"So why do you think I brought you along?" Questions don't qualify as fibs. "But it's your choice. I can make a try at it on my own."
"Oh, I don't mind," Magnus said quickly. Rod gave the boy points; he didn't want to hurt Papa's feelings by letting him botch the job. And Magnus had practiced a lot more, Rod had to admit.
Magnus stared at the crack, and the wire melted and flowed, though the fire wasn't really hot enough to do it. Rod knew that, under the cover of golden metal, the iron of the pot was softening all along the crack line and beginning to flow together as Magnus excited the molecules. The kid really had great control—the intense heat spread only about half an inch from the crack on either side. Rod had checked that, the last time Magnus had mended a pan for his mother.
They were so absorbed in their work that Rod was able to pretend not to notice the parish priest come striding up behind the young wife who had run to tell him the news.
The pot glowed red along the seam, then yellow, but the villagers couldn't see that under the flow of the welding wire.
Then Magnus relaxed. Rod took his cue and lifted the pot away from the flames, setting it aside to cool. "Let it stand an hour, goodwife. Then try it, and I'll warrant you'll find it as good as new." He was quite sure of that.
"Quickly done, and quite well," said the priest. "Thou art the most skillful tinker that ever I've seen."
"Why, thank'ee." Rod looked up, then widened his eyes and added, "Father," as though just realizing he was speaking to a priest.
The friar smiled. "I am Father Bellora, good tinker. Be at peace."
Rod tried to look nervous. "Hast thou a pot to mend?"
"Not a pot, but a heart." Anxiety creased the friar's face. "Is't true, this news that ye bring?"
"What—that the Church of Gramarye be parted from the Church of Rome?" Rod shrugged. " Tis the news, Father. Canst not say if 'tis true?"
"I have not heard speak of it." The friar shoved his hands into the sleeves of his robe, his face taut, his eyes haunted. "Nay, then, can it be sooth?"
"If 'tis, Father," a woman asked with foreboding, "canst thou still say mass?"
"Or," Rod quipped, trying to lighten the atmosphere, "must we needs stop dying till thou canst once more say the funeral?"
The friar's lips quirked with amusement. "Nay, surely not. 'Tis years since I was ordained; my hands are yet consecrated to the Eucharist and the work of God. I may minister the Sacraments, unless the Pope doth place Gramarye under the Inderdict."
The little crowd was silent, aghast at the thought of Rome abandoning them to the Devil.
Rod made a feeble try at his original purpose. "Canst not send word to the monastery to ask if 'tis true?"
The priest shook his head. "Only were I to discover some holy friar who doth thither wend."
"Yet there must needs be some soul in this village who hath a son or sib at the abbey, who may come bearing word."
Father Bellora frowned down at him, then shook his head. "Nay. None here have folk in holy orders, save myself, and I do not hearken from this village."
"Hast no friends from thy days of schooling?"
The priest's smile soured. "Aye, friends did I gain whilst I did study holy writ; yet they, too, are among the parishes, even as I am."
"Why, how is this?" Rod said, scowling, even though he knew well. "Are not all friars taught together?"
"Nay," the priest said. "We are not all numbered among the elect."
"Not?" Rod pretended to be startled. "Yet I thought that once tha wert of the monastery, tha wert all as one."
"Nay, neither in heart nor in schooling. Some are drawn away into the cloister, and some remain in the novice's dormitory and scriptorium."
A separate scriptorium for the novices? As monasteries went, this was definitely something new. "And those who rest without, do go without?"
Father Bellora nodded. "Out to the world from which we came, to contend with the temptations and burdens that divert a man from Heaven."
"Yet 'tis a holy calling withal." Magnus sounded shocked. "How would the… we poor folks find our way to Heaven without such as thee?"
Father Bellora's face softened. "Truly said, lad, and I thank thee. Fie upon me that I may let old bitterness rise to veil the worth of my life from me! For I must own, my superiors were right; I have found this life rich in a feeling of others' need. Never, since my first week here, have I asked why I was made."
"Yet thou didst not choose it?" Rod frowned; he had had visions of a parchment application form. "Didst thou wish the cloister, Father?"
