The Quest for Saint Camber (18 page)

Intrigued by that observation, Morgan scanned the altar rail again. There
was
a correlation by age, though it was not ironclad. In fact, as Father Shandon reached the center of the altar rail and crossed back, to resume at the far end of the rail again, Morgan saw several older men, just past where Shandon had left off, rise and edge surreptitiously into the queue of men and women waiting to kneel on Shandon's side. It was quietly done, but it was done, nonetheless. He supposed it was too late for some men to change.

“
Memento, homo, quia pulvis es
.…”

Duncan was giving ashes to the lancer sergeant now, and Morgan raised his head to meet his cousin's eyes as the Deryni bishop finished and came before him.

“
Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris
,” Duncan murmured, tracing the cross on Morgan's brow with special attention.
So glad you could finally make it this morning
, he added mentally.
Meet me in the sacristy, after
.

Morgan had to duck his head to keep from smiling, waiting until Duncan had finished with the MacEwan man-at-arms and moved on before crossing himself deliberately and easing to his feet. He withdrew into the relative shelter of one of the pillars of the clerestory aisle, shadowed and anonymous, to continue watching until the last penitents had received ashes. No one actually got up and left when Duncan began helping Shandon finish with those kneeling on Shandon's side or refused to receive ashes from Duncan, but Morgan could feel the apprehension and tension radiating as the people left the rail, their duty done at last. He even saw one man scrub surreptitiously at his forehead to remove the ashes Duncan had placed there, as soon as he thought no one would notice.

Morgan knew that it would take a few minutes for Father Shandon to unvest and leave, so he waited quietly for a few more minutes before heading for the sacristy. But by the time he got there himself, he could hear angry voices within, neither of them Shandon. Deryni shields, not Duncan's alone, tingled against Morgan's own as he pushed the door open in alarm and entered.

“I really don't want to talk about it, Denis,” Duncan was saying, though neither he nor Arilan even glanced aside as Morgan drew the door closed and leaned against it, watching and listening warily. Over on a stool beside a vestment press, Father Shandon slumped asleep or unconscious, still fully vested in surplice and stole, obviously taken unawares by one of the two Deryni when the argument began to get too specific for outsiders to witness.

“Well, you'd better think again about talking about it,” Arilan said. “Don't you realize that you may have put the entire Church at jeopardy? You saw what happened out there. It was one thing when they only thought you
might
be Deryni. God, Duncan, couldn't you have waited?”

“And just how long was I supposed to have waited?” Duncan countered. “Twenty-odd years, like you? Is that how long you've been a priest? And you
still
haven't owned up to what you are!
Someone's
got to be the first, if there's ever going to be a change.”

Too angry to reply, Arilan spun away to glare unseeing at the tiny window above the vesting altar. It was filled with colored glass in a random pattern suggestive of ocean waves, and the sunlight cast sickly greenish blotches on Arilan's face and hands and on the plain black working cassock he wore. Morgan glanced at Duncan, not daring to intervene beyond his mere presence, but Duncan was focused only on his fellow bishop.

“I
was
the first, once,” Arilan finally said, very softly. “Or, no, I wasn't the first—Jorian came before me—but I was the first one to make it through successfully that I know of.” He leaned the heels of both hands against the edge of the altar and stared down at the white-worked linen covering it, then glanced back over his shoulder.

“That's not such a poor distinction, is it, Duncan? To be the first Deryni successfully ordained as a priest in nearly two hundred years? And
you
were ordained. And after you, in the past two or three years, there have been a few others, too. I'll bet you didn't know about those. But if I'd tried to do it all when I was the first, I'd be as dead as Jorian and all the rest that they killed before him! So, damn it, don't you
dare
talk to me about
someone has to be first!
”

As he turned to confront Duncan again, Morgan felt himself sag against the door, closing his eyes against his own memories.

