Panem nostrum quotidianum
Da nobie hodie
Et dimmitte nobis debita nostra
She didn't understand Latin, and she couldn't join in, so she stayed silent until the final "Amen."
The monks all looked up, nodded to her. She braced herself: she had been fearing this moment. Because they would speak to her, and she wouldn't be able to answer back. What would she do?
She looked at Marek, who seemed perfectly relaxed. Of course he would be; he spoke the language.
A monk passed a platter of beef to her, saying nothing. In fact, the entire room was silent. The food was passed without a word; there was no sound at all except for the soft clink of plates and knives. They ate in silence!
She took the platter, nodding, and gave herself one large helping, then another, until she caught Marek's disapproving glance. She handed the platter to him.
From the corner of the room, a monk began to read a text in Latin, the words a kind of cadence in her ears, while she ate hungrily. She was famished! She could not remember when she had enjoyed a meal more. She glanced at Marek, who was eating with a quiet smile on his face. She turned to her soup, which was delicious, and after a moment, she glanced back at Marek.
He wasn't smiling anymore.
Marek had been keeping an eye on the entrances. There were three to this long rectangular room: one to his right, one to his left, and one directly opposite them, in the center of the room.
Moments before, he had seen a group of soldiers in green and black gathering near the doorway to the right. They peered in, as if interested in the meal, but remained outside.
Now he saw a second group of soldiers, standing in the doorway directly ahead. Kate looked at him, and he leaned very close to her ear and whispered, "Left door." The monks around them shot disapproving glances. Kate looked at Marek and gave a little nod, meaning she understood.
Where did the left-hand doorway lead? There were no soldiers at that door, and the room beyond was dark. Wherever it went, they would have to risk it. He caught Chris's eye and gave a small jerk with his thumb: time to get up.
Chris nodded almost imperceptibly. Marek pushed away his soup and started to get up, when a white-robed monk came up to him, leaned close, and whispered, "The Abbot will see you now."
The Abbot of Sainte-Mère was an energetic man in his early thirties, with the body of an athlete and the sharp eye of a merchant. His black robes were elegantly embroidered, his heavy necklace was gold, and the hand he extended to be kissed bore jewels on four fingers. He met them in a sunny courtyard and then walked side by side with Marek, while Chris and Kate trailed behind. There were green-and-black soldiers everywhere. The Abbot's manner was cheerful, but he had the habit of abruptly changing the subject, as if to catch his listener off guard.
"I am heartfelt sorry for these soldiers," the Abbot said, "but I fear intruders have entered the monastery grounds - some men of Oliver - and until we find them, we must be cautious. And my Lord Arnaut has graciously offered us his protection. You have eaten well?"
"By the grace of God and your own, very well, my Lord Abbot."
The Abbot smiled pleasantly. "I dislike flattery," he said. "And our order forbids it."
"I shall be mindful," Marek said.
The Abbot looked at the soldiers and sighed. "So many soldiers ruin the game."
"What game is that?"
"The game, the game," he said impatiently. "Yesterday morning we went hunting and returned haveless, with not so much as a roebuck to show. And the men of Cervole had not yet arrived. Now they are here - two thousand of them. What game they do not take, they frighten off. It will be months before the forests settle again. What news of Magister Edwardus? Tell me, for I am sore in need to have it."
Marek frowned. The Abbot did indeed appear tense, chafing to hear. But he seemed to be expecting specific information.
"My Lord Abbot, he is in La Roque."
"Oh? With Sir Oliver?"
"Yes, my Lord Abbot."
"Most unfortunate. Did he give you a message for me?" He must have seen Marek's puzzled look. "No?"
"My Lord Abbot, Edwardus gave me no message."
"Perhaps in code? Some trivial or mistaken turn of phrase?"
"I am sorry," Marek said.
"Not so sorry as I. And now he is in La Roque?"
"He is, my Lord Abbot."
"Sooth, I would not have it so," the Abbot said. "For I think La Roque cannot be taken."
"Yet if there is a secret passage to the inside . . . ," Marek said.
"Oh, the passage, the passage," the Abbot said, giving a wave of his hand. "It will be my undoing. It is all that I hear spoken. Every man wishes to know the passage - and Arnaut more than any of them. The Magister was assisting me, searching the old documents of Marcellus. Are you certain he said nothing to you?"
"He said we were to seek Brother Marcel."
The Abbot snorted. "Certes, this secret passage was the work of Laon's assistant and scribe, who was Brother Marcel. But for the last years, old Marcel was not well in spirit. That is why we let him live in the mill. All through the day, he muttered and mumbled to himself, and then of a sudden he would cry out that he saw demons and spirits, and his eyes rolled in his head, and his limbs thrashed wildly, until the visions passed." The Abbot shook his head. "The other monks venerated him, seeing his visions as proof of piety, and not of disorder, which in truth it was. But why did the Magister tell you to seek him out?"
"The Magister said Marcel had a key."