“What’s wrong now, monk?” I ask him, sweet and innocent as a milkmaid’s smile. “You look like a fella that mistook a bolt of vinegar for ale.”
“I am certain that this bishop of yours is every bit as kind and holy as you claim,” he complains in that irritating whine that he uses when he thinks he is being long-suffering.
“Well then?”
“How did the bishop know about the stolen ring?”
“How did he know?” I say. “Odo, you dullard, the good bishop did not know the first thing about it.”
“Then why did you go to see him?”
“We went to find out what he knew,” I say, “and to show him the letter, and give him the stolen goods for safekeeping.” I spread my hands wide. “In the end, he knew nothing about the ring, he could not read the letter, and would not agree to keep the treasure for us.”
“Then you discovered exactly nothing,” concludes Odo. “A wasted journey.”
“God’s mill grinds slowly, my monkish friend, but it grinds exceedingly fine. Our ways are not his ways, and there’s a rare fact.”
Odo makes a sour face. “Then why tell—”
“All will come ’round in good time,” I say, squashing his objection in the egg.
Brother Scribe sighs like a broken bellows, and we trudge on . . .
Well, as we were alone in the bishop’s private quarters, we soon got down to showing the churchman the letter. He confirmed that it was indeed written in Ffreinc.
“Can you tell us what it says?” asked Siarles hopefully.
“I am sorry, my friend,” said the cleric with a thin smile. “That skill has defied this old head, I’m afraid.”
“Can you make nothing of it?” I said, annoyed and more than a little disappointed at having risked so much to come so far for no purpose.
The old man bent his head to the square of parchment and studied it once more, his nose almost touching the surface. “Ah, yes! Here,” he said, stabbing at a word in the middle of the page, “that is carpe diem.”
“Latin?” I said.
Asaph nodded. “It means ‘seize the day’—you might say an exhortation to be about your work, perhaps, or to make the most of your present opportunity.” He shrugged. “Something like that, anyway.”
So, aside from another scrap or two of Latin, we were no better off for our trouble save in one respect only: we knew that Count de Braose was that anxious for the return of his stolen goods that he would dare to hang the population of Elfael to get it.
“Is there nothing else you can tell us?” asked Siarles.
“I am sorry,” replied the old man as the bell sounded for evening prayers. “No one here can read Ffreinc, either.” He brightened with a thought. “Perhaps one of the monks at Saint Dyfrig’s could help you.”
But, having learned about de Braose’s cruel plans for the men and boys of Elfael, Siarles and I were loath to waste even so much as a day extending a chase that might not succeed. “We must move on at once,” my companion told him. “Could you take it, Father?”
The old man did not like the idea. Who could blame him? It was a cold and dangerous errand we were asking. But he was too much in his benefactor’s debt to say no outright. His pale eyes pleaded to be excused, and my heart went out to the old fella. Yet there was no other way. Even if we’d had the time to spare, neither of us knew anyone at Saint Dyfrig’s, nor which of them might be trusted. Bishop Asaph saw this too, I think, for in the end he allowed himself to be persuaded to take the letter for us. But, having agreed to that, he would not in any wise agree to hold the rest of the treasure in safekeeping at the monastery.
This he had decided, even though we had not yet shown him the parcel containing the ring and gloves. It made no difference; the old man would not be moved. “I don’t know what you have, or whence it came.” Siarles opened his mouth to tell him, but Asaph held up his hand to prevent him speaking. “Nor do I wish to know. But if something happened and any of those things were found here, my monks and those few forlorn souls under my care would suffer for it.” He shook his head, his mouth firm. “As shepherd of my flock, I cannot in good