The Heretic's Apprentice by Ellis Peters Page B

not by works. A man can do nothing to save himself, being born sinful.’
    â€˜I don’t believe that,’ said Elave stubbornly. ‘Would the good God have made a creature so imperfect that he can have no free will of his own to choose between right and wrong? We can make our own way towards salvation, or down into the muck, and at the last we must every one stand by his own acts in the judgement. If we are men we ought to make our own way towards grace, not sit on our hams and wait for it to lift us up.’
    â€˜No, no, we’re taught differently,’ insisted Conan doggedly. ‘Men are fallen by the first fall, and incline towards evil. They can never do good but by the grace of God.’
    â€˜And I say they can and do! A man can choose to avoid sin and do justly, of his own will, and his own will is the gift of God, and meant to be used. Why should a man get credit for leaving it all to God?’ said Elave, roused but reasonable. ‘We think about what we’re doing daily with our hands, to earn a living. What fools we should be not to give a thought to what we’re doing with our souls, to earn an eternal life. Earn it,’ said Elave with emphasis, ‘not wait to be given it unearned.’
    â€˜It’s against the Church fathers,’ objected Aldwin just as strongly. ‘Our priest here preached a sermon once about Saint Augustine, how he wrote that the number of the elect is fixed and not to be changed, and all the rest are lost and damned, so how can their free will and their own acts help them? Only God’s grace can save, everything else is vain and sinful.’
    â€˜I don’t believe it,’ said Elave loudly and firmly. ‘Or why should we even try to deal justly? These very priests urge us to do right, and demand of us confession and penance if we fall short. Why, if the roll is already made up? Where is the sense of it? No, I do not believe it!’
    Aldwin was looking at him in awed solemnity. ‘You do not believe even Saint Augustine?’
    â€˜If he wrote that, no, I do not believe him.’
    There was a sudden heavy silence, as though this blunt statement had knocked both his interrogators out of words. Aldwin, looking sidewise with narrowed and solemn eyes, drew furtively along the bench, removing even his sleeve from compromising contact with so perilous a neighbour.
    â€˜Well,’ said Conan at length, too cheerfully and too loudly, shifting briskly on his side of the table as though time had suddenly nudged him in the ribs, ‘I suppose we’d best be stirring, or we’ll none of us be up in time to get the work done tomorrow before Mass. Straight from a wake to a wedding, as the saying goes! Let’s hope the weather still holds.’ And he rose, thrusting back his end of the bench, and stood stretching his thick, long limbs.
    â€˜It will,’ said Aldwin confidently, recovering from his wary stillness with a great intake of breath. ‘The saint had the sun shine on her procession when they brought her here from Saint Giles, while it rained all around. She won’t fail us tomorrow.’ And he, too, rose, with every appearance of relief. Plainly the convivial evening was over, and two, at least, were glad of it.
    Elave sat still until they were gone, with loud and over-amiable goodnights, about their last tasks before bed. The house had fallen silent. Margaret was sitting in the kitchen, going over the day’s events for flaws and compensations with the neighbour who came in to help her on such special occasions. Fortunata had not moved or spoken. Elave turned to face her, doubtfully eyeing her stillness, and the intent gravity of her face. Silence and solemnity seemed alien in her, and perhaps really were, but when they took possession of her they were entire and impressive.
    â€˜You are so quiet,’ said Elave doubtfully. ‘Have I offended you in anything I’ve said? I know I’ve