Jorian. God, he remembered Jorian! Morgan had been just barely thirteen, a squire at Brion's court, when one of the royal chaplains had insisted that the king's pet Deryni be taken to witness the execution of the Deryni ex-priest Jorian de Courcy, whose defiance of the law had been betrayed by the very hand of God at his ordination. Morgan was sure his own almost paralyzing fear of death by fire must spring from that terrible day, from being forced to watch the flames engulf de Courcy's helpless, writhing body. Nor was it the last time he had witnessed such horror.

He found himself sweating inside his heavy cloak as he opened his eyes, all but shaking physically in reaction, but his reaction was nothing compared to Duncan's. The younger bishop had blanched nearly as white as the alb half-unlaced at his throat, and his shields were absolutely impenetrable, even to Morgan.

“What do you mean, there have been a few others?” Duncan whispered. “Are you saying there are more of us now? Other Deryni priests?”

“Not enough—but some,” Arilan said stonily, half turning back toward the ocean window.

“And—you were the one to arrange it?”

“At some cost, yes. Being a secret Deryni in the ranks helped enormously. And being a Deryni bishop who isn't known to be Deryni helped even more.

“But now everyone knows, or soon will know, that there's at least one of us who's infiltrated even to the episcopate; and where there's one, there could be more. That may not bother the sane, honest churchmen like Wolfram, once they've had a chance to get used to the idea, but suppose there are a few more bishops or would-be bishops out there who are more like Edmund Loris than Thomas Cardiel? Do you want to unleash
that
on the innocent again?”

Duncan recoiled almost as if struck a physical blow. Arilan was sparing him not a whit.

“It's exactly to stop that from being unleashed again that I did it,” Duncan murmured, sinking down on a bench behind him. “We have to show the world that we
aren't
evil, by the example of our lives. I did it so that my son will have the chance to be a part of that example.”

“And
that's
truly the crux of it, isn't it?” Arilan said quietly. “Dhugal, your son.” He sighed and crossed his arms on his chest, glancing down at his feet. “Perhaps that's why we don't permit our clergy to marry, Duncan. We grow too fond of the flesh of our flesh; and when the time comes that we have to make a choice, it's awfully difficult to choose for God rather than one's child. Few men can do it. Nor should they be asked to do it.”

Drawing breath audibly, Duncan looked up. “I'll stand by my decision, Denis. I'm a father
and
a priest, and I intend to continue being both. In fact, that's part of what finally led me to do what I did: the sheer wonder that God worked His magic the way He did, to lead me to His service but also to let me sire that young man.”

Arilan snorted. “How poetic. Is that supposed to move me not to be angry anymore? And you're absolutely right that you'll stand by your decision. You haven't really got much choice.”

“It was a decision made in good conscience,” Duncan said defensively, a brittle edge to his voice.

“Oh, I'm sure it was. I just don't know whether you considered that this act of conscience of yours might cost you your mitre—and maybe even your office as a priest.”

As Morgan held his breath, Duncan slowly straightened and stood, as grey as the smudge of ash on his forehead.

“What do you mean?”

Arilan tried to maintain eye contact, but failed.

“You're aware that the general synod meets next week in Valoret. There's been some talk this morning of suspending you, at least until the synod has had a chance to consider what to do,” he said, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands. “Cardiel doesn't really want to, but Wolfram isn't sure. And it could go further than suspension.”

“How much further?” Duncan whispered. “The mitre doesn't really matter. I never particularly wanted to be a bishop in the first place. And I've been suspended before—even excommunicated. It was unpleasant, but it passed. It didn't change what was in my heart. But
what else might they do to me, Denis?
”

“Just be glad that the Church doesn't burn Deryni anymore,” Arilan said gruffly. “Not officially, at any rate. We won't count renegades like Loris, or what still goes on occasionally in the outlands. And even if enough bishops wanted to try, the king would never permit it. Which could precipitate another, entirely different kind of crisis—the king attempting to interfere in episcopal matters—but we needn't worry about
that
for the present. Neither Cardiel nor Bradene would ever let it get that far.”

“So they won't burn me,” Duncan said impatiently. “That's been tried and failed. What about my priesthood?”

