“What’s that?”
“Chess,” he says, stretching out on the cold floor. “My father carved it for me. Do you know how to play?”
“No. I just know it’s a game of strategy.”
His eyes are already closed. “That’s true,” he says, yawning. “Tomorrow, I’ll teach you about strategy — and deceit.”
I’M NOT VERY GOOD AT CHESS. ALL I LEARN IS THAT PAWNS are like me. They’re small, have little power, and are practically worthless. The queen is the most powerful of all, yet it’s the king who must be caught by checkmate. Knights, bishops, and rooks are strong, although the knights have an awkward way of moving about the board, jerking one way and then the other. I tell Nigel that’s why the Scots were able to steal the prior’s cart of treasures from his clumsy knights.
Nigel laughs and tells me stories of his own. He has many from all the books he has read. Even about battles, like this: Armies have actually catapulted diseased corpses into castles to spread plague and kill the inhabitants! St. Jerome’s bones! Maybe all that reading Nigel does is worth it.
He has also traveled — along Hadrian’s Wall, and into Scotland! He says Hadrian’s Wall is but half a mile from here! There are even Roman stones that were dragged from the wall and used to build this very dormitory.
Nigel claims the Scots are much like us and are certainly not all pagans. I think he may just be saying that to allay my fears. I’m not scared, although I suspect the Scots are precisely the type to catapult diseased corpses into castles.
“The forts along Hadrian’s Wall are most interesting,” Nigel says. “You can even see where the Romans relieved themselves.”
“What?”
“It’s true. I’ve seen the latrine at Housesteads Fort. It looks like the foundation of a chapel, perhaps twelve feet by thirty feet. All along the edges there used to be wooden benches for men to sit, also like a chapel, except that they sat there to relieve themselves.”
“No!” My voice is so loud it echoes.
“Whist!” Nigel says to hush me, although he smiles. “It’s true,” he whispers. “There were slats in the wooden benches for the waste to fall into the giant pit underneath, a pit that was deeper than a man’s height.”
“A huge pit of waste? That piled up in the middle of the fort? What a stench!”
“Nay, that’s the beauty of it: The Romans channeled water from the River Tyne all the way to the fort so that the waste was flushed out!”
“St. Jerome’s bones!”
Nigel’s jaw drops.
“Sorry!” I say quickly. I must remember not to curse inside the priory, although it doesn’t seem to stop the prior. “They had a lot of money, those Romans,” I say, “if they were able to build elaborate relief … chapels.” I start laughing but cover my mouth to stop the noise.
Nigel grins. “I know! They were powerful in mind, body, and spirit.”
And yet, I think to myself, they weren’t able to conquer the Scots.
The bells in the church tower ring — again — calling the brothers to their singing. I had wanted to ask Nigel about the prior.
“I’ll return soon,” Nigel says, “and I’ll give you a tour of the priory.”
“Can’t you skip this time?” He has already been to the chapel once, while I was at breakfast.
Nigel laughs.
“Really,” I say, “you can tell the prior you were chasing me around. He said it was your responsibility to watch me, after all.”
Nigel hovers at the door, stooped over, a slow smile creeping across his face, as we listen to the feet scurrying past on their way to prayers. He doesn’t join them.
I jump up from the stool. “Good! Now we can start the tour!”
Nigel puts a finger to his lips and looks out the tiny window in his door. Finally, he opens it and we slip into the hallway.
When we’re outside, I ask him, “Why does the prior wear a ring on every finger?”
He lowers his head close to my ear so he can speak softly. “The prior has a love of jewels. He’s like a magpie grabbing shiny things for his nest.” Opening the door near the kitchen, he adds, “He likes anything rich — food, wine, gems —”
“But that’s not how a prior should —”
“Whist!” says Nigel, putting a hand on my shoulder as a figure rounds the corner toward us.
The tall figure bows his head as he passes, glowering at me. “Brother Nigel.”
Nigel bows his head, too. “Brother Bernard.”
