"Oh?" Rod looked up. "You see the hand of the future totalitarians in this, too?"
"Aye, though I would favor those who seek to abolish government altogether—for look you, the Abbot's action can only bring war, and strife between Church and Crown can but work toward chaos." She hugged herself, shivering. "Eh! But when the Church is shaken, all are! Nay, I've dark forebodings indeed, my lord."
"Well, share, then." Rod stood up and went over to settle down beside her on the floor cushions. "Why hug yourself when there's a volunteer available?" He illustrated the point by slipping an arm about her.
She was rigid for a moment, then relaxed against him. "My lord, I fear."
"I know what you mean. But remember, dear—whether or not our home is solid has nothing to do with the Church."
Gwen was still a moment, then shook her head.
Rod frowned, lifting his head. "What? Do you think that if the Church shakes, our marriage fails? That's superstition!"
"Mayhap, yet 'twas in the Church we were married."
"Yeah, but that was our idea, not the Church's. No priest can create or destroy our unity, dear—only we can."
She sighed and leaned against him. "Well, there's truth in that, praise Heaven. Even so, the Faith can give aid."
"You don't believe that!" Rod stiffened in indignation. "Yeah, sure I know the Church doesn't allow divorce—but you don't think that's why I'm still here, do you?"
"Nay, I do not." Gwen turned to look up at him with a slow, heavy-lidded smile that bespoke reams about her opinion of herself.
A few minutes later Rod lifted his head, took a deep breath, and said, "Yes. Well, so much for religious prohibitions. No, dear, I can't help but think that we'd stay married even if the Church said we didn't have to."
"I have some suspicion of the sort myself," Gwen agreed, snuggling up. "Yet still, my lord, I grew up believing that marriage is a sacrament, as did all here in Gramarye—as something good and holy in itself; and I cannot help but think that 'twas therefore I did not burn to marry whosoever I could, but did wait till I'd found he whom I wanted."
"Well. My self-image soars," Rod whispered into her ear— as far into her ear as he could. "Remind me to thank the Church."
"Why, so I do, now," she said, in full seriousness, and Rod drew back a little, sobering. Gwen went on, " Tis also the honoring of the sacrament, my lord, and the wish not to profane it, that hath made me strive to preserve the harmony between us. Must thou not also admit to somewhat of the same sense?"
"Yes, I would, now that you mention it." Rod frowned. "And, come to think of it, some of my more worldly acquaintances, back in the old days, did seem to regard marriage as more of a convenience than a privilege. Still, I don't think that attitude is totally dependent on the Church, dear—it comes from the home; it's passed down from parent to child. A family heirloom, you might say."
"And the most valuable of them all," she agreed. "Yet didst thou not find that those who thought thus did also cling to the Faith?"
"Which faith? There were so many where I grew up, and some of them were very definitely not religious. And no, I never did do a statistical analysis on any of them. Religion isn't the kind of thing you discuss in polite society, back home. In fact, I even knew a few people who lived very Christian lives but never went to Church. People can read the Bible without a priest's help, dear."
"Aye, yet how many of them do? Yet also, my lord, thou dost forget that the greater number of our folk cannot read."
"Yeah, so they have to take the priest's word that what he reads is what the Book really says. That's why I'm so big on education, sweetheart."
"As am I, my lord, for I'm aware that what our children do learn outside our home hath great influence indeed on them. And what would that learning be, were there no Church for them to learn in?"
"They'll learn more from their playmates than from the priest, dear. You know that."
"Aye, and that is why I am so concerned that their playmates also learn what we wish them to. How could we assure that, if there were no Church?"
"I see," Rod said slowly. "If the Church becomes the Church of Gramarye, who knows what else they'll change? Maybe letting the priests marry." He nodded. "And if the priests start marrying, how long will it be before they find a good reason for condoning divorce?"
"My lord! I scarcely—"
"Oh, no, sweetheart, I didn't mean it that way! But you've got to admit—if a priest is going to be unprincipled enough to forget his vow of celibacy, isn't he apt to start condoning divorce, too?"
"Aye… thou hast summat of truth there. Yet not all priests do think of expedience."
"No," Rod said slowly, "most of them are just ordinary men, like the rest of us, trying to be good but still be men— hopefully with a little greater success. But there are the ones who go too far that way, too."
Gwen was puzzled. "How can a priest go too far toward being good?"
"By working too hard at it. It doesn't come naturally to any of us, you know. There are the priests who go to extremes and become fanatics. They're bound and determined that they're not going to come near anything that might be even remotely sinful—and they're bound and determined that the rest of us won't, either, so we can't contaminate them. So they decide anything pleasant is sinful—songs, dancing, theater, sex—"
"And love," Gwen murmured.
"They don't go quite that far, or at least, they don't dare say it aloud. But they can sure as hell make a child feel guilty about loving anybody but God, and make him feel like a total sinner if he has the least lascivious thought. Not to mention making him think that he should spend every spare minute in prayer— don't laugh, dear, I've met 'em. 'My lord,' they say, 'have you read The Lives of the Saints "
"Aye, my lord. They were good and Godly people."
"They were a bunch of psychotics! Do you want your son to pull off every thread he's wearing and shove 'em at you so he can tell you that now he has nothing to bind him to you anymore? Or to have your daughter have sores on her knees 'cause she spends too much time kneeling on hard granite floors, praying?"
Gwen shuddered. "My lord! These are sacrilegious words!"
"Sacrilegious, my donkey! They're darn near direct quotes from the saints' lives! And have you noticed how few of them were parents?"
Gwen winced, but she said doggedly, "I mark how few of them hearkened to the blandishments of the worldly, my lord, or let themselves be led into sin so that evil folk might use and abuse them."
"There is that," Rod admitted. "There were only a few of them who let some pimp seduce them into prostitution, then turn them into virtual slaves—and that was before they became saints. It's awfully hard to victimize someone who won't even let other people come near them. But you've got to admit, dear, that you can't do much about helping other people if you spend all your time praying."
"I scarcely think 'twas true of the saints."
"But it was true of some of them! They went off and turned into hermits. The ones who really worry me, though, are the ones who kept on living in their villages, but had to suffer through ridicule and ostracism, and had to ignore everybody around them. Sure, that was because they were only one out of two or three moral people in whole depraved towns—but is a seven-year-old really going to understand that?"
Gwen reddened, but she pressed her lips tightly together.
"Oh, yeah, sure, our seven-year-old! But don't give him credit for too much maturity, dear. Just because he understands everything the first time it's told to him doesn't mean he'll understand the things he's not being told! Say what you like—it is possible to be victimized by piety!"