Roger's knuckles whitened, so tight was his grip on the broom. Desperate, he started to move to strike, but Francis came against him hard, grabbing the broom handle with one hand, slapping Roger back with the other. "Fool," the monk said, pulling the broom free with a subtle twisting maneuver. "I am not your enemy. If I were, you would be in chains already, on your knees before the Father Abbot."
"Then what?" Roger dared to ask, rubbing his sore cheek, surprised that this man, seeming so average, could have so easily disarmed and struck him.
"Come along, and quickly," Francis instructed, turning and starting away. "Vespers is at its end and you would not be wise to let the Father Abbot find you loitering here.
"What are we to do?" Brother Viscenti asked for perhaps the twentieth time, and, like all the other times before this, Brother Braumin offered no direct response.
"When will Dellman join us?" the older monk asked.
Viscenti glanced at the door of Braumin's room as if he expected Dellman to burst through it at any second. Then he twitched and turned his head quickly, eyes darting. "He will be here —he said he would," Viscenti insisted, his voice rising with his anxiety.
Braumin patted a hand in the air to try to calm the man. In truth, though, Braumin understood the gravity of their situation. Brother Francis, perhaps the closest counsel of Father Abbot Markwart, had walked right in on their meeting!
"We should go and beg the Father Abbot for forgiveness!" Viscenti said suddenly, frantically.
Braumin turned a cold stare on the nervous man, angered that Viscenti would consider such a notion. Even if he was tied to the stake, the fires burning beneath his feet, Brother Braumin Herde would not beg for Markwart's forgiveness. And how, if he truly believed in the holiness of Avelyn and Jojonah, could Viscenti say such a thing?
But Braumin calmed quickly, sympathizing with the man's fear. Viscenti was scared, and with good reason.
"Better that we admit to wrongdoing against the Abellican Church," Braumin said in as calm a tone as he could manage. "We met for prayer, nothing more. Better that we craft our story —"
He stopped as a quiet knock sounded; both men froze.
"Brother Dellman?" Braumin whispered to Viscenti.
"Or Brother Castinagis," the skinny man replied, his voice nasal even in a whisper.
Braumin moved slowly and silently to the door, putting his ear up close, trying to get some hint of who it might be.
Another knock sounded.
Braumin looked back at Viscenti; the man was nearly chewing his bottom lip off. With a helpless shrug, Braumin gingerly grasped the handle and took a deep breath, his imagination conjuring images of Father Abbot Markwart and a host of angry, armed executioners come to cart him away. Finally he mustered the nerve and opened the door a crack, and though it was not Markwart and a mob, Brother Braumin's heart sank.
"Let me in," Brother Francis said quietly.
"I am busy," Braumin replied.
Francis snorted. "And whatever you might be doing, I assure you that this takes precedence," he declared, putting a hand on the door and pushing.
Braumin braced his shoulder against the wood and held the door steady. "I assure you that we have nothing to discuss, good brother," he said. He started to close the door, but Francis stuck his foot in the opening.
"Good brother, I am terribly busy," Braumin said more insistently.
"Preparing your next meeting?" Francis asked.
"A prayer meeting, yes," Braumin replied.
"Blasphemy, you mean," Francis said sternly. "If you prefer to air this argument with me in the corridor," he went on, raising his voice, "then so be it. You are the one in need of secrecy, not I."
Braumin swung wide the door and stepped aside, and Brother Francis promptly entered the room. Braumin poked his head out into the corridor behind the man, then closed the door. He turned his attention back to the room to find Francis and Viscenti staring hard at each other. A wild look was in Viscenti's eye, the look of a timid animal caught in a corner; for a moment, Braumin thought the skinny man might pounce upon Francis. Viscenti couldn't hold the stare, though, and he turned away, hands twitching at his side.
"You seem to be walking in on my every conversation," Brother Braumin said dryly, purposefully diverting Francis' attention from Viscenti. "Someone less trusting than I might believe that you were watching me."
"Someone wiser than you would understand that you need watching," Brother Francis replied.
"And you are that wiser man? "
"I am wiser than to speak heresy in the cellars of St.-Mere-Abelle."
