So, of course, Rod moved into the breach. "Forget about the 'sinful' part—that's how the clergy shackle you, make you do what they want. They raise you to believe it's a sin to do anything but what they tell you is right."
Tuan's head snapped around toward Rod; he stared, scandalized. "How durst thou say it!"
Rod felt his stomach sink. "All right, call it my opinion—"
"Nay, 'tis truth—I know enough of government to see that." Tuan glanced up at the sky through the garden trees. "And lightning hath not smote thee…"
Rod almost went limp with relief. He forced a sarcastic smile. "The Abbot doesn't necessarily speak for God, you know, Your Majesty. But that only brings us to the other point you raised—folly."
Catharine suddenly looked wary.
Tuan agreed. " 'Twould be folly to attack a House of God, Lord Warlock. The peasants would rise as a man to defend it."
"And so would most of the lords, but not out of religious conviction."
"True enough," Catharine stated, looking only faintly relieved. "If they could bring us down, they might once again become each a prince within his own domain, as they were in my grandfather's time."
Rod hadn't realized it was as recent as that; suddenly he was understanding the depth of the barons' resistance more clearly than he had before. "Of course, they'd be wrong. If the Abbot can bring down a king, he can certainly undercut the lords, one at a time."
"So we end as we began." Tuan smiled sourly. "He would rule."
"Oh, yes. Make no mistake, Your Majesties, what you have here is an embryo theocracy, a 'government by God.' It isn't, of course—it's government by clergy, who only cite God to justify what they want to do. Governing comes naturally to priests. That's the whole underlying reason they invented priesthood in the first place: to give them power over the peasants."
"Power?" Tuan frowned. "How could preaching Holy Truth grant them dominion?"
"Because even you, with all the King's horses and all the King's men, can't control a man's thoughts—but a priest can, simply by telling him it's a sin to think about certain things. What's worse is that they tell him what's right to think about— and if people start thinking about something, they're apt to do it. Such as having a Holy War against the ungodly—to which position I think you have just been elected."
Catharine stared, appalled.
Tuan saw, and gave her a sad smile. "Thou didst not see, my sweet? If we oppose Holy Mother the Church, we must needs be most ungrateful children."
"Assuredly our people would not believe such of us," Catharine whispered.
"Oh, but they will," Rod assured her. "A religious man never has to worry about what his opinion should be—he just asks his minister."
"But they can then make the people do whatever the priests do wish!"
"And the priests will obey the Archbishop." Rod nodded. "You want to really rule effectively? Take holy vows and proclaim yourself Archbishop."
"Yet the priests do say the Word of God shall make all folk free!"
"It makes them free, all right. But the peasants? No more than they ever were. In fact, it's the perfect tool for keeping the masses in their places. You just tell them that it's right to stay in the class they were born into, and wrong to try to move up the social ladder, and the vast majority of 'em will stay put. They won't even fuss too much when food is short or they don't get new clothes, because you tell 'em that their suffering now means less suffering after they die. 'Pie in the sky, by and by'—but never pie here on earth, right now. So the priests may try to alleviate human misery, but they also keep people from trying to help themselves."
"Yet that is a central cause of the Abbot's quarrel." Tuan interrupted. "He doth wish to see to the distribution of all alms, that he may ease the suffering of the poor."
"Yes, and make them totally dependent on him. Then he'll have the rabble at his command."
Tuan winced; he had managed to weld the beggars of Runnymede into an army once, himself. "Thou dost not say the Church gives only to get!"
"Oh, I'm sure that's not how it starts, but after a while even the most spiritual priest has to realize that he has an awful lot of grateful people who will do whatever he tells them to. That's when he starts to become worldly."
"Nay, Lord Warlock!" Catharine held up a hand. "Thou dost exceed even my spleen! Dost say the Church ought have no power?"
"Well, I hadn't wanted to be so blunt about it, but now that you ask, yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."
"Yet the Church cannot do God's work if it hath no power in the world," Tuan objected.
