"And thou dost wonder if thou wilt? Or dost thou wish to be sure the bishop doth notice thee?-as he will of a weekaday morn when so few come to hear."

"What, you suspect me of having an ulterior motive? I'm surprised at you, son-you should be sure of it. Shall we go?" They rode up the hill, tied their horses to the graveyard fence, and went in to find Mass in progress. Rod halted, and stared in amazement-the church was packed. It wasn't all that small, either.

"They truly believe," Magnus murmured in his ear. "Or don't dare stay away," Rod muttered back.

They stepped aside into the shadows at the rear. The bishop went on with the service, seeming not to have seen them, which he might not have-in fine old medieval style, the church had no pews, and everyone was standing.

Right away, they knew it wasn't a real Mass-or at least not the one they knew. For openers, the crucifix was at the side of the altar, not in the center, and there was something subtly wrong about it. Its customary place was taken up by a rather rough statue of a man wearing a costume identical to the one the bishop wore, like a poor memory of the real episcopal regalia. The Kyrie had turned into a communal chant of "Lord, forgive our disobedience"; the Gloria was mostly about man's unworthiness, not God's goodness; and the Confiteor went on interminably.

"Who will confess their sins?" the bishop cried, and when no one answered, he signaled to a couple of burly peasants. They strode into the crowd, seized a young man, and threw him down on his knees in front of the altar. "Confess!" the bishop thundered, pointing at the young man as though he were hurling a lightning bolt. "Confess thy lustful desires for Julia!"

A girl not far from the front turned beet-red with embarrassment.

"But I did not ... I . . ." the lad protested.

"Thou didst treasure thy perverted desires in thine heart! Three elder folk saw thy face as she did pass by, and saw that thou didst look after her with thine eyes till she was out of sight! They saw the look in thine eyes! Confess!"

"I did naught ... I . .."

The bishop nodded to the burly men. One of them stepped forward, caught the boy's arm, and twisted it up behind him. The lad let out a yelp, and the bishop thundered, "Confess!"

Magnus started forward, but Rod put out a hand and caught his arm. "We're just observers, remember?"

The boy was babbling, an account of carnal thoughts that grew more lurid each time the bishop pressed for details and the usher twisted his arm. The poor girl who was supposedly the central figure in this episodic fantasy, nearly died of embarrassment as other parishioners glanced back and forth from her to the young man, crowding each other to be closer to the front, not wanting to miss a single syllable. When the boy was done, the bishop pronounced absolution (coming from himself, not God), and dismissed the young man back to the congregation. Then he singled out two more sinners, who seemed surprisingly willing to confess, one to the theft of an egg, the other to having missed Mass the day before, both berating themselves as useless and corrupted excuses for human beings. At last, satisfied, the bishop launched into the sermon, which was an elaboration of the decadence of Ranulf, the suicide, and the sins of his father, Roble.

Finally into the Mass of the Faithful. Rod was amazed that there was no collection, until he reflected that it would be pretty pointless, considering that the people gave the bishop everything they didn't absolutely need, anyway-but he was taken aback to see there was no offering of gifts or washing of hands, just taking out wafers and pouring some wine, pronouncing a quick blessing, and then the Communion, or what passed for it. The bishop and the priest gave Communion to each other, the three altar boys, and the two nuns, and that was it.

"No Communion for the congregation?" Magnus asked, flabbergasted, as they came out of the church-quickly, and ahead of the crowd.

"Apparently not," Rod said. "Presumably, they're not worthy." He untied Fess's reins. "How long were we in there, Fess?"

"An hour and a half, Rod."

"And the Communion itself couldn't have taken more than ten minutes, if that."

"Is not that supposed to be the core and heart of the Mass?" Magnus asked.

"Supposed to." Rod raised a forefinger. "That's the key phrase-'supposed to.' And, one might ask, who did the supposing? No, son, this isn't the Mass as I know it."

"Local variations. . ." Magnus muttered.

" `They knew Him in the breaking of bread,' " Rod quoted. "They didn't crack a single Communion wafer, just blessed them as they were. He wasn't about to share the Eucharist with the parishioners-and he didn't mind in the least embarrassing and torturing sinners. Catholic confession is supposed to be private; Catholic Communion is supposed to be public, including everybody who wants it. `By their fruits ye shall know them.' "

"Therefore is this bishop not truly Catholic." Magnus nodded as he swung aboard his horse. "That service was a virtual parody of the Mass I know. Nay, my father, I must agree with thee-whatever these people are, they are not of the true Roman Catholic Church."

"Not at all," Rod agreed. "Somebody remade the Mass to suit his own convenience."

"Naetheless," Magnus said firmly, "if they are pleased with this form of worship, who are we to say them nay?"

"If," Rod said. "I can name you two who weren't pleased-the boy who had to confess, and the girl he was confessing about. She wasn't guilty of anything-bat the bishop sure made it sound as though she was!"

Magnus shrugged. "Today they did not like it. Tomorrow they may. I learned in the schoolroom something of the psychology of religion, my father, and the mainstay of it is this: that people do need some form of Church, and of clergy, and of service."

"I can't really argue with that," Rod sighed. "Every time somebody tries to come up with a religion that doesn't require ministers or services, they always evolve again. Well, let's see if this town has anything to offer in the way of breakfast, son-if we still have any appetite, that is."

By the time they came to the first huts, Magnus had taken the initiative in the conversation, doing his own critique of the funeral service, and had worked his way up to the sermon, his mouth a thin, grim line. "What manner of bishop can this clergyman think himself to be, to so berate a widower in the hour of his son's burial?"

"I think," Rod said carefully, "that our good prelate knows exactly what kind of bishop he is."

Magnus frowned down at him. "What ... ? Oh. Thou dost mean that he hath appointed himself to his episcopal chair."

"I certainly don't think the Abbot did," Rod returned, "and I don't think he would approve at all, of this man's version of Christianity. In fact, I think His Grace would tell this alleged clergyman to shut up-if he let him stay in Holy Orders at all."

"Thou dost assume this bishop would recognize the Abbot's authority," Magnus said, with the ghost of a smile. Rod looked up at him sharply. "You know something I don't know?"

"Not know," Magnus hedged. "Not yet." '

Rod frowned, and almost demanded that Magnus explain; but a bunch of dried greenery swung at his face, and he had to duck. The distraction was enough to make him remember to give the young man room to find himself. He pulled Fess to a stop and, looking up, saw that the bundle of straw that had almost hit him was hanging by a yard of twine from a pole, which was sticking out of a very roomy hut. He dismounted, tying Fess's reins to a tree. "Well, this but being a little larger than the others, and having a bush hanging out, I'd assume they're trying to pretend it's a tavern. Looks like we eat, son-something besides our own cooking."

"Alternatives to journey rations are ever welcome." Magnus swung down and tied his horse beside Fess. The stallion rolled its eyes toward the robot-horse, moving just a little away. Fess gave it a placid, almost disinterested look.