My wild reading list has inspired a new horror, Hot Blood, based on a true story.
One
May 1, 1361
The morning was warm, and I wondered at the wild hare who bound across the lawn, kicking up pink blossoms. He seemed a couple of months late. No matter, nothing was as it used to be. He was likely just thrilled with living, as we all ought to be. The abbey bells chimed the hour, and I joined the brothers for breakfast.
The porridge was hot, fresh today, and there were plum preserves and fresh mint. After grace Abbot de Brinkeley cleared his throat and tapped his spoon. Where was Brother Norton? It was unlike anybody to miss breakfast, was he ill? Our numbers had dwindled so much that a moment’s lateness instilled worry, ten minutes, panic. Abbot Brinkeley too furrowed his lined brow, which had come to resemble a country map, staring at Norton’s empty place, before beginning.
“The heathen will no doubt be playing the fools today, so keep to the grounds. Stay out of the woods and clear of the meadow. Where is Brother Norton?”
“He wasn’t in his bed,” Brother Eustace said. Unlike many abbeys where the brothers slept in a line, since the Pestilence, we slept two to a room. I shared my room with Brother John de Grafton who was seated to my left and began to down his porridge. We all relished our food and drink a bit more these days, but Brother Grafton had become fat as a friar. The silver tabby, Judas, caught up a moth in his paws and looked to be praying.
“Who let that cat back in here?” Abbot Brinkeley wanted to know. Nobody answered, but we all knew it was Tommy, the little idiot, who loved the cats.
