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| Still life by Dutch painter Floris Gerritsz van Schooten 1590 – 1655 |
England, in the spring of 1574, saw a greater number of monks and
pilgrims than usual, making their way from one shrine to the next in
search of religious enlightenment. Many of them called for food and
shelter at abbeys, monasteries and religious houses dotted throughout
England. Waltham Abbey, in the country of Hertford, came in for its
share of travellers, where a ready source of helpers came from the
Refuge for Orphans, which was part of the abbey community.
Austin Kilby, a name given to him when he first arrived at the abbey
nine years before, was one of these orphan helpers. His father, Raymond
Kilby, was killed aged 27 whilst felling a tree, while his mother,
Beatrice Kilby, died of consumption aged 32. Austin was their only child
and was initially taken into a Church of England Home of Compassion
where he learnt the alphabet and extended his knowledge a little of the
written word. Then, no longer willing to care for him, the Home of
Compassion sent him to Waltam Abbey. Now in his fifth year as pot-boy in
the abbey kitchen he survived from one savage day to the next, amidst
the kicks and blows from Jane Macey, in charge of the kitchen, and Edwin
Cox, the cook. There was nothing unusual in the treatment the boy
received in that environment ―dedicated to Christianity though it was ―
it would take some time for enlightenment of any kind to reach those
dark corners.
It was Thursday, two weeks before Easter, and preparations for the
evening meal were well under way. In just over two hours the guests in
the great hall would be served. The boy felt the tension in the two or
three steps he’s taken on returning to the kitchen before a fierce grip
took a sudden held of his shoulder. As he was spun around, he caught a
glimpse of a female face distorted in anger, and something clenched in
her fist, but it was too late to avoid the blow. Then the pain began to
explode around him. It was his bad luck to have dawdled too long in
feeding the kitchen scraps to the fowls. Jane Macey was in a vicious
mood and the blows from the heavy wooden spoon caught him full across
his face and around his head and shoulders.
“That’ll teach yer to get back quick when I tells yer. Now get them
pots on the bench cleaned up afore I fetches yer another reminder.” She
stamped off breathing heavily but smiling grimly, pleased with herself
that she’d given the brat something to think about.
Thinking was not on Austin’s mind just then; only that he felt a grey
cloud descend upon him and consciousness slip away as he fell with a
thud to the cold stone floor. Nor was he aware that the cook grabbed his
collar and shoved him into the cellar, slamming the door without
another thought as to the boy’s condition. And that’s where he stayed
for the next few hours. No one cared. He was entirely and completely at
their mercy. And mercy was something Jane Macey, Edwin Cox and almost
everyone within the boy’s small world knew nothing about.
When consciousness returned, his tongue – sore and tender – explored
his lips and gums, cut and bruised by the beating. A little later, his
fingers moved carefully over his swollen cheeks and ears; felt the dried
blood around his nose and mouth, and though he tried, he failed to hold
back a sudden flow of tears that began streaming down his face. For a
few months his slight frame shook with sobs. Then, somehow, in the midst
of all his misery, lying there in the darkness he allowed the flicker
of a smile to cross his face as he thought to himself:
Just as well she’d been too busy to give time to the beating. Austin knew he’d come off lightly this time, for he’d suffered far worse in the past.
The knowledge that he would be safe there until they opened the door
was some consolation. The second time he’d been flung into the cellar
after a beating, he’d found several vents around the top of the wall
that enabled him to hear interesting conversations. Behind that wall was
where the Rector, Edmund Busby, taught the privileged children of the
abbey community. So Austin, eager to acquire knowledge where he could,
set himself to learn as much as possible, and concentrate on what was
being taught. He discovered his mind was like a sponge, taking in and
comprehending information as rapidly as it was delivered. He took to
going down there whenever the opportunity arose, learning to think and
use his brain and memory to fill in the gaps, and jogging his memory to
the early teachings he’d received as a child at the Home of Compassion
after his parents died. He had to use his memory, for he’d neither paper
to write on, quill to write with, nor books to read. The process helped
him forget his aches and pains, and his time spent in the cellar ― by
choice or as punishment ― saw that he received almost as good a
foundation in Latin and other subjects as any of those privileged to be
with the Rector. Quite some time would pass before he found anyone with
whom he could talk or discuss the things he’d learned. To everyone
around him, he was just an ignorant pot-boy, yet he was rapidly becoming
the most enlightened among them.
Austin began to see himself differently. He knew that by keeping his
ears and eyes open and using his mind he could learn as well as most of
the residents who dined in the great hall of the abbey or travelled
through on some pilgrimage or other business. It was this aspect of his
character which, Owen Roberts, librarian at the abbey, discerned when
the boy was brought before him one day.
It happened that Austin had been helping to unpack some baggage for a
group of monks on their way to Lambeth; a task he’d been given now that
he was older and that he didn’t mind since it meant that he was out of
the kitchen for a while. At some point he’d paused to glance through a
book left open on one of the bags. It so entranced him that he failed to
notice Clifford Baldwin, the assistant librarian, observing him with
keen interest from a window above. Jane Macey was also watching him as
she walked past, with a dark look of venom on her face. The look
gradually changed to a sneer as she headed for the kitchen. It was
obvious she had something bad in mind for him as she flung open the
kitchen door. The cook, Edwin Cox ― though used to her tirades ― was
taken by surprise, as red in the face, she launched into an angry
outburst.
