And that is how I learned the letter M, with which I make my mark, rather than a cross, as other people use.
“What are you doing there, Margaret, wasting time?” Mother Anne’s shrill voice, accompanied by the rising howls of the baby, came from the house.
“I am spinning, mother, spinning and talking to David.” But it was not true, for the distaff had lain idle since I first saw David coming up the road.
“With David?” Her head popped out of the door, the baby making greedy sucking noises at the breast.
“Come in, child, come in—it’s cold out here, and there’s a good stew for supper. What are those marks? Writing? How very, very clever! Why, you might be a priest already!” She beamed at David. To be the mother of a priest filled her with glorious imaginings. What a grand place it would give her! How they would bow, when she appeared with her son, the priest! Even the mother of a boy with only a first tonsure had respect. And suppose someday he got a parish, and was called “Sir David”? Then she looked down and saw my poor attempt at spinning, lying on my lap.
“And you, Margaret, what’s that mess in your lap? Spinning, you say? Such lumps and tangles as you make are a waste of good wool. If idling and gossiping so spoil your work, you must apply yourself closer to it and give up chatter. Well, come in quickly, or the cakes on the griddle will burn.” We hurried in to join our father, the two large ones, and the hired man for supper.
Night fell quickly in these cold days of Advent, and so we were soon in bed, the banked fire’s dull glow giving the house its only faint light. In those days, before our house was made larger, it was still only one great room, with the fire at the center and a kind of partition at one end where the cattle might be kept at night. At this back end there was a good lot of straw, where the oxen and the hired man slept. The fire in the center was surrounded by flat stones, with the kettle hanging over it. A round, flat griddle and some lesser pots stood beside it. The smoke rose above it to the blackened thatch, where it hung about the hams and sides of bacon that were suspended from the rafters before it wandered out through the smoke hole.
We all slept in the same big bed at the front of the house, the baby in the cradle so it would not be overlain. But even when the big boys did not thrash about, sleep was not always easy, for the new baby, christened Martin, did poorly after his auspicious beginning. Something about the cold weather made him fret and whine and roll his head at night, and feeding did not relieve it. Day and night his nose ran. Sometimes David and I would lie awake for hours, listening to the baby scream. Will and Rob stuffed wool in their ears. Nothing bothered the hired man, for besides being toothless, he was also deaf. But mother’s face sagged, and deep shadows appeared under her eyes. Sometimes in the day her head nodded over as she stirred the kettle. Father grew more and more irritable, for, as he said, “A man who works as hard as I do during the day deserves a little rest at night.”
This night mother slept too hard to hear the baby’s first whimpers. Then the snuffling cries changed to a thin little thread of sound rising and falling, which roused David from his sleep beside me, as I lay awake.
“Devil take you, you little bastard,” rumbled a heavy voice from under father’s place in the covers. “Shut your little yawp.”
“YeeeeeEEEEEeeeEEEEEEeeeeee!” rose from the cradle.
“Anne, Anne”—he pushed mother’s shoulder—“do something about that child of yours.” Mother groaned and turned but did not wake.
“Shut up, shut up, little monster,” growled father, rising from the bed and addressing the cradle. “I’ll show you not to wake a workingman!” And he picked up the swaddled baby and gave it a hard shake. The wailing stopped.
“There, that shows you. Now you’ll be a little more respectful, hah?” He shoved the baby down and climbed back into bed, where he pulled the covers over his head.
Silence woke Mother Anne as noise had not. With one sleepy hand she felt for the cradle in the dark. Finding the baby displaced, she felt again and opened her eyes to lift it with both hands. The head bobbed unnaturally on the neck. She looked closer: there was a thin bloody froth on the baby’s colorless lips. She touched it with her fingers and felt the neck again.
“Blessed Virgin and the saints!” She let out a howl. “What have you done, what have you done?”
“By God’s body, woman, shut your trap! First one noise, then another. A man needs sleep!”
“Hugh, the baby’s dead!”
