"Oh! Yes, I was kind of running on there, wasn't I?" Rod pursed his lips. "At least it's understandable, how I forget."
"Understandable, yes. But she was raised in a medieval society, Rod, and early attitudes are fundamental; they are always there, at the bottom of the personality."
"Yes." Rod nodded. "The wonder is not that she went berserk for a few minutes, but that she managed to come back."
The Archbishop was in his scriptorium, appointing bishops. He smiled as he wrote, dipping his pen in the inkwell with zest and signing his name with a flourish.
"… art hereby created Bishop of Tudor, to be confirmed by the laying on of hands when tide and times allow, at our abbey here in the House of St. Vidicon. Till that time doth come, ward thy flock well, and guide them in the true way of our Church. John Widdecombe, Archbishop of Gramarye."
"Theodore Obrise, Bishop of Stuart," he said as he sprinkled sand over the ink.
Brother Alfonso wrote Father Obrise's name carefully on the roster of bishops.
The Archbishop shook the sand off the parchment, rolled it, and handed it to a rather pale Brother Anho, who melted sealing wax onto the rolled edge, then held it while the Archbishop pressed his signet ring into the pool. He turned and laid it on the stack for the messenger as the Archbishop turned back to the desk and took a clean sheet of parchment. "Now. Who is chaplain to the Earl Tudor?"
"Father Gregory McKenzie," Brother Alfonso replied.
"To the Reverend Gregory McKenzie," the Archbishop wrote, "in the name of the Lord, greetings. Knowing thee to be steadfast in the Faith…"
Father McKenzie unrolled the parchment with a frown. "What hath His Grace to tell me, Brother Lionel, that may not be said by word of mouth?"
The messenger put down his mug and wiped foam from his moustache. "I know not, Father; I but bear the scroll."
'"To the Reverend Gregory McKenzie,'" the priest read; but as he went on, his eyes widened. When he finished, he looked up, eyes glowing, lips trembling as he tried to confine them to only a small smile. "I thank thee for this good news, Brother. Wilt thou bear messages for me, to all the parish priests in Tudor?"
"Father Obrise doth wish speech with thee, milord."
"The priest?" Earl Stuart ran his hand over the withers of his new chestnut stallion, frowning. "What doth he wish?"
"He will not say, milord, yet he is pale as a January hillside."
Stuart lifted his head, then turned slowly away from the stallion. "Bid him come." He went out of the paddock, a footman closing the gate behind him, and stood, feet apart, arms akimbo, as the priest came up. "God save thee, Father."
"And thee, my lord." The old man's lips were pressed tight, and his hand trembled as he held out the parchment scroll. "I hold here a letter from Milord Archbishop."
Stuart braced himself. "Read it me."
The priest unrolled the parchment with a sigh; he knew well that Earl Stuart had never spared the time to learn to read. " 'To the Reverend Axel Obrise, from the Reverend John Widde-combe, by the grace of God Archbishop of Gramarye…"'
When he had finished, he rolled up the parchment, straightening as much as he could and gazing directly into Earl Stuart's eyes.
"Well, then," the Earl said, with a taut smile, "thou art my bishop henceforth. Shall I congratulate thee?"
"Nay," Father Obrise said, "for I cannot accept this appointment."
The earl lost his smile, and the two men stared at one another in taut silence. Then the earl said, "Wherefore canst thou not?"
"For that I cannot in all good conscience part from the Church of Rome."
Earl Stuart stared at him, his eyes two chips of ice. Then he said, "Thou art lately come to this piety."
" 'Tis my shame." the old priest acknowledged. "I did delay, hoping His Grace would cease his vanity; yet he doth persist. Now I find that I can no longer endure in silence."
The earl nodded slowly. "And thou canst no longer be chaplain here." He turned to a nearby guardsman. "Escort Father Obrise to our most pleasant dungeon cell."
The young soldier blanched, but came forward to do as he was bid.
The altar bell rang, and Earl Tudor knelt for morning mass— but when he looked up, he stared in horror at the apparition before him. It was Father McKenzie as always, but the chaplain was holding a crozier and wearing a bishop's mitre on his head.
"Dominus Vobiscum," the priest intoned. "Ere we begin the Mass, I shall ask thee to rejoice with me—for, by authority of our good Archbishop, I am elevated to the rank of Bishop of Tudor."
He held up his hands, but there was no outcry of delight, for Earl Tudor was standing, pale-faced and trembling. "Reverend Father," he grated, "thou canst not be made bishop by Abbot Widdecombe, for he doth lack authority. The Pope hath not named him Archbishop."
"So I had thought, my lord." The priest turned to the Earl, lifting his head a bit. "Yet I am now persuaded of the Tightness of his cause."
"Aye, for that he will make thee a bishop! Nay, I shall not have the Church of Gramarye within these precincts! Thou mayest no longer be chaplain here."
"My lord, 'tis not for thee to—"
"Sir Willem!" the Earl snapped. "Thou, and a guard of six men, take this overweening friar in all his finery and escort him to the eastern border, where he may cross to the estates of the Due di Medici! He will find greater hospitality there, where the Church of Gramarye doth hold sway!"
Sir Willem stiffened, beckoned to his guardsmen, and came forward to surround the chaplain, who stared at them, shocked. They escorted him from the chapel, and the earl turned to the seneschal. "Send to Count Rhys, and bid him send Father Glen to us here."
"Hapsburg! Tudor! Romanov! Ruddigore!" The Archbishop slapped each parchment down onto his desktop. "Ruddigore, even Ruddigore't Though our house doth lie within the baronet's demesne! Not a one of these arrogant noblemen but hath flouted mine appointment of his bishop!"
"Vile are they, indeed," Brother Alfonso hissed, "yet not so vile as the priests who did refuse thy commissions."
"Vile? Nay, more—they are heretics! And are therefore hereby cast out of the Order and the priesthood! Draw up a proclamation so stating, Brother Alfonso, for my signature."
"I shall, my lord," the secretary purred. "Yet be of good heart—Bishop McKenzie and Bishop Vogel did declare loyalty to thee."
"Aye, yet only for that they would gain croziers thereby! Still, the attempt was most surely worthy, and 'tis to be lamented they could not sway their lords." The Archbishop shook his head. "I could almost wish the King's lords had imprisoned them; then might their congregations have risen in outrage."
"Their lordships took the course of wisdom," Brother Alfonso regretfully agreed, "in only exiling them."
"Aye, and here are McKenzie and Vogel among us again." The Archbishop frowned. "Yet they shall keep their rank, aye, and shall be bishops in absentia. And…" He lifted his head slowly, a smile touching his lips. "For those recreant monks whom we shall declare unfrocked, let us appoint other absent bishops, that all the land may know their sees await them!"
"Excellently thought, my lord!" It was so excellent, in fact, that it made Brother Alfonso nervous; the Archbishop wasn't supposed to think for himself. "The more so for that it shall weld these new bishops more ardently to thy cause! Who shalt thou choose?"
"Father Rigori," the Archbishop said slowly, "and Father Hasty. There are also Father Samizdat, Father Roma, and Father Rhone…"
Chapter Sixteen
Rod stepped out to gaze up into the sky, to let the infinite vastness of the stars calm his soul by making him realize how little the absurd strivings and conflicts of his minuscule mortal kind really mattered.