I was washing our bowls and cups at the well early the next morning when Alf waved as he walked from the pen to the slope. I ran into the cookroom and brought out the loaf I had put aside for him.

“Alf,” I called. “I’ve bread for your midday meal.”

“No need,” he called back. He trotted across the pasture and came inside. “I’ve one here.” Opening his sack, he took out a loaf with a fine golden crust. “From the friary.”

“Friary?”

He sat at the table and accepted a cup of ale and a bowl of gruel. “In the village they call it ‘the abbey,’ but the Dominican friars—the Blackfriars, as they’re called—would thank you to call it a friary. Nothing so grand as an abbey would suit the life they’ve chosen.”

“Why, then, have we always called it ‘the abbey’?”

“It once was an abbey. Benedictine. But the Benedictines abandoned it long ago when they established the parish with its priory and its infirmary in the village. Some Dominican friars came across it on their way north years ago. Though it was something of a ruin, they used it as a resting place on their way to and from the moors. As time went by, some simply stayed there and taught. It served as a humble home for them and the boys they took in.

“Over the past . . .” he looked to the ceiling, “. . . ten years or so, the young friars moved on until only a few old ones remained there.” He took a long drink, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve and started in on his gruel.

“But ever since Gough murdered those friars on the moors a few years back and left the old ones locked in their cells to starve, more young friars than ever before have gone there to live and to help the last of the old men. They’re in ceaseless prayer these days for the soul of Friar William, their eldest. He’s dying, and they’re holding vigil until he passes.”

“Not hunting heretics?”

Alf shook his head. “They never have done. They’re scholars. Teachers, the lot of them. They’ve no time for aught else.”

“Will they stay?” I thought again of that ancient church with its wild orchards and unmown fields in need of the sickle. “And if they do, how will they live if they fail to tend their orchards and plant crops? What will they eat?”

“Oh, already they tend them. And they’ve a grindstone now, and ovens, so they bake their own bread, as you can see. They need little more other than their parchment, quills, and ink. They barter their bread and fruit for candles, cloth, peat, and fleece. And those of us they’ve served will always provide for them.”

“’Those of us they’ve served? They’ve served you?”

“Aye, when my mother died of childbed fever. I’d been born with this—” he pointed to his cleft lip. “And you know what people believe of children born marked.”

“Yes, they say it’s evil given for evil done. Punishment for the sins of the mother or father.” I winced thinking of a poor babe feared and blamed by the villagers for having been born with a flawed lip.

“Aye. My father feared for my life. And even had he not, he had work—shearing, herding, here at Bury Down and on other manors—and had to be away. How could he take care of a newborn babe?” He shrugged. “He left me in the friars’ care until I could be of use to him. And they taught me to speak properly. To read.” Now he smiled broadly. “Latin. I can read and write in Latin. I also know French and a bit of Greek.”

I shook my head. “You’re a scholar!”

“Aye, like my father.” He gave me that crooked smile. “A learned shepherd.”

“And what did the good friars request in return for your care?”

“At first, wool. It’s why my father always took his pay in black fleece. As I learned to read and write, they taught me how to teach. I taught some of the younger boys. When I left the friars, they asked only for my word that when the time came, I would do for another as they had done for me.”

“And have you, Alf? Have you repaid their good work?”

“Not yet.” He shook his head, his eyes not leaving mine until, together, we shifted our gazes to the curtains that hid my books.

“I’ve seen you stare at your book,” he said. “Are there languages you must learn in order to master its teachings?”

Something inside me began to hum.

“Much of it is written in Latin,” I said and added hurriedly, “And Brighida knows every language there is. I’ve heard her practice them. But she’s far too busy to teach me.”

“I’d be glad to help,” he said. “I once promised I would teach. You could help me keep that promise.”

“To the friars.”

“And to someone else.”

I hesitated. “Morwen?”

“I’ve been thinking about her since last we talked,” he lowered his voice, “about my dreams. ’Twas she who told my father to send me to the friars. She, too, who taught the friars how to feed me goat’s milk from the finger of a leather glove.

Once, when she visited me at the friary, she said, ‘A time will come when you’ll be called upon to use the skills you’re learning here.’

“I was a boy of six struggling just to sit still, to study, and to ignore the barbs of the other boys.” He rubbed his lip. “I didn’t even know what the word skill meant. ’Twas then she gave me her ring and whispered that I would one day serve another who wore it.” He finished his ale and picked up his sack.

As he went out the door, I sat at the table fingering that ring and thinking about my book. Bryluen and Anwen had written Murga’s incantations in Latin. Anwen had come from Tintagel, on the north coast, a land of harbors and traders, where many languages were spoken. Clearly, someone had taught her the language of the Romans. But who had taught Bryluen?

Murga, I thought. Murga had taught her.

I had taught her.

So, somewhere inside me lay that language, Latin, waiting to be awakened.

“Alf,” I called after him. “Wait!”