The Colour of Evil: A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mystery by Toni Mount

Author:Toni Mount [Mount, Toni]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MadeGlobal Publishing
Published: 2021-03-24T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Monday, the twenty-first day of June

The Foxley House

Last eve, I chose to sleep in the workshop upon a straw-stuffed palliasse on the floor. It was more comfortable than the upturned bucket in the garden and quieter by far than sharing Adam’s chamber, attempting to sleep to the accompaniment of Ralf’s trumpeting snores. With a good pillow for my head, I passed the night well and woke refreshed this morn.

Being a Monday, there was no need to feel the least guilt in commencing work right early, though I had yet to make amends with a penance for my labours of the Lord’s Day, previously. The gesso applied yesterday had dried upon the miniatures, so I set to smoothing the surfaces. There was yet a trace of dampness in the air afore the sun’s heat increased over much. Thus, it was the perfect time to lay on the gold leaf. If matters proceeded without upset, I should have the gold parts finished and burnished afore breakfast.

At least this day I was suitably attired when Rose and little Dickon came to bid me ‘Good morn’ and inform me that the mess of eggs with herbs and honey cakes were ready at the kitchen board. I left the gleaming gold and went to break my fast.

And there was Jude seated in my place at the head of the board, spooning egg into his mouth.

‘Could you not wait? I have yet to say grace.’

‘I said it on your behalf, little brother. The eggs were going cold.’

‘God give you all good day,’ I said, remembering my manners, belatedly, and greeting the company. I noted one missing person. ‘Will Chesca be joining us? I have not seen the lass since Saturday.’ I sat on a bench, squashed betwixt Ralf and Nessie, the latter seeming to wax broader by the week and taking up more than her allotted space upon the seat. Mayhap, we fed our serving wench too well. ‘Jude, I would not have you usurp my place as master of this house. It undermines my authority.’

My brother laughed out loud, choking on his honey cake.

‘Authority! You? Seb, you know full well you have all the authority of… of a new-hatched chick. I usurp naught. Now cease your prattle and eat your bloody food. Stop making so much fuss about who says grace. I doubt God bothers to listen to you anyway. The prayers of a mouse, not a man…’

‘I shall not bide here and suffer your insults!’ I clambered from my tight perch, all undignified. ‘If required by any respected person, they may find me fully employed at my desk, earning my bread.’ It was a feeble repost. Jude likely would not realise my barb was aimed at him – one who assiduously avoided earning his keep. His laughter followed me back to the workshop: the one place he was not allowed, by ruling of the guild, and would have no desire to enter, in any case.

I returned to my pigments, selecting those required to complete the frontispiece: the full-page miniature of St George.

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