The Warlock Heretical

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Oh! Tis one thing to speak of it aforetime, milord, and another to hear 'tis done." The Baroness seemed flustered. "Yet there was also this matter in thy declaration, that the King and Queen must needs be guided by the Church."

  "We had spoken of that also, Grandmother," Lady Mayrose reminded her.

  "So we had; yet I had not thought His L— His Grace would proclaim it so."

  "I could not do less, proclaiming my new office." The new Archbishop's face hardened. "For the Crown doth hold its dominion from God, and we clergy are God's voice among men."

  "Yet the King and Queen will say their forefathers won dominion, not that it was given them by God." the Baroness suggested.

  "Not so! For they style themselves monarchs 'by the grace of God.' Their heralds so proclaim them, at every coming and going, in every royal progress, and in every proclamation!"

  "Quite true, Lady Mayrose, quite true." The Archbishop nodded, his gaze warming as he looked at her. "And if they are monarchs by the grace of God, then must they hold their kingdom in fealty to God—and therefore must they be guided by the men of God."

  "I do not doubt thee," the Baroness said quickly. 'T truth, who am I, a worldly woman, to question an Archbishop?"

  Lady Mayrose's eyes sparked, but she said nothing.

  "Nay, I know that thou art right in thy making our Church apart from Rome's," the Baroness went on, moving to lay a hand on the Archbishop's, but it hovered, then withdrew. "Thou must therefore be Archbishop—I know this, too—and I doubt not thou hast the right of it in declaring that the King and Queen must needs be guided by thee." She colored. "Yet I own, 'tis more that I believe in Father Widdecombe than in the doctrines."

  "Or that thou dost believe them because Father Widdecombe doth say they are true?" The Archbishop's smile wanned, but there was a trace of disappointment in his expression. "Yet must I caution thee, my ghostly daughter—is there no least smidgin of pride in this thy loyalty?"

  The Baroness blushed and lowered her gaze. Lady Mayrose smiled, amused. "Oh, never, milord! 'Tis only that she doth sing thy praises from morn till night, and exclaim how marvelous 'tis to have an abbot, and now an archbishop, for her confessor!"

  "I had thought as much." The Archbishop leaned back with a fond smile. "And I own I am warmed by thy regard. Yet must I caution thee to eschew the sin of pride."

  "I shall endeavor. Father." But the Baroness did not look up.

  "And thou. Lady Mayrose?"

  "I confess to some part in the sin my grandmother hath spoken of." Lady Mayrose smiled, too. "Yet, oh! I am so proud of thee, that thou hast had the courage and the sense to separate from Rome!"

  "Truly?" The Archbishop looked surprised.

  "Oh, vastly! The Pope's so blind, not to see how horribly the Crown doth abuse its authority! What! Will Their Majesties turn the noble houses into serfs to their whims?"

  "Well spoke." The Baroness regarded her granddaughter with pride, but also with apprehension. "Yet I own thou dost astonish me, in view of…" Her voice trailed off.

  "In view of my parents' folly? Nay, say it. Grandmother! They were good souls at the heart, but their minds bore treason to their class! How they could espouse a course of action that would wreak their own downfall, I know not—but I ken far less how they could e'en condone beliefs that would rob their own daughter!" Lady Mayrose turned a smouldering countenance on the Archbishop. "And Rome doth aid and abet the Crown, and thereby the downfall of the lords! Nay, milord, I cannot find a trace of good in the Pope! Praise Heaven thou hast had the sense to send him packing!"

  1 'Tis mayhap too strongly put." The Archbishop smiled. "Yet 'twas needful."

  "Oh, thou art so brave and strong!" Lady Mayrose"s eyes glowed into his. "And so wise, to see that only by guidance of the Church may the common folk of Gramarye be brought to happiness! For look you, the King's men are forever trampling the grain in their haste to exterminate those who oppose Their Majesties' will, and their judges are ever scourging poor folk who seek but to find food! And now, folk say, these proud princes do speak of robbing the very bread from out the mouths of the poor by levying a tax direct to the Crown, atop those brought by their lords!"

  She didn't seem to have heard that, under the plan in question, the lords would no longer be required to send tax money to Gramarye, and would be expected to lower their own taxes accordingly.

  " 'Tis only rumored," the Baroness murmured.

