The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [69]
“Ah, yes.” Philip had forgotten about that, so much had happened since he arrived. “It’s made of milk from the morning milking only—you’ll find it tastes subtly different.”
“My mouth is watering already. But you look glum. Is something wrong?”
“It’s nothing. I had harsh words with Andrew.” Philip made a deprecatory gesture, as if to wave Andrew away. “May I take a hot stone from your fire?”
“Of course.”
There were always several stones in the kitchen fires, ready to be taken out and used for rapid heating of small amounts of water or soup. Philip explained: “Brother Paul, on the bridge, has a chilblain, and Remigius won’t give him a fire.” He picked up a pair of long-handled tongs and removed a hot stone from the hearth.
Milius opened a cupboard and took out a piece of old leather that had once been some kind of apron. “Here—wrap it in this.”
“Thanks.” Philip put the hot stone in the middle of the leather and picked up the corners gingerly.
“Be quick,” Milius said. “Dinner’s ready.”
Philip left the kitchen with a wave. He crossed the kitchen courtyard and headed for the gate. To his left, just inside the west wall, was the mill. A channel had been dug, upstream of the priory, many years ago, to bring water from the river to the millpond. After driving the mill wheel the water ran by an underground channel to the brewery, the kitchen, the fountain in the cloisters where the monks washed their hands before meals, and finally the latrine next to the dormitory, after which it turned south and rejoined the river. One of the early priors had been an intelligent planner.
There was a pile of dirty straw outside the stable, Philip noted: the hands were following his orders and mucking out the stalls. He went out through the gate and walked through the village toward the bridge.
Was it presumptuous of me to reprove young William Beauvis? he asked himself as he passed among the shacks. He thought not, on reflection. In fact it would have been wrong to ignore such a disruption during the service.
He reached the bridge and put his head inside Paul’s little shelter. “Warm your feet on this,” he said, handing over the hot stone wrapped in leather. “When it cools a bit, take the leather off and put your feet directly on the stone. It should last until nightfall.”
Brother Paul was pathetically grateful. He slipped off his sandals and put his feet on the bundle immediately. “I can feel the pain easing already,” he said.
“If you put the stone back in the kitchen fire tonight it will be hot again by morning,” Philip said.
“Brother Milius won’t mind?” Paul said nervously.
“I guarantee it.”
“You’re very good to me, Brother Philip.”
“It’s nothing.” Philip left before Paul’s thanks became embarrassing. It was only a hot stone.
He returned to the priory. He went into the cloisters and washed his hands in the stone basin in the south walk, then entered the refectory. One of the monks was reading aloud at a lectern. Dinner was supposed to be taken in silence, apart from the reading, but the noise of forty-odd monks eating amounted to a constant undertone, and there was also a good deal of whispering despite the rule. Philip slipped into an empty place at one of the long tables. The monk next to him was eating with enormous relish. He caught Philip’s eye and murmured: “Fresh fish today.”
Philip nodded. He had seen it in the kitchen. His stomach rumbled.
The monk said: “We hear you have fresh fish every day at your cell in the forest.” There was envy in his voice.
Philip shook his head. “Every other day we have poultry,” he whispered.
The monk looked even more envious. “Salt fish here, six times a week.”
A servant placed a thick bread trencher in front of Philip, then put on it a fish fragrant with Brother