Part 6 (1/2)

”Call it an act of faith. Look, here's the money for the meal. Come on, Roman.

It's time to go.”

Once out on the street, Roman said, ”Sir Conrad, you are a very strange man.” We wandered through the city's mixture of squalor and barbaric splendor for several hours, stopping to pray at Saint Andrew's Church. Despite its missing the familiar baroque towers, the church seemed somehow bigger than when I had visited it in the twentieth century. Perhaps it was the lack of more imposing structures around it. I looked up wistfully at the round towers of Royal Wawel Castle and the cathedral. But Roman shook his head. ”That's not for the likes of us, Sir Conrad.”

”Surely they wouldn't turn away honest visitors,” I said. ”Anyway, I'm a knight.”

”You are a knight without a horse, or armor, or even a sword. Try if you like.

I'll wait for you down here.”

”Perhaps you're right. Anyway, it's time we found the Franciscan monastery.” The monastery was austere, but it was at least clean, gloriously clean by comparison to the festering slime that surrounded it. A brown-robed monk led us to a room where we could spruce up, and I began to understand all the biblical references to the was.h.i.+ng of feet. A few hours of walking in s.h.i.+t does amazing things to them.

When we were presented to Father Ignacy, he welcomed me profusely and told me that my appointment as a copyist had been confirmed, at four pence a day. He showed us around and asked me if my cell was acceptable. ”It's better than some quarters I've had in the military.” ”Excellent.

Supper is just after vespers, and I will see you then.” He turned to leave.

”Father, what about Roman?”

”I'm sorry, Sir Conrad, but I feel that his employment here would be ill advised.”

”But why not give him a chance, for a few days at least?”

”That would only give him time to spread his unG.o.dly att.i.tudes.”

Father Ignacy left, and Roman looked wilted.

”Cheer up, kid. Come back tomorrow and ask him again. He'll soften up eventually.”

”Tomorrow I shall be penniless.”

”Not quite.” I gave him the eight pence I had left. ”I won't be needing this.

You pay me back when you can.”

”Thank you, Sir Conrad. And bless you. But he won't see me.” ”Ask him to hear your confession. He can hardly deny you that. See me afterward.”

The next day, the poet was still dejected.

”It's no use, Sir Conrad. He won't give in. I can't find any other work in town, either.”

”All I can say is, try again tomorrow.”

The next day he was again rejected, and broke as well. I'd earned a day's pay by then; I drew it from the Brother Purser and gave it to the kid. This went on for four more days before Father Ignacy called me to him. ”What's this business of your drawing your pay day and giving it to that goliard poet?”

”Well, Father, I can hardly let the kid starve, can I?”

”It's embarra.s.sing. You're outdoing the Church with your charity!”

”There is an easy solution to your problem, Father.”

”Yes?”

”Hire him. Show some Christian charity yourself”

”But...” You could see that he wanted to swear. ”Very well! But if this goes wrong, I'll hold you responsible!”

”Thank you, Father.”

Chapter Six

I was not cut out to be a copyist.

Some of the problems centered on my lack of skill. Please understand that I spent years at a drawing board. My technical drawing was good, and my engineering lettering was considered excellent. I had seventeen years of formal schooling and am quite literate.

But I was not literate in Latin. And engineering lettering on mylar with a j.a.panese mechanical pencil has nothing in common with doing Gothic ”Black” lettering on parchment with a goose quill and ink.

Furthermore, parchment is a kind of leather and is hideously expensive. The only technique they had for erasing an error was to wait a week for the ink to dry and then sand it off with a stone.

They did accept my suggestion to use a T square and triangle to lay out pages.

They were thankful for this. They also considered me to be a monumental klutz. Then there were the working conditions. You sat on a bench in a cold, dark scriptorium. The only windows in the room were covered with oiled parchment and might as well have been bricked over. This light was supplemented by an oil lamp at your elbow that in fact burned pig fat, under protest. Most of my fellow copyists didn't speak much Latin either, so the straw boss-excuse me-author-read it off one letter at a time. He said ”A,” and you wrote ”A.” He said ”B,” you wrote ”B.” He said ”C”...

This went on for two and a half hours, until it was time to go and ray again.

Four such sessions made for a ten-hour day, which was not so bad by itself. In the twentieth century, I often worked longer than that when we were behind schedule. But when added to the time spent praying, it became excessive. I had always considered myself a religious man. Going to ma.s.s before work is not such a bad idea. But in addition, going to the chapel another eight times a day to pray is a bit much. Especially when those eight times are spread out at three-hour intervals Compline at 9 P.m., Matins at midnight, Lauds at 3 A.M., and then up again at 4:30 to catch 5 A.M.

ma.s.s ...

I was not sufficiently sinful to need that much prayer. Oh, since I hadn't taken any vows, I wasn't required to do all this, but they liked to wake me up anyway, just in case I wanted to beef up my soul a little.

Actually, it had been seven weeks or so since I had touched a female human being, and I wanted to do a little sinning. I was making an allegedly excellent salary-four pence a day-but was unable to spend much of it because I only had Sunday afternoons off, when the inns were closed.

It did not help matters that the goliard poet kid was an excellent calligrapher. Working his way through the University of Paris, he'd made his living expenses copying books. In addition, in the two weeks that he'd been at the monastery, the kid had gotten religion. He'd taken vows as a novice so that he could continue doing precisely the same job as before, but without pay. The overnight conversion from professed sinner to religious fanatic is a fairly common one, but I've never understood it.

In any event, when I was notified right after five o'clock ma.s.s that Father Ignacy wanted to speak to me privately, I knew that I was going to be fired. I deserved to be fired, and one part of me wanted to be fired. Another part of me wanted to continue eating regularly. ”Good morning, Father.

I know what you have to say, so do not agonize yourself. I know that I am incompetent as a copyist.” ”You've shown much improvement, my son. You would, in time, become a competent copyist. But you would never be a happy copyist, so I have found you another position. I know a merchant who requires someone skilled in keeping ledgers of purchase, sales, profits, and that sort of thing. This man travels constantly all over Europe, and you would be his companion. Do you think that you would be qualified for such a position?”

I'd had a few basic accounting courses, double-entry bookkeeping, and so on. Seeing more of the world would be pleasant. Getting out of the monastery would be a joy. ”For that I know I would be qualified.”

”Excellent. He often carries large sums of cash, and part of your duties would be to defend him if necessary. But no man not a fool would attack a giant such as yourself, so I expect that this will be only a formality. Still acceptable?” ”Yes.”

”Good. Your salary will be doubled, to eight silver pennies per day. You will be required to provide yourself with horse, arms, and armor, but he will advance you the price of this and deduct it from your pay.”

”Armor! What do I need with armor?”