"Fair, aye, and like to be so on the morrow." The plowman squinted at the sky with an experienced eye. "And cooler than it might be, praise Heaven!"
Rod took the hint and unlimbered his wineskin. "Hot work makes strong thirst. Will you drink?"
"Why, thank'ee." The plowman took the skin with a broad grin, held it up, and squirted a stream into his mouth. He bit it off, swinging the skin down with a flourish and wiping his mouth. "Ah! Tart wine is good for hot work!"
" 'Tis indeed." Rod grinned. "I am Owen the tinker, and this is my son Mag." Magnus didn't react; he'd chosen the alias himself.
"I am hight Hoban," the plowman returned. "What news hast thou?"
"Little enough—a deal of fussing 'mongst the churchmen."
"Will they still give us the Sacraments?"
Rod answered, "There seems small doubt of it."
Hoban nodded. "Then I care not what broil they make amongst themselves. Unless…" His brow clouded "… my brother's not caught up in it."
"Brother?" A thrill shivered through Rod. "Why ought thy brother be caught up in priest's doings?"
"For that he's a monk."
Pay dirt! It was all Rod could do to keep from grabbing the man, and Magnus stood very still, eyes wide, watching. But Rod was too experienced a hunter to leap on his quarry before it was too close to get away, so he leaned back on one hip, frowning as though he were puzzled. "Should that not keep him safe from such a broil?"
"Oh, nay!" Hoban grinned, fairly bursting with pride. "He cometh home now and again, and doth let drop some hint of life in a cloister. 'Tis no better than a village, I can tell thee— with sour ones ever scheming to gain vantage o'er the gentle ones, and factions banding together. 'Tis only that, when they band, 'tis o'er a deal of words, not land or food."
" 'Tis nourishment to their like, I doubt not." Rod leaned forward. "Then mayhap thou dost wish the fullness of this news."
Hoban frowned. "Wherefore? Is there in it some words as to set monks contending?"
"There is," Rod answered, "for look you, the Abbot doth say that Gramarye is no longer of the Church of Rome."
Hoban froze, staring.
Rod nodded, trying to look sad. " Tis sooth, good Hoban."
"Nay, 'tis words to set monks to fighting, if ever there were," Hoban breathed. "Some will wish to bide with Rome, though I doubt they'll dare say it."
"Not openly," Rod agreed.
Hoban paled. "Aye, they will be secret in their doings till they think they have enough force to challenge the Abbot, will they not?"
Rod only gazed at him till Magnus nudged him with an elbow. Then Rod nodded slowly. "Aye, even so. Thy brother hath told thee much of the doings within the cloister, hath he not?"
Hoban waved it away impatiently. "As I've said, 'tis quite like a village. Eh! Pray my poor brother hath the wit to hold himself aloof from both camps!"
"Do more than pray," Rod suggested, and waited while his words sank in and Hoban focused on him again.
"Why, how so? How could I aid my brother in this?"
"By giving him no choice," Rod explained. "By seeing that the one side is doomed ere it doth make a beginning."
Hoban stared at him, and Rod opened his mind, feeling the thoughts that wheeled through the plowman's brain. No wonder Hoban's brother had been able to qualify for the monastery—if he was anything like Hoban, he must have been very bright.
"Who art thou?" Hoban said at last. "For assuredly thou art as much a tinker as I am."
"I am a King's man," Rod admitted, "though this lad is truthfully my son. And I have wandered these byways, searching for a man who hath a brother in the monastery, but doth love his King." He met Hoban's gaze, eye to eye, unflinching.
Finally, the plowman nodded. "Thou hast found him. What wouldst thou do with him?"
Rod's heart leaped, but he kept his composure with iron control. "Why, send him to the monastery also. Hast thou not a sudden craving for prayer and contemplation? For assuredly they'll not doubt the earnestness of a Brother's brother."
Hoban held his gaze, and Rod could see new sweat start along the man's brow. "And I am to send word of their doings to thee?"
Rod nodded. " Tis easily done. Thou hast but to call out in a soft voice, 'Send this word to the King,' and speak thy message. Be assured, His Majesty will hear it ere the night's out."
Hoban stared. " 'Tis the Wee Folk, then?" And when Rod agreed, he said, " 'Tis hard to credit. Ne'er have I seen them."
"Nor wilt now," Rod assured him. "Yet be certain, they will hear thee, so long as thou art without doors."
Hoban's lips quirked with humor. "Aye. They'd not be in a House of God, would they?"
"Not willingly," Rod concurred, his opinion of Hoban soaring. If he could see the humor of a situation like this… !
"What dost'a think monks would do, were they to discover a spy in their midst?" Hoban asked very softly.
"Flogging, belike." Rod held the eye-to-eye gaze. "Yet naught more. They are, after all, men of God."
Hoban's face twisted. "What manner of God's men are they, who even think of bearing challenge to the King? Yet be assured, I am Their Majesties' man as well as God's. I'll be thy spy"
"Good man!" Now Rod clapped him on the shoulder. "Go about thy business as ever thou didst, then—but on the morrow, go to thy priest and tell him thou hast felt the call of vocation."
"He'll not doubt me," Hoban said, with a wry smile. "They're ever eager for new clerics."
"The more they are, the safer they feel," Rod agreed. "Will there be any way in which I can aid thee, good Hoban?"
"Aye." the plowman answered, with his gaze still on Rod's eyes. "I would know the name of the Vice who hath tempted me to loyalty."
Rod stared into his eyes, feeling the thrill of alarm, and Magnus's thoughts spoke in his brain: Careful, Papa! Why would he want to know?
To be sure of me, Rod answered, and to Hoban he said, "If thou art shy of asking elves to bear thy word to the King, then ask them to speak of thee to the High Warlock."
The awe was there, finally, and a touch of fear with it. Hoban pulled a forelock, bobbing his head. "I am honored, milord."
"I think 'tis I shall be saying that." Rod clapped him on the shoulder again. "Go thy ways, good Hoban, with courage— and be sure of the thanks of thy King and Queen."
" Tis reward enough," the man answered, with the ghost of a smile.
He straightened, turning away toward his ox. "Well, then! If 'tis as ever I must needs bear myself, then as ever I shall. Godspeed thee, milord—and young lord." He bowed his head toward Magnus.
No man should give me a bow! the boy's thoughts shrilled.
Rod's thought pounced on his, Then give it back! And, gravely, Magnus bowed to Hoban.
When the plowman had followed his oxen away over the field, and the tinker and his son had journeyed on down the road, around the bend, and out of sight. Rod tore off his cap, threw back his head, and howled with triumph.
"Splendid, Papa. Wonderful. Thou hast talked the man into risking his life. A real victory."
"They won't kill him, son." Rod clapped his hat back on his head. "And I sure hope they won't flog him—but he just may save this country from war!"
A clump of weeds parted, and a six-inch humanoid in tight-fitting brown clothing popped up. "Didst thou summon an elf, Lord Warlock?"
"No, I was just holding a little victory celebration." Rod grinned at the mannikin. "Sorry to trouble you, there."
"Nay, I didst even now seek thee. Thou art summoned, milord."
"What, Their Majesties again?" Rod complained. "Can't they even manage a day or two without me?"
"Wouldst thou truly want them to, Papa?"