"Mayhap," Gwen said, lips pressed tight, "yet I have never met one who hath suffered thus."
"Maybe not, but you must admit you've met people.who don't dare do anything their parish priest has told them is wrong, for fear they'll die the next minute and spend eternity writhing in hellfire."
Gwen was silent, almost rigid.
"Admit it! You've met them, scores of them—poor peasant folk who have no choice but to trust the priests, because they've never been taught how to think for themselves."
"I cannot deny it." Gwen's voice was low, but also dangerous. "Yet I have met more who are not."
"Maybe, but what really scares me is the number of educated people I've met who have the same hang-up! They know how to think, but they're afraid to—because, after all, the priest must really know what's right or wrong, since that's his job. They haven't found out yet that if you ask two different priests the same question, sometimes you get two different answers."
"Why, how treacherous!"
"Maybe, but it works."
"Yet 'tis also dishonest! Tis deceptive, 'tis—"
"What was that? That word you were going to say there? 'Sacrilegious,' was it? Or maybe 'blasphemous'? As though questioning the priest were the same as defying God?" Rod shook his head. "No. A priest is just a man, and as human as any of us. When we forget that, we start asking him to take care of our consciences for us."
"What sayest thou!" Gwen glared up at him.
"Why, when someone isn't sure what's right or wrong, and he's afraid to try to figure it out for himself—because if he guesses wrong, it's hellfire, for the rest of eternity!—he asks the priest to give him a verdict. And the priest just gives him an opinion, but the poor sinner takes it as Gospel truth. No, dear, I'm afraid I'd have to say that most people I know turn chicken when it comes to their souls. They'd much rather trust them to a specialist."
"Thou art but an arrogant knave. Rod Gallowglass!" Gwen leaped to her feet. "Thou dost but resent any who may be in authority over thee!"
"You know that's not true." Rod stood up slowly, matching her glare. "I take orders when I have to—when I'm convinced the other guy knows more about the matter than I do, and I have to take action. But I'm also capable of making up my own mind."
"As are all! Thy slanders of other folk in this are born of overweening pride!"
"There, you see?" Rod pointed a finger at her. "You're talking about hubris—thinking you're better than the gods. But a priest isn't a god any more than I am!"
"And canst thou claim to be as close to God as one who doth devote his life to prayer?"
"Yes, considering that I'm trying to live every part of my life as I believe God wants me to." Rod paused. "Where did all this piety come from, all of a sudden? You've never exactly been the 'kuche, kirke, and kinder' type before."
Gwen turned away, her anger darkening into brooding. "Mayhap that I have become so whilst thou didst not notice."
"Apparently, and I thought I was pretty good at studying you." Rod frowned. "Certainly my favorite subject of contemplation. When did this happen?"
"When I became a mother, my lord," she said slowly, "and it hath grown as my children have. And I must conjure thee to credit my words with truth, for thou canst never understand it, though thou hast been a father."
"Why, of course I will," Rod said, suddenly softening. "When have I ever doubted your word? But is motherhood that different from fatherhood?"
"I think that it is, my lord, though even as thou, I cannot know both. Yet look you, 'tis a matter of feeling, not knowing; for bringing forth life out of one's own body doth bring one also closer to the other world. Aye, that is one source of my sudden piety, as thou dost term it, yet another's hard upon us." She turned, catching his hands and staring up into his eyes. "Be aware, my lord, that we have a lad about to spring into the heated turmoil of youth, and a lass hard behind him—for womenfolk do begin that strife sooner than men."
"Adolescence. Yes, I know." Rod nodded, face somber. "It happens to everyone. No way to avoid it, dear."
"Aye, and seeing its onset doth bring me to greater awareness of the worldly hazards lying in wait for the children, our treasures—and, therefore, doth make me also aware of the safeguards available to help shield them."
"Such as the Church and its teachings?" Rod said softly.
Gwen started to answer, when the door creaked behind them. They turned, to see a sleepy Gregory come blinking out of his room in his nightshirt, squinting against the light. Gwen moved over to him with a wordless sound of sympathy, pressing him to her side and murmuring, "Was it, then, a fell dream, my jo?"
"Nay, Mama," Gregory answered. " Tis that I cannot sleep at all."
"No sleep?" Rod came over, frowning. "What's the matter? Worried because of those monks today?"
The little boy nodded.
"Don't worry, son." Rod clasped the boy's shoulders. "They have a strong house, and they all have shields; they'll be safe."
"'Tis not that, Papa," Gregory murmured.
"Then what?" Gwen asked, anxiety in her voice.
Gregory looked up at her, all eyes. "I feel some pull toward them, Mama… and I bethink me that, mayhap, I must grow to become a monk."
Rod stood frozen, feeling the shock thrill through him.
Chapter Four
"Nay, I tell thee, Brother Alfonso! Tis not my vocation to rule!"
Brother Alfonso's mouth quirked with impatience. "If thou hadst no vocation to govern, milord, thou wouldst not be Abbot."
The Abbot stared, then looked away, pursing his lips.
Brother Alfonso allowed himself a small smile. "Naethe-less, milord, 'tis not of ruling that I speak, but of Tightness. Thou hast done well, and wisely."
The Abbot lapsed into a brooding frown. "Yet I cannot help but wonder, Brother. The Bishop of Rome is, after all, heir to Peter."
"Aye, in that he governs the souls of Rome. Yet that he hath inherited the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, I can find room to doubt."
"To doubt is a sin." But the Abbot's tone lacked conviction.
"To question, then." Brother Alfonso shrugged impatiently. "But think, milord—when doth the Pope claim infallibility?"
"Only when he doth speak ex cathedra," the Abbot recited from rote.
"And what is the meaning of ex cathedral Is it not when he hath consulted with as many of his cardinals and bishops as he can, in council?"
The Abbot did not respond.
"Then it is the council that is infallible, not the Pope," Brother Alfonso insisted. "Yet did Christ give the Keys to a council? Nay!"
"There are answers to that question," the Abbot muttered.
"Aye, I have heard them—and the best of them is that a Pope hath, now and then, spoken ex cathedra to contradict his own council! Why therefore were they called?"
"Why, so that he might have the benefit of all good arguments, and could consider most carefully ere he spoke."
"Aye! And doth that answer satisfy thee?"
"What matters that?" the Abbot muttered. "Only that I am obliged to keep seeking."
"And wilt never find," Brother Alfonso said with vindictive satisfaction. "Yet there is some present question of action that must needs be considered."
"Must it?" The Abbott turned to him, frowning. "Wherefore?"
"Why, for that the King doth ever seek to gather more power unto himself, and will end by attempting to govern the Church!"
" 'Tis not he, but the Queen," the Abbot growled.
"Then he's but her dupe! Behold her actions—once before she hath claimed the power to appoint parish priests!"