Read Online Vow of Sanctity by Veronica Black - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Veronica Black
Ads: Link
if I were a senile old lady.’
‘Sorry, Sister.’ He grinned back companionably.
‘Granted,’ she told him, and chuckled for no reason but that it was a fine morning and he reminded her of one of her own brothers.
When they reached the wharf he carried the painting easel and folding-stool and tucked the case where she stored paints and canvas and palette under his arm, holding them above water level but getting his habit more disreputable as he scrambled through the shallows. Tying up the boat, having made a somewhat neater landing, Sister Joan looked round her with the anticipation of pleasure.
In this clear light the grass was rainbowed and the grey stones of the little church had a warm patina that made her fingers ache to capture it in paint.
‘The scriptorium is at the back of the main house,’ Brother Cuthbert informed her when they had reached the church. ‘It’s sort of stuck on next to the kitchens. Just go in when you feel like it. There won’t be anyone there at this time of day and, of course, you can leave your stuff there when you’re ready forme to row you back.’
‘I’m causing you a lot of work,’ Sister Joan said. She spoke somewhat absently, her fingertips itching to start.
‘Glad of it,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘I’ll be back later then.’
She nodded, her gaze riveted on the church with the pre-Gothic arches, the low, square tower at the end. She would make several sketches, she decided, and then work two of them up into paintings – the church in summer daylight with the wild herbs springing about its foot and the church as she imagined it would be on an evening with candleglow gilding the windows and scattering gold over the snow.
Jacob had teased her that her work was stuck in the romantic period, that only cameras were for literal representation. His own work was brilliant, spiky, often difficult to interpret. She wondered if it had mellowed in the years since they had gone their separate ways. Had he reverted completely, found a pretty Jewess who could give him Jewish children? She hoped so. Jacob had been a man who needed another person to complete him.
An hour later she had half a dozen rough sketches on her pad. She smoothed out the shadows with her fingers, realizing that she was thirsty. Perhaps there was a tap or spring around where she could drink. At any rate she’d take a look at the scriptorium since she needed to leave her heavy equipment there. The next day she would begin to translate her sketches on to the canvas, starting with the summer background.
She packed away her pad and pencils and lugged easel and stool in the direction Brother Cuthbert had indicated. Over the low wall she could see some of the monks busy among the vegetables. Bent over hoes and spades they never lifted their heads.
The main building was fortress-like with its uncompromisingly square design. Only an occasional slit of window broke the solid surface of stone. She guessed there was probably a central yard with a well in it and the inner windows looking out on it. Despite modern concessions the monastery was still a very private place. Her nose led her to the back where a couple of doors stood wide with the unmistakable smells of cabbage and onions wafting through them.
A youngish monk – she guessed a lay brother – came to the open door. His sleeves were rolled above muscular forearms and he was holding a large pan.
‘The scriptorium?’ she ventured.
The lay brother nodded towards the left where a stone building jutted out.
‘Thank you, Brother.’
Walking away she was conscious of a not altogether approving scrutiny at her back. Evidently the abbot was more go-ahead in his attitude than some of his community.
The scriptorium was deserted, the shelves that lined one wall crammed with books, a podium in one corner holding a huge, illuminated manuscript with a fine brass chain locking it down. Presumably a tradition from the olden days, since she figured it was highly
‘Sorry, Sister.’ He grinned back companionably.
‘Granted,’ she told him, and chuckled for no reason but that it was a fine morning and he reminded her of one of her own brothers.
When they reached the wharf he carried the painting easel and folding-stool and tucked the case where she stored paints and canvas and palette under his arm, holding them above water level but getting his habit more disreputable as he scrambled through the shallows. Tying up the boat, having made a somewhat neater landing, Sister Joan looked round her with the anticipation of pleasure.
In this clear light the grass was rainbowed and the grey stones of the little church had a warm patina that made her fingers ache to capture it in paint.
‘The scriptorium is at the back of the main house,’ Brother Cuthbert informed her when they had reached the church. ‘It’s sort of stuck on next to the kitchens. Just go in when you feel like it. There won’t be anyone there at this time of day and, of course, you can leave your stuff there when you’re ready forme to row you back.’
‘I’m causing you a lot of work,’ Sister Joan said. She spoke somewhat absently, her fingertips itching to start.
‘Glad of it,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘I’ll be back later then.’
She nodded, her gaze riveted on the church with the pre-Gothic arches, the low, square tower at the end. She would make several sketches, she decided, and then work two of them up into paintings – the church in summer daylight with the wild herbs springing about its foot and the church as she imagined it would be on an evening with candleglow gilding the windows and scattering gold over the snow.
Jacob had teased her that her work was stuck in the romantic period, that only cameras were for literal representation. His own work was brilliant, spiky, often difficult to interpret. She wondered if it had mellowed in the years since they had gone their separate ways. Had he reverted completely, found a pretty Jewess who could give him Jewish children? She hoped so. Jacob had been a man who needed another person to complete him.
An hour later she had half a dozen rough sketches on her pad. She smoothed out the shadows with her fingers, realizing that she was thirsty. Perhaps there was a tap or spring around where she could drink. At any rate she’d take a look at the scriptorium since she needed to leave her heavy equipment there. The next day she would begin to translate her sketches on to the canvas, starting with the summer background.
She packed away her pad and pencils and lugged easel and stool in the direction Brother Cuthbert had indicated. Over the low wall she could see some of the monks busy among the vegetables. Bent over hoes and spades they never lifted their heads.
The main building was fortress-like with its uncompromisingly square design. Only an occasional slit of window broke the solid surface of stone. She guessed there was probably a central yard with a well in it and the inner windows looking out on it. Despite modern concessions the monastery was still a very private place. Her nose led her to the back where a couple of doors stood wide with the unmistakable smells of cabbage and onions wafting through them.
A youngish monk – she guessed a lay brother – came to the open door. His sleeves were rolled above muscular forearms and he was holding a large pan.
‘The scriptorium?’ she ventured.
The lay brother nodded towards the left where a stone building jutted out.
‘Thank you, Brother.’
Walking away she was conscious of a not altogether approving scrutiny at her back. Evidently the abbot was more go-ahead in his attitude than some of his community.
The scriptorium was deserted, the shelves that lined one wall crammed with books, a podium in one corner holding a huge, illuminated manuscript with a fine brass chain locking it down. Presumably a tradition from the olden days, since she figured it was highly
Similar Books
