Dellman and the others could only hope that Braumin's assessment of Francis was correct.
Master Theorelle Engress was probably the most benign and gentle monk Brother Francis had ever known. Completely unassuming, Engress was as old as Markwart and had been a fixture at St.-Mere-Abelle for more than five decades. He was not an ambitious man, having attained his rank merely as a matter of longevity rather than any great deeds. Humble and generous, much respected by all the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle and all the Abellican Order, Engress went about his daily routines quietly, never speaking out of turn. He had been quite distressed, whispers said, about the trial and execution of Jojonah, but, as in all other matters, he kept his opinions to himself, arguing only when he deemed it necessary —as he had in the matter of Brother Francis' premature promotion to the rank of immaculate.
Maybe that was why Brother Francis found himself outside the gentle master's door late that same night he had ushered the conspirators out of St.-Mere-Abelle.
Master Engress, dressed in a nightshirt, showed no real surprise when he opened the door and found Francis standing in the hall. "Yes, brother?" he asked politely, managing a calm smile though it was obvious that Francis had disturbed his sleep.
Francis looked at the man numbly.
"Is there trouble afoot?" the master prodded. "The Father Abbot, perhaps? Does he wish to see me?"
"Not him, master," Francis said and swallowed hard. "Me."
Engress spent a long moment studying Francis. It was no secret that he had quietly opposed Francis' promotion to immaculate and had recently also spoken to the Father Abbot, arguing against Markwart's obvious plans to elevate the young monk to the rank of master. Then Engress stepped back and invited Francis into his chamber.
Francis sat down in a chair beside the small night table, sighed deeply, and put his chin in his hand.
"It has nothing to do with your qualifications, you understand," Master Engress said to him, "or with your character."
Francis looked at the old man, his gentle eyes, deep with wisdom, his soft mane of thick white hair —so different from Markwart's newly shaved head!—with a puzzled expression, "No," he explained. "This is not about my rank or any promotion I have been given or am soon to receive. It has nothing to do with the hierarchy or politics of St.-Mere-Abelle. It is about...me."
At first, Engress regarded the surprising young man suspiciously. But, apparently coming to the conclusion that this was no trick by Francis to assure promotion, the gentle master sat down on the chair opposite the troubled monk, even placed one of his leathery old hands on Francis'.
"You are distressed, brother," Engress said. "Pray alleviate your burden."
Francis looked up at him, stared deeply into those wise dark eyes. "I ask for Penitence," he said.
Engress's surprise was obvious. "Would not the Father Abbot better suit such a blessing upon you?" he asked calmly. "He is your mentor, after all —"
"In some matters, yes," Francis interrupted, "but not in this."
"Then speak, brother," Engress said kindly. "Of course I am willing to bestow the blessing, if you are truly repentant."
Francis nodded, then again fumbled, searching for the right words —and quickly discovered that there were no right words for this. "I killed a man," he blurted. It took every bit of strength within him to sit straight and square his shoulders as he made the admission.
Engress's eyes widened, but he, too, kept his emotions under control. "You mean that your actions contributed to the death of a man."
"I mean that I struck the man, and as a result of that blow, he died," Francis said. A tremor coursed through him; he bit his lip to keep it from quivering. "On the road," he explained, "coming back from St. Precious. It was I who struck the younger Chilichunk —Grady."
"I have heard of this," Engress replied, "though I was told that Grady Chilichunk died merely as a result of the rigors of the journey."
"He died because I hit him . . . hard," Francis said. "I did not mean to do it —at least not to kill him." Francis then poured out the whole story, a great cleansing. He told Engress of how Grady was spitting on the Father Abbot and that he, Francis, had only wanted to protect the Father Abbot, had only demanded respect from Grady.
Engress remained calm, even reassured Francis at several points that crimes against God are made with the heart and not the body, and thus, if it was truly an accident, then Francis could put his conscience at rest.
But the troubled Francis did not stop there. He told of Jojonah and the College of Abbots, of how Jojonah had forgiven him before being dragged to his death. Again, Master Engress was calm and forgiving, but still Francis was not finished. He told Engress of Braumin Herde and the other heretics.
"I let them go, master," Francis admitted. "I have gone against the wishes of Father Abbot Markwart and showed Brother Braumin the way out."
"And why would you do such a thing?" Engress asked, obviously stunned as well as intrigued.
Francis shook his head, for he had not answered that question, even to himself. "I did not want them killed," he admitted. "It seems so brutal — too brutal!—a punishment for their errors of judgment."
"The Father Abbot will tolerate no heresy," Master Engress reasoned.
"There is a long tradition of tolerance in the Abellican Order, but rarely does it extend to those who threaten the very fabric of the Order."
"And that is my pain," Francis explained, "for I understand the importance of keeping the Order secure and united. I agree with the Father Abbot —and even if I did not, I would not oppose him! Never that."
"But you could not bear to watch any more executions of your fellow monks," Engress stated.
Francis had no response to that.
"Do you believe what you have done is evil?"
"Which act do you mean?" Francis asked.
