The Warlock Heretical

by Christopher Stasheff

  Rod shuddered. Heaven help me, no! It might give them ideas. But you might tell them I said they might think about giving the refugee chapter of the Cathodeans all the support they can, dear, in spite of Tuan's scruples about using them. Just remind him that it never hurts to have an extra arrow in his quiver.

  Certes, I shall, she answered, and Rod thought she might be giggling on the other end of the link.

  They might even move the monks into one of their smaller castles, for starters; that might give the people the idea that they' ve formed a rival monastery, without Tuan's actually using them.

  Thou art the very soul of deviousness, Gwen accused.

  You say the sweetest things. Oh, and Their Majesties might want to ask the loyal lords to lend them a few knights, dear, and any extra soldiers they might happen to have lying around.

  They might, in truth. Gwen's thoughts became a little less cheery. Is there aught else thou dost wish me to tell them for thee?

  Only what I said at the beginning, Rod answered.

  Confusion now. Which, my lord? There were many thoughts.

  Only one that really matters, dear: What did they need me for?

  The King had donned a peasant's tunic and robe, and was wandering through the darkened streets. Thus he had walked among his people, alone and only lightly armed, when he was only the second son of a duke; thus he still walked among them, when his mind was troubled with a decision that might affect their welfare. Now, though, witches had leagued with the Archbishop, so two more peasants followed him, and another paced him farther ahead down the alley, all of them with chain mail beneath their tunics and swords beneath their cloaks.

  Still he walked, listening for chance remarks caught in passing, pausing in the doorways of inns, lingering near any group of folk that talked and laughed among themselves while a bottle passed from hand to hand. The streets should be better lighted, he noted, especially the narrower ones; crime preferred shadows.

  Then he lifted his head, hearkening. Somewhere near, a man was talking, and loudly—talking with the cadence and timbre of one who spoke to a crowd. This, especially, should be of interest. His spirit quickening, Tuan followed the sound of the voice.

  He came into a small square—a triangle, rather, an open space ringed on three sides by house fronts, one of which bore the sign of an inn. A horse and cart were tied to a post, and several booths stood empty, awaiting farmers' produce on the morrow.

  Across from the booths, a man stood on a hogshead, a man in a brown hooded robe with a black rope for a belt and a small yellow handle in a pocket on his chest. Tuan's eyes widened; he'd seen hedge priests before, but not in the habit of the order, and not in Runnymede town itself.

  "They besiege us!" the monk cried. "All about us foul spirits spring from the rocks and dead souls rise from their graves! The ancient ghosts of the land rise up to daunt us! What can have brought them upon us?"

  Tuan pricked up his ears. This was something new—and perhaps even pertinent. He settled back to hear the preacher's theory.

  "The King!" The monk answered his own question, and Tuan stiffened. "The King stands for the land, for the whole of the nation! What thou and I are, what we all together make, the King doth stand for! The King is the meeting place of all that is good and right in us!"

  And Tuan found himself agreeing. There was something about this preacher that almost compelled belief.

  "Yet if we make the King, 'tis even as truthful that the King doth make us!" the preacher went on. "If the barons threaten the King, the land is in turmoil—yet equally, if the King doth threaten the barons, the land will be also in turmoil!"

  Tuan began to see the direction the man was taking, and he didn't like it. Nonetheless, it seemed to make a certain amount of sense, and the crowd around the monk was beginning to rumble agreement.

  "Yet the spirits do not haunt the King of their own accord!" the preacher cried. "Nay, it must needs be he who hath stirred them up!"

  A few shouts of agreement came out of the crowd. With dread, Tuan recognized a kindred spirit—a man who was at least as talented a speaker as Tuan himself. The King eased back to murmur a few words in the ear of his closest guardsman. The man nodded and moved away.

  "For centuries," the orator declared, "Holy Mother the Church hath kept the spirits at bay! For hundreds of years the Church hath brought holiness to the land and lulled its fell spirits to sleep! Thereby, if they now wake, what hath caused it?" He paused to let a rumble build, then capped it. "The King! He doth set himself up 'gainst the Church! In the souls of his people he doth raise up strife! And as he doth in the people, so he doth in the land!"

  This time he had to pause till the rumble died down.

  Tuan waited, too. The longer the preacher took, the more time his men would have to surround-the little plaza.

  "The land is unquiet!" the preacher stated. "Nay, what could cause it but an unquiet soul in the King of the land? 'Tis the sin of the King in opposing the Church! In abiding corrupted Rome! In his heresy't"

  The crowd roared.

  The preacher let it build, satisfied.

  So was Tuan; his men must have blocked the streets. He eased back into the shadows, waiting while the preacher whipped the crowd up to the point where they were calling for the King to abdicate, then sent them on their way to shout beneath the magistrates' windows. Tuan watched them stream by him, more certain than ever that there was more to the success of this rhetoric than well-chosen words. His men let the people pass; then, as the preacher climbed down off his hogshead, they strolled in from each alleyway. The monk looked up, smiling pleasantly. "What wouldst thou, good men?"

  "I would have some words with thee about the doctrines thou hast but now espoused," Tuan answered.

  The monk frowned; the language was scarcely that of a peasant. "Certes, my son. May I know thy name and rank?"

  "Gladly will I give it." Tuan signed to his men, then pulled back his hood. "I am Tuan Loguire, King of Gramarye."

  The monk froze in horror, eyes bulging, and in that second of paralysis husky peasants stepped up all about him. He recovered and glanced about him wildly, but saw the hardness of their faces, and his own expression smoothed. He straightened, relaxing. "What wouldst thou of me, milord?"

  Tuan frowned, noting the avoidance of the term Majesty. "Dost truly believe the course thou didst but now preach?"

  "By Heaven, I do!"