When the echoes of Brother Bernard’s footsteps are gone, Nigel sighs. “It’s true, I dropped one pitcher of wine — but only one. The prior claims there were several more and I dropped all of them. I have no way to prove otherwise. It’s his word against mine.” He rubs his eyes. “It’s like that with everything. He tells everyone that I’ve miscounted. He thinks me as dim as my eyes.” Nigel rubs his eyes again but his voice is resolute. “I may have poor eyesight but I see more than he thinks. I’m not a fool.”
I swallow hard. I know what it’s like to have weak eyes, and to be thought a fool. It makes me angry for Nigel. “Surely there are others who know the truth. Why don’t you tell anyone?”
We hear the rise of voices chanting from the church as we enter a large room with long tables.
Nigel shuts the door behind us before he speaks again. “Brother Bernard, whom we just passed, is very close to the prior, as are several of the monks here. I don’t know who I can trust.” He picks up the knotted end of his belt, tugging at it as if to undo the knot. “I can only think that there are many of us in that position. We may suspect the prior but we dare not speak about it lest we speak to one of his men.” He grimaces, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “The prior is harsh with his punishment.”
“So I’ve seen.” I tell Nigel about the night before, when the little boy came for food and was sent away. “The kitchen is laden!” I say.
“True, but we have a lot of monks to feed. And the bishop at Durham is demanding more and more from us, as is his right. There are far more monks and parishioners at Durham to provide for than there are here. So chickens, wine, pigs — even gold — disappear fast.” He looks toward the door and around the room as if the walls themselves might have ears. “Also, the prior claims that the villagers are shorting us on their tithes and that I miscount our supplies because of my poor eyesight.”
“He’s lying,” I say again, and this time Nigel does not reprimand me.
He sighs and sits on a wooden bench, putting an elbow on the table and propping his chin in his hand.
I begin to notice the room now that my eyes have adjusted to the light coming through the high, narrow windows. “What is this room?”
“The dining hall,” Nigel says, running his finger along a grain of wood in the table.
I remember the bread and cheese I have for Nigel from my breakfast and put it on the table in front of him. He hesitates and looks back at the door.
“It’s a dining hall, after all,” I say, and he smiles, thanking me for the food, as well as Our Savior, before eating it.
A flicker of color catches my attention and I walk to the far end of the room. What I find there, on a separate table, perpendicular to the others, is a box the size of my hand. It’s pure gold. I’ve never seen anything so bright! In addition, there are large red and green stones on top of it that look like the stained glass in Carlisle Cathedral.
I reach out my hand to touch it.
“No, no, you mustn’t open it!” Nigel says, his mouth full of food.
I draw my hand back. “What’s inside?” I can’t imagine what could be more valuable than the box itself, all gold and jewel-encrusted.
“It’s a reliquary. It contains a fragment of bone from St. Nicholas of Myra. It’s holy.”
“St. Nicholas?” I turn to Nigel. “Isn’t he the patron saint of the poor?”
“Yes.”
I cross my arms. “Well, then, I think he’d rather see the villagers be given food t
han have more jewels added to his reliquary.”
Nigel smiles grimly. “I agree.”
“Why don’t you leave this place?”
“It’s not that easy. I’ve made a commitment. And,” he says, brightening and rising from the bench, “there’s a particular reason I want to stay.”
I follow his tall, willowy form through the cloisters and up the stairs to a room that’s as large as the dining hall, but it has wider windows and feels much brighter. There are lots of tables and benches, too, only they’re small and extend from the outside walls, each set of two tables having a bench, so they form little alcoves, with the windows shedding light on each table. And there are books and scrolls everywhere, on the center table and on many of the smaller desks by the windows.
“This,” says Nigel, “is the library. I hope to be a scribe, despite my eyesight. Now all I do is inventory, and not very well, if you believe the prior.”
“I don’t,” I say quickly.
He smiles. “I use this reading stone to see the letters.” He picks up a rounded lump of glass, sliding it across a manuscript and leaning down to stare at it. I do the same, and see that when you look down through the glass, the letters appear larger.