"That is for you to decide," Master Engress replied. "You came here asking for the blessing of Penitence, and perhaps I can bestow that upon you, but only if you tell me that for which you are asking Penitence."
Francis held up his hands, completely at a loss. "I have told my tale in full," he said.
"Indeed you have," Engress agreed, "but your tale shows a pendulum's swing of actions. For the Father Abbot, against the Father Abbot."
"And is he to be the measure of Godly crime?"
"Again, my brother, that is for you to decide. If you came here asking for forgiveness of your actions against Father Abbot Markwart, then I am afraid you are speaking to the wrong man. Unless those actions, in your heart, are also crimes against God, you will have to plead with the Father Abbot for his forgiveness, for I cannot speak for him. If you came seeking forgiveness of your actions on the road, then I, like Jojonah, will bestow the blessing, because it is obvious that you are truly sorry for those actions and because you are not wholly to blame.
"If you came seeking Penitence for your actions concerning Brother Braumin, then I must ask you to return when you have decided if those actions were indeed a crime against God, and if so, were they malicious or wrought of cowardice?"
Brother Francis sat quietly for a long while, trying to take in what Engress had said, and trying to decide what his reasons for each really were. Finally, too confused to work it out here, he looked helplessly at Master Engress. "For the attack against Grady Chilichunk," he said quietly, the only one of those questions he could honestly answer.
"Penitence was already given," Master Engress replied, rising from his seat and helping Francis to his feet as well. "So let your heart be free of that burden. If you decide there are any other burdens that need lifting, then do return to speak with me. But be quick to find your heart, young brother," he said with a smile, "I am an old, old man, and I might be gone from this world before you ever sort things out!"
He gave Francis a pat on the back as he ushered him to the corridor, then moved to close his door.
"I trust that this will remain confidential?" Francis asked, turning back to fac
e Engress.
Engress reassured him. "It is a sacred blessing, a pact between you and God. I cannot speak of it because I, the mortal Master Engress, was not even present at your confession."
Francis nodded and walked away.
Engress stood in the doorway and watched him until he turned a bend in the corridor. The old man stood there, overwhelmed by the information Francis had given him. He had played his part in the blessing perfectly, detached and calm, the eyes and ears of God.
Almost perfectly, Engress had to admit after a few moments. He thought that Acts of Amends, a method of contrition and repayment to society, were needed for the death of Grady Chilichunk. Engress had to scold himself now —and promise his own Acts of Amends—because the reason he had not ordered any from Brother Francis was the practical matter of not wanting to draw attention to this meeting. If Father Abbot Markwart, who always kept Francis at his elbow, saw the monk performing Acts of Amends, then many dangerous questions might be asked. Engress had not acted exactly as his religion demanded, and that troubled him, as it always did when matters of practicality took precedence over the pure practice of his religion.
And now he had another problem, for though Engress the monk would not divulge to anyone what Francis had told him, Engress the man was shocked. To think that such a conspiracy had begun in St.-Mere-Abelle! To think that young brothers of the Abellican Order, good men every one, had met in private to question the decisions of the Father Abbot, perhaps even to plot against him!
And yet, considering the war, the events at St. Precious and in the dungeons of St.-Mere-Abelle, and most of all, the horrible execution of Master Jojonah, Engress could understand that men of good conscience would band together to oppose the very Order itself. Engress had been a friend of Jojonah's, and though he had no evidence to refute the charges Markwart had leveled against him, he could not, in his heart, reconcile the Jojonah he had known with the heretic Markwart claimed he was.
"You grab your power too tightly, Dalebert Markwart," the old monk whispered. "And thus do many followers squeeze through your fingers."
Feeling very weary and very old indeed, Master Theorelle Engress closed his door. He knelt beside the bed and said a prayer for guidance.
Then he added one for Brother Francis.
Then he added one for Brother Braumin and his companions.
"The departure of Jilseponie weighs heavily on us all," Tomas said somberly, "as does the departure of Shamus Kilronney and his worthy soldiers. But neither event has changed our destination, of course, especially since you have declared that you still intend to accompany us."
"I will indeed," the ranger replied with an exasperated sigh, growing close to frustration, for Tomas had been dancing around his main point for many minutes now, carefully feeling Elbryan out.
"And the weather has been favorable," Tomas went on, "save the one storm. And even those snows were quick to melt away."
Elbryan shook his head and stared at Tomas, his expression speaking clearly that Tomas should get on with it!
"Some folk have been whispering that we should begin our journey," the big man finally admitted —no surprise to the ranger. "They are saying that we could have made Dundalis already and had more than a fair share of shelters constructed, if we had left soon after the supplies had been offered by Comli and the others."
The ranger chuckled at the predictable hindsight. Indeed, they could have long ago reached Dundalis, and, unless they found many monsters blocking their path, could have put up enough shelters and stored enough firewood to survive the harshest of winters. But they could not have known that the mild weather would hold. Winter storms often rolled up the coast, settling for a long stay in the Gulf of Corona, dumping many inches of sleet and rain on the coastal regions and many feet of snow inland. If a storm had caught Tomas' caravan on the road, Elbryan, who had lived most of his life in this region, knew that the few who survived would have been forced to turn back for Caer Tinella.
