The gravemaker, two.
Apr. 3rd, 2006 22:25![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mapsedge"Why do you insist upon drinking from that disgusting thing?"
A gruff voice interrupted Solace's search. He was bent over, peering under a shrub next to his small home, and at the sound of the voice he straightened, his left hand finding support on a gravestone set low to the ground, the bones of his back popping loudly in the quiet of the morning as he bent backwards. His codpiece thrust obscenely in the direction of his visitor, who affected not to notice the affront.
"A little early for you to be about, isn't it, your Grace?" Solace smiled, mischief in his eyes, his free hand massaging the small of his back.
"It's past matitutina hora, you blasphemus Welshman."
"Bishop, you repeat yourself." Solace relaxed his stretching, and reached for his doublet, laying across the top of a nearby post, damp with dew. "Since good King Henry insisted upon conquering Wales through the actions of Parliment, merely being a Welshman is blasphemy, especially here."
"And yet here you are," his visitor interjected. Solace ignored him.
"'Matitutinam canonicam functionem', in any case, and why do you insist upon speaking Latin? Why not English, for the love of God, like everyone else?"
Bishop Longshire was a round man, not overly tall, but with a force of personality that made him seem to many people quite a lot taller. He had a shock of unruly hair, entirely uncontained by the violet zuchetto he wore. His eyes were squinted, as if his vision were dimming with age, which, in fact, it was. His cassock was threadbare on the edges, made of a somewhat heavier fabric than that of the vestments he wore for the Mass, made for outdoor use on mornings just like this one. Threadbare, but warm and comfortable. He sighed, enjoying Solace's annoyance.
"Very well, it's past Prime. I'm a priest, in case you've forgotten, and Latin is expected. God help me," he picked at a bit of wax on the front of his cassock, "who ever thought of educating a gravemaker?"
"I was educated first. But for an inconvenient battle too near the monastery and a bout of the plague within its walls, you and I would be wearing the same shoes." Solace stepped away from Longshire and shook his doublet once, hard, to remove the night's collected moisture. He slipped it on, shivering. "Christ," he muttered. "That's cold."
Longshire closed his eyes, imagining he was inside by a fire, with his feet up. "Serves you right. God knew you'd blaspheme, and made it cold for your penance."
"Which explains your presence, and the fact that's it's cold damn near every morning."
Chuckling, Longshire extended a flask, wrapped in the tatters of a wool shawl. "I brought some wine with me, and it ought to still be warm, if it helps." He produced two small, pewter cups from a pocket. "I'm sure God will have something to say of it," he said, as he poured a little of the amber liquid into each one, "but I just can't finish what's left after Mass, anymore. That sort of drinking is for younger priests. The rest of us..?" Solace took a cup and sat down on a nearby gravestone.
"The rest of us say the expected words, offer the Host, and pocket what we must."
"So, this is sacrament wine?"
Longshire gestured toward Solace and the cup he held. "Not any more."
The two men drank, regarding each other across the small distance of a few graves, their easy truce of many years as comfortable as the old clothes they each wore.
"Bartholomew," the Bishop said, "I'll be needing your services. Soon."
A gruff voice interrupted Solace's search. He was bent over, peering under a shrub next to his small home, and at the sound of the voice he straightened, his left hand finding support on a gravestone set low to the ground, the bones of his back popping loudly in the quiet of the morning as he bent backwards. His codpiece thrust obscenely in the direction of his visitor, who affected not to notice the affront.
"A little early for you to be about, isn't it, your Grace?" Solace smiled, mischief in his eyes, his free hand massaging the small of his back.
"It's past matitutina hora, you blasphemus Welshman."
"Bishop, you repeat yourself." Solace relaxed his stretching, and reached for his doublet, laying across the top of a nearby post, damp with dew. "Since good King Henry insisted upon conquering Wales through the actions of Parliment, merely being a Welshman is blasphemy, especially here."
"And yet here you are," his visitor interjected. Solace ignored him.
"'Matitutinam canonicam functionem', in any case, and why do you insist upon speaking Latin? Why not English, for the love of God, like everyone else?"
Bishop Longshire was a round man, not overly tall, but with a force of personality that made him seem to many people quite a lot taller. He had a shock of unruly hair, entirely uncontained by the violet zuchetto he wore. His eyes were squinted, as if his vision were dimming with age, which, in fact, it was. His cassock was threadbare on the edges, made of a somewhat heavier fabric than that of the vestments he wore for the Mass, made for outdoor use on mornings just like this one. Threadbare, but warm and comfortable. He sighed, enjoying Solace's annoyance.
"Very well, it's past Prime. I'm a priest, in case you've forgotten, and Latin is expected. God help me," he picked at a bit of wax on the front of his cassock, "who ever thought of educating a gravemaker?"
"I was educated first. But for an inconvenient battle too near the monastery and a bout of the plague within its walls, you and I would be wearing the same shoes." Solace stepped away from Longshire and shook his doublet once, hard, to remove the night's collected moisture. He slipped it on, shivering. "Christ," he muttered. "That's cold."
Longshire closed his eyes, imagining he was inside by a fire, with his feet up. "Serves you right. God knew you'd blaspheme, and made it cold for your penance."
"Which explains your presence, and the fact that's it's cold damn near every morning."
Chuckling, Longshire extended a flask, wrapped in the tatters of a wool shawl. "I brought some wine with me, and it ought to still be warm, if it helps." He produced two small, pewter cups from a pocket. "I'm sure God will have something to say of it," he said, as he poured a little of the amber liquid into each one, "but I just can't finish what's left after Mass, anymore. That sort of drinking is for younger priests. The rest of us..?" Solace took a cup and sat down on a nearby gravestone.
"The rest of us say the expected words, offer the Host, and pocket what we must."
"So, this is sacrament wine?"
Longshire gestured toward Solace and the cup he held. "Not any more."
The two men drank, regarding each other across the small distance of a few graves, their easy truce of many years as comfortable as the old clothes they each wore.
"Bartholomew," the Bishop said, "I'll be needing your services. Soon."
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no subject
Date: 2006-04-05 04:27 (UTC)I didn't realize until now that there was a corner of my brain really waiting to lur, er, convince you to come back to performing. There's nothing quite like bringing back a well-loved child-of-the-heart character, is there?
Talking of grumpy morning meetings, the middle Sunday morning will be especially sleepy for me as that statue gig that was up in the air with R. actually came through so it's gonna be a wild ride.