The secretary took a step forward, reaching out, but caught himself.
"We do intend naught that would work against the interests of the common folk," the Abbot answered stiffly, "nor against the Crown—provided, of course, that Their Majesties conduct themselves in accord with morality."
Which meant that the Church wouldn't fight Tuan and Catharine, as long as they did what the Church said. No, not good enough. "Does Milord Abbot mean that Gramarye can be unified only if Their Majesties abjure the Church of Rome, and recognize the Church of Gramarye as the only Church of the land?"
The Abbot's face twisted with distaste. "Thou hast small enough grace, and smaller tact. I would prefer to say that I can give neither my favor, nor my blessing, to any reign that doth uphold a faith that we find false."
"Even though the morals and beliefs are the same—except in regard to who gives the orders." Rod tried to squelch his rising anger. "Yet would you not say, Milord Abbot, that it is vital to have the authority of the Church available as a refuge for the people, in the event that the Crown becomes tyrannical?"
Guarded wariness, now, not granite—the Abbot thawed a trifle. "It is, aye; the Church hath ever been a counterpoise to the excesses of the great lords and the King. I do confess surprise to hear thee espouse such a view."
"You wouldn't, if you knew me better—especially since it follows that the Crown must be available as a refuge if the Church grows tyrannical."
The Abbot's face turned magenta. "Never shall it be so! Only clerics may hope to be immune from harshness!"
"Yes, but they're only human." Rod couldn't help but smile. "Even a priest may succumb to temptation."
" 'Tis far less likely than for a lord or king!"
Rod spread his hands. "No argument. Yet if it were to happen, milord, would it not be vital that the Crown be free to protect its subjects?"
The Abbot glared, his eyes narrowing.
"The Church must be separate from the State," Rod said softly, "just as the State must be separate from the Church. Therein lies the surest protection of the people."
"I will beg thee not to instruct me in care for the common weal," the Abbot grated. "The nurture of the poor folk hath ever been our concern."
"May it ever be so," Rod said piously.
"It shall." The Lord Abbot rose with the dignity of an iceberg. "In that, thou hast my pledge. Wouldst thou have more of me?"
It was a challenge, and Rod knew when to stop pushing. "I thank you, milord. You have given me all I could have expected."
And he had, of course—a bad sense of foreboding. Rod tried not to show it as he bowed to the Abbot, who returned a brusque nod as Brother Alfonso stepped to open the door. Rod glanced at the man as he stepped out, and he froze at the sight of the secretary's small, triumphant smile. Rod slowly nodded. "It has been instructive to make your acquaintance. Brother Alfonso."
"It shall be more so," the man purred.
Not exactly auspicious, Rod thought—especially since, as he followed a novice down to the gatehouse, he realized that the Abbot hadn't once referred to Rod as "Lord Warlock," or even just "milord."
The Comte d'Auguste strode into the hall with the band of noble hunters behind him, flushed and grinning, but empty-handed. "Ho, stay-at-homes!" he cried. "Thou hast missed a brave ride!"
The four remaining noble hostages looked up from their gaming. "We have not missed it at all." The Comte Ghibelli gave D'Auguste a jaundiced glance.
Sir Basingstoke, heir to the Baronet of Ruddigore, drawled, "Let him be, Ghibelli. Their excitement in the chase doth allow them to forget that they are, in truth, but prisoners of the Crown, held to assure their fathers' obedience." He shook his dice cup and rolled.
"I had liefer be a hostage than have a headless sire." D'Auguste dropped down into an hourglass chair, caught up the ewer of wine, and poured himself a full cup. " 'Twas my father's choice, and I approve it. Yet 'tis a pleasant enough captivity—thou canst not deny we are accorded the freedom of guests."
"Aye, to hunt with a dozen of King Tuan's knights about us." Ghibelli turned back to his chessboard. "And I note that thou, noble son of Bourbon, hast come home empty-handed."
"What matter if the wolf hath fled?" The Viscount Llangol-len, son of Earl Tudor, dropped down beside D'Auguste and caught up the pitcher of wine. "I doubt not he shall lie low this night, and avoid the haunts of mortal folk."
"We shall have him on the morrow." Count Graz sat down across from him and reached for the pitcher. "Leave off, Llangollen! Thou canst not drink more than thy cup will hold!"
"Mayhap, yet I may attempt it." Llangollen grinned. "Thou, like all Hapsburgs, dost ever seek to take all the wine for thyself."
"Thou art so besotted with sport that thou carest naught for thine heritage," Ghibelli snarled. "Dost'a not see? 'Twas not the gray wolf thou didst chase, but the wild goose!"
Maggiore, scion of Savoy, turned with blood in his eye, reaching over his shoulder to touch an arrow in his quiver. "I've enough of the gray goose about me to mend the ill manners of the Medici!"
Ghibelli's eyes sparked fire at the reference to his father. He started out of his seat.
"Peace, milord." D'Auguste reached out to stay Maggiore's hand while his gaze met Ghibelli's. "And where was this goose of thine hatched?"
"Why, in the brain of Tuan Loguire," Ghibelli said, "which is to say, in the head of his wife. What! Art thou so befuddled with pleasures thou dost fail to see that this round of hunts, games, and balls is but a curtain to dazzle thine eyes, the whiles Their Majesties do strip thee of thy birthright?"
Graz flushed and started to answer, but D'Auguste laid a hand on his arm. "To answer briefly and to the point—our birthrights are the ruling of our demesnes, which our fathers have still in hand; and the amusements the King doth provide are training for good governance and wise council. As to the wolf, we found the sheep he had slain and the tracks he had left—and, aye, for a short space, we saw his tail and his haunches, ere he loped into the rocks of a hillside whither we could not follow."
"Aye, not without soiling thy pretty tabard!" Earl Marshall's son sneered.
D'Auguste glanced at the splendor of gold and brocade on Marshall's doublet, knowing that he himself wore rough clothes of broadcloth and leather. "There was too great a chance that the beast might spring from ambush, and the sun neared the horizon. Yet we have found his lair, and will have him out on the morrow."
"And if thou dost, what then?" Ghibelli's eye glittered with contempt. "Thou wilt then but aid thy father's enemy, by taking away a threat to his folk. Wilt thou thus increase all his flocks and herds, and strengthen him for the day he doth seek to yoke all his nobles?"
"Thine eyes see naught but thine own thwarted power!" Graz stormed.
Ghibelli's teeth bared in a grin as his hand went to his knife.
D'Auguste caught Graz's hand as it touched his own hilt and held it immobile, forcing a smile at Ghibelli. "The King doth seek one law for all Gramarye, to ensure justice and peace for all his people—even thou. There is no harm in this, though it hinders our sires' whims and fancies."
" 'Tis more than a whim, when he doth choke off our revenues!"
"Aye, by one part in five. We may no longer grind each cent from our peasants to wallow in waste, nor maintain whole armies—yet we've enough to live richly, build strong castle walls, and keep enough men-at-arms to put down all bandits. I see small enough harm in that, and great good and more riches due to rise from folk who feel safe and hopeful."
"And what of this appointment of priests to thine estate, eh? What sayest thou to that?"
" Tis naught." Graz waved the complaint away. "What care I who doth preach on my lands? Yet 'tis the Lord Abbot who hath these appointments, not the King!"