HOW DO YOU SPELL A WORD?” OLIVER ASKED ME THIS morning.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Like it sounds?”
“But two people can say the same word in different ways. Haven’t you noticed that?”
“Not really,” I said.
I have, of course. Gatty and I often say the same words in different ways. But until I know what my father’s plans for me are, I’m going to disappoint Oliver.
“Here in the March we say us, but way east from Wenlock people say uz. So the same word gets written down in two different ways.”
“I see,” I said.
“And at court in London, people say ars, as if they were talking out of their nostrils, and so they write down that sound. Words are spelt in as many different ways as people speak them.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Not only that,” said Oliver, puffing himself up. “There’s more than one way of writing down the same sound.”
“Is there?” I asked.
“Look!” said Oliver. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and sounded the words as he began to write them. “Urth, and erthe, and now earth, they all sound the same, don’t they? And what about this? Woom, and woume, and woumbe, and woombe, and womb: They all sound the same as well.”
“Yes, I see,” I said.
“Many words are like this,” said Oliver. “Words that wear different clothing.”
“Language is very difficult,” I said.
“It’s a beauty and a beast,” Oliver replied. “As sharp as the most subtle thoughts we’re capable of! As crude as a bludgeon!” Oliver waved his pudgy hand at me. “You’ll learn,” he said.
“I can only get worse,” I replied.
“Whatever do you mean? You can only get better. Now! I’ve got some news for you.”
“News?”
“The guestmaster at Wenlock has sent me a message and he says there’ll be room for us at the priory guesthouse next week. And then you’ll be able to see the scriptorium where the monks write and illuminate their manuscripts, and you’ll hear them sing the offices. A marvelous sound! I’ve spoken to your father, and he has agreed to it. What do you think about that?”
What I think is this: I want to visit Wenlock Priory. Of course I do. I am interested in how manuscripts are made, and I want to hear the monks singing. But I don’t want my father or Oliver to know this, otherwise they may think that I’m suited to be a monk myself, or a schoolman. I am not. I want to be a squire, and then a knight, and I want to be betrothed to Grace.