But Cathan’s entry into the political arena continued the difficulties Joram faced, as the priest must constantly try to curb the natural gift for politicking which he had inherited in full measure from his father. Joram and Rhys had discussed the quandary more than once over a glass of Fianna wine, when the wind howled outside through the long Gwyneddan winter nights.
For himself, Rhys believed that a physician, like a cleric, should try to remain neutral, despite the temptation to become politically involved. Only now that neutrality was being shaken as never before, by the simple expedient of a dying man’s words and the flash of a silver coin in a priest’s long fingers.
“Where did you get this?” Joram asked. There was no trace of suspicion in his question—only, perhaps, a certain wistful curiosity.
“Never mind that for now,” Rhys said. “What is it?”
“It’s a dower coin. They were sometimes given as mementoes to the next of kin of postulants entering the old religious orders. They aren’t made anymore.”
“Can you tell where it’s from?” Rhys tried to keep the impatience from his voice. “I mean, can you tell which monastery?”
“Hmm. I have an idea, but I fancy you want something more definite than that. Come on, we’ll look it up.”
Without a word, Rhys got up and followed Joram into the main portion of the library, past the reading brothers with heads bowed over parchment membranes, past the scrivener monks painstakingly copying texts in their fine majuscule hands. A very aged monk sat atop a high stool behind a reading desk, guardian of a polished oak door barred with a stout beam.
Joram murmured a few words to the monk, then bowed and raised the bar on the door and opened it. Taking a rushlight from a stand by the monk’s desk, he motioned for Rhys to follow him into the next room.
It was a small, dark chamber lined with row upon row of open shelves holding rolls of parchment and a few bound volumes. The volumes were massive and ragged-looking, since they had originally been assembled from roll entries cut to fit, and they were secured to the shelves by chains which allowed them to be moved only as far as a small reading stand.
Handing the rushlight to Rhys to hold aloft, Joram roamed the row in front of them, then pulled down a dusty volume and inspected the cover. With a grunt, he replaced the book and moved farther down the row, where he removed another volume. This one he opened and began scanning, opening his hand to glance at the coin again as Rhys peered over his shoulder.
“Hmm. I suspected as much. It was struck at Saint Jarlath’s, which is the mother house of the Ordo Verbi Dei. They’re a cloistered order based at Barwicke, not far from here. Saint Jarlath himself was a sixth-century bishop of Meara—an abbot, too, if I’m not mistaken.”
Rhys lowered his eyes and was silent for a moment. Then: “Barwicke—you said that’s not far from here. How far?”
“Oh, a few hours’ ride. Why are you so interested in Saint Jarlath’s?”
“I—” Rhys paused, then went on cautiously. “An old man died yesterday, Joram. A patient of mine. His grandson may have taken vows at Saint Jarlath’s about twenty years ago. It’s important that I find him.”
“To tell the monk his grandfather is dead?”
“Yes.”
Joram replaced the volume on the shelf and turned to eye Rhys curiously.
“And then what?” Joram asked softly. “Rhys, you’re not making much sense. If the man took vows at Saint Jarlath’s twenty years ago, he may not even be alive by now. Even if he is, he’ll be a cloistered monk. You couldn’t see him. The most you could hope from him would be prayers for his kinsman’s repose—which, if he’s any kind of monk at all, he’ll have been giving all these years, regardless of whether his grandsire was alive or dead. Did the old man leave him an inheritance or something?”
“In a way,” Rhys murmured. He took the coin from Joram and glanced at it distractedly, but would not meet the priest’s eyes.
Joram frowned and folded his arms across his chest.
“What do you mean, ‘in a way’? If the old man left him anything, it belongs to his order now. You know that monks haven’t any property of their own.”
Rhys smiled in spite of himself. “Not this inheritance, my friend. This is not for monks.”
“Will you stop dissembling and get to the point? You know about cloistered orders; you know about community property; and you know what would be involved to find this man after twenty years. Who is this monk?”