"Sure it can—by praying and teaching. It's supposed to persuade its congregations to behave rightly, not force them to." Rod shook his head. "It's bad for the Church to have worldly power, Tuan. Power corrupts, and the Abbot, now the Archbishop, is aiming for absolute power. The priests are the ones who invented the term 'hierarchy'—it means 'sacred government." Or 'government by the holy.' But when they start governing, they stop being holy. Absolute power corrupts the priest absolutely, just as surely as it corrupts a knight or a merchant."
"Or a king?" Tuan demanded.
Rod shook his head. "Your power isn't absolute, Your
Majesty—your barons see to that. And the Abbot has always done his share. In fact, if your power was absolute, the Abbot couldn't have gathered an army the last time he challenged you!"
Tuan turned away, gazing about him at the garden. Then he nodded. "Thou hast the right of it, Lord Gallowglass. In this we must oppose the Church outright."
Rod breathed a huge sigh of relief; Tuan had come out of his religious miasma. He exchanged a quick look with Catharine and saw the same relief in her face, coupled with gratitude. He smiled back, staggered at the realization that for the first time he finally felt he was really her ally.
"Still, you should be tactful," he said, turning back to Tuan. "Don't give the people any reason to believe you're a demon; the new Archbishop will give them all they need for that."
Tuan gave him a sardonic smile. "Well said, Lord Warlock. In this 'tis only needful to deny his claim."
Catharine frowned. "Must we not do more than that?"
"I am sure that we shall," Tuan returned, "yet 'tis poor tactics to begin a battle with a melee. 'Tis enough for him to see our pickets."
"And exactly what 'its' are you planning to pick?" Rod watched him out of the corner of his eye.
"Naught but a mild rebuke, should he wish to construe it so. Our heralds shall proclaim that, though the Queen and I govern in all worldly matters, we acknowledge the right of the Abbot of the order to govern his monks and rule on all matters of faith as are open to question."
"Uh…" Rod bowed his head, rubbing his chin. "I think you might want to be a little more, uh, forceful."
"Nay." Catharine stepped to Tuan's side, taking his hand. "He hath chosen well, Lord Warlock, for by referring to 'the Abbot of the Order,' he doth refuse to acknowledge him as Archbishop, or as having any authority over Gramarye; and by acknowledging his right to judgment in all matters that are 'open to question,' he doth refuse to recognize any breach with Rome."
Rod lifted his head slowly. "Very delicately done; it's as much what you don't say as what you do. But maybe too delicately; do you really think anybody will understand the significance of it?"
"Oh, you may be sure that the lords will," Tuan replied, "and the Abbot. Be sure."
* * *
"Which they will, of course," Rod told Fess as they galloped home through the dusk. "And so will all their descendants. I'm so glad Tuan's going to put it in writing."
"He must, so that it may be copied for heralds to read throughout the land," Fess answered. "It will thus become a part of the common law."
"Yes, whether Tuan realizes it or not—and will no doubt be incorporated into whatever constitution eventually gets written or compiled."
"Separation of Church and State," Fess mused, "a point vital to democracy. You could not have arranged it bette
r yourself."
"And the fact that I didn't only makes it better." Rod grinned. "Remind me to keep a copy."
"'… in all matters spiritual, or relating to the ghostly world.' " The scribe set down the parchment and looked up at Their Majesties in expectation.
Tuan gave a slow nod, and Catharine pronounced it "Excellent. Each word is in its place, and not a one is spared."
"Even so; it saith neither more nor less than we do wish." Tuan looked up at the scribe. "Copy that as thou hast read it, and give it to thine apprentices to make a score ere morn. I shall direct the master-at-arms to take them from thee."
The scribe bowed. "Even as thou hast said, Majesties." He stepped backwards through the door, then closed it.
Tuan rose with a sigh, setting his hands against his back and leaning backwards to stretch. "Well, 'tis done, and mine heart is lightened thereby. Come, let us to our bed."
The hardness of her anger softened into a smile, and she came to him, taking his hand. He returned her smile as they turned toward the door.
Sir Maris stood in the doorway.
Catharine and Tuan stopped, their smiles fading. Then Tuan squared his shoulders against the weight of responsibility settling back onto them. "What matter is so urgent, Seneschal, that thou must needs come to our solar at so late an hour?"
