March 1347
Dunwich, Suffolk
Edwin tied the strings of the apron behind his back and took a seat at the wooden table. The room was quiet, only the scratching of quills on vellum puncturing the silence as the four scribes worked, completely absorbed in their task, their heads bent over the manuscripts. One holy text was nearly finished. Friar Anselm was just putting the finishing touches on the colorful borders framing the pages before pronouncing the book complete. The manuscript was a thing of beauty, a document privately commissioned by an earl as a gift for his devout wife, who would value such a treasure above any material possession.
Friar William explained to Edwin that some of the manuscripts were copied for the priory library, but the lion’s share of the scribes’ work was for commercial purposes. The illuminated manuscripts were put on display by wealthy nobles, not only to showcase their devotion to God, but to flaunt their wealth and status, since the manuscripts cost a fortune to commission and could be purchased only by those for whom money was no object. They were a symbol of wealth and power, and a testament to the piety of the owner. Or an expression of love, as was clearly the case with the earl. The texts created by the friars of Greyfriars Priory were highly valued and sought out by many, which meant that the priory was never short of orders.
Edwin reached for a covered stoneware bowl in which gallnuts had been soaking in white vinegar for several days. The concoction had been left by the fire to facilitate the necessary reaction, but now Friar William pronounced the gallnuts to be ready. Edwin lifted the lid and instantly drew back. The evil smell made his eyes water, but it quickly evaporated once left open to the air. Today, Edwin would stir in the copperas and then add a bit of ground gum Arabic to thicken the ink to the proper consistency, just as Friar William taught him to do. He had to be sure not to add too much gum, or the ink would be unusable, and Friar William would be cross with him. Edwin loved to watch as the light-brown liquid began to change to black and thicken before his very eyes, forming the ink that looked so bold and bright upon the page.
Edwin motioned to Friar William, who came over and tested out the ink on a piece of vellum before nodding his approval. Edwin’s chest swelled with pride. This was the first batch of ink he’d made all by himself. His handiwork would live on for centuries once it was used by the scribes. Edwin left the bowl on the worktable and went to collect the inkwells used by the scribes. They would take a short break from their labors while he refilled the pots. The friars stood up from their desks, grateful for a few minutes’ respite. Friar William went to answer a call of nature, while Friar Anselm stretched his back and shook out his hands.
“The cramping is worse when it’s cold,” he complained, splaying his fingers and then opening and closing his hands.
“You’re just getting old, Anselm,” Friar Gregory replied.
“Indeed, I am, but I thank the Lord for every day he grants me, cramp or not. He has seen fit to ease the headache I’ve been suffering from these three days.”
The friars nodded their agreement. “Praise Him.”
“Praise Him,” Edwin mumbled, feeling a little self-conscious. The friars spoke of God as if he was always there, completely aware of every word, gesture, and complaint. Perhaps they found the thought comforting, but Edwin found it frightening. He didn’t want God to watch him or be privy to his thoughts. But surely, he had better things to do than examine the actions of one boy, especially one as insignificant as himself. Friar William returned, and the friars resumed their seats, their eyes on Edwin as he carefully filled each inkwell and carried it to the work station of each scribe, setting it in the proper place. The friars thanked him and returned to their work, break over. Edwin filled the last pot and carried it to the station of Friar Gregory. He’d filled the inkwell a little too high, and the ink reached almost to the very top. Edwin considered taking the pot back and pouring a bit off, but it seemed unnecessary, so he proceeded to set the inkwell on the desk. He wasn’t sure what caused the tremor in his hand, perhaps it was nervousness, but the inkwell toppled and spilled its contents all over the manuscript Friar Gregory had been working on, black splotches covering the open pages, dripping down the rest of the manuscript, and soaking into the vellum.
“You clumsy oaf!” Friar Gregory screamed. “Look what you’ve done. Get out, you imbecile. I told Friar William not to allow you near the manuscripts. This is months of work ruined by an ignorant clod like you.”
Edwin’s heart began to pound, making him short of breath. His normally-pale face flamed with shame, the heat spreading from the cheeks to his neck and beyond. He gasped for breath, but his lungs failed to fill with air, deflating like the sails of a ship on a too-calm sea. It was all his fault. He’d been clumsy and careless. He ruined everything. Edwin’s hands shook violently as he backed away from the desk, his eyes glued to the black puddles soaking the pages and swallowing the words and images so painstakingly produced by Friar Gregory. The ink dripped to the floor, droplets plopping down on flagstone tiles like black tears.
Edwin fought to stave off the familiar blackness that began to descend on him. Please, no! he cried inwardly during the few seconds of awareness he had left before it swallowed him up and he hit the stone floor with a sickening thud, his muscles convulsing and making his limbs jerk uncontrollably. There was a roaring in his ears, and he felt a stab of pain as he bit his tongue. He could no longer see or hear anything besides the blood rushing through his veins. The pain would come later, once he returned to normal, but during the fit all was jumbled, dark, and otherworldly. That was what the moments before death must be like, Edwin thought after every episode. All he could recall was fear, and a sense of not being tethered to this world, his soul torn apart from his body as it fought to return. Someday it wouldn’t, and then the blackness would have won.
