Chapter II

Charles Orsino squirmed in the chair. “Uncle--” he pleaded.

“Yes,” F. W. Taylor chuckled, “Old Amadeo and his colleagues were called criminals. They were called bootleggers when they got liquor to people without worrying about the public debt or excise taxes. They were called smugglers when they sold cheap butter in the south and cheap margerine in the north. They were called counterfeiters when they sold cheap cigarettes and transportation tickets. They were called high-jackers when they wrested goods from the normal inflation-ridden chain of middlemen and delivered them at a reasonable price to the consumers.

“They were criminals. Bankers were pillars of society.

“Yet these bankers who dominated society, who were considered the voice of eternal truth when they spoke, who thought it was insanity to challenge their beliefs, started somewhere and perhaps they were the best thing for their day and age that could be worked out...”

Father Ambrosius gnawed at a bit of salt herring, wiped his hands, dug through the litter in his chest and found a goose quill and a page of parchment. He scrubbed vigorously with a vinegar-soaked sponge, at the writing on the parchment and was pleased to see that it came off nicely, leaving him a clean surface to scribble his sermon notes on. He cut the quill and slit it while waiting for the parchment to dry, wondering idly what he had erased. (It happened to be the last surviving copy of Tacitus’ Annals, VII. i-v.)

To work then. The sermon was to be preached on Sexagesima Sunday, a prelude to the solemn season of Lent. Father Ambrosius’ mind wandered in search of a text. Lent ... salt herring ... penitence ... the capital sins ... avarice ... usury ... delinquent pew rent ... fat-headed young Sir Baldwin in his tumbledown castle on the hill ... salt herring now and per saeculae saeculorum unless Sir Baldwin paid up his delinquent pew rent.

At the moment, Sir Baldwin came swaggering into the cell. Father Ambrosius rose courteously and said, with some insincerity: “Pax vobiscum.“

“Eh?” asked Sir Baldwin, his silly blue eyes popping as he looked over his shoulder. “Oh, you meant me, padre. It don’t do a bit of good to chatter at me in Latin, you know. The king’s Norman is what I speak. I mean to say, if it’s good enough for his majesty Richard, it’s good enough for me, what? Now, what can I do for you, padre?”

Father Ambrosius reminded him faintly: “You came to see me, Sir Baldwin.”

“Eh? Oh. So I did. I was huntin’ stag, padre, and I lost him after chasin’ the whole morning, and what I want to know is, who’s the right saint chap to ask for help in a pickle like that? I mean to say, I wanted to show the chaps some good sport and we started this beast and he got clean away. Don’t misunderstand me, padre, they were good chaps and they didn’t rot me about it, but that kind of talk gets about and doesn’t do one a bit of good, what? So you tell me like a good fellow who’s the right saint chap to put the matter in the best light for me?”

Father Ambrosius repressed an urge to grind his teeth, took thought and said: “St. Hubert, I believe, is interested in the stag hunt.”

“Right-oh, padre! St. Hubert it is. Hubert, Hubert. I shan’t forget it because I’ve a cousin named Hubert. Haven’t seen him for years, poor old chap. He had the fistula--lived on slops and couldn’t sit his horse for a day’s huntin’. Poor old chap. Well, I’m off--no, there’s another thing I wanted. Suppose this Sunday you preach a howlin’ strong sermon against usury, what? That chap in the village, the goldsmith fellow, has the infernal gall to tell me I’ve got to give him Fallowfield! Forty acres, and he has the infernal gall to tell me they aren’t mine any more. Be a good chap, padre, and sort of glare at him from the pulpit a few times to show him who you mean, what?”

“Usury is a sin,” Father Ambrosius said cautiously, “but how does Fallowfield enter into it?”

Sir Baldwin twiddled the drooping ends of his limp, blond mustache with a trace of embarrassment. “Fact is, I told the chap when I borrowed the twenty marks that Fallowfield would stand as security. I ask you, padre, is it my fault that my tenants are a pack of lazy, thieving Saxon swine and I couldn’t raise the money?”

The parish priest bristled unnoticeably. He was pure Saxon himself. “I shall do what I can,” he said. “And Sir Baldwin, before you go--”

The young man stopped in the doorway and turned.

“Before you go, may I ask when we’ll see your pew rent, to say nothing of the tithe?”

Sir Baldwin dismissed it with an airish wave of the hand. “I thought I just told you, padre. I haven’t a farthing to my name and here’s this chap in the village telling me to clear out of Fallowfield that I got from my father and his father before him. So how the devil--excuse me--can I pay rent and tithes and Peters pence and all the other things you priest chaps expect from a man, what?” He held up his gauntleted hand as Father Ambrosius started to speak. “No, padre, not another word about it. I know you’d love to tell me I won’t go to heaven if I act this way. I don’t doubt you’re learned and all that, but I can still tell you a thing or two, what? The fact is, I will go to Heaven. You see, padre, God’s a gentleman and he wouldn’t bar another gentleman over a trifle of money trouble that could happen to any gentleman, now would he?”

The fatuous beam was more than Father Ambrosius could bear; his eyes fell.

“Right-oh,” Sir Baldwin chirped. “And that saint chap’s name was St. Hubert. I didn’t forget, see? Not quite the fool some people think I am.” And he was gone, whistling a recheat.

Father Ambrosius sat down again and glared at the parchment. Preach a sermon on usury for that popinjay. Well, usury was a sin. Christians were supposed to lend to one another in need and not count the cost or the days. But who had ever heard of Sir Baldwin ever lending anything? Of course, he was lord of the manor and protected you against invasion, but there didn’t seem to be any invasions anymore...

Wearily, the parish priest dipped his pen and scratched on the parchment: RON. XIII ii, viii, XV i. “Whosoever resisteth the power resisteth the ordinance of God ... owe no man any thing ... we that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak...” A triple-plated text, which, reinforced by a brow of thunder from the pulpit should make the village goldsmith think twice before pressing his demand on Sir Baldwin. Usury was a sin.

There was a different knock on the door frame.

The goldsmith, a leather-aproned fellow named John, stood there twisting his cap in his big, burn scarred hands.