The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [67]
Andrew was reading the service in his usual tone of barely controlled ire. Philip’s mind was in a turmoil, and it was some time before he noticed that the service was not proceeding in a seemly way. A group of younger monks were making a noise, talking and laughing. Philip saw that they were making fun of the old novice-master, who had fallen asleep in his place. The young monks—most of whom had been novices under the old master until quite recently, and probably still smarted from the sting of his switch—were flicking pellets of dirt at him. Each time one hit his face he would jerk and move, but would not wake up. Andrew seemed oblivious to what was going on. Philip looked around for the circuitor, the monk responsible for discipline. He was on the far side of the quire, deep in conversation with another monk, taking no notice of the service or the behavior of the youngsters.
Philip watched a moment longer. He had no patience for this kind of thing at the best of times. One of the monks seemed to be a ringleader, a good-looking lad of about twenty-one years with an impish grin. Philip saw him dip the end of his eating knife into the top of a burning candle and flick melted grease at the novice-master’s bald pate. As the hot fat landed on his scalp the old monk woke up with a yelp, and the youngsters dissolved in laughter.
With a sigh, Philip left his place. He approached the lad from behind, took him by the ear and ungently hauled him out of the quire and into the south transept. Andrew looked up from the service book and frowned at Philip as they went: he had not seen any of the commotion.
When they were out of earshot of the other monks, Philip stopped, released the lad’s ear, and said: “Name?”
“William Beauvis.”
“And what devil possessed you during high mass?”
William looked sulky. “I was weary of the service,” he said.
Monks who complained of their lot never got any sympathy from Philip. “Weary?” he said, raising his voice a little. “What have you done today?”
William said defiantly: “Matins and lauds in the middle of the night, prime before breakfast, then terce, chapter mass, study, and now high mass.”
“And have you eaten?”
“I had breakfast.”
“And you expect to have dinner.”
“Yes.”
“Most people your age do backbreaking work in the fields from sunrise to sunset in order to get their breakfast and their dinner—and still they give some of their bread to you! Do you know why they do this?”
“Yes,” said William, shuffling his feet and looking at the ground.
“Go on.”
“They do it because they want the monks to sing the services for them.”
“Correct. Hardworking peasants give you bread and meat and a stone-built dormitory with a fire in winter—and you are so weary that you will not sit still through high mass for them!”
“I’m sorry, Brother.”
Philip looked at William a moment longer. There was no great harm in him. The real fault lay with his superiors, who were lax enough to permit horseplay in the church. Philip said gently: “If services weary you, why did you become a monk?”
“I’m my father’s fifth son.”
Philip nodded. “And no doubt he gave the priory some land on condition we took you?”
“Yes—a farm.”
It was a common story: a man who had a superfluity of sons gave one to God, ensuring that God would not reject the gift by also giving a piece of property sufficient to support the son in monastic poverty. In that way many men who did not have a vocation became disobedient monks.
Philip said: “If you were moved—to a grange, say, or to my little cell of St-John-in-the-Forest, where there is a good deal of work to be done out-of-doors, and rather less time is spent at worship—do you think that might help you to take part in the services in a proper pious manner?”
William’s face lit up. “Yes, Brother, I think it would!”
“I thought so. I’ll see what can be done. But don’t become too excited—you may have to wait until we have a new prior, and ask him to transfer you.”
“Thank you, anyhow!