The Warlock Heretical

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Even to women becoming priests, I doubt not, and wearing vain and frivolous garb, not sober habits." The Abbot nodded. "Aye, such have we heard."

  "Nay, further! He doth allow all to garb themselves indecently; he doth permit commoners to wear clothing similar to that of great lords! I' truth, he doth claim to see naught of difference 'twixt prince and pauper, for, saith he, 'All are alike before the Lord!'"

  "'Tis a vile and treacherous belief." The Abbot nodded heavily. Clergy or not, he had been born the second son of a minor nobleman.

  "Yet his offenses mount! This 'Holy Father' doth allow the lending of money at usurious interest! He doth condone players and shows; he doth turn a blind eye to roistering and drunkenness! He will abide for his Christians to have converse with heathens—aye, even to wed them!"

  "Abominations!" The Abbot shook his head, astounded at the impiety of the Holy See.

  "Yet 'tis there for all to read, in the writings of our founder, Father Marco!"

  "I have read them, Brother," the Abbot said. "In truth, he doth seek to explain why Rome doth allow such vice to flourish, and why it must content itself with counseling moderation in such!" He grasped the edge of the desk to keep his hands from trembling. "Almost I could doubt the holiness of my predecessor!"

  "Do not, for 'tis only that he was blinded by his vow of obedience, and cozened by the Pope! 'Tis the See of Peter that is impious, not Blessed Marco! And are not then Their Majesties fully as impious as the Holy See, since they have not given thee their support in this?"

  The Abbot nodded with the slow weight of judgment. "Aye. That they are. And they have willfully blinded themselves to morality in not seeing the offenses of which thou dost speak."

  "Aye, and in not acknowledging that the good of their subjects' souls doth suffer in their hesitation! 'Tis open sin in them, that they have not declared the Church of Gramarye to be the only church legitimate, the Church of the State! For be assured, milord, that thy Church, having freed itself from the snares of Rome, can now redress such faults and condemn them for the vile vices they are! They must be made to see the rightness of thy claims, by force of arms if need be!"

  "Be still!" The Abbot shoved himself to his feet and turned away from Brother Alfonso.

  "Wherefore, my good lord? Is't not even as thou hast but said, even now? Can there be aught of wrong in it?"

  "I have sworn not to bear a sword," the Abbot said, distressed. "In truth, our good Savior did say that 'He who doth live by the sword, shall die by the sword!'"

  " 'Tis scarcely living by the sword to but take it up for a few days to school a wanton soul! And if 'tis wrong for thee, how is it not wrong for the great lords and their knights?"

  "I am a priest anointed, Brother Alfonso, a minister of God!"

  "As they are His knights! And bethink thee, milord, how long will they abide without sign of redress of their grievances?"

  The Abbot was silent.

  Brother Alfonso pressed his point. "They have declared their adherence, milord, yet how long will they maintain it? Nay, they must needs see some way in which thou dost strengthen their cause 'gainst the Crown, or they must, soon or late, withdraw their support."

  "Thou dost counsel immorality!" The Abbot turned on Brother Alfonso. "A priest must not consider such worldly issues when he doth decide right from wrong!"

  "Nor would I counsel that thou shouldst!" Brother Alfonso said quickly. "I' truth, there's no need—for assuredly, such principles must be clearly evident to a prelate."

  The Abbot stared at him. Then, slowly, he said, "I am not a prelate."

  "Art thou not? Nay, be assured, milord—if the Church of Gramarye is a church entire, sole and separate from Rome, it must needs have a bishop, a ghostly father—and who can fulfill that role, save thyself?"

  The Abbot kept staring. Then, slowly, he turned toward the window, frowning.

  "Nay, an Archbishop," Brother Alfonso murmured, "for there are so many souls in Gramarye that thou must needs name bishops to each province! A Prince of the Church—for one with so much authority must needs be a prince, with authority equal to that of the worldly Crown. Yet the common folk cannot comprehend such, unless this Prince of Souls doth show himself to them in all his power and glory—borne in a throne on the shoulders of monks, with heralds and trumpets going before, and a guard of honor coming behind! He must clothe himself in purple royal, bearing a crozier of gold, crowned with a gilded mitre! He must stand beside his Royal Majesty, appearing as his equal in every way!"

