Chapter 2
EMMETT
Ibang my fist down on the table, frustration getting the better of me.
It was supposed to be easy, either they surrendered or they didn’t.
If they refuse, we’re supposed to withdraw.
Then serious charges would be brought against them and they would be forcibly removed.
But this monk, this abbot, has disappeared.
After making me wait nearly an hour for him, he spends barely five minutes in the room before he leaves again, practically dismissing me.
My uncle had said he’d be scared. I’ve read the reports of widespread debauchery, tables laden with the finest and richest foods, misuse of donations, lax religious practices in all monasteries.
I was led to believe that the abbots were all afraid of what would happen to them, and most were more than happy to surrender the abbey and lands.
I was certainly not expecting the calm I was met with, and now I’m unsettled having to wait again.
When he returns I’ll make it clear what’s required of him.
I look up when the door opens, half expecting the abbot to appear but it’s his manservant.
“Will the abbot be back soon?” I ask him as he puts down another cup of mead.
“After Vespers.” The dour-faced man says. “He has requested you eat with him and that you stay tonight.”
“But what about my horse?” I don’t know about the arrangements within monasteries, do they even have horses?
“He’ll be taken care of, and I’ll have your saddle bags brought in,” the manservant replies.
“Thank you.” It looks like I’ll be here for one night, then.
Which is a relief. There looked to be an inn in the small town I rode through before reaching the abbey, but this saves me the trouble of finding out if they have a room for the night.
While I wait, I take a look around the small sitting room.
It’s comfortable but it’s not particularly opulent.
There’s a large fireplace with a wooden mantle, which holds a few simple carvings.
There are benches with padded cushions along two walls and a chair placed either side of the fireplace, which tells me that Abbot Theobald entertains often.
A low table and two carved chests complete the furniture in the room.
Most of it is panelled to shoulder height.
On one wall, above the panelling, is a tapestry depicting a scene, probably biblical, but I don’t recognise it.
I’m still contemplating it when the abbot arrives back.
“It’s Esther approaching Ahasuerus, do you like it?”
“As a tapestry or a story?” I ask, unable to help myself as I was caught off guard.
“Either,” he says and I turn towards him. Again is the small smile and the calm steady gaze that I struggle to tear myself away from. I don’t want to like the man.
I know the story, of course. Esther the Queen of Persia who petitioned the King to save her people from persecution after his advisor convinced him to kill them due to a personal affront.
It seems a curious subject for a monk to have in his own quarters, and I wonder if his question was a deeper one of which I understood the symbolism.
If I answer yes, then I’m showing myself to be in sympathy with what I’m here to do, which at least has some parallels with the story.
If I answer no, then I show myself as unbelieving in the will of God.
I’m caught in a trap, and the enigmatic expression on Theobald’s face shows me he knows that.
“It doesn’t matter what I think, it will belong to the king soon enough,” I grind out, angry that I’ve been outmaneuvered before I’ve even begun negotiations. His expression doesn’t change, which is impressive.
We’re interrupted by the servant, saving him from having to answer, which also annoys me. I need to find a way to shake his calm demeanor, make him frightened so he’ll surrender. Whilst I have no appetite for seeing people tried and executed, I’ll do what I have to.
“Thank you, Abel, we’ll be through,” he says to the servant and then gestures to the door, allowing me to precede him across the hallway to a small room with a long bench either side of a trestle table.
The surface is laden with food, various meats and fish, bread and cheeses.
There’s a lot, far more than we can eat.
Is this the first sign of the opulence I’ve been expecting?
“This is very grand, do you eat like this every day?” I ask as I slide into one of the benches.
“Not if I don’t have company,” he says smoothly, as if I’m someone he’s invited rather than the person who will seal his fate.
“It seems like a lot.” I cast my eyes over the table, taking it all in.
“None of it will be wasted if that’s what you’re worried about.” He sounds so sincere, as if that truly was my concern. “What we don’t finish will be reused. We make pies and distribute them as alms on Saturdays.”
Again an answer I wasn’t expecting. I scowl and start to load my plate. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m hungry. He waits until I’ve finished and started to tuck into my food before taking only a couple of slices of meat and a hunk of bread. A meagre amount. I stop mid chew and look at him.
