The Door in the Wall (3 page)

Because he had something interesting to do and to think about, Robin found the days passing more quickly. He began to recognize sounds as he had done before, and to associate footsteps and differing gaits with the people to whom they belonged. Now and then one of the monks would look in on Robin to give him cheer or to say an Ave, so he knew several of the monks by name, and could tell which of them was passing. Brother Andrew he knew, because he dragged one foot a little. Brother Thomas walked very swiftly: heel and toe, heel and toe, whistling tunelessly under his breath as he went. Brother Paul was a large man, and when he walked through the corridor the thudding of his feet seemed to shake the walls, heavy as they were. Besides, one of his shoes squeaked.

Robin worked steadily at his little boat. He finished the hull on the fourth day of the second week.

“I see this is to be a sailing boat after all, instead of a barge,” said Brother Luke. “It is somewhat awry, with the bow aslant from the stern, but it hath an air, as if it had been battling the storm.”

Brother Luke brought small slender pieces of pine and showed Robin how to smooth them into mast and bowsprit, then found scraps of linen for sails and pieces of yarn for rigging. He even begged a scrap of silk ribbon from a traveler for Robin to use. as a pennant for the masthead. As if the toy boat had belonged to the King’s fleet, Robin thought.

Never before had Robin done anything of the kind for himself. Always one of his father’s retainers had made what toys he had. Once Rolfe had made him a hobbyhorse, and once Elfred the Dane had made him a boat, but it had not seemed so fine as this one. Now, he could hardly wait to begin something else. He would like to carve one of those dwarfs, for example, such as those in the roof bosses in his father’s house. Brother Luke suggested something easier.

“Patience, my son,” he said. “It takes great skill to carve figures like that. Why not make a simple cross? ’Twill be fit to hang over thy cot if ’tis well made and smoothly finished. I’ll find some pieces of wood and will show thee how to begin.” Always while Brother Luke talked he rubbed away at Robin’s legs, then turned him and smoothed his back.

Busy as he was, Brother Luke found time to bring Robin the pieces of wood he had promised.

“These I saved from the pruning of the walnut tree that stands by the well,” he said. “It is weathered, for it hath lain in sun and rain these many months.”

“And how shall I fasten the pieces of the cross together?”

asked Robin. “Shall I nail it then? Or how shall it be done?”

“When thou’rt ready for that, Brother Matthew will show thee,” answered the friar. “Now make it smooth and fine, and have it well proportioned, for it will be a keepsake and not a toy like the little boat. That I leave to thy judgment, for ’tis part of the joy in making things.”

Each day the pieces of the cross grew smoother and better shaped, for Brother Luke would examine them and show how they were too wide here or too uneven there.

Each day, too, Robin grew stronger, and could work longer before resting. The knife fitted his hand and obeyed his thought more truly. One or two cuts on his fingers had
taught him caution. Many times Robin held the shorter piece of wood across the longer piece to see how it would look, and would ask, “Isn’t it time now to put them together?”

But each time Brother Luke’s fingers sought out rough places that must be rubbed down with pumice.

Brother Luke was busy all day caring for the sick and the poor. From Vespers until the early bedtime he served his turn in the scriptorium, where all the writing was done.

Once, he had carried Robin to another part of the monastery, and showed him where records of everyday living were written and poems and psalteries copied. Each monk had a small enclosure of his own where he could be quiet to do his work.

Brother Luke set Robin down beside him on the oaken bench in his own particular place, where he could spread out the pages of handwritten manuscript on which he was working. The pages were of sheepskin, called parchment, and were covered with careful lettering and decorations. Gold leaf illumined the capitals and the delicate tracery which bordered the pages. Robin wished he had known how to read what he saw. He wished he could dip the quill into the inkpot and inscribe letters and draw pictures such as Brother Luke had done.

“Will you teach me to write?” asked Robin. “We were taught singing at the Brothers’ School, but I know not writing.

Will you teach me then?”

“Yes, my son, truly I will, when there are not so many people to care for. But come, now, back to thy cot. First, we shall stop to say a prayer in the chapel for thy strengthening.”

He lifted Robin to his back again and started down the corridor.

