He found Merton a pleasant place. The Priory was not really a monastery, though that was what everyone called it; it was a house of Augustinian Canons, specializing in the education of children who would live in the world; for Augustinians, though they are very nearly monks, like to have some secular purpose besides prayer and contemplation.
In themselves, the lessons were utterly dull; endless learning by heart of conjugations and declensions, or painstaking rendering word by word of snippets of Latin into French. The boys were there to learn Latin Grammar, and no one ever taught them anything else. Strictly speaking, even their Latin was not taught to them; each evening they were given a task to learn by rote, and a Canon heard them repeat it in the morning, beating any pupil who was not word-perfect.
But Thomas quickly began to see the rewards of learning. By the end of October he understood some phrases of the Psalms, which he heard endlessly repeated in the daily Office. Once he could read Latin all knowledge would be open to him, all history, all philosophy, every tale of travel, satire, or adventure; once he could speak it he might converse with any fellow-Christian anywhere, except ignorant peasants and the queer schismatic Greeks, from Jerusalem to Corunna, from Sicily to Norway; if he spoke it well and fluently he might plead in any lawcourt which acknowledged Pope or Emperor. Such a prize was worth a little exertion in the winning.
Discipline was strict and pettifogging. The boys were hardly ever free to amuse themselves, and for the greater part of the day they must keep silence. Of course there were no games. But Thomas had no difficulty in obeying the strict regulations. He was in the habit of doing as he was told, and after his work he had no energy for play. He was shooting up to a remarkable tallness, at the same time getting thinner and more purple in the hands, feet and ears; he was always cold, though he wore the thickest cowl he could get hold of. That cowl helped him to behave; dressed as a monk he felt that he ought to act as a monk, and he always did what was expected of him.
Sometimes his thoughts turned to his mother and sisters, hardly ever to his father. As a rule he was too busy to be homesick. After he had learned to read easily, a trick that came suddenly when he had been at school a few weeks, his master praised his diligence; and praise was a spur that would always keep him hard at work. The next art to be mastered was writing, but he found that more difficult. His long bony arms could not control the immense red hands dangling at their ends, and his fingers were usually thickened by chilblains. Prior Robert was disappointed, but obviously it was not the boy’s fault; though he could write a private letter he would never be able to compose a beautiful Missal.
Throughout his time at Merton he shared a desk with the same companion, who also slept beside him and sat next to him in chapel. This Robert was a self-possessed young Norman from London, sharing his own background; but he looked forward to a very different future. His parents had vowed him to God before he was born, and he himself would take the vows of an Augustinian as soon as he was old enough. He seemed well suited to the monastic life, without any hankering for the world outside; and he was even more studious and law-abiding than Thomas. He showed occasional traces of original thought, which Thomas never did; Robert would advance his own reasons for believing some point of theology, or his own justification for some decision of daily conduct; while Thomas reproduced accurately and exactly what his teachers had told him. They were about the same age, though Robert had been longer in the cloister. They did not exactly love one another, but each was thoroughly at ease when the other was beside him, since each knew every recess in the other’s mind.
Yet underneath his scholarly exterior Thomas was perpetually troubled by the hot temper which had made his parents doubt his fitness for the school. When he made a mistake, or did not know the right answer, he accepted correction without resentment; but when he thought he was right, and was told he was wrong, he had to sit still, thinking hard about the gentle kindness of Our Lady, before he could bring himself to acknowledge his fault. Only once did a schoolfellow deliberately quarrel with him, the son of a small rustic freeholder who delighted to sneer at the vulgar money-grubbing burgesses of London. Thomas clenched his fists, standing breast to breast with his tormentor; then he swung away, to pass the rest of the recreation hour kneeling in the chapel. But he had looked so stark that no one tried to quarrel with him again.
For besides Latin Grammar one thing was taught at Merton. Everyone there, from the Prior to the youngest pupil, was continually exercising self-control, in chapel, in the refectory, in the dormitory, at lessons in the cloister; a grave carriage and a friendly but remote smile were formally demanded during every waking hour.
