The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)
Four young men stood beside her: the handsome blond and the redhead whom Alain had seen at services, as well as a stout fellow who resembled Hathumod and a slight young man no larger than Iso though apparently sound in all his limbs. The two Lions, Dedi and Gerulf, stood behind them, arms crossed as they surveyed the crowd with practiced vigilance. As Dedi glanced his way, Alain ducked down behind the shoulder of one of his fellow laborers, and when he glanced up, the slight young man had climbed up on a bench to address the crowd. He was dressed in a tattered monk’s robe, but despite his disreputable appearance, he responded in a voice both rich and sweet.
“Truly, Brother, I dare not set myself higher than the Holy Mothers out of whose words flowered our most sovereign and holy church. Yet you and I both know how few of their writings have come down to us, and how many have been lost. What might the ancient mothers say to us now, were they here and able to speak freely? What fragments have we been left to read, despite the best efforts of our brethren, brothers and sisters who copied and recopied the most holy texts? Has it always been the most holy who have worked in the scriptoria? In whose interest has it been to conceal this truth?”
“That’s so! That’s so!” one monk muttered, maybe reflecting on old grievances.
Another said, loudly, “In whose interest is it to spread this heresy?”
The laborers merely stared, mouths agape. Several fingered the wooden Circles hanging at their chests.
“Heretics are burned,” said Sigfrid. “They gain no benefit from preaching the truth. When the split with the Arethousan patriarch came in the year 407, over the doctrine of separation, those in power in the holy Church may have feared losing the staff by which they ruled. They may have wished to crush for all time any discussion of the divine nature of the blessed Daisan.”
“The blessed Daisan does not partake of God’s divine nature!” cried one of the novices, a hound belling at a scent.
“The blessed Daisan is just like us!”
“Can it be that the blessed Daisan partakes nothing of God’s substance?” demanded Sigfrid. “Can the Son be unlike the Mother? Are they not of the same nature? Would God reveal Her Holy Word to one who was stained by darkness, as are all of us who live in the world? Nay, friend, Son and Mother are of like substance, and the Son comes directly out of the Mother’s essence—”
Brother Lallo’s roar came out of the twilight like that of a chained lion prodded and poked until it lashes out. “What manner of heretical babble is this? These poor foolish men are my charges. Who are you to corrupt them?”
He lumbered up onto the porch, striking to each side with his staff. The laborers scattered before him. His gaze lit on poor Iso, and he grabbed the lad and shook him until the boy’s teeth slammed together. Iso began to cry. “Must we throw you out for disobedience?”
The other laborers scattered into the night. The poor novices fell all over themselves trying not to be seen, but their master came running in Brother Lallo’s wake, his face flushed with anger. Other torches bobbed, a flood tide of monks rushing to investigate the commotion. The abbot and several of his officials hurried up the steps onto the porch.
“You have abused my hospitality by preaching to these poor half-wits!” cried Father Ortulfus as he glared at Hathumod and her companions. “Are you oath breakers as well as heretics, that you take our bread and then throw it in our faces by breaking the rules by which we govern this monastery?” Son of a noble house, he had aristocratic bearing and elegant fury to spare, and his disdain was a well-honed weapon.
The frail Sigfrid did not back down. His friends moved forward around the bench, Lions forming a shield wall to meet an implacable enemy. “God enjoins us to speak the truth, Father. It would be a sin for us to remain silent. I do not fear your anger, because I know that God holds us in Her hands.”
“So be it.” Father Ortulfus beckoned to his burly prior.
“Prior Ratbold will escort you to Autun, where Biscop Constance can deal with you. The punishment for heresy is death.”
The red-haired one stepped forward with the calm of a man who has faced battle and not faltered. “We won’t go to Autun. We’ll leave here peacefully, but we won’t be made prisoners.”
“Leave to spread your wicked lies throughout the countryside?” Father Ortulfus shook his head. “I cannot allow it.” Behind him, Prior Ratbold signaled to certain brawny monks half hidden in the shadows. Iso trembled like a captured fawn in Lallo’s grasp as the abbot went on. “You will be taken to Autun and placed under the biscop’s authority—”
“I won’t go to Autun!” cried the handsome one petulantly. All at once, Alain remembered him: the pretty young trophy husband taken by Margrave Judith and paraded through the king’s progress in the same fashion she would have displayed a young stallion offered for stud. “We won’t go, and you can’t make us!”
The mood shifted as violently as wind turns and gusts in a storm. The novices were dragged away bodily by the master and his helpers. Ratbold’s assistants raised staffs, ready to charge. Dedi picked up the bench, bracing himself, and his uncle drew his eating knife while the young nobleman fell back behind their redheaded leader.
Alain could not bear to see any more. He stepped into the breach between the two groups. “I pray you, do not desecrate this ground with fighting.” Words came unbidden as he turned to face Father Ortulfus. “These men rode with Prince Ekkehard. This woman serves God with devotion and a pure heart. These Lions are loyal soldiers of the king. They fought a battle in the east, in the army of Princess Sapientia and Prince Bayan, and deserve more of a hearing than this!”
o;That’s so! That’s so!” one monk muttered, maybe reflecting on old grievances.
Another said, loudly, “In whose interest is it to spread this heresy?”
The laborers merely stared, mouths agape. Several fingered the wooden Circles hanging at their chests.
“Heretics are burned,” said Sigfrid. “They gain no benefit from preaching the truth. When the split with the Arethousan patriarch came in the year 407, over the doctrine of separation, those in power in the holy Church may have feared losing the staff by which they ruled. They may have wished to crush for all time any discussion of the divine nature of the blessed Daisan.”
“The blessed Daisan does not partake of God’s divine nature!” cried one of the novices, a hound belling at a scent.
“The blessed Daisan is just like us!”
“Can it be that the blessed Daisan partakes nothing of God’s substance?” demanded Sigfrid. “Can the Son be unlike the Mother? Are they not of the same nature? Would God reveal Her Holy Word to one who was stained by darkness, as are all of us who live in the world? Nay, friend, Son and Mother are of like substance, and the Son comes directly out of the Mother’s essence—”
Brother Lallo’s roar came out of the twilight like that of a chained lion prodded and poked until it lashes out. “What manner of heretical babble is this? These poor foolish men are my charges. Who are you to corrupt them?”
He lumbered up onto the porch, striking to each side with his staff. The laborers scattered before him. His gaze lit on poor Iso, and he grabbed the lad and shook him until the boy’s teeth slammed together. Iso began to cry. “Must we throw you out for disobedience?”