Father Matthew

Chapter 1

The morning bells rang out over the stone walls of St. Anselm's Seminary just as the first gray light touched the eastern sky. Father Matthew rose from his narrow bed in the upper chamber of the main hall, his tall frame unfolding like an old oak stretching after winter. At forty-four, he carried the years in the lines etched across his brow and the gray threading through his dark beard, but his shoulders remained broad and his step firm. He pulled on his black cassock, cinched it with a simple rope belt, and knelt briefly on the cold floor.

"Hail Mary, full of grace," he murmured, the words as familiar as his own breath. The prayer steadied him. Seminary life demanded order. He had built it that way over twelve hard years as rector.

Down in the refectory, the smell of thin porridge and baking bread already drifted through the corridors. Father Matthew walked the length of the long oak tables where novices, lectors, and younger boys sat hunched over their bowls. He paused here and there, correcting a posture, tapping a shoulder when a spoon clattered too loudly. "Discipline in small things leads to holiness in great ones," he said quietly to a yawning fourteen-year-old. The boy straightened at once.

After the morning meal came the chapter meeting in the scriptorium. Sunlight slanted through narrow windows onto rows of desks where older students copied psalms and gospel passages. Father Matthew moved among them, examining a page here, correcting a Latin conjugation there. His voice carried easily across the room, deep, measured, and edged with the authority of a man who had once ridden with knights before choosing the cloth.

"Brother Thomas, your 'i' looks like a drunken 'l'. Write it again. The Word of God deserves better than a pig's scratching."

The morning passed in study. Father Matthew returned to his own chamber after terce, the third hour of prayer, and settled at his heavy oak table piled with documents. Letters from bishops, accounts of tithes, complaints from nearby villages about wandering preachers. He read with a furrowed brow, dipping his quill now and then to note corrections. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, and outside, the wind carried the distant lowing of cattle from the seminary's small farm.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Father?" The voice belonged to Novice Wolfgang, a earnest German lad of nineteen with a thatch of straw-colored hair. "A new arrival at the gate. Says he seeks to join us."

Father Matthew set down his quill with a sigh. "Another one? We are near bursting as it is, Wolfgang. The dormitories already hold three to a cell in the east wing. If more boys come, we shall have to stack them like cordwood. This is clearly not a monastery, is it? I swore no vow of poverty, I will have you know." He glanced up with a wry smile.

Wolfgang grinned back. "Nor have I, Father. Though the bishop might say otherwise."
Both men chuckled, the sound brief and warm in the quiet room.

Then Father Matthew's expression sobered. "Still... the winter was cruel. I saw the peasants digging roots from frozen ground. If this lad seeks bread and shelter, who am I to turn him away without a hearing? Bring him to the courtyard."

They descended the worn stone stairs together. The seminary courtyard lay enclosed by high walls of gray limestone, built nearly two centuries earlier by King Henry the Second after a vow following a harsh campaign. Ivy clung to the stones, and a simple wooden cross stood at the center. Several younger boys were sweeping leaves under the watchful eye of a deacon.
The newcomer stood near the gate, clutching a threadbare woolen cloak. He was no boy. Tall and raw-boned, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, with sharp cheekbones and hollow cheeks that spoke of long hunger. His dark hair fell unkempt to his shoulders, and his hands-large, callused farmer's hands-hung awkwardly at his sides. His tunic was patched and stained, his boots cracked.

Wolfgang stepped forward. "This is hardly the place for a man grown, stranger. Our novices begin as boys of twelve or thirteen."
The young man lifted his head. His eyes, a clear gray-green, met Father Matthew's directly.

Father Matthew looked astonishingly at the young man. Father Matthew felt an odd stillness pass through him. The young man's face was striking in a severe, almost ascetic way, hollowed by hunger, yet impossible to look away from. He raised a hand, fearing the idea of never seeing the lad again.

"Peace, Wolfgang. Remember the Lord's own followers. The Apostle Peter himself was no youth when he left his nets, he had a wife, children and a household. A career. Wealth on his own. A man in his full years can still answer the call, if that is our Lord's want."

Wolfang raised his eyebrows. He was a nobleman and a very spoiled one.

The newcomer dropped suddenly to his knees on the cold flags, clasping his hands. "Please, Father. I have nowhere else. I'll work. I'll scrub floors, tend the gardens, anything. Just... food and a corner to sleep. I won't be trouble."

Up close, the man looked half-starved. His wrists were thin as kindling beneath the sleeves. Father Matthew felt an unexpected twist in his chest, a flutter he had long learned to push down. He kept his voice steady.

"Stand up, son. What is your name?"

"Richard, Father. Richard of Thornford."

"You are welcome here, Richard. Wolfgang, see that he is fed. I will speak with him after."

Wolfgang looked doubtful but obeyed. Father Matthew watched them cross the courtyard, the tall priest's gaze lingering a moment longer than it should have on the young man's weary stride. He went back to teach some of the seminarians the holy word, but his mind kept going back to Richard.

