“I did not return to fight old battles,” De’Unnero insisted, his tone still razor edged—a clear sign to Braumin that his words against him were not falling upon deaf ears.
“Then why did you return, Marcalo De’Unnero?” the abbot asked, matching the man’s obvious ire.
“This is my appointed abbey,” De’Unnero replied immediately. “My Church.”
“I rather doubt that the current St. Precious resembles anything that could be called your Church,” Braumin reasoned, “nor Markwart’s.” He thought that he had touched a nerve within De’Unnero with the blunt statement, but the man’s look proved to be one of incredulity and not defensiveness.
“Because you tend to the ills of the populace?” he asked. “Because you comfort them and tell them that God will cure all and will take them into his bosom, no matter how wretched an existence they might live? Because, in your own foolishness and arrogance, you believe that you can cure those ills, that you can make it better for all of them?”
“Is that not our calling?”
“That is a lie, and nothing more!” De’Unnero insisted. “It is not our place to coddle and comfort, but to instruct and demand obedience.”
“You do not sound like one who has dismissed the errors of Markwart,” Braumin remarked.
“I sound like one who would not compound those errors with the false dreams of paradise,” De’Unnero retorted. “Since you apparently insist on such a course, perhaps I should make myself more prominent at prayers and about the city.”
“Do your words blot out the reality?” Braumin yelled at him, coming forward suddenly and poking his finger toward the man. “Can you not hear them about our walls? Can you not understand the enemies you have made, Duke Kalas among them? This is not your place, Marcalo De’Unnero. St. Precious is not—”
He ended with a gasp as De’Unnero exploded into motion, reaching his right hand over Braumin’s extended arm and jabbing finger. De’Unnero twisted his arm down and turned around, forcing Braumin to turn, bringing himself behind the abbot. De’Unnero had him locked and helpless, one arm up, painfully wrenched behind his back, with the former Bishop’s left arm tight across his throat.
“You did not learn your lessons in the arts martial, my friend,” De’Unnero purred into Braumin’s ear. Braumin could hear the feral, feline growl deep in the man’s throat.
“Get out of my abbey and out of my city,” Braumin replied, having to gasp for breath with every word.
“How easy it would be for me to reclaim the abbey,” De’Unnero went on. “Alas for poor Abbot Braumin, falling to his death down the stairs. Or out the window, perhaps. But thankfully, St. Precious is not in turmoil, for they’ve another abbot on hand. Pity about the accident.” As he ended, he tightened his hold and let go of Braumin’s arm, bringing his other arm up beside Braumin’s head.
The strength of the man appalled Braumin and made him acutely aware that De’Unnero could break his neck with a simple twist. Still, Braumin fought past the pain and the fear, held his determined course. “Alas for Baron Rochefort Bildeborough,” he gasped, referring to the longtime, beloved Baron of Palmaris, a man the populace believed had been killed by a great wildcat, but who those within Braumin’s circle believed had been murdered by none other than Marcalo De’Unnero.
De’Unnero growled at the reference. Braumin thought his life was at its end, but then the volatile former Bishop shoved Braumin away.
“You return subservient?” Braumin asked skeptically, rubbing his neck and echoing De’Unnero’s initial statement.
“Subservient to the truth and the mission of our Church,” De’Unnero replied. “But I see that my truth and your own are not in accord.”
“Get out of my abbey,” Braumin repeated.
“Have you that power, young Abbot Braumin?”
“I am not alone in my feelings toward you,” Braumin assured the man. “You are not welcome here—in St. Precious or in Palmaris.”
“And will you enlist Duke Kalas into your cause against me?” De’Unnero asked with a snort. “Will you seek the support of a man open in his disdain for the Abellican Church?”
“If I must,” Braumin answered coolly. “My brethren in St. Precious, the Duke’s soldiers, the people of Palmaris—whatever aid I might find in ridding the city of you.”
“How charitable,” De’Unnero said, his voice dripping sarcasm.