In some places the passages were so crowded it was difficult to get through without stepping on someone. Old
men and women in pitiful rags sat hunched against the wall or lay upon pallets. Among them went the Brothers of the order, and sisters from the priory near by, cleansing and feeding, dressing and comforting them. Ill-clad children ran about, and a small girl child clung to Brother Luke and begged to be carried.

A boy, not much older than Robin, came hobbling toward them on crutches. He smacked Robin as he passed and saluted him, seeing how Robin’s legs were lame, even as his own.

“Good eve, Brother Crookshanks!” he cried, laughing as if it had been a great joke to be lame. “I see I have good company.”

Robin’s anger rose at the familiarity.

“Keep your filthy hands off me, lout!” he shouted. “Hound’s meat! I am no more crook-shanked than you!” But even as he spoke Robin was considering the crutches, and thinking how convenient they would be for himself. Then he remembered that even yet his legs would not support him for a moment.

Brother Luke scolded the boy, but laughed, too, at Robin’s anger.

“Fie on thee for an impertinent lad! Still, ‘Crookshanks’ he is, truly. His legs will be as good as thine one day, boy, and then he shall keep thee company right enough, on his feet.” He went on toward the chapel, speaking to Robin over his shoulder as they went.

“The lad meant no offense when he called thee ‘Crookshanks,’ Master Robin. Tis but the way we all are named; for some oddity we have, or for where we live, or for what we do. This boy is called Geoffrey Atte-Water, because he lives by the River Fleet and tends the conduit there with his father. He was so called before he limped as he does now.”

“Oh,” said Robin, “I wondered why he is not called Geoffrey Crookshanks. Now I understand.”

Brother Luke went on to speak of other names and how they began.

“Now I was called Chaucer, because my father was a shoemaker, but since I have taken a vow to be a monk, and to serve our Lord wherever I am most needed, I have taken the name of Luke, the physician in the Gospel.”

“And my father is Sir John de Bureford because he came from that place. Is that the way of it?” asked Robin.

“That is the right of it,” agreed the friar. “When Geoffrey called thee ‘Crookshanks,’ he did it because thy legs are thy legs and none others. Richard Smaltrot is he with the short step, and not Richard Crowfoot, whose feet splay out like fans.”

Robin laughed.

They went into the chapel. It was empty, being between times for service.

Brother Luke placed Robin on the stone seat bordering the wall, propping him against the column which rose high to the vaulted roof.

“Say there thy prayers,” he directed, “and in thy mind know thou’rt on thy knees. Forget not to be thankful for all thou hast. Remember thy lady mother and Sir John, thy father, who is at the wars, and pray for us all.”

Then he left Robin and went apart to his own devotions. “But what have I to be thankful for?” Robin thought rebelliously. “How will my father like a son who is called ‘Crookshanks’?” But somehow as he began his prayers he felt better.

A
S
the days grew warmer, the plague abated somewhat. Fewer people came to the hospital for care, and those who had not died became well and went to their homes. The cloisters were once more free of strangers and the corridors cleared of beds and pallets.

Early one bright morning Brother Luke came for Robin, taking him on his back as before.

“See that thy hold is strong,” he said, “for I shall carry thee a good way. ’Tis good exercise for thine arms to make thee hold on, and will be good exercise for me, too, carrying a great lad of ten.”

Robin laughed, because he knew that he was small for his age.

“I have somewhat in mind for thee,” said Brother Luke.

He carried Robin in and out of halls and chambers, kitchen and parlor, cloisters and outer court; through refectory and almonry, stopping, as always, in the chapel to say a prayer.

Then they went to the gardens at the far side of the monastery.

“Here thy whittling will be more at home,” said the friar, settling Robin in a small trundle cart and giving him the pieces of the little cross which was almost finished.

“Brother Michael will welcome thee to his part of
the garden when thou’rt weary of being here. Brother Matthew will look out for thee, and yonder is Brother David, the stone mason. Wilt look after Robin?” he called to the monk in the carpenter shop.

Brother Matthew nodded and left his work to examine what Robin was doing.

“Fret not,” he said. “I see he is one of us.”

