Edward Marston
The Owls of Gloucester
Prologue
‘Do you want to be beaten again?’ asked Brother Frewine quietly.
‘No, no!’ they cried in unison.
‘Well, that is what will happen if I report this to Brother Paul.
You know what a dim view the Master of the Novices takes of any laxity or disobedience among his charges.’ The monk looked meaningfully at the two boys. ‘You also know how strong an arm Brother Paul has. When someone has once been flogged by him, they rarely wish to invite a second punishment. Yet the two of you seem to be almost imploring a further touch of his rod.’
‘That is not so, Brother Frewine,’ said Kenelm quickly. ‘Please do not report us to Brother Paul. Punish us yourself, if you must, but do not hand us over to our master. He is ruthless. My body ached for a fortnight after his last chastisement. It was vicious.’
‘Brother Paul was only doing his duty.’
‘We will do our duty from now on,’ promised Kenelm, turning to his companion. ‘Is that not so, Elaf?’
‘Yes!’ vowed the other boy.
‘Spare us, Brother Frewine.’
‘We did not mean to offend you,’ said Elaf.
‘It is God who was offended,’ chided the monk, wagging a finger.
‘You fell asleep during choir practice. It is an insult to the Almighty to doze off like that when you are singing His praises.’
Kenelm shrugged. ‘We were tired.’
‘It will not happen again,’ added Elaf in an apologetic whisper.
‘I will make sure of that,’ warned Frewine. ‘If I see so much as a flicker of an eyelid from either of you again, I will drag you out of the church by the scruff of your unworthy necks and hand you over to Brother Paul without mercy. Is that understood?’
The boys paled with fear and nodded meekly.
Brother Frewine did not enjoy scolding them. He was the Precentor at the Abbey of St Peter and, like the novices, a Saxon who had been born and brought up in Gloucester. A kindly old man who inclined to leniency, he had neither the voice nor the manner for stern rebuke. The boys liked him enormously, but that did not stop them from mocking him in private. His round face featured two large, dark-rimmed eyes separated by a small, beak-like nose, giving him an unmistakable resemblance to an owl. The Precentor was well aware that his nickname among the novices was Brother Owl. He bore the title without complaint and liked to think that he had acquired some of the bird’s fabled wisdom. While the muscular Brother Paul imposed his will by means of a birch rod, the owl could only inflict a sharp peck.
‘Are you truly penitent?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, Brother Frewine,’ they chorused.
‘This is not the first time you have earned my disfavour but it had better be the last. Remember the words of the great St Benedict himself. “Listen, my son, to the precepts of your master and hear them in your heart; receive with gladness the charge of a loving master and perform it fully so that by the hard road of obedience, you may return to him from whom you strayed along the easy paths of disobedience.” Yes, it is a hard road you must follow. I know the temptations which beckon you on every side.
But you must ignore them. You must learn obedience.’
Brother Owl delivered a sermon on the virtues of the monastic life and the benefits of true humility. The two boys listened patiently, sensing that this was part of their punishment, and stifling the yawns that would have seen them delivered up to their fearful master. Both were finding life within the enclave too full of constraints. Kenelm was a high-spirited lad with a mischievous nature which had not been entirely curbed by the swing of a birch rod. Elaf, smaller and more tentative, was easily led by his friend, often against his better judgement.
The three of them were standing outside the church in which choir practice had just been supervised by the Precentor. Proud of the high musical standards of the abbey, Brother Frewine worked hard to maintain them. Sleeping novices were not tolerated, especially when, as he suspected, their tiredness was due to the same kind of nocturnal antics which had brought them their earlier beating.
‘You are blessed,’ he told them softly. ‘This abbey is admired and respected throughout the whole realm. It was not always so. When Abbot Wilstan ruled this house, there were only two monks and eight novices here to do God’s work. I should know.
I was one of those two monks.’ He let out a wheeze as ancient memories flooded back. ‘Gloucester Abbey was a sorry place in those days. But now, under the inspired leadership of Abbot Serlo, we have a vigorous community with almost fifty monks to follow true Benedictine traditions. You are very fortunate to be part of this community. Show me that you appreciate your good fortune.’
‘We will, Brother Frewine,’ said Kenelm solemnly.
‘We know that we are blessed,’ murmured Elaf.
‘Remind yourselves of that while you fast for the rest of the day. That is the punishment I order. If your eyes cannot stay open, your bellies will remain unfed.’ He saw them wince. ‘Now go back into the church and kneel in prayer until you hear the bell for Sext. Give thanks to God that He has chosen you to do His work on this earth. Commit yourselves to Him and beg His forgiveness for your shameful misbehaviour during choir practice.’
They were about to move off when he detained them with a raised palm. ‘Do not forget Brother Nicholas in your prayers. He has been missing for two days now. Pray earnestly for his safe return.’
The boys nodded and let themselves into the church. Frewine watched them go and smiled. They were twin portraits of obedience. He believed that his sage counsel had brought them both to heel.
As soon as they were alone, however, Kenelm turned apostate.
‘I will not pray for his safe return,’ he said with vehemence.
‘But we must,’ said Elaf. ‘Even though we don’t like him.’
‘Not me. I hate him.’
‘Kenelm!’
‘All the novices do. Pray for him? No, Elaf. I hope that Brother Nicholas never comes back to the abbey!’
The monastic day continued at its steady, unhurried, unvarying pace. Vespers was sung in church, followed by a light supper of bread, baked on the premises, and fruit, picked from the abbey garden. The meal was washed down with a glass of ale.
Kenelm and Elaf were absent from the table, however. Hungry by the time of Vespers, they were famished when the bell for Compline summoned the monks to the last service of the day.
As they shuffled off to the dormitory with the other novices, they were feeling the pangs with great intensity. Elaf gritted his teeth and accepted the discomfort. It was far preferable to a severe flogging by Brother Paul. He lay in the darkness until fatigue finally got the better of him.
But Elaf was not allowed to sleep for long. His arm was tugged.
‘Wake up!’ whispered Kenelm.
‘Go to sleep,’ said the other drowsily.
‘Come on, Elaf. Wake up.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m starving!’
‘Wait until breakfast.’
‘I can’t hold out that long.’
‘You have to, Kenelm.’
‘No I don’t. Neither do you. Follow me.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To find something to eat.’
‘Kenelm!’
‘And you’re coming with me.’
Elaf’s protests were brushed aside and he was more or less dragged from his bed. The other novices were fast asleep, tired out by the rigours of the day and wanting to enjoy as much slumber as they could before they were roused in the early hours of the next morning. Kenelm led his friend along the bare boards of the dormitory, moving furtively in the gloom, one hand on his empty stomach. Elaf followed with the greatest reluctance, wanting food as much as his companion but fearful of the consequences of trying to find it.
They descended the day stairs and slipped out into the cloisters.