There was short silence, during which no one said anything. Abruptly, Joram sat down to the left of the grille, motioning Rhys to sit opposite him.
“Brother Benedict?”
The man cleared his throat. “I am Brother Benedict. You must forgive me, but I am ill-accustomed to speaking anymore.”
“I understand,” Joram replied, glancing at Rhys and steeling himself before continuing. “Ah, Brother Benedict, our mission is a rather delicate one. I am a priest of Saint Michael, and my companion is a Healer. Recently we had occasion to attend upon a dying man who claimed to have a grandson called Benedict in your order. Could you be that man?”
They heard a gasp on the other side, a pause, and then, in a low voice: “What was his name, Father?”
“Ah, we would really prefer to have you tell us, Brother Benedict,” Joram replied. “I can tell you that he lived in Valoret.”
A low-breathed sigh followed, and the man cleared his throat. “Praise be to God, my grandfather lives in Rengarth, and always has. He is a poor cobbler, and would have no business in the capital that I know of. His name is Dunstan.”
Dunstan. Not Aidan, or even Dan. This, at least, was not their lost Benedict. Joram sighed, glanced at Rhys, who had lowered his forehead weakly against his hand.
“Dunstan,” Joram repeated. “No, this was not the name of the man we attended. Perhaps the other Brother Benedict is the man we seek. Would you ask him to come to us, Brother?”
“Of course, Father.”
“And may your grandfather Dunstan live many happy years to come.”
“Thank you, Father.”
There was the shuffling sound of the other rising, the glint of light as the door was opened, then silence on the far side of the grille.
Joram glanced at Rhys, who was raising his head and looking very frayed around the edges.
“What’s the matter? Too much pressure?” Joram murmured, with a slight smile.
Rhys sighed and shook his head, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “I don’t think I’m cut out for a life of intrigue, Joram. I was a simple Healer before you came along. I moved openly, in high circles. This stealth—”
The light on the other side of the grille was blocked again as someone entered, and Rhys broke off quickly.
Whoever had entered walked with a pronounced limp, dragging one foot behind him. He was shaken with a coughing fit before he could cross to the other side; and when the coughing finally stopped, the effort of lowering himself to the bench was almost a physical thing. Rhys reached out a mental probe to read the man’s soundness, but recoiled almost instantly. If this was their Benedict, their quest would end very shortly; even in finding him, they would soon lose: the man’s lungs were nearly eaten away by disease.
Rhys swallowed with difficulty, then signalled Joram to go ahead.
“Good morning, Brother Benedict,” Joram said easily. “We thank you for coming to us.”
“I try to be compliant,” the man murmured. “It would do little good to complain at this late date. If I could but fly—But, no matter, I’ll elude them yet. There is more than one way to breach these walls.”
Rhys glanced sharply at Joram. “You wish to leave, Brother?”
The man coughed again. “It matters little anymore. If, twenty years ago, my enemies had been less cruel … Still, there are worse ways to be locked away. How may I assist you, my sons? You did not come to hear my problems.”
Joram glanced at Rhys, certain that the same questions were probably going through the Healer’s mind. What had happened to this man twenty years ago? He knew what the man was implying: unprincipled men had been known to place their enemies into enforced monastic seclusion before. And twenty years ago … But if this was their Benedict, a diseased and dying man …
“Ah, I am a priest of the Order of Saint Michael, Brother Benedict. My colleague is a Healer. Recently we had occasion to attend upon the death of an old man who may have been your grandfather.”
A sharp intake of breath was audible on the other side, which brought on another coughing fit. When it had ceased, there was a long silence, and then: “May he rot in Hell!”
“I beg your pardon?” Rhys stammered.
“I said, may he rot in Hell, that miserable man! He and his friends were the ones who put me here, who stole my youth, my dreams—”
“A moment!” Joram interjected. “What was his name?”
“His name?” the monk repeated. “His name was one hated by me, though it was the same as that of my blessed father. His name was James.”
