The Baroness saw, but had tact enough not to mention it directly. She gestured for Old Adam to bring her chair nearer the fire. "I marvel that thou canst yet spare time for us, milord, when thou art so much taken up with matters of great moment."
The Abbot frowned, his troubles coming to mind again. "In truth, milady, thy house and thine affairs seem almost a refuge to me now."
"Why, come to sanctuary, then," Lady Mayrose said with a silvery laugh, and turned away in a swirl of skirts to stand by her mother. "Still, 'tis a somewhat troubled sanctuary, as who should know better than its confessor?"
"But thy troubles are so… wholesome, I might almost say." The Abbot smiled. "Nay, thy disagreements seem ever to be borne with love toward one another. Would I and the King might so quarrel!"
"In truth, the Lord did bid thee love thine enemy," Lady Mayrose murmured.
The Abbot nodded. "So indeed He did, Lady Mayrose, yet our enemy will not therefore cease being our enemy." His brow creased. "In truth, Their Majesties are so arrogant that they can scarcely abide the least challenge to their power."
"And art thou so great an affront, then?"
The Abbot sighed, looking up to Heaven. "Alas! How may I be otherwise? For I must oppose this steady extension of their powers, that doth encroach even on the domain of the Church… Oh! Rome is so blind] Not to realize that a worldly prince must needs hamper the Church's work if he doth usurp her offices! So blind, not to see what moves here—and so uncaring!"
The ladies were silent, surprised at his vehemence.
He realized, and smiled apologetically. "Pardon, ladies. My spirit grows agitated as I realize the hurt to the poor folk, in both soul and body, that must come from the Crown daring to take upon itself the alms-giving of the Church and the ordering of our clergy."
"Ah! How can a king or queen understand what is needful in that?" Lady Mayrose said, scandalized. "Nay, certes the Church must remain supreme in such venues!"
The Abbot looked up at her in appreciation. "I thank thee, Lady Mayrose, yet I doubt that even one so ardent as thou wouldst condone the step that I may needs take on this road."
"What step is that?" The Baroness was suddenly apprehensive.
"That of declaring myself to be Archbishop." The Abbot looked away, his mouth twisting as he said it.
The Baroness gasped, but Lady Mayrose's eyes glowed. She nodded, faster and faster. "Certes… aye, certes! Nay, what else couldst thou do, my lord? If the Church of Gramarye hath separated from Rome, it must needs have a head—and that head must be titled Archbishop! Yet ought it not ever have had bishops and archbishops?"
"It should have, Lady Mayrose, it should have." The Abbot turned to her with a slow, approving nod. "
"Pis only for cause that all priests in Gramarye are of the Order, and owe obedience to the Abbot of the only monastery, that we have not."
Lady Mayrose's eyes widened. "Are there other orders of monks, then?"
"Aye, and priests who are not monks." The abbot smiled at her astonishment. "There are many holy houses named in our books—the Order of Saint Francis, for one, and the Order of Saint Dominic, for another. There is also the Society of Jesus, from which came our founder, Saint Vidicon. Yet 'twas a monk of Saint Vidicon's alone brought the Faith to Gramarye. so that the only priests here are those of our Order."
The Baroness's hand trembled at her throat. "Yet will not Their Majesties see thy taking the title of Archbishop as an attack upon their authority?"
"I doubt it not," the Abbot said, frowning, "and 'tis that which doth give me pause in so declaring myself. Yet, milady, would I thereby claim aught that the Abbot hath not always had, in this Isle of Gramarye?"
"Thou wouldst not, and thou wouldst thus do as an archbishop must!" Lady Mayrose insisted. "Who can trust the judgment of kings or queens? For they must, by their natures, be worldly, and therefore liable to corruption!"
"'Tis even so, Lady Mayrose, even so." The Abbot nodded, pleased. "There must be a check on the powers of them who govern, or tyranny will follow."
"And who can check a king, save an archbishop?" Lady Mayrose shook her head, fire in her eyes. "Nay, milord! An archbishop thou must needs be, and naught less than archbishop! For just and right behavior is natural to men of the Spirit—but greed and violence are natural to men of the World!"
"Why, even so had I thought!" the Abbot declared, with a warm smile for her. "Only in men of God may the people trust, for justice!"
"Folly is the prerogative of the Crown," Lady Mayrose answered, "but wisdom is the prerogative of the Mitre!"
"I could not have spoken it better," the Abbot breathed, gazing into her eyes.
She met his gaze a moment, then blushed and bowed her head.
The silence became awkward.
The Abbot turned away, with a noise of impatience. "What a rude guest am I, to so dwell on mine own affairs! I had forgot, milady, the cause for which thou hadst summoned me."
"Oh… 'tis only some disagreement 'twixt this willful child and myself." The Baroness looked up over her shoulder at her granddaughter. "Our quarrel seems petty indeed, weighed against thy matters of great moment."
"I assure thee, milady, that naught which doth trouble thee and thy granddaughter can ever be of small moment to me," the Abbot said with fervor. "What quarrel is this, that can so disturb the loving harmony between thee?"
"What is it ever!" the Baroness sighed. "I have brought to her mind once again, Lord Abbot, her duty to her house and country, yet she doth once more defy me!"
"Lady!" The Abbot turned to Lady Mayrose in mild reproach. "Surely thou dost not deny thou shouldst wed!"
"Nay, not truly, milord." The maiden met his eyes with a deep, disconcerting directness. " 'Tis only a matter of person."
"I did no such thing!"
Squire Rowley frowned across the table at the village pain. Laughn was as scruffy as usual—his tunic probably hadn't been washed for a month, let alone changed; the warden had obviously dragged him in before his weekly shave; and there was something about the lice that kept peeking out from his mange, as though they were finding the aroma inside a little hard to take themselves. Rowley was just glad it had been a clear day, so he could have his men bring his table outdoors to hold court—but he hadn't thought to make sure he was upwind of Laughn. He tried to breathe lightly, and said, "The keeper found thee coming away from the deer, which had still thine arrow in it."
" 'Twas an arrant knave stole that arrow from me!"
"An arrant knave shot the deer, surely." Rowley gasped at a sudden gust and held his breath till it had passed. His knight, Sir Torgel, had a very enlightened attitude toward poaching— he only forbade hunting to people who had enough to eat. But Laughn still lived with his parents, though he was in his twenties, and was well-enough fed, though he was more often seen in the woods than in the fields—and that deer could have fed the whole village for several days. No, Sir Torgel would not take the large view toward this deer slaying. "And how didst thou come to be near the deer?"
"Why, I sought deadwood to gather for the fire! How was I to know a dead deer lay nearby?"
"How, indeed?" the squire sighed. "Yet thou hadst no billets about thee, nor even a bag with which to carry kindling."
"Only for that I had not found any yet!"
"Though 'twas high noon? Our woods are not so well kept as that'." Rowley frowned and glanced at the horizon; the sun had almost set, and gloom was gathering. The trial had lasted far too long. "Nay, I must needs hold thee guilty of poaching."
"Thou canst not!" Sweat started on Laughn's brow; he knew the sentence could be death. "I did not shoot!"