He lifted his head and tried to follow his nose, but the constant breeze whisking throughout the cloister grounds made finding the kitchens impossible. He shrugged to himself and just started walking. How far could the great hall be? He turned a corner, and as luck would have it, he found several monks heading in the same direction. His belly growled. He hoped they were heading toward the hall. It seemed a long time ago since breakfast.
Some monks greeted him cordially but without speaking, while others eyed him with wide stares and pursed lips. Jack made a mental tally of those faces.
As a herd-or, he supposed, flock-the monks meandered down the long walkways and left the cloister precincts. Jack began to wonder just where they were going when they all entered a large hall and the smell of food touched his senses. A long table at the front of the hall was probably set for the prior. There were many tables and benches perpendicular to the head table. Jack moved slowly forward, uncertain where he was to go when he noticed Father Cyril motioning to him. Gratefully, he picked up his cassock and trotted forward, then slowed when he realized everyone else took on a slower pace.
Cyril motioned for him to stand before an empty wooden plank and Jack turned to watch the rest of the monks file in. There were more than he realized and his heart sank. How was he to question all of these? He’d be stuck here till Doomsday!
Finally, three entered and strode right up to the head table: the prior, another monk that Jack took to be the sub prior, and Dom Thomas. They sat in their places and the prior began by intoning a string of Latin prayers. The assembly crossed themselves, responded, and then all, with the loud scraping of benches on the wooden floor, took their seats. Jack watched the head table as the prior leaned in toward the sub prior and spoke to him. Dom Thomas’s glare directed toward Jack. Jack made a dismissing gesture, and looked at his plate and that of his fellow diners. No one spoke a word, and if they needed anything, they made a series of hand gestures to get across their meaning. All over the room was a fluttering of hands and moving cassocks like small dark waves. One monk stepped up onto a raised platform and sat before a lectern. A large book lay open there, and with his finger the monk traced over the page, cleared his throat, and began to read the Latin in a loud, clear voice.
Platters on the table were filled with dried fish, cooked leaks, and hunks of cheese. A small wooden bowl of pottage and a round loaf of barley bread just for him sat before his place. A leather beaker and a jug of ale also stood at the head of his place setting. At least these monks ate well, he thought, and took out his eating knife to stab a fish. He scooped up a handful of leeks and placed it on his plate and took them up in his fingers to chew them down like a rabbit.
He glanced sidelong at Cyril, wishing he could ask a question or two, but plainly, speaking was forbidden during meals. While he ate, he looked at the other diners. Dom Thomas had turned his attention to the prior and sub prior, but when Jack swept his gaze across the hall, a monk sitting close to the head table seemed to be staring at him. Brother Martin. He scrutinized Jack with narrowed eyes, and Jack worried the monk might recognize him. The monk squinted at him a bit longer, and then turned to his meal.
Jack concentrated on eating slowly. He wished the monk would stop reading. His low drone was annoying, like the buzz of an insect. He tried to ignore it, and when he did, surrounded by all these silent diners in their cassocks, his mind unbidden lit on the young nun, Dame Marguerite.
Never had he met a more refined and gentle lady. And so beautiful. Her hands were delicate and her face had the look of a stone saint. He reckoned she was his age or a few years older. When she talked to him, she used a soft voice with demure eyes always aimed downward. He wished she would look up more often because those eyes were very dark and sympathetic. Crispin didn’t like his talking to her, but he didn’t care. Didn’t Master Crispin say Jack had a choice to obey him or not? Though probably not in all things. Still, the saying of it was easier than the doing of it. He still felt obligated to the man who rescued him from Newgate Prison and gave him a decent life.
He sighed, thinking of Dame Marguerite. Marguerite. When he got out of this monastery, he vowed to speak to her, tell her how he felt. Perhaps she really didn’t want to be a nun anymore. His brow wrinkled. Was a body allowed to stop being a nun? He wasn’t certain. He could make her forget the horror of the murder, take her back to London, and then … Then what? Crispin paid him a wage but it wasn’t very much. He sipped his beer and rested his arm on the table. Wasn’t he getting ahead of himself? First things first. He’d have to talk to her.
Benches scraped back and Jack looked up alarmed. The meal was over and the monks were standing for their benediction. Jack scrambled to his feet and bowed his head, looking up through his fringe at the others. The monks filed out and Jack followed, staying close to Cyril. He stood outside the hall and Brother Martin skirted past him, eyeing Jack the whole time.
Cyril, too, watched Martin go. “Oaf,” murmured Cyril under his breath. Jack whipped his head around to stare at the man, who shrugged. “So he is.”
The monk moved on back to the cloister and Jack followed. “I thought fellow monks always spoke well of each other.”
Cyril exhaled a snorting laugh. “We live in close proximity for all the years of our lives. There’s only so much forgiveness to share. As Benedictines we are not allowed to traipse all over the countryside as you and your Franciscan brothers do.” He looked at Jack’s expression and patted his shoulder. “Don’t vex yourself, Little Friar. We live in relative harmony. It’s just that some of us are more harmonious than others.”
The monks seemed to mill about and Jack guessed this was the time of day for leisure, since the rest of the monk’s day was devoted to prayer and work. “Father Cyril,” Jack ventured. “I have heard the rumors-”
“Bless me, but I brace myself.”
“Well, that there is something amiss with the martyr’s bones.”
Cyril stopped and suddenly grabbed Jack and dragged him into the shadows. “Best not to say these rumors too loud, Friar.”
“Brother John,” muttered Jack.
The monk nodded disinterestedly. “As you will.”
“But I heard that they may no longer be in the shrine. Is this true?”
Cyril sighed and kept an eye peeled for anyone who might overhear them. “I fear it is.”
“How can we find them?”
“His Excellency has hired a man from London. A sour-looking fellow named Crispin Guest. Though I do not know why the archbishop should put his trust in a traitor.”
Jack clenched his fists and kept them at his sides. “Traitor, Brother?”
“That’s what I hear. I do not know much about him. The other monks do not trust him.”
“Because he is a traitor?” Jack sputtered on the word.
“No, because he used to be the duke of Lancaster’s man. The duke is said to be a Lollard sympathizer. For the most part, my fellow brothers would have great objections to helping such a man. But there may be one or two … well. Perhaps I have spoken too much already. I think the ale has gone to my head. I should go to the privy.”
“I will go with you.” Jack walked alongside him, occasionally passing other monks along the way. “If the monks do not trust this man Guest, why did the archbishop hire him?”
Cyril gave another snorting laugh. “Why indeed!”
“I do not get your meaning, Brother.”
“Well, it’s just a curiosity, isn’t it, that he hired this fellow to guard the bones and the moment he arrived they disappeared. And then the murders.”
“Do you think it the curse?”
They reached the privy stalls and Cyril hitched up his cassock. Jack did likewise beside him. “Oh ho! You’ve been talking to Edward Harper.”
“Who?”
“Our pensioner.”