Chapter Nine
Tom was scrubbing his boat viciously when Linnet found him the next morning.
‘Fucking bird shit,’ he muttered furiously, ‘fucking Prior brought a duck back with him.’
Linnet tried not to laugh. The Prior had a soft heart for injured animals, and never turned his quick temper on them.
The black cat that lived in the Priory who disdainfully avoided almost everyone else, followed him around like a dog.
She’d known priors and abbots with dogs and birds for hunting, but this Prior hadn’t shown any interest in going on a hunt while she’d been here.
Not that the island lent itself to such, maybe he did when on his travels.
‘What does he want with a duck?’
‘It had a damaged wing. One of those cuddy ducks and it came and sat in the boat and wouldn’t get out. He’s taken it to his parlour.’
‘What does he do over there – apart from rescuing ducks?’
‘He talks to the two that are out there – Brother Aldus is getting pretty old now – and then he goes ferreting about in the old chests and that. I don’t know and I don’t care.’
With that he turned his back and she gave up trying to talk to him. Tom was like the weather. He could talk for hours, about nothing much in particular, or he could be short and sharp, like most of the island’s men. Talking was not something they could easily do, unless it was in the tavern.
It had been different when she visited as a child, he had had all the patience in the world to listen to her questions and show her things.
Mostly they’d been on the island for a few days but they’d stayed for nearly two months one time, the Prior at the time wanting to put a truly magnificent prayer on the obituary rolls.
She remembered her father scoffing at that.
‘Man never even met the one who died,’ he’d said dismissively, but the Priory had put them up for all that time, and he’d gone off for many a quick trip to the local towns and the castle, up to God-knows what, leaving Linnet behind to amuse herself.
Tom had spent afternoons with her when he’d come from the fishing, telling her about his catch, telling her stories about the island and Cuthbert and the monks and what they had been up to.
She wondered now at his patience, and his kindness for the girl she had been.
She saw some of it with how he spoke to Isabelle.
On her way into the Scriptorium, she peered across the way into the Prior’s parlour through the open door – curious about the duck.
She could see it right against the back wall, near the fire.
She came in a bit further to get a better look at it.
It gazed warily back at her, huddled up on the floor, pretending as hard as it could that it wasn’t there.
‘That be a cuddy duck. St Cuthbert’s special birds they were.’
‘Isabelle, you need a bell on you!’ The child had made her jump again. ‘I know it’s a cuddy duck, the Prior’s brought it back from Inner Farne just now.’
They looked at the duck which had shut its eyes and tucked its head away. If it couldn’t see them, it couldn’t be seen. Pol hopped up towards it, curious at what had taken Isabelle’s attention, but didn’t do more than peck very carefully at its tail feathers, which the duck ignored.
‘What are you doing in here anyway?’
‘I’m bringing special things for the Prior. We have a secret.’
Again, that lingering sense of unease flickered over Linnet.
She’d come across monks who liked secrets with little girls before.
The only time she’d seen her father angry on her behalf had been when he found her in a monk’s cell.
The monk had been explaining that some sins weren’t sins and he’d show her, when her father burst in and punched him hard in the face.
At the time she’d not known why and was terrified they’d get into trouble, but the monk had appeared at the Refectory that evening, blaming his bruising on a fall and avoiding her eye and her father’s. From then on, there was a new rule. Never go to a monk’s cell, even if they say you must.
Feeling a sense of duty now, she put her hand on Isabelle’s shoulder. ‘Is he making you do anything you don’t like? You can tell me, you know.’
The girl shrugged off her hand indignantly. ‘I always does what I like. And what’s it got to do with you anyway?’ She turned away and put down her little bundle of things for the Prior. ‘Anyway – what’s you doing here?’
‘I came to see the duck.’
They looked at each other for a minute and then at the duck – still hiding its head stubbornly – and suddenly they were laughing as they left the room.
As they slipped out of the parlour and into the inner courtyard, they walked almost straight into a meeting of all the monks. Godfreyd was standing next to the Prior looking solemn and pompous. The Inspector was nodding along to something the Prior was saying.
The Prior raised his hands for the small murmurs to die away.
‘I am sorry to announce, my Brothers, the death of Brother Oswyn. He has been suffering from the flux for these past few days, and despite Brother Godfreyd’s skills, the Lord has taken him for his own.’
