The woman gagged and nearly choked on that proclamation! Many in the Church throughout the last centuries had secretly questioned the ascension of Gwendolyn to sainthood, some claiming that impurities had been overlooked, others arguing that the woman, a healer and then a warrior of the third century, should have been dismissed simply because she had not recognized her place as a member of the fair sex. But rarely, if ever, had anyone within the Church so publicly denounced Gwendolyn or any other saint!
Treisa looked around for support against the blasphemer, but she found her brothers of St. Gwendolyn, men she had served beside piously for years, standing firm with the monster from St.-Mere-Abelle.
“How can you claim to be of the faith and yet doubt?” De’Unnero asked dramatically, storming about the room and waving his arms. “Witness the trials that have befallen the world, the suffering, the death! We are the guardians of the word of God, the guides to holiness. If the world is fallen to ruin, then we of the Abellican Church cannot diminish our part in it. No, we must accept the blame, and use it as guidance to right our straying road.”
“Is that not what the new abbot of St. Precious claims to do?” Treisa dared to remark.
De’Unnero laughed. “Do you not understand, sovereign sister?” he asked. “It was the error of Avelyn that began all this. The theft and the murder.”
Several of the St. Gwendolyn brothers shook their fists and cheered their agreement. This place was becoming dangerous, Treisa realized, and from more than the plague!
De’Unnero went on and on, railing against Avelyn and Jojonah, against Braumin Herde and the traitor Francis, and against anything or anyone not in agreement with his philosophy. He ended, standing right before the incredulous Treisa, his eyes wild; and she shrank back, fearing that he would strike her.
“Go to your room, sister,” he said quietly, “or go wherever your heart leads you. I am the abbot of St. Gwendolyn now. I will give you a short while to adjust to that reality. But I warn you, here and now and in front of all these witnesses, if you cross me, I will demote you. I will push you back within the Order, until you find yourself performing tasks with the first-year sisters. Discipline alone will get us through these dark times, and I’ll not have that compromised by Sovereign Sister Treisa.”
He turned and waved at her to leave.
And she did, after letting her gaze linger about the room to the gathered brothers—to the followers, it seemed, of Marcalo De’Unnero.
As De’Unnero expected, Treisa gave him no trouble over the next couple of weeks. The abbot went about his days in the humid air solidifying his grasp on those eager young brothers seeking answers to a world gone crazy. He continued his tirades against his enemies, including Fio Bou-raiy in the customary mix, and each of his increasingly excited speeches was met with increasingly excited applause.
But De’Unnero knew that it could not go on forever, knew that his position of abbot had not been, and would not likely be, sanctioned. Thus, he wasn’t surprised at all one muggy morning when one of the brothers hustled into his office to announce that Masters Glendenhook and Machuso of St.-Mere-Abelle had arrived, along with a contingent of twenty brothers, several immaculates among them.
“Shall I bring them?” the brother asked.
De’Unnero started to nod, but then changed his mind. “Not here,” he explained. “I will meet them in the courtyard.
“And brother,” he added as the younger monk turned to go, “let the word go throughout the abbey, that all may bear witness to this.”
“Yes, my abbot,” the young monk said, and he ran out of the room.
De’Unnero lingered there for a long while. He wanted to make sure that he gave his followers ample time to get out there to watch this event, as Glendenhook and the others from St.-Mere-Abelle no doubt tried to exert their will over that of the brethren of St. Gwendolyn. Yes, this would be a critical moment for him, De’Unnero knew: the moment when he learned the truth of the courage and loyalty of his followers.
He came out into the courtyard, not in the decorated robes of an abbot, but in his normal, weathered brown robes, hood thrown back. There stood Glendenhook and Machuso, flanked by the other brothers of their abbey, all scowling and trying to appear intimidating.
Marcalo De’Unnero was rarely intimidated. With a nod to his many watching followers, he strode across the courtyard to stand before the two visiting masters.
“If you had better announced your intentions, I could have better prepared the abbey,” De’Unnero remarked casually, almost flippantly.
“Perhaps we would be better served in your private offices,” Master Machuso said softly.