“It’s hard to scribe like this, however,” he says. “Brother Ignatius got approval to order spectacles for me but the prior claims they were stolen by some village boys.” Nigel shakes his head. “Why would village boys want spectacles? They couldn’t sell them, because people would know immediately that they were stolen, being too expensive for any peasant to buy. They’re sitting on the nose of some knight or his lady.”
I feel my jaw clench. Even Father Fraud is not this bad. How could you take someone’s eyesight away from him? I know what it’s like to have trouble seeing. Especially by the end of the day — or even the beginning of the day if it’s cloudy and gloomy — it’s hard to focus on letters.
In the far corner I see another box with jewels on top. Although it’s only wood, it does have gold corners and is much larger than the one in the dining hall. I point to it. “Another reliquary? Shouldn’t these be in the chapel?”
“We have two in the chapel already,” Nigel says.
I shake my head again.
“I know,” Nigel says sadly, but then he brightens. “I brought you here to show you something special.” He walks to one of the desks by the window and reverently touches a manuscript that lies open. “These are the chronicles that have been kept since 1272, a history of our area. This is what I want to write, not” — he crosses himself — “copy gospels.”
“Why?” I ask him.
“Because it’s real. It’s modern. It’s what’s happening now. I want to write down the events of the day so those in the future can be informed. We’re Augustinian monks. We search for the truth.”
“The truth about what?”
“Well … everything. The truth about life. Look here.” He points to a passage. “Do you know of the event at Windsor two years ago, when the king had hundreds of knights and ladies for a tournament at great expense?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Brother Ignatius didn’t think much of it, so while he reported it, the way in which he reported it — saying a lot of money was spent as is befitting the nobility — leads one to question why such money is spent. Yes, they’re nobles, but must they spend it all on games when so many are sick and hungry?” Still smiling, he says, “I’d like to have that power, the power to make people question.”
I shrug, thinking that a bow and arrow are much more power than mere words. On the desk opposite, I see a manuscript with many pictures, little houses and churches scattered across it. I move around the desk so I can see it more clearly. “What’s this?”
“A map,” Nigel says. He points to a blue squiggly line. “That’s the River Irthing, and this one, east of here, is the North Tyne.”
“And all the little houses, are they towns?”
“Yes, and the large castles indicate cities. The cathedrals are, well” — he laughs — “cathedrals.” He taps a small building with a cross. “That’s us, Lanercost Priory.”
I stare at the priory, looking at the city pictured to the left of it, which is labeled Carlisle, where I came from. I also see Penrith, below Carlisle, and start to appreciate how far I have come.
I point to a funny jagged line, like a row of little square baby teeth with gaps in between them. “What’s this?”
“Why, that’s Hadrian’s Wall.”
“Hadrian’s Wall,” I whisper. I let my eyes drift north of Hadrian’s Wall into Scotland. Unlike the many cities, towns, priories, and cathedrals dotted all over England, Scotland is a virtual wasteland. It has some cities, like Edinburgh and Glasgow, but north of them is much darkness, and north of the darkness lie giant hills many times the size of ours. It’s a mysterious and frightening land. No wonder the Scots are savages.
“Do you know where we’re fighting the Scots now?”
Nigel shakes his head. “War is unpredictable, so who knows? We think King David means to attack Durham Cathedral and then York, so the Scots will be headed south over Hadrian’s Wall, toward Durham. Lanercost Priory could be in their line of fire, but we’re hoping they’ll head in a more easterly direction. Other priories, like Hexham, which are in a more direct line, are in danger.”
He stops and looks at me. “Young Badger … you’re not thinking to follow the battle, are you.” He says it as more of a statement than a question.
“You’d be surprised what a master I am with the bow,” I say proudly. It’s a mistake.
“The battlefield is not the place for a boy,” he says sternly.
