The Door in the Wall: List 1

There were half-a-dozen others within sound, each clamoring to be heard.

Tears of vexation started to his eyes, but he held them back, for he remembered that a brave and “gentil” knight does not cry.

He would learn how to be of service to his liege lord, how to be courteous and gentle, and, at the same time, strong of heart.

He knew the sound of armor and knightly equipment, for the King’s men passed that way going to and from the Tower or Westminster, to joust or tournament, to parade, or on business for the King.

She was near enough so he could hear the creak of her starched linen coif as she peered at him to see whether he was asleep.

“Wilt not have this good porridge all with honey spread?” Ellen’s coaxing voice went on.

“Sweet lad,” she begged, “’twill give thee strength and mend those ailing limbs.”

“Wicked boy!” she cried. “No more will I serve thee. Scarce able to stand have I been this day, yet have I been faithful. But I am a free woman and can go my way. Just wait and see when more victuals are brought thee! Ungrateful wretch!”

"Wicked boy!" she cried. “No more will I serve thee. Scarce able to stand have I been this day, yet have I been faithful. But I am a free woman and can go my way. Just wait and see when more victuals are brought thee! Ungrateful wretch!”

He studied one by one the grotesque carvings of dwarfs that decorated the roof bosses, and the corbels finishing the doorway.

No sound of talk or laughter came from the hall, for most of the servants and retainers had gone either with his father, Sir John de Bureford, or with his mother, the Lady Maud.

“Good eve, my son,” he said. “I am Brother Luke, a wandering friar, newly come to St. Mark’s. I have brought thee food, and, cause ’tis Friday, fish.”

“It is well known that thy noble father hath of his goodness given money to St. Mark’s. So to St. Mark’s I’ll take thee, and will care for thee in mine own quarters, because all other beds and places are already taken by those in the parish who have great need. Even the corridors are filled and the cloisters lined with pallets.”

“It is well known that thy noble father hath of his goodness given money to St. Mark’s. So to St. Mark’s I’ll take thee, and will care for thee in mine own quarters, because all other beds and places are already taken by those in the parish who have great need. Even the corridors are filled and the cloisters lined with pallets.”

“It is well known that thy noble father hath of his goodness given money to St. Mark’s. So to St. Mark’s I’ll take thee, and will care for thee in mine own quarters, because all other beds and places are already taken by those in the parish who have great need. Even the corridors are filled and the cloisters lined with pallets.”

“But I cannot walk,” said Robin woefully.

"...He came later to fetch me, but found me thus, unable to walk or ride. He brought a surgeon who said I had not the plague but some other malady. He told Ellen to feed me well and that he would return. He came not again nor did John-the-Fletcher.”

He pulled the hood down over Robin’s head and settled it around his shoulders while he held him against his coarse-woven monk’s frock.

Out through the door in the wall of the courtyard they went, into the street, Robin leaning against Brother Luke, and the jennet picking her way sedately over the cobbles.

The bells clamored as loudly as ever, but now the sound was associated with the regular procession of the monks going to devotions.

There, visiting pilgrims, knights at arms, merchants, and minstrels gathered, each awaiting the attention of the Prior.

Because there were few inns, the monasteries were open for the entertainment of wayfarers, rich and poor alike.

One day Brother Luke said, “It is time now to try thee sitting up.” He was rubbing Robin’s legs as he did every day, talking the while. “If thy hands are busy, time will pass more quickly. Dost like to whittle?”

At first he scarcely knew where to begin to bring out the shape of a boat, but little by little it began to round out and at one end a point began to appear, as if it had been a prow.

“But ’tis made of good mutton in which bay and marigold have been seethed,” Brother Luke coaxed.

“But ’tis made of good mutton in which bay and marigold have been seethed,” Brother Luke coaxed.

He began to recognize sounds as he had done before, and to associate footsteps and differing gaits with the people to whom they belonged.

He finished the hull on the fourth day of the second week.

“I see this is to be a sailing boat after all, instead of a barge,” said Brother Luke. “It is somewhat awry, with the bow aslant from the stern, but it hath an air, as if it had been battling the storm.”

He even begged a scrap of silk ribbon from a traveler for Robin to use as a pennant for the masthead.

The pages were of sheepskin, called parchment, and were covered with careful lettering and decorations.

“Keep your filthy hands off me, lout!” he shouted.

“Fie on thee for an impertinent lad! Still, ‘Crookshanks’ he is, truly. His legs will be as good as thine one day, boy, and then he shall keep thee company right enough, on his feet.” He went on toward the chapel, speaking to Robin over his shoulder as they went.

This boy is called Geoffrey Atte-Water, because he lives by the River Fleet and tends the conduit there with his father.

“That is the right of it,” agreed the friar. “When Geoffrey called thee ‘Crookshanks,’ he did it because thy legs are thy legs and none others. Richard Smaltrot is he with the short step, and not Richard Crowfoot, whose feet splay out like fans.”