In Which Casimiro Grapples With the Logic

June 23, 1185

What the fuck did I do?

Or perhaps the better question was who the fuck did he just do. Or who the fuck had he just... fucked, for all it had felt like more than mere fucking. Of course, he already knew the answer to that.

I just had sex with a priest. Some stupid part of him hoping he'd imagined it, Casimiro cast a sidelong glance to the other half of the bed. Sure enough, there was the back of Sieron's pretty blond head, resting peacefully as if he hadn't just thrown his vows to the wind. Well, he's technically a monk, I guess... but still! A man of the cloth!

If he hadn't been hell-bound before, surely that fate was sealed now.

Casimiro slung his legs off the bed and fished up his braises with his toes. He stood up as he pulled them on, unable to shake the feeling that somewhere, someone was watching him. Must've been God.

Forgive me, Father--like I forgave you for making me this way. Though, fat lot of help that did him.

"Cas?" Behind him, Sieron rustled the sheets. "Are you all right?"

Poor man. Perhaps Sieron's error had been in joining the church too young, before he'd known if that was what he truly wanted. That didn't make him any less a Man of God. "I'm sorry, Sieron. We--I shouldn't have done that."

"Why just you? I wasn't exactly an unwilling participant."

"Yes, but... what if I...?" How to put it? Ruined him? He hadn't asked before, but as the sex had occurred, he'd been left with the distinct impression that Sieron hadn't done that before. But 'ruined' just sounded twisted, dehumanizing. "Made God mad at you?"

"You think God has no more pressing concern than people making love? We oughtn't flatter ourselves like that, Cas--not when there are people starving and dying all over the world."

"The Bible seems to take issue with it, though."

"If the Bible was meant to be set in stone, God would have carved it Himself on the mountainside." Sieron's feet fell to the floorboards, the mattress settling back to form as his perfect ass rose from it. "The world is complex, Cas. Humanity is complex--and we know this because complex beings are capable of change. Those who believe God to be rigid do Him grave insult, assuming Him to be simple."

"Then why doesn't God commission an updated Holy Book?"

"Because God wants us to figure these things out for ourselves." A smiling face looped around the bedpost, a gentle hand landed on his shoulder. Silky soft lips pressed to his own, parting with a widened grin. "For what better way is there to truly know God than to talk to him, question him? To inquire and to reason with the minds with which He blessed us?"

"But--"

"But what? God gave us sex. He created us with the capacity to enjoy sex, to want sex--almost all of us. Not just fertile men who marry fertile women, or vice versa. If sex was solely for the sake of future generations, why should it be pleasurable for the present?" One corner of his mouth tugged, eyelids flickering and widening upon open. Such a lovely blue. "Besides, God also gave us math--and math tells us that if every one of us could have children with our chosen partners, then it's only a matter of time before the earth is filled to capacity. Not all of us are meant to continue the species, but that doesn't mean we're not entitled to enjoy the physical act of love if we so choose."

That sounded... logical. Priests and monks were not often logical. Casimiro wasn't sure what to do with that.

"You may just be the strangest man of the cloth I ever met." As he said it, it became all too clear in his mind that 'strange' was not an inherent insult. "Strangest, and most endearing."

NEXT CHAPTER:

In Which Casimiro Has the Time

November 27, 1184

Casimiro was not any more religious than the average young man of his age--the church was hardly welcoming to those like him, after all, so why should he have paid them any more mind than social obligation demanded?--so he hadn't bothered to make much use of the small chapel in his own castle. Hadn't been much point, really. Neither he nor Ellona were the epitome of so-called good Christians, and having a chapel in their own home would have only served as a reminder of that, like some nagging elderly relation they lacked the heart to evict.

But his little daughter had been sick the week before, sick enough that he'd feared the worst in the darkest hour, but she'd made a turn for the better and was now well on her way to a full recovery, or so Widow Fedurin and Aerina Frey agreed, and that was why he'd ridden over to the chapel at the duke's keep. If God had a hand in that, Casimiro supposed it was only polite to thank him.

But the scratch of paws against the hardwood and the thud of a tail against the pews and the wet nose just in view did little for his concern over whether or not it was the right time. "Um... hi, Jadin."

Jadin yipped. At first, Casimiro had been baffled by Lorn's decision to name his dog after his brother-in-law, but the last time he'd seen the mutt, he'd been attempting to hump a barrel. The resemblance had been more obvious since then.

"Oh, don't mind him."

Huh. How had he missed the holy man? "He likes to keep me company during the quiet hours."

"Right." In his pocket, Casimiro fiddled with his wedding band. The clergyman was young for a parish priest--he couldn't have been more than twenty--but he had a calm air of wisdom about him that Casimiro had yet to see in any other priest in the country. Old beyond his age, maybe. "Uh... I don't think we've met."

"No, I don't think we have. I'm Brother Sieron." He stepped around the altar and approached with a whimsical smile. Old beyond his age, but still young in spirit? "I've only been here a few months."

"And I haven't been here... um, probably since the duke's brother got married." And yet, there was no hint of disapproval or condemnation in the priest's eye. "Casimiro de Cervantes. I live in one of the castles close to the border of the royal shire."

