The Pastor
905 Words
The Pastor~
Nigel Willoughby
Jorendon
Nigel climbed the steps to his townhouse, pleased to have finished the afternoon’s appointments earlier than usual. Plans to enjoy his unexpected free time evaporated when he found an equally unexpected visitor in his foyer, objecting to Henley’s polite dismissal.
The gold sash draped over his white linen robe marked him a bishop of the Church of Innis, but his tanned brow and sun-streaked hair spoke of a man who spent more time outdoors.
“My lord, you are home early,” said Henley. “I was explaining to the bishop he should make an appointment with your secretary.”
Nigel extended his hand. “Nigel Willoughby. And you are?”
“Peder Griffith, Bishop of Da’Rhynn. I’m sorry to come unannounced. It’s a matter of…” He glanced at Henley. “An urgent matter which came up rather suddenly this morning.”
“Concerning the Church? The Diplomatic Corps seldom involves itself in matters of faith.”
“It’s a matter of law. Of justice.”
Silence loosens a hesitant tongue quicker than questions.
“Please, you must hear me out.” The entreaty came out a rasp. “The late Beacon Rotherford said you were one of the few just men left in Jorendon. I don’t know where else to turn.”
Ah, yes. The new Beacon took his chair today. Deighton had already struck fear into this one’s heart. I should stay out of Church matters.
“Henley, Bishop Griffith and I will be in my study. See we aren’t interrupted.”
Nigel escorted his uninvited guest to the sunny library overlooking the street. Griffith took the chair farthest from the windows.
“I came to you with this because Beacon Rotherford trusted you,” said Griffith. “If that trust is misplaced, I’ll likely pay with my life.”
Nigel trusted no one, not even himself. He’d never come to understand why so many others did.
“A diplomat unwilling to guard a spy’s secrets does not last long in Jorendon,” he said.
“A spy.” Griffith spat the word. “Aye, I suppose that’s what it makes me. A turncloak in the Blessed Fellowship.”
“Don’t take it so hard. You’re hardly the first.”
“I am here because an innocent man’s life is at risk.”
“No man is entirely innocent.” The bishop needed the rationalization, but Nigel wasn’t inclined to indulge delusions.
“We all fall short. Even a murderer finds justice at the end of a rope, not at the stake.” Griffith paused. “This man is a brother of the faith.”
Gaining eyes and ears in Deighton’s inner circle could prove useful, but Griffith’s conscience was more conflicted than most that came to him. Tread cautiously with this one.
After a moment of what Nigel assumed was prayer, Peder Griffith raised a determined face and recounted the troubling exchanges in the first Blessed Fellowship to meet under Deighton’s control. The lengths to which the new Beacon was willing to go to further his fanatical crusade shocked even Nigel, and he hadn’t been shocked in years.
The clock on the mantle ticked as he contemplated his move.
“King Walter could stop the burning,” said Griffith. “It’s still against Innish law.”
Nigel pitied the man with the overdeveloped conscience and commoner’s face, but that might be precisely the reaction Deighton meant to draw from him. The stakes were too high for a blunder.
“It is within the king’s authority to overrule a sentence, yes.”
Nigel stopped at stating the obvious. No need to offer his opinion on the likelihood of Walter locking horns with the new Beacon so soon after his election.
“You don’t think he’ll intervene,” Griffith surmised. He rose to leave. “I’ve wasted your time, Minister Willoughby.”
“Wait.”
Griffith turned with a sigh.
“Why?” said Nigel. “Tell me why concern for Rhynn healers would drive a native Da’Rhynn to betray the Blessed Fellowship. Who is this Pastor Danyl that saving him is worth your career?”
Griffith searched Nigel’s face for answers to whatever questions he wrestled.
“One of my sisters can make a salve from nettles and…” Griffith shrugged. “Whatever else. She knows. I don’t. But the salve stops the burn of a bee sting. Moseley would name it a potion because Aurel blood runs in her veins. He threatened Rhynn women today, but Da’Rhynns are a closer target. Do you think my sister is safe, Lord Nigel?”
Griffith didn’t wait for a response.
“Danyl is a good pastor. He takes care of his people. Where we’re still close enough to touch those in need, the Church works. It does good. The higher up it goes, the more self-serving it becomes. The calling becomes a contest over who’s the most pious, the most devout. That contest spawns narrow-minded interpretations of our faith. It makes us instruments of oppression, not shepherds of flocks. Danyl is a shepherd. And a Da’Rhynn.”
Nigel came to a decision.
“Is there one charity house you’re more involved with than others?”
“Providence House on the east end, near Cabbagetown. It protects the penniless orphans of Surdisi descent from eternal damnation by housing all the penniless orphans of Aurel blood together.”
Nigel called for Henley.
“Collect all the food in the kitchen,” he said. “Have it loaded on the carriage and call for us when it’s ready to leave.”
“All the food, my lord?” Henley blinked.
“All of it.”
Henley hurried off to make it so. Poor, long-suffering Henley took his oddest requests in stride. I should give the man a raise.
“We’re going to Providence House together. You will give me a tour, and I will make a sizable donation, a figure substantial enough to be highlighted in the Blessed Fellowship’s next revenue report.”
“Appreciated, and sorely needed. But why?”
“Because you are who you seem to be. Because Deighton is a bigoted fool incapable of scripting the words you spoke just now.”
Griffith’s response was a reluctant, tight-lipped nod.
“Providence House will serve as explanation for your visit today,” said Nigel. “Do not come here again. You were followed.”
“How could you—”
“Get yourself burned in the Beacon’s fire, and you are of no use to your flock or to me. Staying alive is your sharpest weapon, Bishop Griffith.”
“Peder,” he said. “Bishops and Griffiths aren’t parties to what I’m doing. Only Peder, if you will.”
Chapter 10
- Writer