“Why so, Master Machuso?” De’Unnero loudly replied.
“We have come on official business of the Abellican Church,” Master Glendenhook said firmly, “sent by Father Abbot Agronguerre himself.”
“Ah, yes,” De’Unnero replied, walking about, glancing up at his friends and followers lining the courtyard wall. “And how fares the new Father Abbot? I trust that my in absentia vote was counted.”
“Recorded and noted,” Master Machuso assured him.
“And still Abbot Agronguerre counted more votes than did Abbot Olin?” De’Unnero asked, again loudly; and his words made Glendenhook glance about suspiciously, for he understood that De’Unnero’s announcing that he had voted for Olin would bolster his popularity among the brethren of St. Gwendolyn, who had many ties to Olin’s Entel abbey.
“Indeed,” Master Glendenhook added dryly. “Agronguerre of St. Belfour was well supported by many different factions within the Church. Thus, he is the rightful father abbot, whose word initiates canon law. Now, good Master De’Unnero, may we retire to a more private setting and conclude our business efficiently?”
“I doubt that your business and my own are the same,” De’Unnero replied.
“My business concerns you,” Glendenhook insisted.
“Then speak it plainly!” De’Unnero demanded angrily.
Glendenhook stared at him long and hard.
“You have come to inform me that I am recalled to St.-Mere-Abelle,” De’Unnero stated, and several of the gathered St. Gwendolyn brothers gasped.
Glendenhook continued to glower.
“And what of my appointment as abbot?” De’Unnero went on. “Sanctioned, or not? Not, I would guess, else how might I be recalled?”
“You were never appointed as abbot of St. Gwendolyn!” Master Glendenhook shouted.
“What say you, brethren?” De’Unnero was calling out before the visiting master even finished the declaration.
“Abbot De’Unnero!” one young brother cried; and then others joined in, howling their approval for this man they had accepted as their leader.
Master Machuso came forward and took De’Unnero by the elbow—or at least tried to, for the fiery master yanked away from him.
“Do not do this,” Machuso warned. “We are sent with the strictest of orders and backed by all of the power of St.-Mere-Abelle.”
De’Unnero laughed at him.
“Master De’Unnero is not your abbot!” Master Glendenhook called loudly, addressing all the gathering. “He is needed in St.-Mere-Abelle, in the court of the new, of your new, Father Abbot.”
“While we twist,” cried one young brother.
“A new abbot will be appointed presently,” Glendenhook assured the man, amid the murmuring of discontent. “You have not been forgotten, nor is your plight of minor concern.”
“Of no concern at all, then?” De’Unnero was quick to quip.
Glendenhook just looked at him and sighed profoundly.
The crowd about them began jostling then, some brothers coming down from the parapets, others hanging back but shaking their fists. Glendenhook looked back, to see his escorts from St.-Mere-Abelle shifting nervously and glancing all about—until they saw him. He gave a nod and produced a gemstone; and all of his brethren—except for Machuso, who started praying—did likewise.
“You are a bigger foo
l than even I believed, if you allow this to continue,” Glendenhook said quietly to De’Unnero. “Did you think that Father Abbot Agronguerre would not anticipate this from you?”
“Fio Bou-raiy, you mean,” De’Unnero said coldly; and he was not laughing, not smiling at all. He held up his hand, and those brothers who had begun to approach stopped in their tracks. The tense pose held for a long while, Glendenhook and De’Unnero staring, staring, neither blinking.
“Do not do this, I beg,” came Machuso’s soothing old voice.
De’Unnero broke into a chuckle, a sinister, superior, and threatening sound. “You have come for St. Gwendolyn,” he said, “and so she is yours. You have come for Marcalo De’Unnero, but he, I fear, is not yours. No, Master Glendenhook. I see the road before me, the path where I might preach the true word of God, rather than the petty and self-serving proclamations issuing forth from St.-Mere-Abelle. My path,” he said loudly, moving out and reaching with his voice for his many followers, “our path,” he corrected, “is not within the shelter of a secluded abbey, oblivious even of the cries of those dying of the rosy plague right outside our doorway. No, our path is the open road, that our words might reach the ears of the needy peasants, that they might find again the course of righteousness!”
