" 'Twould yield thee no gain; he would not mind it," the Archbishop assured her. " 'Tis not age that doth make him so, milady—he was ever thus. Even twenty years agone, when I was chaplain, was he sour and waspish."
"Then praise Heaven I was not born in this house," the lady said, and a shadow crossed the Baroness's face, so the Archbishop spoke up quickly, to distract her from the memory of the circumstances under which her son had left, and the woman who had caused them. "Yet why, milady, should this news of my new title have shaken thee, when I had told thee aforetime what I bore in mind?"
"Oh! Tis one thing to speak of it aforetime, milord, and another to hear 'tis done." The Baroness seemed flustered. "Yet there was also this matter in thy declaration, that the King and Queen must needs be guided by the Church."
"We had spoken of that also, Grandmother," Lady Mayrose reminded her.
"So we had; yet I had not thought His L— His Grace would proclaim it so."
"I could not do less, proclaiming my new office." The new Archbishop's face hardened. "For the Crown doth hold its dominion from God, and we clergy are God's voice among men."
"Yet the King and Queen will say their forefathers won dominion, not that it was given them by God." the Baroness suggested.
"Not so! For they style themselves monarchs 'by the grace of God.' Their heralds so proclaim them, at every coming and going, in every royal progress, and in every proclamation!"
"Quite true, Lady Mayrose, quite true." The Archbishop nodded, his gaze warming as he looked at her. "And if they are monarchs by the grace of God, then must they hold their kingdom in fealty to God—and therefore must they be guided by the men of God."
"I do not doubt thee," the Baroness said quickly. 'T truth, who am I, a worldly woman, to question an Archbishop?"
Lady Mayrose's eyes sparked, but she said nothing.
"Nay, I know that thou art right in thy making our Church apart from Rome's," the Baroness went on, moving to lay a hand on the Archbishop's, but it hovered, then withdrew. "Thou must therefore be Archbishop—I know this, too—and I doubt not thou hast the right of it in declaring that the King and Queen must needs be guided by thee." She colored. "Yet I own, 'tis more that I believe in Father Widdecombe than in the doctrines."
"Or that thou dost believe them because Father Widdecombe doth say they are true?" The Archbishop's smile wanned, but there was a trace of disappointment in his expression. "Yet must I caution thee, my ghostly daughter—is there no least smidgin of pride in this thy loyalty?"
The Baroness blushed and lowered her gaze. Lady Mayrose smiled, amused. "Oh, never, milord! 'Tis only that she doth sing thy praises from morn till night, and exclaim how marvelous 'tis to have an abbot, and now an archbishop, for her confessor!"
"I had thought as much." The Archbishop leaned back with a fond smile. "And I own I am warmed by thy regard. Yet must I caution thee to eschew the sin of pride."
"I shall endeavor. Father." But the Baroness did not look up.
"And thou. Lady Mayrose?"
"I confess to some part in the sin my grandmother hath spoken of." Lady Mayrose smiled, too. "Yet, oh! I am so proud of thee, that thou hast had the courage and the sense to separate from Rome!"
"Truly?" The Archbishop looked surprised.
"Oh, vastly! The Pope's so blind, not to see how horribly the Crown doth abuse its authority! What! Will Their Majesties turn the noble houses into serfs to their whims?"
"Well spoke." The Baroness regarded her granddaughter with pride, but also with apprehension. "Yet I own thou dost astonish me, in view of…" Her voice trailed off.
"In view of my parents' folly? Nay, say it. Grandmother! They were good souls at the heart, but their minds bore treason to their class! How they could espouse a course of action that would wreak their own downfall, I know not—but I ken far less how they could e'en condone beliefs that would rob their own daughter!" Lady Mayrose turned a smouldering countenance on the Archbishop. "And Rome doth aid and abet the Crown, and thereby the downfall of the lords! Nay, milord, I cannot find a trace of good in the Pope! Praise Heaven thou hast had the sense to send him packing!"
" 'Tis mayhap too strongly put." The Archbishop smiled. "Yet 'twas needful."
"Oh, thou art so brave and strong!" Lady Mayrose"s eyes glowed into his. "And so wise, to see that only by guidance of the Church may the common folk of Gramarye be brought to happiness! For look you, the King's men are forever trampling the grain in their haste to exterminate those who oppose Their Majesties' will, and their judges are ever scourging poor folk who seek but to find food! And now, folk say, these proud princes do speak of robbing the very bread from out the mouths of the poor by levying a tax direct to the Crown, atop those brought by their lords!"
She didn't seem to have heard that, under the plan in question, the lords would no longer be required to send tax money to Gramarye, and would be expected to lower their own taxes accordingly.
" 'Tis only rumored," the Baroness murmured.
"Yet rumor hath basis, I doubt not. They will do that, and worse, and no man saith them nay! Oh, there must be one who can bid these royal lions, 'Hold, enough!' And who can do it, save the Church?"
"Thou dost give me heart, Lady Mayrose." The Archbishop gazed into her eyes with total concentration. "I own I did begin to question the tightness of my course."
"Do not!" she cried. "Oh, my ghostly lord! Thou must not withdraw, must not give way, must not abate a bit of this that thou hast done! Nay, thou must insist, and call all forces against them, if need be! For naught can save the peasants save the Church—and thy good will can direct the Crown's strong arm in such a way as to bring all poor folk ease, without pulling down the lords nor lessening their standing!"
The Archbishop was nodding in agreement, more and more vigorously. " 'Tis even so, 'tis what I feel within my heart of hearts! Yet how wouldst thou give answer, were one to ask thee where the gold shall be drawn to buy the peasant folk safe housen and stout clothes?"
"Why, from the coin held back from the Crown's foul greed! Nay, an but a part of the tribute every lord must pay were held within his own parish Church, assuredly it would suffice the peasant folk!"
"Assuredly," the Archbishop agreed, with a rapt gaze that made all seem to dim save her. "And thou, how dost thou think I should speak unto these o'erweening princes who do proclaim the limits of our ecclesiastical authority?"
"I would declare them fell and foul!" she said instantly. "I would hold them up for the ridicule of all the nation as the things of pride and greed they are! I would declare them traitors to the Church and criminals 'gainst the word of God! And I would call up all the truly godly lords, if need be, with all their horse and men, to school these arrogant monarchs by force of arms!"
"Wouldst thou so," the Archbishop breathed, never taking his eyes from her. "Then thou must needs have a heart of flame, and a will for right that would do credit to a saint."
But the Baroness watched with misgiving, forgotten by them both.
Brom O'Berin had his own suite in the castle at Runnymede, and was careful to maintain the fiction that he actually used it. No point in hurting Their Majesties' feelings, after all, so he did use it whenever he could—for example, for receiving intelligence reports, some of them from humans. And for meeting with the Lord High Warlock.
Not this time, though. It was an elf who faced him, nodding emphatically. " 'Twas a banshee in truth, dread lord! At the castle of the Marquess D'Arrigato."
"A sennight agone, thou didst say?" When the elf nodded, Brom mused, "And none have died in that house."