more thickly. I saw the boy sitting under the largest tree, his feet sticking out into the road, when our wagon rounded a bend. He scrambled out to Brother Richard to peddle his wares.
The child’s eyes, though, were not on the man but on his horse. At the Tower, when I’d been led to the waiting friars and a wagon, Brother Richard already sat tall on one of the finest horses I’d ever seen: a slim dappled gray, with a glossy coat and bright eyes. Brother Richard made it clear that not only did the mare belong to him, but he would not tie her to our wagon, pulled by less aristocrat steeds. Sweeping his black Dominican cape to the side, he’d vaulted into the saddle and seized the reins, ready to ride to Dartford. Brother Edmund and I, it seemed, would follow, sitting in the back of the wagon, driven by a rotund Tower servant.
The boy said eagerly, “We grow the best apples in Kent, Friar—I’ll sell you a basket for three farthing.”
“Be off with you!” snapped Brother Richard, untempted.
The boy’s thin shoulders sagged, and he shuffled back to his place under the tree. Certainly, this was not the time to buy fruit, but Brother Richard’s rebuff seemed to me over rude. I snuck a sideways glance at Brother Edmund, who hadn’t spoken since we left the Tower of London.
The fair-haired friar nodded, as if he’d heard my thought.
“This is a very hard thing for Brother Richard, the suppression of our friary,” he said quietly.
“But he has a place to go to,” I pointed out.
“Yes, and we are both grateful for the arrangements made by Bishop Gardiner, to have us transferred to Dartford Priory.” He paused, weighing his next words. “But what you must understand is that someday Brother Richard was expected to make prior at Cambridge. He boarded there as a child, professed as soon as he came of age, and was extremely dedicated. He’s a true theologian; he’s published works read on the Continent.”
I looked at Brother Richard doubtfully. A sharp tongue did not always lead to a sharp mind, in my experience.
And then there was the trunk.
Two trunks rode in the back of the wagon. One was small and weather-beaten—it contained Brother Edmund’s apothecary supplies. The other was large and burgundy, with a gold-plated lock and trimming. It belonged to Brother Richard, but I couldn’t imagine what was inside. The rules of Dominican conduct were chastity, humility, obedience, and poverty. Perhaps in Cambridge they’d followed different rules.
“And for you, Brother Edmund, is this . . . difficult?” I asked.
“I am a friar, I serve God wherever I go,” he replied. “And it means I will share a roof again with my younger sister, Winifred.”
That is why he looked familiar. He shared the same unusual coloring—ash-blond hair and brown eyes—as my fellow novice and friend, Sister Winifred. “She will be very pleased to see you,” I said. “She once told me that she had a brother who was a friar and that she missed him.”
“I have missed her, too,” he said. “Though I hoped to one day make her proud of what I had achieved in the eyes of God, not to come crawling to her priory as a supplicant.”
The words were bitter. Yet Brother Edmund’s face was calm. In fact, his large dark eyes looked positively serene. It was impressive—though a trifle strange—how the friar managed to control himself.
“In any case,” he continued, “if we need be sent to a nunnery, Dartford is a prestigious one. Brother Richard’s administrative skills will be put to use managing the priory’s wealth.”
“Wealth?”
“It is the seventh richest establishment in all of England—you didn’t know that?”
I shook my head no.
“Brother Richard says it is because of the original charter granted by Edward the Third. The priory is exempt from all taxes and is granted one hundred pounds a year. He told me Dartford is a substantial landholder in Kent. Not just open farmland but income from mills, businesses, manors, even quarries. The priory has holdings in London, too. He said he’d never in his life seen such care taken by a king to ensure financial security for a religious house.”
“We are most fortunate,” I muttered.
Our road curved, and I caught a glimpse of the River Darent. Our wagon rumbled on, and a large black building came into view—it was the Lowfield Almshouse for the poor, which our prioress oversaw and visited at least once a week. We’d reached the outskirts of