The Neath Errand

[skmisailov]

"Presenting His Grace, th-"

"My apologies," he interrupted the monk, sweeping into the room before formal introductions could be made. Between friends, what difference did a few titles make? The Ruthenian general-cum-scholar clasped the Abbot of Neath's hand firmly within both of his, and was just a little surprised when the abbot withdrew his hand to embrace Sascha Misailov entirely. "Meurig," he said warmly.

The abbot stepped back, amusement spelled out clearly in his dark green eyes. "Aleksandr," he returned. "Bran," he added, looking past the fair-haired Ruthenian to the swarthy Welsh brother in cloth, "That will be all. Thank you." The Cistercian smiled, bowed deeply, and was at the door when the abbot spoke a few words in Welsh. The monk's eyes went to the stranger, sweeping up the man's appearances, before he inclined his head in acknowledgement and then vanished through the door.

"How did he know who I am?" Sascha asked cordially as the abbot found a seat near the fire and indicated for Sascha to join him. "It is not stamped on my chest. I thought you Cistercians did not talk."

"No, indeed not," he replied to the first. "And we do talk, but not to any great extent. You are kept in very high regard here, Aleksandr. Tell me, are you still running from your own name, or have you found something else to occupy your time?"

"Running from my name?" he repeated, and then laughed quietly. "I have never run from my name, my dear friend, merely my relatives. I am at peace, though. A man cannot ask for much more than that. And your brother, how fares he? Minding his own business?"

"He is in Brecon, with our mother. She is as enduring as the mountains and I believe she will outlive us all. More the pity for her; she has lost too much these many years." The abbot had a kind face, but had not developed such a gentleness without first suffering great hardship. Though it would surprise the other monks in the Abbey of Neath to learn their abbot was none other than the son of Llewelyn of the Woods, it did not much surprise Sascha. He had, after all, seen the man at work with a sword. Now, the man merely sat in a chair by the fire and indicated his visitor to do the same. "You had a tour?"

"No, not yet. I have only just arrived." Sascha took his seat and lounged before the fire, glad for its heat. He had ridden hard through Wales, though like most outlanders, had discovered the mountains and marshes nearly impenetrable by night. He had spent far longer on the road than he had meant, and every muscle in his body was aching from the endeavor. The errands that brought him across the Continent and onto a ferry open to the brutal elements of a wet English winter worse by far than any other in his memory were vital, and no leisurely nights were allowed in the few inns he had taken shelter within. Not that he wished to spend long in the inns, when so many were but poorly kept hovels with a cask of ale and mead apiece, with a flea-ridden mattress upstairs and green-tinged water in the urn. England was no better nor worse than France or the German states. All the world was paralyzed by cold and misery. What should a few spikes of straw in the back matter for the poor fool who chose to part with his coins for the bed, rather than a night spent warmer in the stables with his horse? "Why the letter, Meurig?"

"You should take the tour," the abbot said quietly. "It is said we are the greatest abbey in all Wales, perhaps in England. Our brothers from Cluny are frequent visitors, and we are only too happy to share the work." The abbot folded his hands beneath his chin in thoughtful repose. His white robes nearly gleamed in the firelight, and Sascha briefly pondered what the laundries of Neath looked like. They must be constantly busy, he concluded, with so many monks. Meurig's voice was pitched low, as if afraid of being overheard, or perhaps extra sensitive to his volume after so many years of conserving his words. "I had need of your perspective, Aleksandr. There is ... something amiss."

Sascha leveled a gaze on the abbot. He could not protest that his trade was more in the library than on the hunt, just as the monk could not imagine hiding his past as a warrior simply because he had adopted the robes of the Cistercian. A man who made war on England did not retire to an abbey and content himself with developing farming practices and a better batch of beer. "Then I suppose I will have to take the tour."

Meurig relaxed his hands. He seemed, to Sascha, very anxious. Though he was the definition of serene, the abbot was an old friend, and his tells were obvious to the Ruthenian. When he spoke, it was to prevent further questions from Sascha that he could not answer yet. "And then I suppose you will continue on your way north?"

