Story : Marcus and the manor

From Ars Magica

Revision as of 13:51, 5 April 2006

Morning at the Manor

Marcus arose early, with the sun, a habit he had acquired on his various travels. Today it would be important that he be ready to attend mass at nones when most of the important people of the village would attend. He rolled off the pallet on which he had slept and pulled on his robe. First things first; he stepped out to the stable where he found Diarmait and Blathmac. The stableboy was already grooming the pair of mules, speaking to them in that strange language that Marcus had never understood but that the mules seemed to. Diarmait was leaning against the wall watching and greeted Marcus in lilting Gaelic when the magus entered. Marcus smiled and returned the greeting, continuing, "Dress as fine as you can you old pagan, it's to Mass you're going this morning."

"Pagan am I now," said Diarmait with a hint of the laugh which had given him his nickname, "then why am I off to Mass?" But he good naturedly began to look for his good tunic in one of the mule's packs.

"Blathmac, lad," said Marcus, "You must go down to the tavern as soon as you are done here, find Mnemosyne and put yourself at her service. They are going to go up the Mynd and may need your help. I expect they'll want to load some food onto one of the mules and you'll be needed to look after Greyface. Leave Whiskers here with me," Marcus held up a hand, "Whiskers will be fine in my care for a few days, truly he will. And I imagine the mounts of the others are more in need of your ministrations. Finish your brushing and go. If you want to come back for Mass and they can spare you, Diarmait and I will be there."

"Yes, Master Marcus," said Blathmac. "I'll be done here in just a few minutes and then I'll go."

"Good lad. Oh, and stop 'round the kitchen for a crust of bread on your way. I'm off there now. Diarmait?"

"Aye, 'Master Marcus', I'm ready," said the old warrior, now more suitably dressed in his clean tunic. "A crust of bread sounds fine." The two headed toward the priest's kitchen.

The Priest's Kitchen

The stable was built against the high stone wall that created a modest, rectangular bailey. At the southern end sat the manor house, quite an impressive building by anyone's standards, save possibly those of the nobility. Facing it, to the north, was the Church of Saint Laurance, and around the sides were a number of smaller buildings, most of which used the bailey wall for support.

Marcus could have drawn a sketch of this church without ever having seen it, such was the nature of Norman architecture. He made his way across the open yard, skirting a family of pigs that a couple of girls were trying to shoo into an enclosure. The priest's small cottage was tucked away, behind the church, against the north wall. It looked to have two small rooms, one of which was probably his bedroom, and the other could be seen readily, as the front door stood wide open. Within, the priest was reading intently, with a chunk of bread poised and forgotten in one hand and slight frown of concentration upon his brow as he regarded a sheaf of parchment held in the other. On the table before him sat a jug, cup, and a wooden platter bearing most a dark loaf of Muslin bread.

"Will you be wanting me to wait outside, neffy?" Diarmait asked Marcus. He was typically informal when speaking to his sister's son in private - though he usually made the effort to maintain some kind of respect when others were around. It was important to these magician types, he had learned. "If so, I'll go help the gels with the hogs. They are looking like they are needing it." He gave his nephew a wild grin.

[I'd been assuming that we've been enjoying the hospitality of the Church rather than the Manor, if you follow me. But if the Church is this close, is the Priest more or less part of the household? More fo the point, where do we go for breakfast?]

"Watch your tunic, Auld Pagan," said Marcus, "You'll be standing before God and hearing Mass soon. Me for a crust of bread, though."