"Only truth," Braumin said, and his lip turned up in a snarl and he advanced a step.
"Only lies," Francis retorted, not backing away an inch.
Brother Viscenti scrambled suddenly to stand right beside Francis, very close, so that he and Braumin had the man between them, the two conspirators holding a threatening posture.
Still, Francis seemed totally unconcerned. "I did not come here to argue theology," he explained.
"Then why did you come here?" Braumin demanded.
"To warn you," Francis said bluntly. "I know of your group, dedicated to the memory of the heretic Jojonah and to Avelyn Desbris."
"No heretic!" Viscenti squealed.
Francis paid him no heed. "And the Father Abbot knows of you, too, and soon enough he will turn his attention to you and destroy you as he destroyed Jojonah."
"No doubt using information that Brother Francis dutifully supplied," Braumin replied.
Francis blew an exasperated sigh. "You cannot begin to understand his power," he said. "Do you really believe that Father Abbot Markwart needs anything at all from me?"
"Why are you telling us this? " Braumin asked. "Why not just accompany the Father Abbot's guards when they take me? Perhaps Markwart will allow you to add the first flaming brand to the pyre beneath my feet."
A strange expression came over Francis, one that gave Braumin pause. The man seemed wounded almost, or perplexed, a faraway look in his eyes.
After some time, Francis focused again on Brother Braumin, his look deadly serious. "The Father Abbot is closing in on you," he said earnestly. "Do not doubt this. He will prepare heresy hearings, and since none of you have attained the rank of master, they will be convened here at St.-Mere-Abelle with or without the blessings of the other abbots. You cannot hope to win."
"We are not heretics," Braumin replied through gritted teeth.
"That matters not at all," Francis replied. "The Father Abbot has all the evidence he will need against you. If he deems it necessary, he can manufacture any other crimes easily enough."
"Do you hear your own words?" Braumin cried. "Is there no true justice in our Order?"
Francis stared straight ahead, giving no signals.
"Then we are doomed," Brother Viscenti wailed a moment later. He looked to Braumin for comfort, for some denial, but the man had nothing to offer.
"Perhaps there is another way," Francis remarked.
Brother Braumin's face went tight. He expected Francis to advise him to openly disavow the heretics Jojonah and Avelyn, to genuflect before the all-powerful Markwart and beg forgiveness. Viscenti might choose that course, Braumin realized, as might one or two of the others.
Brother Braumin closed his eyes and pushed past the one moment of anger he held for his fellow conspirators. If they chose to beg for mercy, whatever they might say or do, even if their actions weighed heavily against him, he would not judge them.
Nor would he join them. Brother Braumin determined then and there, with certain doom staring him right in the eye, that he would accept the punishment, the flames —but that he would not divorce himself from the tenets of Avelyn Desbris and would speak no ill of his mentor Jojonah.
But then Francis caught him off guard.
"I can get you out of St.-Mere-Abelle," the monk offered, "and you might fly away and hide."
"You would help us?" Viscenti cried doubtfully. "Have you found truth at last, Brother Francis?"
"No," Braumin answered before Francis could respond. Braumin studied him curiously. "No, he does not agree with our beliefs."
"I called you a heretic," Francis confirmed. "My word for you, and not the Father Abbot's."
"Then why would you help us? " Braumin asked. "Why would you see us out of St.-Mere-Abelle when you know that we present no threat to you or your beloved Father Abbot?" Even as he spoke the words, Brother Braumin wondered if the Father Abbot might know of Francis' visit, might have sent Francis here in an attempt to quietly rid himself of the problem monks. "Or do you see a threat?" Braumin asked slyly. "Perhaps you fear the reaction, from within the Church and without, when we five, like Jojonah before us, are tied to poles and publicly burned. Perhaps you wonder how solid the Father Abbot's hold over the Church truly is."
Francis was shaking his head slowly and somberly, but Braumin pressed on. "Thus, you convince us to leave, and by that overt action, we have severed our position in the Church."
"Your reasoning is not sound, brother," Francis replied. "You overestimate the negative reaction of the populace to a gruesome execution. Many of the villagers still speak in excited, even thrilled, tones about the burning of the heretic Jojonah."