“Charitable for the people of Palmaris, yes,” Braumin replied without hesitation. He looked Marcalo De’Unnero in the eye again and matched the man’s intensity. “Get out of St. Precious and out of Palmaris,” he stated flatly and evenly, speaking each word with heavy emphasis. “You are not wanted here, and your presence will only weaken the position of St. Precious with the flock we tend.”
De’Unnero started to respond, but just spat upon the floor at Braumin’s feet and wheeled out of the room.
Master Viscenti entered on the man’s heels. “Are you all right?” he asked, obviously flustered and frightened.
“As all right as one can be after arguing with Marcalo De’Unnero,” Braumin answered dryly.
Viscenti bobbed his head, his nervous tic jerking one shoulder forward repeatedly. “I do not like that one at all,” he said. “I had hoped that he had met his end out … out wherever he has been!”
“Brother Viscenti!” Braumin scolded, though the abbot had to admit to himself that he felt the same way. “It is not our place to wish ill on a fellow brother of the Order.”
Viscenti looked at him incredulously, his expression almost horrified that Braumin would so name De’Unnero.
And Abbot Braumin understood the sentiment completely. But the truth was plain to him: De’Unnero had not been excommunicated, had not even been charged with any crime against the Crown or the Church. For whatever the rumors might say, the former Bishop owed no explanations and no apologies. How Braumin Herde wished he had some real evidence that De’Unnero had murdered the former Baron of Palmaris!
But he did not, and though De’Unnero had no claim to a position of bishop—which had been formally revoked by King Danube himself—or of abbot—for that title had been taken from De’Unnero formally by Father Abbot Markwart—the man remained a master of the Abellican Order, with a high rank and a strong voice in all matters of the Church, including the College of Abbots that would convene in the fall.
Braumin winced as he considered that De’Unnero might even make a play for the position of father abbot, then winced even more when he realized that several other prominent masters of St.-Mere-Abelle would likely back that nomination.
It was not a pleasant thought.
Marcalo De’Unnero left St. Precious that very evening. Abbot Braumin found little relief in watching him go.
Silence. Dead silence, a stillness so profound that it spoke volumes to Master Francis as he sat at the end of the long, narrow table in the audience chamber used by the father abbots of St.-Mere-Abelle. He had met with Master Fio Bou-raiy soon after his arrival in the abbey and had previewed for the man all that he would tell at the meeting—his entire tale, honestly spoken, except, at the bidding of Bou-raiy, his fears concerning the plague. That news had to be relayed more cautiously and to an even more select group, Bou-raiy had convinced Francis—or at least, had secured Francis’ agreement.
Francis had told the rest of his tale in full to the five masters in attendance: the dominant Bou-raiy, the most powerful man remaining at St.-Mere-Abelle; Machuso, who handled all the laymen working in the abbey; young Glendenhook, capable and ambitious, a recent appointee to the rank of master and only in his late thirties; and the two oldest, yet still least prominent among the group, Baldmir and Timminey, men who reminded Francis somewhat of Je’howith of St. Honce, only less forceful and conniving. It occurred to Francis that neither of the pair would even have been appointed to their present rank had not circumstances—the loss of all four of the brothers who had gone to Pimaninicuit, of Siherton by Avelyn’s hands, of Jojonah at Markwart�
�s hands, and the untimely deaths of several other older masters over the last couple of years—left them as the only candidates. Both had served as immaculates for more than thirty years, after all, with no prominent reasons to suggest any cause for elevation. At this time, St.-Mere-Abelle was not strong in high-ranking monks.
And at this time, Francis feared, that lack of leadership might prove devastating to the Church.
“Then you agree with the reports we have previously heard that Father Abbot Markwart’s fall, though tragic, was for the ultimate betterment of the Church?” asked Master Bou-raiy, a man in his mid-forties with short and neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, a perfectly clean-shaven face, and a general appearance and demeanor of competence and sternness. What added to the latter attribute was the fact that the man’s left sleeve was tied off at the shoulder, for he had lost his arm in an accident working the stone-cutting. No one who knew Fio Bou-raiy would consider him crippled in any way, though.
