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Updated: June 20, 2025
Padraig advanced into the open space before the cellar, and bowed to Prince John and the Preceptor. Then from a niche within the door of the chamber he lifted a large crucible, and a siffle of indrawn breath was heard in the crowd as he carried it toward the fire.
On one of these desks lay open the first book Padraig had ever seen. It was not printed, but written, each letter carefully drawn with a quill pen. The initials of the chapters, and the border around each page, had been painted in an ornamental design like a tangle of leaves and vines, in bright red, green, yellow, brown, black, blue.
"One can get on faster, and there are not many here who can climb like him. I think he must have met with an accident far from any dwelling." "He is well beloved by the people. If any one had found him we should have heard. And you have no fear?" Padraig hesitated. "There are many frightful things in the world," he said slowly.
He was always glad to see a new plant or mineral which might possibly give him a new color. In all this Padraig was extremely useful. He made friends with a smith who had a forge and furnace miles away, and wheedled him into lending them the furnace for the roasting of metals. He ranged the woods and cliffs all around the Abbey in search of plants, shrubs, trees and minerals.
He took a bit of parchment which had once been written upon and had been scraped clean enough to use again, and made some queer marks upon it with his pen dipped in black fluid. That was the first time Padraig had ever seen any one write. It did not take long for Brother Basil to find out how fascinated the herd-boy was with the work of the scriptorium.
"I am Padraig," he said, "a scribe of the Irish Benedictines. If the Master comes to harm there will be a heavy reckoning, but that will come too late. I will rescue him or die with him are you with me?" Swart pulled at his huge beard. "The Swarts of Aschenrugge," he said, "have dwelt too long in these parts to bow neck to a Templar.
Once Guy Bouverel, whom Dickon had met once or twice at Wilfrid's house, gave him surprised and pleased greeting. A little later came Padraig, the Irish clerk, on his way to Rouen. Padraig somehow learned about Audrey in the few hours he spent there. "I thought 'twas more than hammer and tongs that took you out of Sussex," he said.
"Through a drover of this place who is our friend," he ended, "I have sent word to Robert Edrupt asking him to get word of this to the King or to the Bishop. But if help does not come in time " "I have made a fair copy of these writings in the hope that I might send them to Brother Basil." Padraig knelt at the physician's feet, his beseeching eyes raised to the kindly, serene old face.
Padraig shook his head. "I stood as near them as I am to you, and I did not see them until they wished to be seen. They run like foxes and climb like cats. They will be killed or kill themselves, every man and woman of them, rather than be taken. Were it not better they should live like christened souls than be hunted like beasts?" The Abbot rose and began to pace the floor.
The central figure was that of a wolf crouching under a thorn-bush to slip out of the shaggy skin which disguised his human form. Under his feet lay a child unconscious. At a distance could be seen the distracted mother, and other wolves pursued terrified people flying to shelter. Once, before he came to the Abbey, Padraig had been chased by wolves, and had spent the night in a tree.
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