The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 5
“But, what if he’s not?” Joram replied softly. “Rhys, you may not want to think about it, but I’m not sure you can afford that luxury. If what you say is true …”
With a defeated sigh, Rhys sank down on the bench beside the priest. “I know,” he murmured, after a long silence. “But the illusion of innocence gives me a semblance of comfort. God knows, I’m not a political creature, Joram, but I …” He bowed his head. “I had a friend,” he said. “I gave him my hand and comfort in his final hour, and he gave me his most precious possession: the identity of his only grandson. He showed me an ancient and noble heritage, and a potential for something different from what we know. And then he said, ‘Ask yourself if the man on the throne is worthy of the golden circlet,’ Joram. He said, ‘Ask if this is the sort of rule you wish for your children and your children’s children. Then you decide.’”
“And, have you decided?”
Rhys shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t think I, or you, or any one man can make a decision like that alone.” He looked up wistfully. “But I have considered what old Daniel told me, Joram. And now—well, I think we must try to find his grandson.”
“To tell him his grandfather is dead?” Joram asked.
Rhys glanced quickly at his companion, fearing to find some hint of mockery in the other’s expression. But there was none—only a gentle, indulgent wisp of a smile flicking across the other’s mouth.
“Thank you for knowing when not to push,” he said simply, his own lips curving in response. “I’m afraid I’ve not been honed for this sort of thing the way you Michaelines have. It may take me a while to adjust.”
Joram chuckled as he stood, clasping a hand to the other’s shoulder. “You’re doing fine,” he said, picking up the rushlight again. “For now, let’s just worry about that monk that wants finding, who will doubtless wish to offer prayers for his grandfather’s repose.”
Within half an hour, Rhys and Joram were gone from Saint Liam’s, riding pell-mell through driving rain toward the tiny village of Barwicke, where Saint Jarlath’s lay. Once the full implications of Rhys’s news had sunk in, Joram had moved quickly to secure fresh horses for the two of them and obtain leave to depart early. More details of the previous day’s events had been imparted to Joram as he changed to riding attire in his chamber—boots and cloak and sleek, fur-lined riding leathers. Then they were mounting up on two of the abbey’s sleek, blooded horses, clattering hellbent out through the abbey yard.
By the time they reached Barwicke, both men were half frozen and soaked to the skin. It was also quite dark.
“Where is the monastery?” Rhys croaked, as the two drew rein under a tree at the edge of the village square.
Joram wiped silver-gilt hair out of his eyes and turned in the saddle, standing in the stirrups to get his bearings.
“That way, I think.” He gestured north with a wetly gloved hand. “I only hope they’ll let us in this late. We may have to pull rank on them. Come on.”
With a sigh, Rhys hunched down further in the saddle and followed the priest, trying unsuccessfully to keep the rain from running down his neck. He was beginning to wonder whether they would ever be dry and warm again, and whether the whole thing was worth it, when he saw the monastery looming ahead in the driving rain. Thankfully, he reined in before the monastery gate, stifling a cough as Joram reached up and gave the gate bell a hefty yank.
When there was no response, Joram yanked the bell again, then dismounted preparatory to pounding on the gate with his fist. Before he had to resort to that measure, a small shutter was opened in the gate and an annoyed-looking face was thrust through the opening.
“All right, all right, don’t pull the building down,” the man said, scowling against the rain. “Why don’t you go back to the village? There’s lodging to be had there for the night.”
“I wish to speak to your Father Superior,” Joram said quietly. “And while you’re thinking about it, my companion and I should like some Christian charity from the rain.”
Joram’s cultured tone took the man aback for a moment, but then he shook his head. “Sorry, sir. We don’t open the gates after dark. Marauders and thieves, you know. Besides, you couldn’t see the Reverend Father tonight, anyway. He’s in bed with a bad cold. Come back in the morning.”
“My good man, my name is Father Joram MacRorie, of the Order of Saint Michael. My companion is the Lord Rhys Thuryn. Now, we would not have ridden all this way in this weather if it were not important. Are you going to open this gate, or must I report your rudeness to your superiors in the morning?”