"Undoubtedly," the former Ruthenian general said with an agreeable nod. "The world has much need for ... scholars."

"As much as they do men of the cloth."

A pause followed, but a moment in which the men looked at one another, and shared the slightest of knowing smiles. Then it was back to business when the abbot rose to summon one of his white-robed brethren to give Sascha a tour of Neath.

[skmisailov]

The young man who had led Sascha Misailov to the Abbot of Neath's study was a rather tidy height. Like his brethren, he followed St. Benedict's rule to the letter, and truly represented his ascetic life. Not an extra ounce of fat hung upon his sinewy frame. Though he could not have been more than thirty years of age, he looked nearly twice that after a lifetime in the sun, tending fields, constructing walls that belonged to the buildings of ever-expanding Neath. His hands were not those of a scholar's, but of a worker, and promised to go crooked with arthritis within the next decade. As he pointed out various facets along the hallways leading outside the abbey, Sascha noticed calluses and torn fingernails.

"How came you to the monastic life, Brother?" he asked Bran in a quiet moment as they crossed the grounds of the monastery toward the kitchens.

"I was born in Neath," the Welshman said with a shrug, his sing-song southern accent impressively strong. He had not taken vows of silence, as some of his brethren sometimes did out of observance of St. Benedict's Rule regarding unnecessary speech, but he was naturally quiet. His dark eyes were thoughtful. Though hidden beneath a swarthy brow, he was quite intelligent. "The lay brothers are good men," he added slowly, "but I wanted more."

"It is a beautiful monastery," Sascha agreed mildly. "It would be tragic to leave it. How often does the abbot leave for Cîteaux?" The head of the monastic order remained in Cîteaux, where nearly a dozen Cluniac monks had founded a new order intent on living a more literal translation of the Rule of St. Benedict nearly three hundred years earlier. Not much had changed in the establishment of new monasteries since then, save the addition of wax candles to the morning prayers. As new monasteries were built, their architecture reflected the technologically innovative attitude of the Cistercians, who were reformers in all things save devotion to a lifestyle of primitive monachism. Though the order had originally banned the profits of taxes and tolls, their communal lifestyle and willingness to implement new technologies made the orders extremely profitable, and Neath was Wales's wealthiest.

"He dreads it each year, my lord," Bran replied. "We have a simple life here. Travel is never simple."

With a herd of cattle that went unrivaled in numbers and quality, harvests that defied the recent slew of droughts and floods, the ability to extract iron and lead from Wales' hills, and a layman population of nearly four hundred, the Abbot of Neath could and did rival many dukes in influence and wealth in England and France. Neath's lay brother population was so large, few of the ordained monks served in the fields or mines. Most sang in the choirs or chanted, and true scholars were rife as the abbot turned his wealth to constructing a library to rival that of Cluny.

The monastery was also entirely self-sufficient. Their tour took them to the tannery and the smithy, the hydrologic mills, furnaces, creamery, and the distillery. Bran was finishing his tour by showing off Neath's most prized technological innovation -- central heating in the residence. At this hour of the day, few were indoors, though he saw a few of the older monks, men who had long since lost the ability to contribute to the hard work the Cistercians were known for. "Take off your boots," Bran instructed, his clumsiness with their common tongue forcing his cheeks to flush beneath the permanent tan.

Sascha paused for a moment, but saw the earnestness in the monk's face. He rested one hand on the nearest doorway and slid his feet out from his boots. It was a welcome relief to finally be freed from them, but even more shocking was that in the middle of winter, when the ground was frozen completely through and he often had to break up a thin sheet of ice forming in the ewer near his bedside, the stones were warm. "Shto eto?" he asked quizzically, a question the monk must have heard before, if in a more familiar tongue. What's this?

The man's eyes crinkled with amusement. Saying nothing, he merely waved for Sascha to follow. Boots in hand, he did just so. Sascha soon saw the cause of the warm floors. "This was built after Neath was nearly destroyed some years ago, yes?"

