Upon returning to the Abbey to collect his few possessions from the room he had called home the last few days, Dom heard the nun calling the priest to dinner. Thinking a hot meal would suit him very well, he followed the sound of her voice into the church.
The rattle of coins on stone attracted his attention to the altar. In the dim light he saw the nun bent over a large black bag on the floor – which turned out to be Fr. Barnard himself, feverish and limp. He hauled the frail man up over his shoulder carrying him to the infirmary while the fussing nun gave a good tongue-lashing for his not having fixed the poor father’s window sooner with blame assigned to the chill of bad air.
With a promise to repair the window, Dom returned through the church and found where the coins had been swept under a pew. With a nod and a wink to the crucifix, he slipped a few into the purse he kept under his shirt.
The broken window frame shattered on the desk and shards of broken glass gave him pause. No simple cracked pane as he’d been told; this wasn’t to be a quick fix.
He settled down in the chair at the table casting his mind back – was it fifteen years already? – when his mother’s brother took him as assistant to help repair the damaged windows at St Olave’s kirk. He smiled at the memory of those happy months:, the good food and wine, the village girls. Even the pay he earned helped to moderate his father’s anger for a while.
Now if he could only recall the actual miracle of transformation that pushes the red glow of heated sand into clear light of glass.
Let’s see … two parts beechwood ash … one part clean dry sand …. the top of the small furnace and stirring for a night and a day … ah yes tis a wonder how the fresh scolding of a nun helps clear the memory. Now all he needed was to rough up a frame for the soldered lead.
He’ll charge the priest the glazier’s rate, confident no Searchers from the Guild of St Luke will risk traversing the March to find a handyman doing a Masters job.