The man’s eyes had gotten progressively wider as Joram spoke, and abruptly he bobbed his head in a bow and closed the shutter. When the gate opened seconds later, he was still bowing nervously.
A lay brother in coarse brown robes and hood was waiting to take their horses, and another monk in deep gray nodded greeting and indicated that they should follow him. No word was spoken as they strode down the corridor with the silent monk. They passed several others, but the men seemed not even to notice them.
They were shown into a small room strewn with sweet-smelling rushes and herbs, and with a modest fire burning well back on the stone hearth. The man who had been their escort pointed out a stack of dry blankets and indicated that they should warm themselves before the fire, then withdrew behind a heavy, carved door, which closed softly behind him.
Joram immediately began stripping off sodden cap and gloves, spreading his dripping cloak on the rushes to dry.
“They’ll bring us dry clothes in a few minutes,” he said, unlacing his leggings and discarding those, then beginning on his tunic. “Meanwhile, we’d best get out of these wet things before we catch our deaths.”
Rhys sneezed for reply, then began following Joram’s example. Wrapping himself, cocoon-like, in one of the scratchy abbey blankets, he huddled shivering by the fire, damp hair beginning to steam from the heat. Beside him, Joram was typically unruffled, looking every inch the noble’s son he was, even in his currently bedraggled state. It figures, Rhys thought, and decided that he would probably never see Joram look anything less than impeccable.
The door opened silently, and the two of them stood as two men entered the room. The first was obviously the abbot of the place, silver gleaming on hand and breast against the burgundy richness of his habit. The man’s cowl was pushed back to reveal a shaven head, and he was holding a swatch of grayish linen to his nose and sniffling audibly. The monk who had escorted them to the room bore a pair of gray woolen robes across his arms. Joram crossed immediately to the abbot, blanket clutched around himself like a royal mantle, and bowed to kiss the abbot’s ring.
“Thank you for seeing us, Reverend Father. I am Father MacRorie, and this is the Lord Rhys Thuryn, a Healer.” Rhys bent to kiss the ring also. “We are most grateful for your hospitality.”
The abbot bowed in acknowledgment. “Be at ease, Father, and please to accept the dry clothing which Brother Egbert has brought. I am Gregory of Arden, Abbot of Saint Jarlath’s.” He paused to sneeze, then held the handkerchief to his nose once more as Brother Egbert assisted the two visitors into their robes. When the men had been decently clad and the monk had withdrawn, Abbot Gregory moved closer to the hearth and warmed thin hands before the fire.
“I am told that you are of the Order of Saint Michael, Father,” he said, his voice croaking hoarsely. “How may I assist you?”
Joram smiled disarmingly and gave the cord at his waist a final tug. “We wish to inspect the records of postulants in this order for the past few years, Father Abbot.”
“Ah, is this an official inquiry of some sort, Father?”
“Oh, no. It’s personal. A matter of conscience, Father Abbot.”
“I see.” The abbot shrugged, obviously relieved. “Well, certainly it can be arranged. But if you’re looking for a particular postulant, you must surely be aware that he has likely taken his final vows by now and, hence, could not receive you.”
“Forgive me, Reverend Father, but perhaps Father Joram has not made himself clear. He makes the request in my behalf. The grandfather of the man we are looking for was in my care until his recent death, and begged me on his deathbed to find his grandson and inform him of his grandsire’s demise. Surely, you would not refuse the dying wish of a man whose only fault was in wishing his holy grandson to say prayers for his soul.”
The abbot raised an eyebrow, then shrugged apologetically. “Well, the news could be taken to him by his superior, I suppose. Certainly, a man is entitled to mourn his grandsire, even if the rest of the world has been renounced. What is the man’s name? Perhaps I can tell you his whereabouts.”
“Benedict, now. Before that—ah, it was the grandfather’s wish that we not reveal his grandson’s identity, Reverend Father,” Joram replied. “Might we see those records now?”
“Now, Father?” The abbot looked at Joram a little strangely. “Can it not wait until morning?”