Rhys paused, then wet his lips nervously. “All that you have said is true, or would be true in ordinary circumstances,” he whispered, looking up. “But this is no ordinary monk, Joram. We must find him. God help us, and him, but we must! His father is long dead, and his grandfather also, now. But his grandfather claimed to be Aidan Haldane, last living son of King Ifor. Your so-called cloistered monk may well be the rightful Haldane King of Gwynedd!”
Joram’s jaw dropped, and he stared at the Healer in disbelief. “The rightful Haldane heir?”
At Rhys’s guarded nod, Joram reached blindly for the bench he remembered being somewhere behind him, eased himself down upon it gently.
“Rhys, do you realize what you’re saying?”
Rhys shifted uncomfortably. “I’m trying to avoid thinking about the political ramifications just yet, if that’s what you mean. Can’t we simply say that we’re looking for a monk whose grandfather died? Besides, the man himself may be dead by now, for all we know.”
“But, what if he’s not?” Joram replied softly. “Rhys, you may not want to think about it, but I’m not sure you can afford that luxury. If what you say is true …”
With a defeated sigh, Rhys sank down on the bench beside the priest. “I know,” he murmured, after a long silence. “But the illusion of innocence gives me a semblance of comfort. God knows, I’m not a political creature, Joram, but I …” He bowed his head. “I had a friend,” he said. “I gave him my hand and comfort in his final hour, and he gave me his most precious possession: the identity of his only grandson. He showed me an ancient and noble heritage, and a potential for something different from what we know. And then he said, ‘Ask yourself if the man on the throne is worthy of the golden circlet,’ Joram. He said, ‘Ask if this is the sort of rule you wish for your children and your children’s children. Then you decide.’”
“And, have you decided?”
Rhys shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t think I, or you, or any one man can make a decision like that alone.” He looked up wistfully. “But I have considered what old Daniel told me, Joram. And now—well, I think we must try to find his grandson.”
“To tell him his grandfather is dead?” Joram asked.
Rhys glanced quickly at his companion, fearing to find some hint of mockery in the other’s expression. But there was none—only a gentle, indulgent wisp of a smile flicking across the other’s mouth.
“Thank you for knowing when not to push,” he said simply, his own lips curving in response. “I’m afraid I’ve not been honed for this sort of thing the way you Michaelines have. It may take me a while to adjust.”
Joram chuckled as he stood, clasping a hand to the other’s shoulder. “You’re doing fine,” he said, picking up the rushlight again. “For now, let’s just worry about that monk that wants finding, who will doubtless wish to offer prayers for his grandfather’s repose.”
Within half an hour, Rhys and Joram were gone from Saint Liam’s, riding pell-mell through driving rain toward the tiny village of Barwicke, where Saint Jarlath’s lay. Once the full implications of Rhys’s news had sunk in, Joram had moved quickly to secure fresh horses for the two of them and obtain leave to depart early. More details of the previous day’s events had been imparted to Joram as he changed to riding attire in his chamber—boots and cloak and sleek, fur-lined riding leathers. Then they were mounting up on two of the abbey’s sleek, blooded horses, clattering hellbent out through the abbey yard.
By the time they reached Barwicke, both men were h
alf frozen and soaked to the skin. It was also quite dark.
“Where is the monastery?” Rhys croaked, as the two drew rein under a tree at the edge of the village square.
Joram wiped silver-gilt hair out of his eyes and turned in the saddle, standing in the stirrups to get his bearings.
“That way, I think.” He gestured north with a wetly gloved hand. “I only hope they’ll let us in this late. We may have to pull rank on them. Come on.”
With a sigh, Rhys hunched down further in the saddle and followed the priest, trying unsuccessfully to keep the rain from running down his neck. He was beginning to wonder whether they would ever be dry and warm again, and whether the whole thing was worth it, when he saw the monastery looming ahead in the driving rain. Thankfully, he reined in before the monastery gate, stifling a cough as Joram reached up and gave the gate bell a hefty yank.
When there was no response, Joram yanked the bell again, then dismounted preparatory to pounding on the gate with his fist. Before he had to resort to that measure, a small shutter was opened in the gate and an annoyed-looking face was thrust through the opening.
