Clare-Dragonfly (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
clare_dragonfly) wrote2014-08-18 10:25 pm
clare_dragonfly) wrote2014-08-18 10:25 pm
Entry tags:
Fiction: Lettered
Title: Lettered
World: The Ursulan Cycle
Word count: 1,262
Rating: G
Prompt: Crowdfunding creative jam: "The community of scholars/physicians, while Morgan is in school."
Notes: This is a rather quiet little story. It surprised me; I thought there was going to be a lot more dialogue. But I guess monks don't talk much.
Morgan did not want to go away to school. He hated the idea of being away from his daughter for that long—bad enough he was going to be away from everything else he’d ever known. But his mother insisted he learn to read and write Latin, and his master insisted, and eventually even Lot insisted, and he gave in.
His mother insisted on bringing him to the monastery in her finest carriage. He would have preferred to go alone, or with a servant or two, on ordinary horses, but she would have none of it. So he wasn’t surprised when the other boys, those few who were also studying at the monastery, gave him nasty or appraising looks.
The brothers didn’t seem to care. Of course, some of them had come from wealthy families, too. They had given up a lot to be here. Some others had given up less than nothing; this was the finest home they’d ever known.
And the other boys—well, considering where they were, and what the land was like around here, they would be closer to the other end. And Morgan, the son of a queen, was not one of them.
At supper that evening, the first time he sat among them, he tried to tell them that he had not been so different from them, once. It was true, he and his mother had never lacked any material thing, but he had never had servants before a few scant years ago, and he had had to work for his food. But the other boys gave him sidelong glances, and the words stuck in his throat. He ducked his head and focused on his plain food and hoped that when his studies began the next day, they would go well.
He slept poorly that night, in the tiny cell that the brothers had provided for him.
In the morning there were prayers, and breakfast, and then he was taken to his studies straight away. All of them worked in the same room, the library: along one wall, the brothers copying manuscripts; along another, the more advanced boys copying other manuscripts; at the back of the room, where there was the least light, Morgan and two other boys who still needed to learn the basics.
The monk in charge of them, Brother Alphonse, placed a sheet of paper in front of Morgan. “Let’s see your abilities. Read it off.”
He looked down, and he recognized some of the letters—his mother had taught him the very basics (and where had she learned them, he now wondered? He could hardly picture Morgause at a convent)—so he sounded his way through them. The Latin sounded like so much gibberish to his ears, but the monk nodded to him, so he knew he must be doing something right.
And then one of the other boys leaned in to whisper in the ear of the one next to him and his heart sank. He’d done something wrong. Most likely, he was the only one to arrive at the monastery knowing any letters at all. It was too late to hide his knowledge, even if it had been in him to do so. He would just have to learn on his own.
—
The learning was painful at first. He could not tell the difference between some of the letters, and the brothers did not spare the rod when he made a foolish mistake. The words and the grammar were not what he spoke in everyday life, and he stumbled over them. He wished they could just write in the language that they spoke. But that was not the way of learned men.
The other boys started to speak to Morgan sometimes, during meals and their scant moments of free time. He tried to be friendly and polite to them, but feared he fell short. He had been popular enough in his home village, but he did not know why, and could not emulate whatever it was that made him so. It didn’t help, of course, that the accent these boys used when they spoke was even less similar to his own speech than that of the people of Lothian castle.
Some of the boys who had been there the longest moved on, whether to continue their training at other monasteries, to make pilgrimages, or to return to their home villages, there to become the scribes and letter-readers for their lords. A new boy arrived and Morgan was friendly to him. They did not perhaps become fast friends, but they did speak.
And then came the day when Morgan could read the simplest of manuscripts. The brothers knew that he was in training to become a doctor, so they gave him an illustrated herbal, only captioned with the briefest of sentences. And yet it was as though a whole new world opened before Morgan.
The book, of course, could not be taken from the library. But he spent all his time thinking about it, comparing the knowledge in the book to what his mother and his master had taught him, itching to go out into the wild and find some of the unfamiliar plants and test their properties.
Without realizing it himself, he became warmer to the other boys. And when he told them about his manuscript and let them join him in reading it, they became warmer toward him. They began to tell him about some of the things they were reading, and it was fascinating. Finally, topics of conversation developed.
Time moved faster after that. He found more to read, and it came more easily to him. His handwriting improved, and he was allowed to make copies of manuscripts for his personal use. He spent many laborious hours copying the illustrations in some of the books—but the other boys helped him, did the coloring for him or judged with fresh eyes how well his copy matched that in the book before he inked it in. And he helped the others, explaining phrases in their books that came more naturally to his, even suggesting herbs to put into the beer when there was illness going around.
And then, suddenly, it was time to leave.
The brothers told him that they had taught him all that they could teach; he had copied their best medical texts and learned how to read every word in them. He knew more than everyone in Lothian castle except his master and, perhaps, his mother. He had nothing more to learn.
He had not thought about his home much in the last few months. But suddenly he realized that he missed everyone there with a pang like a spike through his heart. He had found good friendship, good scholarship, and good fellowship here; he would be sorry to leave, but he would be sorrier to stay forever.
He gripped each of the other boys’ hands in turn as they said their goodbyes. They said they would miss each other. They made promises for if they should meet again.
Morgan knew it was unlikely, if not impossible, that they should ever meet again. But if they did, he would be glad to buy each of them a tankard of mead, to hear their stories. He wished them all the best in all they did.
He said a simple goodbye to his brothers. And then he turned for the road home.
His mother had arrived to pick him up in her finest carriage, and this time, none of the other boys seemed to care.
