"Yet Sir Oliver demands a mill tax to himself, though he has no just cause for it, except that his army controls this territory. Therefore my Lord Abbot is well pleased that Arnaut should vow to return the mill to the monastery, and end the tax. And thus are we friendly to the men of Arnaut."
Chris listened to all this, thinking, My thesis! It was all exactly as his research had shown. Although some people still thought of the Middle Ages as a backward time, Chris knew it had actually been a period of intense technological development, and in that sense, not so different from our own. In fact, the industrial mechanization that became a characteristic feature of the West first began in the Middle Ages. The greatest source of power available at the time - water power - was aggressively developed, and employed to do ever more kinds of work: not only grinding grain but fulling cloth, blacksmithing, beer mashing, woodworking, mixing mortar and cement, papermaking, rope making, oil pressing, preparing dyes for cloth, and powering bellows to heat blast furnaces for steel. All over Europe, rivers were dammed, and dammed again half a mile downstream; mill boats were tethered beneath every bridge. In some places, cascades of mills, one after another, successively used the energy of flowing water.
Mills were generally operated as a monopoly, and they provided a major source of income - and of conflict. Lawsuits, murders and battles were the constant accompaniment of mill activity. And here was an example that showed -
"And yet," Marek was saying, "I see the mill is still in the hands of Lord Oliver, for his pennant flies from the towers and his archers man the battlements."
"Oliver holds the mill bridge," the monk said, "because the bridge is close to the road to La Roque, and whoever controls the mill controls the road. But Arnaut will soon take the mill from them."
"And return it to you."
"Indeed."
"And what will the monastery do for Arnaut in return?"
"We will bless him, of course," the monk said. And after a moment, he added, "And we will pay him handsomely, too."
They passed through a scriptorium, where monks sat in rows at their easels, silently copying manuscripts. But to Marek, it looked all wrong; instead of a meditative chant, their work was accompanied by the shouts and banging of the game in the cloister. And despite the old Cistercian proscription against illustration, many monks were painting illustrations in the corners and along the margins of manuscripts. The painters sat with an array of brushes and stone dishes of different colors. Some of the illustrations were brilliantly ornate.
"This way," the monk said, and led them down a staircase and into a small sunlit courtyard. To one side, Marek saw eight soldiers in the colors of Arnaut, standing in the sun. He noticed that they wore their swords.
The monk led them toward a small house at the edge of the courtyard, and then through a door. They heard the trickle of running water and saw a fountain with a large basin. They heard chanted prayers, in Latin. In the center of the room, two robed monks washed a naked, pale body lying on a table.
"Frater Marcellus," the monk whispered, giving a slight bow.
Marek stared. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing.
Brother Marcel was dead.
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Their reaction gave them away. The monk could clearly see that they had not known Marcel was dead. Frowning, he took Marek by the arm, and said, "Why are you here?"
"We had hoped to speak with Brother Marcel."
"He died last night."
"How did he die?" Marek said.
"We do not know. But as you can see, he was old."
"Our request of him was urgent," Marek said. "Perhaps if I could see his private effects - "
"He had no private effects."
"But surely some personal articles - "
"He lived very simply."
Marek said, "May I see his room?"
"I am sorry, that is not possible."
"But I would greatly appreciate it if - "
"Brother Marcel lived in the mill. His room has been there for many years."
"Ah." The mill was now under control of Oliver's troops. They could not go there, at least not at the moment.
"But perhaps I can help you. Tell me, what was your urgent request?" the monk asked. He spoke casually, but Marek was immediately cautious.
"It was a private matter," Marek said. "I cannot speak of it."
"There is nothing private here," the monk said. He was edging toward the door. Marek had the distinct feeling that he was going to raise an alarm.
"It was a request from Magister Edwardus."
"Magister Edwardus!" The monk's manner completely changed. "Why did you not say so? And what are you to Magister Edwardus?"
"Faith, we are his assistants."
"Certes?"
"In deed, it is so."
"Why did you not say it? Magister Edwardus is welcome here, for he was performing a service for the Abbot when he was taken by Oliver."
"Ah."
"Come with me now at once," he said. "The Abbot will wish to see you."
"But we have - "
"The Abbot will wish it. Come!"
Back in the sunlight, Marek noticed how many more soldiers in green and black were now in the monastery courtyards. And these soldiers were not lounging; they were watchful, battle-ready.
The Abbot's house was small, made of ornately carved wood, and located in a far corner of the monastery. They were led inside to a small wood-paneled anteroom, where an older monk, hunched and heavy as a toad, sat before a closed door.