"The ground is nearly frozen," Tomas reasoned, "and it remains clear of snow."
"Down here, at least," said the ranger. "We do not know what we might find a hundred miles to the north."
"Likely the same," Tomas replied without hesitation. "You admitted as much yourself."
Elbryan nodded, conceding the point. He and Juraviel and Bradwarden had found no signs of inclement weather farther north.
"And if we wait until Bafway, we'll likely find our wagon wheels sinking deep into the spring mud," Tomas went on.
"And if we leave now and a great storm rises against us?" Elbryan asked bluntly.
"And who is to argue that such a storm could not find us even in the spring?" Tomas countered.
Elbryan wanted to argue, wanted to remind the man that spring storms, however deep the snow, were rarely as dangerous as winter storms, since the weather soon after a spring storm almost always turned warm, melting a foot of snow in a few hours. And it wasn't just the snow that Tomas and the other should fear, the ranger realized, for the temperature could plummet in the winter, leaving a man frozen on the ground —even if that ground was not covered in snow.
"If we had left after the first storm of the season —the only storm of the season," Tomas went on, "we would be settled now, cozy in Dundalis. I am thinking, and so are many others, that it is worth the try now. The weather holds and shows no sign of changing. With the ground hard and Nightbird to guide us, we can be in Dundalis in a week, bringing enough wood with us to build a few shelters, and with plenty left to burn against winter's bite, should it ever come."
Elbryan stared hard at the man. He had plenty of practical arguments against Tomas. But they would fall on deaf ears, he knew, and, in truth, he wasn't sure that he wanted to dissuade Tomas.
Not this time.
Pony was gone, and all he wanted was to be back in her arms. Perhaps if he gave Tomas his wish and led them to Dundalis now, before Decambria had ended and the year had turned to the month of Progos, he would have discharged his responsibility to the caravan long before the end of winter. The ranger smiled as he fantasized about surprising Pony in Palmaris before the turn of spring.
That smile disappeared when he looked at Tomas, fearing that he was agreeing only for selfish reasons, perhaps to the detriment of those hardy souls who would make the journey north.
In truth, though, that very morning both Bradwarden and Juraviel had made similar arguments to Elbryan for setting off at once for the northland, all realizing that Tomas had asked to speak with him precisely for that purpose.
"You understand that I can guarantee nothing?" the ranger asked.
Tomas smiled widely.
"If a storm catches us —"
"We're tougher than you are supposing," Tomas replied.
The ranger gave a great, defeated sigh, and Tomas followed the cue with a heartfelt belly laugh.
"I can guarantee nothing," Elbryan repeated somberly. "We can find and destroy, or avoid, any monsters, I believe, but I cannot make the same claims concerning the whims of nature."
"She'll stay calm and inviting," Tomas assured him. "I feel it in my old bones."
Elbryan nodded, and then he said the words that Tomas Gingerwart and so many others had been aching to hear for so many days. "Pack up."
CHAPTER 8
The Bishop's Initiatives
Pony crouched at the corner of the gatehouse, watching the spectacle at the Palmaris docks. The ferry had just come in, crowded with folk from the town of Amvoy across the Masur Delaval, and now the Palmaris city soldiers and a pair of monks from St. Precious jostled the newcomers, inspecting their goods, barking questions at them. Every day it got worse.
Pony had been in the city for more than a week. After she'd seen similar problems at the north gate when she'd arrived, she entered the city secretly at night, using malachite to boost her and Greystone right over a little-guarded position along the city wall. What a thrilling ride that had been, cantering Greystone into a great leap and using the
levitational powers of the gemstone to let them soar far above and beyond the ten-foot wall!
After arranging board for Greystone at a stable on the city's north end, Pony had gone straight to the thriving Fellowship Way, finding Belster O'Comely along with a woman, Dainsey Aucomb, who had come on to help the Chilichunks years before, when Pony had been indentured in the army. Several others from up north were at the Way as well, some working, others patrons; and at first Pony was afraid that being recognized by so many could lead to serious trouble. Belster had taken care of that, though, calling a quick meeting and helping Pony to change her identity. Now she was Carralee dan Aubrey, a combination of the names of a friend and her infant niece, both of whom had been killed during the original goblin raid on Dundalis many years before.
Only then did Pony appreciate how organized Belster and his friends were. Such an underground brotherhood had become necessary, he explained, because of the policies of the new head of the abbey of St. Precious, Abbot De'Unnero. Some were already whispering that he was not merely the abbot of St. Precious but also bishop of Palmaris, a title that conferred the powers of both abbot and baron. That notion terrified Pony, for in a world where edicts from King and Father Abbot could take weeks to arrive, such a position gave De'Unnero, in effect, the powers of a dictator.
Now that she had settled into the routines of Fellowship Way, Pony had been going out each day to witness the events about the town, particularly near the gates and the docks, where the changes seemed most acute.
Palmaris was a fortified city, but primarily it was a trading city, a port at the mouth of the great river, the hub for any merchants operating in the northwest of Honce-the-Bear. As such, the city gates had always been only lightly guarded, but now. . .
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