  "Be still!" the Abbot thundered. "What I decide, Brother Alfonso, I will decide because it is right, not because it doth yield me advantage! Leave me, now! Go!"

  "Why, so I shall," Brother Alfonso murmured, turning away, "for as Thy Lordship wills, so shall it be done. Yet I beg thee, milord, be mindful that even a prince should be subject to a prelate."

  The door closed behind him, but a portal yawned within the Abbot's heart, disclosing a vista of power and glory that he had never conceived of, beckoning, tempting…

  Lady Elizabeth lifted her head off the pillow, then rolled onto one elbow, wondering what had wakened her. She reached out to touch her husband for reassurance, then remembered that he had not come home—nothing unusual; the hunt often took him far enough, late enough, so that he stayed the night with Sir Whittlesy. But the apprehension in her breast turned to fear, from knowing that he was not home.

  She frowned, angry with herself, and slid out of bed; she had footmen and maids and men-at-arms to guard her, if she needed. She was probably troubling herself for no reason; if there were any real danger, her guards would already be shouting the house down and fighting the intruder.

  But a cold breeze seemed to blow against her back as she wondered why she had thought of an enemy entering her moated grange. Why not have thought of fire or flood, or even a squabble between servants?

  Naught but a woman's megrims, she told herself sternly, and caught up her bed robe. As she started to wrap it around herself, though, she heard a clanking sound beyond her door and froze, heart leaping into her throat. For a moment she stood, frozen by fear, then forced herself to move toward the door. This was nonsense! she told herself. She was a knight's daughter, and should be indifferent to fear.

  But the clanking came again, and her heart hammered in her breast. Still, she kept moving, reaching out for the unseen door in the dark…

  It yawned open before her, creaking, and she stopped dead in her tracks, fear frissoning into terror, for dark against the dim glow of the night-lamp bulked a suit of armor, filling the doorway. For a moment her terror almost wheeled into panic, but she just barely managed to rein herself in and demand, "Who art thou, come so unseemly to my chamber?"

  The man stood silent, closed helm turned toward her.

  "Who art thou?" she demanded again, and was relieved to feel some of her fear transmute into anger. "How durst thou so afright me, coming here unheralded, unexpected? Nay, have the small courtesy to tell me thy name!"

  Still the man stood, only staring.

  "At least lift thy visor!" she cried in exasperation. Good, good—she was working toward fury. Anything would be better than this unbearable fear! "Ope thy helm and let me gaze upon thy visage, at least!"

  The man's hand went to his visor then, and she felt a thrill of triumph as he lifted it…

  And a bare grinning skull looked out at her with empty sockets where its eyes should have been.

  Terror struck, and she screamed and screamed till unconsciousness claimed her and she mercifully swooned.

  Rod had hoped it would go away if he ignored it, but it had been eight days now, and Gregory was still feeling as though he wanted to be a monk when he grew up. Rod hoped it was just a phase, but knew he had to at least pay it lip service—so here he was, trudging out of the woods with his youngest at his side (walking instead of flying, so as not to afright the natives) toward the log chapter-cabin of the brand-new Runnymede Chapter of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode. />
  So what was he doing bringing the boy, if he was so skeptical? Well, that was the point—that Gwen wasn't skeptical; she was delighted. Any medieval parent would be—having a son in the monastery was instant status. Not that the senior witch of Gramarye needed to worry about such things (though she would have liked it if the majority of the people she met really approved of her), but it was nice thinking she had an "in" with the Other World, too.

  That wasn't really it, either, of course, and Rod knew it. Gwen was just happy thinking that her baby was going to have a surer road to Heaven than any of the rest of them. Which, he had to admit, was a nice idea—but he wasn't sure of it. He'd known too many clergymen himself.

  "It's not all it seems to be, son." They turned into the footpath that led to the door. "Not just praying and contemplating." He pointed toward a three-monk team that was plowing the field near them. "That's how they spend most of their time—in good, hard work."

  "Why do they say that 'tis 'good'?" Gregory asked.

  "Because they think it helps keep sinful impulses away. I think it mainly keeps them worn out."