“The grandfather felt himself much in need of prayer, Reverend Father,” Joram lied, “and we promised to find his grandson as soon as possible. Also, we would not disturb the routine of your house any more than necessary. If one of your brothers could show us to your archives and provide us with light, we would be most grateful.”
“I understand, of course.” The abbot shrugged and bowed, his manner declaring that he did not understand at all. “Very well. Brother Egbert will show you the pertinent records and see to your needs. Perhaps you will at least join us at Mass in the morning and then break your fast with us?”
“We would be most honored.” Joram bowed. “Our thanks to you, Reverend Father.”
With a last, disbelieving look at them, the abbot dabbed at his reddened nose and took his leave, disappearing down the corridor in one direction while Brother Egbert led them along another way.
Rushlights were procured and lit outside a heavy wooden door which Brother Egbert unlocked with a large iron key. In a far corner of the library, Egbert indicated a shelf of neatly rolled scrolls—the induction records of the Ordo Verbi Dei—then bowed silently and turned to go.
When the sound of the closing door had confirmed his departure, Joram set a rushlight on the reading desk and pulled out a scroll at random. Spreading it open on the desk, he scanned the legend at the top.
“Decimus Blainus—the tenth year of the reign of King Blaine. That’s too recent. Daniel said the boy entered the order about twenty years ago?”
Rhys nodded. “He said more than twenty, but I think we’d better check five or ten years to either side of that. Dan said the boy was nineteen when he took his vows, and that he’d be about forty now, but Dan was eighty-three, by his reckoning. He may be hazy on the dates.”
“All right. Twenty years—that would be 833, just toward the end of Festil III. We’ll go back to, oh, 22 Festil III, through, uh—3 Blaine ought to be far enough. That’s ten years back and five forward. Too bad we don’t know his secular name—even Draper won’t help us, since ecclesiastical records generally fail to show commoners’ surnames. But there can’t be that many men in a fifteen-year spread who took the religious name of Benedict. See if you can locate some writing materials while I start looking.”
Joram’s optimism proved to be unfounded. By the time Rhys had returned with some scraps of parchment and a quill and ink, the priest had already found four Benedicts.
“And that’s only through 25 Festilus III,” Joram lamented, as Rhys put down the writing materials and looked over his shoulder. “Look at this. 22 Festilus III: ‘Rolf the son of Carrolan was received into the Ordo Verbi Dei and took the name Benedictus, and was cloistered at the Priory of Saint Piran.’
“23 Festilus III: ‘Abel the son of John the Goldsmith was received into the Ordo Verbi Dei on Candlemas and took the name Benedictus, and was sent forthwith to the Monastery of Saint Illtyd.’
“25 Festilus III: ‘Henricus, youngest son of the Earl of Legain—’ Well, I guess we can eliminate him, at least. Definitely the wrong father for our man.
“25 Festilus III: ‘Josephus the son of Master Galiardi the Merchant … name of Benedictus … sent to Saint Ultan’s’ And we’ve still got eleven years to go!”
Rhys sighed and sat down at the desk, dipping quill to ink. “Well, let’s get on with it, then. A lot of those earlier ones will be dead by now—he may even be dead, for all we know. If you’ll find them, I’ll copy them down.”
“All right,” Joram sighed. “Here’s one in 26 Festilus III, when you get those three. It’s going to be a long night.”
Three hours later, they had compiled a list of sixteen names, three of which they were able to eliminate immediately as belonging to identifiable noble houses. Unfortunately, they did not know the father’s full name, and there was no reference to grandparents in the records.
So the two were left with a list of thirteen. Further winnowing with regard to age from other records cut the list to ten. But next they must search out all the death records for the ten Benedicts and discover which ones, if any, were still alive. The eastern windows of the library were graying with approaching dawn when the last scroll was replaced on its shelf and the two sat back to relax.
“Five still alive and of the right age,” Joram murmured, stretching his arms over his head and indulging in a tremendous yawn. “It’s a good thing we insisted on coming here tonight. Can you imagine the whole abbey breathing down our necks in the daytime, wondering what in the world we were up to?”