“S’not dead, it’s finally asleep, leave me alone.”
“He’s dead, he’s dead, I say, and it’s you that’s done it!” she hissed. That woke father up properly. David’s eyes shone huge in the dark. We lay as still as death itself, for fear that father would notice us, and serve us the same way. Fully awake, father now took in the scene at last. Mother’s eyes started in her head with horror as she looked at the cold limp little body. Then she turned on father with such a look of loathing and disgust as I have never yet seen again.
“Look, just look what you have done to your own son!”
At that point something strange happened. Father’s face sagged and all the lines on it crumpled up as he said in a whining voice, “But I didn’t mean to do it, I didn’t mean to!”
Mother extended the child silently, its head bobbing.
“I swear before all the saints, I didn’t mean to. Don’t you understand, Anne, I didn’t mean to?” Whining and apologetic he fumbled and picked at the bedcover.
From that very moment on our house changed absolutely, for mother ruled in all things. She had only to say, “And where is Martin?” or, “Give me back my son,” and father would quit blustering, look shamefaced, and agree to whatever she proposed. Little Martin had the finest linen shroud that was ever seen in the village, but aside from that, nothing was ever remarked, for many babies are buried in wintertime.
It was that spring that mother decided to take up brewing, an art which she understood well. Father was becoming more useless all the time, and she thought that this would be a way to repair our fortunes. And father let her do anything now. Not only did he lack the will to oppose her, but all he thought of was ale anyway. So of course he agreed it was a good idea to have a large supply of it in his own house. The cooper made mother some good, large barrels, and when the first batch was ready, she hung the ale stake with its bush in front of the house, in token of its being a public house, and took to calling herself “Anne Brewster.”
Her reputation spread quickly from the day that the abbot sent the ale taster to test the quality of her work. After a long belch that worthy said that it was the best he had tried in the last twelvemonth, and stayed to drink for the rest of the day. And mother gave good measure, flowing over. She wasn’t like those cheating brewsters you hear of, who get put in the stocks right next to their false-bottomed measures. Mother Anne soon did well enough to arrange for the enlargement of our house, with a large front room furnished with benches for the drinkers, another room at the back of the house, set on at an odd angle, and a loft over the central room, for us children to sleep in. With judicious gifts and flattery she won over Father Ambrose, who despised all such dens of sin, to the degree that he grudgingly said that if such a place had to exist, it was well that it were honest.
I enjoyed helping mother with her brewing, for brewing well is a fine art, which requires a judicious and observant character, as well as a great deal of good fortune. At these times mother was too occupied to be cross, and she would even hum to herself in a tuneless voice.
It was the second summer after she had taken up brewing, when we were engaged in making mash in several large kettles over an open fire outdoors, that Sir Ambrose came looking for us at home.
“I have been looking for your husband, goodwife, for I have business with him,” called the priest. “I have not found him in his field, so I seek him here.”
“Yes, he’s inside, Father. He’s taken ill again,” she responded agreeably. “But surely you’ll have some ale a
s a remedy against the heat.”
Sir Ambrose, sweat rolling from under his wide-brimmed hat, answered, “It is a kindly offer, Mother Anne, and one that I’ll accept this day.”
As she left me to tend the kettles, she explained apologetically to him, “The boys are all at the haying, but the heat affected him too greatly. He’s not getting younger, Father.” Her voice faded into the house. I left my work at an auspicious moment and peeked in at the low, open window. I could see them both standing by the wide, sagging bed where father sprawled.
“Hmm, indeed, the heat has affected him greatly,” Father Ambrose said, wrinkling up his nose at the smell of stale drink that rose from father.
“Wake up, arouse yourself, good husband, for Sir Ambrose has business with you,” said mother, hiding her embarrassment with busy, fluttering motions of housework. Father groaned and sat up in bed.
“I have important business, business that should bring you great pride and pleasure.” Sir Ambrose shouted a little, as if father were deaf. Father winced.
“Pleasure?” mumbled father, getting his bearings.