James. Not Daniel. Praised be, Joram thought, that this bitter man is not the prince we have come to seek. It meant that their search must continue to the remaining three Benedicts, but at least there was still hope.
He stood easily, beckoning Rhys to do the same, suspecting that the other was as eager as himself to move on, now that this possibility had proven false. He cleared his throat to gain the attention of the man on the other side of the grille.
“We thank you for your trouble, Brother Benedict. However, the man we attended was apparently not the man of whom you speak. I—cannot, in conscience, wish you the vengeance you seek, but I shall pray that your escape will be quick and merciful.”
The man cleared his throat again, his tone almost meek. “You—you won’t tell the Father Prior what I said, will you, Father? I—Forgive me. Perhaps this is why we are allowed so few visitors, why enclosure is so strictly enforced. I thought I had mastered my hatred, but with death approaching—Forgive me.”
“Of course,” Joram replied.
They took their leave of him then, and were soon emerging into the main courtyard once again, beckoning to the novices for their horses to be brought. Brother Cieran, who had greeted them before, accompanied them now, and ran an approving hand along the neck of Rhys’s horse as the Healer mounted up.
“A beautiful animal, m’lord. Before my profession, I too owned horses such as these.” He shrugged. “But that is past. I hope that you were not too disappointed. I gather that you did not find the man you are seeking.”
Rhys shook his head. “That second Benedict to whom we spoke—has he seen a Healer recently?”
Cieran gave a deep sigh. “I fear not, noble lord. He does not wish it.”
“He has only a little time left,” Rhys replied. “Does he know how little?”
“I think he does, nor does he care,” Cieran said. “He has been a bitter man from the first time I met him, and that is ten years ago and more. He is entitled to his own kind of peace, I think. All of us enter these walls for different reasons.”
“Even against your will?” Joram asked quietly.
“Oh, did he say that? I’m afraid his mind has slipped in the past few years. He’s mentioned that several times, but of course it couldn’t be true. No one is here who does not wish to be.”
“Of course not,” Joram said, keeping all hint of sarcasm out of his voice. “Thank you for your help, Brother Cieran. God keep you well.”
“And you, my lords,” Cieran replied, lifting his hand in blessing.
He watched wistfully as the two rode out the priory gates and back up the road they had come. In the distance, another storm was brewing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The skill of the physician shall lift up his head: and in the sight of great men he shall be in admiration.
—Ecclesiasticus 38:3
It was a few days before the search could be resumed; and this time it was not Joram who rode at Rhys Thuryn’s side, but Camber himself, disguised as a Gabrilite monk.
Joram had wanted to accompany them, had begged his father to delay until he could secure leave from his duties at Saint Liam’s. But they could not wait, and dared not permit Joram to arouse suspicion by an un-sanctioned absence. Time was of the essence now, the need for action intensified by a series of new scandals perpetrated by the brash young king.
After the first snows at Nyford, where Imre’s new capital was unde
r construction, more than one hundred serfs and indentured workers had died of exposure because Imre had failed to provide adequate winter clothing and shelter. Another thirty-two perished when an earthwork collapsed for want of sufficient shoring. At Rhemuth, the old Gwyneddan capital, two score and ten peasants were bound over to serfdom and a half-dozen lesser nobles hanged for refusing either to pay the building tariff or submit to voluntary servitude. At Marywell in the north, a royal garrison ran amuck one night and destroyed most of the town without being punished, though the Archbishop of Valoret himself appealed to Imre to avenge the innocents who had perished there.
Camber had all but flown into a rage as the news of Imre’s actions assumed greater proportions, for such wanton disregard by a king for his subjects’ welfare was inexcusable. Before a week had passed, he and a nervous Rhys Thuryn were making their ascent into the Lendour highlands toward Saint Foillan’s Abbey. They had been travelling for nearly three days, on a road which daily became more devoid of fellow travellers, before they began the final, snow-swept approach.
