The people murmured and backed away farther, fear sharpening.
"Those were no lies, but true miracles!" Friar Gode returned. "True miracles, such as His saints work even today by His power! Now you are not only a liar, but a blasphemer as well!" He folded his hands and looked up to Heaven, silent for a moment as he calmed his soul and focused his thoughts on prayer. All the villagers were mute with apprehension, for in this universe, a friar's prayers were powerful indeed.
Brock leaned close to Matthew and muttered, "We must stop this!"
"We can't let them know who we really are!" Matt muttered back.
"O God!" Friar Gode cried. "O Great and Powerful Father of All! O Jesus, Who art both Man and God!"
Banalix began to swing his hand in a circle, muttering.
Matt stiffened, and began gathering verses to chant.
"Suffer not untruth to prosper, I pray thee!" the friar cried. "Expose all lies, strike down all enemies of Right!"
If Matt hadn't been watching closely, he wouldn't have seen Banalix's left hand open the small ceramic box at his belt, wouldn't have seen the right hand dip in, then circle twice more before he hurled a fireball at Friar Gode.
The ball struck, and flame exploded over the friar's robe. He screamed, running, batting at the flames—and, of course, making them worse.
"Behold the power of Belenos!" Banalix cried in triumph, but the crowd only pressed away from the burning friar, moaning.
"Help me!" the friar howled, running toward his parishioners. The flames roared higher, and the villagers flinched even farther away, moaning.
But Matt was running, too, shouting, "Fall down, friar!" and whipping off his cloak.
The monk didn't hear him over his own screaming, only went on running from one villager to another. Matt knocked him to the ground and dropped his cloak over the man, rolling him in it and rolling again and again until all the flames were out.
"See how Belenos triumphs over the Christ!" Banalix cried.
"With the help of a little naphtha." Matt wrinkled his nose at the smell coming from the poor burned friar.
"Do you question whose magic is more powerful?" the false druid demanded of the crowd.
His answer was a low moan.
"Come to the worship of Toutatis and Belenos!" Banalix urged. "Return to the gods who are strongest!"
Most of the people started toward him, then glanced at their neighbors and hesitated. Everyone hesitated, in fact. Then the whole crowd pulled back, shame-faced and sullen.
"How fearful you are!" the druid said scornfully. "But I warn you, Belenos' wrath is more to be feared than the disapproval of your neighbors or the scoldings of your priest!"
Even burned and in pain, Friar Gode managed to turn his moans into a cry. "Already he begins his threats!"
The villagers glanced at him, startled, then frowned at Banalix, unsure.
The false druid at least knew he'd pushed it as far as he could. "I shall go now, but Belenos shall stay with you! Toutatis shall watch you! You shall never be free of your ancestors' gods—but then, you never have been!"
One boy stepped closer to Banalix, greatly daring, no doubt urged on by his friends—and as the false druid turned away, his hand flashed out and caught the boy by the arm. The child yelped with fear and tried to pull away, but Banalix pressed something into his palm. The boy froze, staring at the first gold coin he had ever seen—tiny, but really gold. Banalix drew him close and said something softly to him, then turned him around and sped him on his way with a pat. Then Banalix strode off toward the woodlot beyond the village, head high, moving swiftly, certainly appearing to be a druid. The villagers gave way, pulling back to leave a channel down which Banalix went, between the huts and into the woods. The people stared after him, silent a moment, then began to drift away to their huts, talking in low tones. One or two glanced guiltily at the friar but saw he was in someone's care, even if that someone was a stranger, and took the excuse to hurry away to their homes.
Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock, though, came closer, their faces grave. They winced at the friar's groans and wrinkled their noses at the stench of the naphtha.
"A bucket of water, please, Sergeant," Matt said, then turned back to stripping the remains of his cloak off the friar. "Lend a hand, Sir Orizhan."
The knight stepped closer, face a mask against the sight of the burns, and helped Matt strip charred scraps of the friar's own robe from his body.