“And pride,” prompted mother, who had begun to suspect, as I did, what the business was about.
“Goodman Hugh, your son David is a boy of talent, possibly great talent.”
“Oh?” Father was scratching and blinking.
“I have taught him all I can. He drinks in learning like a sponge.”
“He drinks? When is that?”
“Drinks learning, drinks learning, husband, dear,” prompted mother.
“I propose that he be sent to the abbey school at St. Matthew’s. I myself will recommend him.”
“School, doesn’t that cost money?” grumbled father.
“The fees are not great. And remember, they include feeding and housing. So they count even less if you think of the savings at home. Not all boys are capable of learning. You must not deny him his promise.” Sir Ambrose certainly did have the gift of flattery when the occasion demanded.
“Pay to send him away? Those monks should pay me for him. I need him here. There’s a lot of work that I need him for.” Father looked annoyed as he stared drunkenly at the end of the priest’s nose.
“Think of the honor, husband!”
“He needs higher teaching, if I can make you understand that,” said Sir Ambrose, in a condescending tone.
“Teaching?” protested father. “I teach him!”
“Not the rustic arts, my son, but the higher learning is what I speak of.” Father Ambrose was growing annoyed.
“Higher learning? Higher learning?” Father’s voice was sarcastic.
“It’s very great, this proposal of Sir Ambrose’s. You must consider it.” Mother put her hand on father’s shoulder in a conciliatory fashion.
“Hah, what do you know?” Father whirled on mother in a rage.
“Why, it’s, it’s—higher, that’s what, and higher is better.”
“Better than what, better than his old father? I’ll teach him higher! Higher than being an old eunuch of a priest, who battens on tithes!” Sir Ambrose looked furious and turned to go. But before he could speak, mother grabbed his sleeve and begged him, “Oh, please, please, worshipful Father, consider this great thing for David! Don’t take it from him out of rage. Come tomorrow, or better yet, I’ll send my husband with his own answer to the church tomorrow. Oh, think of the boy, and not of his father!”
Mollified, the priest looked sharply at her.
“Tomorrow, then,” he said. “I’ll wait until Compline, then no longer”—and he strode away.
The brewing could be left no longer, and as I turned to attend it, I heard mother shrieking through the open window, “I tell you, I will have it! Had Martin lived, he would have been even greater than that!” That winter David went up to the abbey, and mother’s fine ale paid the bill.
BROTHER GREGORY STOPPED AND sighed. This was going to require tact.
“This writing is very long,” he said. Silently he swept his mournful, intelligent dark eyes across the neat rows of small letters on the last page. It was good Italian paper, and the effect was nice. But Brother Gregory was not admiring his work. He was hoping that no one would ever recognize his handwriting.
“Are you worried about the cost? There is more paper, and we have more of these too.” Margaret picked up a quill and felt its softened, splayed tip. Then she cocked her head and peered at the writing with the shrewd stare of an illiterate who is determined not to be cheated.
“Just read me back that last bit, so I can hear what it sounds like,” she said firmly, as if she were bargaining for an oxtail in the market.
Brother Gregory read it gravely. The serious expression on his face, tinged with vague annoyance, made him look older than he really was. The impression was reinforced by the shapeless, shabby, ankle-length gray gown that he wore, which had given Margaret the vague notion that he might be a Franciscan. It was entirely threadbare at the elbows and the seat, the two weakest points in any scholar’s wardrobe. On a worn leather belt he wore a purse, a pen case, an inkhorn, and a knife in a plain sheath. On cold days like this one he wadded a pair of battered leggings under his sandals and put a sheepskin cape, its matted wool facing outward, over his gown. Shaving being an expensive habit, his tonsure and beard had begun to grow out, and his fierce dark eyebrows were now overshadowed by an unruly tangle of black curls.