Did you enjoy this story? You can read more stories in this world (and donate for more fiction) or see all my fiction posted at Dreamwidth!
World: The Ursulan Cycle
Word count: 1,262
Rating: G
Prompt: Crowdfunding creative jam: "The community of scholars/physicians, while Morgan is in school."
Notes: This is a rather quiet little story. It surprised me; I thought there was going to be a lot more dialogue. But I guess monks don't talk much.
Morgan did not want to go away to school. He hated the idea of being away from his daughter for that long—bad enough he was going to be away from everything else he’d ever known. But his mother insisted he learn to read and write Latin, and his master insisted, and eventually even Lot insisted, and he gave in.
His mother insisted on bringing him to the monastery in her finest carriage. He would have preferred to go alone, or with a servant or two, on ordinary horses, but she would have none of it. So he wasn’t surprised when the other boys, those few who were also studying at the monastery, gave him nasty or appraising looks.
The brothers didn’t seem to care. Of course, some of them had come from wealthy families, too. They had given up a lot to be here. Some others had given up less than nothing; this was the finest home they’d ever known.
And the other boys—well, considering where they were, and what the land was like around here, they would be closer to the other end. And Morgan, the son of a queen, was not one of them.
At supper that evening, the first time he sat among them, he tried to tell them that he had not been so different from them, once. It was true, he and his mother had never lacked any material thing, but he had never had servants before a few scant years ago, and he had had to work for his food. But the other boys gave him sidelong glances, and the words stuck in his throat. He ducked his head and focused on his plain food and hoped that when his studies began the next day, they would go well.
He slept poorly that night, in the tiny cell that the brothers had provided for him.
In the morning there were prayers, and breakfast, and then he was taken to his studies straight away. All of them worked in the same room, the library: along one wall, the brothers copying manuscripts; along another, the more advanced boys copying other manuscripts; at the back of the room, where there was the least light, Morgan and two other boys who still needed to learn the basics.
The monk in charge of them, Brother Alphonse, placed a sheet of paper in front of Morgan. “Let’s see your abilities. Read it off.”
He looked down, and he recognized some of the letters—his mother had taught him the very basics (and where had she learned them, he now wondered? He could hardly picture Morgause at a convent)—so he sounded his way through them. The Latin sounded like so much gibberish to his ears, but the monk nodded to him, so he knew he must be doing something right.
And then one of the other boys leaned in to whisper in the ear of the one next to him and his heart sank. He’d done something wrong. Most likely, he was the only one to arrive at the monastery knowing any letters at all. It was too late to hide his knowledge, even if it had been in him to do so. He would just have to learn on his own.
—
The learning was painful at first. He could not tell the difference between some of the letters, and the brothers did not spare the rod when he made a foolish mistake. The words and the grammar were not what he spoke in everyday life, and he stumbled over them. He wished they could just write in the language that they spoke. But that was not the way of learned men.
The other boys started to speak to Morgan sometimes, during meals and their scant moments of free time. He tried to be friendly and polite to them, but feared he fell short. He had been popular enough in his home village, but he did not know why, and could not emulate whatever it was that made him so. It didn’t help, of course, that the accent these boys used when they spoke was even less similar to his own speech than that of the people of Lothian castle.
Some of the boys who had been there the longest moved on, whether to continue their training at other monasteries, to make pilgrimages, or to return to their home villages, there to become the scribes and letter-readers for their lords. A new boy arrived and Morgan was friendly to him. They did not perhaps become fast friends, but they did speak.
And then came the day when Morgan could read the simplest of manuscripts. The brothers knew that he was in training to become a doctor, so they gave him an illustrated herbal, only captioned with the briefest of sentences. And yet it was as though a whole new world opened before Morgan.
The book, of course, could not be taken from the library. But he spent all his time thinking about it, comparing the knowledge in the book to what his mother and his master had taught him, itching to go out into the wild and find some of the unfamiliar plants and test their properties.
Without realizing it himself, he became warmer to the other boys. And when he told them about his manuscript and let them join him in reading it, they became warmer toward him. They began to tell him about some of the things they were reading, and it was fascinating. Finally, topics of conversation developed.
Time moved faster after that. He found more to read, and it came more easily to him. His handwriting improved, and he was allowed to make copies of manuscripts for his personal use. He spent many laborious hours copying the illustrations in some of the books—but the other boys helped him, did the coloring for him or judged with fresh eyes how well his copy matched that in the book before he inked it in. And he helped the others, explaining phrases in their books that came more naturally to his, even suggesting herbs to put into the beer when there was illness going around.
And then, suddenly, it was time to leave.
The brothers told him that they had taught him all that they could teach; he had copied their best medical texts and learned how to read every word in them. He knew more than everyone in Lothian castle except his master and, perhaps, his mother. He had nothing more to learn.
He had not thought about his home much in the last few months. But suddenly he realized that he missed everyone there with a pang like a spike through his heart. He had found good friendship, good scholarship, and good fellowship here; he would be sorry to leave, but he would be sorrier to stay forever.
He gripped each of the other boys’ hands in turn as they said their goodbyes. They said they would miss each other. They made promises for if they should meet again.
Morgan knew it was unlikely, if not impossible, that they should ever meet again. But if they did, he would be glad to buy each of them a tankard of mead, to hear their stories. He wished them all the best in all they did.
He said a simple goodbye to his brothers. And then he turned for the road home.
His mother had arrived to pick him up in her finest carriage, and this time, none of the other boys seemed to care.
Did you enjoy this story? You can read more stories in this world (and donate for more fiction) or see all my fiction posted at Dreamwidth!