"Not my loins!" the friar cried. "Sweet modesty!" But he stirred too much as he said it, and cried out with pain.
"By your leave, friar, we have to heal the burns wherever we find them," Matt told him.
Brock came up with the bucket.
"Pour it everywhere you see a burn," Matt told him, "but gently, mind you."
Brock poured, and Matt sprinkled a powdered herb on the wet flesh, muttering,
"Chest and arms,
Grow skin, new skin!
Thighs and groin, heal cold!
Back and sides and calf and shin,
Be healed of burns and scalds!"
He kept muttering and sprinkling as the friar's groans slackened, until every burn had grown new skin and the friar sat up, looking at his arms and chest, amazed.
Sir Orizhan's lips shaped a soundless whistle, and Sergeant Brock stepped back, the whites showing all around his eyes.
The friar stared up at Matt. "What manner of man are you?"
"A healer, among other things." Matt figured the obvious couldn't hurt. "You were lucky we got to you quickly—though the burns were only superficial, or I might not have been able to mend them so fast."
"Not luck, but Providence!" The friar started to stand up, then remembered his nudity and sank back with a cry of distress.
"Yes, there's still some pain," Matt said grimly. "Sir Orizhan, could the good friar borrow your cloak for a little while? I seem to have lost mine."
"It shall be replaced!" the friar assured him.
"Call it a donation," Matt told him.
Sir Orizhan held up his cloak, and Matt helped the friar rise into its folds. He cried out as it touched his shoulders, then clamped his mouth shut.
"I know, it still hurts," Matt commiserated. "Be careful, friar—that's new skin, and it will be very sensitive for a while."
"I shall be most careful indeed! Bless you, stranger, for a good Samaritan!"
"I have a stake in your cause," Matt told him.
"My cause!" The friar buried his face in his hands, moaning. "I have failed my Lord! Both my Lord and my flock!"
"You haven't failed yet," Matt said grimly. "This was a battle, friar, not a war. No, not even a battle—just a skirmish."
Sergeant Brock looked up in surprise. Sir Orizhan looked up, too, but only smiled and nodded slightly.
The friar stared at Matt, and hope began to rise in his eyes again. Matt turned him away gently and began to walk him toward the church. "Lucky your feet weren't burned."
"This is not the end of the matter, then?" the friar asked. "Have you any real knowledge of that?"
"Sure," Matt said. "You pushed that Banalix to his limit, friar. All he could find for an argument were clichés that were worn thin by the time the gospels were written. He had to resort to trickery to shut you up."
"Trickery?" The friar halted, staring up at him. "Not true magic?"
Sergeant Brock stared, too.
"Not a bit," Matt assured them. "I saw him pull that ball of wax out of his sleeve while he was making those sham magical passes. I saw him light it in the coal-box at his belt, too, and I know what he mixed with the wax to make it burn that way—I recognized the smell on your charred robe. Believe me, there was no way you could have won that encounter—that would have taken a real wizard."
Both his companions looked up, startled. Matt gave them a wink and a slight shake of the head.
Friar Gode turned away and started walking again, head bowed in thought. "But why wasn't prayer enough?" he asked, bewildered.
>
"You should know the answer to that one better than I, friar." Matt smiled. "It's because we have free will—so God and the saints leave us to fight our own battles, and won't interfere directly, though they'll give us all the help they can. The Devil doesn't feel any such scruples, though. The only thing that stops Hell's minions from coming out in the open is that if they do, the saints feel fully justified in stepping in themselves. So the Devil keeps his imps hidden, and the saints watch ready to pounce, and that leaves it up to us to fight the battle. But the Devil gives his agents all the ammunition they need—in this case, a recipe the Greeks knew but most people today have forgotten."
"Save my people from this druid!"
"I'll do what I can. Shouldn't be too hard; Hell wouldn't be helping a real druid."
Friar Gode's face lit with relief and joy. "You, too, think the man to be an impostor, then?"
