The woman paused a bit, her brow furrowing pensively beneath her black hair and showing only the slightest wrinkles of age. She chewed a bit on her bottom lip, a common twitch when she was deep in thought that often brought a smile to Glendenhook; and she turned her hazel eyes to the floor. Finally, she looked back up.
“If King Aydrian had remained secular and had not involved the Church in his theft of the throne, then I would counsel inaction,” she explained, “even though his ascent adversely affected another sovereign sister and forced Jilseponie from Ursal. But since it was Abbot Olin and worse, Marcalo De’Unnero, at Aydrian’s side, we cannot step away from it. No distance that we put between Church and State will hold. It is clear now that Aydrian means to instate one of his cohorts into the structure of the Abellican Order at the very highest level. Twelve significant chapels have been rolled under Duke Kalas’ present march, and only those brothers who pledged their allegiance to King Aydrian and to both Abbot Olin and De’Unnero remain in place serving their communities. All others were forced away, or worse.”
“We have heard such rumors from the brothers seeking refuge here,” Glendenhook agreed.
“And so we must stand, on one side or the other,” Treisa went on. She looked at Belasarus, then at Glendenhook, forcing their undivided attention. “We cannot stand with Abbot Olin and the traitorous De’Unnero. We cannot sacrifice our mortal souls.”
“Then fight or run?” Belasarus asked of Glendenhook.
The abbot looked to Treisa for guidance.
“Neither,” the sovereign sister said, and she squared her shoulders. “Do not close our gate to Duke Kalas, for he will merely trample it down. Let us resist with inaction. Let us not run from them, nor march with them, but rather, merely sit where we are.”
“Does that not signify our acceptance of Abbot Olin and Marcalo De’Unnero?” asked an obviously confused Belasarus.
Treisa shook her head. “We will not allow it to seem so. Not to Duke Kalas and not to the folk of the land. We will surrender without a fight, because we cannot win, but we will not serve King Aydrian or his kingdom as long as he embraces such treachery in the Abellican Church. Let our example perhaps begin the first fissure in Duke Kalas’ army, a slender crack that will widen when the true king of Honce-the-Bear marches south from Vanguard.”
“We must make this clear if our statement is to have any effect,” reasoned Belasarus.
“And we must ensure that our surrender does not strengthen Duke Kalas,” Glendenhook reasoned. “Organize an escape by some of the younger and hardiest brothers. Let them take our treasures, particularly our gemstones, along the coast to St.-Mere-Abelle.”
“Duke Kalas will not appreciate that,” said Treisa.
“And it will perfectly outrage Marcalo De’Unnero, which makes it all the sweeter,” Glendenhook agreed.
“But we need something more telling,” Master Belasarus reasoned. “Something to ensure that the people all around, especially those commoners who have joined with Duke Kalas, understand that we do not support King Aydrian.”
Glendenhook considered what options he might have, then noticed that Sovereign Sister Treisa’s face had suddenly brightened. He prompted her with a look.
“My sisters and I are nearly finished with the altar cloth intended for the final canonization of Avelyn Desbris,” she explained. “The image of the upraised arm of Avelyn placed against a solid red background—the same image that Father Abbot Bou-raiy commissioned for the new window in the great keep of St.-Mere-Abelle.”
“What do you propose to do with it?” the intrigued Glendenhook asked.
“Let us fly it above St. Gwendolyn, proudly so!” said Treisa. “And right beside it, let us fly the bear rampant of the Ursal line. By all accounts, Duke Kalas marches under a different flag, that of the bear and the tiger rampant, the flag of Aydrian Boudabras.”
Abbot Glendenhook nodded his agreement—such a show as that would spread ear-to-ear all along the eastern stretches of Honce-the-Bear.
“But doing so will ensure that Abbot Olin and Marcalo De’Unnero gain the altar cloth of Avelyn’s upcoming canonization,” reasoned Belasarus.
“It is worth the price,” Treisa decided before Glendenhook could speak. “In our show, we will send a message to St.-Mere-Abelle, as well, offering our vote for Brother Avelyn’s long-overdue ascent to sainthood, and we will remind all the kingdom of the miracle that precipitated his rise.”
