Dancing with the Colours

By Larry Hermann

As a young child, I became interested in stained glass through the grandmother of my sisters husband. I have always been a church person playing organ as a substitute, taking photos because its fun. When I went to college [at Iowa State University for my undergraduate work] I minored in Science Journalism so it honed my skills at writing. Once out of school, I also wrote for church newsletters depending upon where I was attending church. At the suggestion of a friend, I began to write Dancing with the Colours because it fed my need for a better knowledge of English history. It also fed my need to write about my family genealogy in England and how it followed us through the country and to the United States. In the process, I made over a dozen trips to Gloucester, England to visit the Cathedral. I love the history of this old church. The novel is historical fiction where what happened to Gloucester Cathedral was true but the person story was fictitious and is designed for children 10 12 years of age. What a better way through this story could I tell the history of this old historic building? I also took a course in stained glass window-making to better understand what went into the process.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499029031

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Larry Hermann.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014910457

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4990-2905-5

                Softcover        978-1-4990-2907-9

                eBook             978-1-4990-2903-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/13/2014

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter 1 Spring

Chapter 2 Colin’s Birthday

Chapter 3 A Mum’s Touch

Chapter 4 The Studio

Chapter 5 Gloucester

Chapter 6 The Abbey

Chapter 7 Windows, Windows

Chapter 8 The Trip Home

Chapter 9 The Window

Chapter 10 St. Nicholis Day

Chapter 11 Winter

Chapter 12 Dedication Sunday

DEDICATION

To Granny, who inspired me about stained glass

windows so many years ago.

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CHAPTER 1

Spring

A steady rain had drenched the field for days. It turned sod to mud and areas of the field looked like small lakes. Water ran out at one end of the field and trickled down the lane in small rivers. Colin stood at the edge of the field and watched as the rain slowly filled it. He was eleven years old, five feet 8 in. tall, unkempt brown hair and his slightly tanned skin hardened by outdoor farm work. Rainwater steadily dripped off his forehead onto his cheeks, then off to the muck on the ground. The son of an English serf in 1350 he was the youngest worker in the field. He hated it but knew he was stuck in this job because nobody else would do the work. Only me, he tho ught.

Finish the field, boy! yelled the man across the field, bringing him back to reality.

Oh… and finish it on time! he continued.

You have to spend more time tending the fields.

Do you hear me?

Colin stared at the ground as the foreman blasted his final words for the day. He hated this verbal lashing.

Yes sir.

Tears ran down his face but quickly disappeared with the rain.

Get on with it boy!

It is bloody unfair, me doin’ all this work, he blurted out.

Mind your mouth boy! said the man as he walked away.

Do what I say!

Colin knew it was his job but he still hated it. He had to do the dirty work.

Why do this? It’s too cold to grow anything in this weather!

The past two years had been so cold and cloudy it was almost impossible to grow anything¹. Just when it looked as the sun would come out and it would become warmer and perhaps dry out, clouds rolled up from the valley and it rained again.

Colin watched the clouds nearly touch the ground as they blew in from the valley below. They slowly devoured the field, then the trees, the houses near the field in his little hamlet of Birdlip. The big shipping city of Gloucester could be seen in the distance some eight miles away.

Colin’s fingers were now very cold a deep purple-blue, numb - so much so that he could barely hold the ox’s lead rope.

I do the same thing every day, he thought.

Through it all, his ox still stood quietly chewing his cud. Rain drops splashed up amidst and formed steamy wisps from his warm body where they had struck. But it didn’t disturb him.

He looks as if his back is on fire, thought Colin, who then turned and bellowed to the top of his lungs.

I hate this place! he yelled.

I … hate … this … work!

I hate this weather!

I hate being stuck here the rest of my life!

And nobody cares about me!

He wrapped the old rope around the last stump in that part of the field and attached it to the ox’s harness. As he walked to the head of the animal, Colin tried to lift a boot out of the muck but it made a wet sucking sound. He took another step but this time his other foot made the same sound.

I’ll lose my shoe if I’m not careful, he thought. He flicked his stick against the ox’s rump.

Thwack, went the stick again the back of his ox.

Move! he said.

Move you old beast!

The ox strained into his harness with all his might. The leather creaked and snapped under the strain.

Pull! He waited a few moments, then said,

Move! Again, he said,

Move!

As he flicked his stick, he stepped on a slippery wet rock in the field.

Oh no!

Down Colin fell into the wet mucky dirty ooze. The ox jumped at the sudden noise. His rope instantly went taught and then slack. The ox had also stopped moving chewing his cud just as he had before. As Colin lay there motionless in the water he felt the water begin to leak into his britches and soak onto his tunic.

Oh no, sighed Colin.

But then he looked at the old tree stump.

We did it old boy! yelled Colin.

Let’s get that stump to the side of the field.

The ox looked back at Colin and snorted. He seemed to understand what Colin had said. This time he lightly clipped his stick against the ox’s rump and they slowly moved across the field. Each footstep Colin took made the same sucking, soggy, wet sounds but he moved much faster. After the tree was moved to the side of the field, he led the ox back to a shed owned by widow Mary’s house.

Here’s your ox, mum, he yelled to her over the sound of the rain.

The old woman looked out beyond a blanket in a doorway and said,

Do you need him the rest of the week?

Yes mum.

We’ll be back tomorrow and the three days after that!

They can pay me the four eggs owed tomorrow.

I need some food, too she said.

Tie him up so he don’t get away.

Have to go, said Colin shivering and jumping around.

Go on, she laughed, Get dry.

Tell your mum hello for me, she said as she disappeared behind the blanket covering the doorway. Colin walked down the lane and occasionally stopped to pick up potential home fire sticks. The only sound that afternoon was the splat, splat, splat sound of the raindrops on his shoulders. He soon reached home; pushed the door open and walked in. His mum had just swung a cooking pot over to the hottest part of the hearth. Then she stood up and ran her fingers through her salt and pepper hair.

Stop! she said.

What happened to you? she said laughing.

I fell in the mud on the way from the field, was Colin’s reply.

I. You did

Mud and water still oozed down Colin’s face, shirt and britches and dripped off his body and formed an ever-enlarging puddle as he stood at the door. As he dropped the sticks from under his arm, Richard, his spindly eight-year-old brother, quickly ran over and picked them up.

These sticks are wet! said Richard.

How will these ever burn?

You have to let them dry for several days.

Richard threw all but the longest stick down on the floor. That one he picked up and waved as a sword.

Come on Colin and play swords.

Richard whipped the stick and smartly lunged at his brother.

Richard, his mum chimed.

Put that stick down and go do your chores.

Colin’s mum continued to chuckle.

Just look at you!

Colin looked. Tears ran down his face but they were hard to see through all the mud and water on his face.

I am so sorry about the vest.

I know how long you worked on it.

I thought you might come home like this today, she said.

Vests are to be worn in all kinds of weather.

I made this to protect you and to keep you warm.

We’ll clean it best we can.

His mum had seen Colin crying but didn’t say anything.

Ten-year old sister Elizabeth watched him from the shadows of the main room. She was also thin, but had freckles over her nose and hazel eyes.

I have hot water for you to clean up.

Come now; get out of those wet clothes.

Colin turned his back to Elizabeth as he stripped his clothes off down to his quivering goose-bumpy pale white naked skin. He was too cold to be very modest at this point.

Hurry dear!

Stand in this old tub.

Then she began to pour the warm water over his body.

Oh. Oh! That feels so good.

The warm water ran down over his chest and then