When Thomas came home for Christmas his parents noted the change in him. Their son, once so hot-tempered and quick to change his moods, now sat smiling quietly through any annoyance. Rose knew that within himself he was as quick to anger as he had ever been, and admired his self-possession. Gilbert merely remarked that those Canons were quick workers; they had changed the nature of young Thomas in less than half a year.
The following July, when he rode home behind a groom (for his father had guests and could not come to fetch him), he found a greater change awaiting him. The house itself looked different, for the stable was full of horses, and the yard full of swaggering sergeants in leather jacks girt with great swords. Rose ran to greet him, but his father remained in the hall, perched on a stool while he talked to someone who sat in the only chair which should have been the throne of the master of the house. As his son entered he hardly looked up.
‘This is the boy,’ he said in a deferential tone. ‘If you think him worthy of the honour he could ride with you tomorrow. Thomas, come here and kneel before the lord Richer de l’Aigle, who has offered to rear you in courteous manners at his castle of Pevensey.’
‘It was the least I could offer, Goodman Gilbert,’ the stranger answered graciously. ‘When I came to deal with those penny-pinching clerks at the Exchequer your advice was invaluable.’
‘It was nothing, my lord,’ Gilbert went on, in a subservient whine which Thomas thought unpleasant. ‘If I didn’t know my way about the Exchequer I should soon owe the King more than I possess. Besides,’ and Thomas was pleased to see his back straighten, ‘in this strange land we Normans must stick together.’
Thomas knelt before the lord Richer, as he had been taught to kneel before the Prior of Merton. ‘Welcome to my father’s hall,’ he said carefully and distinctly, for he genuinely enjoyed ceremonious behaviour. ‘If my father desires me to serve you I shall serve you loyally–and I have never been inside a great castle.’
‘You are not to serve me,’ Richer answered. ‘It would be a poor repayment for your father’s kindness, to make his only son my vassal. No, the arrangement is quite different. If it pleases you, you shall come with me to Pevensey for the summer, until it is time for you to return to Merton. You shall learn to ride, and fly a hawk, and play chess, and carve at table, with the sons of my neighbours who are learning these things in my castle.’
Thomas’s heart gave a bound. He had been aware of social distinctions since he was old enough to go out into the crowded streets of London. The son of a burgess, he was being offered the training of a gentleman. He rose to his feet and bowed low, bending from the waist at right angles as when he served Mass at Merton.
‘You approve, I see,’ said the lord Richer with a smile. ‘We may as well begin at once, with your bow. Don’t bob at me as though I were the Crucifix on the High Altar. Tuck in your stomach, bend your backbone, and bring forward your shoulders so that I see the top of your head. Like this.’ Rising, he bowed gracefully and deferentially to young Thomas. As he resumed his seat he spoke once more to Gilbert.
‘The boy speaks the French of Normandy, so the rest should come easily. If his tongue had been the horrible half-English jargon you hear in Cheapside my work would have been impossible. It is amazing to see how our language has altered in a mere sixty years.’
‘We are true Nor
mans,’ said Gilbert proudly. ‘My children were born here in London; but my wife is from Caen, and I myself was born in Thierceville and reared in Rouen. Thomas has no taint of the conquered English. He is Norman through and through.’
Thomas meanwhile was inspecting his new lord, and approving what he saw. The lord Richer was young, not more than twenty-five; in figure he was tall and spare, with the broad shoulders and slim waist of a warrior; his eyes and hair were dark, and he had inherited the fierce hooked nose which had given his family its surname. But he had a merry smile, and the wrinkles round his eyes, which spoke of much staring into the sun, formed an encouraging pattern. His clothes were such as a great man should wear on an unimportant occasion: a tunic and hood of excellent blue cloth over a fine linen shirt; chausses in the natural grey of the wool, cross-gartered in scarlet leather to match scarlet leather shoes bearing burnished spurs. His mantle, also of plain blue cloth, was fastened on the right shoulder with a ruby brooch, and his scarlet leather belt ended in a buckle of scarlet enamel. His knightly broadsword, in its red leather scabbard fastened to a red leather baldric, was at present propped against the chair.
