A Monk's Tale

By Owen A. Heberling

Brother Mathias-or Grog, as he is known to his fellow monks in the Benedictine monastery where he lives-is what we would today call a cranky old man. Short with his peers and often insubordinate to his superiors, this aging but talented artisan repeatedly gets himself in trouble with his temper. Having had enough of the little monk's impertinence, Grog's abbot relents to the pressure of the corrupt bishop and rents out the little monk for a cask of good Italian wine. And the adventure begins.

Follow the little monk as he copes with life outside the protection of his abbey. Meet Hansel the page boy, Lartharg the dragon, and Sir Orville and other good and evil knights. Join Grog as he comes to terms with his fate and pursues it to justice and redemption in medieval Bavaria where superstition thrives but courage rules.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636921716

Book preview

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Copyright © 2021 Owen A. Heberling

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-63692-170-9 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63692-171-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

To the children of Au Clair who slept while I wrote and the many staff who encouraged me.

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Ah, some warmth, he said, easing himself off his crude stool and stepping to the open natural window.

He closed his eyes, stretched his arms, and basked in the rays for a few moments, enjoying the wonderful warmth on his face. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the sun was eclipsed by another cloud, and the warmth disappeared with it.

Satan’s breath, he swore, tugging at his long, gray beard in frustration. Cold, always the cold!

Lartharg, he called, peering out his rocky window. You up there, wake up, you fat worm!

No response.

Angrily, he picked up a hooked stick, which he used to close the shutters at night, and beat it noisily on the rock above his window.

The clatter roused the dragon.

What’s all the racket about? Every time I get into a nice dream, you have to spoil it, Lartharg said groggily.

While you’re up there all cozy, I’m down here freezing, yelled Grog; for such was the name his brother monks had given him years ago not long after he had entered the monastery as an adolescent. Don’t you think it’s time to fire up a log or two in the fireplace?

There aren’t many left, replied the dragon.

Well, get some more then before my blood freezes over, snapped Grog.

You know your supplies are strictly rationed, stated the dragon matter-of-factly.

But it’s so cooold, Grog said, shivering.

Rules are rules, Lartharg sang childishly.

Oh, forget it, Grog said, not wanting to lower himself in the eyes of this young reptile.

By pacing his small cell and beating his arms against his chest, he was able to warm himself sufficiently to think of other things. It was too cold to continue working.

His mind drifted back to the days he’d spent in the Benedictine monastery as an illustrator of illuminated manuscripts. He had been comfortable there with his work and his friends and warm most of the time. His mental comfort had been another thing, however. In that setting, he was only occasionally able to express himself, and then he often said things to the other brothers which they could only interpret as heresy. His mouth—not his intellect—had kept him from advancement these many years.

One day, more than a year ago, the bishop made a surprise visit to the monastery. Naturally, he wanted to visit the scriptorium where the skilled monks worked on manuscripts. Grog was enrapt in his work when the bishop entered the room with the abbot, Father Steiner.

All rise for His Excellency, the bishop, the abbot cried.

All complied, save Brother Grog, who continued working on his manuscript, unaware of the important visitor.

Brother Matthias! Father Steiner boomed, for such was Grog’s official name in his religious order. On your feet for the bishop!

Ayee! cried Grog, jumping from his stool in a panic.

As he did so, the sleeve of his habit caught an inkpot and launched its spewing contents at the bishop who stood just a few feet away. Ink soiled the bishop’s pristine white alb, leaving a black splotch and splatters on his fine red slippers.

Grog immediately understood this disaster and groveled on his knees, trying to kiss the hem of the bishop’s garment.

For a moment, the besplattered bishop said nothing, for such things didn’t happen to prelates of his position. As reality sank in, however, his became enraged.

How dare you defile my garments! he screamed between clenched teeth. Who is this clumsy oaf?

Oh, Your Excellency! Father Steiner groaned in embarrassment.

I, I am so sorry, interjected Grog. I didn’t see you, your Bishophood!

Silence, Brother! That is no way to address His Excellency, yelled the angry Abbot.

Tense seconds passed as the bishop attempted to compose himself, and a member of his entourage desperately tried to wipe the offending stains from his gown with a damp rag proffered by one of the monks in attendance. This, of course, only made it worse.

