"Well, at least you know where they are that way."
"As we know their sires' whereabouts." Tuan shook his head. "I mislike it, Lord Warlock. 'Tis a harbinger of war. These resentful barons lack only a focus, a point toward which to rally."
"Which our Lord Abbot is rushing to give them—and they trust him to bring the mass of the people with him."
"They will be torn," Catharine said, glowering. "Our good folk do treasure our reign."
"You've brought tranquility to the average peasant," Rod allowed, "and your armies haven't trampled too many crops in the process."
"Nay, not so many," Tuan said, with a rye smile. "Our subjects shall be torn indeed, 'twixt Crown and Gown."
"So will the monks."
Catharine looked up sharply. "Surely the Abbot's own will declare for him!"
"They have no choice," Tuan reminded.
"No, they haven't," Rod agreed, "but I can't help wondering how many will wish they had."
"Thou dost speak of these friars who have broken away and come nigh us?"
"Well, yes, them, of course." Rod paused. "I was also wondering, though, how many weren't quite ready to make the break, but don't quite approve of what their good Lord Abbot is doing."
"What is good about him?" Catharine snapped.
"Oh, quite a bit, really," Rod insisted. "He always struck me as being a good man at the core, Your Majesty. With a lust for power that he doesn't control too well, of course."
"Aye, or he'd not be Abbot!"
"What else? But there have been some abbots who were elected for their saintliness. Some of them were even decent administrators."
Tuan sighed. "Would that I knew how they combined the two."
Catharine glanced at him with apprehension. "Do not trouble thyself overly with the matter, I prithee." She turned back to Rod. "Still, Lord Warlock, he hath not impressed me as one who doth ken the use of his power, once he hath won it."
"A point," Rod agreed. "No great deal of initiative for anything beyond gaining status, no. And there's a fundamental weakness to him."
"Why, what is that?" Tuan looked up with a frown.
"Moral, surprisingly. Power's more important to him than anything else. I think he could find an excuse to break any oath or Commandment, if it would boost his authority."
"Thou dost read him aright." Catharine's face darkened. "Yet what first gave him the notion that he could rise against us?"
"That phrase from Scripture, that he doth take without regard for the remainder of its chapter," Tuan said, with disgust, "'Put not your trust in princes.'"
Rod abstained from comment. Personally, he was pretty sure the flea that had bitten the Abbot's ear was really a futurian agent, but he wasn't about to say so. Their Majesties hadn't been able to absorb a concept so far outside their medieval frame of reference, and had rejected it so thoroughly that they had largely forgotten it. Which was just fine with Rod. If the time ever came when they could understand, he wouldn't need to worry about their knowing a secret.
But Catharine noticed his reticence. "Thou dost not concur, Lord Warlock?"
Rod stirred. "I think it's a natural outcome of disagreements between yourselves and the clergy. Majesties." He didn't mention that the Abbot probably wouldn't think of anything to disagree about, left to his own devices. "But I wouldn't really worry about it too much. What matters is that he has come to the verge of rebellion—but his ability to sway the people will be drastically lessened if a few friars who don't support him can preach to the peasants."
Tuan lifted his head. "Well thought, Lord Warlock! And we have these friars of whom thou hast spoke!"
"They're not about to speak against their Abbot yet," Rod cautioned. "We really need to know who's getting upset with him, inside the main monastery."
"Manage it if thou canst," Catharine urged, "and discover what next he doth intend!"
"Oh, I think you can probably figure that out pretty well by yourselves, Majesties.''
"I do not." Catharine gazed directly into his eyes. "Since he raised up the barons against us, and then, at the verge of battle, reversed his stand and swore loyalty—why, ever since, I have despaired of discovering his thoughts."
Which was pretty good, coming from her; but again, Rod withheld comment—especially since he knew quite well what had changed the Abbot's mind, last time.
"His Virtue, the Lord Monaster!"
Behind the elderly manservant, the Abbot raised an eyebrow.
" 'His Grace,' old Adam, 'His Grace!'" The Baroness Reddering fairly bolted out of her chair and sailed toward the Abbot, arms outstretched. "And 'tis 'Lord Abbot,' not 'Lord Monaster!'"
"Well, if he is an abbot, he should rule an abbey," the old servitor grumbled.
"A monastery is an abbey—or hath one!" The Baroness clasped the Abbot's hands. "Thou must needs forgive him, Father—he ages, and his mind—"
"Ah, but I've known Adam for years—many of them," the Abbot interrupted, sparing the old man. He turned to the servitor with a smile. "And as to forgiving, why, is that not an aspect of my vocation?"
"So thou hast said many times, in the confessional." Old Adam's eye glinted with affection. "What matter these lordly titles, eh? Thou wast ever Father Widdecombe to me."
"Adam!" the Baroness gasped, but the Abbot only laughed and clapped the old man on the shoulder as he turned toward the young lady who floated toward him with a whisper of linen. He straightened, shoulders squaring, smile settling, and eyes widening just a little. "Lady Mayrose, how well dost thou appear!"
"I thank thee, milord," the lady murmured with a curtsy and a faint look of disappointment. She was in her mid-twenties, older than a well-dowered lady ought to be, unwed. There was no reason, to look at her—her face and form were comely, and her hair like a fall of burnished gold. She watched the Abbot from the corner of her eye as she turned to pace beside him to the table before the great clerestory window, where she sat at her grandmother's left hand, watching him with a look that might have explained her single state.
The Abbot's eye kindled as he beamed at her. "When I think how gawky a babe thou wast when first thou didst come unto this house in the days when I was still chaplain!"
Lady Mayrose forced a silvery laugh, and her grandmother said quickly, "Thou wast scarce more thyself, holy Father."
"In truth." The Abbot smiled ruefully. "A half-fledged boy was I, puffed up with the self-importance of my final vows. I wonder thou couldst abide me, good lady."
"Ah, but even in callow assurance thou wast ever a well of strength." The Baroness's eyes glittered with tears. "In truth, scarce could I have borne life when my good lord passed from us, hadst thou not come hither from the monastery with thy consolation and thy comfort."
"Glad I was to be of aid, as ever I shall be," the Abbot assured her, clasping her hand. " 'Twas little enough I could do, in token of the kindness and patience thou didst show to me in my first years of priesthood. Nay, ne'er could I entrust this house to any of my monks."
"For which we rejoice." Lady Mayrose's voice was low and husky. "No other priest could ever make the mass so meaningful as thou dost, milord."
It was the wrong tactic, for it reminded the Abbot of his spiritual responsibilities. He drew his hand back to touch the crucifix that hung on his breast, and plastered on an artificial smile. "I thank you, my child, yet be ever mindful that our Lord's sacrifice is ever new and vital, no matter which sanctified hands may hold His body."
The lady bowed her head, rebuked, but still held her gaze on the Abbot.
Flustered, he turned away to the Baroness. "I wished to speak to thee directly, noble lady, and apprise thee of my deeds, for I would not have thee misapprehend my purpose, an thou didst hear echoes of me from other lips."