"Villain!" Geoffrey cried. "Thou hast caused our horse a seizure!" And he sprang at the nearest bandit's face. The man stepped back, startled, then reached up to catch him—and a hand from a brown sleeve grabbed his shoulder and spun him about; a quarterstaff cracked into his skull.
He fell, and Father Boquilva stepped over his unconscious body, face thunderous, to grasp Geoffrey's shoulder. "Bide with me, lad! Stay close!" He thrust Geoffrey behind him and turned to find another enemy…
But he was out of luck. His brother monks' staves had done their threshing; the harvest lay on the ground, and the chaff were running for the forest.
Father Boquilva looked at the half-dozen unconscious robbers, panting. " 'Twas ill done; men of the cloth should not strike. See to them, brothers; be sure none are dead, and aid those who are injured."
The other monks dropped down to their knees to check for heartbeats and bruises.
Father Boquilva turned to Geoffrey, Magnus, Gregory, and Cordelia, his face dark. "I doubt not thine efforts were well meant, children, but 'twas nonetheless foolhardy."
"But thou wouldst not strike in thine own defense!" Geoffrey cried. "Yet once thou didst, they could not stand against thee!"
"They should have had no need to," the priest retorted. "Say how thou didst chance to be nearby."
Gregory and Magnus exchanged a look. Then the elder said, "By your leave, sir, we must needs see to our father's horse."
"Horse?" Father Boquilva frowned, looking up at Fess. "Even so. What ails the beast?"
"He is elf-shot." Magnus turned to Fess.
"Epileptic?" Father Boquilva stared. "I wonder thy parent doth not put him out of his misery!"
"He is a true friend, and a valiant fighter," Geoffrey said angrily. "His seizures are a small matter, weighed against all his good service."
Magnus felt under the pommel of Fess's saddle and pushed the enlarged vertebra that was a disguised circuit breaker.
"Yet how didst thou come to knowledge of the word?" Gregory asked.
A transparent shield seemed to slide down behind Father Boquilva's eyes. " 'Tis no matter. Is thy mount wounded?"
"Nay; he doth come to himself now." Magnus was watching carefully as Fess slowly lifted his head. Where… what…
Magnus stroked the velvet nose. "Thou hast had a seizure, old friend. 'Tis naught; thou wilt presently be well again." He looked up at the monk, and felt a thrill of alarm. "Why dost thou stare so?"
Father Boquilva was gazing at Fess intently. "I had thought… no matter." He turned a stern gaze on the boy. "Thou, too, wert valiant—but foolish. These bandits would not have slain us, for we are adept at defense."
"Too much so," Geoffrey said, frowning. "What manner of monks art thou, to own such skill with a quarterstaff?"
"Geoffrey!" Magnus snapped, then turned to the monk. "I cry thy pardon, Father. He is but young, and doth forget his manners betimes."
"I have no need for thou to apologize for me," Geoffrey grated.
"Nay; thou must needs speak thine own regrets, an thou hast them." Father Boquilva studied the sturdy lad. "As thou shouldst; 'tis not meet for thee to speak so to thine elders—yet I feel some trouble of the soul within thee, wherefore I shall explain. Ere I came to the sense of my vocation, young sir, I was a lad much like thee, and was as fond of martial sport as I think thou art. I did delight at quarterstaff play, aye, and at archery and wrestling too, and forbore them only when I sought out the cloister." He nodded toward the other monks, who were busy administering restoratives. "The same is true of most of my fellows—yet when we did come away from the monastery to dwell by ourselves, we did bethink us of bandits who might seek to prey on such easy game as ourselves. Therefore did we take up practice again, and did teach these skills to such of our fellows as had them not."
"Fairly said, and I thank thee," Magnus said. "Yet wherefore hast thou come out from the monastery?"
"Ah. That is a matter of some dispute with our Abbot's policies," Father Boquilva explained, "a dispute so strong that we have felt the need to go off by ourselves."
"And is this, too, why thou dost practice thy skills at arms?" Gregory's eyes were huge. "Dost thou fear thine Abbot may try to bring thee back into his fold by force?"
Father Boquilva turned to him, startled. Slowly, he said, "Thou hast excellent insight, youngling. Aye, there is some thought of that in our hearts."
Gregory's face crumpled; tears welled in his eyes. "It cannot be! 'Tis vile for men of God to think of battle!"
"I cannot but concur with thee," Father Boquilva said softly, "and do heartily wish 'twere not so. Yet come, I will seek to explain it to thee the whiles I escort thee home."
Cordelia stiffened. "Oh, nay, good father! Thou hast no need to accompany us!"
"Yet I have," the monk said quietly, "for I wish to speak of thy kind assistance to thy father—most personally."
Chapter Two
Rod slipped a pair of hose, folded into a flat bundle, into his saddlebag next to the package of biscuit. He heard the door open, and looked up to see Gwen framed in the doorway with a basket on her hip. "Hi, dear. Wondered where you were."
"Plucking berries, ere the birds do have them all." She came in, leaving the door open, and set the basket on the table, eyeing the saddlebags. "Thou'rt away, then?"
Rod nodded and started folding his spare shirt. "Tuan and Catharine have kindly appointed me emissary to the Abbot. I should be back in three days. Can you manage without me?"
"Oh, thou wilt never learn!" She caught the shirt from him, shook it out, and folded it into a neat, flat bundle. "Aye, I shall manage without thee—dost thou think me helpless by myself?"
Rod grinned. "Never, dear. But for all I knew, you might have had something planned for the family."
"Naught, as it doth chance." She tucked the shirt in beside the dried meat. "Yet an I did, is thine errand of so great an import that it could not wait?"
" 'Fraid so. M'Lord Abbot has declared the Church of Gramarye to be separate from the Church of Rome."
Gwen froze, staring. She swallowed, then said, "Wherefore?"
"He says a man on another world can't possibly understand our problems here, or the theological reasons for solving those problems the way we do—he's talking about the Pope, of course."
"Yet the Pope is Christ's deputy!" Gwen protested. "He doth hold the power granted to Peter—that what he doth bind or loose shall be bound or loosed in Heaven!"
"But, says milord Abbot, Gramarye is not Earth." Rod held up a finger. "Therefore, the power of Peter doesn't apply here."
"Oh, he doth seize upon excuses! Wherefore doth he truly wish to divorce us from Rome?"
"Well, he's the head of the Gramarye Church, since all our priests are members of his order." Rod frowned. "And I assume he felt really diminished when Father Al handed him that letter from the Pope that gave him orders—so he figures that the only way to keep his power is to separate from Rome. After ail, that makes him top spiritual banana again. But why do you care so much, dear?"
Gwen turned away, tucking the saddlebag's flap in.
"Dear?" Rod prodded.
"It doth fill me with foreboding, my lord." Her voice was low. "What doth threaten the unity of the Church, doth threaten the wholeness of my family."
Rod stared, shocked. And, now that he thought about it, hurt. He opened his mouth to tell her that, but someone knocked at the door.
He looked up. Perfect, right on cue! The "someone" wore a brown robe with a little yellow screwdriver in the breast pocket, and a bowl-cut hairdo with a tonsure.