The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [68]
The service ended, and the monks began to leave the church in procession. Philip put a finger to his lips to end the conversation. As the monks filed through the south transept, Philip and William joined the line, and went out into the cloisters, the arcaded quadrangle adjacent to the south side of the nave. There the procession broke up. Philip turned toward the kitchen, but his way was barred by the sacrist, who struck an aggressive pose in front of him, with his feet apart and his hands on his hips. “Brother Philip,” he said.
“Brother Andrew,” Philip said, thinking: What’s got into him?
“What do you mean by disrupting the service of high mass?”
Philip was flabbergasted. “Disrupting the service?” he said incredulously. “The lad was misbehaving. He—”
“I am quite capable of dealing with misbehavior in my own services!” said Andrew in a raised voice. The movement of dispersal among the monks was arrested, and they all stayed near to hear what was said.
Philip could not understand the fuss. Young monks and novices occasionally had to be disciplined by their more senior brothers during the services, and there was no rule to say that only the sacrist could do this. Philip said: “But you didn’t see what was happening—”
“Or perhaps I did see, but decided to deal with it later.” Philip was quite sure he had not seen anything. “What did you see, then?” he challenged.
“Don’t you presume to question me!” Andrew shouted. His red face became purplish. “You may be prior of a little cell in the forest, but I have been sacrist here for twelve years, and I will conduct the cathedral services as I think fit—without assistance from outsiders half my age!”
Philip began to think that perhaps he really had done wrong—otherwise why was Andrew so furious? But more important, a quarrel in the cloisters was not an edifying spectacle for the other monks, and it must be brought to an end. Philip swallowed his pride, gritted his teeth, and bowed his head submissively. “I stand corrected, brother, and I humbly beg your pardon,” he said.
Andrew was wound up for a shouting match, and this early withdrawal by his opponent was not satisfying. “Don’t let it happen again, then,” he said ungraciously.
Philip made no reply. Andrew would have to have the last word, so any further remark by Philip would only draw another rejoinder. He stood looking at the floor and biting his tongue, while Andrew glared at him for several moments. At last the sacrist turned on his heel and walked away with his head held high.
The other monks were staring at Philip. It irked him to be humiliated by Andrew, but he had to take it, for a proud monk was a bad monk. Without speaking to anyone else he left the cloisters.
The monks’ domestic quarters were to the south of the cloister square, the dormitory on the southeast corner and the refectory on the southwest. Philip went out to the west, passing through the refectory and emerging once more at the public end of the priory close, within view of the guesthouse and the stables. Here in the southwest corner of the close was the kitchen courtyard, surrounded on three sides by the refectory, the kitchen itself, and the bakehouse and brewery. A cart piled high with turnips stood in the yard waiting to be unloaded. Philip climbed the steps to the kitchen door and went in.
The atmosphere struck him like a blow. The air was hot and heavy with the smell of cooking fish, and there was a raucous din of clattering pans and shouted orders. Three cooks, all red with heat and hurry, were preparing the dinner with the aid of six or seven young kitchen hands. There were two vast fireplaces, one at either end of the room, both blazing fiercely, and at each fireplace twenty or more fish were cooking on a spit turned by a perspiring boy. The smell of the fish made Philip’s mouth water. Whole carrots were being boiled in great iron pots of water which hung over the flames. Two young men stood at a chopping block, cutting yard-long loaves of white bread into thick slices to be used as trenchers—edible plates. Overseeing the apparent chaos