Read Online The Bone Quill by Carole E. Barrowman, John Barrowman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carole E. Barrowman, John Barrowman
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paintings of every artistic style and historical period. If there wasn’t a window on a wall, there were paintings.
The still-life in question showed a primitive writing desk with carved legs and one narrow drawer. On the surface of the desk sat a brass candelabra with two burning candles of similar lengths, a skull with a gaping hole for a mouth and a pewter goblet tipped on its side on a piece of mirrored glass. Zach and Matt leaned over the upstairs banisters as Simon joined Renard on the stairs to look more closely at the painting.
‘Are ye all waiting for a parade out here?’ Jeannie asked, coming across the landing from the kitchen staircase with the first-aid kit. ‘Mr R, this is enough for one night. These weans should get cleaned up and be off to bed.’
‘Grandpa’s curious about this painting,’ said Matt. ‘Did you hang it here, Jeannie?’
Jeannie passed Simon the lotion for Zach’s back and handed an ice-pack to Matt for his eye, before glancing at the painting. ‘It looks like any number of still-lifes we have all over the Abbey.’
Simon looked at the date on the gilded frame. ‘This says 1848. Must have been one of your great-grandfather’s acquisitions, Renard.’
Jeannie took her reading glasses from her pocket, slipped them on and peered at the painting more carefully. ‘You know Mr R,’ she said after a moment, ‘even after a blow to yer head, when you’re right, you’re right.’
‘What?’ the twins asked in unison.
‘That’s one of the Abbey’s pewter goblets sitting on that old desk,’ said Jeannie, pointing at the goblet with the arm of her glasses before returning them to her pocket.
‘Maybe the painting was done here at the Abbey,’ said Em.
‘No, lass, that’s not what I meant. I bought six of those goblets in Glasgow last Christmas. How did one of them get into a still-life painted more than one hundred and sixty years ago?’
TWENTY-THREE
The Monastery of Era Mina
Middle Ages
T he Abbot sat alone in his study atop the west tower of the monastery. He had not slept since Solon took flight on the peryton over the island towards Skinner’s Bog, and his burdens weighed on him like a suit of armour. His worries about old Brother Renard had been overthrown by his fears for the island, and the dark secrets that seemed to be revealing themselves more with each passing day.
He tapped the first page of the unfinished
Book of Beasts
with his fingers. He had removed it from the scriptorium, in a bid to help him think more clearly about the problem before him.
The illuminations shone in the gloom. It was Brother Renard’s finest and most profound work, the Abbot had to admit: a sacred legacy for the Order of Era Mina and a gift for all of mankind – the corralling of the beasts of an uncivilized time in one mystical place.
But the bestiary had to be completed. An unfinished manuscript would leave the world in peril. Incomplete, the manuscript could be used to reverse all of Brother Renard’s vital work. The Abbot worried that the Order of Era Mina – that Brother Renard himself – would not survive long enough to see this mission fulfilled.
The Book of Beasts
had to be finished, and then buried deep inside the island with its secrets sealed for ever. It was inestimably important.
The Abbot leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his tired eyes. His skin was leathery, even to his own touch.
I’m getting old
, he thought,
and still with so much left to accomplish
.
That evening after Vespers, the Abbot had intervened as the monks, some of them still struggling with their injuries from the bloody Viking attack, had protested loudly about the imprudence of not giving the Viking chief what he had wanted. They couldn’t endure another attack like this one, should he choose to return with fresh demands. They simply didn’t have the numbers.
‘With all due respect, Father,’ Brother Cornelius had said, ‘we should have given the relic to the
The still-life in question showed a primitive writing desk with carved legs and one narrow drawer. On the surface of the desk sat a brass candelabra with two burning candles of similar lengths, a skull with a gaping hole for a mouth and a pewter goblet tipped on its side on a piece of mirrored glass. Zach and Matt leaned over the upstairs banisters as Simon joined Renard on the stairs to look more closely at the painting.
‘Are ye all waiting for a parade out here?’ Jeannie asked, coming across the landing from the kitchen staircase with the first-aid kit. ‘Mr R, this is enough for one night. These weans should get cleaned up and be off to bed.’
‘Grandpa’s curious about this painting,’ said Matt. ‘Did you hang it here, Jeannie?’
Jeannie passed Simon the lotion for Zach’s back and handed an ice-pack to Matt for his eye, before glancing at the painting. ‘It looks like any number of still-lifes we have all over the Abbey.’
Simon looked at the date on the gilded frame. ‘This says 1848. Must have been one of your great-grandfather’s acquisitions, Renard.’
Jeannie took her reading glasses from her pocket, slipped them on and peered at the painting more carefully. ‘You know Mr R,’ she said after a moment, ‘even after a blow to yer head, when you’re right, you’re right.’
‘What?’ the twins asked in unison.
‘That’s one of the Abbey’s pewter goblets sitting on that old desk,’ said Jeannie, pointing at the goblet with the arm of her glasses before returning them to her pocket.
‘Maybe the painting was done here at the Abbey,’ said Em.
‘No, lass, that’s not what I meant. I bought six of those goblets in Glasgow last Christmas. How did one of them get into a still-life painted more than one hundred and sixty years ago?’
TWENTY-THREE
The Monastery of Era Mina
Middle Ages
T he Abbot sat alone in his study atop the west tower of the monastery. He had not slept since Solon took flight on the peryton over the island towards Skinner’s Bog, and his burdens weighed on him like a suit of armour. His worries about old Brother Renard had been overthrown by his fears for the island, and the dark secrets that seemed to be revealing themselves more with each passing day.
He tapped the first page of the unfinished
Book of Beasts
with his fingers. He had removed it from the scriptorium, in a bid to help him think more clearly about the problem before him.
The illuminations shone in the gloom. It was Brother Renard’s finest and most profound work, the Abbot had to admit: a sacred legacy for the Order of Era Mina and a gift for all of mankind – the corralling of the beasts of an uncivilized time in one mystical place.
But the bestiary had to be completed. An unfinished manuscript would leave the world in peril. Incomplete, the manuscript could be used to reverse all of Brother Renard’s vital work. The Abbot worried that the Order of Era Mina – that Brother Renard himself – would not survive long enough to see this mission fulfilled.
The Book of Beasts
had to be finished, and then buried deep inside the island with its secrets sealed for ever. It was inestimably important.
The Abbot leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his tired eyes. His skin was leathery, even to his own touch.
I’m getting old
, he thought,
and still with so much left to accomplish
.
That evening after Vespers, the Abbot had intervened as the monks, some of them still struggling with their injuries from the bloody Viking attack, had protested loudly about the imprudence of not giving the Viking chief what he had wanted. They couldn’t endure another attack like this one, should he choose to return with fresh demands. They simply didn’t have the numbers.
‘With all due respect, Father,’ Brother Cornelius had said, ‘we should have given the relic to the
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