"I'm sure of it. The druids were very religious people in their own way, and the Devil's trying to destroy religions, not help them."
Friar Gode froze, staring at him in shock.
Matt kept on walking, though slowly. "I'll bet Banalix doesn't even speak Gaelic, and that sickle was only gold plate over very real steel. Besides, real druids didn't use fake fireballs."
The friar hurried to catch up with him, then looked up at the church. "We are come to the House of God. Will you take supper with me? It is all the thanks I can show."
The thought of food suddenly sounded very good. "Why, yes, thank you. Sir Orizhan, Sergeant Brock?"
The sergeant looked wary, but the knight said easily, "I shall accept your hospitality with thanks. If we are to have another night in a cold field, hot food would be a blessing."
"In a field?" The friar looked up, startled, then glanced at the inn. "Of course—you cannot be sure of your welcome at the hostel now, can you? Well, I have only the one hard bed, but if you wish to spread your blankets on my floor, I would be honored."
Inspiration struck. "Thanks very much, but, uh... would it be too much to ask if I could sleep in the church?"
"In the church? But the floor is stone, as is all the building!" The friar gave Matt a searching glance. "Of course, if you wish it. The House of God is open to all, at all hours."
It made a nice contrast to late-twentieth-century America. "Thanks. I think I'll sleep much better there."
"I'd liefer have a wooden floor, if you will allow it," Sir Orizhan said.
"I, too." Sergeant Brock seemed relieved.
"Then let us dine. My housekeeper should have the evening meal ready." The friar's lips quirked in a sardonic smile. "If she still cooks for me, that is."
She still did, and though the meal was Spartan, it was hot and very good—only bread, fish, and ale, with cheese and apples after. When they were done, Matt took the friar aside and said, "If you don't mind, mine host, I know a few simple spells which might be of use to you in the future."
"Spells?" The friar stared. "Are you a wizard, then?"
"Every traveler should know enough to repel bandits and guard against night-walkers," Matt told him. "Now, here's a defense against fireballs, since we've seen you may need it..."
Friar Gode proved to be a better student than Matt was a teacher, and within the space of an hour could repeat the verses and gestures of four spells perfectly. He could quench fireballs, ward off malice and spite, protect himself against weapons of any kind, and, most importantly of all, cancel the effects of spells cast to harm him.
"I'll feel a little better about you living on your own now," Matt told him.
"You are not a guest, but a blessing!" the friar declared. "You must have my bed—I shall sleep on the floor!"
Matt smiled. "Well, thank you, friar—but I'd still rather sleep in the church. It's dark now, though, so it must be your bedtime. If you don't mind, I'll take a little walk before I sleep."
"Anything that pleases you!" Friar Gode turned to Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock. "Please, my friends, do not delay on my account! Spread out your blankets and rest!"
"I thank you." But Sir Orizhan's gaze rested on Matt. "Perhaps you should not walk alone, my l—good sir."
"Oh, I think I'll be fine. You two lie down and sleep while you can. Don't worry about me, I'll be safe as houses."
"Houses of God, at least." Sir Orizhan smiled faintly, but his eyes were still worried.
Matt went out and began his stroll, listening to the night sounds for the hoot of an owl. When he heard it, he took a packet of powder from his belt and sprinkled a sparse, almost invisible stream beside him, chanting,
"Around this church and cottage low
The certain knot of peace be bound,
That rest to care and balm to woe
And sleep in safety may be found.
Let holy warders in the dark
Protect this building consecrate
That ministers of grace may mark
A place where crooked paths go straight."
He walked around the church and the hut of a rectory attached to it, sifting powder and chanting rhymes. He had almost finished the circle when a voice beside him said, "That won't do much good, you know."
Inside his skin, Matt jumped a mile. Fortunately, the outside of his skin stayed right where it was and kept on chanting and moving its feet as he sprinkled powder.
"That charm, I mean," Buckeye said. "There is no spell you can lay that can keep me from you, no warding circle I cannot cross, for you have bound me to you by the naming of magic."
