Manner of Devotion

"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Author's Note: Here we are as promised. My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments. Man, this is gonna strain my poor beta.

The Monkey contest over at my personal forums is down to the finals! Check it out by following the link on my homepage here to my homepage there and then click on "forums."

Chapter 12 - Grégoire's Cousins

"My G-d it's hot," Brian said, readjusting his gasa hat as they stood outside the closed gates of the abbey. "And I just came from the Orient."

"You were on the ocean. It was different," Nadezhda said. She was wearing a summer kimono at least, instead of her heavy wool Austrian dress. "Have you ever been inside a monastery?"

"Not an active one, no. There's not many left in the Latin world." He looked up. The gates were at least four stories high. The entrance was actually a small door carved in one of them. "This building must be hundreds of years old and still used for the same purpose." He glanced at the heavy doorknob again. "Do they keep all their guests waiting?"

"Maybe when they show up armed. And with a woman, no less."

"A good, Christian woman."

"If you don't answer to Rome you might as well be a heathen, and worship trees and statues, like Mugen."

"Mugen worships himself."

"Even better," he added, "Your Highness."

Still nothing. The doorkeeper was taking his time. "Maybe we should have offered to give up our weapons."

"You can do that, but I am about to bring my wife into a castle of men who probably haven't laid eyes on a woman in decades. I'll be keeping my swords, thank you." He heard a creaking sound on the other side. "Speak of the devils."

"Hush." He smiled for the man who opened the door, and the older man who stepped out. "I am Brian Maddox and this is Her Highness, Princess Nadezhda Maddox," he said in his best Spanish.

"Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti of the Benedictines," said the man, bowing to them. It was not very hard, because he had a bit of a hunch from age. "I am the abbot here. I understand you are to see one of my monks."

"Yes. A Brother Grégoire."

"Yes." He switched to French. "Is this better, Monsieur?"

"Yes, thank you."

"How are you related to Brother Grégoire?"

"To be brief," Brian said, "My sister-in-law is the sister of his brother-in-law. So, we are distant cousins, but Her Highness and I were the ones most willing to travel."

"Have you come ... for a particular reason?"

Brian's smile disappeared. "Should we have?" The abbot was obviously in distress. The doorkeeper was keeping an eye on him as if he were to collapse at any moment. Brian glanced at his wife in silent understanding. "We wish to see Brother Grégoire," he repeated.

"We normally do not permit arms or women within the abbey walls, but ..." he trailed off, as if his own spirit was failing him. "But I see you are tired and thirsty. Please, come in."

They ducked under the door, taking down their wide hats and entering the abbey courtyard. The place smelled of age – of old stones and ancient prayers. There were monks milling about, finding a reason in their curiosity at these strangely-dressed visitors.

"If you would, please," the abbot said, "your weapons. This is sacred ground."

"I was given these blades not to relinquish them so easily," Brian said. "Surely, this is an abbey. I will have no cause to use them."

"I beg of you, please."

Brian turned to Nadezhda and said in Romanian, "What do you think?"

"Don't be a braggart. Give him your katana at least."

"Excuse me," the abbot said in Romanian, to their surprise. "Please. Many people would feel more comfortable if you at least gave up the larger ones, and you will certainly not be attacked."

"You speak my tongue?" Nadezhda said.

He bowed. "I was raised speaking Italian, Latin, and Spanish. It took only a brief summer in Budapest to learn some scope of it. But that was years ago."

Brian pulled the longer blade out of his sash and handed it over to the doorkeeper with both hands on the blade. "I will have cause to be angry, then?"

"It is good you are here," the abbot whispered. "Please wait until you have the entire story to pass judgment."

Nadezhda also handed over her wakizashi. "Show us to our cousin, Father."

The abbot nodded and led the way. Brian kept a hand on his tanto as they walked down the colonnade, past monks scurrying about and baskets of food lined up against the wall like offerings.

"Father."

The abbot bowed to the man with the jeweled ring and church clothing, obviously a bishop of some kind. "Your Excellency," he said in French. "These are the relatives of Brother Grégoire."

'His Excellency' was about to say something, but he could not meet Brian's cold stare, and moved out of the way without a word. The abbot turned at last to a small wooden door, where monks were sitting outside whispering prayers, and unlocked it.

"Father," said a monk in Spanish, rising from his position next to the bedside, wet towel still in hand.

"Leave us," the abbot said, and the monk slipped passed them, allowing them entrance to the cell with only a tiny window in the corner allowing light in. The abbot immediately knelt beside the bed, crossed himself, and took up the towel, dipping it in cold water and putting it on the head of what was recognizably Grégoire.

Brother Grégoire was turned on his side, his eyes closed, his breath heavy and his face covered in sweat despite the light coverings.

