Francis' unyielding sarcasm. 'Any little rings about your body, Master Francis?'
'None,' Francis answered defiantly. 'But if the plague does find me, then I know it to be God's will.'
'A fool's consequence, more likely,' Bou-raiy interrupted.
Francis paused, then nodded, conceding the point. 'I have saved one already,' he replied. 'My life for the reward of another's life.'
'The life of an Abellican master for the life of a lowly peasant,' Bou-raiy retorted, obviously unimpressed.
'Perhaps I will save even more,' Francis went on, and he held up the soul stone.
'You are ahead of the odds already,' Bou-raiy replied. 'One in twenty, brother, and one in seven will poison you.'
'I have treated scores,' Francis stated.
'And saved only one? '
'Too many are far too advanced in the plague when they arrive,' Francis tried to explain, though he wondered why he even bothered trying to reach this stubborn brother.
'And what of Brother Gellis?' Master Bou-raiy asked, motioning in the direction where the newest addition to the plague camp had gone. 'First signs. Can Francis the hero save him?'
Francis shrugged calmly.
'And what of the other three monks who have left St.-Mere-Abelle?' Bou-raiy asked slyly, for he knew well enough their fate.
Francis had no answer. Indeed, three other plague-afflicted brothers had come out of the barricaded abbey, and all three had died within two weeks. Francis had tried to save them, had worked with them, joining their spirits within the magic of the hematite, but to no avail.
'It would seem that you have survived longer than the old poems predict,' Master Bou-raiy conceded, 'but also have you failed to heal as many as the old poems predict. Perhaps you are not going at this task with all your heart, brother.'
Francis just glared at him.
'Father Abbot Agronguerre would allow you to return to us,' Bou-raiy then said, taking Francis by complete surprise. 'Of course, you would have to spend a week within the gatehouse, secluded, and that even after several brothers had probed your spirit with soul stones. But if you remain plague free, then you will be back in the fold, brother, back to your position of master, and none will judge your indiscretions.'
Now Francis stared at the man incredulously, wondering why Bou-raiy would even relay such an invitation. Surely Bou-raiy would be happier if Francis dropped dead of the plague there and then!
But when he thought more carefully about it all, Francis understood the master's seeming enthusiasm about his possible return, and suspected that Bou-raiy might even have suggested the invitation to Father Abbot Agronguerre. Because if Francis gave up his mission and walked back into St.-Mere-Abelle, he would be bolstering the Church canon concerning the plague, would be admitting that this enemy was far beyond the power of the monks and their gemstones even to be faced.
Hadn't the former Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart used those same tactics against his enemies? Against Jojonah and his followers? Hadn't Markwart, in fact, offered that same sweet honey-forgiveness, even redemption, back in the Abellican fold-to hold Francis to his side after Francis had inadvertently killed Grady Chilichunk on the road from Palmaris?
'Do you see that woman? ' Francis asked, pointing across the field to a woman walking with a limp and a stooped back and carrying two pails for water. 'Her name is Merry Cowsenfed,' Francis explained. 'She came from Falidean town, far to the south, by way of St. Gwendolyn. She, too, is scarred with the rings of the rosy plague, but Abbess Delenia went to her and healed her.'
'And Abbess Delenia is now dead,' Bou-raiy reminded him. 'And St. Gwendolyn is a mere shell, being run by but a handful of minor sisters.'
'But they tried,' Francis explained emphatically. 'And because Abbess Delenia had the heart to try, Merry Cowsenfed is alive. Now, you will argue that her life is not worth that of a single Abellican, let alone an abbess, but look at her! Watch her every move! The woman, this peasant that you would so easily disclaim and allow to die, is beatified by her every action. A hundred years hence, there may well be a new saint, Saint Merry, who would have died unnoticed had not Abbess Delenia tried. You cannot place value upon people because of their temporary station in life, brother. That is your error, the arrogance that allows you to justify your decision to hide behind thick stone walls.'
Master Fio Bou-raiy stared long and hard at Merry Cowsenfed as she made her slow, deliberate way across the field. Then he turned back to Francis; and for a moment, just a split second, Francis thought that he had gotten through to the stubborn man. But then Bou-raiy snorted and waved his hand, and whirled about, his flower-sewn robes flying wide.
Francis just put his head down and walked back out to his people. As he had promised, he went to the newest addition to the plague camp, the exiled young Brother Gellis, that very night, and together, they fiercely battled the rosy plague within the monk.
For only the second time in the few months Francis had been outside, he believed that he was making strong progress against the disease, but then, one morning, Gellis awoke with a scream, his body racked by fever.
He died that same afternoon.
Francis walked with the bearers as they carried his emaciated body to the pyre for burning. He noted that his fellow monks were watching that procession from St.-Mere-Abelle's wall, prominent among them Fio Bou-raiy, with his flowered robe and his grim expression.
He and Francis locked stares from across the distance for just a moment, but it was not a harmonious joining of mind and spirit.
Chapter 32
It felt so good to have the wind on her face again-not the limited breeze that whistled through Castle Ursal's windows, but the wide and strong wind, blowing across the fields, bending trees and grass, carrying the scents of the summertime flowers.
Constance Pemblebury urged her horse on even faster, a full gallop, despite the cries of protest from Danube and Kalas behind her. She needed this moment, this brief, too-brief escape from the grim realities of the rosy plague. King Danube had arranged it, had cleared a wide path to the gardens, lining them with vigilant Allheart knights so that he and his two friends could at last enjoy a morning outside the castle, out of sight and sound of any of the miserable plague victims. Danube had hoped that Merwick and Torrence would accompany them as well-he had even rigged a seat to put behind Constance's saddle for Torrencebut Constance, though more than ready to take this chance for herself, would in no way allow her children out of the relative safety of the castle.
Constance felt her hair waving out behind her, felt as if she had escaped the very bonds of Corona itself. But then she had to slow, for she was approaching the far end of the rectangular garden, Allheart knights were warning her back, and Danube and Kalas were calling out to her.
She brought her horse to a trot and heard the approach of the two horses behind her. It was easy enough for her to turn in her sidesaddle and glance back at the King and Duke, and she did so with a wistful and mischievous smile. 'Why haven't we done this a thousand times?' she asked.
Before either of the two men could answer, though, there came a tumult from the other direction, from the near end of the garden; and all three looked to see a mob of peasants bursting through the Allheart ranks, crying out for their king.
'Ye must save us!' It started as a plea.
'Where's our God? Why's he not hearing ye, me King? ' Then the voices rolled in together, as if the whole mob had taken on a single heart and voice. From begging to questioning to, at last, and predictably, anger.
'Ye've abandoned us! Ye're lettin' us rot!'
The Allheart knights rushed around on their horses, trying to stem the tide; and under normal circumstances,
