"Hold!" Father Thom paled. "Thou hast no authority over men of the cloth!"
"Thou didst forfeit the protection of thy cloth when thou didst raise a staff," the bailiff replied evenly, "and I have authority over any who disturb the King's peace in this parish!"
"Thou hast not! All clergy are subject only to the Abbot, and to him alone!"
"In truth? Why, then, call for thine Abbot and bid him excuse thee!"
"Why, so I shall," Father Thom said, eyes narrowed. "Stand aside." He nodded to his monks and strode toward the door, thumping the floor with his staff. For a moment it seemed he must collide with the bailiff, but at the last moment that worthy stepped aside and waved them out the door with a low, mocking bow. When the last monk had gone by, he stepped into the doorway and gazed after them with a hard eye. "Williken, take thou five men and follow them at a distance—and see that they leave not the roadway."
Williken tugged his forelock, beckoned his men, and departed.
The bailiff turned back to Father Boquilva. "Now, good friar, what was the cause of this coil?"
Chapter Five
The monk opened the door and managed to incline his body without actually bowing. Rod tried to ignore him and stepped into the study. "Hail. Milord Abbot."
"Hail," the Abbot responded, with a smile in his voice; but he forgot to stick out a hand. Just as well; Rod wasn't excited about kissing rings, anyway.
The monk who had opened the door had followed Rod in, stepping past him to the Abbot's side. The Abbot indicated him with a wave. "My secretary. Brother Alfonso."
Rod gave the man a brief, but intense, glance, memorizing his face; anyone that close to the Abbot was a possible enemy. He saw a pale face with a lean and hungry look on top of an emaciated body. And, of course, the fringe of hair around the tonsure. But the eyes—the eyes were burning.
Rod turned away, trying to ignore the man. "I bear greetings from Their Majesties, milord."
"I am pleased that my children remember me."
Oh. It was going to be that way, was it? "My children"— implying that the Abbot had the right to rebuke them.
The Abbot waved toward a table by the tall bay window. "Wilt thou sit?"
"Thank you, yes; it has been a long journey." Since he'd been in the saddle most of two days. Rod really would have preferred to stand, but there was no point in making the meeting any more formal than it had to be. The cozier, the better; he was out to rebuild friendship, if possible.
If.
The Abbot sat, too, and waved to Brother Alfonso. "Wine, if you please."
The fruit of the vine trickled into a cup in front of the Abbot, then (just so he wouldn't have any false notions about who was more important here) into one in front of Rod; it may have been poor courtesy, but it was an effective statement. Rod, however, waited for his host to drink first.
The Abbot raised his cup and said, "To Gramarye."
"To Gramarye," Rod echoed, relieved that it was a toast he could drink to (albeit only a small sip; he loathed sweet wines).
The Abbot didn't drink much more—only enough for the symbol. Then he sat back, toying with the cup. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
And he did seem to be enjoying it—for all the wrong reasons, no doubt. "Their Majesties have grown concerned about the role of the Church in this land of Gramarye, milord."
"Indeed." The Abbot tensed, but held his smile. "They should be so concerned, for only a godly country may be peaceful and whole."
"Well, I can agree to that much, at least," Rod said with relief. "If all the people in a country believe in the same religion, it welds the country together."
"Oddly phrased." The Abbot frowned. "Not that I disagree; but thou dost make the Church seem to be the tool of the State."
Hasn't it always been? But Rod didn't say that aloud; he could think of a few cases where it had been just the reverse. "Not at all, milord. Indeed, the Church is to the State as the soul is to the body."
"And the body is dead without it?" The Abbot smiled again, seeming to relax a trifle. "Well said, well said. I am consoled to find that my royal son and daughter do see this so clearly."
Rod wasn't quite sure Their Majesties would have phrased it the way he had, but he let it pass. "Yet also, milord, if the body is ill, the soul may suffer."
"Not an it bear the thought of Heaven in mind." The Abbot frowned. "Yet I will own that a person who's ill may be tempted to anger and despair. Still, such trials will strengthen the soul, if they are endured."
Rod had a sudden memory of the smoking ruins of a village he'd seen shortly after the bandits had left. "True, but the illness should not be courted. At least, that's what I was taught when I was a boy—that it's a sin to damage your body, because it has the potential of being a temple of God."
"That, too, is true." But the Abbot's frown deepened. "Yet do not misconstrue; the body matters naught in Eternity. Only the soul endures."
It was hard not to point out the logical flaw—that the Abbot's argument could be used as an excuse for oppression— but Rod managed; he was here to conciliate, not to antagonize. "But doesn't God want us to try to achieve a sound mind in a sound body?"
"He doth; yet do not therefore dream that the two are equal in importance."
"Surely, milord, you do not preach that the body should be the slave of the soul!" That was bringing matters to a head— who should rule? Church or Crown?
"Not the slave," the Abbot qualified, "but the servant. Assuredly the body should be in all ways subject to the soul."
Dead end. Rod took a deep breath, trying to think of another approach. "But how, milord, if the soul becomes ill?"
"Then it must come to the Church, to be cured!"
Well, some of the medieval priests had been great practical psychologists—some. But Rod noticed that the Abbot had taken the argument around in a circle, stubbornly refusing to consider the implications of his own analogy. "Yet until it does, milord, it may create havoc within the body, may it not?" Rod had a vivid mental image of a schizophrenic patient he'd seen once—haggard, unshaven, and dressed in sloppy clothes.
Maybe the Abbot had seen something like it, for he looked distinctly unhappy. "Aye, yet we speak of the body politic, not the body human!"
The analogy wasn't working for him anymore, so he was rejecting it. "Yes, and we're talking about the Church, not any one soul. But there have been times when the Church has been ill, in a way—split into parties with different beliefs."
"Heresies have taken root, aye, and done great damage ere they have been stamped out." The Abbot scowled. "Yet 'tis all the more reason why they must be eliminated—with fire and sword, if need be!"
He'd pushed it over the line; Rod caught his breath. "But the Commandment says, 'Thou shalt not kill."'
"The Commandment doth not speak of the vile seducers who would sway God's children from the true Faith!" the Abbot snapped. "Assuredly thou dost not wish to be such an one!"
"No, Milord Abbot, I've no wish to tempt people away from the true Church."
The Abbot's face turned to stone.
"Any such division in the Church can only wreak havoc and misery on the poor common people who make up most of its body," Rod said softly. "I beg you, Milord Abbot, to do all that you can to prevent such a breach."
Behind the Abbot the secretary watched, trembling, his eyes like glowing coals.
" 'Tis not for us to do or undo," the Abbot answered, his tone glacial. "The unity of Gramarye doth rest with the great lords, and with Their Majesties."
The thought of the implied civil war chilled Rod's insides. "Yet you are the healer of the soul, Lord Abbot. Can you not find a way to make the body of Gramarye whole again?"