The monks bowed their heads in prayer, some attempting a look of surprise or sudden sadness. Godfreyd must have had enough of the body in his Infirmary and persuaded the Prior it was time for Oswyn’s sad demise. Maykin had his head up, nudging those around him, with an almost satisfied air.
The Inspector stepped forward and addressed the silent monks.
‘Who amongst us would be ready to meet our Maker? Who needs to examine his soul? Can you swear you would be gathered to the Lord in good faith if he took you tomorrow? I am saddened by what I see amongst you, Brothers. You are idle in your work and idle in your prayers.’ He was thundering now.
The Prior’s head was bowed, but Linnet could see his mouth twitching.
‘As you know,’ the Inspector continued, ‘I am writing the report for the Bishop, but you are all writing a report, every day, your body sets the ink on the record of your soul. I am but a poor servant here to see you truly follow the right way to the Lord, but you, you know what you have done.’ His voice broke suddenly on the last word and he fell silent.
The Prior looked around his startled monks.
He himself rarely gave this kind of sermon.
‘As the Inspector said, it’s a good time to think about our own souls.
Let the rest of the day be set aside for private prayers.
Brother Godfreyd will task a few of you with getting the body ready for burial tomorrow but you might think on this further. ’
The monks were left to scatter in their groups or singly.
Brother Benedict was praying loudly for Oswyn’s soul, but his show of piety was lost on the Prior who was paying no attention.
Brother Maykin’s voice could be heard above the rest. ‘Of course I know all that Brother Oswyn knew. They’ll call on me for the details of it all, all his works.
The things he told me are… well…’ Linnet could see him pull a quick face that looked just like Oswyn and the novices near him stifled laughter.
‘Father, about the books…’ It was Brother Marcus.
‘I’ll let you know in good time, Brother.
’ The Prior dismissed him with a wave, and Marcus looked down to the ground.
Linnet could see, as clearly as if he spoke, the frustration in him.
If not Marcus, who would be bursar now? She knew he thought he would make a better bursar than Oswyn had, but she had seen his hand, and it was scrappy, showy but written without care.
She wondered if he took better care with the numbers.
Pol flew down from the top of the dormitory where he had been looking at the gathering and joined Isabelle as she skipped off – probably towards food.
The Prior caught sight of Linnet and beckoned her over.
‘I want you to record Oswyn’s death in the annals. He died of flux – you understand?’
She nodded, wondering if she would have been told to record him as drowned if the Inspector hadn’t been here.
‘And ask Ann to bring some bread to my room, it can be stale, perhaps in a little milk.’
‘For the duck?’ she blurted out.
He looked at her, smiling. ‘Yes, for the duck. You’ve met my new guest then?’
She nodded, realising as she did so that she’d admitted going into his parlour. ‘I saw Isabelle going in,’ she offered in explanation, although of course if Isabelle were doing some service for the Prior, she had the right to be there and Linnet did not.
‘If her wing doesn’t mend, I’ll give her to the kitchen,’ he said.
She doubted that would happen. He would find a way to keep the duck with him if she didn’t recover, she was sure of it.
The Prior took the bread from her for the duck without a word, waving her away, busy talking to Brother Marcus. She came out of the Priory and walked down to the harbour where she sat on the harbour wall to eat the bit she’d kept for herself in the thin sun, Tom coming to sit next to her.
‘Seen the duck then?’ he asked.
She nodded, mouth full of bread.
‘Ah well, I suppose the Prior could do worse things than rescuing the odd bird.’
Linnet swallowed her bread. ‘There are worse than him in the Church, that’s for certain.’
‘Meet many on your travels before here then?’
He seemed truly interested in her time before the island. She felt the warmth of the sun and Tom’s friendship and her belly full of the bread she’d eaten, and relaxed a little.
‘I’ve seen churchmen lie and steal and all sorts.’ She paused, wondering what else to say.
‘We’ve got Sir Cyrus,’ he pointed out. ‘We know right enough that men of God have their sins too.’
Linnet always thought it was strange that any parish priest could call themselves ‘Sir’, like the gentry, especially the likes of Cyrus, as far from a nobleman as she could imagine.
‘And Oswyn. I know it’s ungodly but I am not sorry he drowned.’
Tom took a long look at her and she stared back. She had said it now and she was going to stand by it.