"The abbey has grown much," the monk confirmed with a nod. "The construction continues even today. All of our new buildings will have floor heating. The water is heated in an elaborate system nearer the spring, and piped beneath all of the floors."

"The simple life?" Sascha asked, laughing quietly. The monk smiled and led the way to their next stop, the library. Here, they saw a map of Neath's holdings. They were quite extensive by now, though Neath was but a pinpoint on an earlier map. Neath's holdings had expanded to Devon, Somerset, and throughout Glamorgan, rivaling with their sister abbey of Margam for influence in southern Wales. Though the walls around him were plain and the men living a slightly modified version of ascetism, Neath was an extraordinary monument to commercial success.

Bran led Sascha to a guest room. He stood in the doorway wordlessly until Sascha realized this was the monk's way of asking if any further service was necessary. The former Ruthenian general, perhaps overcome by the monastery's presence, merely shook his head. Bran shut the door behind him, and Sascha fell into his bed with relish. The sheets were warm, the institution was silent, and his rest had never been easier.

[skmisailov]

A drawback to living in silence, of course, was the lack of bustle in the mornings. He slept for far too long. The monks currently on kitchen duty had long since cooked, served, and cleaned up breakfast, so he believed, which was always a simple meal of bread, honeyed wine, vegetables, herbs and beans. Meat was rarely served, though Neath had a surplus of mutton, beef, pork, and fish. He found no evidence that the monks had received a pittance today. More the reason to be moving on, he believed. He had no visions of ever entering into the monastic life. He loved meat far too dearly. Among other pleasures of the flesh forbidden by the Regula Benedicti.

Brother Bran had disappeared off to his prayers, and in the distance, he could hear the raucous sounds of hammering on metal by the lay monks and the lowing of cattle in the nearby pastures. It was quite pleasant, actually, and he couldn't see any reason to disturb his hosts for a simple meal of bread, honey, and water, when it had been his simple duty to rise at a decent hour to break his fast.

He took the heel of yesterday's bread, pulled it apart, and spread honey from the jar across the craggy surface. He put the honey back, making sure the lid was wedged firmly, and went to find the cask of watered ale. What he found instead was something quite astounding. Lined up in the small storage room were several open barrel casks, filled to the brim with water. It was not drinking water, he saw immediately, as there were things swimming beneath the surface. He dipped his hand beneath the water and held his fingers perfectly still, his left hand holding aloft his forgotten breakfast. Like a ghost rising from the deep, a fish slightly larger than his hand swam past his fingers.

"Ingenious," he whispered, leaning over the barrel. A few crumbs from his bread dropped into the water as his reflection loomed across the slight ripples. A bolder fish swam to the top and nipped at the crumb, rapidly descending to the bottom once more.

He was startled by the sound of the door opening behind him. He turned and found a white-haired monk standing in the doorway, just as easily surprised to find a stranger in his storeroom. Sascha opened his mouth to introduce himself, but the monk merely held up a hand, smiled, and pointed at the barrels. He moved to Sascha's side and slowly let his two hands drift into the water. Sascha, after wiping his hand off thoroughly on his shirt, stepped out of the way to observe, munching thoughtfully on the sweetened brown bread.

He could see the monk's fingers slowly flicker beneath the water. The old man was silent and still, until suddenly, he was not in a most spectacular way. With a great splash of water, and some futile thrashing from his catch, the monk pulled back from the barrel to hold out a pickerel. Its mottled green and gray sides glistened in the light streaming through the open door. The monk grinned, and then gently slid his catch back into the barrel.

The old man was not yet finished with the tour of the kitchens, however. He indicated Sascha to follow. Sascha, gnawing at the thick crust of his bread, followed along back into the kitchens. The monk pointed at the ground near the hearth. Thin bricks formed the basis of the winter herbal garden, and springing up from the soil as if it were high summer was a wealth of herbs and spices the Cistercians apparently used to flavor their simple diet. The monk pulled him back into the storeroom and pointed at the shelves of dried herbs and ground spices waiting for use. Sascha quickly read the labels, always curious about other cultures' foods, particularly when he was allowed to partake. It seemed the Cistercians had quite the wide palate, with notable absences of pepper and cumin. Why? He had little idea, but these monks were nothing if not devoted to the literal word of St. Benedict. Perhaps the storied hermit never adapted to the taste.