Abbot Glendenhook had never shared Treisa’s enthusiasm for Avelyn Desbris. Nor had Father Abbot Bou-raiy. But Bou-raiy and Glendenhook had long ago discussed the matter, and had agreed that Avelyn’s rise was an avalanche that would bury any who opposed it. After the Miracle of Aida, with a majority of Honce-the-Bear’s population making the difficult pilgrimage to be cured of the rosy plague, or insulated against its deadly effects, there could be no denying the rise of Saint Avelyn. The process should have been completed several years before, but the typically ponderous Abellican Church simply hadn’t gotten around to it yet—mostly, Glendenhook knew, because his friend the Father Abbot was holding the final canonization in reserve against any potential crisis in the Church. Only the Father Abbot could finalize the process, and that gave Fio Bou-raiy a large stick indeed to wave against any upstart young brothers, particularly Braumin Herde and his fellows of St. Precious and in Vanguard.
“Any who stay will do so out of choice,” the abbot decided. “All who wish to flee for St.-Mere-Abelle should go out this very afternoon. And I strongly suggest that most of your sisters make that flight, Sister Treisa. We have precious few women in the Abellican ranks as it is.”
Glendenhook’s expression went very serious. “I would ask of you that you, too, make the pilgrimage.”
“Then you have little understanding of my faith, Abbot Glendenhook,” came the stern reply. “In my God, in St. Abelle, in my Church, and in my abbot.”
While on one level he wanted to yell at her and scold her, Abbot Glendenhook could not help but smile at the determined and strong woman.
“Master Belasarus,” he said, without ever taking his eyes from Treisa, “I bid you to lead our delegation to St.-Mere-Abelle. Tell Father Abbot Bou-raiy of our actions here, of the flags we proudly fly.”
“But …” the man started to argue, but he stopped and sighed. “Yes, Abbot, it will be done.”
All the horizon was filled with their spear tips, an army greater than anything ever seen by the three dozen remaining brothers at St. Gwendolyn or the two hundred people of neighboring villages that had come in for shelter. They were not as practiced as the Kingsmen or the Coastpoint Guards, and certainly not as spectacular as the Allheart Knights, but what the peasant warriors who had joined up in the glorious march of Duke Kalas lacked in shining armor and precision marching, they more than made up for with the sheer weight of numbers.
Grim-faced and dirty-faced, they stood shoulder to shoulder in a line stretching all around the three sides of the abbey that did not face the sea, and in ranks five deep. Allheart Knights rode all about, bolstering men with their cries of duty and glory for king and country.
Centering the line was Kalas’ primary force, the Kingsmen who had marched with him out of Palmaris, and they alone would have had little trouble in overrunning St. Gwendolyn, Abbot Glendenhook realized.
From the front, western gate of the abbey, the abbot looked up at the two flags, flapping hard in the ocean breeze. At least he had made a statement.
Calls along the ranks advanced Kalas’ force, thickening the ranks and tightening the line as they moved in closer. Over the hills behind them came great catapults, and carts beside them piled with heavy stones. Glendenhook could see the faces of the soldiers clearly now, could see their eyes. They were not afraid, not even the peasants, because they knew that few would die if battle was joined this day.
If Duke Kalas called for a charge, St. Gwendolyn would be overrun in a matter of minutes.
Horns blew along the ranks and the appr
oach halted, the front lines barely two hundred feet from the abbey’s high walls. From the center of the line came a contingent of Allheart Knights along with a rider bearing the flag of the new Honce-the-Bear. Duke Kalas centered them as they rode fearlessly up to St. Gwendolyn’s gates, right in the open before the abbot and his brothers.
“Who leads this abbey?” Duke Kalas called up.
“One known to you, good Duke Kalas,” Glendenhook replied, stepping forward to the edge of the wall so that the Allheart leader could get a good look at him. “Abbot Glendenhook.”
The duke gave a deferential nod of his head. “I come bearing great tidings from Ursal, Abbot Glendenhook,” said the duke. “Tidings sad and tidings glorious.”
“That King Danube is dead and young Aydrian has assumed the throne,” the abbot answered.
“I expected that word would precede my arrival.”
“And so it has.”
“And yet you fly the flag of old,” the duke remarked. “We have brought a new one for you.”
