Chapter 16

Peter returned with my supper, a dish of beans, cabbage, and boiled fish. He also brought a cup of red wine. As he set these down, I signed to him, "Have you heard the news about the Bard-killer?"

"He’s dead." Peter spoke quietly, and not happily.

"That means you are free. You told me, back at Rockridge, that you wanted to walk your own path. This is your chance."

"Walk your own path." He frowned. "That’s a Heathen saying, isn’t it?"

I signed quickly. "I may have picked it up from the Bard I was traveling with. Tell me, where will you go now that the Bard-killer is dead?"

His look was one of disbelief. "Nowhere. I hoped to follow my cousin and take a place in her husband’s home, no matter who she married, but she has taken a Heathen beggar for a mate. She will realize what she has done, no fear of that, and return to her father – but hen she’ll not be a fit wife for any man of honor."

"Will the Bard be that bad a husband for her?"

He looked out the window. "The Bard would have been a better choice than the wretch who followed him. That’s the one my cousin went with – the penniless ne’er do well."

"Where did they go?" I asked innocently, hoping to show him the possible path.

"My cousin said that they were bound for Slatten."

Another change of plans. What was Wallen thinking? "So what will you do? Will you stay here?"

"I’ll stay here, but the circumstances of my birth prevent me from taking serious vows." He folded his hands in his lap.

"How is that?" I signed.

"I’m a bastard." He shrugged. "Imperfect in the eyes of God and man."

What a strange idea. "Why should your father’s actions mark you?"

He looked straight at me, and said without rancor, "You are a Heathen, Gerard. You don’t understand why a bastard can not be child of God."

"What a strange God you have, to throw away the hearts of those who are unpleasant to him." Even as I signed this, I knew that the suffering god did not think this way.

Peter frowned sharply. "The Lord God and his son Jesus Christ do not throw people away. They give their mercy to all the poor sinners of the world!"

And here I thought they had only one God. "If that is true, then any poor sinner could devote himself to your God, and this be a monk. Is that right?"

He shook his head. "A monk must be more perfect than the sinners of the world."

"Then a man must be perfect before he can be a monk?" This did not fit at all with the monks I had known at Songless Castle, many which were men first and men of faith second.

Taking a deep breath, Peter leaned forward and spoke patiently. "We find perfection through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. Our hearts are purified through worship and his mercy."

Had he ever listened to the words he had learned? I pointed out, "Then if you worship your god, you’ll be perfect, and it won’t matter how you were born."

He frowned, then crossed his arms. "Church law states that no man of illegitimate birth may take orders."

"The Church says that," I signed. "But what does your god say? Ask him in your heart, and listen to his answer. Walk the path set before you."

He frowned sharply. "Eat your supper. I must talk to Father Alfred."

He did not return that night.