“We say grace before we eat,” he says with that amused look he keeps directing at me, like I’m a novice who doesn’t know any better. I swallow my mouthful and drop my eyes.
“Yes, of course.”
He speaks a few sentences, in Latin. It sounds melodic in his rich voice, and I wonder briefly what he would sound like reading Mass in the church, his warm tones reverberating around the vast space. The thought sends a tingle down my spine and I shake it away. When I look up he’s watching me.
“We may eat now,” he says simply and takes a bite of his bread. I don’t answer but resume eating. The food is well cooked and delicious, and before long I’m devouring it again.
“Has it been a while since you last ate?” he asks between mouthfuls, no doubt taking in how rapidly I’m eating.
“This morning.” I remember the thin porridge I had at the inn just inside the city walls at Oxford before I set off. The meal I had there last night wasn’t as good as this either and cost me a pretty sum. I stop my hand as it’s halfway to another chicken leg, not wanting to appear gluttonous.
“Please, take what you need,” he encourages. “Like I said, we feed all those who need it.”
Even if they’re your enemy. I reflect bitterly on the words left unsaid. But still, I reach for the chicken again and eat it in defiance, though he quirks his mouth and again I’m left feeling like he has the upperhand.
“So, Emmett de Selcey, tell me about your family.”
I shrug, there’s not a lot to tell.
“My father died when I was young,” I start. “My mother remarried my uncle, Lord Fortesque and now I have two brothers.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. That must be hard for you,” he says softly.
“Being the eldest and knowing I’ll inherit nothing?
” I blurt out. I hadn’t meant to give away what eats me inside.
My father may not have been as rich or important as my uncle, but he was a knight and he had been promised some land.
Unfortunately he had died before it was granted.
My mother, a beautiful woman, was left penniless, and I could never blame her for taking the offer from my uncle.
She has borne him two heirs, whereas I’m just an inconvenience he doesn’t know what to do with.
“It can’t be all bad, you are a commissioner for Cromwell, acting on behalf of the king,” he says. “That’s an important role.”
“Yes,” I reply brusquely. It would seem so to him, but it’s not the truth.
I was sent because my uncle has been promised the land this abbey stands on and this is my chance to prove myself.
If I can do this, then I’m more likely to be offered a more permanent and prominent position, or so it’s been intimated.
A chance to make a name for myself. Which is why I cannot fail.
A bell rings again and the abbot rises.
“Please excuse me, I must attend Compline.”
“More prayers?”
“We pray seven times a day.”
“Every day?” My eyebrows shoot up. I attend mass on Sunday—well, most Sundays if I’m not doing something more interesting like hawking or hunting—but I could not imagine having to pray seven times a day.
“I can see you’re unfamiliar with monastic life. I’ll show you tomorrow. Abel will come and take you to your room.”
“You will of course be praying for the king now he’s the ruler of the Church,” I call out as he reaches the door, desperate to have the last word and to remind him why I’m here.
He turns and looks back at me. He doesn’t speak, he just gives me his serene smile and bows his head.
I get a flash of his bald pate above the ridiculous ring of hair that monks have.
As the door closes behind him, I again get the feeling I’ve been dismissed. The food I’ve eaten turns to ashes in my stomach. Abel comes in within a few minutes and I get up to follow him. He leads me down a corridor. There’s a door either side and one at the end.
“You’re in here, sir.” He opens the right-hand door.
“There is the latrine.” He points to the door at the end, then he leaves me abruptly and I enter the room.
There’s a pallet bed topped with a woollen blanket that looks surprisingly comfortable.
My saddlebags are laid upon it, which is a relief that I don’t have to find old sour face and ask where they are.
There are also two chests and a small bench. A cross hangs on the wall.
I pay a visit to the latrine and then take off my outer coat before slipping into bed.
Despite being tired from my journey I cannot sleep, and I lie awake tossing and turning.
I wonder if the door opposite is the abbot’s bedchamber, but I hear no sounds of anyone entering.
Eventually I hear the blasted prayer bells again, though it surely must be the middle of the night.
Only after they’ve died down and are silent again do I manage to fall into a fitful sleep.