Page 30 of Wolfehound
“Hopedwhat?”
St. Zosimus took a deep breath, pretending that it was for courage. “I had hoped to help you with this information, Your Grace,” he said. “If you need a man to talk to about it, or have a need for me to help you in any way, I would be honored to remain by your side.”
Now, St. Zosimus’ ambitions were becoming apparent. He’d veiled them well under the guise of delivering a service to Canterbury in the form of important information, but he couldn’t keep that kind of determination hidden for long.
Canterbury wasn’t stupid.
“You mean that you wish to remain here in London,” he said plainly.
St. Zosimus nodded. “That would be my dream,” he said. “I have spent a good deal of time on the marches. It is a dismal, cold place. I was born in London.”
“You want to come home.”
“I would like to, Your Grace.”
“And?”
“And… what, Your Grace? What do you mean?”
“Where would you like to be sent?”
St. Zosimus looked around the lavish solar of the Archbishop of Canterbury. In spite of the condition of the cloisters, the archbishop’s apartments were well kept, warm, and appropriately luxurious. Of course he wanted to be here, in the beating heart of England’s moral pendulum. He was looking right at the man who played God to kings and lords and peasants alike.
Where would you like to be sent?
His information would come at a price.
And he’d planned it all along.
“I am from the East End of London, Your Grace,” he finally said. “My home was near Aldgate. St. Botolph was where my mother and I worshipped.”
“You want to be sent to St. Botolph?”
“I think so, Your Grace.”
Canterbury didn’t say anything to that. He simply nodded as if pondering the request. After a moment, he stood up and went to a beautifully carved table, coated with a layer of wax to make it shiny, and poured himself a cup of wine from a crystal and pewter decanter. The cup was rock crystal, the ruby color of the wine showing through. He put it to his lips and took a drink, not offering anything to St. Zosimus. He didn’t want to. He stood there a moment, sipping, smacking his lips, and thinking.
“Since this information would be of more interest to the king than to me, why did you tell me?” he finally asked.
St. Zosimus wasn’t sure about the intent of the question. “Because… because it was given to me in confidence, Your Grace,” he said. “I cannot tell the king.”
“And you should not have told me,” Canterbury said, finally looking at him. “You are well aware of the seal of confession.”
St. Zosimus sat a little straighter, perhaps with some apprehension. “Of course I am, Your Grace,” he said. “But this seemed too important… and he did not exactly tell it to me in confession, but rather upon his deathbed. It was more like a conversation.”
Canterbury was hardening right before his eyes. “He told you because you are a priest and he deemed you trustworthy,” he said. “But why he should tell you this information is beyond my powers of comprehension. He should have let the secret die with him, but he did not.”
“Nay, he did not, Your Grace.”
The whole thing seemed to be making Canterbury angry. He stood next to the carved table and drank the entire cup of winebefore pouring himself another. All the while, he seemed to be considering the situation, trying to decide what to do about it.
It didn’t take him long.
“Listen to me and listen well,” he finally said. “You are not to repeat the story, not to anyone. If I discover you have, I will excommunicate you myself and then I will have you thrown in the vault. Do you understand me?”
St. Zosimus nodded quickly. “I do, Your Grace.”
“Then get out,” Canterbury said, waving a hand in the direction of the door. “Where are you lodged?”
