Brother Benet was coming out of the privy when he spotted the novice, Hamon. Ever since Benet had become a monk and left Hamon as an oblate, he never saw him as much as he wanted. They were best friends, even though sometimes that friendship was a bit rockier than either boy would have liked. They had met at the monastery when Benet was newly eleven and Hamon was eight. Now, at fifteen and thirteen, they had grown up quite a bit. (At least in their minds.)
“Hamon, what are you doing here?” Benet whispered, flicking his fingers. “You aren’t supposed to be at the privy alone.”
“My angel said it was okay,” Hamon lied.
“Oh. Okay.”
“I’ve come to talk to you,” Hamon whispered. “Do you really think we’re going to get the ultramarine?”
“I don’t know,” Benet said truthfully. “I hope so. It was so beautiful, Hamon. It was the most beautiful blue you’ve ever seen in your entire life.”
“So the colour of your eyes?” Hamon blushed.
“No, it’s much more blue than my eyes,” Benet replied. He had seen his own eyes in Brother Theobald’s mirror and everyone had always said he had his father’s eyes and those were the same color as the sky. They weren’t the most beautiful blue in the world. Besides, thinking that wouldn’t be very humble either. And a monk must always be humble. “It’s a deep blue. Like–like the sky just after the sun has set. It’s so blue it hurts. It’s–it’s like seeing God in real life. You can’t look away but you shouldn’t look at it. It’s dark but also bright and–and–and Hamon, it’s so pretty! Hamon, can you please pray to your angel that we get the blue?”
Hamon was a bit disappointed his flirting went completely over Benet’s head. He wasn’t particularly surprised either. Benet was oblivious to so many things.
“Yeah, I can pray to It,” Hamon sighed.
“Oh thank you!” Benet went to hug Hamon but stopped. It wasn’t proper for a monk to touch a novice. It wasn’t even proper for them to be talking alone. Benet took a few steps back.
“You can hug me if you want,” Hamon said.
“No,” Benet said firmly. “It would not be appropriate.”
Hamon was tempted to say that he wouldn’t pray to his angel if Benet didn’t hug him. But if he did that, Benet would tell a senior monk and he’d get in trouble. Instead, Hamon tucked his hands into the sleeves of his habit.
“Okay,” Hamon sighed. “When I am a monk can we hug then?”
Benet thought for a moment. The older monks hugged all the time even though they weren’t supposed to. But sometimes they hugged during the kiss of peace.
“We can when it’s proper,” Benet said.
Hamon’s heart leapt with joy. He was always tempted to confess his love to Benet, but he knew if he did, Benet would not only reject him but say they couldn’t talk any more.
“Okay,” Hamon tried not to smile. “Why don’t you think we’ll get it?”
“I don’t don’t think we’ll get it. I just don’t know if we will,” Benet flicked his fingers. “I want it, but I don’t want to get excited and then not have it. I want it so bad that I’m afraid it’s a sin. And I’m already in trouble for going with Brother Æthelwine and Brother Wulfric when I wasn’t supposed to.”
“You snuck out?!”
“Not on purpose,” his fingers flicked more rapidly and he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Brother Æthelwine and Brother Wulfric said Abbot Gunter said it was okay that I came with them, but they lied. They said they wanted to show me how to haggle for pigments so I wouldn’t be fooled by merchants when I’m older. I don’t think that was a lie. I didn’t learn much except not to threaten to kill merchants when they don’t give me what I want, but I already knew that anyway. My father is a merchant, sort of. Well, a merchant of people and cloth. But he never taught me anything and I don’t know how to haggle. I don’t really understand why people would lie about the value of their things.”
“It’s so they can make more money.” Hamon already knew Aldus of Romanwood was a cloth merchant and a slaver.
“But that is the sin.”
“Merchants are a bunch of greedy bastards,” Hamon shrugged.
“You shouldn’t swear.”
Hamon rolled his eyes. “They are.”
“But you shouldn’t curse.”
If Benet had been another novice, Hamon would have told them not to tell him what to do. But Benet wasn’t, so he changed the subject.
“Tell me more about this ultramarine. I didn’t get to see it or why it’s so special.”
“Oh, well,” Benet began to flap his hands, “It’s from the east and only comes from one mine–”
The latrine door opened. Brother Finnguine stood in the doorway.
“Hamon! Whit are ye daein’ in here?”
“Pissing?” Hamon offered.
“Brother Benet, whit are ye daein’ in here?”
“We’re talking about the ultramarine.”
Finnguine tsked. “Nae in the latrine yer not. It’s improper. Gae tae bed, both of ye, unless ye haven’t relieved yerselves already.”
“I have,” Benet said.
“Gae wash ye hands and gae to bed,” Finnguine said, waving him off.
“Good night Hamon,” Brother Benet said. “May God bless you and keep you. And you too Brother Finnguine!”
“Aye, same tae ye.”
Benet left. Brother Finnguine looked at Hamon and crossed his arms.
“Nae more sneakin’ out, ye hear?”
“I have to go,” Hamon whined.
Brother Finnguine pointed at a stall door, not really believing Hamon but equally not wanting to clean up any accidents the next morning. Hamon sighed and went into the stall. He wondered when he would be able to talk to Benet again. He prayed it would be some time soon.
In the pantry, Brother Hywel walked around the stores, trying to calculate how much food they would need for the Queen of the Forest’s human slaves, while Brother Godfrith the Sacristan and Brother Hrodberht the Chamberlain watched him with empty baskets in their hands.
“Can they even eat human food anymore?” Brother Hrodberht half whispered.