“All right, all right, don’t pull the building down,” the man said, scowling against the rain. “Why don’t you go back to the village? There’s lodging to be had there for the night.”
“I wish to speak to your Father Superior,” Joram said quietly. “And while you’re thinking about it, my companion and I should like some Christian charity from the rain.”
Joram’s cultured tone took the man aback for a moment, but then he shook his head. “Sorry, sir. We don’t open the gates after dark. Marauders and thieves, you know. Besides, you couldn’t see the Reverend Father tonight, anyway. He’s in bed with a bad cold. Come back in the morning.”
“My good man, my name is Father Joram MacRorie, of the Order of Saint Michael. My companion is the Lord Rhys Thuryn. Now, we would not have ridden all this way in this weather if it were not important. Are you going to open this gate, or must I report your rudeness to your superiors in the morning?”
The man’s eyes had gotten progressively wider as Joram spoke, and abruptly he bobbed his head in a bow and closed the shutter. When the gate opened seconds later, he was still bowing nervously.
A lay brother in coarse brown robes and hood was waiting to take their horses, and another monk in deep gray nodded greeting and indicated that they should follow him. No word was spoken as they strode down the corridor with the silent monk. They passed several others, but the men seemed not even to notice them.
They were shown into a small room strewn with sweet-smelling rushes and herbs, and with a modest fire burning well back on the stone hearth. The man who had been their escort pointed out a stack of dry blankets and indicated that they should warm themselves before the fire, then withdrew behind a heavy, carved door, which closed softly behind him.
Joram immediately began stripping off sodden cap and gloves, spreading his dripping cloak on the rushes to dry.
“They’ll bring us dry clothes in a few minutes,” he said, unlacing his leggings and discarding those, then beginning on his tunic. “Meanwhile, we’d best get out of these wet things before we catch our deaths.”
Rhys sneezed for reply, then began following Joram’s example. Wrapping himself, cocoon-like, in one of the scratchy abbey blankets, he huddled shivering by the fire, damp hair beginning to steam from the heat. Beside him, Joram was typically unruffled, looking every inch the noble’s son he was, even in his currently bedraggled state. It figures, Rhys thought, and decided that he would probably never see Joram look anything less than impeccable.
The door opened silently, and the two of them stood as two men entered the room. The first was obviously the abbot of the place, silver gleaming on hand and breast against the burgundy richness of his habit. The man’s cowl was pushed back to reveal a shaven head, and he was holding a swatch of grayish linen to his nose and sniffling audibly. The monk who had escorted them to the room bore a pair of gray woolen robes across his arms. Joram crossed immediately to the abbot, blanket clutched around himself like a royal mantle, and bowed to kiss the abbot’s ring.
“Thank you for seeing us, Reverend Father. I am Father MacRorie, and this is the Lord Rhys Thuryn, a Healer.” Rhys bent to kiss the ring also. “We are most grateful for your hospitality.”
The abbot bowed in acknowledgment. “Be at ease, Father, and please to accept the dry clothing which Brother Egbert has brought. I am Gregory of Arden, Abbot of Saint Jarlath’s.” He paused to sneeze, then held the handkerchief to his nose once more as Brother Egbert assisted the two visitors into their robes. When the men had been decently clad and the monk had withdrawn, Abbot Gregory moved closer to the hearth and warmed thin hands before the fire.
“I am told that you are of the Order of Saint Michael, Father,” he said, his voice croaking hoarsely. “How may I assist you?”
Joram smiled disarmingly and gave the cord at his waist a final tug. “We wish to inspect the records of postulants in this order for the past few years, Father Abbot.”
“Ah, is this an official inquiry of some sort, Father?”
“Oh, no. It’s personal. A matter of conscience, Father Abbot.”
“I see.” The abbot shrugged, obviously relieved. “Well, certainly it can be arranged. But if you’re looking for a particular postulant, you must surely be aware that he has likely taken his final vows by now and, hence, could not receive you.”
Rhys glanced sidelong at his companion, then cleared his throat.
