himself behind the abbot. De'Unnero had him locked and helpless, one arm up, painfully wrenched behind his back, with the former Bishop's left arm tight across his throat.
'You did not learn your lessons in the arts martial, my friend,' De'Unnero purred into Braumin's ear. Braumin could hear the feral, feline growl deep in the man's throat.
'Get out of my abbey and out of my city,' Braumin replied, having to gasp for breath with every word.
'How easy it would be for me to reclaim the abbey,' De'Unnero went on. 'Alas for poor Abbot Braumin, falling to his death down the stairs. Or out the window, perhaps. But thankfully, St. Precious is not in turmoil, for they've another abbot on hand. Pity about the accident.' As he ended, he tightened his hold and let go of Braumin's arm, bringing his other arm up beside Braumin's head.
The strength of the man appalled Braumin and made him acutely aware that De'Unnero could break his neck with a simple twist. Still, Braumin fought past the pain and the fear, held his determined course. 'Alas for Baron Rochefort Bildeborough,' he gasped, referring to the longtime, beloved Baron of Palmaris, a man the populace believed had been killed by a great wildcat, but who those within Braumin's circle believed had been murdered by none other than Marcalo De'Unnero.
De'Unnero growled at the reference. Braumin thought his life was at its end, but then the volatile former Bishop shoved Braumin away.
'You return subservient^' Braumin asked skeptically, rubbing his neck and echoing De'Unnero's initial statement.
'Subservient to the truth and the mission of our Church,' De'Unnero replied. 'But I see that my truth and your own are not in accord.'
'Get out of my abbey,' Braumin repeated.
'Have you that power, young Abbot Braumin? '
'I am not alone in my feelings toward you,' Braumin assured the man. 'You are not welcome here-in St. Precious or in Palmaris.'
'And will you enlist Duke Kalas into your cause against me? ' De'Unnero asked with a snort. 'Will you seek the support of a man open in his disdain for the Abellican Church? '
'If I must,' Braumin answered coolly. 'My brethren in St. Precious, the Duke's soldiers, the people of Palmaris-whatever aid I might find in ridding the city of you.'
'How charitable,' De'Unnero said, his voice dripping sarcasm.
'Charitable for the people of Palmaris, yes,' Braumin replied without hesitation. He looked Marcalo De'Unnero in the eye again and matched the man's intensity. 'Get out of St. Precious and out of Palmaris,' he stated flatly and evenly, speaking each word with heavy emphasis. 'You are not wanted here, and your presence will only weaken the position of St. Precious with the flock we tend.'
De'Unnero started to respond, but just spat upon the floor at Braumin's feet and wheeled out of the room.
Master Viscenti entered on the man's heels. 'Are you all right?' he asked, obviously flustered and frightened.
'As all right as one can be after arguing with Marcalo De'Unnero,' Braumin answered dryly.
Viscenti bobbed his head, his nervous tic jerking one shoulder forward repeatedly. 'I do not like that one at all,' he said. 'I had hoped that he had met his end out… out wherever he has been!'
'Brother Viscenti!' Braumin scolded, though the abbot had to admit to himself that he felt the same way. ' It is not our place to wish ill on a fellow brother of the Order.'
Viscenti looked at him incredulously, his expression almost horrified that Braumin would so name De'Unnero.
And Abbot Braumin understood the sentiment completely. But the truth was plain to him: De'Unnero had not been excommunicated, had not even been charged with any crime against the Crown or the Church. For whatever the rumors might say, the former Bishop owed no explanations and no apologies. How Braumin Herde wished he had some real evidence that De'Unnero had murdered the former Baron ofPalmaris!
But he did not, and though De'Unnero had no claim to a position of bishop-which had been formally revoked by King Danube himself-or of abbot-for that title had been taken from De'Unnero formally by Father Abbot Markwart-the man remained a master of the Abellican Order, with a high rank and a strong voice in all matters of the Church, including the College of Abbots that would convene in the fall.
Braumin winced as he considered that De'Unnero might even make a play for the position of father abbot, then winced even more when he realized that several other prominent masters of St.-Mere-Abelle would likely back that nomination.
It was not a pleasant thought.
Marcalo De'Unnero left St. Precious that very evening. Abbot Braumin found little relief in watching him go.
Silence. Dead silence, a stillness so profound that it spoke volumes to Master Francis as he sat at the end of the long, narrow table in the audience chamber used by the father abbots of St.-Mere-Abelle. He had met with Master Fio Bou-raiy soon after his arrival in the abbey and had previewed for the man all that he would tell at the meeting-his entire tale, honestly spoken, except, at the bidding of Bou-raiy, his fears concerning the plague. That news had to be relayed more cautiously and to an even more select group, Bou-raiy had convinced Francis-or at least, had secured Francis' agreement.
Francis had told the rest of his tale in full to the five masters in attendance: the dominant Bou-raiy, the most powerful man remaining at St. Mere-Abelle; Machuso, who handled all the laymen working in the abbey; young Glendenhook, capable and ambitious, a recent appointee to the rank of master and only in his late thirties; and the two oldest, yet still least prominent among the group, Baldmir and Timminey, men who reminded Francis somewhat of Je'howith of St. Honce, only less forceful and conniving. It occurred to Francis that neither of the pair would even have been appointed to their present rank had not circumstances-the loss of all four of the brothers who had gone to Pimaninicuit, of Siherton by Avelyn's hands, ofJojonah at Markwart's hands, and the untimely deaths of several other older masters over the last couple of years-left them as the only candidates. Both had served as immaculates for more than thirty years, after all, with no prominent reasons to suggest any cause for elevation. At this time, St.-Mere-Abelle was not strong in high-ranking monks.
And at this time, Francis feared, that lack of leadership might prove devastating to the Church.
'Then you agree with the reports we have previously heard that Father Abbot Markwart's fall, though tragic, was for the ultimate betterment of the Church?' asked Master Bou-raiy, a man in his mid-forties with short and neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, a perfectly clean-shaven face, and a general appearance and demeanor of competence and sternness. What added to the latter attribute was the fact that the man's left sleeve was tied off at the shoulder, for he had lost his arm in an accident working the stonecutting. No one who knew Fio Bou-raiy would consider him crippled in any way, though.
'Father Abbot Markwart lost sight of much in his last days,' Francis replied. 'He told me as much with his last breath.'
'And what of Francis, then?' Bou-raiy said, narrowing his eyes. 'If Markwart strayed, then what of Francis, who followed him to Palmaris to do his every bidding? '
'Master Francis was-is but a young man,' Master Machuso put in. 'You ask much of a young brother to refuse the commands of the Father Abbot.'
'Young, yet old enough to accept an appointment as master, as abbot, as bishop,' Bou-raiy was quick to reply.
Francis studied him carefully, recognizing that Bou-raiy hadn't been pleased that Markwart had overlooked him when choosing Francis to serve as his second.
'And now we have an even younger man holding title as our principal in the important city of Palmaris,' scoffed Glendenhook.
'It was a difficult time,' Francis said quietly. 'I followed my Father Abbot, and perhaps erred on more than one occasion.'
'As have we all,' Master Machuso replied.
'And I have since relinquished those titles Father Abbot Markwart bestowed upon me,' Francis stated.
'Except that of master,' Glendenhook interjected; and it seemed to Francis as if the young and fiery master was serving as Bou-raiy's mouthpiece. With his barrel chest and curly blond hair and beard, and a snarling attitude,