In the kitchen, steam rose from a great iron pot over the fire. The cook, Brother Jonh, a round man with flour on his sleeves, ladled thick gruel into a wooden bowl and set a heel of dark bread beside it. Richard sat at the scrubbed pine table and attacked the food like a man who had forgotten such things existed. He spooned the porridge so quickly it dribbled down his chin. He tore the bread with his teeth, chewing with noisy abandon. Father Matthew arrived and greeted the cooks. He spotted the young famished man and immediately rushed to his direction.

Father Matthew sat across from him, hands folded. "Eat slowly, Richard. There is more if you need it."

Richard glanced up, cheeks bulging. "Haven't had proper food since... since before the snows, Father." He belched. "My parents died of the fever last autumn. Duke William Fitzgerald claimed our holding. Said the rent hadn't been paid, even though I used my father's inheritance to pay it. I raised my two little sisters best I could. Made sure they were taken care of. They married this past year... good men, both farmers. With them gone and taking care of their own households... I was left with nothing but my hands and an empty belly. Did odd jobs through winter. Split wood, mended roofs. Sometimes they paid in scraps. Most days... nothing."

He belched loudly, then looked ashamed.

"Beg pardon."

Father Matthew waved it away. The sight of
Richard eating, greedy, unashamed, alive with simple need, stirred something deep and dangerous in him. The young man's throat worked as he swallowed, the sharp line of his jaw catching the firelight. There was a brute honesty to him, a raw strength beneath the hunger. Matthew found it more compelling than any polished noble youth he had ever seen.

"Another bowl, dear?" Matthew asked quietly.

Richard nodded, eyes bright. "If it's no trouble."

Brother John served more without comment. Richard ate the second helping more slowly, though still with clear relish. Between mouthfuls he spoke of the fields he had plowed, the harshness of a liege's justice, the fear of another winter without shelter.
When he finally pushed the empty bowl away and leaned back with a contented sigh, Father Matthew stood. "Come. I will show you your new home."

They walked the grounds together. Father Matthew's voice took on the cadence of a teacher as they moved through the cloister. "King Henry built these walls after his penance for the murder of Thomas Becket. He wished to strengthen the Church in England. Before me, Father Clement served here forty years, a stern man, but fair. He took care of me as if I were his own blood. The bishops in Rome speak well of St. Anselm's. We send good priests into the world."

Richard nodded, eyes wide at the arched hallways and the small library with its chained books. "It's finer than anything I've seen. How did you come to be a priest, Father?"

Matthew smiled faintly. "I was the fourth son of Count Geoffrey of Northridge. So I could either choose The Church or a landless knight's life. I chose the surer path to heaven." He paused beside a statue of the Virgin. "God is not gentle, Richard. He is a refiner's fire. He tests us with hunger, with loss, with cold. But in His house there is always bread for those who seek Him truly."

Richard touched the stone base of the statue with rough fingers. "I don't know much of Latin or prayers. But I can work. And I believe in a God who sees a man hungry and doesn't turn away."

"Good. That is enough to begin." Matthew met his eyes. "I will teach you Latin myself. Private lessons. You will need it for the offices."

Richard's face showed genuine surprise and gratitude. "Thank you, Father. I won't disappoint."

Matthew led him to a small cell in the east wing, narrow bed, wooden stool, crucifix on the whitewashed wall, a single window looking over the fields. "This is yours. Rest tonight. Tomorrow your true work begins."
They parted at the door. Richard's quiet "God bless you" followed Matthew down the corridor.

Later that afternoon, after nones, Wolfgang appeared again at Father Matthew's chamber. "Lord Eldrich has sent his youngest son. Twelve years old. Bright lad. Well-lettered already."

Matthew looked up from his desk. The boy stood beside Wolfgang, with golden hair, small frame, pale and sickly blue eyes, dressed in fine wool with a silver pin at his cloak. He had the soft hands of a noble.

"Take him back," Matthew said.

Wolfgang blinked. "Father?"

"Tell Lord Eldrich we are full. The last place belongs to Richard of Thornford. There are other seminaries."

The noble boy looked confused. Wolfgang hesitated. "A peasant over the son of a lord? The right thing to do is send Richard to another seminary... there are ones specifically made for his station... The bishop..."

"Here there are no lords and no peasants before God," Matthew cut in, voice firm. "Only souls. Close the door on your way out."

When they had gone, Matthew sat back in his chair. The fire had burned low. Outside, the bells rang for vespers. He closed his eyes, but the image that rose was not of prayer. It was Richard in the kitchen, head bent over the bowl, eating as though the food itself was grace, throat moving, strong hands gripping the spoon. The young glutton, rough and starving and utterly alive.
Matthew pressed a hand to his chest, where his heart beat too quickly. He whispered a prayer for strength, but the words felt thin against the warmth spreading through him.

The seminary settled into evening quiet. Candles were lit in the chapel. Voices rose in plainchant. And in his chamber, Father Matthew sat alone with new thoughts he knew he should not entertain, yet could not quite banish. The long winter had brought more than one lost soul to these gates. This one, he sensed, had come for reasons even God might smile upon in secret.

But for some unholy reason, Richard could swear Father Matthew was watching him eat with a little unique interest.