"No Communion for the congregation?" Magnus asked, flabbergasted, as they came out of the church-quickly, and ahead of the crowd.
"Apparently not," Rod said. "Presumably, they're not worthy." He untied Fess's reins. "How long were we in there, Fess?"
"An hour and a half, Rod."
"And the Communion itself couldn't have taken more than ten minutes, if that."
"Is not that supposed to be the core and heart of the Mass?" Magnus asked.
"Supposed to." Rod raised a forefinger. "That's the key phrase-'supposed to.' And, one might ask, who did the supposing? No, son, this isn't the Mass as I know it."
"Local variations. . ." Magnus muttered.
" `They knew Him in the breaking of bread,' " Rod quoted. "They didn't crack a single Communion wafer, just blessed them as they were. He wasn't about to share the Eucharist with the parishioners-and he didn't mind in the least embarrassing and torturing sinners. Catholic confession is supposed to be private; Catholic Communion is supposed to be public, including everybody who wants it. `By their fruits ye shall know them.' "
"Therefore is this bishop not truly Catholic." Magnus nodded as he swung aboard his horse. "That service was a virtual parody of the Mass I know. Nay, my father, I must agree with thee-whatever these people are, they are not of the true Roman Catholic Church."
"Not at all," Rod agreed. "Somebody remade the Mass to suit his own convenience."
"Naetheless," Magnus said firmly, "if they are pleased with this form of worship, who are we to say them nay?"
"If," Rod said. "I can name you two who weren't pleased-the boy who had to confess, and the girl he was confessing about. She wasn't guilty of anything-bat the bishop sure made it sound as though she was!"
Magnus shrugged. "Today they did not like it. Tomorrow they may. I learned in the schoolroom something of the psychology of religion, my father, and the mainstay of it is this: that people do need some form of Church, and of clergy, and of service."
"I can't really argue with that," Rod sighed. "Every time somebody tries to come up with a religion that doesn't require ministers or services, they always evolve again. Well, let's see if this town has anything to offer in the way of breakfast, son-if we still have any appetite, that is."
By the time they came to the first huts, Magnus had taken the initiative in the conversation, doing his own critique of the funeral service, and had worked his way up to the sermon, his mouth a thin, grim line. "What manner of bishop can this clergyman think himself to be, to so berate a widower in the hour of his son's burial?"
"I think," Rod said carefully, "that our good prelate knows exactly what kind of bishop he is."
Magnus frowned down at him. "What ... ? Oh. Thou dost mean that he hath appointed himself to his episcopal chair."
"I certainly don't think the Abbot did," Rod returned, "and I don't think he would approve at all, of this man's version of Christianity. In fact, I think His Grace would tell this alleged clergyman to shut up-if he let him stay in Holy Orders at all."
"Thou dost assume this bishop would recognize the Abbot's authority," Magnus said, with the ghost of a smile. Rod looked up at him sharply. "You know something I don't know?"
"Not know," Magnus hedged. "Not yet." '
Rod frowned, and almost demanded that Magnus explain; but a bunch of dried greenery swung at his face, and he had to duck. The distraction was enough to make him remember to give the young man room to find himself. He pulled Fess to a stop and, looking up, saw that the bundle of straw that had almost hit him was hanging by a yard of twine from a pole, which was sticking out of a very roomy hut. He dismounted, tying Fess's reins to a tree. "Well, this but being a little larger than the others, and having a bush hanging out, I'd assume they're trying to pretend it's a tavern. Looks like we eat, son-something besides our own cooking."
"Alternatives to journey rations are ever welcome." Magnus swung down and tied his horse beside Fess. The stallion rolled its eyes toward the robot-horse, moving just a little away. Fess gave it a placid, almost disinterested look.
"We're not fooling anybody, are we?" Rod said under his breath.
"Only humans, Rod-but I think the equine will at least accept me as not being a threat." Fess lowered his head, pretending to graze. After a moment, Magnus's horse followed suit.
Rod nodded, satisfied. "Hope we have as good a case of luck with the locals. Shall we go in, son?"
"Wherefore not?" Magnus stood aside and gestured for Rod to precede him. Rod did, still disquieted by his son's refusal to give a direct answer-but he had been through this several times during the last few years, and wasn't about to make an issue of it. He led the way in.
The interior was dim; light filtered through a few horn windows. There were half a dozen tables with stools about them, and a long trestle table with benches. Rod looked around at the deserted room, shrugged, and knocked on a table. A moment later, a tall man came out of the doorway at the back, wiping his hands on an apron and looking surprised. "Gentlemen! What would you?"
"We would dine," Rod answered. "We've been on the road several days now, and have had little enough of proper food."
"Only dried crusts with which to break our fast this morn," Magnus put in.
The innkeeper glanced from the one to the other, seeming rather wary, but he forced a smile and said, "There is only some porridge, left from our own breakfast, and black bread-and ale, of course, though the brewing's a month old."
"That will do quite well." Rod smiled. "Don't get many customers in the morning, eh?"
"Only the widowers and orphan bachelors, gentlemen, and the bishop sees to it there are few enough of those," the man said, almost proudly. "Nay, we are here for the folk to meet and chat with one another o' nights, so we have little custom before sunset, in truth."
Rod frowned. "Odd arrangement. Your customers are just your fellow villagers, then?"
"Aye, though there be travellers, like to yourselves, one to a month or so. Yet we are mostly for a meeting place, though the good folk are as like to tarry outside in summer."
"Yet they'll tarry by the door," Magnus put in, "for this is the only place in the village from which they may have ale?" The innkeeper bobbed his head, smiling. "Even so. 'Tis for me to do the brewing, and I manage it well, though I should not say it of myself. None others brew, of course. They bring me hops and barley, meat and grain, and I serve them ale and beer, and my wife serves them supper. They bring us flax and wool also, so that we need farm only half as much as they, that we may have time to brew and cook for them."
Rod had the feeling that he was hearing a public relations blurb, and braced himself for a recruiting speech.
But apparently it was too early for that; the innkeeper only said, "Wilt thou have ale with thy breakfast?"
Magnus maintained a stoic stone-face, and Rod managed a smile. "Why, yes, thank you." There wasn't much else to drink in a medieval village; no one trusted the water.
"Directly, then." The innkeeper forced another smile, bobbed his head, and withdrew.
"Well, this is as close to a view as we'll get." Rod sat down at a chair by one of the horn windows. "Light, at least. Seems like an odd way for a tavern to exist."
"Aye." Magnus sat down across from him. "From the look of the place, I'd have said that all farmed, and made all that they needed, from cloth to furniture and parchmenteven soap."
"Except for the priests, of course."
Magnus flashed him a glance of irritation. "Must thou needs ever be suspicious of the clergy, Dad?"
"I don't have to, I suppose-it just comes naturally."
"Their time is fully taken seeing to the spiritual needs of their flock, I doubt not."
"Two priests, for a couple of hundred people? I don't think there could be more, here. Not to mention the nuns."
"Nuns?" Magnus frowned.
"Female clergy, who don't marry," Rod explained. "But they can't hold worship services, so they're not priestesses."