Brother Godfrith shrugged. “No idea. I assume so.”
“Haven’t you ever met a human enslaved by elves before? You’re from Lundenwic. That’s a big port city.”
“It’s Lundenburg now. And no. I was born in and grew up in a monastery. I hardly ever left it until I came here or if my father had permission to take me to the market to buy spices for the monks and nuns. And you’re from Cantwareburh! You became a monk late! Haven’t you seen humans enslaved by elves?”
“Fair enough,” Brother Hrodberht muttered. “Do you think they like butter?”
“Everyone likes butter. Why wouldn’t they?”
“I don’t know what they eat!”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Brother Christopher,” Brother Godfrith said. “His stupidity has addled your brain.”
“Oh, don’t say that. He’s a good man.”
“He’s only good to you,” Brother Godfrith replied. “He’s an arse to the rest of us.”
“Alright you two,” Brother Hywel said, “Come over here. It’s too late to make pottage for a reasonable time, so they will be given bread, cheese, and ale for tonight. We’ll make more butter tomorrow.” He handed them each a few loaves of bread and some cheese. “Most of the spare bread was given out as alms tonight, so they’ll have to make do with this for now. Let’s go.”
Brother Godfrith and Brother Hrodberht dutifully followed Brother Hywel out of the pantry.
“Do you think they’ll get the lapis lazuli?” Brother Godfrith asked.
Brother Hywel shook his head. “Nah, I’d be surprised if the abbot didn’t lose his temper with Brother Æthelwine’s mother. I wouldn’t worry about having to find a place to store the pigment just yet.”
“Why would he lose his temper?” Brother Hrodberht asked.
“She knows about the demon attack and she knows Brother Æthelwine isn’t pagan anymore. She does not like that. You know how the abbot is about his body and she was needling him and pretending not to. It was a massive waste of time.”
“Poor Abbot Gunter,” Brother Godfrith sighed.
Brother Hywel hummed. “Some time in the next few days make sure to comment on how masculine he is to his face, but don’t be obvious about it, yeah? He’ll figure out I told you what happened and it will be embarrassing for him. He can’t know that we know, for the sake of his fama.”
“Yes Brother,” Brother Godfrith nodded.
“Can do,” Brother Hrodberht said.
“She also wants to see every piece of Brother Æthelwine’s art to make sure it’s appropriate before she donates money.”
“Why would she want to do that?” Brother Hrodberht asked.
“Brother Æthelwine was doodling erotic drawings in his sketchbook in the infirmary and we caught him.”
“Oh well, the scriptorium is fucked then,” Brother Hrodberht said. He was the chamberlain but worked in the scriptorium occasionally when there wasn’t as much laundry as normal. He had seen Brother Æthelwine’s more interesting drawings more than once. But he wasn’t as emotionally invested in the scriptorium as the other monks were.
Brother Hywel nodded. “It’s none of our concern,” he said. “They can do what they like. We just need to focus on our jobs and that is making sure the guests are fed, given proper bedding, and all our valuables stay inside the monastery.”
Brother Godfrith and Brother Hrodberht nodded, each filled with a determination that the rest of the elven visit went smoothly.
In the infirmary, Ælfric sat on the stool near Brother Æthelwine’s bed. The elven monk was sulking about his sketchbook being taken away.
“I’m not sure what you were expecting,” Ælfric said as he slathered a salve on Æthelwine’s back.
“For him not to see it! Or my mother!”
Ælfric hummed, eyeing the door to Brother John’s cell. If Brother John thought Ælfric was distressing the patient, then Ælfric would be a patient too. He’d also be a patient if he allowed Brother Æthelwine to wake Brother Wilbur up. Brother Wilbur was a fool due to an accident in his youth, so he stayed in the infirmary as he could not care for himself.
“It was art! Art I tell you!”
“Hush, you’ll wake Brother John and Brother Wilbur.”
“Sorry,” Æthelwine whispered.
Suddenly the infirmary door slammed open. Brother Wulfric stormed inside.
“You!” He spat, pointing at Brother Æthelwine, his sharp teeth bared. “I should tear you to shreds! You fucked it all up!”
“I did no such thing!”
“How do you even know about this?” Brother Ælfric asked.
“I saw the abbot as he was walking back to his chambers. Or more accurately, I HEARD HIM!”
“Don’t yell at me,” Brother Ælfric said.
“I’LL DO AS I PLEASE!” He turned to Æthelwine and pointed an accusing hairy finger at him. “What filth were you drawing?!”
Brother John’s door flew open. The elderly monk’s normally pale face was red with fury. Brother Wulfric yelped. Brother Ælfric’s face went white.
“What the hell are ye doin’ here?” Brother John’s quiet voice was deadly.
“I’ve come to see your patient?” Brother Wulfric offered, slinking back.
“Nay ye are not,” Brother John slowly stalked towards the werewolf. Brother Wulfric yelped and ran as fast he could out of the infirmary.
Brother John turned on Brother Ælfric and proceeded to let loose a very long string of Gaelic expletives. Brother Ælfric, who had been in training under Brother John since he was practically an oblate, barely spoke any Gaelic. The only Gaelic he did understand were the things Brother John had unintentionally taught him—so the occasional vernacular prayers, how to shit talk the Norse and British, and every swear word known to man. It was surprisingly helpful when Irish missionaries visited the monastery. They loved to shit talk the Norse. Brother John always seemed to enjoy their visits.
But now he was not happy and Brother Ælfric was about to get verbally ripped to shreds. (At least, Brother Ælfric prayed it would only be verbally!)
