"They cannot force thee to leave thy chair," Brother Alfonso told him. "They cannot declare the Church of
Gramarye to be naught but the dream of a brain-sick fool. Thy priests would raise the people against them."
"Yet who would lead them in this rising?" the Abbot muttered. " Tis no office for a monk or priest."
"It is not," Brother Alfonso agreed, "yet be assured, they will not chance it. No prince can govern without the consent of those he governs."
"Yet how, if the people do not side with the Church of Gramarye? How if they do hearken to the Church of Rome?"
"Why, make sure they do not." Brother Alfonso smiled. "Hast thou no preachers who can inflame with zeal? Hast thou none to quiet restless ghosts who do cry out against the Pope?"
The Abbot turned back to him, lifting his head, eyes widening.
"I am assured that thou hast many among thy monks who are quite gifted," Brother Alfonso said, with a penetrating gaze. "In truth, the wonders I have seen them work might well pass for miracles among the uninstructed—miracles, or the work of vengeful spirits."
The Abbot began to smile.
"Let each monk go forth from this our abbey," Brother Alfonso counseled. "Let each work among the people according to his talents; give each a task befitting his gifts. Let them thus arouse within thy people love for thy Church of Gramarye, and contempt and hatred for the Church of Rome."
The Abbot was smiling broadly now, nodding with enthusiasm. "Set the process in train. Brother Alfonso. Let my monks go forth."
Chapter Six
"So we didn't really accomplish anything. He effectively said he isn't about to budge an inch, and I said you weren't, either." Rod shrugged. "I might just as well not have gone."
"Nay," Tuan disagreed. "Thou hast drawn from him a clear statement of his position and intentions."
" Tis nigh to a declaration of war," Catharine said, tight-lipped.
"Near the mark, yet short of it," Tuan agreed. "He hath threatened war, and our good Lord Warlock hath responded with reminders of our force. Yet he hath not summoned troops, nor have we."
"Not yet, anyway. But I do think you ought to do so, Your Majesties." Rod felt a chill as he said it, and took a sip of wine to warm himself. He leaned back in his hourglass chair and tried to relax, relishing the warmth of the solar, even by night; for the brocaded curtains were drawn close over the windows to shut out the darkness, and the tapestries on the walls seemed to glow with the light from the fireplace. It was good to be here, good to be in Their Majesties' privy chambers again, with a whole castle between himself and the ambitious Abbot. It was good to be with a couple of people who, if not exactly friends, were at least old associates—and Tuan and he were, now, certainly shieldmates; they had shared the dangers of more than a few battles, and consequently trusted one another in a fundamental way that was as important as liking.
Not that Rod didn't like the King. There were traces of silver in Tuan's blond hair now, and a few faint wrinkles in his brow—but the face was still open and honest. Tuan might not have learned guile with the years, but he had certainly learned all about it—and about treachery and power-hunger, as well as most of the other unpleasant characteristics of their species. Underneath the weight of that knowledge, though, the King still believed that most people could learn to be good.
Not so Catharine. She knew the jealousy and suspicion of her own nature too well to believe that anyone could ever be devoid of either. Her hair was still golden and her complexion still unblemished, though Rod suspected that might be due more to her skill with cosmetics than to nature. But the first few lines were beginning to show, and her body had thickened to maturity since he had first met her. Her temper had not slowed, though, nor her vehemence slackened. Still, Tuan's love had mellowed her—her tongue was no longer quite so sharp, and underneath her arrogance and imperiousness was the solid certainty of knowing she was loved.
Rod sighed, envisioning a future age in which the three of them, and Gwen, would be old cronies together. It sounded very peaceful.
"Be of good cheer, Lord Warlock," Catharine said softly. "We shall prevail."
Rod turned to her in pleased surprise. Yes, she had matured.
"We shall," Tuan agreed with full assurance, "yet we must not therefore grow careless or neglectful. There are ever troubles, Rod Gallowglass."
"Won't there always be, as long as there are people?" Rod smiled. "After all, our species can't endure too much calm and harmony. But what were you thinking of?"
" 'Tis our noble hostages," Catharine said with distaste. "What a band of gross fools they are! At least, some."
"Only some." Tuan nodded, gazing at the fire. "D'Auguste has grown into a goodly young man, as have his friends Llangollen and Chester. Maggiore and Basingstoke also have become men worthy of their station."
"Well, that's five." Rod frowned. "How come you haven't demanded that Romanov send you a hostage? I know he didn't have any children when the lords rebelled against Catharine the first time, but he does now."
"I would never bring such goodly, innocent lads to brush elbows with the likes of Ghibelli." Catharine's face tightened. "Nor with his companions Graz and Marshall."
"Aye." Tuan seemed somber. "And, too, since thou hast served their father the Duke so well, he hath become a veritable pillar of support."
"Well, your hospitality to his wife and children had something to do with it, too," Rod demurred.
"Too much so, I think." Catharine smiled ruefully. "He hath begun to request that we allow his son to attend upon us, here at Runnymede."
"Well, that's the tradition, isn't it? Every nobleman should be a knight, and every knight has to start out as a page."
"Aye, and the pages must needs serve in the house of a nobleman other than their sire." Tuan turned to Catharine. "He may stay with the other pages, my sweet. There is no need for him to be among the more boorish of our young lords."
Catharine's face blanked with surprise at the notion; then she turned thoughtful. " 'Tis most intriguing, the notion of a duke's heir going about as though he were any common knight's son…"
Rod suppressed a smile and veered back to the concern at hand, or not too far behind. "I take it your troop of young louts has been more loutish than usual."
"Aye, so thou couldst say." Tuan's face hardened. "They have set to brawling."
"Rapiers and daggers in the hall set aside for them!" Catharine's eyes kindled again.
"Really?" Rod looked up. "And the cause of the quarrel?"
"Who can say?" Tuan slapped the table in annoyance. "They claim lords' privilege, and refuse to speak of it."
"Oh, come on—say," Rod coaxed. "What do you need, a signed confession?"
Catharine looked up at him. amused. "There is some sign of faction, is there not?"
Rod nodded. "Ghibelli, Marshall, Glasgow, and Guelph against the Crown, the other five for it. I'd say that amounts to a party, Your Majesty."
"Aye, even as their fathers do align themselves." Tuan rolled his eyes up, exasperated. "Ever do di Medici, Marshall, and Savoy swear allegiance—and ever are they forsworn!"
"And ever will be," Rod said quietly. "Ever consider appointing new lords, Your Majesties?"
"Be sure that we have," Catharine responded, "and be sure that we foresee the barons rising as a man were we to so disinherit even one of their number."
"Yes. Not much luck there." Rod gazed into his wine. "The problem is to replace the lords without replacing the houses. Their sons being hostage should have helped, there."
"I had so hoped," Tuan admitted. "Yet they will not be persuaded."
"Rather do we harbor serpents in our bosom," Catharine said venomously.