Story : Marcus and the manor
From Ars Magica
Contents |
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.
"Watch your tunic, Auld Pagan," said Marcus, "You'll be standing before God and hearing Mass soon. Me for a crust of bread, though."
"Who are you calling a pagan?" Diarmait demanded in mock indignation, playing along with Marcus' teasing. He continued on in Gaelic, "Anyway, I'll try not to show you up." He sketched a rough salute and wandered over to the pig chasing antics.
"You OK?" he asked them, showing off his basic English. There followed a bit of giggling, some gestures and pigeon communication, then some serious pig herding got underway.
Breakfast with the Priest
Marcus shook his head at his uncle's antics, then went to the door. He knocked gently, "Good morning, Father, God be with you. Is all well?" Marcus entered and sat near the priest as he had done every morning since his arrival, and also as he had done each morning he broke a chunk of bread, said a quick prayer and began to nibble on it as he awaited a response.
The old priest finished reading the parchment sheef, rolled it up, and looked up at Marcus. "I am fine, and the fine weather seems to have distracted the flock from their worries, for you are my first visitor this morning. How are you today, Marcus?"
"Hodie valeo, Pater, replied Marcus.
He pushed the jug toward Marcus as he spoke. It was filled with water from the springs on the Mynd, and quite potable.
"We don't have long before the service will begin," the priest said, carefully bracing his hand upon the table as he rose from the bench, "today I was wondering whether you would help with some of the chants. I confess, my voice is not as strong as it once was, and I am sure the congregation would like to hear you sing."
He reached up, and took a box from a shelf, from within which he retrieved a much used bible. While he listened to Marcus he thumbed through it, looking for the day's reading.
"I would be honoured Father," said Marcus. "Music is one of the great joys in my life, and to sing in praise of our Lord is a blessing indeed."
The Church of Saint Laurence
Most of the faithful had already sought their places in the church when Marcus and the Priest entered, amidst a flurry of greetings. Considering that none present had a seat to sit upon, the congregation was stood in an orderly fashion, and the priest picked his way amongst them, pausing to share a greeting or friendly word as he went.
As he reached the pulpit, Marcus saw that the Bailiff was waiting for the priest. They exchanged some friendly words, and the bailiff gestured about the room. Following the gestures, Marcus could see that a number of the bailiff's men were positioned against the rear wall of the church. Looking back again, he realised that the priest was beckoning for him to join them.
Marcus bustled forward, mind busy. "Interesting. The men are arranged almost as if they expect someone to flee -- or to bar someone entrance. Are they expecting a felon to seek sanctuary, I wonder?" He took his place near the priest and put it from his mind. God and the music awaited.
Diarmait slipped in at the back of the Church having spotted Marcus and the Father heading over. He had finished up helping with the pigs and had brushed himself down and made an attempt to tidy his hair up before following in. He positioned himself at the back and prepared himself for not understanding a word. He was used to that though and it seemed to be what Church was all about. The main thing was to attend though and think holy thoughts, he supposed.
He could see the priest introducing Marcus to the bailiff, deacon, and sundry other people as they waited for the last of the congregation to arrive. Once all were in position the service began, and Diarmait stood upright, and did his best to appear attentive and devout as he stood amidst the villagers.
The Apostate
Warren slipped into the Church of Saint Laurence within moments of the man he'd seen the other night at the Inn...Diarmait. He remembered him being a cheerful, fun-loving sort. Though Warren could get away with no necessarily attending services back in London, he'd learned over the last few weeks that the smaller settlements did not take kindly to those that did not attend the services. As had become his habit, he was attending here as well. He'd planned to stand near the back as he would normally do, but nearly fled when he began to recognize the some of the men arrayed against the wall as the Bailiff's men, men he'd avoided like the plague the night before. In the Church of Saint Laurence, though, there was little else he could do. He politely moved towards the middle of the crowd, making an effort to pick out the more influential members of the community as he moved. He couldn't see if the Castilian was in attendance, but Warren knew it wouldn't hurt to pick him out if he could. Over all, he tried to simply blend in, hoping that the bailiff's presence was not related in any way to his meeting with the old poacher the night before.