“Father Abbot Markwart lost sight of much in his last days,” Francis replied. “He told me as much with his last breath.”
“And what of Francis, then?” Bou-raiy said, narrowing his eyes. “If Markwart strayed, then what of Francis, who followed him to Palmaris to do his every bidding?”
“Master Francis was—is but a young man,” Master Machuso put in. “You ask much of a young brother to refuse the commands of the Father Abbot.”
“Young, yet old enough to accept an appointment as master, as abbot, as bishop,” Bou-raiy was quick to reply.
Francis studied him carefully, recognizing that Bou-raiy hadn’t been pleased that Markwart had overlooked him when choosing Francis to serve as his second.
“And now we have an even younger man holding title as our principal in the important city of Palmaris,” scoffed Glendenhook.
“It was a difficult time,” Francis said quietly. “I followed my Father Abbot, and perhaps erred on more than one occasion.”
“As have we all,” Master Machuso replied.
“And I have since relinquished those titles Father Abbot Markwart bestowed upon me,” Francis stated.
“Except that of master,” Glendenhook interjected; and it seemed to Francis as if the young and fiery master was serving as Bou-raiy’s mouthpiece. With his barrel chest and curly blond hair and beard, and a snarling attitude, Glendenhook was an imposing sort.
“I would likely have been nominated for the position by this point in any case,” Francis calmly went on, “a position that I believe I have earned, with my work, including organizing the expedition to the Barbacan to learn the fate of the demon dactyl. I keep the title because it, unlike the position of bishop—which is no more, in any case—and that of abbot—of which there can only be one, in any case—does not preclude the appointment of others more deserving.”
“And yet, we now have a former heretic serving in your previous place at St. Precious,” Glendenhook remarked.
“A man falsely accused of heresy,” Francis replied, “a man who had the courage to refute Father Abbot Markwart when I, and others in this room, did not.” He noted that Machuso and the two older men were nodding their agreement; but Bou-raiy stiffened, and Glendenhook seemed as if he was about to spit. “I urge you to accept and offer your blessings to Abbot Braumin Herde, as have King Danube and Abbot Je’howith of St. Honce. And I urge you to accept with open hearts the nomination of Brother Viscenti to the position of master.”
“It seems a proper course,” Machuso remarked, looking to Bou-raiy.
“And if we do not so accept the nominations, of either man?” Master Bou-raiy asked.
“Then you risk dividing the Church, for many will stand beside them, and I will advise them to hold their posts.”
That bold statement raised a few eyebrows.
“This is not our domain, Master Bou-raiy,” Francis went on. “We here at St.-Mere-Abelle, in the absence of a father abbot, must allow the brothers of St. Precious to appoint whomever they believe acceptable, as long as it is within the guidelines of our Order, as it would seem for both Braumin Herde and Marlboro Viscenti. The brothers of St. Precious have chosen Braumin Herde; and thus he is empowered to nominate and elevate Brother Viscenti to the position of master. We could recall Viscenti to St.-Mere-Abelle, of course, since this was his appointed abbey, and then void the promotion, but to what end? We would only then be weakening an already difficult position in Palmaris, where King Danube has given Duke Targon Bree Kalas, no friend of the Church, the barony.”
Again there was a long period of silence, with even Glendenhook looking to Bou-raiy for guidance. The older man struck a pensive pose and stroked his hand over his hairless chin several times, staring at Francis, never blinking.
“What of the woman, Jilseponie?” Glendenhook asked, looking to both Francis and Bou-raiy. “Declared an outlaw and heretic.”
“More a candidate for mother abbess,” Francis remarked. The sudden, horrified expressions from all of the others, even his apparent allies, reminded him of the battle that nomination would have brought upon the Church!
“No outlaw,” he said. “It was Father Abbot Markwart himself who once so named her; and who bore her out to me, unconscious after their titanic struggle; and who admitted to me that she had been right all along. She is neither outlaw nor heretic, by the words of the very man who so branded her.”
“Perhaps further investigation—” Master Glendenhook started to say.