Brian moved over the abbot and touched Grégoire's forehead. "How long has he had this fever?"

"Two days now."

"What is he sick with?"

"He has wounds – they are infected."

"Show them to me."

With trembling arms the abbot removed the covering to reveal a torn mess of flesh that had once been the skin of his back, sewn every which way. Much of the flesh was green or a sickly yellow, or covered with dried blood. Nadezhda covered herself with her veil and even Brian had to look away, turning instantly to take his wife's arm in reassurance.

When he could think straight again, he asked, "Did he do this to himself, or did you do it to him?"

"Both, Monsieur."

He could see why the abbot was so insistent on him being disarmed. He had no hesitation in grabbing the old man and picking him up by his cowl. "You would do this to a wounded man? What could he possibly have done?"

"Please – we did not know – we were in error!"

Brian looked to his wife, but she only shrugged. "I am not stopping you, husband."

He allowed himself a mean grin as he continued to throttle the abbot, "You are lucky his brother did not come. You know that? He would strike you so hard you would break without a second thought. Grégoire's wounds are obviously infected. Will he live?"

"With G-d's help, Monsieur, and yours. Please, let me explain."

Brian figured he would have to do it eventually, so he let the abbot down. The old man did not retreat. He held his ground, bowing to him again. "I will tell you everything, from the beginning, if you promise to take him away from here. Please, you will understand."

"Of course we will take him! Grégoire Darcy will not die in some filthy hovel of a cell for any reason, and I have a feeling the infraction was only minor by any standards but your own. Now sit down, Father, and begin this explanation."

They prodded Grégoire, but he was not near consciousness, and if he woke, he would probably be in great pain. He needed better medical attention; that much was clear. If he could not survive the journey to England, they would have to take him to a major city and find a good surgeon. Nadezhda took up the duties of trying to cool him down with water on his brow and arms as Brian paced angrily.

"Are you all right, Father?" called a monk through the door.

"Yes, yes," he said. "We are not to be interrupted. Even for the Archbishop, understand?"

"Yes, Father."

The old man sighed the sort of sigh where the years seemed to weigh down on him, pushing the air out of his lungs as he fiddled with his rosary. "Sadly, it all began with an act of charity. How odd, now that I think of it..."

The tale he told was incredible in its intricacies. It was obvious he was not holding back anything, even private conversations. He was terrified of them both, but also of himself, and his own actions – he said as much. "I would pray I am not damned, but I will settle with the Holy Spirit when Grégoire is safe or safely from this world, whichever it shall be." He crossed himself again. "Forgive me, Your Highness, for I have sinned." He had no good words for himself, or the bishop, or the Archbishop, explaining how they first sought Grégoire's money while the abbot remained more concerned with Grégoire's adherence to the Rule (which, in all fairness, had been violated). The discovery of the hairshirt changed everything – after all, it was the very thing found on the English saint, Thomas Becket, after his murder by the knights of King Henry. Now they were after him, this little shining example of piety, to be paraded around in some horrible political arena beyond his understanding.

"If we just take him," Brian said, "will they pursue? Our ship is not very far, but we may have to stop in France if Grégoire is too ill to continue."

"They might. Or they may seek claim on his body, if he should die – which is a very real possibility. And they may get it, if they reach him before you reach English soil, or they could sue with the Anglican Church. If he dies now, surely, they will go for beatification within the next few decades, and they will want his remains for that. An English Catholic saint – it would be a triumph for Rome. You must understand, I was a bishop there – I know how they think." He paused. "There is one way I can make sure they cannot pursue, but it is terrible."

Brian had no hesitation. "What do you want done?"

"No, nothing you can do. Brother Grégoire's soul is my charge upon his entrance to this order. I have the power to excommunicate him. The bishops will not touch him then."

"Excommunicate? Doesn't that involve a Papal bull? And damning his soul to eternal hellfire and all that?"

"No, this is excommunication from his order. He is removed from the order of Saint Benedict, and all other monastic orders, and the priesthood. He can seek reentrance at a later date, but only with my permission. His soul is not imperiled – he is not damned. I am casting him out to save his life."

Brian did not know what to think. It was Nadezhda who spoke up. "It will break his heart. He loves the church."

"The church does not love him back," the abbot said. "If he stays, it will kill him – body or soul, I know not which. Yes, it will be hard on him. For a while, it will be impossible for him to understand. He may join the Anglican Church if he wishes, but I doubt he will. He may attend Mass and he may have his confession heard. He can have a life – and more importantly, he can live." He was near the point of tears. "I will write a letter to him – apologizing and explaining all of this. I hope it will be some small consolation."