Edwin gasped for air as his senses began to return to normal. The left side of his face was covered with foaming spit, and his left shoulder hurt dreadfully, having taken the brunt of his weight when he fell. Edwin experimentally moved his arms and legs, praying that he hadn’t broken anything this time. He’d broken bones before, when he was a small child. He supposed his bones were stronger and not as easily splintered now that he was almost an adult, but the danger was always there. Edwin wished he could keep his eyes closed forever, terrified of what the brothers’ reaction would be when he fully came to.
“Edwin, are you all right, son?” Friar William asked as he bent over Edwin’s prone form on the floor. He laid a cool hand on his forehead. “Get me a damp cloth,” he said to someone.
“I’m not going near him,” Friar Gregory replied. His voice sounded strangled, as if he were terrified. “He’s possessed by the devil.”
Edwin opened his eyes just in time to see Friar Anselm genuflecting three times in a row. “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour,” Father Anselm mumbled and was joined by Friar Gregory. “Lest Satan should get an advantage of us: for we are not ignorant of his devices,” they chanted.
Friar William used the damp cloth Friar Owen had handed to him to clean Edwin’s face. “Sit up slowly,” he said, his voice kind as he slid an arm beneath Edwin’s shoulders to help him up.
“Don’t touch him, brother,” Friar Gregory warned. “Not if you value your immortal soul.”
“I fear Satan as much as you do, Friar Gregory, but I don’t see him here. All I see is a frightened boy who was momentarily unwell. Now, get back to your manuscripts and stop spewing nonsense.”
Edwin was surprised to see that the friars seemed duly chastised. They crossed themselves again before returning to their work, but their gazes followed Edwin’s progress as Friar William helped him to his feet and settled him on a bench where he could lean against the wall. Friar Owen held a cup of ale to Edwin’s lips. “Here, have some. It will make you feel stronger. Does that happen often?” Owen asked once Edwin finished the ale.
“No,” Edwin lied. “I was overcome with remorse,” he added.
“It’s all right, son,” Friar William said. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened. It was an accident. Are you well enough to return to work or would you prefer to rest awhile?”
“I will return to work,” Edwin said, although he felt as if all strength had been sapped from his body. His legs felt as soft as jelly, and his head seemed to weigh ten stone, his thinking still muddled. He would have given anything to lie down for a short while in one of the brother’s cells, until he felt well enough to resume work, but he was afraid to admit that he was still unwell. Friar Gregory and Friar Anselm were still watching him, their eyes narrowed with speculation and suspicion.
“All right then. You’ll feel much improved after dinner,” Friar William said. “It’s only an hour till Sext.”
Edwin nodded. He didn’t object to joining the monks in midday prayer. Their singing and chanting made Edwin feel at peace, his soul instinctively recognizing something that his conscious mind didn’t, but today, he wished only to be excused. The friars would be keeping an eye on him, waiting for him to confirm their worst suspicions.
Edwin suddenly sat up straighter. He’d been experiencing these fits since he was a babe-in-arms, but he never thought that they were a manifestation of the devil, but what if the friars were right? Surely, they knew more about the ways of good and evil than his mother and grandmother did. Perhaps that was why they tried so hard to keep Edwin safe. Did they believe that he was possessed? Edwin stared into the bowl of ink, his thoughts as black as the substance he’d made. What would become of him? Was he beyond redemption? Perhaps he should speak with Father Avery. He was a man of God after all, a priest. He would know what to do.
Edwin felt marginally better by the time he accompanied the friars to the chapel. Friar Gregory and Friar Anselm kept well behind, but Friar William put a reassuring hand on Edwin’s shoulder, silently offering his protection. Friar Owen walked behind Edwin, like a vanguard. Edwin smiled in relief when he saw the kind face of Father Avery, whose smile quickly faded as he read the signs of distress coming from Friar Gregory and Friar Anselm. He noted the defiant set of Friar William’s shoulders and Friar Owen’s silent show of support.
“Is all well?” Father Avery asked as he looked from one face to the next.
“Yes,” Friar William replied before the others could comment. “Edwin felt unwell, but he’s since recovered.”
“Edwin, would you like me to accompany you home?” Father Avery asked, his brows furrowing with concern. “You can rest in my cell while I’m at Sext, and then I’ll walk with you.”
“Thank you, Father Avery, but I’m quite all right. I look forward to joining you for Sext,” Edwin replied.
Father Avery looked unconvinced, but didn’t argue. He simply turned and walked into the chapel where the majority of the monks were already assembled. Edwin stood at the back, glad to have the brothers’ focus shift to the service. He closed his eyes and prayed fervently that the fits would stop so that he could reclaim his soul from the devil. It couldn’t be too late; it simply couldn’t. Surely, he would know if all was lost. Or would he?