“No!” Francis roared at him, and again, he was greeted by stunned expressions. “No,” he said again, more calmly. “Jilseponie is a hero to the people of Palmaris, to all who live north of the city, and to many others, I would guess, who only heard of and did not witness her deeds. She is in the highest favor of King Danube, I assure you, and any action we take against her, even actions within our province such as excommunication, will only bring scorn upon our Church, and perhaps bring the armies of the King, as well.”
“Strong words, brother,” Bou-raiy remarked.
“You were not there, Master Bou-raiy,” Francis replied calmly. “If you had witnessed the events in Palmaris, you would think my words an understatement, I assure you.”
“What of her gemstones?” Bou-raiy asked. “The considerable cache stolen by Brother Avelyn? It is said that they were not found after the battle.”
Francis shrugged. “It is rumored that the stones were consumed in the fight against the Father Abbot.”
More than a few whispers began at that statement, mostly of doubt—and Francis had a hard time making the case here, since he, too, believed that the stones had been pilfered.
Bou-raiy settled back in his chair once more, and signaled to Glendenhook to be quiet just as the man was about to begin the argument anew.
“So be it,” Bou-raiy said at length. “Braumin Herde, through his courage and the simple good fortune of having his side prevail, has earned a post—one that we could not easily fill without weakening our own abbey even more. If he deems it necessary to promote Brother Viscenti, then let him have his way. I must admit my own relief in having both of them, and Brothers Castinagis and Dellman as well, out of St.-Mere-Abelle.”
“Hear, hear,” Master Glendenhook applauded.
Francis let the uncalled-for slight slip by, relieved that Bou-raiy would take that one insult as satisfying enough and let the promotions stand without argument.
“As for the woman Jilseponie,” Bou-raiy went on, “she can go in peace, and let the wisdom of the ages judge her actions, good or bad. We have not the time nor the resources to pursue the battles waged by Father Abbot Markwart. However,” he warned in the gravest of tones, “Jilseponie would be wise not to keep those stones, for whatever justification she might have found in holding them during the reign of Markwart is past now.”
Francis nodded, understanding the complications that would indeed arise if Jilseponie had the stones and began using them in the northland. Bou-raiy would never stand for it, though Francis wondered what, indeed, the man mi
ght do about it. Francis had seen the results of Jilseponie’s frightening march through Palmaris on her way to Markwart.
“We have more important issues to contend with, anyway,” Bou-raiy continued, leaning forward in his chair, a clear signal that he wanted to move the meeting his way. “There is the little matter of filling, and efficiently, the vacancy at the top of our Order. We have discussed this long before your arrival, of course, Master Francis, and already have planned to summon a College of Abbots in Calember, as you advised us today.
“Brothers,” he went on solemnly, pausing and looking at each of the other five in turn. “We must be united in this. It is no secret that Olin of Bondabruce will make a claim for father abbot. I have known Abbot Olin for many years and consider him a fine man, but his ties to Behren disturb me.”
“What of Master Bou-raiy?” Glendenhook immediately put in, and again Francis got the distinct impression that the man was speaking for Bou-raiy, as if the two had planned this little exchange.
“With all due respect,” Master Machuso put in calmly and, indeed, respectfully, “you are but five years in the title of master, Brother Bou-raiy. I would not oppose such a seemingly premature ascension to the highest position under other circumstances—”
“He is the finest master remaining within the Church!” Glendenhook snapped. Bou-raiy remained very calm and waved the man to silence, then motioned for Machuso to continue.
“Even if we were all to stand united behind you, you cannot expect to have any chance of winning the nomination against Abbot Olin,” Machuso explained. “And where, then, would that leave us? Abbot Olin would ascend to the position of father abbot, and he would not come to serve as such viewing any of us in a favorable light.”
Again Glendenhook started to respond, but Bou-raiy cut him short.
“True enough, good Master Machuso,” he said. “Who among us, then, do you advise? Yourself?”
Machuso narrowed his eyes a bit, Francis noted, for Bou-raiy’s tone, though his words were in agreement, was somewhat condescending. The gentle Machuso quickly let the insult pass, and then replied with a laugh.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 23