It was evident that this lord could spend what he liked on his personal adornment. To visit London on business he chose to dress quietly in blue with red accessories; but even this equipment must have cost more than the dress of many burgesses who flaunted in green and yellow. Thomas loved fine clothes, but now he realized for the first time that it was grander to hint at hidden splendour than to walk abroad gorgeously attired every day. In matters of social conduct the lord Richer should prove a worthy teacher.
Noting the boy’s curious gaze on his dress, Richer took up the subject. ‘At Merton I suppose you wear the cowl. That outfit must be what you took there a year ago. It’s too small for you, and not quite what you should wear in a castle. Under my roof you may wear my livery; in fact you should, if you are to serve as a page. No, Gilbert, I insist. Let me do the thing handsomely. We shall open the bales after supper, and your mother shall choose something that fits you.’
After supper Rose and the lord Richer’s steward conferred together for what seemed like hours, while he stood like a lay figure before them, clad only in his shirt. At Pevensey there were several pages, so the Michaelmas livery included plenty of clothes to fit a boy in his ninth year. He was given a tunic of fine thin cloth for great occasions, thicker tunics for riding, thin chausses and padded riding-chausses, soft shoes covering the instep lest the stirrup chafe him, a belt and crossgarters of untanned leather; finally the steward handed him a plain steel dagger, its bone hilt carved into the eagle-head of the de l’Aigles. Rose did not want him to take it, protesting that a clerk should not carry arms; but Thomas was thrilled. He had never before worn steel. His only regret was that since the hilt had no guard it was impossible to see the knife as a miniature of the cross-hilted knightly sword.
As soon as the bundles were refastened the pack-train and escort set out for Sussex. They would travel through the night to reach Pevensey after one halt. But the lord Richer and his personal following would start in the morning; the journey was only sixty miles, and warriors could accomplish it in one day.
Thomas might no longer sleep in the chamber, with his parents and sisters; he had grown too old, and a part of his childhood was gone for ever. There was a pallet for him at the back of the hall, where also slept the lord Richer and his companions. But since Thomas went to bed while his elders still sat over their wine Rose took this rare opportunity for a private talk with him.
‘I am sure you are disappointed not to spend your holiday with us,’ she began, ‘but your father could not miss this lucky chance. We have been useful to the lord Richer, in his dealings with the Exchequer. He’s a good honest man, for all that he’s a great lord, and I could see that he was looking for some way to repay us. He is too courteous to offer money to his host, and he can’t put much business in our way. I made him think of this plan, by talking of your return and lamenting the lack of room in this house. Don’t waste the opportunity. When you leave Merton you will be a learned clerk, able to make your own way in the world. There is no position too high for you, if you use the wits God gave you. But often one thing holds back the cleverest clerks. Do you know what it is?’
‘Do you mean that they don’t know how to fight? Is that what I shall learn from the lord Richer?’
‘No, my darling. Clever clerks need not fight, and I hope fighting never comes your way. But some learned men never get the advancement they deserve because they don’t know how to behave in the company of the great. The lord Richer will teach you how knights live in castles, and how to be courteous to noble ladies. He will also teach you to ride a destrier and to joust, and I see that is what you wish to learn from him. But it is more important that you learn how to carve meat for the high table, how to pass the winecup, how to eat neatly and quietly, using only two fingers and never splashing the gravy. Learn chess also, if you find someone willing to teach you without betting on the game. Listen attentively to jongleurs and trouveres; don’t bother to learn the words of their poems, but you ought to know the stories, about Roland and Ogier the Dane, and King Arthur who once reigned in this land (though when I was a girl no one had heard of him; if you ask me he is just a modern invention). If you know the stories you can mention them in conversation, and that’s one of the marks of a gentleman. Any scullion can quote snippets from the poems, but only the well-born know the whole stories. Then there is hunting, and all the host of queer words the gentry have invented to prove that chasing a deer is more noble than chasing our cat Tib. If the lord Richer offers to take you hunting of course you must jump at it; but even if he doesn’t you can pick up a lot by talking with huntsmen and grooms. If you learn all you can, and notice how the people round you behave in their private affairs, your manners will be good enough for any company in the land. And if you ever feel shy and unworthy of your noble companions, remember that you are a true Norman. You had an ancestor at Hastings, which is as much as the greatest of them can boast.’
