Camber of Culdi by Katherine Kurtz Read Free Book Online

and indicated that they should follow him. No word was spoken as they strode down the corridor with the silent monk. They passed several others, but the men seemed not even to notice them.
    They were shown into a small room strewn with sweet-smelling rushes and herbs, and with a modest fire burning well back on the stone hearth. The man who had been their escort pointed out a stack of dry blankets and indicated that they should warm themselves before the fire, then withdrew behind a heavy, carved door, which closed softly behind him.
    Joram immediately began stripping off sodden cap and gloves, spreading his dripping cloak on the rushes to dry.
    â€œThey’ll bring us dry clothes in a few minutes,” he said, unlacing his leggings and discarding those, then beginning on his tunic. “Meanwhile, we’d best get out of these wet things before we catch our deaths.”
    Rhys sneezed for reply, then began following Joram’s example. Wrapping himself, cocoon-like, in one of the scratchy abbey blankets, he huddled shivering by the fire, damp hair beginning to steam from the heat. Beside him, Joram was typically unruffled, looking every inch the noble’s son he was, even in his currently bedraggled state. It figures , Rhys thought, and decided that he would probably never see Joram look anything less than impeccable.
    The door opened silently, and the two of them stood as two men entered the room. The first was obviously the abbot of the place, silver gleaming on hand and breast against the burgundy richness of his habit. The man’s cowl was pushed back to reveal a shaven head, and he was holding a swatch of grayish linen to his nose and sniffling audibly. The monk who had escorted them to the room bore a pair of gray woolen robes across his arms. Joram crossed immediately to the abbot, blanket clutched around himself like a royal mantle, and bowed to kiss the abbot’s ring.
    â€œThank you for seeing us, Reverend Father. I am Father MacRorie, and this is the Lord Rhys Thuryn, a Healer.” Rhys bent to kiss the ring also. “We are most grateful for your hospitality.”
    The abbot bowed in acknowledgment. “Be at ease, Father, and please to accept the dry clothing which Brother Egbert has brought. I am Gregory of Arden, Abbot of Saint Jarlath’s.” He paused to sneeze, then held the handkerchief to his nose once more as Brother Egbert assisted the two visitors into their robes. When the men had been decently clad and the monk had withdrawn, Abbot Gregory moved closer to the hearth and warmed thin hands before the fire.
    â€œI am told that you are of the Order of Saint Michael, Father,” he said, his voice croaking hoarsely. “How may I assist you?”
    Joram smiled disarmingly and gave the cord at his waist a final tug. “We wish to inspect the records of postulants in this order for the past few years, Father Abbot.”
    â€œAh, is this an official inquiry of some sort, Father?”
    â€œOh, no. It’s personal. A matter of conscience, Father Abbot.”
    â€œI see.” The abbot shrugged, obviously relieved. “Well, certainly it can be arranged. But if you’re looking for a particular postulant, you must surely be aware that he has likely taken his final vows by now and, hence, could not receive you.”
    Rhys glanced sidelong at his companion, then cleared his throat.
    â€œForgive me, Reverend Father, but perhaps Father Joram has not made himself clear. He makes the request in my behalf. The grandfather of the man we are looking for was in my care until his recent death, and begged me on his deathbed to find his grandson and inform him of his grandsire’s demise. Surely, you would not refuse the dying wish of a man whose only fault was in wishing his holy grandson to say prayers for his soul.”
    The abbot raised an eyebrow, then shrugged apologetically. “Well, the news could be taken to him by his superior, I suppose.