  Gregory nodded. "Well, weariness would keep flesh from temptation."

  Rod stared at the boy, amazed (as he always was) to find that children could understand so much. Probably right, too—after ten hours of pulling a plow, the monks couldn't very well have enough energy left for sinning.

  The lead monk in the team looked up, saw them, and held up a hand. His mates stopped, and he disengaged himself from the harness, then strode over the furrows to meet them. As he came close enough, he called out, "Greetings… Why, 'tis the Lord Warlock! And his youngest."

  "Well met, Father." Rod was startled to see it was Father Boquilva.

  "And well come." The priest came up to them, dusting off his hands. "What matter brings thee, Lord Warlock? Have my brethren bred trouble again?"

  "No… well, yes, but nothing we weren't expecting. Really nothing to do with the trip." He clapped a hand on Gregory's shoulder. "But this is."

  "Thy lad?" Father Boquilva registered surprise for only a fleeting second; then he smiled and turned away toward the house. "Well, 'twill be more than a passing word or two. Come, sit and sip!"

  Rod followed, squeezing Gregory's shoulder for reassurance—Gregory's reassurance, that is.

  "Brother Clyde!" Father Boquilva called as they neared the house.

  A big monk looked up in surprise, then laid down his trowel and mortar board and came toward them.

  "This is Brother Clyde," Father Boquilva said to Gregory. "As thou seest, he doth labor with his hands, as do all of us— and if his task seems lighter than mine, be assured that yesterday he did labor in my place."

  The big monk smiled and held out a hand that fairly swallowed Gregory's. The little boy looked up at him, wide-eyed.

  "And this nobleman is Rod Gallowglass, the Lord Warlock." Father Boquilva looked up at Brother Clyde again. "I must speak with these good folk awhile; wilt thou join Brother Neder and Father Mersey in my place?"

  "Aye, and cheerfully." Brother Clyde sighed. "Is not that mine office? Good day, good folk!" He bobbed his head to them, and walked on toward the plow.

  "This is a monk's life," Father Boquilva explained as they went in, "prayer at morning and night, and hard work between, then rising to pray in the midnight also. Yet that thou hast already seen, when thou didst watch us aforetime."

  Gregory looked up, startled. "How didst thou know we did watch?"

  "Why, for that thou didst come to aid us in fighting," Father Boquilva said easily, sitting at a long table made of rough-hewn boards. " 'Ware splinters, now… and how couldst thou have'come, then, if thou hadst not been watching, hm? Yet this thou hast not seen—the inside of the chapter house. Regard how monks live."

  Gregory looked about him. " 'Tis clean and clear."

  Perception was amazing. Rod would have said it was empty and sterile.

  "Clean indeed, and 'tis monks' labor keeps it so. 'Tis we ourselves who spread the whitewash, and we who crafted the tables and benches—as well as the wooden cups." Father Boquilva poured from a pitcher and set a mug in front of Gregory. "There will be ale in the fall, and wine in the spring—yet for now, 'tis water. And even with ale and wine, 'tis clear water for the greater part. Our food is bread, greens, and fruits, with meat on feast days."

  "•'Tis a hard life," Gregory said, eyes wide.

  "Aye, and thou wilt therefore understand the strong call it doth need, to do God's work." Father Boquilva took a long, thirsty drink, then looked up at Rod. "Now, Lord Warlock! In what matter may I aid thee?"

  "You already have." Rod smiled, amused. "My boy has a notion that he may want to be a monk when he grows up."

  The only sign of surprise was Father Boquilva's total stillness—possibly, Rod thought, because the priest had already guessed. Then he poured himself another water. "Well, 'tis not unheard of for a vocation to make itself felt so early in life. Though 'tis more common for a lad to feel the tug of the holy life, then find it was only one of many such pulls we all know, ere the strong, steady pull of the true vocation doth come. 'Tis a hard life, lad, as thou dost see me—and many who begin it as postulants return to their families ere they take the novice's vows. Of those who stay, many retire ere they become deacons; and even some few of the deacons return to the worldly life and never take final vows."

  "A monk may go back to the daily life, then, and take a wife?"

