Heinrich nodded and glanced at Stefano. “You are wise beyond your years, Frieda, and you humble me. I still have much to learn.” He kissed her on the cheek and walked away.
The season of Advent brought some sadness to the cloister. Old Brother Nectarious was found cold in his bed, but the smile locked upon his face gave the community a bit of peace as they prepared him for burial. Another was quite ill—a young monk who had arrived just two years prior from an abbey in Lombardy. His absence from the chapter was an immediate loss, for he was the only one blessed with a voice pleasing in song. The Rule of Benedict had expressly required readings at meals and singing be done by those so gifted. “Monastics will read and sing, not according to rank, but according to their ability to benefit their hearers.” It was a simple enough rule, and the vacancy left by the young man’s absence was making many a painful moment for the brethren and guests alike!
Though the monks were required to eat in silence (except for the readings), they were happy to invite their guests to a later meal offered for their pleasure. The children had followed the monks’ schedule rather closely—from the fifteenth day of September until the beginning of Lent they ate in the midafternoon. From Lent to Easter they would be eating their main meal in the evening. So for the feast of Christmas, the monks invited their guests to a gracious meal beginning just before the bells of compline.
Seated on long benches along their trestle tables, the children stared open mouthed at the happy presentation the delighted brethren offered. Without a prior, the monks seemed happy to stretch the limits of moderation, if only a little. Heinrich had helped bake loaves of honey-laced rolls—his duties in the bakery had been assigned weeks earlier. To the hurrahs of the company, the man bowed deeply as baskets of his handiwork were passed about.
“And have them try my focaccia!” cried Patroclus. Focaccia was a flatbread topped according to the season. Patroclus had heaped anchovies and boiled mushrooms atop the many loaves, along with slices of fresh olives and chopped garlic. Eager hands reached for it!
The breads were followed by platters of roasted boar meat, still sizzling from the spit, and steaming shellfish. “Something green and something blue!” cried Stefano as he set them before the flying fingers of the children. A plate of bream seasoned with pine nuts was set beside a fricassee of ground almonds, juniper berries, olive oil, and rabbit on a bed of greens.
Frieda and Wil sat together and said little as they stuffed themselves. Wil had long since set the offense of the girl’s rebuke aside, though he had not broached the subject again. They laughed and reached for mead and ale.
“Was it worth the work?” cried Wil to his company.
“Aye!” they shouted. Indeed, for every bite they took they had a memory. Whether threshing or netting fish, shaking olives or crushing them, hunting boar with Brother Risto, or filling the boats with lemons, the children had spent these past ten weeks hard at work. “And what ‘ave you done?” shouted one playfully.
Wil nodded and stood. The room fell quiet. “My brothers and sisters, I am thankful to God for my life and thankful to each of you for helping Him to save it. Frieda has been my faithful nurse, and I owe her much.” He turned an affectionate eye toward the blushing maiden and continued. “My strength is fast returning. None can know how much I wish to climb an olive tree or carry a load of lemons! Soon I will be working by your sides. Until then, I am banished to the monks’ chamber, where I copy Scripture with them.” He held up ink-stained hands and laughed. “Ink, not calluses!”
The room cheered and the lad sat down. He had regained much of his former weight, though he had always been lean. His skin had good color; his eyes were clear. Sharp featured and handsome—his scars not with standing—he inspired all who were near with a certain presence that defied words. His long blond hair and keen blue eyes conveyed a sense of regal disposition and authority. The son of a baker, he seemed more a prince.
Frieda, however, saw things more deeply. She had known the arrogance of his former self, the brooding selfishness that had so offended her. Through their short acquaintance, however, she had noticed the seeds of humility taking root in a heart softened by sorrows. The young man now seemed to be evidencing the presence of true strength and character. She had seen it in small ways: the way he helped the little ones, the way he worked with the monks, the way he touched her hand. She could see a change in his eyes; they had become softer, more apt to reflect the feeling of another’s sadness. All that is, except his father’s.