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quickly at his companion, fearing to find some hint of mockery in the other’s expression. But there was none—only a gentle, indulgent wisp of a smile flicking across the other’s mouth.
    â€œThank you for knowing when not to push,” he said simply, his own lips curving in response. “I’m afraid I’ve not been honed for this sort of thing the way you Michaelines have. It may take me a while to adjust.”
    Joram chuckled as he stood, clasping a hand to the other’s shoulder. “You’re doing fine,” he said, picking up the rushlight again. “For now, let’s just worry about that monk that wants finding, who will doubtless wish to offer prayers for his grandfather’s repose.”
    Within half an hour, Rhys and Joram were gone from Saint Liam’s, riding pell-mell through driving rain toward the tiny village of Barwicke, where Saint Jarlath’s lay. Once the full implications of Rhys’s news had sunk in, Joram had moved quickly to secure fresh horses for the two of them and obtain leave to depart early. More details of the previous day’s events had been imparted to Joram as he changed to riding attire in his chamber—boots and cloak and sleek, fur-lined riding leathers. Then they were mounting up on two of the abbey’s sleek, blooded horses, clattering hellbent out through the abbey yard.
    By the time they reached Barwicke, both men were half frozen and soaked to the skin. It was also quite dark.
    â€œWhere is the monastery?” Rhys croaked, as the two drew rein under a tree at the edge of the village square.
    Joram wiped silver-gilt hair out of his eyes and turned in the saddle, standing in the stirrups to get his bearings.
    â€œThat way, I think.” He gestured north with a wetly gloved hand. “I only hope they’ll let us in this late. We may have to pull rank on them. Come on.”
    With a sigh, Rhys hunched down further in the saddle and followed the priest, trying unsuccessfully to keep the rain from running down his neck. He was beginning to wonder whether they would ever be dry and warm again, and whether the whole thing was worth it, when he saw the monastery looming ahead in the driving rain. Thankfully, he reined in before the monastery gate, stifling a cough as Joram reached up and gave the gate bell a hefty yank.
    When there was no response, Joram yanked the bell again, then dismounted preparatory to pounding on the gate with his fist. Before he had to resort to that measure, a small shutter was opened in the gate and an annoyed-looking face was thrust through the opening.
    â€œAll right, all right, don’t pull the building down,” the man said, scowling against the rain. “Why don’t you go back to the village? There’s lodging to be had there for the night.”
    â€œI wish to speak to your Father Superior,” Joram said quietly. “And while you’re thinking about it, my companion and I should like some Christian charity from the rain.”
    Joram’s cultured tone took the man aback for a moment, but then he shook his head. “Sorry, sir. We don’t open the gates after dark. Marauders and thieves, you know. Besides, you couldn’t see the Reverend Father tonight, anyway. He’s in bed with a bad cold. Come back in the morning.”
    â€œMy good man, my name is Father Joram MacRorie, of the Order of Saint Michael. My companion is the Lord Rhys Thuryn. Now, we would not have ridden all this way in this weather if it were not important. Are you going to open this gate, or must I report your rudeness to your superiors in the morning?”
    The man’s eyes had gotten progressively wider as Joram spoke, and abruptly he bobbed his head in a bow and closed the shutter. When the gate opened seconds later, he was still bowing nervously.
    A lay brother in coarse brown robes and hood was waiting to take their horses, and another monk in deep gray nodded greeting