"She did relinquish that," the Abbot reminded.
"Aye, yet when shall she take it up again? When the King hath garrisons in every town, and not even the greatest lord durst gainsay him, for fear of his armies? Oh, nay, my lord! If ever thou wilt bridle this proud and arrogant prince, 'tis now, whilst his power's still a-borning!"
The Abbot was silent, gazing out the window at his pastures.
"The Pope cannot know of that," Brother Alfonso reminded him, "nor comprehend the fullness of its import."
Slowly, the Abbot nodded. "Thou hast the right of it. I did well, to declare as I have."
Behind his back Brother Alfonso breathed a sigh of relief.
"Not that I'm against the kid becoming a priest, if that's what's going to make him happiest." Rod lifted his head to let the wind stream over his face. After a few minutes he realized Fess hadn't responded; the only sound had been the triplets of the great horse's hoofbeats. "You don't believe me…"
"Do you, Rod?"
"All right, hang it! So I don't want the kid to become a priest! But if that's the natural extension of his identity, he has to do it!"
"But you do not believe it is his calling," Fess interpreted.
"No, blast it, I don't! I think he's being subtly indoctrinated by the priests and their continual emphasis on the priesthood as the holiest vocation!"
"Assuredly they would think so, since it is theirs."
"Yeah, but they have no right to go imposing their own views on the rest of us." Rod scowled. "Though that's just what they'll do if the Church of Gramarye really does start thinking itself supreme."
"How else could they? In medieval society the clergy constituted the First Estate."
"The most important and the best." Rod's mouth twisted with bitterness. "It's too bad the Pope can't know about this."
"Why can he not, Rod?" Fess's voice was behind Rod's ear; he didn't need to transmit at human thought frequencies, thanks to the earphone implanted in Rod's mastoid process.
Rod nodded slowly. "I suppose we could send a message. No reason to think your transmitter isn't still working, is there?"
"None at all. I am still sending your monthly reports."
Rod's jaw dropped. "But I haven't written any for a year now!"
"I assumed you would want me to accept responsibility for certain routine tasks…"
"Of course." Rod closed his jaw. "Yes, quite right. But next time let me know, will you?"
"Certainly, Rod."
"After all, it is a courtesy. By the way, what have I been reporting?"
"Only the major royal actions, and indications of public reaction. There has been no warning of restlessness among the clergy."
"Probably because there hasn't been any—just in the Abbot," Rod mused. "And without the support of his priests, he might decide not to push the issue to crisis. No, I don't think we'll send a special, Fess. Certainly not to the Vatican, not quite yet."
"As you will. Rod," Fess sighed.
Rod noted the tone of martyred patience. "You think the problem is bigger than it looks?"
"It could become so. In a medieval society, the quickest route to a totalitarian government is through the Church."
"I know what you mean." Rod frowned. "The parish priests already have pretty thorough control over every aspect of the congregations' lives, simply by telling them what is and is not a sin."
"But they are limited in that by the Church's official positions."
"Not if they haven't heard about them, and our boys have been a little out of touch for the last half millennium or so. Besides, just because a priest finds out what Rome teaches, doesn't necessarily mean he'll agree with it."
"Surely a parish priest would not preach that fornication is virtuous, even though Rome teaches that it is sinful!"
Rod noted Fess's tone again. "You aren't really as scandalized as you sound, are you?"
"You still have difficulty discerning sarcasm," the robot replied.
Rod nodded, satisfied. "Thought so. And no, I think the tonsured tribe are all pretty much agreed about fornication. But say, oh—that whole business about evolution. The Church finally accepted the idea in 2237, when the anthropologists discovered the skeleton of Homo Fidelis."
"Yes, I recall the announcement." Fess had been almost brand-new at the time. "There was a great deal of controversy, but both theologians and anthropologists finally acknowledged that the statuette with Fidelis was a religious icon."
"Yeah, that's how you taught it to me when I was ten. But even now, three hundred years later, I've met priests who are still preaching that it's a sin to believe Darwin's theory."
"Humanity naturally resists change," Fess sighed. "I sometimes think your species should be named Homo Habitual is."
"Man of habit, eh?" Rod smiled. "Not referring to monks' robes, I suppose."
"I did not exclude them. Nor would the Church, if it gained worldly authority. In fact, it might make Church garb obligatory."
"No, it would want to be able to tell the clergy from the laity on sight, to make sure the priests got instant privilege wherever they went. But they probably would issue a dress code for ordinary citizens, and make it a crime to wear anything else."
"That in itself could be resisted, Rod. But the Church would probably make the violation of the dress code a sin, and that would induce greater obedience from the citizens."
Rod shuddered. "You've got a point there. Never underestimate the power of guilt."
"Oh, I do not," Fess said softly. "I assure you, I do not."
"Father Matthew! They come!"
Father Boquilva looked up from his daubing, every muscle instantly tense, but his tone was mild as he called back to the sentry on the watchtower, "Sound the alarm, Brother Fennel. Is it bandits again?"
"Nay, Father, 'tis our fellows of the order. Yet I see the glint of steel where their tonsures should be."
Father Boquilva stiffened. "So? Well, we have steel caps, too. Sound the alarm, but be mindful, they are of our order."
The whistle shrilled high above, and all over the meadow monks froze, eyes turned to the tower.
Father Boquilva turned to the monk beside him with a smile. "Brother Jeremy, I believe Father Arnold and Brother Otho have the day's cooking in hand. Would you inquire if they can serve in an hour or so? We have guests."
The visitors turned into the lane between rows of turned earth with grim faces, gripping their staves tightly as they eyed the band drawn up before them. Sure enough, the renegades charged, shouting.
"Brother Lando, thou scoundrel! Thou art a sight for sore eyes!"
"Father Milo! Right good it is to see thee!"
"Eh, Brother Brigo! Thou dost yet feed too well!"
And they were throwing their arms about the visitors, thumping them on the backs with delight and good cheer, not staves and daggers.
Foremost among them was Father Boquilva, roaring above all their voices, "Welcome! Welcome, our brothers all! We rejoice in the sight of thee!"
"Well, and so do we also," the visitors' leader grinned, clasping Boquilva by the shoulders and leaning back to look at him. Then he sobered. "Yet thou hast done wrongly by our good Abbot, Father Matthew."
"Not a word of it, Father Thorn! Not a word!" Father Boquilva turned in beside the visitor, slinging an arm across his shoulders and urging him toward the house. "Father Arnold and Brother Otho have labored all this morn to make a hearty supper for thee, and thou must eat of it ere we speak a word of this matter!"
Supper was downright festive, with monks who had not seen each other for a month laughing and trading gossip. By unspoken mutual consent, the Abbot wasn't even mentioned until Father Thorn sat back with a sigh and began plying a toothpick. "Eh! Our refectory is lonesome for thee, Brother Otho!"