“Don't get cocky!” Arilan snapped. “You might not be so lucky, next time around. Or your luck might not hold for Dhugal.”

Duncan shuddered and bowed his head. “Forgive me. I suppose I shouldn't have said that. But what about my priesthood?”

Arilan shrugged and sighed. “Well, they can't take it away entirely, as you know.
Tu es sacerdos in aeternum
. Thou art a priest forever. That's why the original Ramos conventions specified the death penalty for Deryni who actually managed to get ordained—one can't unmake a priest. They
could
degrade you from the priesthood, however. I don't think I need to remind you what that means. You may know about suspension and excommunication from firsthand experience, but you've never had to deal with
that
.”

Morgan shared Duncan's sick dread at that prospect. Though the imprint of priestly ordination was indelible, lasting for all eternity, degradation stripped a priest of all authority to exercise the sacred office so imparted. It did not cut him off from reception of the other, usual sacraments at another priest's hands, as excommunication would; but if he defied the restrictions of degradation, excommunication was but one of the further penalties the Church might impose in an attempt to bring a wayward son to heel.

Morgan knew how Duncan had suffered from mere suspension when his Deryni blood first began to be suspected; and the later excommunication the two of them had shared, though imposed unjustly, had taken a similarly heavy toll on Duncan's spiritual health, which was already scarred by the necessity to balance his priestly call against the Church's stand regarding ordination of Deryni. Degradation from the priesthood that Duncan loved so well and to which he was so obviously called would be the greatest injustice of all.

“I hope it won't come to that,” Arilan went on, obviously aware of Duncan's distress. “And since you're directly under Cardiel's jurisdiction, I doubt he'll do more than just suspend you from
public
function until this all blows over. That's assuming he doesn't receive too much pressure from the other bishops, of course.”

“You mentioned that Wolfram's unsure,” Duncan whispered. “What will the others say?”

“I wish I knew,” Arilan replied. “Bradene's the real key, if it goes beyond local jurisdiction—which it's almost bound to do, with the synod meeting next week. Just thank God that up until yesterday, your record was excellent, even if speculation was rampant. In fact, before you were elected to the episcopate, probably half our fellow bishops had pretty much decided that you
were
Deryni, but that it probably didn't matter. Of course, that was before you decided to confirm the rumors and flaunt what you are in front of the entire court. It could be worse, I suppose. You could have done it at the altar, in full pontificals. Now, wouldn't
that
have been a coup?”

“But, I never would have—”

“I don't know
what
you never would have done!” Arilan snapped. “Not anymore. All I know is that you've made a great deal of trouble for a great many people. I hope you're quite satisfied.”

Duncan breathed out audibly, not quite a snort, and clasped his hands in a careful gesture of control, fingers intertwined, gazing at his bishop's ring. Would Arilan never let him be? Morgan wondered how much more of this he could take.

“I—suppose I—should have thought through the possible consequences more carefully before I acted,” Duncan said after a few seconds, in a conciliatory tone. “I'm sorry if I've made your position more difficult.” He looked up at Arilan tentatively. “Any advice, now that it's done?”

With a wry, grudging nod, Arilan turned to face Duncan squarely, still totally unyielding in posture and expression.

“So,” he said softly, “have I finally made you realize the seriousness of the situation?”

Miserably, Duncan nodded.

“Good, then. Maybe now we can do something constructive.” Arilan paced back to the little altar, thinking, then came back to look down at Duncan again.

“Very well. You're probably safe enough for now, and so am I. So are those other Deryni priests you had no idea existed. You're still also a bishop as well as a priest—for now—but if I were you, I'd keep a very low profile.”

“No more ashes today?” Duncan said, with a strained attempt at a smile.

Arilan nodded. “
Especially
, no more ashes. In fact, it might be wise if you became seriously indisposed, indefinitely. Perhaps you shouldn't even go to the synod. And if you do intend to continue public celebration of Mass, at least for the time being, I suggest you let it be known that you intend to take the earliest one, since it's already sparsely attended. That way, people can make their own decision about whether they want a Deryni priest to minister to them.”