Page 34 of The Forgotten
He turned his chair toward the window and looked out at the night sky, which was aglow with the light of the moon. Wispy clouds floated over its buttery surface, casting darker shadows over the landscape before finally gliding past and revealing the full glory of the nearly round orb. Countless stars glittered in the heavens, twinkling at the prior and making him momentarily forget the cold. The draft from the window extinguished the candle, plunging the cell into near darkness, but Jacob didn’t mind. He needed to think, and he thought best when he was alert and physically uncomfortable.
Prior Jacob had been the prior of Greyfriars Priory for only four months. He’d succeeded Prior Francis, who died quite suddenly of apoplexy, leaving the friars to choose his successor. Prior Francis had been at the helm of the priory for nearly a decade and was very popular with the friars. Having ascended to the position of prior when already in his late fifties, Prior Francis took on the role of father figure for many of the younger members of the order, who were still secretly homesick and were in need of a bit more patience and guidance than the older friars.
Prior Francis had been short of stature, thick-set, and possessed of a ruddy round face that always wore an expression of attentiveness and understanding. He’d been kind, fair, and humble, a combination of traits that inspired loyalty and devotion among the members of the order. Surprisingly, not many of the friars seemed interested in the office of prior, and only two candidates had been put forth: Friar Jacob and Friar Martin, a man in his late seventies, who was stooped and had a hacking cough that could be heard coming from his cell during the night. Friar Martin was pious and humble, but he had a certain peevishness of character that made him unpopular with the rest of the friars, who weren’t interested in petty slights or keeping score of worthy deeds.
Friar Jacob was in his early fifties. Tall and whippet-thin, he was in good health and possessed of great physical strength. He no longer had to shave his tonsure since he’d gone bald on top years ago, with only a fringe of light brown hair remaining to encircle his head. He had a lean, almost gaunt face, with light gray eyes and a long, thin nose that dominated his face and nearly obscured his small mouth, one that rarely stretched into a smile. Although somewhat humorless, he was known for being devout, hard-working, and scrupulously honest.
The vote was twenty-two for Jacob, and four for Friar Martin, whose advanced age and general unpopularity worked against him. The friars wished for continuity and chose a younger man to fill their beloved prior’s sabots. Jacob had been overcome with gratitude at being chosen and vowed to himself to be the best prior Greyfriars had ever had. He instantly regretted this act of vainglory and asked God for forgiveness, spending several hours on his knees as penance for the sin of pride. He wasn’t there to elevate himself, but to serve God and the other friars who relied on him to communicate with the abbot and see to the smooth running of the priory while they dedicated themselves to hard work and prayer.
When Father Avery arrived six weeks ago, Prior Jacob had no qualms about welcoming him to the priory. Father Avery was not a Franciscan, nor was he looking to enter a monastic institution. He needed a place to stay while he enjoyed a period of reflection and recovered from an illness which had left him weakened in body and spirit, or so the prior had been told. Prior Jacob was happy to help, seeing it as his duty to offer hospitality and a place of peace to anyone seeking it. Father Avery was gracious, humble, and surprisingly charismatic, and unwittingly reminded the friars of the prior they’d lost so recently. Father Avery had that type of inherent charm that attracted women andgathered men to his side. He was a natural-born leader, a man who had only to speak to someone to gain their allegiance.
Prior Jacob thought nothing of Father Avery’s presence at first, but after a fortnight, he began to notice the priest’s popularity with the rest of the friars. He wasn’t very well-liked himself, despite his best efforts at being strict but fair. He simply wasn’t the type of man who inspired that type of loyalty. If, for whatever reason, Father Avery decided that he wished to join the order, he would be a rival and a threat, so Prior Jacob decided to find out what he could about the man who could unseat him if he chose to do so. He wrote to a parish priest of his acquaintance who was based near Oxford. The letter that arrived yesterday had been something of a surprise.
Living in near seclusion, Prior Jacob had little contact with the outside world. He left the priory rarely, going only to meet with the abbot and to occasionally buy supplies that the friars couldn’t produce themselves. The priory did not have a fishpond or a mill, so Prior Jacob purchased barrels of fish and sacks of flour, as well as beer for the men to drink. He kept the transactions as impersonal as possible, refraining from indulging in gossip or idle curiosity. Perhaps now he would be more open to hearing the latest news, given what he’d learned. As prior, he had a responsibility to his men, and in his self-imposed ignorance, he’d exposed them to a heretic and a radical. Father Roan wrote:
Dear Prior Jacob,
I’m glad that you came to me with your concerns, as they are, indeed, valid. Father Avery is well-known to me, as is his good friend and colleague John Wycliffe. As you might not be familiar with the name, allow me to warn you about this very dangerous man. He’s a graduate of Merton College here in Oxford and a seminary professor, as was Father Avery before he was sent away.John Wycliffe is, in my opinion, a heretic who should be excommunicated and exiled, but he is under the protection of those who tend to agree with his ill-conceived views. He has many followers, who call themselves the Lollards.
