Chapter 31
Abbot Braumin's eyes widened when his door swung open and Timian Tetrafel, Duke of the Wilderlands, Baron of Palmaris, stormed in, a very agitated Brother Talumus right on his heels.
'I tried to keep him out,' Talumus started to explain.
'Keep me out indeed!' Tetrafel boomed. 'I will raze your walls if ever I find the doors closed to me again.'
'The abbey is closed,' Abbot Braumin said, working hard to make his tone calm, to show complete control here.
'And the streets are full of dying people!' Tetrafel yelled at him.
'That is why the abbey is closed,' Braumin replied, 'as should be Chasewind Manor-none to enter and none to leave.'
'I am watching my city die about me,' Tetrafel fumed, 'and I have had to expel several servants and soldiers from my own house these last three weeks! It will catch us in our holes, I say!'
'A situation more likely if we come out of those holes,' said Abbot Braumin, 'or allow others in.'
'Are you not hearing me? ' the Duke cried. 'The rosy plague has entered my house.'
Abbot Braumin stared long and hard at the man, trying to be sympathetic but also holding fast to his pragmatism. 'You should not have come here,' he said. 'And you, Brother Talumus, should not have let him in.'
'He had an army with him,' Talumus protested. 'They said that-'
'That we would tear down your doors,' Tetrafel finished for him. 'And so we would have done just that. Thrown St. Precious open wide for the masses to come in.' He walked over to the room's one window and tore the curtain aside. 'Can you not see them down there, Abbot Braumin?' he asked. 'Can you not hear their misery? '
'Every groan,' replied Braumin, in all seriousness and with not a hint of sarcasm in his words.
'They are afraid,' said Tetrafel, calming a bit. 'Those who are not afflicted fear that they soon will be, and those who are… they have nothing to lose.'
Braumin nodded.
'There are fights all around the city,' the Duke went on. 'Those few ships that do come in cannot find anyone to help unload their cargoes. The farmers who come in with crops find themselves assaulted almost as soon as they pass through the city gates, the mobs of miserable, helpless victims fighting for food they can no longer afford to buy.'
Abbot Braumin listened carefully, understanding then the fears that had brought Tetrafel so forcefully, and so unexpectedly, to St. Precious. The plague continued to intensify in Palmaris, ravaging the city; and Tetrafel was afraid, and rightly so, that the city could explode into rioting and mayhem. Braumin had heard rumors that the city guardsmen were not overfond of their new ruler, and no doubt Tetrafel was having trouble controlling them. Thus Duke Tetrafel, coming into St. Precious with such fire and self-righteousness, was in fact guided by simple desperation. The city had to be put in line or suffer even worse, and Tetrafel was afraid that he could not rely on the soldiers to carry out his orders.
'All that you say is already known to me,' Braumin said, after Tetrafel finished his long rant.
'Well, what then do you intend to do about it?' the Duke asked.
Braumin put on a puzzled expression. 'I?' he asked.
'Are you not the abbot of St. Precious? '
'Indeed, and as such, I am not the magistrate in control of Palmaris' streets,' Braumin replied. 'That is your jurisdiction, Duke Tetrafel, and so I suggest that you put your soldiers to work quickly. As for me and my brethren, we will continue our course, offering masses from the walls.'
'And hiding behind the walls,' Tetrafel muttered sarcastically.
Braumin let the remark pass. 'We are the guardians of the spirit, not of the body,' the abbot went on. 'We have no power over the rosy plague; and the best that we can do is lend comfort-from a safe distance, yes-to those afflicted. To ease their passage from this life.'
Tetrafel stuttered over several intended replies, and wound up throwing his hands up in disgust. 'The healers of the world!' he cried, storming out of the room.
Abbot Braumin motioned for Talumus to close the door behind the departing Duke. 'I am sorry, abbot,' Talumus explained. 'I would not have allowed him admittance, but I feared that his soldiers would take down the gates.'
Braumin was nodding and patting the air comfortingly. 'Find Viscenti and Castinagis,' he instructed. 'Work with them to triple the watches at the front gates. If Duke Tetrafel returns, deny him admittance.'
'And his soldiers? '
'Keep them out,' Abbot Braumin said grimly, 'by whatever means necessary. By lightning stroke and fireball, by crossbow quarrel and hot oil. Keep them out. St. Precious is not to be violated again, at any cost.'
Talumus stood as if struck for a long while, staring wide-eyed at Brauminand Braumin knew that it was as much his tone as his words that had so caught the young man off guard. But this was not the time for squeamishness, Braumin knew, not the time for weakening convictions. Their duty in a time of the rosy plague was simply to survive, to hold the secrets and teaching of their faith secure for the world when the darkness at last lifted.
Still, he saw them now, with the curtain torn away from his window: the miserable wretches huddled and shivering, though the day was warm.
For kindhearted Abbot Braumin Herde, the sight nearly broke him.
The young monk came out of St.-Mere-Abelle solemnly, the walk of the dead. He carried a large pack, stuffed with food and other supplies, but the parting gift of the Abellican brothers to this poor, frightened, plagueinfested young man hardly seemed to suffice.
As he had been ordered, he crossed the tussie-mussie bed; and as soon as he did, the other plague victims knew that he, too, had become one of them. They came to him and crowded about, as much to see what he had in his pack as to offer their sympathy.
That craven desperation only made the poor young monk even more upset, and he pushed people away and cried out.
And then one peasant woman with half her face torn away approached him, and her smile was too genuine and too comforting for the monk to mistrust her. She took his hand in her own, patted it and kissed it gently, then led him through the gathering.
He saw a fellow brother then, though he hardly recognized Master Francis, with his beard and long, dirty hair. Francis recognized him, however, and he patted the young brother on the shoulder. 'I will come to you this very night,' he promised, and he showed the young brother a soul stone. 'Perhaps together we can banish the plague from your body.'
Glad that his frightened brother was calmed somewhat by the pledge, Francis patted him again on the shoulder and nodded to Merry Cowsenfed, who led the monk away.
Francis had other matters to attend at that time, but when he glanced back toward the abbey, he saw a vision he could not resist, a one-armed monk dressed in a robe of flowers, standing just inside the alcove before St.-Mere-Abelle's great gates, on the safe side of the tussie-mussie bed.
'Begone, beggar,' Fio Bou-raiy said when Francis came over to face him across the flower bed.
'How far the mighty have fallen, then,' Francis replied, and a flicker of recognition crossed Master Bou-raiy's face at the sound of that familiar voice. Bou-raiy moved closer to the tussie-mussie bed and peered intently at the hunched figure across the way, wearing still the robes of an Abellican monk, though they, too, like Francis, had weathered the winter and spring badly.
'Still alive? ' Bou-raiy asked with a snicker.
'That, or I am the specter of death come to warn you of the consequences of your cowardice,' Francis replied sarcastically.
'I would have thought that the plague had taken you by now,' Bou-raiy went on, seemingly unperturbed by