Now, riding alone between the vast, terraced fields of the abbey’s holdings, they could see coils of smoke rising from the abbatial kitchens, the only signs of life against the frozen landscape. The great granaries were sealed tight against the winter blizzards, the last crops harvested weeks before. Even the enormous dairy herds, which roamed the mountainsides in milder seasons, were nowhere to be seen.
The two riders huddled in fur-lined clothes, their horses blanketed and hooded against the icy, needling wind, as they waited for admittance outside the abbey precincts.
“Who seeks entrance at the gate of Saint Foillan’s?” an ancient voice cried from a window high in the stone gatehouse.
The wind whipped his words away, and Camber edged his horse a few paces closer to the wall.
“Pray, open your gate to a pair of fair-frozen travellers,” Camber shouted. “I come from the Archbishop. I’m Brother Kyriell, and this is Lord Rhys Thuryn. We have been riding long to reach you.”
“You’re a monk?” A hooded head was poked through the window and appeared to stare down at them, but the expression was lost in the shadows.
“Yes, of the Order of Saint Gabriel. Lord Rhys is a Healer. May we be admitted, please? We have business with your abbot.”
No answer came, but the head withdrew, the window closed, and shortly a postern door opened in the main gate. Camber dismounted and led his horse through, followed by Rhys, and a monk closed the door behind them before taking their horses. Another monk bowed wordlessly and indicated that they should follow him across the snow-covered Great Court.
The stone towers and walls of the abbey church loomed gray and forbidding against the snow, but they were dwarfed and completely overshadowed by the sheer rock face of the neighboring mountain, which formed the abbey’s north and eastern limits. That slope was wind-scoured and bare of snow. Near the monastic church itself was an artificial façade on the mountainside, with a large, timbered door set into its face. The horses were led through that door just before Camber and Rhys and their escort reached the shelter of the abbot’s gate. It must be a stable, Camber mused. If so, it is probably where Saint Foillan’s dairy herds go during the winter.
Five minutes later, Camber and Rhys were sharing a bench before a roaring fire in the abbot’s parlor, each with a tankard of mulled cider in his hands and a cushion beneath his feet. The abbot had not yet made an appearance, but their monk-escort was bustling around the room, lighting candles in sconces and generally tidying up.
Camber cast a sidelong glance at Rhys as though to suggest keeping an eye open, then loosened the collar of his fur-lined mantle and let it slip back from his shoulders. Rhys, too, was beginning to warm up, and as he stood to move farther from the fire, a door opened into the room and the abbot entered. Immediately, Camber was on his feet as well, setting down his tankard on the bench as he rose.
“Good morrow, Father Abbot,” he said, moving to kiss the cleric’s ring. “I am Brother Kyriell, in the service of His Grace, the Archbishop. This is my colleague, Lord Rhys, a Healer.”
Rhys set down his tankard and came to kiss the ring. The abbot, when the duties had been done, raised a bony hand and shook his head.
“Nay, Brother Kyriell, my lord, stand not on ceremony. You have ridden far, and in hostile weather, and Brother Jubal tells me that your coming is not by chance. How may I assist you?”
He gestured for the monk to move his chair before the fire, then signed for the two to resume their seats as he took his. When they were settled and the abbot held a tankard of cider in his hand, Camber folded his hands before him and cleared his throat.
“Father Abbott, this is a matter of some delicacy, especially in light of your hospitality.” He glanced at his tankard. “But we have come to speak with one of your claustral brothers. It is rather important.”
The abbot studied both of them over the rim of his tankard, then warmed his hands on its sides. “So one might gather,” he finally replied, his eyes sweeping their snow-bedraggled condition. “Might one ask why, however? My compliance with your request would involve a considerable relaxing of our Rule. If I am to do that for you, or for His Grace, the Archbishop, I should like to know why.”
Camber inclined his head in agreement. “A few months ago, an old man died. He had been under the care of Lord Rhys, and on his deathbed asked Rhys to inform his grandson of his death. Unfortunately, he could only tell us that his grandson was a monk of your order, and that his name in religion was Benedictus. Rhys asked my help in locating this monk, and our search has led us here.”
