Mortalis

bed-the battle line, it seemed-and roughly jostled through the crowd.

Francis breathed a profound sigh of relief, but he soon became aware that many of those around him weren't very happy with this outcome. Some cursed and shook their fists at him, though most did turn back, grumbling and shaking their heads.

In Francis' estimation, they had just avoided a complete slaughter. He sighed again and nodded to Merry, then turned to find a wrinkled old woman, her face as sharp as Yorkey cheese, glaring at him.

'Bah, but ain't ye spittin' pretty words,' she said. 'Is that why they sent ye out, Brother Francis o' St.-Mere- Abelle? To talk pretty and keep us walkin' dead folk in our place? '

Francis couldn't find the words to answer her.

'Bah, who's carin' about ye, anyway, Brother Francis the saint,' she said with sincere disgust. 'Ye're soon to catch the rosies, if ye ain't already, and soon to be put in the ground.'

Far from disputing her or yelling at her, Francis stood there and accepted the judgment and the looks of all those who had turned from St.-MereAbelle's fortified gate.

And he accepted, too, the old crone's prediction, for Francis honestly believed that the last one he had tried to cure had beaten him back, and more.

Francis was fairly convinced that the plague was growing within him.

'Perhaps our dear Brother Francis serves a purpose after all,' Fio Bouraiy said to Father Abbot Agronguerre, the pair watching the spectacle from the wall. 'For them, I mean,' Bou-raiy elaborated with slight snicker. 'A pity if they came against us.'

'You sound as if you would enjoy such a sight,' the Father Abbot observed. Fio Bou-raiy shuffled nervously, reminding himself that he and this Father Abbot he so desperately wanted to impress were not often of like mind. 'Not so,' he replied. 'And forgive me, Father Abbot. It is only that I feel so helpless in these circumstances. There are times when I wonder if God has deserted the world.'

'Indeed,' said an obviously unconvinced Agronguerre, raising an eyebrow. 'Take care, for you are spouting words akin to that of our dear misguided Brother De'Unnero.'

'I only mean-'

'I know what you mean, and what you meant,' Agronguerre interrupted.

A long and uncomfortable silence followed.

'How fare the brothers working on the herbal poultices and syrups that Brother Francis bade us to make? ' Agronguerre asked at length. 'The ones that came down from the Timberlands-from Jilseponie, we believe? '

'They had all the ingredients available,' Bou-raiy answered. 'I suspect that the compounding is nearly complete.'

'If it is not, then add brothers to the work,' the Father Abbot instructed, 'as many as it takes to get those concoctions out to the desperate people.'

'They will not cure, by Abbot Braumin's own words, relayed to us directly from St. Precious, and to him from the very source of the recipes: the woman Jilseponie, so he said.'

'But they will help,' Agronguerre tartly replied. 'And they will help to make the people understand that we are doing all that we can. Brother Francis stopped their charge this time. Next time, I fear, we will be forced to use more drastic measures, and that I do not desire.

'And your observation concerning Brother Francis was quite correct,' Agronguerre went on. 'He does play an important role-more so than you apparently recognize. Look upon him and be glad for him. His choice in this has been a blessing to the Abellican Church as much as to the peasants he so magnificently serves.'

'Surely you do not agree with him,' Master Bou-raiy snapped back without hesitation.

Father Abbot Agronguerre turned away from the man without answering, looking back over the desolate field and the wretched refugees, clearly torn by the sight.

'Father Abbot!'

'Fear not, for I am not intending to open St.-Mere-Abelle to the plague victims,' Agronguerre replied solemnly, 'nor have I any designs of walking out of our gates to join dear Francis on the field. But neither can I find fault with the man for his choices. No, I admire him, and fear that the only reason I am not out there beside him is because…' He paused and turned back to face Fio Bou-raiy squarely. 'Because I am afraid, brother. I am old and have not many years left and am not afraid of death. No, not that. But I am afraid of the rosy plague.'

Fio Bou-raiy thought to argue strongly against Francis, to label the man a fool and his course one of disaster for the Church if his example was held up in a positive light, but he wisely bit back the words. He held no fears that Abbot Agronguerre would prod others to follow Brother Francis, nor that the man would go out on the field himself; and though he didn't want Francis praised in any way for his foolish actions, he recognized that to be a small price to pay. For Brother Francis would be dead soon enough, Fio Bou-raiy believed, yet another example of the folly of trying to do battle with the rosy plague.

'It is pragmatism that keeps you here. Father Abbot,' he did say quietly. 'Is it? ' Agronguerre asked with a snort, and he turned and walked away. A frustrated Fio Bou-raiy turned back to face the field and leaned heavily on the wall. He spotted Francis then, again at work with his soul stone on some unfortunate victim. Bou-raiy shook his head in disgust, and he did not agree with Father Abbot Agronguerre at all on this point. No, he saw Francis as setting a bad example for the Church, reinforcing the belief of the ignorant peasants that the Church should be more active in this time of desperation.

Fio Bou-raiy slapped his hand against the thick stone wall. They would get the poultices and syrup out soon, but he almost hoped that it would not be soon enough, that the peasants would come at St.-Mere-Abelle wildly. No, he didn't really want to kill any of them, though he figured that to do so would actually prove a blessing to the poor, unfortunate wretches. But if it did happen, Fio Bou-raiy decided that his first shot, with lightning or with crossbow, would not be aimed at any ignorant peasant. No, he would target a certain troublemaking Abellican brother.

'Do it!' King Danube demanded, as harsh a command as he had ever given to Duke Kalas.

'You would jeopardize the goodwill toward the Throne for the sake of-' Kalas tried to argue.

'Do it, and now!' King Danube interrupted. There was no room in his tone for any debate. 'With all speed.'

Kalas glanced to the side, to Constance Pemblebury.

'With all speed and with all heart,' King Danube said.

Kalas saluted his King with a thump to his chest, a formal acceptance of command that did not often occur between the two friends, then turned sharply on his heel and stormed out of the room, his boots clacking loudly with every step.

King Danube looked over at Constance and sighed.

'It pains Duke Kalas gready to do anything of benefit to the Abellican Church,' she said, trying to calm him.

King Danube nodded and closed his eyes, remembering all too well the source of Kalas' pain and resentment, remembering Vivian, his queen. But then, before he could fall too deeply into the trance of long-ago memories, he blinked his eyes and shook his head resolutely. His duty as king now was clear to him: to protect St. Honce as strongly as he would protect Castle Ursal, and though the brothers within the abbey might be able to contain the peasant horde now threatening riot at their gates, it was incumbent upon the Crown to make a strong showing of support for the Church.

There was no room for argument, and no time for debate.

He and Constance sat quietly for a few minutes, each digesting the sudden but not unexpected turn of events.

And then came the cries of outrage, the explosion of the mob, and then a crackle of thunder.

'They are going against the abbey,' Constance observed.

And then they heard a different sort of thunder, the rumble of horses' pounding hooves, and the peasants' cries of anger soon shifted to wails of pain and terror.

The pair in the throne room understood well enough that the Allheart knights had charged out with their typical, brutal efficiency, understood that the threat to St. Honce had just come to an abrupt end.

King Danube glanced over at Constance and saw the pained, weary look upon her face. This was taking such a toll on all of them. The seclusion, the helplessness, the necessary and exhausting shows of strength.

'You should go and spend some time with Merwick and Torrence,' Danube offered.

'Duke Kalas will soon return, and his mood will be all the more foul,' Constance replied.