"Aye, as do all young men who go there. Well, mayhap not all," the priest corrected, "but surely the greater number of us. Yet 'tis not for a postulant to decide his own course; there are older heads than his, and wiser, who can read his calling more clearly than he himself."
"Yet tha dost feel thaself set aside, as lesser clay," Rod interpreted.
Father Bellora's shoulders shook with a single ironic laugh. "Aye, 'tis quite foolish when thou dost say it aloud, is't not? For surely the parish priests serve God as fully as they who are cloistered, mayhap more, and surely we are no lesser stuff."
"Mayhap better," Magnus suggested. "For must ye not be stronger, to withstand the temptations of the world and bear up under its burdens?"
Father Bellora nodded, an approving glint in his eye. "Aye, so we were told, though I put it down as an attempt to persuade us to remain in the order, and to console us for being among those rejected. Yet I have come to see the truth of it."
"Yet who bid thee be a parish priest?" Rod asked. "How could they tell?"
Father Bellora spread his hands. "I know not. Mayhap when
I am aged, I will. Tis they of the cloister who decide—and the seniors among them, at that."
"Yet how can they know this of thee?"
"A wise old monk sat down and spoke with me a while. Then on the next day, after Mass, the master of novices took me aside to tell me my fate."
"Only that?" Magnus stared. "Only some minutes' talk?"
"Perchance the half of an hour. Yet 'tis even as thou dost say—on that they decided my fate. That and the report of the Master of Postulants," the priest said thoughtfully. "He had watched me for two days, at that."
"Two days, and half an hour's talk, to decide a life's work?"
"Be not so dismayed." Father Bellora turned to Magnus with a smile. "The wise old monk was right, after all."
"Yet still dost thou wish to be of the cloister!"
"That is my besetting sin," the priest sighed, "overweening pride. I pray daily that it may be lifted from me."
"Canst thou not be what thou dost wish?"
"Nay." Father Bellora gave Magnus his full attention now. "For look you, lad, 'tis not only hard work and determination that will win thee the work thou dost wish—'tis also a matter of talent. In cloister, I doubt not, I would have been too restless, though I find it hard to credit—and, belike, I'd be beset by a feeling of lack of purpose. Nay, he who judged me, judged well." The last sentence sounded definitely forced.
Rod was impressed by the man's merciless self-evaluation. "Yet have they never erred, these monks, in their judgment as to who should go, and who should stay?"
The priest shook his head. "Never, so far as I know."
"Father! Father!" A young man in a farmer's smock came running up. "Praise Heaven I've found thee!"
The priest turned, attention completely on the runner. "Good day, Lirak. What troubles thee?"
" 'Tis old Sebastian, Father! He hath fallen in the field, and's breath doth rattle in's throat! Oh, come, I beg thee!"
Father Bellora glanced at Rod and Magnus. "Thy pardon, yet here's one who doth stand in need of me." He pressed his breast pocket, next to the tiny yellow handle of the emblem of his order. "Aye, the sacred oil's there. Nay, show me the way, Lirak." And he hurried away after the boy.
Rod watched them go. "Well, they didn't make any mistake about that one, anyway."
"Ay
e, one." Magnus scowled. "Yet they must have erred now and again, Papa!"
Rod glanced around; all the housewives seemed to have gone home, probably to discuss the scandalous news about the Church by themselves. "Yes, that definitely sounds a bit odd, son, not to mention inhuman. They couldn't possibly have a perfect track record on something like that. There're just too many variables."
"Mayhap the postulants each have some sort of sign impressed on their foreheads, that we mere mortal folk cannot see," Magnus said.
Rod looked more closely at his boy, surprised at the sarcasm. He was definitely beginning to grow up. "Well, they know what to look for, at any rate." He frowned at a notion. "Or, more likely, they never know about their mistakes."
Magnus looked puzzled.
"Look," Rod explained, "if a parish priest starts sinning, they can just say he has weakened."
Magnus's eyes widened. "Aye, and if a monk doth make a clamor in the cloister, they may say 'tis only that he doth lack discipline!"
"On your home territory there, are you? But you do have the gist of it there, yes. Makes sense, doesn't it?"
"Too much so!"