“ ’Twill be a cross when ’tis done,” said Robin in greeting, putting the two pieces together to show how they went. “But how to fasten them I know not. Could you tell me?”

“I will, surely,” the monk assured him. “But I have better tools. Come nearer where we can reach them.” He moved the trundle cart close to the workbench, where he found a chisel.

“Now we shall make a half joint, so, and fit it tightly, cutting each piece only halfway through the wood, so the crosspiece will just fit into the upright one.” He showed Robin how to hold the sharp tool and how carefully he must work so that it wouldn’t go through the wood entirely.

“Then,” he explained, “we shall secure it with fish glue, and the dust which comes from using the rubbing stone to polish the wood will fill in the least crack and make all smooth.”

He went back to his work.

Robin, too, went to work. It was exciting to use the sharp chisel. It slid easily into the wood, peeling off the smallest slivers which fell in a pleasant litter around him. Soon the square place appeared where the other piece of wood should fit. For some reason he did not know Robin felt very content. He loved the smell of the wood he was whittling, even the acrid smell of the oak that Brother Matthew was working. He liked the sharp whistle of the plane as it slid over the board, and the ringing sound of the chisel
on stone from the mason’s shed. Even the tiresome call of the cuckoo in the walnut tree was only a pleasant sound of summer. The sky above was like the garment of Our Lady: blue, gold-bordered.

Robin stopped to rest, watching the birds that darted about the garden.

He felt so strong that he was sure he soon would be able to get up and walk. He began to whistle, and set to work again.

For a long time only these homely sounds were heard in the garden close, for the monks did not talk at their work.

Then it happened. The sharp chisel slipped and cut a gash across the longer piece of the cross. It broke.

Away flew the other piece as far as Robin could throw it, and after it went the chisel, narrowly missing Brother Matthew’s head. Robin’s face was drawn into a black cloud of anger, and if he had been able, he would have stormed out of the garden. But he was bound to stay where he was, so he took out his anger in words.

“Treacherous misguided tool!” he shouted. “I’ll have no more of you!”

Brother Matthew looked up in astonishment. “ ’Tis not the tool that is at fault, but thine unskilled hands,” he said quietly.

“If thou’rt to learn to use it, patience and care are better teachers than a bad temper.”

“Think you I am but a carpenter’s son and apprentice?”

But as Brother Matthew kept his steady gaze on Robin, anger evaporated. He covered his eyes with his arms and wished he had been truly a carpenter’s son. Then his father would not have been away at the wars, or his mother in waiting upon the Queen. They would have been at home, and he with them.

“Tomorrow is another day,” comforted Brother Matthew. “Take thy rest for now, and thou wilt do better work next time. Here is Brother Luke coming to care for thee. I shall not tell him how nearly I lost my head.” Brother Matthew’s eyes twinkled as he reassured Robin, who had given him a questioning look.

Later, while the good friar cared for him, rubbing his legs and back, working the muscles of his hands and arms, he said, “I was tired, but now I feel better. You are very kind.”

“I see thou’rt getting stronger. It may be that this rubbing helps thee. How, I know not. I am no physician; I am but a foolish friar. But it may stir up thy blood and make thee more comfortable. God’s good time, His sunshine, and the love that is borne thee are all healing. A bright spirit helps, too, and that thou hast.”

“Today in the garden I felt that soon I should walk,” said Robin. “I must get well before my father returns from the wars.”

“Whether thou’lt walk soon I know not. This I know. We must teach thy hands to be skillful in many ways, and we must teach thy mind to go about whether thy legs will carry thee or no. For reading is another door in the wall, dost understand, my son?”

Robin smiled and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I see now what you mean by the door in the wall.”

“We shall read together. Then there is somewhat of the earth and stars that Brother Hubert can tell thee: how they go in their seasons so that in summer when we rise for the midnight office Orion is here. Yet in winter, at the same hour, he is over there.” Brother Luke stopped rubbing to point in different directions overhead as he went on.

“Some say that the earth extendeth just so far, then
droppeth off into a vast sea. Perhaps it is so, I know not. But if it be so, how come the stars out again in their season? Who knows? Not I. But someday we shall know all.”