Cheers went up from every corner of the courtyard, and Glendenhook and the others from St.-Mere-Abelle could only watch and groan. Glendenhook tried to appeal to the brothers of St. Gwendolyn, but De’Unnero’s words drowned out his, in both volume and impact.
Finally, an outraged Glendenhook looked back directly at De’Unnero, his eyes full of hatred.
“You came here seeking the abbey, and so St. Gwendolyn is yours,” De’Unnero said innocently.
“Do not do this,” said Glendenhook, and his tone was nothing like the begging, pleading words of Master Machuso, but one dripping with threat. “You go against Church doctrine here, walking a dangerous road.”
“And who will rise up against me?” De’Unnero asked. “Against us? Your friend Fio Bou-raiy, the lackey of gentle Agronguerre? The King? No, brother, we recognize the truth of it all now. We understand that the Church has stepped from that truth, and we will not be deterred from the righteous road.”
“Master De’Unnero!” Machuso cried, horrified.
“Join with us!” De’Unnero offered suddenly and apparently sincerely, “before all the world is fallen into darkness. Help us put the Church aright, and thus end the misery of the plague.”
Glendenhook stared at him incredulously.
“Now is the time for action and not words,” De’Unnero insisted.
“You believe the plague to be a punishment from God?” Glendenhook whispered harshly.
“On a deserving populace,” De’Unnero growled back at him, “on those who have forsaken the truth.”
“Absurd.”
“Obvious,” De’Unnero countered. “I see it, and they see it.” He swept his arm about to encompass the gathered brothers of St. Gwendolyn. “We know the truth and we know the source—and no edicts from Father Abbot Agronguerre will sway us from that path.”
“You cannot—” Master Machuso started to say, but Glendenhook knifed an arm across the older man’s chest, bidding him to be quiet.
“You risk the wrath of Father Abbot Agronguerre and all the masters of St.-Mere-Abelle,” Glendenhook warned.
“And you, Brother Glendenhook, risk the wrath of Marcalo De’Unnero,” De’Unnero said evenly, moving right up to the man, his posture and the set of his eyes and jaw a poignant reminder to Glendenhook of the reputation of this monk, Brother Marcalo De’Unnero, widely accepted as the greatest fighter ever to walk out of St.-Mere-Abelle, ever to train in the Abellican Order. “Which of us, then, do you believe in the worse situation?”
The question obviously unnerved Glendenhook profoundly. The man held a gemstone in his hand—a graphite likely, or perhaps even a lodestone. But he’d never try to bring up the magic, De’Unnero knew with confidence, because Glendenhook realized that De’Unnero could kill him with a single, well-placed blow. No, Glendenhook would never find the courage to take such a risk.
“Take your abbey and be glad that I deemed our path to be out there,” De’Unnero said quietly, staring unblinkingly with each word. “We are beyond you now, all of us. We will follow the true course of the Abellican Order, that perhaps our actions will inspire others—even Master Glendenhook, perhaps—to walk beside us.”
“You have gone mad,” Glendenhook remarked.
“As much has been said of many prophets,” De’Unnero was quick to respond. He held up his hand, then, and all about him hushed. “To the road!” De’Unnero demanded with a powerful signaling movement, and the brothers of St. Gwendolyn gave a cheer and led the way to the front gate.
“If you try to stop us, you may prove victorious,” De’Unnero said calmly—too calmly! “But I warn you that I will come for your throat first and foremost.” He finished and lifted one arm, revealing that it was no longer a human arm but the paw of a great tiger.
Master Glendenhook watched De’Unnero and nearly every one of the remaining twenty-seven brothers of St. Gwendolyn walk out of the abbey gate soon after, all the brothers bending to scoop up flowers as protection against the plague.
And then they walked away, from St. Gwendolyn and from the Abellican Church.
And so on that day, the fifth day of summer in God’s Year 828, the Brothers Repentant were conceived, led by Marcalo De’Unnero, the former abbot of St. Precious, the former Bishop of Palmaris, the former abbot of St. Gwendolyn, and the greatest warrior ever produced by the Abellican Church.