She kissed him good night and left him. In the morning there was such a bustle that he had no chance for further talk with her before he set out.
The ride to Pevensey showed him that he had a lot to learn. When his father visited Merton, only eighteen miles from London, he stayed the night and returned the next day. The lord Richer and his train thought sixty miles a fair day’s ride, which showed they were accustomed to a different breed of horse. Thomas was mounted on a quiet hobby, normally the warhorse of a hobilar or light-armed sergeant. He could sit on it and control it well enough, chiefly because it had no wish to leave its companions. But he was not accustomed to long hours at a hand-gallop, and before he had gone twenty miles the saddle had chafed him raw.
In the afternoon, as they slowed to a walk, threading one of the muddy tracks of the Weald, the lord Richer called him up to ask a few civil questions about what he was learning at Merton. To Thomas it was the typical conversation of a grown-up man; they always asked you how far you had got in your Latin and whether writing was really as difficult as it looked; and you knew very well that they scarcely listened to your careful answers.
But in fact it was not a random conversation. Richer de l’Aigle had been wondering how to treat this little merchant’s brat; on a sudden impulse of kindness he had offered to train him as a gentleman, but the boy might be a clod, incapable of improvement. In that case he would feed him well and give him the run of the mews and the stables; he would enjoy country life and return to his family none the worse. But the child might have more in him than the calculating blood of a drysalter. Any Norman could make a good warrior, and he was of sound Norman stock. If he showed promise it would be interesting to teach him the management of arms, until he had the skill of a knight as well as the learning of a clerk. An educated knight, or a clerk who could use a sword, would be something of a rarity in England.
The lord Richer had noticed his discomfort; his t
ender knees had been rubbed by the saddle and the jolting gallop had upset his stomach. He was not afraid of his hobby, nor of the big destriers which splashed beside him, and that was all to the good; but he might be so unused to discomfort, and so sorry for himself, that he could not answer politely. Then there would be no point in going further, for the first lesson a warrior must learn is to disregard fatigue and pain.
When he sent the boy back to his place in the little column the lord Richer had made up his mind. This lad was something out of the ordinary. You could see him pulling himself together, and that was not quite as it should be; for a good knight always looked composed, no matter what strain might be distressing him. But he had pulled himself together, and answered the banal questions carefully; he had even managed a smile, when he was not far from being sick in the saddle. He had more than self-control; he had unusual determination. Within him was a warrior; it would be an absorbing task to bring out his latent qualities.
Therefore during the first weeks at Pevensey Thomas was constantly in the company of his lord, and of the two young sons of noblemen whom he was ‘nourishing’. There were three other pages, but they were sons of Richer’s vassals, there to make themselves useful in return for board and wages; not to be trained in the art of courteous living, which was the real object of ‘nourishing’ the son of a friend. Thomas had been quick to see the niche into which he was expected to fit, in the elaborate hierarchy of the great castle. He knew that he had won approval, and that the best was open to him; he determined to deserve it.
His elders were impressed by his self-control, though some thought it too marked to be a wholly admirable quality. In the evening after he had spent his first day in the mews Richer discussed him with a neighbour, young Reginald de Braoze who had ridden over from Bramber to hawk in the marsh.
‘Did you notice that boy when the peregrine nipped him in the wrist? Of course it was his own fault, for he had the jesses in a tangle; but he went on hooding the bird without squeezing her any harder. Most lads of that age would have tried to get their own back on the hawk. He has the making of a falconer.’
God and My Right Page 2