"Well, they're only human," Rod sighed. "They've got to do the best they can under the circumstances."
"Nay, they need not! They could let each postulant choose his own way, and try it!"
"Yes, they could," Rod agreed. "Probably yield just as high a success rate, in the long run."
"Bless thee, tinkers!"
Rod looked up, startled. It was the housewife whose pot they had mended, coming up with a big, steaming bowl in her hands and a loaf tucked under her arm.
Rod grinned, and reached up to accept the bowl. "Bless thee, goodwife." He stuck his nose over the bowl and inhaled deeply. "Ah! God send thee more broken pots, whene'er I chance this way again!"
"And take this also." The woman pressed a fat sausage into his hand. "And godspeed!"
Magnus lifted the spoon and sipped as she turned away.
"Why, 'tis good! Mayhap we should think of this trade more often, Papa."
"Pays well enough, you mean?" Rod smiled. "Well, not bad, for fixing one pot—a big bowl of stew, a loaf of whole wheat, and a salami. Not only dinner, but journey rations for tomorrow."
"Had they more pots," Magnus pointed out, "we could also trade in foodstuffs."
"Didn't realize you had an aptitude for business…"
"Naetheless," Magnus said, through a mouthful of stew, "we've not found the one thing we came for."
"Yes." Rod frowned. "Nobody in town has a relative in the monastery. Well, there's always the next village, son."
Magnus groaned.
Father Bellora stepped out the door to dump the dirty wash water, calling, "Wee Folk, take care!" His teachers at the monastery would have been scandalized to hear him, and would have rebuked him for the sin of superstition, but they didn't have to deal with the realities of life. An elf with dampened dignity could become extremely inconvenient.
Having called the warning, the good country parson tossed the contents of the basin. They splashed into the weeds—the greenest patch anywhere near the rectory—and Father Bellora turned back toward his kitchen. But out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of an approaching figure and turned to look. His eyes widened, and he yelped. "Brother Matthew!"
The other friar waved, grinning, and broke into a run.
Father Bellora clapped him on the shoulder with a crow of delight. "Thou old curmudgeon, what dost thou here? Oh, right glad I am to see thee!"
"And I thee, Father Bellora." Matthew was a year older, but they had studied together at the monastery.
"Nay, come in, come in!" Father Bellora cried, and led his old schoolmate into the kitchen.
Half an hour and a large meat pie later, Brother Matthew sat back with a sigh and a toothpick. Father Bellora grinned, leaning back and patting his belly. "Now, good Brother! What matter is't doth bring thee to my parish?"
"News which our good Abbot doth enjoin thee to proclaim to all thy congregation." Brother Matthew's face darkened.
"He hath declared the Church of Gramarye to be separate from the Church of Rome."
Father Bellora's face fell. "Rumor had spoke of this, yet I had hoped 'twas not true."
"So soon?" Brother Matthew looked up, startled. "Doth word run faster than writing?"
"Ever, Brother. 'Twas a tinker came by, yester e'en. He mended a pot, slept the night, and went on. Belike another parish doth leam of it, even now."
"Aye, Brother," Matthew said, sympathizing. "It doth make for turmoil in our souls, doth it not?" He withdrew a roll of parchment from his sleeve. "Here is the text of it, which thou art to copy and read at Mass for a week, and carry this scroll to Father Gabe, in Flamourn parish o'er the hill, even as I have brought it to thee."
Father Bellora accepted the scroll with all the delight of a man ordered to cuddle a tarantula. "Tell me the gist."
"Why, 'tis that the Church of Rome hath erred…"
Father Bellora went stiff as a Puritan in a ballroom, eyes wide in horror. "How can he dare speak so!"
"He is the Abbot," Matthew answered with a shrug. " Tis hard, is't not? When we had thought the Pope infallible in matters of doctrine. Yet our good Lord Abbot doth say that he whom we have called the Holy Father knoweth not how matters fare here, nor their complexities; and furthermore, that he is too much bound by the licentious easiness of his forebears, and by the corruption of his clerks and scribes in the Curia."
"Yet how can he chastise the Holy See?" Father Bellora whispered.