  "Aye, and rear children; many of those whom we call Brother may leave the order at any time. A man may be a husband and father and still be a deacon, lad; his service to the Church is second to that to his family. Yet many a brother will remain with the order his whole life, and never take final vows; 'tis simply that he doth not feel himself strong enough for the responsibility of the Mass, nor worthy to hold the Eucharist. Naetheless, some of those number wrought miracles by their holiness and, we have good cause to think, bask now in Heaven."

  Gregory said slowly, "How doth it come, then, for a lad such as myself to know his vocation?"

  "Thou canst not till thou art older; the age is eighteen, for our order. Till then, thou must needs bide and live as holy a life as thou mayest, and do all that thou canst for thy fellows."

  Gregory nodded. "Prayer, fasting, and good works."

  "Thou must not fast till thou art fourteen, and then but once a month, and only from dawn till dark." Father Boquilva wore no smile now. "This is thy first test: obedience. If thou canst not live by this command, thou hast not the makings of a monk within thee."

  "I shall obey," Gregory said quickly, and Rod breathed a sigh of relief, combined with gratitude to Father Boquilva. Fasting, taken to the extremes which zeal made possible, could have ruined the boy's health.

  He was amazed to realize Gregory was capable of such dedication. His gentle, thoughtful child—where had this fanaticism come from? With an uneasy prickle of conscience, he remembered certain excesses of fervor from his own adolescence—but the boy was only seven!

  "But how when I am eighteen. Father?"

  Boquilva nodded. "Then thou mayest go to the House of St. Vidicon in…"A shadow crossed his face. "Or mayhap thou shalt come here." He shrugged off the mood. "No matter."

  But it did, to Rod. He took note that Boquilva regretted leaving the monastery. It spoke well of the man, that he had summoned the strength to do what he thought right, even though he hadn't wanted to; but it was also a source of weakness for the King's cause. What would happen if the Runnymede monks became pivotal in the current crisis, and became so filled with remorse that they decided to go back to their brothers and Abbot?

  Rod decided to make sure they wouldn't become pivotal.

  "And what shall I do there?"

  "Thou shalt try thy vocation. We call such a young man, who cometh to discover whether or not he should be a monk, a 'postulant.' Thou wilt live the life of a monk in all ways save the performance of holy offices, and if, after a year spent thus, thou dost still wish to be
a monk, thou wilt be tested, to say if thou art the stuff of which monks are made, or hast the strength to be a priest in a parish."

  Rod perked up his ears; this was new. He'd never heard of a monastery testing for those qualities before.

  Gregory frowned. " 'Tis toward the monastery that I feel the pull."

  Father Boquilva nodded. "Many do, but have not the… talent for it, the qualities, the… different sort of strength required. In this must thou trust in the judgment of thy seniors, and abide by their decision. Naetheless, some find themselves unable to, and return to the world."

  Rod frowned, wondering what sort of qualities differed monk material from parish priest. The ability to do research? Even in a medieval society, was it publish or parish?

  "Yet where shall I go if thou dost think me destined to be a parish priest?"

  "There are two parts to the House of St. Vidicon," Father Bolquilva explained, "the cloister, for those who will become monks, and the seminary, for those whose call is toward the parish. The two pray together, and sing together in choir, yet have little other contact."

  Gregory asked, "And if, even told I must go to a parish, I still wish to serve God as a priest—what then?"

  "Thou shalt proceed as thou hadst, in fasting, prayer, study, and labor—though there is less of that last for the seminarians; there will be labor enough in their parish lives, and they must learn in only a few years that which will fill a monk's lifetime; a seminarian must heed his books, that he may not preach errors when he hath his own parish."

  "Nay, certes." Gregory frowned, nodding. "I had not thought that—but any priest must needs be a scholar of sorts, must he not?" And when Father Boquilva agreed, he said, "Mayhap I have such a calling. Yet how if I have not? How if I am to be a monk?"

  "Then mayest thou take the vow of a sexton, and become a monk in earnest."

  "Thereupon the cloister will be mine whole life?" Gregory asked, wide-eyed, and his voice sank to a whisper. "I will never go out therefrom, never gaze upon a lass or a knight, never again see my family?"