“Forgive me, Reverend Father, but perhaps Father Joram has not made himself clear. He makes the request in my behalf. The grandfather of the man we are looking for was in my care until his recent death, and begged me on his deathbed to find his grandson and inform him of his grandsire’s demise. Surely, you would not refuse the dying wish of a man whose only fault was in wishing his holy grandson to say prayers for his soul.”
The abbot raised an eyebrow, then shrugged apologetically. “Well, the news could be taken to him by his superior, I suppose. Certainly, a man is entitled to mourn his grandsire, even if the rest of the world has been renounced. What is the man’s name? Perhaps I can tell you his whereabouts.”
“Benedict, now. Before that—ah, it was the grandfather’s wish that we not reveal his grandson’s identity, Reverend Father,” Joram replied. “Might we see those records now?”
“Now, Father?” The abbot looked at Joram a little strangely. “Can it not wait until morning?”
“The grandfather felt himself much in need of prayer, Reverend Father,” Joram lied, “and we promised to find his grandson as soon as possible. Also, we would not disturb the routine of your house any more than necessary. If one of your brothers could show us to your archives and provide us with light, we would be most grateful.”
“I understand, of course.” The abbot shrugged and bowed, his manner declaring that he did not understand at all. “Very well. Brother Egbert will show you the pertinent records and see to your needs. Perhaps you will at least join us at Mass in the morning and then break your fast with us?”
“We would be most honored.” Joram bowed. “Our thanks to you, Reverend Father.”
With a last, disbelieving look at them, the abbot dabbed at his reddened nose and took his leave, disappearing down the corridor in one direction while Brother Egbert led them along another way.
Rushlights were procured and lit outside a heavy wooden door which Brother Egbert unlocked with a large iron key. In a far corner of the library, Egbert indicated a shelf of neatly rolled scrolls—the induction records of the Ordo Verbi Dei—then bowed silently and turned to go.
When the sound of the closing door had confirmed his departure, Joram set a rushlight on the reading desk and pulled out a scroll at random. Spreading it open on the desk, he scanned the legend at the top.
“Decimus Blainus—the tenth year of the reign of King Blaine. That’s too recent. Daniel said the boy entered the order about twenty y
ears ago?”
Rhys nodded. “He said more than twenty, but I think we’d better check five or ten years to either side of that. Dan said the boy was nineteen when he took his vows, and that he’d be about forty now, but Dan was eighty-three, by his reckoning. He may be hazy on the dates.”
“All right. Twenty years—that would be 833, just toward the end of Festil III. We’ll go back to, oh, 22 Festil III, through, uh—3 Blaine ought to be far enough. That’s ten years back and five forward. Too bad we don’t know his secular name—even Draper won’t help us, since ecclesiastical records generally fail to show commoners’ surnames. But there can’t be that many men in a fifteen-year spread who took the religious name of Benedict. See if you can locate some writing materials while I start looking.”
Joram’s optimism proved to be unfounded. By the time Rhys had returned with some scraps of parchment and a quill and ink, the priest had already found four Benedicts.
“And that’s only through 25 Festilus III,” Joram lamented, as Rhys put down the writing materials and looked over his shoulder. “Look at this. 22 Festilus III: ‘Rolf the son of Carrolan was received into the Ordo Verbi Dei and took the name Benedictus, and was cloistered at the Priory of Saint Piran.’
“23 Festilus III: ‘Abel the son of John the Goldsmith was received into the Ordo Verbi Dei on Candlemas and took the name Benedictus, and was sent forthwith to the Monastery of Saint Illtyd.’
“25 Festilus III: ‘Henricus, youngest son of the Earl of Legain—’ Well, I guess we can eliminate him, at least. Definitely the wrong father for our man.
“25 Festilus III: ‘Josephus the son of Master Galiardi the Merchant … name of Benedictus … sent to Saint Ultan’s’ And we’ve still got eleven years to go!”
Rhys sighed and sat down at the desk, dipping quill to ink. “Well, let’s get on with it, then. A lot of those earlier ones will be dead by now—he may even be dead, for all we know. If you’ll find them, I’ll copy them down.”
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