"Because, saith the Lord Abbot, the Pope is, when all is said and done, only the Bishop of Rome, and is not truly greater than any other bishop. To make all of us mindful of that, and to make clear his standing as head of our Church, the Lord Abbot hath declared himself henceforth Archbishop of Gramarye."
Father Bellora only sat, transfixed in shock.
"And," Brother Matthew went on, "the Archbishop of Gramarye may surely chastise the Bishop of Rome. He doth decry the Pope's errors, saying that he doth err most especially in not demanding that all princes recognize the Church's greater wisdom in all matters of morality."
"But such matters encompass all of government!" Father Bellora protested. "What matter can a prince rule on that is not moral or immoral?"
"That is his point—and therein, saith our good Lord Abbot, lieth the cause of all the miseries of our worldly state."
"Yet the words of Christ! 'Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's!'"
Brother Matthew nodded. "Yet, saith our Lord Abbot, even Caesar must render unto God that which is God's—and in so doing, he must recognize the guidance of the Church."
Father Bellora paled. "Doth he mean to say…" but he couldn't finish the thought, his voice fading.
Brother Matthew nodded, aching with empathy. " Tis even so, Father. Our good Lord Abbot doth thus conclude: that the Church must needs be superior to the King, for that it is closer to God, and must therefore know what He doth wish far more accurately than any King could. And the King must recognize the authority of the Archbishop."
"How can the King not march against him?" Father Bellora whispered.
Chapter Ten
Screams tore the night, raw, full-throated howls of terror. The Village rang with the noise for a few seconds that seemed to stretch into hours. Then doors slammed open all around the common and stocky peasant men barreled out in their smocks, cudgels and sickles in their hands, bellowing in answer. They converged on the cottage of screams and slammed through the door.
A gray-haired lady knelt in the middle of the single room, at the foot of the ladder to her sleeping loft. The pieces of the rungs hung crookedly from the uprights. The tables and stools were overturned; the chest lay on its side, with the woolens a mess around it.
The men stared, appalled.
A jug shot toward them.
The men shouted and ducked. Then one of them dashed in to catch up the woman in a bear hug. "Art thou h
urted, Griselda?"
The screams stopped, and Griselda stared up at the big peasant, panting, wild-eyed.
A wooden mug flew at his head. He ducked, and Griselda shrieked. "'Twas naught," he assured her, "'twas naught. What of theel"
"No… hurt," she gasped. "An ache… in my leg, but I doubt 'tis aught."
"Well enough, then. Hold firmly." The burly peasant heaved her up over his shoulder and turned toward the door.
A stool whizzed right at his face.
He shouted as he sidestepped. The stool shot past him and smashed into the fireplace. He ran for the door.
The other men pressed back, making room, and he stumbled out into the night, then pulled to a halt and lowered the old woman to the ground carefully, panting.
"I… thank thee, Hans." She stepped a little away from him, but held onto his shoulder.
' 'Twas naught," he panted. "What of thy leg, Griselda?"
Griselda leaned onto the leg in question, trying her weight on it cautiously. " 'Twill hold," she judged.
"Well enough, then."
There was a shout behind them, and the men in the doorway jumped back, slamming the portal closed. Something shattered against it, and they shuddered.
" 'Tis a hearth ghost," said one of them. He looked up to see the common filled with people in smocks, come out to see if they needed to flee or not.
Hans saw them, too, and stepped forward, waving both hands. " 'Tis done, good folk, and Griselda is well. Frighted, but well."
"Frighted, i' truth," Griselda admitted. "I lay down to sleep, and dreamt, and of a sudden something crashed near mine head. I tumbled out of my loft, set my foot to my ladder—and the rungs all snapped like kindling wood!"
"Praise Heaven thou hast not broke thy leg!" cried one good dame.
A gray-haired man stepped forward, shaking his finger at her. "I had told thee thou wert too old to sleep above so! Come, thou art alone in thy cottage now—thou couldst make thee a couch below o' nights!"
"Oh, be still, Hugh," Griselda snapped. "There's no hazard in my climbing down, if the rungs hold!"
"Aye," said another woman, somber-faced. " 'Tis not every night a ghost doth throw things at one."
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