  "Yet rumor hath basis, I doubt not. They will do that, and worse, and no man saith them nay! Oh, there must be one who can bid these royal lions, 'Hold, enough!' And who can do it, save the Church?"

  "Thou dost give me heart, Lady Mayrose." The Archbishop gazed into her eyes with total concentration. "I own I did begin to question the tightness of my course."

  "Do not!" she cried. "Oh, my ghostly lord! Thou must not withdraw, must not give way, must not abate a bit of this that thou hast done! Nay, thou must insist, and call all forces against them, if need be! For naught can save the peasants save the Church—and thy good will can direct the Crown's strong arm in such a way as to bring all poor folk ease, without pulling down the lords nor lessening their standing!"

  The Archbishop was nodding in agreement, more and more vigorously. " 'Tis even so, 'tis what I feel within my heart of hearts! Yet how wouldst thou give answer, were one to ask thee where the gold shall be drawn to buy the peasant folk safe housen and stout clothes?"

  "Why, from the coin held back from the Crown's foul greed! Nay, an but a part of the tribute every lord must pay were held within his own parish Church, assuredly it would suffice the peasant folk!"

  "Assuredly," the Archbishop agreed, with a rapt gaze that made all seem to dim save her. "And thou, how dost thou think I should speak unto these o'erweening princes who do proclaim the limits of our ecclesiastical authority?"

  "I would declare them fell and foul!" she said instantly. "I would hold them up for the ridicule of all the nation as the things of pride and greed they are! I would declare them traitors to the Church and criminals 'gainst the word of God! And I would call up all the truly godly lords, if need be, with all their horse and men, to school these arrogant monarchs by force of arms!"

  "Wouldst thou so," the Archbishop breathed, never taking his eyes from her. "Then thou must needs have a heart of flame, and a will for right that would do credit to a saint."

  But the Baroness watched with misgiving, forgotten by them both.

  Brom O'Berin had his own suite in the castle at Runnymede, and was careful to maintain the fiction that he actually used it. No point in hurting Their Majesties' feelings, after all, so he did use it whenever he could—for example, for receiving intelligence reports, some of them from humans. And for meeting with the Lord High Warlock.

  Not this time, though. It was an elf who faced him, nodding emphatically. " 'Twas a banshee in truth, dread lord! At the castle of the Marquess D'Arrigato."

  "A sennight agone, thou didst say?" When the elf nodded, Brom mused, "And none have died in that house."

  The elf nodded again. "I have never known a banshee to be wrong, save when one did haunt the battlements here at Runnymede, these fourteen years past."

  "Yes, well, we know about that, don't we?" Rod said. The banshee in question had been a projection from a memory loop activated by remote control.

  "Aye." The elf frowned. " 'Twas not even the banshee of the Plantagenet line."

  "And their banshee had had plenty of opportunities, too. Well, maybe it was worn out. There've been a lot of deaths in this family."

  " 'Tis the price one pays for births," the elf sighed.

  "Yet the price ought not to be paid ere 'tis due," Brom rumbled, "and these cobblies which thou hast seen are no more real than a will o' the wisp."

  The elf looked up in indignation. "I have known many will o' the wisps, Majesty, and they were quite gentle people, almost all."

  Rod hoped he didn't meet the "almost."

  "But the other monsters you heard about w
ere fakes?"

  "Those that elves did see," the elf qualified. "For the ones we only heard mortals talk of, we cannot answer."

  "Yet they, too, were likely false," Brom rumbled. "When so many come so quickly, belike all are alike."

  "And if they're false, people made them." Rod nodded. "I told you about the esper sentry Cordelia detected, didn't I?"

  "And the boys confirmed? Aye, thou didst." Brom had a special interest in the Gallowglass children. "Thou didst say 'twas a sign that the Abbot—who calls himself Archbishop now—had cozened witchfolk into aiding him."

  Generalizing from inadequate data, Fess's voice sighed through the implanted radio transmitter in Rod's ear. He ignored horse sense and told Brom, "I still think so, even though it does seem an unlikely alliance. After all, when there's a witch-hunt, you think of clergy as leading the mob."

  "Yet 'tis rarely so," the other elf said. " 'Tis more often self-appointed hedge preachers who raise the hue and cry."

