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Nigel called up the map in his mind; Gervais to the west, Molalla to the east, both slightly north of the monastery and its lands, both the seats of Association barons from the second Change Year. This place had been in the pincers, since the Protectorate first organized itself.
"And they've been very cooperative so far," he said. "But the proof of the pudding, and all that."
"Speaking of which, I could do with some pudding," Hordle said. "Or a crust, come to that."
Nigel had been conscious of hunger; that brought it home, a sharp, twisting pain in his gut. They stayed in the hot water just long enough to soak out the bone-chill of a long, hard day spent wet and cold; he suspected that the two young men lingered a little for his sake. Robes and sandals were offered as their clothes were taken away to be cleaned and dried; the light gear in their packs was stowed in another set of plain rooms, these with beds and woolen blankets, jug and table, and a crucifix on the wall of each; then they were led to a refectory.
That was a long, dimly lit room with trestle tables and benches and a reader's lectern. Nobody was there but themselves and an exhausted-looking squad who were probably the night watch, and a teenage boy minding the hearth; a big pot simmered quietly in the fireplace over a low bed of coals, and everyone ladled themselves bowls of thick lentil stew with chunks of salt pork and onion in it, and took fresh brown bread and butter and cups of some hot herbal infusion that tasted acridly pleasant. Nigel smiled quietly to himself as he spooned up the stew; hunger really was the best sauce, something he'd learned a very long time ago. That was the only thing that made much of what a soldier had to eat tolerable, and this was far, far better than a good deal of what he'd choked down in various bivouacs.
When they'd finished an older monk came to their table, a man with swept-back silver hair that still had a few blond streaks in it, round glasses, a square chin and an elaborate pectoral cross on the breast of his black robe.
"Abbot Dmwoski?" Nigel asked, though he'd expected someone younger from the descriptions.
Behind him Astrid coughed tactfully. The monk gave her a nod and smile, and then shook his head.
"I'm Father Plank, Sir Nigel, the prior here. I was in fact the abbot, but I resigned a week after the Change, since the office obviously required a younger and more vigorous man with different skills-this way, if you please."
He had the same soothing air of trained calm as Sister Antonia, and he led them through the guesthouse, through new-looking cloisters, and into an older building with a red-tiled roof in the same comfortable silence. There was a smell of clean soap and incense and candle-wax, and once in the distance a musical chanting-Gregorian, perhaps Verbum caro factum est, though it was hard to tell precisely. The office at the end of their travels showed gaslight under the door; within it were plain whitewashed walls, bookshelves, filing cabinets, a desk, chairs, and an angular painting of the Mado
Eilir and Astrid made a silent gesture of reverence towards the icon; so, to his surprise, did John Hordle. He was a little less astonished when the big man gave him a wink, and Eilir tucked her hand through the crook of his arm. Dmwoski rose gracefully, despite his stocky build; that was apparently all muscle.
"Forgive me," he said when the introductions had been made; his hand was as sword-calloused as Nigel's own, and possibly stronger. The accent was General American, with a slight hint of something rougher beneath it. "Time for private prayer has been scarce lately."
He indicated the chairs with a wave of the hand, nodding in friendly fashion to the two young women who'd been here before, and the older monk sat quietly beside his desk.
"Father," Nigel said, a little awkwardly, and uncertain how to begin.
He'd been a courteously indifferent member of the Church of England like most men of his class, profession and generation, but despite the religious revival that had swept the survivors in his homeland during the terrible years, he'd never become comfortable with men of faith.
Even my darling Juniper makes me a little uneasy at times. But they were here to sound the ruler of Mount Angel out, to evaluate him as well as to make an offer of joint action.
The abbot's eyes were blue like those of his guest, but paler. They had a net of fine lines by their corners, and suddenly he was convinced that the man had come late to a cleric's calling; those were marksman's eyes. Nigel judged him to be around forty, or perhaps a little older if the tonsure in his coal-black hair was part-natural. A strong, close-shaved jowl was turned blue by a dense beard of the same color.
"A pleasure to meet you, Sir Nigel. I hope your needs were seen to?"
"Very well indeed, Father," Nigel said. "In fact, better than at many a five-star hotel I've checked into after a hard trip-less fuss, less babble and more real comfort."
The abbot's square, pug-nosed face split in a chuckle. "Ah, Sir Nigel, there you hit upon one of the worst temptations of the monastic life."
"Temptations?" Nigel said, surprised and interested.
"To men of discernment, my son, a mild and disciplined asceticism is far more comfortable than a surfeit of luxuries, which are a mere vexation to the spirit," he said. "As a soldier, I expect you understand; a monastic order and a military unit have that in common."
Nigel's eyebrows rose. "I do indeed, Father Dmwoski. And you seem to have combined the two rather effectively here."
This time the smile was a little grim. "Needs must. The Rule of St. Benedict and of course ordinary duty both enjoin us to take extraordinary measures for our flock in times of trouble. We had this position-secure even before the walls-nearly two hundred strong young men at our seminary here, the good Sisters in town, everything was falling apart and what needed to be done to preserve something from the wreck was obvious, if terrible: And there are precedents-the Templars and Hospitalers, the orders that ruled Rhodes and Malta, the Teutonic Knights: "
"No criticism implied!" Nigel said, recognizing a defensive tone when he heard it, and a little surprised to hear it from a man who struck him on short acquaintance as stolidly self-sufficient.
But at least he isn't a burning-eyed fanatic for the Church Militant. I don't know what sort of commander he makes, but I think I like him as a man.
"Your pardon," the abbot said, with a self-deprecating gesture. "I'm afraid it's a slightly sensitive subject. I was a soldier myself, before I made my profession as a monk here. Not that long before the Change, as it happens."
Nigel gri
The abbot laughed wholeheartedly, yet with a rueful note below it. "Be careful, Sir Nigel, or I'll start suspecting you're the devil who can quote Scripture! Yet I became a monk and a priest to pray, and to seek God, to find forgiveness for my sins, and to serve His servants, not to wage war, and certainly not to exercise secular authority. Priests advising and criticizing politicians is one thing, priests becoming rulers themselves is altogether another. There may be a worse form of government than theocracy in the long run, but offhand I can't think of any. Even the greatest popes of the Middle Ages weren't up to governing laymen with any credit to themselves or the Church, and I most certainly am not."