"Thank you," Sascha offered in his limited Welsh, clasping the monk's shoulder with his hand before departing. He wished to comb his own way through the monastery to see what could be seen. What was so terribly wrong at Neath that Abbot Meurig needed his help? He could see nothing wrong. Neath was incredibly self-sufficient, wealthy, innovative, and at no lack of help with the huge numbers of lay monks invited to work and pray with the order.

He watched with some fascination the smithy and forge, as lead, iron, and copper were molded into sheets and bars for further transportation. He spent nearly an hour watching the great mills at work, and even contributed to the cheese-making in the creamery, pounding at the churn until one of the monks silently touched his arm. Enough. He went out that afternoon to talk to the lay monks at work with the cattle and sheep, finding these men from Glamorgan far more conversational than their ordained brethren within the walls of the monastery. They could not read or write, but in the tradition of their countrymen, had a fine ability to spin a story. Literacy was not the master test for intelligence.

"They are good men, Meurig," he told his friend that night, trying not to think of his rumbling stomach. He did not wish to offend his host, but did it not take time to adjust to such a rigid diet? "I do not see a problem, though. Are you not imagining demons around the corners?"

"Oh, I am not imagining, Aleksandr. There is very much a problem, and I do not know what to do about it. I am about to leave for a very important event, and I must ensure that when I return, I still have an abbey."

"Shall I interview your order?" Sascha asked, and then immediately regretted his words. "Ah, yes. That might not be a good idea."

"It is a common misperception," Meurig responded slowly, "that we Cistercians take a vow of silence. Merely, we conserve our words. A brother will speak when it concerns his work for the day, spiritual exchange with his superiors or about a particular member of the community on different aspects of one's personal life, and special occasions. We cultivate an atmosphere of silence, for it is important in our lives, for it is difficult to be in continual prayer if one's lips are flapping."

"A good rule to follow," the Ruthenian replied. "So I shall conduct my interviews tomorrow. After Terce and High Mass?"

"That is generally when we eat, yes. I did not see you at the meal, but I heard you were quite busy investigating our operations?"

Sascha inwardly groaned. "I do not understand your timetables, Meurig. I thought I slept through breakfast entirely."

"Mm," the Welshman replied. "I understand the Horarium might be very confusing to you. In the mornings, we are all very busy. For three hours after midnight, we chant and pray, then we sleep until the sixth bell. We rise, perform our ablutions, and attend to judicial and practical matters among the abbey. We work for a while or pray, and then of course there is Terce and the High Mass. Then we break fast, have a few hours of personal reflection and leisure time. Then it is back to work."

"I do not wish to play guessing games with you, my old friend. I do not mind asking questions, but I would like to know that my answers are worth pursuing. What is it that you know?"

"I cannot confirm it," Meurig said sadly, looking very tired suddenly. "I do not wish to jump to conclusions. I would rather not color your findings."

"Nu vot," the Ruthenian replied congenially. "Well, I bid you a good eve."

"Sleep well, Aleksandr."

Sleep was not his problem at the abbey, though he wondered what Meurig could possibly be losing sleep over. The lack of food, perhaps. The lack of women, most certainly. He left Meurig in the hall and made his way to his room, peeling off his boots and setting his feet on the warm stone floor. It was difficult to imagine anything sinister happening in the shadows of Neath. Sascha found that he did not wish to discover anything dark, not only for his friend's sake, but because he was in genuine admiration of the monastery. It was a truly unique and wonderful place, if one deprived of certain luxuries he was known to enjoy on more than an occasion.

[skmisailov]

The dining hall was a scene Sascha would never forget. He had heard of the large numbers of lay monks employed by Neath to help with the work outside the abbey, but he had never in his life imagined what nearly four hundred men looked like. The dining hall was not small, and comfortably seated all of the men present, but it was like looking upon a field of snow, so numerous were the monks once assembled.