Ach, it will never come out! cried the bishop, petulantly pushing the lackey’s fussing hands away in frustration. God protect us from clumsy idiots like you, you—insect you!

Have mercy on him, Your Excellency, pleaded Father Steiner. He is old and hears not so well anymore. He is also a gifted artist. Here, look at what he’s working on—

Calmer now, the bishop ignored the abbot’s suggestion and walked around the scriptorium looking at each monk’s project. He ended his inspection back at Grog’s work table.

Interesting, very interesting, he said half to himself, as he leafed through finished parchments from the cubby holes in Grog’s desk.

He replaced the works, eyed the monk keenly, and then turned on his heel and exited the scriptorium with the abbot and his entourage in tow.

Return to your labors, directed Father Steiner as he closed the door behind him.

The bishop dismissed his lackeys, and Father Steiner led him to his office for further discussion.

*****

Truly, that Brother Matthias of yours deserves to be whipped within an inch of his life, you know, uttered the bishop slyly.

Yes, Your Excellency, yes, and I shall see it done if you wish it. But he is one of our best artisans, and I would hate to—

You would hate to damage him beyond his ability to do his duties? Is that it, Father? the bishop remonstrated.

Yes, Your Excellency, yes. Thank you for understanding.

He does seem to possess some talent, doesn’t he?

Yes, he has an eye for—

I’ll be frank with you, Father, interrupted the bishop. I am visiting monasteries outside my district looking for gifted artists. What would you say if I said I would like to borrow him for a little while, Father?

Old Grog? the abbot chuckled in disbelief, suddenly realizing that the bishop was serious. Oh, well, I don’t know.

I see you are reluctant to lose him. Let me come to the point, Father. My brother, Baron Von Kremeld needs skilled artisans to adorn a castle which he is renovating near Munich. I think Brother Matthias could be useful to him, explained the bishop.

Father Steiner rubbed his chin in thought for a moment. Though the bishop had no real authority over any monastery out of his district, he could make trouble for the abbot if he did not give in to the bishop’s request. But Brother Matthias’s family, he suddenly remembered. was from that area. An idea came into the abbot’s mind that that could work. Old Grog could be closer to his family.

How much would your brother, the baron, be willing to donate to our modest abbey?

Hmmmm, I had not thought of remuneration, Father. But I think we can come to some arrangement, replied the bishop slyly, rubbing his chin. A couple casks of good wine from Italy?

Ten would do it, retorted the abbot.

Too much! responded the bishop. I’ll go three and not—

Four casks of the best wine Italy has to offer, and we have a deal, Father Steiner offered excitedly.

Oh, all right, four casks, the bishop said reluctantly, shaking the abbot’s hand and making the sign of the cross to seal the agreement. You drive a hard bargain, Father. You should be running a stall in the market.

After all, my brother will have to furnish the wine, not me, the bishop thought with a chuckle.

Now, all that talk of wine has made me thirsty, Father. Break out that wine I know you have hidden and let’s have a taste.

An hour later, a tipsy bishop was escorted to the guest cell and tucked in for the night by a priest in his entourage.

*****

Just after Vespers, about 7:00 p.m., Grog was summoned to Abbot Steiner’s office.

My son, the abbot began gravely, I have…an important assignment for you.

Yeeees, Father, Grog replied suspiciously, for he was sure he was here to be flogged, eyeing the cruel instrument hanging on the wall.

There will be no punishment today, Brother, though you deserve it, the abbot said kindly. The bishop has seen skill in your work and his brother, Baron Von Kremeld, needs your talents for his castle. If I am not mistaken, you will be helping other artists paint decorative murals on communal walls. If you behave yourself, life will be easy for you; but if you act impetuously and—might I add, oafishly—you might have a hard time of it.

Grog’s head swirled with disappointment. He thought of his friends here and the daily routine which, over the years, he had come to love.

But, Reverend Father, he pleaded, almost wailing, It has been years since I have been more than a short distance from the abbey. I am not a man of the world. How will I get on?

"I’m sure you will do fine, Brother, if you remember your training and your prayers. It may be a cruel world beyond the gates of St. Benedict’s, but