Wycliffe speaks openly of reforming the Church and wages a war against the ideals that have sustained us for centuries. He has dared to openly criticize the sacraments and rituals synonymous with our faith, and even went so far as to question the existence of the papacy. One of his greatest follies, however, is the notion that the common man should be privy to the word of God. It’s said that he has begun working on a translation of the gospels into the vernacular and means to translate the New Testament with the express purpose of making it accessible to the masses.
Father Avery has expressed similar opinions to several of his students and has been suspended from teaching for a period of one year. It is your duty as a man of God to help him see sense and prevent him at all cost from spreading his vile influence to the holy men entrusted to you. Maintain your vigilance where this man is concerned.
Your brother in God,
Father Roan
Prior Jacob pinched the bridge of his nose, as he was prone to do when deep in thought. He liked Father Avery and believed him to be a trustworthy and learned man, but this changed everything. It was Prior Jacob’s duty to protect his men and the community of Dunwich from this heretic. He would keep an eye on his movements and report anything untoward to the abbot, who would be of a similar mind on the matter. In the meantime, Prior Jacob would do nothing to alert Father Avery to his investigation.If anything, he would cultivate his goodwill by granting his request of taking on a young boy of his acquaintance as an apprentice scribe. They did not need another scribe, but the boy, who was surprisingly literate, could mix pigments for ink, sharpen quills, and assist the scribes in any other way they required. At the very least, the child would be removed from the influence of the man who had the power to damn his soul.
THIRTY-FOUR
Petra’s feet barely touched the ground as she made her way to Lady Blythe’s house the morning after her encounter with Avery. She didn’t know what the future held, or if there would ever be another opportunity for them to come together, but over the years, she’d learned to take a moment of happiness and make it last, since they didn’t come around often. She’d committed a sin, again, but all she felt was an all-encompassing joy and a sense of being alive such as she hadn’t felt in years. Her body was still aflame, her hunger for love awakened with a start after years of being suppressed and ignored.
Petra hung her cloak on a peg by the door and walked to the kitchen to check on her mistress’s breakfast. Nan was hard at work, having been up for hours. She slept on a narrow cot in an alcove behind the kitchen and rose well before dawn to get the fire going, bake fresh bread, and get a start on the day’s chores. She looked harassed as always, her hair escaping from her linen hood and clinging to her sweaty brow. This was laundry day, which was a monthly ordeal that took most of the day. Doing the laundry left Nan shaking with fatigue, the muscles in her arms and legs aching and sore by the time she finally fell into bed. It wasn’t a job for one person, but Lady Blythe, always intent on economy, was too tight-fisted to hire an additional servant, and Thomas, being a man, was oblivious to what was expected of the poor girl.
“The bread’s nearly done,” she huffed as she stepped away from the hearth. “And there’s hot broth if you’d like a cup before waking Lady Blythe.”
“Thank you, a cup of broth would be most welcome. Is Lord Devon in?” Petra asked carefully.
“Oh, aye. He’s still abed. Came in just before dawn. Drunk he was, and disorderly,” Nan complained. “Scared me half to death when he stumbled into the kitchen by mistake. Then he took a piss into one of the pots,” Nan added with distaste.
“Does he come in in that state often?” Petra asked, realizing how little she actually knew about Thomas. Cyril didn’t drink himself into a stupor often, but when he did, it didn’t bode well for Petra or the children. Drink mellowed some men, and awakened a rage in others, provoking them to violence against those who were to hand and had no means of defending themselves.
“No,” Nan replied as she poured Petra a cup of broth. “He’s a good man, Lord Thomas. Kind. I think he’s just lonely, and last night he’d had a blazing quarrel with her ladyship. He really put her in her place; I’ll tell you that. Told her to mind her own business, or he’d send her to a nunnery. Imagine, Lady Blythe in a nunnery.” Nan giggled. “Now, that’s a sight I wouldn’t mind seeing.”
“What did they argue about?”
“How should I know? Not like I was listening at doors, was I?” Nan retorted, suddenly defensive. “And no refreshments were called for,” she added sarcastically. “Now, get on with you. I have things to do.”
“Is there any hot water for me to take up to her ladyship?”
Nan nodded, her mind already on something else. She was as easily distracted as a child, her mind flitting from one thing to the next. Petra took a sip of her broth and mentally reprimandedherself. Nan was a child. She was only thirteen, hardly older than Elia, and already forced to make her way in the world. She was an orphan and had little chance of a respectable marriage since there’d be no one to provide her with a dowry, unless Lady Blythe decided to be charitable, which was unlikely.
“I’ll come and give you a hand with the laundry while her ladyship naps,” Petra promised, glad to see a hint of a smile. The poor girl really was overworked and underpaid, since all she got was a roof over her head and her meals. She wouldn’t earn a wage until she was older and considered to be properly trained.
“I would be most grateful,” Nan replied as she began to carefully extract the hot loaves from the oven niche in the hearth. They looked perfect, which didn’t happen often. Usually, Nan got distracted and burned the bread a little, invoking the wrath of her employer.
Petra finished her broth, poured some hot water into a pitcher, and headed upstairs to wake Lady Blythe. The old woman was already awake, sitting up in bed, propped up by several pillows. Her gray hair hung in two limp plates, and there was noticeable puffiness beneath her eyes, a testament to a night spent tossing and turning.