Margaret nodded as she heard him read back what she’d said, and found herself wondering how old he really was. Very old, maybe thirty. No, perhaps not that old. Maybe really not that much older than she was. It was the serious look he had when he was concentrating on his writing that made him look old. Margaret had formed the habit of observing Brother Gregory very closely as he worked. At first there was the matter of the spoons. And then there was the problem of the writing, which went on for pages and pages. It seemed to look real: that is, it was all different, as well as being neat and small. Margaret watched the curiously delicate movements of Brother Gregory’s big hands as they traced the looping line of ink across the paper. She knew from her own sewing that fine movements like that can only be the product of long training. Still, she would test the process after each few pages by having him read back a bit aloud. It was always a relief to hear him say it back exactly as she’d said it.
The late afternoon light sifted through the thick lenses of leaded glass that made up the small windowpane, and left a narrow, luminous track across the oaken writing table. The clatter and bang from the kitchen suggested supper soon ready. A clamor of shrill voices was followed by the crash of a door and scurrying footsteps.
“Mistress Margaret, Mistress Margaret, the girls are fighting again! It is only a trinket, a trifle over a doll’s dress. I would have shaken them both for disturbing you so, but you said no hand should touch them but yours, and so I have come!” The old nurse shook her head and muttered to herself, “Vixens, vixens both! They’ll never mind without the rod! How often must I say it?”
“Bring them here, and I will speak to them.”
“Speak? Speak? As you wish it, mistress.” And the old woman waddled out, still shaking her head and certain that she served a madwoman who must be humored at all costs.
“I was thinking not of cost, Mistress Margaret, for I see you live in comfort,” resumed Brother Gregory, somewhat irritated by the interruption. His eye swept around the luxurious little room, an innovation even by London standards. On the ground floor with Roger Kendall’s hall, kitchen, and business offices, it was devoted entirely to his comfort and pleasure. Here the family could gather to hear readings, or simply talk and admire the roses in the back garden, which could be seen in somewhat distorted fashion through windows covered with real glass. Instead of the usual flooring of rushes, a brightly colored Oriental carpet spread beneath Brother Gregory’s feet. A rare, carved chest stood in one corner, and in the wide, ironbound locked chest that stood next to the writing table, could Brother Gregory have seen through its heavy lid, Ro
ger Kendall’s greatest treasures were arrayed. There were, in addition to knickknacks that he had brought home from his travels abroad, nineteen beautifully copied volumes, handsomely bound in calfskin. When Brother Gregory had first been shown into this room, he had inspected it carefully and sniffed to himself, “A rich man, but of too luxurious a taste for decency in one not gently born.” Now, with careful gravity, he addressed the spoiled girl-wife of this luxury-loving worthy in what was probably going to be a fruitless attempt to instill some sense of literary taste into her writing.
“It is not the cost of paper which is the issue here,” he went on. “Rather, I was thinking of the example of the Saints, the Sages, and the Ancients. They tell things to the point, with not so much digression.” He gestured to the sheets of writing. “Then can one gain benefits from their holy thoughts, and observations of God’s wonders.”
“Are you saying that because I am a woman, I talk too much?”
“Not that so much, but—well, yes. You digress too much and have no point. Each section, for example, might be based on some important moral lesson or reflection, and all worthless trivia pruned away from the important idea. But then,” he said, cocking his head sardonically, “on the other side, it might be said that elevating the trivial is a fault not exclusively confined to women.”
“Still, I must go on as I began, for it is the only way I know.”
Any further thoughts were cut off by the banging of the door flung open, as the nurse dragged in two furious, noisy little redheaded girls, only a year and a half apart in age. The elder, barely four years old, clutched the object of the quarrel, a bedraggled, half-dressed doll. Her great blue eyes sparked with righteous indignation. Her mop of auburn curls, never fully tamed by her hair ribbon, had shaken loose, giving the impression that a great struggle had just taken place. Her little gown was disordered, and even the freckles spotted across her nose seemed to blaze with wrath. The younger girl was a study in contrasts: her normally placid little face, which still retained the plump contours of babyhood, was swollen and tracked with tears, consciously shaped by its owner into a portrait of wronged grief.
A Vision of Light Page 3
