That made Dainsey grin excitedly, as well, but Pony's reply erased their smiles.
"I brought Colleen into the city because I could not help her," Pony explained. "She died this morning."
"The rosy plague," Dainsey reasoned.
"The city has the smell of death," Roger added, shaking his head. He moved over to Pony then, offering her another hug, but she held him back and took a deep and steadying breath.
"Come with me to the north," she bade Roger, "back home, where we belong. Both Symphony and Greystone came south with me." She paused as she noted Roger's look over at Dainsey, and then it hit her. It became quite clear to Pony that these two-Roger and Dainsey! — were more than just friends.
"How long? " she started to ask. "How…" But she stopped and moved closer to Roger, granting him that hug then, truly glad to find that her friend had found such a worthwhile companion as wonderful Dainsey Aucomb.
But her happiness for Roger lasted only the few seconds it took for her to remember the circumstances that had left her walking the empty streets of Palmaris.
Chapter 28
It was spring in Honce-the-Bear, but hardly did it seem like a time of life renewing.
Francis leaned heavily on the stone wall of St.-Mere-Abelle, needing the support. Beyond his shadow, beyond the window-which was no more than a rectangular opening in the stone-he saw them.
Dozens of them, scores of them, hundreds of them. Ghostly figures walking slowly through the morning mist that blanketed the field west of the abbey, huddled under blankets and rags against the chill that still bit hard in the springtime night. So beaten and battered were they, so emaciated, that they seemed like skeletons, this collection of pitiful souls outside the abbey seemed like a gathering of the walking dead.
And the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle could do nothing for them. Oh, the monks threw some coins, clothing, blankets, and food, mostly as payment for work performed by the plague-ridden sufferers. On Master Bou-raiy's suggestion, Master Machuso had hired the gathered plague victims to plant this year's huge tussie-mussie, a massive flower bed that would continue on and on as far as the victims could plant, that might span the mile of ground fronting St.-Mere-Abelle's western wall.
Francis watched some of them, those with the strength remaining, laboring along the base of the wall, digging in the ground with rotting fingers, The monk bumped his head against the unyielding stone, not hard, but repeatedly, as if trying to thump the frustrations out of his skull.
"What miserable wretches we mortals be," he recited gravely, the opening line to an old verse written by a poet deemed a heretic in the fifth century.
"Calvin of Bri'Onnaire," came the voice of Fio Bou-raiy behind him, and Francis turned, startled. "Strong words, brother."
Francis noted the one-armed master, flanked by Father Abbot Agronguerre. "Fitting words," he replied to Bou-raiy, "for who in this time is not considering his own mortality? "
"Calm, brother," Father Abbot Agronguerre bade Francis. "He who believes in God does not fear death," Bou-raiy promptly and sternly replied. "Calvin of Bri'Onnaire's words were wrought of fear, not contemplation. He knew that he was a sinner, who faced excommunication by the Church for the lies he spread, and thus grew his fear of death and his bitterness toward all things Abellican. It is well documented."
Master Francis chuckled and shook his head, then closed his eyes and in a voice thick with gravity and sincere emotion recited Calvin's "Mortalis," the verse that had sealed the poet's fate at the stake.
What miserable wretches we mortals be To build our homes in sheltered lea, To build our hopes in sheltered womb Weaving fancies of the tomb.
What wretched souls we mortals be To bask in false epiphany, To see a light so clear, so true, To save us from the fate we rue. Deny the truth before our sight That worms invade eternal night, That maggots feed within the skin Of faithful pure, devoid of sin.
Oh what hopeful children mortals be!
Castles in air, grand barges at sea,
Bed of clouds and angels' song,
Heavenly feasting eternity long.
What mockery made of endless night!
That prayer transcends truth and hope denies sight!
That all that we know and all that we see
Is washed away by what we pray must be.
So tell me not of eternal soul
That flees my coil through worm-bit hole.
For when I die what is left of me?
A whisper lost to eternity.
"I know the tale, brother," Francis finished, opening his eyes to stare solemnly at Bou-raiy, "and I know, too, that 'Mortalis' was considered a work of great introspection when Calvin presented it to the brothers of St. Honce in the time of plague." "The time of contemplation," Master Bou-raiy corrected.
"It was only when Calvin went out among the people, reciting his dark works, that the Church took exception," Francis remarked.
"Because some things should not be spoken openly," said Bou-raiy.
Francis gave another helpless chuckle.
"Brother, you must admit that we are the caretakers of the souls of Corona," Father Abbot Agronguerre put in.
"While the bodies rot," Francis said sarcastically.
Master Bou-raiy started to jump in, but the Father Abbot held him back with an upraised hand. "We do what we can," Agronguerre admitted. It was obvious to Francis that the man was agonizing over the dark happenings in the world about him. "Calvin of Bri'Onnaire was condemned not for his words but for rousing the common folk against the Church, for preying upon their fears of mortality. That is the challenge before us: to hold the faith of the populace."
A smile grew upon Master Francis' face as he considered those wordsand the irony behind them. "There is a woman out there among them," he said, "one-eyed and horribly scarred on her face and neck, with the rings of plague scars all over her arms. They say she tends the sick tirelessly; I have heard that many of the victims have called out for her beatification on their deathbeds."
"I have heard of the woman, and expect that she will be investigated when the time for such tasks arrives," Father Abbot Agronguerre replied.
"Even your canonization of Brother Avelyn has been put off," Bou-raiy had to add.
Francis didn't even bother to spout the retort that came immediately to his lips: that he would hardly consider himself a supporter of Avelyn Desbris, let alone a sponsor for the wayward brother's canonization!
"It is also whispered that this peasant woman is no friend of the Abellican Church," Francis went on. "According to her, we have deserted her and all the other victims of the rosy plague. And there is the other rumor that says it was an Abellican brother who wounded her face outside St. Gwendolyn, a brother with a hand that resembled a cat's paw. Would you wager a guess about his identity? "
He ended with heavy sarcasm, but it was lost on the other two, neither of whom were overfond of Marcalo De'Unnero. De'Unnero and his Brothers Repentant, by all reports, were laying waste southern Honce-the-Bear, inciting riots, even murdering some unfortunates who did not fit their particular description of a proper Abellican. Even more disconcerting to all the leaders at St.-Mere-Abelle was that when Father Abbot Agronguerre had sent a messenger by ship to Entel to warn Abbot Olin about the Brothers Repentant and to offer Olin the full backing of the Church if he chose to confront them openly, Agronguerre had received a reply that seemed to condone Brother Truth more than condemn him. The other abbey in Entel, the much smaller St. Rontlemore, had been faithful to the spirit of Agronguerre's warning, but Olin of Bondabruce had seemed ambivalent at best.