Muttering in his mother tongue, he went to collect his midday meal and took a seat among a group of inviting young monks. As he slathered honey on his bread, he listened to the hall's ambient sound. It was not, as a great house might expect to feature, full of echoing chatter and laughter, the barking of dogs and the clatter of servers navigating their way through the throngs. It was, save for the rustle of robes and the occasional thump of a mug coming to rest on the table, absent of all sound. He could clearly hear the wind whistling outside the walls. It was such an eerie sound, he chose not to think about what it reminded him of, and dove into the pease porridge filling his bowl.

More upset than he thought he would be by the curious experience of dining with the Cistercians en masse, he left the hall immediately and went to find a quiet place to think. He had temporarily forgotten, that in a monastery of four hundred near-silent monks in white, the one man dressed in his usual tunic and breeches, no matter how unadorned of armor or weapons, would always be the odd man out. Meurig had easily tracked down the Ruthenian, and approached at a slow enough pace that Sascha figured him about ready to make his full confession.

He rose, folded his arms across his chest, and waited.

"Come with me to the smithy," the abbot said simply. He waited for Sascha to follow with the infinite patience of a man of God, and one accustomed to herding in stubborn sheep. He knew his old friend was a pagan of the worst sort, but their silent agreement to disagree had not taken over their friendship. There were other fights to be fought and won.

"It is new," Sascha said, stalking after the abbot. "I noticed so yesterday. So what, exactly, are you planning to do with your lay monks, Father? Start a war?"

"Oh, no, Aleksandr. I plan on finishing one. Come, come." He hustled Sascha deeper into the smithy. They passed ovens and anvils and all the paraphernalia of the blacksmith trade, until they reached the far wall, adorned with blades of every sort, and a tribute to a lifestyle that seemed vastly at odds with the white-robed Cistercians. It was as profane as swearing in the nave. Commercialism Sascha could accept, but an army in the guise of lay monks made his skin crawl. He did not realize his expression was so closely guarded until he noticed Meurig staring intently at him, as if deciphering what conclusions the Ruthenian had arrived at.

"Why did you require my help, Father?" Sascha asked instead, turning away from the wall of weapons. "You have clearly arrived at a solution without my help. What troubles you, aside from your obvious political ambitions?"

"Ah, Aleksandr," the abbot exclaimed, looking betrayed. "I had thought.... Of anyone, you should.... Well, well, and so you don't. I am disappointed. But, I still owe you an explanation."

"Any time you wish to start, Meurig."

The abbot gave his old friend a singularly dismayed look, frowned, and turned back to the weapons. "The army was commissioned by my brother," he said, his eyes suddenly dimming. "You see, the three of us that have survived to such an age have gone drastically different routes to restoring peace in Wales. My youngest brother left us long ago, and perhaps he has made a new life for himself far from Wales. Or perhaps he, too, is no longer with us. My father's family has a history of sadly shorted lifespans." When Sascha impatiently cleared his throat, the abbot held up a hand for silence, but changed tracks. "Welsh law is far from specific in regards to inheritance among sons, and there were six eligible for the inheritance of Senghenydd upon my father's death. When Gruffydd disappeared, the number became five. My Lord Brecon already generously supplied our mother's stipend and security for the rest of her life as remittance for the Dispencer's actions, and none of us had yet the time to form families. Between us five, it was clear who would most profit from reclaiming the estate. I decided instead to enter into Neath. In my youth, I saw nothing but ruin and despair attached to that estate, but far from return to our family's estates in Ireland, I knew true salvation for Wales was within her holy places. The monasteries," the abbot said slowly, "house the future of this country. It could very well be a future free of English tyranny and mismanagement. If England wishes to deem her barbaric Welsh cousins ingrates and fools, she has yet to witness the power of a literate, armed mass."

"Meurig -- " Sascha protested, his mouth falling open in horror.