The Service begins
After begging forgiveness for his absence, the bailiff walked through the congregation to the crowd, much like Moses unto the Red Sea. The peasants hastily parted, forcefully dragging the odd child whose attention lay elsewhere. Several of his men moved from the wall, and opened the door for their lord, and for a moment, bright sunshine spilled through into the gloomy interior, only to disappear with a heavy thud.
The service proceeded much as Marcus had seen in other churches in the area, and was amused by the exetent to which the local priest's personality and manner came across during the readings. His latin pronunciation was passable, but carried with a slow and ponderous rhythm that lulled the mind.
It was a little over half an hour after the service had started when Marcus noticed that a number of the congregation were looking a little distracted. He tried to put it out of his mind, but a few minutes later, there were more surprised faces and whispering.
The priest called for silence, and quickly, a hush fell over the room. Before he could inquire as to what could be so interesting that it was worth imperilling their immortal souls for, the doors of the church opened again, and there was a collective gasp and much craning of heads from those at the rear. Diarmait nearly choked and Warren's eyes went wide when they saw a bishop and two knights enter the room. The knights remained by the door, kneeling and crossing themselves before finding a place against the side wall.
The bishop walked slowly up the side of the church, as if the length of the pause in the service on his account was another sign of his power and influence in the area. At length, he retired behind a fretted wooden screen that blocked the view of the area the Castellan sat, and the service resumed. The priest threw himself into conducting the service with a stern viguour; evidently keen to impress his visitor.
"Interesting," thought Marcus. "I must speak to the Bishop when Mass is over." He returned his attention to the Mass, and in idle moments scanned the crowd identifying those people he would want to speak to later.
During the quiet parts of the service that followed, there were times when he thought he could hear the bishop holding a slightly raised conversation beyond the fretwork. Presumably, the castellan, his lady, and the bailiff sat beyond the screen, now accompanied by the bishop.
The rest of the service passed uncomfortably. The priest was ill at ease with having a Bishop observe his service, and moreso by the mutterings that drifted from where he sat. The congregation didn't know what to make of events, and a whispering arose whenever the priests attention was elsewhere, as they debated what might have happened.
As he was helping the priest to officiate, there was little Marcus could do until the Mass was completed. So he reviewed, [probably requiring some rolls] Stretton was in ... which Bishopric, which meant the Bishop had come down from where ... and who was the bishop and what did Marcus know of him?
The bloated importance of the place meant that Church Stretton lay within the District of Church Stretton, one of the seven archdeaconries of the Diocese of Hereford, judging by the crest on one tapestries that hung near the alter.
The service ended, as it normally would, and Marcus waited patiently for the Lord and his entourage to rise and leave first. The congregation waited quietly; looking intently at the screen to see the Lord as he arose and hopefully garner some clue as to the events unfolding. Instead they heard a continued hushed debate. After nearly a full minute, the castellan arose, and walked to the front of the Chancel. He stood before the congregation, and raised his voice up, in English with heavy Norman accent.
"We are fortunate today, to have recieved the favour of his Most Illustrious and Most Reverend Lord Nantoka, who bids that the faithful herewithin tarry a little longer while he delivers a reading he has chosen for us.
The bishop arose in a stately manner, and climbed the steps of the pulpit, carrying his personal bible. Opening it to a page marked with a large strip of purple cloth, he waved his hands, and the two knights who accompanied him approached the front of the congregation, and divested themselves of arms.
What followed was a reading by the Bishop on temptation and The Devil. The priest stood at the foot of the pulpit, and gave short, loose translations of the bishop's words in English, and the two knights acted out the roles of a simple play. As Marcus listened to the bishop's words, it seemed to him that this was a heavily modified section of the bible at best, rewritten in the form of a play. Presented in latin, it sounded to the congregation like the whole word of god.
The message of the play was simple, and clearly portrayed; the devil takes many forms, and seeks to parlay with tempting promises and kind words, and the devout person stands firm (and in this case drives their sword firmly through the demon), whilst the sinner succumbs and suffers the torments of demons for all eternity.
As the play came to a close, a commotion arose at the end of the room. The priest left the front of the church, and went to investigate the cause of the fuss. A women was arguing with the bailiff's men, and evidently being barred from leaving.
