The women entered this building as Arthur and I watched.
The lay brother assigned to serve us met us at the door to the guest house and announced when he saw us that our dinner was ready. He had been watching the women enter the laundry. I nodded toward the disappearing females and asked the man who they were.
“Juliana an’ Maude.”
“The abbey employs them to do its laundry?”
“Aye… well, not exactly. Simon atte Pond is commissioned for the work. His servants do it, ’course.”
“And these two are among his servants?”
“Servant an’ daughter, which, to Simon an’ his wife Alyce, is much the same thing.”
“Which is which?”
“Juliana Chator is servant. She’s the old ’un with the sharp tongue. Maude’s the reeve’s daughter, wearin’ the fine cotehardie. Abbey’s no place for such a lass.”
“Why so?”
“An ugly old harridan like Juliana’s not likely to cause a monk to lose sleep of a night if he remembers her face when he takes to his bed, but Maude… how does a man, even one who’s taken vows, forget such a lass?”
His point was well taken.
’Twas a fast day. Our dinner was a pike in balloc broth, a pottage of raisins, and a wheaten loaf with honey. The abbot, and perhaps the prior, would dine upon similar fare, but no doubt inthe refectory the monks consumed but a bowl of pottage and a maslin loaf, washed down with a pint of the abbey’s foul ale. No flesh of a four-legged animal is to be consumed in the refectory. So said St. Benedict in the Rule. But abbots dine in their own chamber, so do not heed the ordinance, and monks alternate taking meals in the misericord, where meat is not proscribed. So perhaps some few monks consumed pike this day.
As I ate, it occurred to me that, among the monks of Eynsham Abbey, there must be more than a few who hoped that their brothers would choose them to replace Abbot Thurstan when he died, if for no other reason than the reward of dining from the abbot’s kitchen. Prior Philip was likely the foremost of these pretenders.
Consuming the pike caused my mind to return to the fishpond. Simon atte Pond told me that he had heard no poachers near the abbey fishponds since shortly after Lammastide. No doubt such miscreants would keep silence, but casting even a small net into a pond will be heard for some distance on a still night. I wondered if the reeve, no longer a young man, might not hear sounds in the night as well as a youth.
I explained my thought to Arthur, then sent him to the
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