“I see.” The abbot glanced down at his cider. “This grandfather—was he an important man?”
“Only to me—and to his grandson,” Rhys answered. “He was in a greatly agitated state about his past life, and hoped that his grandson might be induced to pray for his soul. I promised that I would try to find his grandson—and so I believe I have. Might we speak with him, Father Abbot?”
“This is highly irregular—” the abbot began.
“We can appreciate your position, Father Abbot,” Camber said. “But surely it could do no great harm. The old man felt he had much to atone for, and that his grandson’s prayers might substantially ease his way to Heaven, if only the grandson knew. I have spoken with His Grace, the Archbishop, in the matter, and while it is not his general practice to interfere in the local governance of the establishments under his jurisdiction, he did indicate that he felt this a reasonable relaxation of your Rule. We would require but a few minutes.”
“Hmm,” the abbot grunted.
It was obvious that Camber’s invocation of the archbishop’s name carried considerable weight with him, and also that he resented that invocation.
“What was the grandson’s name again?” he asked grudgingly.
“We know him only as Brother Benedict, Father Abbot.”
The abbot rose and began pacing the chamber, hands clasped in the sleeves of his white robe. His thin face mirrored his annoyance.
“You place me in an awkward position, Brother. You must understand that Brother Benedict has taken a vow of silence. He has not spoken, other than in his Divine Office and to me, his Confessor, in more than twelve years. His vocation is certain. He is a most holy man. I do not know if he will wish to see anyone from the outside world.”
Camber stood in the abbot’s path, and the abbot stopped his pacing. “I am a monk, Father Abbot. Lord Rhys is a Healer, which is also a divine calling. Though we live and work in the world, I think our vocations as certain and as holy as any cloistered priest’s, if in different ways. If your Brother Benedict is as upright and holy a man as you say, I think his compassion for his grandsire will compel him to see us. But, let us not take such a decision upon ourselves. Brother Benedict is the one who should decide.”
The abbot searched Camber’s face carefully, looking for he knew not what; then he switched his gaze to Rhys.
“And you, my l
ord—do you concur with Brother Kyriell’s estimation of Brother Benedict, whom you have never seen? Do you deem yourself worthy to speak with so holy a man?”
Rhys bowed his head, guilt at their charade playing at the corners of his mind, then looked the abbot in the eye. They had played no sham. All that they had said so far was true, even if it was not all the truth. Why should he be ashamed?
“Who among us is truly worthy of anything, Father Abbot?” he said softly. “Do we not say in the liturgy, ‘Domini, non sum dignus’—‘Lord, I am not worthy’? But in the next breath we add, ‘Speak but the word and my soul shall be healed.’ As a Healer, I daily feel His healing power working through me, and I know it is a gift of God. If Brother Benedict will see us, I shall strive to continue to be worthy, in my own way.”
The abbot smiled wanly and bowed. “Touché, my lord. Your training as a Healer has not overshadowed your theology.” He became sober again. “Very well, I shall ask Brother Benedict if he wishes to see you. I cannot promise anything, but I will ask.”
With that, the abbot walked slowly out of the room.
Ten minutes later, after being led through the abbot’s hall and cloister yard, Camber and Rhys were shown into a small, wainscotted chamber with a brass grillework in the wall at one end. The room was warm enough, opening off an annex of the abbot’s hall, but it was very dim. A single candle in a sconce beside the door was the only illumination except for a faint light coming through the grillework from the other side. A padded kneeler lay against the wall beneath the grille, just wide enough for two people.
Camber stood easily in the center of the chamber, inspecting it carefully as the outer door was closed behind them. Rhys regarded the grille suspiciously.
“Apparently he’s agreed,” the Healer murmured.
“Aye. Now pray God he may be the right one,” Camber replied. He moved closer to Rhys and laid his hand on the other’s arm, his voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper. “Stay close, my friend. I have a strange premonition, and I’m not certain I like it.”
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