“You wrong me,” flashed back Elave. “I do not deny divine grace. The grace is in the gifts he has given us, from free will to choose good and refuse evil, and mount towards our own salvation, yes, and the strength to choose rightly. If we do our part, God will do the rest.”
Abbot Radulfus tapped sharply with his ring on the arm of his stall, and called the assembly to order with unshaken authority. “For my part,” he said as they quieted, “I find no fault with a man for holding that he can and should aspire to grace by right use of grace. But we are straying from what we are here to do. Let us by all means listen scrupulously to all that Elave is alleged to have said, and let him admit what he admits and deny what he denies of it, and let these witnesses confirm or refute. Have you yet more to add, Aldwin?”
By this time Aldwin had learned to be careful how he trod with the abbot, and add nothing to the bare words he had memorized overnight.
“Father, but one more thing. I said I had heard a preacher tell how Saint Augustine wrote that the number of the elect is already fixed and cannot be changed, and all the rest are doomed to reprobation. And he said that he did not believe it. And I could not keep from asking again, did he not believe even Saint Augustine? And he said again, no, he did not.”
“I said,” cried Elave hotly, “that I could not believe the roll was already made up, for why then should we even try to deal justly or pay God worship, or give any heed to the priests who urge us to keep from sin, and demand of us confession and penance if we trespass? To what end, if we are damned whatever we do? And when he asked again, did I not believe even Saint Augustine, I said that if he wrote that, no, I did not believe him. For I have no knowledge else that he ever did write such a thing.”
“Is that truth?” demanded Radulfus, before Gerbert could speak. “Aldwin, do you bear out those were the actual words spoken?”
“It may be so,” agreed Aldwin cautiously. “Yes, I think he did say if the saint had so written. I saw no difference there, but your lordships will better judge than I.”
“And that is all? You have nothing more to add?”
“No, Father, that’s all. After that we let him lie, we wanted no more of him.”
“You were wise,” said Canon Gerbert grimly. “Well, Father Abbot, can we now hear if the witnesses confirm all that has been said? It seems to me there is substance enough in what we have heard, if these two persons also can verify it.”
Conan gave his own account of the evening’s talk so fluently and willingly that Cadfael could not resist the feeling that he had learned his speech by heart, and the impression of a small conspiracy emerged, for Cadfael at least, so clearly that he wondered it was not obvious to all. To the abbot, he thought, studying the controlled, ascetic face, it almost certainly was, and yet even if these two had connived for their own ends, yet the fact remained that these things had been said, and Elave, even if he corrected or enlarged here and there, did not deny them. How had they contrived to get him to talk so openly? And more important still, how had they ensured that the girl should also be present? For it became increasingly plain that on her evidence everything depended. The more Abbot Radulfus might suspect Aldwin and Conan of malice against Elave, the more important was what Fortunata might have to say about it.
She had listened intently to all that passed. Belated understanding had paled her oval face and dilated her eyes into glittering green anxiety, flashing from face to face as question and answer flew and the tension in the chapter house mounted. When the abbot turned to look at her she stiffened, and the set of her lips tightened nervously.
“And you, child? You also were present and heard what passed?”
She said carefully: “I was not present throughout. I was helping my mother in the kitchen when these three were left together.”
“But you joined them later,” said Gerbert. “At what stage? Did you hear him say that infant baptism was needless and useless?”
At that she spoke up boldly: “No, sir, for he never did say that.”
“Oh, if you stick upon the wording
Did you hear him say, then, that he did not believe unbaptized children suffered damnation? For that leads to the same end.”
“No,” said Fortunata. “He never did say what his own belief was in that matter. He was speaking of his master, who is dead. He said that William used to say not even the worst of men could throw a child into the fire, so how could God do so? When he said this,” said Fortunata firmly, “he was telling us what William had said, not what he himself thought.”
“That is true, but only half the truth,” cried Aldwin, “for the next moment I asked him plainly: Do you also hold that belief? And he said: Yes, I do say so.”
“Is that true, girl?” demanded Gerbert, turning upon Fortunata a black and threatening scowl. And when she faced him with eyes flashing but lips tight shut: “It seems to me that this witness has no devout wish to help us. We should have done better to take all testimony under oath, it seems. Let us at least make sure in this woman’s case.” He turned his forbidding gaze hard and long upon the obdurately silent girl. “Woman, do you know in what suspicion you place yourself if you do not speak truth? Father Prior, bring her a Bible. Let her swear upon the Gospels and imperil her soul if she lies.”
Fortunata laid her hand upon the proffered book which Prior Robert solemnly opened before her, and took the oath in a voice so low as to be barely audible. Elave had opened his mouth and taken a step towards her in helpless anger at the aspersion cast upon her, but stopped himself as quickly and stood mute, his teeth clenched upon his rage, and his face soured with the bitter taste of it.
“Now,” said the abbot, with such quiet but formidable authority that even Gerbert made no further attempt to wrest the initiative from him, “let us leave questioning until you have told us yourself, without haste or fear, all you recall of what went on in that meeting. Speak freely, and I believe we shall hear truth.”
She took heart and drew steady breath, and told it carefully, as best she remembered it. Once or twice she hesitated, sorely tempted to omit or explain, but Cadfael noticed how her left hand clasped and wrung the right hand that had been laid upon the open Gospel, as though it burned, and impelled her past the momentary silence.
“With your leave, Father Abbot,” said Gerbert grimly when she ended, “when you have put such questions as you see fit to this witness, I have three to put to her, and they encompass the heart of the matter. But first do you proceed.”
“I have no questions,” said Radulfus. “The lady has given us her full account on oath, and I accept it. Ask what you have to ask.”
“First,” said Gerbert, leaning forward in his stall with thick brown brows drawn down over his sharp, intimidating stare, “did you hear the accused say, when asked point-blank if he agreed with his master in denying that unbaptized children were doomed to reprobation, that yes, he did so agree?”
She turned her head aside for an instant, and wrung at her hand for reminder, and in a very low voice she said: “Yes, I heard him say so.”
“That is to repudiate the sacrament of baptism. Second, did you hear him deny that all the children of men are rotten with the sin of Adam? Did you hear him say that only a man’s own deeds will save or damn him?”
With a flash of spirit she said, louder than before: “Yes, but he was not denying grace. The grace is in the gift of choice - ”
Gerbert cut her off there with uplifted hand and flashing eyes. “He said it. That is enough. It is the claim that grace is unneeded, that salvation is in a man’s own hands. Thirdly, did you hear him say, and repeat, that he did not believe what Saint Augustine wrote of the elect and the rejected?”