" 'Tis a peasant frighted, Majesty."
"Only frighted?" Tuan frowned. "Come, Sir Maris! There must needs be more, or thou hadst no need to come to us."
" 'Tis even as Thy Majesty doth say." Sir Maris bowed his head. "Yet I pause to tell thee of the matter in his tale that doth alarm me. I prithee, attend to his words, thatthou mayest judge for thyselves."
"Why, then, bring him in." Tuan exchanged a commiserating glance with Catharine and went back to his chair. She stepped around to stand at his right, one hand on his shoulder.
Sir Maris stepped back from the doorway, beckoning, and a frightened peasant came in, shoulders hunched, twisting his hat in his hands.
"Be not afeared," Sir Maris commanded. "Thou art in the presence of thy sovereigns, whose only concern is thy protection and welfare."
If the peasant had reservations about that statement, he didn't let them show, but only bowed as low as he could, possibly to hide the look on his face.
"Come, come, man, ere thou dost topple!" Tuan beckoned impatiently. "What is thy name and place?"
"Piers, Majesties." The peasant straightened up. "I am an hostler at the Inn of the Red Cask."
"Well enough, then, Piers," Tuan said. "Say to us what hath frighted thee."
Piers swallowed, twisting the hat tighter. " 'Twas an hour agone, Majesty, as I did wend my way home."
"So late?" Catharine asked. "Where wast thou at such an hour?"
The peasant blushed. "I… some comrades of mine… we…"
Tuan realized he had run out of words. "Thou and thy friends did seek sport?"
"Of a manner. We did drink ale and tell tales. Majesty."
Tuan glanced at Catharine, then back at the peasant. "Art thou wed?"
Piers swallowed again and nodded, eyes downcast.
"Then where didst thou drink?" Catharine demanded.
"In a clearing in the wood…"
Catharine turned away and rolled her eyes up, but Tuan kept a straight face. "And what did befall thee on thy ways home?"
Piers took a deep breath, then told them, faltering, ashamed. Once, when he fell silent too long, the King muttered, "Nay, it surely must have been of Hell! I, too, would have feared," and Piers took heart enough to tell them the rest of it.
Finally his voice dwindled and he stood twisting his hat, eyes still downcast, finished.
The audience chamber was quiet. The King looked down at his folded hands; the Queen gazed at Piers with pity. He glanced at her quickly, swallowed heavily, and looked down at his mangled hat.
The King looked up. "Then these watchmen brought you to Sir Maris?"
Piers nodded. "Aye, Majesty. And I would have followed wheresoe'er they did lead."
"Be sure thou wouldst have," Tuan said, then lapsed into brooding again.
Catharine broke the silence this time. "Thou hadst drunk much ale? And told stories of ghosts and spirits?"
Piers hesitated.
"Be truthful," she commanded.
"Aye to the drinking," he said, as though it were pulled out of him, "but nay to the tales."
"Then what didst thou speak of?"
Piers swallowed.
"Was't women?" Tuan demanded.
Piers nodded.
"Still, thou hadst been drinking, and deeply." Tuan looked up at Sir Maris. "But the watchmen saw the spirit?"
"They did, Majesty."
"As did all the folk who lived along those alleys and streets, belike." Tuan's mouth tightened. "Nay, the word will be all over the town, even now. Is there any question of the watch's truthfulness?"
"Nay, Majesty. All are good men; all were sober. All four picture the spirit in the same way, as they tell the tale."
" 'Twas real, then, as much as any spirit may be." Tuan nodded. "I thank thee, Piers." He slid a gold piece from his purse and tossed it.
Piers caught it, saw its color, and stared.
"Thank thy name saint for thy life," Catharine said with some asperity, "and stay with thy wife o' nights henceforth."
"I will. Majesty," Piers murmured, nodding and bowing, "I will."
"See that thou dost. Now go directly to thy home."
The peasant bowed again and hurried out, away from their dread presence.
The chamber was quiet, the King staring into the flames, the Queen staring at the King, and the seneschal gazing at them both.