“I’ll do for the brat this time, Edwin! I just seen im poking his
nose into books as belongs to is betters. Now what do ‘ee think o that?
There’s something about im as tells me ees got ideas above is station.
I’ll fix im, see if I don’t!” And out she stormed, heading in the
direction of the library.
The following day, Jane Macey watched Austin with narrowed eyes as he
was taken from the kitchen and hustled off in the direction of the
library. After his face was given a quick wipe with a damp cloth he was
made to stand before the librarian.
“Well now, Master Austin, do you know who I am?”
Austin glanced up briefly, look the speaker in the eyes, and nodded respectfully before lowering his gaze again.
“It seems you’ve been deceiving us all. What’s this I hear about you reading books? Is it true?”
The voice of Owen Roberts was matter of fact, and conveyed only that he didn’t believe what he’d been told.
“Come on lad, speak up!”
Austin had never been addressed as ‘Master’ before, and found some
encouragement in the fact as he answered: “I…I…Well, I suppose it must
be true. Yes, sir.”
“Now what kind of talk is that? You mean to say you don’t know if you
can read, when my assistant clearly saw you reading only yesterday?
Come now, what say you?”
“Well sir, it’s true I did look at a book. I didn’t mean any harm or disrespect by it, sir, I … I didn’t.”
“Could you tell me anything about this book you looked at, Master Austin?”
“Yes sir, I read from one of the psalms, from the Bible.”
As he questioned further, Owen Roberts could scarcely believe the
astute answers given by the pot-boy, and felt in his heart that he could
in no way admonish the lad, now close on 14 years of age, he’d been
told. His voice softened as he said, “Right then, Austin. I want you to
choose a book from these on my desk. Open it and read something to me.”
With no mention of punishment in store for him, Austin began to relax. He picked up a book and began to read:
“Eighth August, 1501: Christina O’ the Grene, by spe..cial favour,
has licence to marry, for which the lord, wai..ving the cus..to..mary
mer…chet, is pre..pared to accept only 12 pence. William Pictor, who has
pre..vi..ous..ly done fealty, and ack..now..ledged his services, now
produces a char…ter, by which he an..ces..tors held their an..cient
te.ne..ment. In return…”
“Yes, that’s fine, Austin. Now tell me, what is that extract from?”
Austin was confused, and must have looked it.
“I meant to say, look back through the pages and find the title for that piece. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir,” Austin replied, pleased that he understood what was
required of him. He looked back through the pages, then said, “It’s an
extract from the Rom…sley Court Rolls, sir. Though I do not know
properly what that means. I’m sorry, sir.”
Owen Roberts sat back in his chair with warm delight; a quiet, amused
smile on his face. Never had he met with such an open and honest
display of intelligence. Something would have to be done about Austin
Kilby. He posed a danger ― a danger to himself and a danger to the abbey
community ― should his desire and ability for learning exceed the
bounds of the narrow acceptability that reigned therein. Such learning
as the pot-boy exhibited could easily give rise to rumours that it must
be of the devil. He must take pains to prevent that happening, for the
likes of bright young Austin Kilby, seldom, if ever, had been heard of
around Waltham Abbey or the whole county of Hertford for that matter.
A few days later, Austin was told to collect his few possessions from
the corner of the storehouse where he slept, and was escorted to the
gatehouse. No one spoke to him there but a few workers he’d come to know
by sight around the abbey looked at him strangely as they came and went
about their business. They knew that the sheriff of the county was due
to see the pot-boy, but why and what would happen, they did not know.
When the sheriff did arrive, he saw his stepson taken over the kitchen
with someone from the abbey staff, before calling on Owen Roberts. He
left a short time later with Austin and a letter sealed with the Abbot’s
seal.
In the kitchen, with the pot-boy taken off their hands (and them none
the wiser), Jane Macey and Edwin Cox found their work load had
increased. They were not happy. About mid-afternoon, they were suddenly
interrupted in their work by a visit from the under-secretary to the
Abbot, and another strongly built man. The under-secretary informed them
that since they’d lost the services of the pot-boy, Roger Borden,
stepson of the sheriff, would fill the post. Though simple-minded he
was, if treated right, was pleasant, willing and capable. He’d work a
little slower than Austin but he was very thorough, and they were
assured he’s had every pot, cooking dish, shelf, floor and wall as clean
as ever. Being physically very strong they must never attempt to strike
him or raise their voice to him, nor to anyone else who happened to be
around when he was there. The abbey authorities would take no
responsibility for what he might do to them should they not heed their
warning.
Meanwhile, in the coach bearing him towards a private tutor in
Hertford, Austin, under the patronage of the Abbot of Waltham Abbey,
immersed himself in one of the books gifted to him by Owen Roberts. The
sheriff too shared in the dawning enlightenment, but was not to know
however, that a few years later on the eve of obtaining his
authorisation as head librarian at Westminster Abbey, a stroke would
suddenly rob him of his life. An injury he’d received whilst he’d
worked, suffered and learned under the savage tutelage that held sway in
the kitchen of Waltham Abbey, caused a blood vessel to burst in his
brain, and his life was ended in an instant.
In an age crying out for the kind of enlightenment he could have
found, he was just another ordinary but gifted human being, where
patronage was ignored denied or came too late.
Dennis Crompton © 1994