“It is not one that we desire.”
Duke Kalas hesitated, and Glendenhook noted a wry smile spread under the metal cage of his great plumed helmet.
“We fly the flag of Honce-the-Bear, the flag of Prince Midalis,” the abbot pressed on. “For it is he who was second in the royal line.”
“The affairs of state are not your concern, good Abbot,” Duke Kalas replied, and there was no angry edge to his voice. “It is up to the throne of Ursal, and not the Abellican Church, to determine the proper pennant of the kingdom.”
“Agreed,” Abbot Glendenhook replied immediately. “And yet in this the Abellican Church cannot remain silent, for the rise of King Aydrian is not an incident pertinent to the state alone. We know of his allies, Duke Kalas. But enough of this shouting.” Glendenhook stepped back from the wall and called down, and the gate of St. Gwendolyn creaked open.
“Under rules of truce,” Glendenhook called back out over the wall.
With a look to his knights, the duke led the entourage forward into the small courtyard of the abbey.
“You were wise in opening your door,” Kalas said to Glendenhook and Sovereign Sister Treisa when he and one other Allheart met with the pair in Glendenhook’s private quarters a few minutes later. “Some chapels were more stubborn in their disregard for King Aydrian. They are being rebuilt.”
“A duty that no doubt does swell the heart of Duke Kalas,” said Glendenhook.
Kalas shot him a dangerous look.
“Why bother with the pleasantries?” the abbot asked. “We know why you have come, and you understand why we have chosen to fly the flags you see atop our abbey. Your hatred of the Abellican Church is not unknown to us, good Duke. Nor is its source, and for many years has the death of Queen Vivian weighed heavily upon the shoulders of every Abellican.”
Glendenhook knew that he had touched a nerve with so straightforward an opening. Little had shaped Duke Targon Bree Kalas’ life more than the death of King Danube’s first wife, Queen Vivian. Summoned to her side, Je’howith, at that time the abbot of St. Honce, had worked feverishly to save her, but alas, he had arrived at her side too late. That blow had stung King Danube, but had wounded Duke Kalas even more profoundly, leaving a scar in his heart that manifested itself regularly in tirades against the Abellican Church. For more than two decades since Vivian’s death, Duke Kalas had been one of the greatest critics of the Church, a critic who had erupted many times concerning the leadership in Palmaris, and on any other issue, even the pilgrimage to Mount Aida. The troublesome duke had been the subject of many heated discussions at St.-Mere-Abelle during the years when Glendenhook had served there as a master, under Father Abbots Markwart, Agronguerre, and Bou-raiy.
“Queen Vivian is not the issue here,” Duke Kalas said through gritted teeth.
“Is she not?” Abbot Glendenhook replied, measuring every wince on the duke’s face as he spoke. He wanted to reason with Kalas, not push the man into an explosion.
“My march is to spread the word of King Aydrian, and nothing more,” Kalas replied. “Those who oppose him will be defeated, of course, whether that opposition comes from village leaders, noblemen, or the Abellican Church. Your abbeys exist because of the generosity of Honce-the-Bear’s throne. Do not ever forget that.”
“The throne has long understood the stabilizing influence of the Church as its partner in holding the kingdom strong,” Sovereign Sister Treisa put in. “Ours is a partnership of mutual benefit.”
“And so, when you fly the flag of King Aydrian and accept him as your sovereign—”
“Our sovereign is God alone,” the feisty Treisa interrupted.
Duke Kalas looked at her hard, then softened his face into a smile and nodded his deference. “As you believe,” he said with a polite bow. “Allow me to restate my position. When you fly the flag of Aydrian, should any secular pennant wave above your abbey, and accept him as the rightful king of Honce-the-Bear, then accept my march here as a cause for celebration and not fear.”
“Your king has made such acceptance difficult,” Abbot Glendenhook replied. “For his decrees apparently extend beyond the accepted domain of his kingdom.”
“Men of your Church came to him, not the other way around,” Duke Kalas answered. “Abbot Olin saw the truth of King Aydrian and embraced him.”
“As did Marcalo De’Unnero,” said Treisa.
“Hardly a man of our Church,” Glendenhook was quick to add.
