The injury is from cannon fire, and Abel was lucky not to die - other men did that day, and although he has a stiffness to his side and his right arm has a permanent weakness to it, he knows he should still be grateful to live. It's hard to be grateful with a rumbling belly even though the pain has mostly faded, even though it just throbs and aches now and then instead of being the horrible pain it was a few months ago.
Only a little of the shrapnel had gotten him, cutting into the inside of his arm and hurting some of the muscle there - most of the damage was from a sudden flare of fire.
It's not very visible, but no one will take him on for carpentry or farmwork or smithing or anything else - if he doesn't get any work in the next week or so, it's his intention to go back to the coast, to see if he might work with a sailmaker, or failing that, fish for a while.
He'd thought that with the summer festival, with all the people travelling through the city for the market, he'd be able to pick up work with someone, somewhere, but there's been no such luck - at the very least, people have been free with their charity, and the nights have been warm enough to sleep outside.
"You there, boy," says a voice in the market, and Abel turns to look at the approaching figure. He's a monk, tall and thin, wearing dark brown robes and a straw hat to keep the sun from his face - as he moves, his skirts sway, and Abel is reminded of the way jellyfish move in the water as he stands there, frozen. "Mr Tee tells me you're in search of employment."
"Yes, sir," says Abel, and he stiffens for a second, feeling the urge to try to hide his arm, or to disguise it, somehow. "I'm, um," he says hesitantly, "I'm not a Papist."
"I couldn't care less," the monk says in a very smooth, rich voice. There's a slight crackle in it, the sort that some old men get, and altogether it's very nice. "Keep your mouth shut, young man."
The monk takes him by the chin, his hand slightly cool, and tips his face up so that he can gaze into Abel's face, look at his eyes, at his cheeks. He turns Abel's face one way, apparently peering into one of his ears, and then turns him the other. His gaze drops from Abel's ear to the burn scars visible on his neck, and then he hooks a finger under Abel's shirt collar, pulling it down so that he can see the scarring better.
Abel's skin is on fire, blushing so hard all of a sudden he actually feels dizzy, but he lets the monk examine him, doesn't resist or pull away or say anything. It's not dissimilar to the way the surgeon had examined him several times over the course of his healing, or the other ways he's been examined onboard his ship in the past few years.
One must submit to such things, sometimes, if one wishes to find work.
"Extend your hand," orders the monk, and Abel hesitates for a second, but then puts out his good arm, and the monk presses and touches over the length of his arm, putting pressure on his upper arm, his elbow, his wrist, then his palm, pushing out each of his fingers. It feels... Nice, in a way.
It's strange - he's been aboard ships for most of his life, and he's used to being in close contact with other men. Being on land during his recovery, during his time begging and searching for work, he's never felt quite so distant from other men, quite so untouched.
"And the other," the monk instructs him.
Abel puts out his other hand, this one trembling, and the monk tugs it to further extend. Abel hisses in pain as the monk puts the same pressure on his upper arm, although he's gentler as he presses on the inside of his elbow again, his wrist, his palm. He lets out an embarrassing half-whine as the monk slides his thumb
hard
up the inside of his forearm, does something that makes his nerves jangle and then relax, warm relief radiating out from him.
"Mm, yes," decides the monk. "We'll take you."
"But I'm not a—"
"Do you want room, board, and raiment, or not?"
Abel's stomach is
aching
, and he feels dizzy and exhausted, utterly overwrought - it's a warm day, and he'd been about to go and sit down. He nods, and the monk taps his fingers to the side of Abel's face, a gentle smack that makes his body jump, and a sort of thrill run through him.
"Brother Andrew, take this boy to the cart, will you?" the monk calls over one of his shoulders, and one of the monks who isn't packing their wares back onto the cart comes over from the group of monks. "Feed him something - some bread and honey. A little wine, too, but water it down."
"Yes, Abbot Thomas," says Andrew, and Abel feels his jaw drop. Except for wearing a larger crucifix, the abbot doesn't look any different to the regular monks, and he suddenly wonders if he was meant to be doing something else, saying something else.
Before he can say thank you - before he can say anything - Brother Andrew has taken him under the good elbow, and is leading him over to the cart.
They feed him, and he's so grateful he could cry.
* * *
The monastery is some hours' coach ride from the city proper, is settled amidst beautiful meadows of flowers, and others that are lined with vines on wooden frames, fields and fields of them. The stone abbey rests in the midst of it all, and Abel stares out over the beautiful fields as the cart comes into the front square.
He wonders if they're going to have him tend to the grapes, or help with the bees to harvest honey or brew mead, or if they'll have him help with the horses, or—
Something.
In the end, he isn't assigned any significant labours at all.
Abel is brought to a cell of his own apart from the monk's dormitories, where most of the monks sleep in rows with little separation between them except for wooden screens - his cell adjoins the abbot's personal chapel at the base of his tower, and is the most private lodging in the whole building, but for the abbot's own quarters.
Inside is a bed beside a stained-glass window depicting the angel Michael, a dresser, a table. He's never had so large a lodging all to himself, not in the whole of his life - he's slept in rows with other sailors, in hammocks or on the floor; he's shared a room with his mother and sisters; he's slept out of doors, but often where other beggars were sleeping, too.
"You are free to move about the abbey's grounds as you please," Abbot Thomas tells him the first evening after having him strip down so that he can examine him more carefully.
The other monks had told him on the cart that Abbot Thomas had written some texts on physicking, and he had an extensive garden of herbs from which he brewed and created different tinctures and cures, and that he sometimes brought people to the abbey to recover after illnesses.
"What work will I do?" asks Abel as the abbot turns him to one side and carefully examines the burns that cover the majority of his side, some of them curving down about one of his hips. They don't hurt anymore, really, except for the skin not stretching as much anymore so he feels stiff if he moves wrong - they were fairly shallow burns, the surgeon had told him.
