“But outside the Scriptorium——”
“Where I never go.” The Sub-Cantor had been excused even digging in the garden, lest it should mar his wonderful book-binding hands.
“In all things outside the Scriptorium you are the master-fool of Christendie. Take it from me, Clement. I’ve met many.”
“I take everything from you,” Clement smiled benignly. “You use me worse than a singing-boy.”
They could hear one of that suffering breed in the cloister below, squalling as the Cantor pulled his hair.
“God love you! So I do! But have you ever thought how I lie and steal daily on my travels—yes, and for aught you know, murder—to fetch you colours and earths?”
“True,” said just and conscience-stricken Clement. “I have often thought that were I in the world—which God forbid!—I might be a strong thief in some matters.”
Even Brother Martin, bent above his loathed De Virtutibus, laughed.
But about mid-summer, Thomas the Infirmarian conveyed to John the Abbot’s invitation to supper in his house that night, with the request that he would bring with him anything that he had done for his Great Luke.