"You're a knight, then?" Casimiro nodded. "I thought so. Strong of body, noble of face."

"Well, my brother Bernardo was always the good-looking one, but thank you."

"Men of God are not called to lie to their flocks, Sir Casimiro." One hand flew to Brother Sieron's chest, maybe in search of a cross hanging beneath his robe. "But surely you didn't come here for flattery. How may I help you?"

He asked of his own accord? That was quite an improvement on the other priests. "Just a prayer, I suppose."

"Of course. What sort of prayer?" Another crooked smile broke out across his face. If Casimiro took in his features, only his eyes were remarkable on their own, but in combination, they somehow sang.

"A prayer of thanks. My daughter was sick, but she's recovering now."

Brother Sieron nodded. "A worthy prayer indeed. Shall I add her health to my list of prayers for tonight, or would you like to pray together now?"

Huh. Half-decent priest or not, Casimiro wasn't sure that anyone had ever asked him that. Certainly no one had made it sound appealing. "I've got time."

NEXT CHAPTER:

In Which Geneva Says Goodbye

November 25, 1164

"Still up, I see?"

In the dim light, the nun was scarcely more than a silhouette; there was an almost spectral air about her, a sort of ghastly omnipresence that seemed to summon all the cold in the room and concentrate it around Geneva's spine. She tried to keep her wits about her--this was a Bride of Christ, after all--but she found her rushing heart could not be slowed.

Fortunately, Geneva of Bandera had a gift for being able to maintain the appearance of calmness. "The baby's still awake; I don't want to fall asleep before he does."

Was that right? She couldn't remember; it had been a few years now since she had last mothered an infant, and even then, she had always had a nurse or two at her disposal. Ah, but it was useless to dwell on such things--in the long run, it was a moot point.

The sister nodded. "Fair enough. Is this your first baby?"

"Yes," lied Geneva, the faces of the previous five flitting about in her mind. "Sorry for imposing on you, again."

The nun gave a her reassuring smile--yet, she knew she didn't deserve it. "It's no trouble. What else could you do? Your husband died and your house burned down."

It was a relief to have been reminded of her own cover story. "Yes... still, it was very kind of you to take me in."

The nun turned around and gazed at the restless baby in the crib. "That's what we're here for, dear. My... he's a rambunctious little one, isn't he?"

Geneva stifled a laugh. "Just like his mama."

The other woman placed a kiss on the boy's head, then opened the door and stepped into the corridor. "Good night to you both. If you need anything, don't hesitate to wake me."

"Thank you."

With a last parting grin, the nun walked away, shutting the door behind her. Her smile had been warm, but that had only served to make Geneva herself feel cold in comparison. Perhaps that was her only problem with the woman; something about her made her painfully aware of her own faults.

But alas, she had always been told that a tigress could not change her stripes.

Geneva slung her legs off the bed and lifted the lid from the trunk by the window. Her own dress had been taken by the servants to be laundered, but the trunk must have been there for a reason, and that reason was probably the storage of extra clothing.

Sure enough, it held several assorted garments of reasonable quality; perhaps they were sometimes given to beggars and refugees seeking sanctuary at the orphanage. Geneva dug around for a minute or two before settling on some men's traveling clothes. They were a little on the large side, she noticed as she dressed herself, but they would have to do--at any rate, they were much more convenient than a long, flowing dress.

She folded the borrowed nightgown and placed it in the stead of her new attire. Now all she had left to do was to get her hair out of the way; she bundled it back, then, holding it in place with one hand, snatched a ribbon from the trunk and tied it into a loose ponytail. One shorter lock in the front fell out of place, but she figured it wouldn't be too much of a bother.

Not relatively, at any rate. Now, for the part she always hated most, that part that almost made her change her plans and keep from whatever would have otherwise awaited her next.

Almost.

Seeing that he was still awake, Geneva lifted the baby from the crib and hoisted him to her shoulder. He would be all right--she had fed him shortly before the nun had arrived, and there was a lactating servant sleeping in the room next door--and she knew he wouldn't remember her, but all the same, it felt wrong to leave without saying goodbye.

"You'll be safe here," she soothed him as his tiny fingers curled around her stray lock of hair. "She's a good woman--somewhat scary for a sinner like me, maybe, but you're too little to be a sinner."

"They'll take care of you here, darling. I'd take you with me if I had a home to offer you... but then again, you're better off without me anyway. Now, you just be a good boy for the sister, all right?"

The baby responded with a small whimper. Geneva kissed his forehead, then gently patted his back. "I'm sorry, love. Maybe you'll understand when you're older... but then again, most people aren't really good for the whole 'understanding' thing. Regardless, I imagine you'll grow to be a better man than most."

She looked into his wide blue eyes one last time before placing him back in his cradle. "Goodbye, my angel. I love you--even if you don't remember me, I hope you never forget that. I know I never will."

The child simply looked up at her. Geneva allowed herself to cry a single tear; it was probably a good thing that a week-old baby couldn't understand a word she was saying.

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