“I don’t know.” I looked to Brother William. If anybody knew where Norton had gotten to it would be him. Brother William Blundeston was the newcomer, only joining us last year. He was young and goodlooking. He had lost his entire family to the Pestilence. He was Norton’s best friend. Brother Norton felt sorry for him and took him in under his wing. William did not meet my eye. I felt uncomfortable and clammy. What was going on?
“You are excused.” The monks got up at once and cleared their places. There was no chatter. They all went about their work.
The abbey had bee hives for honey, apple, plum, and pear trees for preserves and cider, and a vineyard for wine. We traded with the townsfolk very little and kept to ourselves. We were mostly self-sustainable. Brother Henry fished the brooks for trout, and Brother George set rabbit traps. Brother Gregory kept the chickens, and Brother Michael tended the goats. Tommy helped Brother Mark with the sheep. In all there were only nineteen monks left. The Pestilence had cut our numbers in half, taking young and old alike.
I moved through the Great Gate. St Edmunds dated back to 1020 when the original stone Saxon church was built to house the relics of Saint Edmund, the martyr. He had been king of East Anglia when the Viking hoard invaded. He gifted them a set of fine horses in attempt to spare the land from rape and pillage. They took the horses and hunted him down. When they found him they shot him full of arrows so that he bristled like a hedgehog. Then they cut off his head and threw it into the briars of the oak wood. His ravaged body is the foundation of our original church constructed of blue stone and river rock. The hexagonal Norman tower and limestone hall, the Black Hostry, came later. Abbot Samson had done much to improve the place a couple hundred years ago. That was back when we were still loved and respected. So much had changed.