Duke Kalas chuckled. “And none of my affair,” he said. “Though I will assure you that Marcalo De’Unnero would kill you if he saw the flags you fly.”
“Then do inform him,” Treisa said defiantly.
Duke Kalas and Abbot Glendenhook both widened their eyes at that remark, and the other Allheart in the room gasped aloud.
But Treisa pressed on. “How could one as noble as Duke Targon Bree Kalas, friend of King Danube, throw in with the mad dog De’Unnero? Have you so forsaken your longtime friend? Is the loyalty of the Allheart Knights such a frail thing as that?”
“Tell your woman to take care her words,” Kalas warned Glendenhook.
“Her words are my own,” the abbot answered.
Kalas looked as if he was about to strike out physically, but Glendenhook, taking his cue from the determined sovereign sister, continued. “Abbot Olin has made of himself an outcast to St. Abelle and the Church that bears his name. I expect that a replacement for him will be appointed at St. Bondabruce very soon.”
“His monks love him and follow him devotedly, and believe that he, and not your friend Bou-raiy, should now lead the Abellican Church.”
“Then the replacement will come from St.-Mere-Abelle, or from neighboring St. Rontlemore in Entel,” said Glendenhook.
“The replacement,” Duke Kalas mused. “A short-lived appointment, no doubt.”
“Because the crown does not accept its place in the kingdom,” Glendenhook replied. “The affairs of the Church must be left to the Church! You would march with an army to St.-Mere-Abelle and right Abbot Olin’s perceived wrong?”
“I will march wherever King Aydrian determines that I must march,” Kalas shot back. “To St.-Mere-Abelle—through St.-Mere-Abelle! It hardly matters.”
“It is not the concern of the king!”
Duke Kalas snorted and shook his head. “You do not understand,” he said quietly. “Aydrian has changed everything. Once, at the end of King Aydrian’s own sword, I fell into the hands of death. No, Abbot, not your friend Bou-raiy himself, could have …” He stopped and gave a little laugh. “And yet, I live,” he finished, looking Glendenhook right in the eye. “I live because now is the time when Honce-the-Bear has brought forth a king with power over death itself!”
Abbot Glendenhook shook his head in confusion and looked to Treisa, who seemed equally perplexed. “What babble is this?” the sovereign sister asked. “No man has such.”
“Certainly no Abellicans,” Kalas spat. “When Queen Vivian lay dying
, could the fool Je’howith save her? You priests promise eternal life. Well, on my word, Aydrian has shown himself the master of death itself. You condemn him, and me, because you cannot comprehend, because you are so wound within your rituals and false promises that such a king as Aydrian is beyond your comprehension.”
“As was the Miracle of Avelyn?” Treisa countered. “Was it not Saint Avelyn who rescued the kingdom—your friend’s kingdom—from the ruins of the plague?”
“Saint Avelyn?” Duke Kalas scoffed.
“Soon to be.”
“So it has been said for many years,” remarked the duke, but then he waved his hands and spun away. “It is of no matter. Avelyn is hero to the people of Honce-the-Bear—even Jilseponie once wore that mantle. They are of no concern anymore. Aydrian is king, and woe to any who oppose him.”
“You can so deny Prince Midalis, who was your friend?”
Duke Kalas stiffened at the remark and steeled his gaze. “Prince Midalis would understand and accept if he understood Aydrian as do I.”
Glendenhook’s jaw dropped open. “What has this young Aydrian done to you? What bewitchery is this?”
“It is the only honest ‘bewitchery’ that I have ever seen,” Kalas spat. “Unlike the falsities of the Abellican Church.”
The two men stared long and hard at each other.
“You will open your gates to the soldiers of King Aydrian,” the duke demanded. “You will fly the proper flag.”
“And if we do not?”
“Then I will open your gates posthaste,” Kalas calmly explained, and he walked out of the room, sweeping up his fellow Allheart in his wake.
“What are we to do?” Abbot Glendenhook said to Treisa when they were alone.
The woman looked at him and smiled with true serenity, completely accepting her fate.
Abbot Glendenhook returned that smile a moment later, then moved in and kissed the beautiful sister on the cheek. He swept out of his office, moving to the front wall. They had made their statement here with the flags, and now he intended to make another.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 216