Chapter 25
Summer Heat
“WHAT NEWS FROM PALMARIS?” DUKE KALAS ASKED, SITTING ASTRIDE HIS SHORT and muscular pinto To-gai-ru pony.
King Danube, riding a taller snow-white gelding, turned to regard the man, but it was Constance Pemblebury, trotting her chestnut up between them, who was first to answer.
“Is it midweek already, then?” she asked sarcastically, for they all knew well that the week had just begun. “Is not that question normally reserved for midweek and the end of the week?”
Duke Kalas glared at the woman, but Constance only laughed and kicked up an even swifter pace, outdistancing her fellow riders across the manicured, hedge-lined field behind Castle Ursal.
“I have heard not a word from our friends in the northern city,” King Danube replied to the original question, “nor do I care.”
“Nor should you, my King,” said Kalas. “The folk of Palmaris are a difficult lot, and made all the harder by their recent experiences in war and in civil strife. If you commanded me back to the place, I would renounce my title of duke of Wester-Honce!”
That made King Danube raise an eyebrow, but he merely nodded; for Kalas had made it quite clear to him from the very first day he had returned to Ursal the previous winter that he had no intention of going anywhere near the wretched city of Palmaris again.
“Still,” Danube remarked, “I do wonder about my legacy.”
“Your legacy?” Kalas asked incredulously, purposely dramatizing his surprise. “You defeated the demon dactyl and the demon Markwart, who overran the Abellican Church. You—”
“Let us not exaggerate the role that I played in either event, my friend,” Danube said. “Indeed, I understand that I will be thought of fondly in decades hence, but there are other matters that I see before me now. Perhaps the strife in Palmaris, and much of the discontent that often rumbles about Ursal’s avenues, is the result of too many people too close together. We both know, after all, how disagreeable some are by their very nature.”
He ended with a chuckle, and so Kalas joined in.
“Perhaps it is time for us to consider the expansion of Honce-the-Bear’s borders; and in that regard, Palmaris might prove a very important location,” King Danube reasoned.
“The Timberlands?” Duke Kalas asked doubtfully.
“Impossible, by treaty, and I do not mean t
o leave a legacy as one who dishonored his word,” King Danube replied. “But there are many places in between Palmaris and the Timberlands. The Church has recognized this small town—Caer Tinella by name, I believe—and with the mood of the folk in the north, perhaps we should look in that direction, as well.”
“I pray you do not act rashly,” Kalas said, “or hastily. The north is much glamorized today because of yesterday’s events; but in the end, it remains a savage and untamed place, filled with savage and untamed folk.”
“I hear well your words,” said King Danube, “but I’ll not leave Palmaris without a proper and strong baron at this time.”
Kalas’ expression dropped and his shoulders sagged.
“Oh, not you, my friend,” King Danube said with a laugh. “Nay, even if you were so inclined, I value your advice too much to send you back across the kingdom and away from my side. But there is another Duke, recently returned to my court, whose province actually extends beyond Palmaris to the north and the west.”
“Tetrafel,” Kalas easily reasoned. “But is he recovered?”
“Nearly well enough, I would say,” replied Danube. “He has even begun talking of rewriting his lost journal, though I doubt that any of the maps he draws from memory will prove of much use to future expeditions. But if our Duke is determined to immerse himself in his work, then what better place for him than Palmaris? I will allow him to spend the season in Ursal, recovering, and then I will afford him a strong contingent of supporters for his journey, and in truth, I doubt that Abbot Braumin will prove too difficult to manage.”
Duke Kalas nodded and even managed a smile, but given his own experience in Palmaris, he doubted those last words strongly.
The hamlet of Juniper in the rolling green hills of southern Honce-the-Bear, the county known as Yorkey, was a quiet and unassuming community. Not an old cluster of houses, Juniper traced no deep roots into the past but was, rather, a fairly new community, a place where any settler might step right into the highest social circles, and where new folk were not generally treated with suspicion and derision.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 40
