The porter came back. "Now, milady, if you will enter our guest house, I shall fetch you summat with which to refresh yourself."
"I thank you." Gwen followed him into the little house beside the gate. She knew she could not have been the only woman in the history of the monastery who had needed to claim its sanctuary—and from the look of the sitting room in the guest house, one of the previous occupants had stayed a considerable while. The furnishings and decoration definitely showed a woman's touch, though the maintenance looked to be rather spartan.
The monk asked her to be seated, then went out and returned with a tray bearing wine, cheese, and wafers of hard bread. Gwen thanked him, took a little of the wine, then sat and waited. Looking around, she noticed a picture on the wall, a portrait—then stared, riveted, recognizing Father Marco Ricci again. It was a different portrait, done in a more realistic style at a younger age and in a different pose, but it was undeniably the same face.
There was a commotion at the door, quickly stilled; then the young Abbot of the Order stepped in. His face lit with pleasure as he hurried over to clasp her hand and bow. "Lady Gallowglass! What a pleasure to see you again!"
"And you, milord Abbot." She smiled and proffered her hand.
He pressed it briefly, then released it and asked, "Has Brother Dobro offered you refreshment? Ah, I see he has! I trust your wait was not fatiguing."
"Scarcely a wait at all, and one with interest, for I find that portrait on the wall to be intriguing."
"Portrait?" The Abbot turned and looked. "Ah, Father Marco Ricci! 'Twas he who did found this abbey, Lady Gallowglass."
"Indeed," she said. "He was of the original colonists, was he not?"
The Abbot took his time about turning back to her, keeping his smile carefully in place. "I should have known that you, too, would know the full history of Gramarye. Aye, he was."
"And lived in this monastery until his death?"
"Ah, no. He had frequently to ride abroad on missions of mercy, or to remonstrate with dukes or earls or, aye, even with the King. Twas he who established the foundation of our strength, for he made the King and the nobles accept the immunity of the clergy; they were too much needed by all the folk to become pawns in the barons' games."
Gwen nodded. "Yet he always did return and was Abbot till his death?"
"Nay, though 'tis odd you should mention it. He was prudent and yielded his seat to a younger monk, one native-born—I suspect he did wish to assure himself that the monastery would continue under stable rule when he died. Yet he did not linger to watch, fearing that his presence would hobble his successor; no, he left the cloister to become a mendicant, wandering about over the face of Gramarye."
"And was never seen again." Gwen's pulse quickened; the stories coincided.
But, "Not so," said the Abbot. "To tell truth, some ten years later a mania for burning witches swept the isle and Father Marco appeared again from obscurity, to preach against the silly superstition of thinking true witches could live—for why should Satan give power to a person who had already set himself on the road to Hell by seeking to sell his soul? Nor doth God permit real magic that would break His laws; only He may so suspend the principles of the Universe, and such events we term 'miracles.' "
"Ah," Gwen breathed. "Father Marco knew even then of our psi powers."
The Abbot nodded. "His journal shows that he had begun to suspect such."
"And he did defend us by putting down the witch-hunts."
"Aye, but in the doing of it, he was slain. Yet even his death served his fellow folk, for those who had slain him abandoned the witch-hunt in guilt and remorse and saw to it that all others did likewise."
"Bless him," Gwen breathed.
"We trust he is blessed indeed. We hope, now that we are once again in communication with the Vatican, that we shall be able to present Father Marco's case to His Holiness the Pope and have his name added to the Canon as one of the saints of God—but it will be a long and tedious process."
"I wish your enterprise success." Indeed Gwen did, for she had begun to see a way for the convent to be officially recognized as separate and independent and for the monks to gain an account of a miracle to bolster their case; she suspected they did not have very many.
That, however, was for the future. It would wait, having waited five centuries already. There were more urgent matters at hand.
" 'Tis polite of you to inquire and allow me to speak of our founder," said the Abbot with a smile, "when you must needs truly wish to speak of the matter which brought you hither. Enough of Father Marco—now for the Lady Gallow-glass. I trust you are well, you and all your family?"
"Not entirely, milord Abbot." Gwen smiled. "And I thank you for coming so quickly to the matter that concerns me."
The young man still smiled but with obvious curiosity.
"Your Order, Lord Abbot, is known to study the mind."
"Only by such as your husband, yourself, and Their Majesties," the monk said. "Yet we work only with those mental gifts that seem more than natural; we do not seek to understand the mind itself."
"The one must necessarily lead you to the other, must it not?"
The young man nodded, his eyes glowing. "I had known you to be quick of wit. Aye, milady, we do know something of the order of the normal mind, order and disorder—but we cannot claim to be expert in it."
"Yet I think there is that among you which does."
The Abbot lost his smile. "Of what do you speak?"
Gwen looked away and her gaze fell on the picture of Father Marco. " 'Twould be a thing of metal, Lord Abbot— metal and plastic, that substance which—"
"I know of it."
Gwen turned back to him with a smile. "I know that our ancestors came from distant Terra, milord, and that they came in a huge metal ship. Moreover, I know that there were brains in that ship made of metal and glass and plastic, things that could not truly think but that could quite well simulate the operations of our minds."
"How do you name these metal brains?"
"They were called computers."
The Abbot expelled a long hiss of breath. "You have learned much with your husband, have you not, Lady Gwendolyn?"
"We are wedded, after all, Lord Abbot. Do you think he would keep secret from me the natures of mine own children?"
The Abbot grinned broadly. "Nay, though I would conjecture God has kept the fullness of their natures secret from both of you—and all of us."
Gwen gave back a rueful smile. "There's some truth in that."
"You do ask if we have still among us those metal brains, do you not?"
"More." Gwen looked down at her fingers, plucking at her skirt. "I note that your monastery stands in a valley, Lord Abbot, but is on a hill in the center of that valley."
"Aye."
Gwen looked directly into his eyes. "I could find it in me to wonder what lies beneath the earth of this hill."
The Abbot's eyes twinkled. "If any in the Isle of Gramarye should have a right to go therein, milady, it would be you. Come." He rose and took a yard-wide square of lace from a peg. "I will ask you to veil your face, for your beauty is still such as to distract our monks from their labors of the mind and from their devotions."
Gwen rose, surprised to find that she still could blush. "I thank you for the gallantry, milord."
" 'Twas ever my pleasure to speak truth." He handed her the mantilla. "Then, milady, if you will accompany me, I shall take you down into our cellars."