He’s like all the others. So I tell him instead the story of going to retrieve Hugh from battle and bring him home. It doesn’t ease his brow much. I think monks, even those who are not quite monks yet, can sniff out a lie at a hundred yards, much like dogs can sniff out meat.
“Would you like us to send a message to your father that you’re well?”
I wrestle with that. If Father knows I’m at Lanercost now, will he be able to figure out where I’ll go next? And track me down? Yet, he’s worried, I know. Then I realize how I can satisfy both of us. “Yes, you may tell him that I’ll continue west to Carlisle to look for Hugh.” In truth, I’ll go the other way, but no one needs to know that, least of all Father. I offer a quick prayer of forgiveness for the lie.
Nigel looks at me askance and I try to distract him. “What’s that desk with the high chair?” I ask, running over to the chair and jumping on it.
“Whist!” he says. “That’s Brother Bernard’s desk, the prior’s right-hand man.”
I grab a scroll, unwind it, and start to read.
“Badger!” he says, alarmed. “You should put that down.” He tries to grab it but I twist away from him, still standing on the chair, and read quickly, fairly spitting out the words. “Accounting of Lanercost Priory by My Lord Prior Osmund!”
Nigel looks at me, stunned. “You read — and very well.” Then he frowns. “An accounting? What is this accounting?”
I shrug, looking at the columns on the page, a long list on the left of food and wine and jewels, a column with numbers, then a column with names, and a column on the right with money amounts. I’m not exactly sure how to read it, so I just call out the first things I see. It’s hard to read because Nigel is bending down over it, squinting at it.
When I read the word Spectacles, and 2 pounds, 10 shillings, we both stop and stare at each other.
“Spectacles,” I repeat. “Your spectacles?”
“Ockham’s razor,” Nigel whispers, staring into the distance.
“Ockham’s razor? What’s that?”
Nigel’s eyes are still wide. “William of Ockham used the theory so much that it is named after him. It states that when confronted with a problem it is wisest to use the simplest explanation unless a more complex explanation proves correct.” He looks at me and speaks faster. “The prior has be
en feeding us a line that the bishop is requiring more, the Scots are stealing our supplies, the villagers are giving less — it’s all lies! He’s simply embezzling, taking the goods and selling them to make money for himself. That’s how he manages to have such finery.”
In the silence, the door to the library bangs open. I don’t know who is more shocked, Prior Osmund or us!
NIGEL LETS GO OF MY ARM AND BOWS TO THE PRIOR. I TRY to bow, but as I’m standing on a chair it’s but an awkward dip, like Bessie when she drinks water from the stream.
Prior Osmund marches over to me and his eyes bulge when he sees the scroll in my hand. Snatching it away, he fairly screams, “Give that to me! Ignorant shepherd! What are you doing with this?”
At first, I don’t know what to say, and I’m struck dumb. Nigel’s words linger in my ears: Ockham’s razor. I decide to use it. The prior thinks I’m a mere shepherd boy so I won’t give him reason to believe anything else. I must keep it simple. I smile eagerly. “I’m reading!”
I see Nigel’s eyes widen behind the prior and his head shaking a vigorous no.
The prior blanches before his face turns a blotchy red. “What?” He says the next words slow and roiling and threatening. “What does it say, boy?”
“It’s a psalm!” I say brightly, and stupidly. “We have them at our village church, too!” I smile, even more brightly and stupidly. “The Lord is my shepherd!”
The prior’s face relaxes into a superior smirk and he clutches the scroll to his chest. “It’s like a psalm, yes. Now run along and do not be touching things you can’t begin to comprehend. And, Brother Nigel?” He scowls and I hold my breath for Nigel. I don’t want him punished again. “You know better than to let vagabonds in here. Don’t let this boy out of your sight!”
Nigel scurries to the side of the prior so he can see him, and bows. “I am deeply sorry, my lord. The boy is exuberant and …” He gives the prior an apologetic smile and shrugs, holding his palms upward in supplication.
The prior cracks a smile and mouths a word to Nigel. I have heard that word so many times, I can read his lips: addlepate.