"I did not build the army, Aleksandr. My brother Llewellyn did, as Lord Senghynydd. And you must go to him. Tell him that his army is known, and if he does not move it soon, Wales will fall not to English intervention, but Welsh arrogance. I have reason to believe there is an English informer among the brethren, and so numerous are their numbers, it is impossible to say whom is responsible for the leak. I do not take men into my order, even lay brothers, without first teaching them the basics of the written language. All can read. Some better than others. The men tending the flocks and fields are no less involved than those singing in the choirs, and all have come willingly into the army. There are perhaps three-score pacifists among the order, myself included. My days of fighting have long since passed. Aleksandr, I would not have Wales suffer a lesson in hubris so shortly after her single definitive victory in a handful of centuries of English oppression. My brother must move his army before it is dispersed for him."

Sascha felt like pounding his head into the wall, repeatedly, but maintained his composure even if he could not meet Meurig's gaze. "In addition to pitiably short life spans, Meurig, has your family also a history of madness?" The sinking feeling in his stomach was only mitigated by the joy of quite possibly enjoying a meal consisting entirely of meat as soon as he departed Neath. This brother of Meurig's, Llewellyn, sounded like an utter raving lunatic, but even Sascha had to admit he liked the man's style.

The Ruthenian was aware of the Cistercian influence on many countries spanning from England to the German states, and not a single one of them were subject to the king's law. They operated free of political influence, and lived such simple lives of work and study, there had never been a need to challenge Cistercian influence. Save in Wales, whose men had a long history of living in oppression, and had few opportunities in education and political advancement save to make war or join a monastery. Llewellyn ap Llewellyn had simply placed the favored Welsh pastimes together, and save the presence of English informants within his army, stood a solid chance of winning the right of self-rule his father had fought and died defending. But the line between madman and genius was often a blurred one, and Sascha felt more than some begrudging respect for the Lord Senghenydd.

If Senghenydd's intentions and allegiances were in order, it might very well be possible to ferret out the informer. No doubt, his journey northward would be delayed some weeks more, but he supposed this was a mystery worth solving. To Brecon it was, then, with all due haste from Glamorgan.

[skmisailov]

The Norman castle at Brecon was an impressive sight, though Sascha had long since realized anything impressive in Wales had not actually been built by the Welsh. The gray northern skies flattened the gray stone, and the surrounding countryside of Powys was a mess of ice and snow. His horse had struggled the miles between Glamorgan and Powys, and as the lad took his horse away for sheltering, Sascha could see the deep exhaustion in the animal's body.

He was not here to great the Lord Brecon, but as it turned out, his lordship was not even present. He was wintering in another of the Marcher lords' castles, and serving as an impromptu castellan was the unlikely Lord Senghenydd. Sascha did not even pretend to understand Welsh politics, but in his limited knowledge, even this seemed bizarre. Llewellyn ap Llewellyn had once been Brecon's prisoner, and now he was the lord's greatest friend and supporter.

With the absence of Lord Brecon, the household had switched linguistically back to Welsh. It was interesting to hear the lilting, strangely consonant language drifting through the halls, but perhaps Brecon was a place made for oddities.

"My brother sent you?" Senghenydd asked after formalities, few as they were, were dispensed with. "Meddling fool." He didn't seem as angry as the words he used, and worry immediately crossed his face. "He sent me a Ruthenian?"

"Yes, well, our friendship goes back many years," Sascha explained. Since Senghenydd seemed in a listening mood, Sascha told him how he and the abbot had met nearly a decade ago in the French town of Citeaux, where the abbots of each monastery met in the interest of keeping each abbey as true to the Rule of St. Benedict as humanly possible. Sascha, sent by the King of France to investigate and report on the doings of the order as an official ambassador, had been barred from many of the more official meetings, and spent most of his time in the church, listening to the choir monks at work. That was how he met Meurig, resting from a particularly unproductive session by listening to the monks from his abbey, and though Sascha's travels took him to several other courts, their correspondence had been fairly regular over the next several years. When Meurig became the Abbot of Neath, the letters slowed in relation to increased responsibilities, but Sascha was the last man to complain of irregular letters, when he was so constantly abroad on the king's business. "He asked me to investigate a matter of interest to your lordship."

