Well, that's the other side of it. Suddenly Rod was concerned for his daughter. If you let the priests marry, they're not safe from predatory females any more.
"Why… aye, there's truth in that." The priest rallied bravely. "Yet 'twould be an ill life for a woman, lass. A priest must ever be out and about, tending his flock."
"The more reason, then, why he would need a woman he could trust, in his house," the girl returned. "And, too, he would then not need trouble himself o'er the temptations of the flesh."
The priest's eyes widened; apparently he hadn't thought of that aspect of it. He began to smile, and stepped closer to the girl. "Aye, he would not, would he? For such impulses would then become virtuous, even as they are for any married man. What is thy name, daughter?"
She'll not be his daughter—she'll bear him one! Cordelia thought, fuming. How can he be so blind as not to see that she doth desire not him, but his rank?
Men are generally pretty dumb about that. Rod thought about a few episodes from his own past and winced. He appreciated the irony of her reaction, but also realized that her faith in the clergy had been shaken, and with it, her faith in her religion. Just remember, dear—men being weak doesn't make God any smaller.
There were no words in answer, only a feeling of confusion, and Rod decided his daughter needed his presence. He stepped back into the forest, thinking, Come on down. I think it's time to go home.
He caught Cordelia's quick mental image of free flight through the crisp night air, and the feeling of cleanliness she associated with it. His mouth tightened; his little girl was beginning to have some vague notion that people could be dirty in soul as well as body.
Including archbishops, of course. Sure, John Widdecombe could have been very sincere about the theological reasons why priests should be allowed to marry—but Rod doubted it.
" 'Twas a thing of witch moss, then?" Brom frowned.
"Aye, milord," Puck affirmed. "The dog's tracks led there—and we.saw him make a walking tree."
" 'Twas but a wee one, though," Kelly qualified. "In truth, 'twas scarce more than a sapling."
"I doubt not it will grow, whensoe'er it doth chance upon another batch of witch moss," Brom rumbled. "Thou hast the right of it, Robin. And he wrought it quickly?"
"It could not have taken more than the quarter of an hour, Majesty, if that."
"Most expert, then—only the Lady Gwendylon could do better." Brom stifled a fatuous smile. "And he had a tonsure?"
"He had, my lord, unless he'd chanced to lose his hair in so perfect a circle."
"Still, he was old enough for it to have done so," Kelly maintained.
"What, art thou his advocate?" Puck rounded on the elf. "Be still, abbey lubber!"
"Who dost thou call lubber, lob of spirits? I'll have thee know—"
"Thou'lt have him know naught," Brom boomed. "Wilt thou waste all our time in contention, while this Archbishop doth afright all the peasants into bringing down the King? Nay, go thou and wait by the crafter's cot, that thou mayest follow his every step doth he go out! Go there, and bide in patience, till Their Majesties' troops can come!"
The door crashed open, and the peasant bolted up off his pallet—but two soldiers caught his arms behind him even as he staggered to his feet, and another whipped rope about his wrists. Dazed, he blinked about him at the hard-faced men in mail shirts with pikes in their hands. "What… what dost thou? Wherefore hast thou sprung upon me? I have naught thou couldst wish!"
But the soldiers turned him to face a man wearing a light helmet and a hauberk with a sword at his hip, standing with arms akimbo, glaring at him. "Thou hast made monsters and set them to afright the poor folk." Without taking his eyes off the peasant, he called out, "He is secure, my lady!"
Then a beautiful, shapely redhead stepped into the hut, and the peasant blanched, for he recognized the Lady Gwendylon.
"Do not seek to deny it," she advised him, "for we have report from two who saw thee make a walking tree. Tell me now why thou hast done it."
The peasant's face gelled. "Nay. Thou shalt learn naught from me."
And he meant it, Gwen knew, for his mind seemed totally empty; mentally, she perceived him only as a blank, smooth curve. Then, suddenly, an imperative thought leaped out of that globe, a command to come, to fight, and Gwendylon spun toward the door.
The thing burst in with twin howls of rage, eyes burning in both its heads. The knight whipped about, his sword drawn; but Gwendylon scowled, staring at the two-headed dog, and its form began to blur even as it leaped at her, like wax on a hot rock. The knight yelled and leaped in between Gwen and the dog, but what thudded against his chest was no longer a beast, only a formless mass of churning gray. It bounced off him and fell to the floor, and the knight stepped back, turning a delicate shade of avocado; but Gwen glared at the mass of witch moss, and it split in half. Both halves split again, and again and again, until it lay in forty little, shapeless blobs. Each blob sprouted a shoot, which fractured into leaves, turning yellowish brown—and a bushel of onions rolled about the floor.
The peasant stared at them, his face ashen.
Gwen turned her glare on him. "I advise thee not to seek to make them turn to aught that might think to strike a blow."
"I… I will not, Lady." It was as good as an admission of defeat.
"Tell me, then," she commanded, "wherefore thou hast left thy monastery to come unto this wood."
He looked at her, appalled; then his expression hardened again. "An excellent device, seeking to shock me into speaking; yet I do know 'twas but a fortunate conjecture."
"Thou hast too perfect a bald spot for a common peasant," Gwen pointed out, "and thou art too well fed for a forest hermit. Nay, further, thou hast not the wild look of one who dwells apart. Wherefore shouldst thou not say truth?"
"I will not hold with heretics." And his mind was still a bland, smooth globe.
Gwen frowned at him, weighing her chances. Then she smiled, and her voice softened amazingly. "Yet thou art alone, here in the fearsome wood by thyself, and far from human company. Truthfully, thou must needs miss thy comrades greatly, Father."
"Not 'Father,'" he said automatically. "I can claim not that—" Then he stopped, annoyed at his own slip. She could see his thoughts work by the look on his face, though she could not hear them; he hadn't really let any information out, hadn't actually said he was a monk. She poured the oil on. "Come, thou art a good man, and hast ever sought to be—and thou art caught clearly now; there is no chance thou mayest return, till this coil's unwound. It must be hard for thee, to be constrained to making devices that will terrify poor good folk." Doubt in his face, now, and the first signs of weakening; Gwen gave him her saddest, most sympathetic smile. "Belike thou art troubled sorely about the rift, and those monks who have gone off to found their own chapter. Come, dost thou not ache for their good company?"
The peasant's mouth tightened with chagrin, and he admitted, "I do miss them sorely, Lady."
"And art worried for their safety? Nay, why not say it?"
"I am," he admitted, "for they are truly my brothers in spirit."
Gwen nodded. "Closer than thy mother's sons could be, I wot. Nay, say thy name, good friar, so that I may know to whom I speak."
He gazed at her, then gave up with a sigh. "I am Brother Clancy, Lady, and I ken not how thou couldst pierce my shield and con my thoughts. Thou art the Lady Gallowglass, art thou not?"
"I am," Gwen confirmed, fighting not to let show the soaring triumph that she felt. "If thou knowest me by repute, good friar, thou must needs know there's only honor in having maintained thy silence against me for so long."