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Next morning, we are back with the tutors in the library of the monastery that serves as the instruction room to the sons of the royal court and village officials. John is busy visiting with the other boys though I notice his eyes are red and his hair mussed. He found the lonely bottle, ’tis my guess. Finally, he turns and notices me.
“Matthew, a fine day, don’t you say.”
“Aye, a rosy one if through your eyes,” I answer, and my classmates laugh having also noticed his disheveled appearance. Malcolm joins in the banter, but he watches John with narrowed eyes. Not forgotten is yesterday’s smack nor John’s sly escape from the coach’s stick.
“Good one, chap,” he replies, and then the tutor arrives.
No shinty practice today as it is raining by day’s end. Others surge back to their cotta