Matt closed the circle and wrapped up the packet of powder, tucking it back inside his pouch.
"You cannot keep me out." The bauchan sounded miffed by Matt's silence. "Not even ignoring me can fend me off, the more so as I know you hear."
Finally Matt turned to him, grinning. "Who said I was laying the warding circle against you?"
"What...?" Buckeye stared, taken aback. "But—But—what else has beset you?" Then anger gathered. "Does someone else wreak mischief upon you? Nay, tell me the name of that foul sprite!"
"Not on me," Matt corrected. "I do occasionally take the side of someone else who's being bullied, you know."
"Someone else?" Buckeye stared. "When you yourself are not hurt in any way?" The concept was clearly foreign to him.
"Even when it doesn't affect me at all." Matt frowned, thinking that over. "No, that's not true—I have the naive notion that anything that affects anybody else has some effect on me, too, no matter how small."
"Outrageous!" Buckeye struggled with the concept, and lost. "What a positively outlandish notion!"
"Well, at least you realize it's positive." Matt pointed to the rectory. "There's a good man inside there, a friar, and a fake druid has just popped up to plague him. He threw a fireball at Friar Gode this afternoon, and I'd like to make sure this Banalix can't hurt him again in any way."
"Banalix!" The bauchan's face wrinkled in disgust. "A false druid indeed!"
"Oh?" Matt looked up with interest. "How do you know?"
"Och, I remember the true druids, mortal! Five hundred years ago and more, and they were the salt of the earth, the sap and the fruit and the branch of the forest, and the forest of them! They treated me with the reverence that was my due, as they treated all the spirits! But they are gone, alas, except for the few left in that isle off the western shore—gone, and only you milk-blooded folk in their place, who idolize the plow and try to deny the forest!"
"Well, farming does provide more food, and thereby keeps more of us alive." Matt spoke bravely, but he shivered inside at the thought of talking to a creature who was five hundred years old. He clung to the one fact that offered some promise. "You've heard of Banalix, then?"
"Of course! Would I let something so obscene as a false druid slip by me? He is bound for the oldest oak in the center of the woods this minute, for he has spread word through the village that all the folk who wish to bring the Old Faith to life again may meet him there!"
Matt just stared at him for a minute—two
minutes, four.
Buckeye actually grew nervous. "Wizard? Have I hit upon words that can turn you to stone?"
"No, I'm attuned to a completely different kind of rock," Matt told him. "You know, I was just going out for an evening stroll before bedtime anyway. Which way did you say this old oak was?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mama and Papa woke with the sun and were on the road early, but the peasants were already in the fields. The couple left the village, following the track, talking happily with one another, for it was a beautiful morning and they were both feeling at peace with nature.
Just beyond the village, though, the road crossed a small river. There was a ford, the water only two feet deep and the riverbed floored with extra stones to give a firm footing for crossing—but at the moment the women of the village had gathered there to do their laundry. There was a cheerful hubbub of talk as they lathered the fabric with soap and scrubbed it on the rocks.
"Washing day! What a happy chance!" Mama cried.
Papa frowned. "For what?"
"For gossip! Quickly, Ramón, give me the shirt off your back!"
"Always and willingly, my love," Papa sighed. He shrugged out of the shirt, pulled his vest back on, and stepped aside into the trees. "I assume it would be just as well if I were not seen."
"You are so understanding." Mama stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. Then she turned away, singing a little song, and Papa faded back under the leaves, watching.
As she came up to the ford, silence fell, and the women looked up at her.
"Good morning," Mama told them cheerfully. "This is fortunate—I have been wondering how I should wash my husband's shirt when we are traveling every day."
"Travelers?" A young woman looked up with keen interest.
"Be still, Meg," an older woman snapped, and the girl turned away, reddening. The older woman said to Mama, with a little frown, "You are of Merovence, by your speech."
"Of Merovence, yes," Mama said, kneeling down and taking off her pack. "We have lived there for three years. But we came from much farther away, to the west."
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