Free Brother's Blood by C.B. Hanley

much as looked at him; he’d kicked a stone around; he’d sat in the sun with his back against a wall for a while; and he’d walked again. The place was just too quiet, and it was suffocating. The walls weren’t like the ones at Conisbrough. There they kept him safe, but here they were imprisoning him, closing in until he could hardly breathe.
    At some point he heard a noise he did recognise – the thump and split of logs being chopped. Of course, with this many mouths to feed the abbey kitchens no doubt got through a fair amount each day so it would be a constant task, just like it was at the castle. Although, judging by the sound, whoever was doing it was very erratic and hadn’t got into the rhythm which you needed if you were going to keep at it. Martin didn’t do so much of it these days, what with his other duties, but chopping wood had been a major part of his strength training when he was younger, and Sir Geoffrey had made him wield the axe hour after exhausting hour until the sweat poured off him and his arms shook. That was before life got so complicated, and Martin now looked back on those times with some fondness.
    He followed the sound until he rounded a fence into a yard full of wood. At one end were new and uncut pieces; at the other a roofed area where split logs were stacked neatly. In the middle, busy turning one into the other, was a monk, just one on his own. Martin watched him for a few moments. He wasn’t very good at it – a weedy-looking youth with white arms sticking out of the sleeves of his habit, the skirts of which were clearly getting in his way.
    The monk stopped and put his axe down, picked up some logs and staggered over to the woodshed to stack them. As he turned again he saw Martin and jumped and took a step back.
    Martin, who was beginning to be aware that people could be intimidated by the mere sight of him, held up his hands. ‘Sorry, Brother, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
    The monk said nothing but continued to look wary. Martin nodded at the white habit, which surely indicated that he was a choir monk. ‘Are you supposed to be doing that? Don’t you have anyone to do it for you?’
    The monk opened his mouth but no words came out. Damn these people. Martin spoke slowly. ‘It’s all right. I’ve been sent here by my lord earl, and your abbot said that you were allowed to speak to us.’ The monk’s stance softened a little. ‘What’s your name, Brother?’
    ‘B– Benedict.’ His voice quavered a little but recovered. ‘I’m a novice.’
    ‘And, what, you’ve been told to chop wood as some kind of punishment?’
    Benedict moved closer and Martin saw what he hadn’t noticed before – he had no tonsure. ‘Oh no, it’s not a punishment. It’s God’s work.’
    Martin was confused. ‘God’s work? Chopping wood?’
    Benedict nodded, his face lighting up. ‘Yes. As part of our duties we all have to undertake manual labour every afternoon. Everyone has something different: the older brothers might do sewing or shoemaking, and others are scribes or copyists or work in the gardens or the stables. I’m the youngest apart from the three boys, so it’s fitting that I should do something heavier.’ He heaved a piece of tree-trunk on to the chopping block and hefted the axe enthusiastically, the pale skin on his arms catching the sun as he brought it down, not hard enough, and it got stuck in the wood instead of splitting it. He tried to jerk it back out, without success.
    Martin stepped forward to help him, and between them they levered the axe free. Martin looked speculatively at the piles of logs still waiting to be dealt with, and at his companion’s gaunt frame. ‘Is there any rule that says you can’t have some help?’
    Benedict’s face was immediately confused. ‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to fail in my duty to the abbey or to the Lord. I have to do this.’ He backed away and gestured vaguely; Martin realised he was losing him again. Pretend