Rhys laid aside his quill and shook his fingers, then picked up the list. His eyes felt gravelly from lack of sleep, but the list was in his hands.
26 F III Andrew, son of James, age 45—Saint Piran’s Priory
28 F III Nicholas, son of Royston, age 43—Saint Foillan’s Abbey
31 F III John, son of Daniel, age 42—Saint Piran’s Priory
32 F III Robert, son of Peter, age 39—Saint Ultan’s Priory
2 Bl. Matthew, son of Carlus, age 46—Saint Illtyd’s Monastery
He scanned the list once more, then handed it across to Joram.
“Well, what now? I’ve never even heard of half these places. Where are Saint Ultan’s and Saint Foillan’s?”
Joram looked at the list also, then folded it and tucked it into his robe. “Saint Ultan’s is down in Mooryn, near the coast. Saint Foillan’s is in the Lendour highlands, about three days’ ride southeast of here. I think we’d be better off to try Saint Piran’s first, though. That’s only a day’s ride north, and two of our candidates are there. Also, it’s too much to hope for, but this second one at Saint Piran’s, this John son of Daniel, is an awfully close name to be associated with the Haldane line. The name John is close to Ifor, who would have been our Benedict’s great-grandfather, the last Haldane king. And of course, your man’s name was Daniel. He might have named his son the same.”
“And if neither of the Benedicts at Saint Piran’s is the one, what then?”
“Then we’ll try Saint Foillan’s, and Saint Ultan’s, and even Saint llltyd’s, if we have to—though I don’t relish heading down toward Nyford with the building going on. I hope your riding muscles are in better shape than mine.”
He rubbed his backside and gave a droll grin, and Rhys had to chuckle. Gathering up the extra parchment they had been using as working notes, Rhys started to wad it up, but Joram reached across and took it from him, held each piece to the rushlight flame, and watched it burn to ash. Rhys said nothing during the operation, but as they rose to go he glanced across at Joram.
“You know, you just destroyed my last illusion of innocence,” he said in a low voice. “We can still say, for now, that we’re only interested in finding Brother Benedict. As long as no one makes any other connection, we’re safe enough. But, once we find him, then what? What do you do with a lost heir except depose the current monarch and restore the old line?”
Joram had picked up th
e two rushlights as Rhys spoke, and now he turned to face his companion once more, his face lit eerily from below by the flickering yellow light.
“Yes, it’s high treason, quite clearly. It’s treason even to be searching for him—never mind whether we plan to put him on the throne or not. On the other hand, the whole thing could end very shortly. We may find that our Brother Benedict, even if he’s still alive, is so entirely unsuitable for the Crown, after twenty years in seclusion, that even Imre would be preferable.”
“My God, I hadn’t even considered that possibility.”
“Again, just a matter of perspective,” Joram smiled. “Think about this, though: Even if he should be willing to forsake his vows and reclaim his birthright—which is by no means certain—that’s only the beginning. A man may be born to be king, but if he hasn’t also been trained to be king, chances are he’ll have a rough time of it. Even we Michaelines, critical as we are of Imre and his policies, haven’t yet preached his overthrow.”
He glanced down at the rushlights, his lips a firm line of shadow.
“Not that we haven’t considered it, I’ll grant you,” he added. “When Imre proclaimed the tariff for the new capital at Nyford, there was nearly a mutiny in the ranks. A military order like the Michaelines—Well, you know our reputation. But deposing an anointed king is serious business, even with due cause. Thank God, even our hotheads realized that.”
Rhys stared at Joram silently for several heartbeats, then averted his eyes. “Your Michaelines—they could make much of the information we’ve gathered tonight, couldn’t they?”
“I suspect they could,” Joram murmured, “if they had it.”
Rhys looked up. “And do you intend to tell them?”
“I don’t think that decision is entirely mine to make, do you?” Joram countered. “Perhaps some of your native caution has rubbed off on me, Rhys, or perhaps I’m just remembering the thin edge my order rides just now. In any event, any action we take if we do find Cinhil, and he is suitable, will involve a lot of other people. I’d like to tell Father about him first, if you have no objections.”