  "Aye; yet a man who seeks power will ally with any," Brom answered. "How wouldst thou deal with them, Lord Warlock?"

  "With their own kind, of course. No, not more monks— other witches."

  Brom nodded. "Even as I thought. I shall advise Their Majesties to set the Royal Coven to warding, that they may discover when a monster doth appear, and hasten to banish it."

  "Fact is, we've done that already. Except for the part about advising Their Majesties. I'll let you do that, and I'll get back out on the road, to see if I can find the ringleader and bring him in."

  Brom looked up indignantly. "Thou wouldst go gallivanting about, escaping the burden of command!"

  "Yes, but I can get away with it." Rod grinned. " 'Cause the only other person who'd stand a chance of finding an esper ringleader is Gwen, and you wouldn't want her roaming around the countryside alone, would you?"

  Brom could only glare at him. Gwen was his daughter, though only he and Rod knew it, and he would rather have gone through fire than chance her coming to harm. "Thou dost take unfair advantage. Lord Warlock!"

  "Yeah. Ain't it great? Besides, if I'm not available, maybe Tuan and Catharine will finally get the idea that Gwen can handle any crisis they can come up with, just as well as I can."

  "Almost," Brom demurred. "I would not wish her to go into battle."

  "In spite of the fact that she has, several times. I know, though, you'd rather risk me than her. All right for you, Brom O'Berin. See if I come to your next Wild Hunt!"

  "It shall more likely come to thee," Brom growled, "though 'to' might not be the most precise word. Nay, get thee hence! Is not the road a fit place for a mountebank?"

  "But he'd rather keep his mountie in the bank, if he could." Rod tightened the girth on Fess's saddle. "Sometimes I suspect the old elf of actually having developed affection for me."

  "Merely good friendship," Fess assured him. "You have shared dangers and joys."

  "You mean the children? Well, we do have him over to dinner whenever we can." Rod frowned at a thought. "Y'know, if the kids hadn't picked up that esper sentry, I might not have put five and five together, and come up with a handful of espers on the Archbishop's side."

  "What else… I withdraw the question. In this land it could be almost anything."

  Rod nodded. "Witch-moss constructs from old grannies who don't know they're projective telepaths; telling bedtime stories to projective grandchildren, for example—or a projective maiden having a nightmare that she casts into others' minds."

  "Still, Rod, the coincidence of so many such phenomena in so short a period of time…"

  "Concerted action is enemy action. Yeah." Rod scowled.

  "And the scary part is that it's happening all over the land, in every dukedom, county, and parish. That was a long list the elves put together." He shook his head. "No, when so many espers are on the Abbot's side, somebody has to be leading them. This is a confederation we're fighting, not a bunch of individuals who were fired up by their parish priests."

  "You are not the most skilled at detecting psionic nuances, Rod," Fess said delicately.

  "I should bring along an expert, you mean?" Rod retorted. "I don't know anybody better, except…"

  He froze on the thought. Fess maintained a tactful silence.

  There were so many tacts that Rod got the point. "Oh, all right!" He threw down the reins and stumped out of the stable, calling, "Cordelia! Pack your saddlebag!"

  "And this is their response!" Brother Alfonso slapped the parchment down on the desk. "Nay, they have not even the courtesy to send this news in a letter to thee! We must have a copy sent in secret from this royal clerk who is our deacon!"

  "Thou hast the right of it." The new Archbishop glowered at the fire. "'Tis an egregious lack of protocol."

  Neither of them thought of their own slip in failing to send the King and Queen word of the Abbot's self-promotion to Archbishop; they had only had the parish priests proclaim the news from the pulpit.

  " 'Twill not do, milord!" Brother Alfonso snapped. "This statement that the Crown must reign, and the Church must rule in matters of faith and clergy only, saith naught!"

  "Aye, naught that was not already said," the Archbishop said heavily. "He will not budge an inch."

  "Nor shall we!" Brother Alfonso cried. "This is not a response—'tis a lack of response! What, my lord! Wilt thou be content with no effect?"

  "I will not! The King must declare himself openly! We must find a way to induce him to do so!"

  "Induce?" Brother Alfonso gasped, outraged. "Nay, milord! Thou must needs demand! Thou must not let him scorn thee thus!"