"Do not call him that!" Brother Viscenti demanded.
"They were not terribly upset by the spectacle, as you well know," Francis went on. "And indeed, they would welcome another bit of excitement in their mundane existence. And as to the other Church leaders, they are back at their own abbeys now, recovering from a war. They will not raise more than an eyebrow, I assure you. The Father Abbot will name you as heretics and be done with you before any can protest; and then, the deed done —one less problem before any of them—they will let the matter fade."
The answer set Braumin back on his heels and killed his previous suspicions about Francis' motives. Markwart, who dared to usurp the power of Abbot Dobrinion while he was in Palmaris, who took citizens of another town captive and let them die in his care, who burned Jojonah publicly before the Church leaders, would not fear any retaliation if he chose to get rid of a handful of minor conspirators. But why, then, was Francis here?
"You haven't the belly for it!" Marlboro Viscenti said suddenly, hopping back and pointing at Francis. "Even Brother Francis, the Father Abbot's avowed lackey, was sickened by the treatment of good Jojonah."
Francis didn't immediately respond, and Braumin looked from him to Viscenti, who wore a confident expression. Marlboro Viscenti was not considered a great thinker by either his peers or his instructors, but Braumin knew that he was possessed of certain insights. Perhaps it was his perpetual nervousness that kept him keenly aware of his surroundings; but whatever the reason, Viscenti many times found answers to puzzles that had seemed quite beyond Brother Braumin.
"You believed Jojonah a heretic," Braumin said to Francis.
"His actions doomed him," Francis said firmly. "You heard him admit that he helped the intruders steal our prisoner."
Braumin waved his hand as if that mattered not at all. "I'll not argue the virtue of his actions with you," he explained. "We can agree that you considered him a traitor to the Church, and yet my good brother Viscenti has spoken truthfully. Why then, Brother Francis, do you fear to see us burned? Why did the spectacle of Jojonah's fate so unnerve you?"
Francis was fighting hard to hold his cool, determined demeanor, but he was losing the battle now, Braumin could see. He was trembling, sweat on his forehead.
"Master Jojonah forgave me," Francis at last blurted. "He forgave me my sins, against him and against others."
Braumin eyed him incredulously, then looked at Viscenti, trying to make some sense of it, but found his friend staring at Francis, equally at a loss.
"Do not confuse my coming to you with compassion or any agreement with your beliefs," Francis added. "I offer you a chance to save your miserable lives, to get out of St.-Mere-Abelle, out of my life and the life of the Father Abbot. To go hide in a hole and bury your foolish beliefs with you."
"How do you plan to do that?" asked Viscenti.
"And where are we to go?" Braumin added.
"You know that Jojonah aided the escape of the centaur Bradwarden," Francis explained. "And with him, we believe, were two former friends of Avelyn Desbris."
Again Braumin painted that suspicious look on his face. Were he and his companions to become the signal beacon to the lair of a larger conspiracy?
"Yet there remains at St.-Mere-Abelle another of those conspirators, a man who came in afterward and only recently learned that the centaur and his other friends had escaped. He will be returning to them, I believe, and I believe also that you might persuade him to take you along."
"How convenient for you and the Father Abbot," Braumin remarked.
"I'll not guarantee your safety," said Francis. "Once you are out of the abbey, you must fend for yourselves —and do not doubt that powerful foes may come against you. Do not doubt that the Father Abbot will recapture the centaur and take the other conspirators as well. No, your fate beyond St.-Mere-Abelle is your own to decide. I only do this one thing alone to repay Jojonah. I'll not spend the rest of my life in the debt of a heretic."
"If he was a heretic —" Viscenti started to protest, but Brother Braumin held up his hand, indicating that the man should be quiet. Braumin understood, if Viscenti did not—if even Francis did not.
"All that I ask in return is that you do not name me if you are captured," Brother Francis went on. "And . . . the book."
"What book? " Braumin asked.
Francis turned a stern stare on the man. "The book you read from at your ridiculous meeting," he explained, "the book of lies about our past, by which you measure the rumors about our present."