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Totally not protocol, because you were supposed to stand quietly until otherwise instructed, as I’d learned the hard way on my first visit, a mere three hours after entering the monastery. A new record, apparently. And all I’d done was ask how much longer prayers would take.
How little I’d known back then, because the answer was, prayers never ended. They merely allowed mini breaks for us to sneak in a little work, sleep, or food. Then it was right back to the never-ending cycle.
The abbot looked at me. I looked back.
I persisted in breaking protocol in vague hopes of someday getting expelled, though I’d never gone as far as putting my feet on his desk.
“Friar Tuck,” he began at his usual slow pace.
I resisted the urge to stir the air with my hands.
“You’ll be taking your vows soon.”
His pauses were hard to identify, given the ponderous manner of his speech, but as the silence stretched, I decided it was a pause, indeed.
I gritted my teeth, waiting. He didn’t expect me to cry, Yippee! and throw my hands in the air, did he?
“Father Benjamin and I have met and discussed your case…” he went on.
I held back a snort. Cyril, I was sure, did not have a case. Neither did Bartholomew or any of the other novices. But my file was probably as thick as the biggest volumes in the library.
The library, my lion sighed, thinking of Marian.
“It seems you have had difficulties adjusting in the six months you have been here…” he said.
I nearly burst out laughing at the understatement.
“…which naturally leads us to question your prospects of ever doing so.”
Nil, I nearly cut in. The prospects are nil. I will never, ever adjust to this life, no matter how long I might live.
My lion mourned. To think, we could have spent our time with Marian.
That was new. Normally, the thought was more along the lines of, We could have spent our time as a knight.
That too, my lion threw in, but only as an afterthought.
I looked at the abbot. It killed me to think of someday being as old and gray as him with nothing to show for it but a hell of a lot of prayers. Not that I had anything against prayers — just the sheer volume of them.
“Therefore, we have come to a decision,” he announced.
Sweat broke out on my brow. What if he transferred me to another monastery — somewhere far from Sherwood Forest and, worse, from Marian?
“Much as it pains us — and much as it will no doubt pain your family — we have decided to remove you from the path you have set upon.”
I frowned. What exactly did that mean? A path of sin? If so, which one?
He motioned to the door. “Go, my son. May God have mercy on your soul.”
I peeked in case an executioner stood by the door. Was I being sent to the gallows?
“Go on, then,” he chided me. “Shoo.”
Shoo?
I looked at the door, then back at him. “Go…where?”
He motioned again, irritated. “Just go. You are free. We relieve you of the duties you are so ill-suited for.”