"Oh?" Senghenydd's eyes moved around the room. He frowned, then asked Sascha if he would not mind taking a stroll through the castle's corridors. Sascha obliged, and soon both men were walking slowly along the hallways, passing guards infrequently, and servants even more rarely. The castle was on a skeleton crew in the absence of Lord Brecon, and truly, there was not much work to be done in the winter that was not already handled by the laundries and the kitchens. "What has my brother said?"

Sascha repeated the Abbot of Neath's warning. Senghenydd barely flinched. He did have a moment of pause when Sascha mentioned the security at Neath may have been compromised. "If the English are not now aware of the activities in Glamorgan, they will be shortly."

"Holy Jesus," the man blasphemed. He stormed off down the hallway, paused before rounding the next corner, and absently waved for Sascha to follow. "Come!" he shouted, and the manic energy radiating from the Welsh lord was doing very little to counter Sascha's belief that the man had gone mad. "Come, come!"

Sascha followed the older man into a small library. Brecon was a working castle, and its lord was not, apparently, amused by scholarly pursuits. There were the standards of military tactics from the Greeks and Romans, a few treatises on health, farming, and husbandry, but so limited was the entire selection, Sascha was able to read most of the titles as he passed the single row of shelves on his way to the large table before a blackened hearth. Senghenydd finished pinning down a large map of the British Isles, and now waved his finger slowly over the southern edge of Cymru, until he settled upon Neath.

"We must hide them, of course." He chuckled lightly, but all merriment ceased as he dropped a pebble on Glamorgan and then let his hand drift northward. "There are many abbeys in Scotland. Kircudbright, Deer, Nunraw.... All with Papal bulls, all with the Bruce's approval. And therefore suspect."

Sascha studied Senghenydd carefully, but found not even a hint of irony from his last statement. Wouldn't he want to move his army to an abbey approved by the Bruce? Senghenydd looked up at Sascha's silence. "Things are not as they seem, my new friend." He shrugged, then turned back to the map of Scotland. "Skye. You will go to Skye. They say the Pope is already on progressus to Turas Lan, though why he goes there and not here, when we have struggled far longer.... Well, you will ask him for us."

"Pardon?"

"You. Will ask. Him. For us," Senghenydd repeated. He looked up again at Sascha. "My brother values your friendship, likely because he has taken vows of silence and you, my new friend, are a bit hard of hearing."

"They don't -- " Sascha was not going to argue with a madman. He simply let the sentence hang in midair before he joined Senghenydd near the Isle of Skye. He chose to re-organize and try again. "Ask him to do what, my lord?"

"To issue a bull, that he might sanctify the building of a new Cistercian house, and make my brother bishop, of course. Oh, and call me Lew. I have a feeling this will not be our last meeting." The Welshman smiled. "With your experience swaying the crowned heads on the Continent to do your bidding, I am sure the Pope will not be too advanced for you?"

It was, but not for reasons Sascha felt like explaining to the madman. Lithuania had little time for God or gods, and superstition was the closest religion any citizen adhered to. Though the Cistercians had, in recent years, made inroads as far as Kiev, Sascha's education had never included matters of religion. He had been too busy with more practical matters, such as his survival. That he might meet with the Pope -- it was absurd! Sascha was never particularly concerned with living these days, but certainly dying by the heretic's fire was not an overwhelming ambition.

"I value my friendship with your brother, Lew, but I am afraid you are asking too much. The most I can pledge is to assess the situation, and perhaps impress upon His Holiness the need for an abbey in Skye. I am willing to take a host of monks north with me. I suggest a choir."

Senghenydd laughed loudly, slapping the table in amusement and causing the weights pinning down his map to jump. "Well!" he barked out at last. "That sounds a fine plan to me! I expect you're hungry, hmm?"

"Famished," he admitted, and did not have long to wait as Llewellyn ap Llewellyn clapped the Ruthenian on the shoulder and forced their way out of the library and toward the kitchens. Perhaps his nose had become extra-sensitive in his brief stay at Neath, but though they were on the opposite side of the castle as the kitchens, Sascha swore he could smell roasting venison. His stomach rumbled in appreciation.