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That afternoon, as Peter read with me, an elderly monk arrived. He was white-haired but not yet frail, with stern features and a gentle smile. The blue of his eyes was flecked with gold – he had some Heathen blood in his Christian veins. He wore a mantle of white cloth over his shoulders.
Peter jumped up, then knelt. "Bless me, my Lord Abbot."
The abbot laid his hand on Peter’s hair and said quietly, "Go in peace, my child. See if the cooks could use a hand with the supper."
Peter rose and left quickly, not looking back.
The abbot settled himself in the chair. He picked up the cup Peter had brought me, sniffed it, and smiled. "Brother Peter’s favorite remedy for all ills. He is not made to be a monk, that child – even if he could take vows. But no one else will have him."
A feeling I knew all to well.
"But I have come to speak not of his troubles, but of you. I am Father Alfred, the guardian of these sheep, and I have been told that you are Gerard. Is that true?"
I nodded.
"Did you enjoy your book?"
I lifted my hands. "I found the stories most entertaining."
He leaned forward with a smile, looking a bit like a cat who has found a mouse. "Why don’t you use your voice? You know that our order does not prevent us from speaking in places such as this."
I signed back, honestly, "I have a problem with my throat."
"Brother Peter mentioned that – but you’ve rested for several days. Surely your voice must be better – and it is obviously not too sore to eat or drink." He shifted forward, the cat having glimpsed the mouse’s ears.
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