Finally Tuan looked up at Sir Maris. "Thou didst well to bring us the man hard on the event."
Sir Maris bowed.
"How many others," Tuan asked, "hadst thou not told us of?"
Sir Maris froze with his head down, then slowly raised it. "Three, Majesty. One was a spinster who swore the ghost of a farmer had sought to seduce her, and only her rosary had warded her; another was a cooper who did so well imitate his own casks that he was quite filled up with ale. The third was a poor, simple lad, who swore a pouka, a glowing horse, had pounced upon him, and given chase till he came within sight of the lights of the town."
"And all three had been the only ones who had seen the spirits?"
"Aye, and…" The seneschal hesitated.
"Thou hadst reason, with each, to doubt that the sights he or she had seen were truly there." Catharine gave him a brittle smile.
"I had. Majesty," he admitted.
"Thou must never fear to be honest with us, Sir Maris," Tuan said, though he had to admit the delicate pause had prepared Catharine just enough to prevent her rebuking the old knight—and incidentally rejecting what he had reported. "Yet in this instance, others had seen it."
"Aye, Majesty, many others—and heard it, too."
Tuan nodded. "Henceforth thou must needs tell us all such occurrences, even if they be naught but the self-conjured dreams of brain-sick fools. Our thanks, Sir Maris, and good night."
The old knight bowed and retreated out the door.
Tuan sat still for some minutes, holding Catharine's hand on his shoulder. Finally, he murmured, "Runnymede hath ne'er before been haunted, sweet wife."
"Never," she agreed, so softly he could scarcely hear. "What manner of evil is set loose upon us, my lord?"
"What manner indeed?" he replied. "And wherefore?"
Chapter Eleven
"Oh, nay, my lord," Baroness Reddering protested. "We were quite… startled, when Old Adam told us the word that did run through the parish."
"Old Adam?" The Archbishop frowned. "Was it not Brother Felix who spoke of it to thee?"
" 'Twas not." The Baroness looked up in surprise. " 'Twas Old Adam."
"I' truth?" The Archbishop looked up at old Adam. "And whence gained thou this intelligence, Adam?"
"From Brother Felix, milord, whe
n he came to the gate," Old Adam said with grim satisfaction. "He would have withheld it from me; yet I kept at him and at him, till he became so out of sorts that he did give it me."
"Well, I cannot truly blame him." The Archbiship sighed. He well remembered Old Adam's badgering. Yet the irritation remained. "I could swear that only another so ill-tempered as thou could withhold a secret from thee. Yet how is't he did not then come to bear my word to Her Ladyship?"
"Oh, for that I sent him packing." The corners of Old Adam's lips quirked in a very small smile. "There was no need for him, certes, now that I might bear the word myself."
"Adam!" Lady May rose gasped, shocked, but the Archbishop only sighed. "And my order to him was of no consequence to thee? Nay, I see not; wherefore did I ask?"
Old Adam started to answer, and the Baroness interrupted quickly. "Enough, Old Adam; thou art dismissed." She waved, shooing him away. "My granddaughter will suffice to company me in Milord Ab— Archbishop's presence." She blushed slightly, inclining her head toward the Archbishop.
"As Thy Ladyship will have it," Old Adam grumbled, and turned to go.
The Archbishop returned the bow, and the smile. "I thank thee, Lady, for bearing my new title in mind."
Lady Mayrose turned to her grandmother. "Thou shouldst pension Old Adam, Grandmother, and send him to dwell in some small cot far removed from us. I' truth, he doth grow so bothersome in his dotage that I scarce can contain myself from shouting at him!"
" 'Twould yield thee no gain; he would not mind it," the Archbishop assured her. " 'Tis not age that doth make him so, milady—he was ever thus. Even twenty years agone, when I was chaplain, was he sour and waspish."
"Then praise Heaven I was not born in this house," the lady said, and a shadow crossed the Baroness's face, so the Archbishop spoke up quickly, to distract her from the memory of the circumstances under which her son had left, and the woman who had caused them. "Yet why, milady, should this news of my new title have shaken thee, when I had told thee aforetime what I bore in mind?"
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