Brian sighed. It seemed the only way; Grégoire's life or his spirit? It would be broken by this. "What about you?"

"I will face my demons on my own. I made a vow to protect Grégoire from everyone, and I will endure whatever I must to do so. At most, they will remove me from my position, but they cannot excommunicate me. Not with my brother on the throne of St. Peter." He was not surprised by their looks. "Yes, my brother is Pope. But he is not the only person in Rome, and I have not contacted him about this. This is my doing and I will attempt to mend it best I can. And maybe someday, even if G-d will not forgive me, Grégoire will."

"I would say, maybe we should wait for Grégoire to agree to it," Brian said, "but I do not believe we have that time, do we?"

The abbot shook his head.

"Write the bill, and the letter, but don't sign until we're ready to leave. If Grégoire wakes in that time, we will tell him."

The abbot nodded.

"Hang on, Grégoire," Brian said, taking his hand. "Your brother will kill me if you don't."

As the light receded from the Spanish coast, Abbot Francesco was so consumed in his writing that he at first did not hear the knock on his door. "Come."

Not unexpectedly, it was the Archbishop and the bishop flanking him. "There are rumors, Father."

"There are always rumors," he said calmly, looking at them over his spectacles. "This is a monastery. We have little else to do."

"Brother Grégoire's relatives intend to take him with them. Did you explain they cannot do that without your permission?"

"I imagine they could do that without anyone's permission – physically, at least. And since they do not answer to me or Rome, they will do as they please." He added, "If and when they go, they will have my permission." He held up the finished parchment. "All it needs is my signature."

The Archbishop read it quickly. "You cannot be serious. You would condemn him for what?"

"It does not matter. I am abbot and it is in my judgment that one of the monks here is not suitable to the monastery. I must let him go, lest one wolf consume the sheep. I am not required to state my reasons, though you are welcome to speculate as to what they are."

"If you do this," the Archbishop said, "we will challenge it."

"And be involved in a long and fruitless political battle with an old monk. Who knows? In the end, you may succeed in having me removed from my post and reduced to the status of a humble brother. And by then, Grégoire will be long gone, to a country where his money and his family can protect him. So you may try. I give you permission, my son. Or you could let this end gracefully." He did not waver. "Now, if you do not mind, I am quite busy with an important missive and would like privacy."

Neither of them dared to challenge that. Instead they turned and left him in peace.

Brian's watch continued through the night. Through the door they could hear the monks singing Compline, the final service of the night. He paced anxiously. "How is he?"

"The same."

"Do you think he would survive the trip to England?"

"Do we have any other choice? If we stopped in France, how long would it take us to find a decent surgeon?"

He smiled. "Logical as always." He turned at the knock on the door, one hand on his small blade. "Come."

It was a young monk. He did not know any of their names. "Sir, we understand you are leaving soon and taking Brother Grégoire."

"It depends on his health."

"If it is possible, we would like to say good-bye to him."

"He's not conscious. You understand that?"

The monk nodded. "Please, sir."

Thus began the procession, nearly silent, as each monk came in, young and old, to kneel before Grégoire's bed and kiss his hand and whisper in his ear. Brian and Nadezhda watched from the other corner in amazement. Some of the monks were crying, but it was all done in a very dignified and orderly fashion. Grégoire had brief moments of consciousness but not coherency, mumbling nonsense, and they listened to every word. For the last few of them, his eyes seemed to be half-opened, and when the abbot entered, they opened entirely.

The abbot turned first to Brian and handed him a sealed envelope. "Will you give this to him when he is returning to health? It may bring him comfort."

"Of course."

The abbot nodded sadly, and turned to Grégoire, sitting on the stool beside him and holding forth the parchment in Latin. "Brother Grégoire, can you hear me?"

To all of their surprise, he nodded ever so slightly.

"You will not understand this," the abbot said. "You have been so good to the church, but the church has been no good to you. When I sign this document, you will no longer be part of it."

Grégoire had no response. It was doubtful that he understood.

"My son," the abbot said, "remember you serve G-d, not the church, and you can do so in any fashion by leading a pious life. I have no doubt you will do so. You are not damned. I absolve you from all of your sins, real and perceived. Someday, you may see fit to forgive me for mine." He kissed his hand in reverence and stood, setting the parchment down on the stool, and setting up his ink and quill pen. "God forgive me; I know not what I do." He crossed himself and signed. The abbot turned to Brian and Nadezhda. It seemed as though he had aged years in those few moments. "There is a stretcher waiting. My monks will assist you. Please, take him."

"He will forgive you," Nadezhda said. "He is not capable of anything less."

"I hope so." He crossed them. "Go with G-d."

...Next Chapter – Broken Floor, Broken Man