  "Demand!" The Archbishop looked up, startled. "What dost thou speak of, Brother Alfonso? Tis not meet for a subject to 'demand' aught from his liege!" Then he heard the echo of his own words, and his eyes widened.

  "'Subject,' forsooth!" Brother Alfonso spat. "An arch-bishop subject to a king? Nay, milord! Thou art of the First Estate, and he of the Second! Wilt thou tell me that we of the cloth claim that title to no effect?"

  "Oh, nay, I will not, and well thou knowest it!" The Archbishop turned away, clasping his hands together so tightly that the knuckles turned white. "We are the First Estate because we are closest to God—most holy, and therefore most deserving of respect. Yet the noblemen. Brother Alfonso, are the Second Estate because they have the care of the bodies of all their brethren, even as we of the First Estate have the care of their souls."

  "Yet the soul is of far greater import than the body," Brother Alfonso reminded, "and the First Estate is, therefore, more vital than the Second."

  "And therefore should be guided by us, I know." The Archbishop leaned his chin on his knuckles, gazing into the fire.

  "Aye, milord. Thou hast demanded only that condition which should ever have obtained. Should the King not acknowledge the sovereignty of Holy Mother the Church, doth he not set himself in opposition to the word of God?"

  The Archbishop lifted his head, turning to frown at Brother Alfonso. "What dost thou say?"

  "Why, I but offer thee a goad with'which to prod this arrogant monarch, that he may show his true colors. But think, good milord—is not the Church of Gramarye the True Church?"

  "Thou knowest it is!"

  "Then what is he who doth deny it?"

  The Archbishop stared at him, eyes widening. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Thou hast the right of it, Brother Alfonso. He is an heretic."

  The monk behind the wrought-iron gate frowned. "What dost thou here?"

  He seemed overly suspicious, but Hoban answered anyway. "I have felt a calling toward the sacred life."

  The monk stood still a moment, then threw the latch and swung the gate open. "Enter and follow. Brother Miles!"

  Hoban stepped in and saw another monk sitting beside the wall, looking up from his breviary. He closed it and tucked it into his sleeve as he rose, looking up inquiringly.

  "Take this good man to the Master of Postulants," the porter said.

  Brother Miles nodded and tur
ned away, beckoning. Hoban followed.

  The monk led him into a small building not far from the gate, into a plain whitewashed room with two straight chairs and some pictures of starving saints on the walls. "Sit," he advised, and left.

  Hoban sat, gazing about him, rather daunted by the sterility of the little chamber. But as he sat, waiting, he began to feel his tension ebb away in spite of the lie he was living, and the plain white walls began to seem not sterile, but clear. In fact, by the time the Master of Postulants came in, he was feeling so much at peace that he didn't even think of his mission.

  "Bless thee, fellow." The Master sat in the other chair. He was tall and lean and lantern-jawed, with the supressed eagerness of a pointer sighting a pheasant. "What is thy name?"

  "I am called Hoban, Father." Hoban rose.

  "Sit, sit." The priest waved him back toward his chair. "I am Father Rigori. Thou dost believe thyself to have a vocation?"

  "I think that I may, Father." Hoban was amazed to realize he was telling the truth. "How may I be certain?"

  "By living among us a few months, good youth." The Master's eyes glowed. "Yet say to me what hath put this thought into thy mind."

  Hoban remembered, with a touch of guilt, his reaction to his brother Anho's first visit home, his own wondering if perhaps he, too, should seek the holy life. He should have acted on the thought. " 'Twas my brother, Father. When first he came home from these halls, I thought perchance his road should also be mine."

  "Thou hast a brother here?" The Master almost jumped on it.

  "Aye, Father. He is called Anho, and our village is Flamourn."

  "I know him." There was a trace of doubt in the Master's face. " 'Tis two years he hath been among us; he is a deacon now. In truth, he will go to a parish in a year's time. Wherefore hast thou been so long in coming?"

  Hoban hung his head. "Ah, Father! I am but a strong back on two legs, not a man of wit!"

  "There is a great deal to learn, I own," the Master agreed, "yet 'tis far more a matter of zeal than of studies. When last cometh to last, 'tis for thine heart our Lord doth care, thy faith and thy charity. Wit matters little to Him; yet he who would lead a flock must needs have some understanding of God's Word."