  "Then," said Tuan, "thou shouldst not hesitate to come debate that course with an adherent of mine, who doth hold the contrary view."

  A guarded look came into the monk's eyes. "And thou wilt truly listen?"

  "Myself, and the Queen. Further, we shall not speak, but allow thee and my champion alone to discourse on the issue. Wilt thou come?"

  "Willingly." The monk's eyes glittered. "I do not fear to defend my Faith!"

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Dinner? Indoors? How novel!"

  "Be not so silly, Papa." Cordelia yanked on his arm. "Thou hast been on the road but one night."

  "One night with you. Your brother kept me out for two nights before that!"

  "As he did tell it, 'twas not he that kept thee," Cordelia retorted. "Come, Papa. Dost thou not wish to dine with me?"

  "Oh, yes! Especially when I don't have to catch the main course first!" Rod stepped aside at the doorway and bowed his daughter into the inn. "After you, mademoiselle."

  "I thank you, sir," she answered, tilting her chin up as she stepped past him.

  They stepped into the usual hubbub of a small town's posting-inn, which meant that most of the customers were hard-working peasants spending a cheerful hour away from their wives. It also meant they weren't much for eating at the moment. Rod took a table against the wall and not too far from the door, holding the chair for Cordelia and bowing again as she sat, giving her the full gallant treatment. His reward was a radiant smile as he moved around the table and sat across from her. He glanced up to make sure he could see both the door and the kitc
hen behind her, out of habit—and noticed a peasant in keeper's green come in and sit down with a small group at a table. Nice to be where everybody knew everybody else— provided they didn't mind strangers. He also saw the landlord bustling up to them with a smile. Rod reflected that the man would have been kicking them out, not smiling, if they hadn't changed their clothes, washed, and cached their load of pots. But since they looked moderately prosperous, he rubbed his hands and beamed. "How may I serve thee, good folk?"

  "Soup?" Rod looked up at Cordelia. She nodded and smiled. He asked the landlord, "What is it tonight?"

  "Pease porridge, goodman."

  "Hot?"

  "Surely." The innkeeper frowned. "Wherefore would it not be?"

  "Well, some like it cold. With bread, of course—and do you have meat?"

  "Only a hen, goodman, who is past her laying days."

  "A bowl of stew, then, and two bowls of pease porridge, hot. And a flagon of ale." Rod noticed the keeper rising and moving to another table, where he sat and chatted again.

  "Ale for the child, also?"

  "Mm? Oh, not just yet."

  The landlord smiled, bobbed his head, and bustled off toward the kitchen. Cordelia looked daggers at her father.

  "Not till you're twenty." Rod leveled a finger at her. "I don't care what you think other girls your age drink."

  "Even babes do swill ale, Papa!"

  "Yeah, and some of them are alcoholics before they're fifteen. No, dear, nutritional value isn't the only factor."

  "Thou and Mama! Thou dost conspire against us!"

  "No, we just discuss the issues ahead of time." Rod watched the keeper rise and move to a third table. Popular man. "Good, here's dinner."

  The landlord set a bowl of soup in front of each of them and another bowl in the middle. Rod noticed dumplings, and smiled as a mug thumped down in front of him. "Thank you, mine host." He laid a silver penny on the table. The host picked it up, raising his eyebrows, nipped it with his eyeteeth, and smiled. "Thank'ee, goodman."

  "My pleasure," Rod said around his first mouthful of stew. "My compliments to whoever revived this old biddy so well."

  "My wife?" The landlord frowned a moment; then his face cleared. "Ah! Thou didst speak of the hen. Well, I'll tell the other of thy thanks. Good appetite to 'ee!" He moved away again.

  Rod watched the keeper move to a fourth table.

  Cordelia inhaled steam and smiled happily, then reached for a piece of bread. She smeared butter on it, then looked up at her father with a happy smile that turned to a look of surprise. "What dost thou see, Papa?"

  "A keeper," Rod said, his voice low. "You know, a forest warden who keeps an eye out for poachers. He's chatted with people at four different tables in the last few minutes, but not enough for a real conversation with anyone. Whups! There go the first set of people he sat with, out the door, and the second set look as though they're trying to finish their meal fast."

  "He doth spread word," she said, eyes wide.

  Rod nodded. "Word about going someplace. I think maybe we'll tail along."

  "Oh, goody!" Cordelia squealed, then scrunched her head down between her shoulders, glancing to either side. "An adventure!" she said more softly.

  A relatively safe one, though. Rod hoped she wouldn't mind.

  Twenty minutes later they were strolling into the forest along a deer trail with newly flattened brush to cither side of it. There was no one visible in front of them and no one behind them, but Cordelia was staring off into the dimness of the leaves as though she weren't quite seeing it. "I hear curious thoughts before us, Papa."

  " 'Curious' meaning "odd,1 or meaning that the peasants aren't sure what's going on?"

  "The last, Papa. Yet there is apprehension in it… Oh, Papa! 'Tis perfectly safe!"

  "Maybe, but there's no sense taking chances." Rod picked up a dead branch, lashed some grass to it, and handed it to Cordelia. "Go aloft, would you, 'Delia? You'll see more that way."

  The view from the Archbishop's study was delightful—a dozen troops of knights, each with a half-dozen men-at-arms, practicing passages of arms in the meadow beyond the monastery wall under the noonday sun.

  "Doth it not delight thine heart, my lord?" Brother Alfonso asked.

  'T truth, it doth." The Archbishop beamed at the proud sight of the Duke di Medici in full plate armor, charging across a field with blunted lance lowered as one of his knights rode against him.

  "They will not be content with tilting forever," Brother Alfonso reminded. "They must needs ride, my lord—against the King, or away to their estates."

  But the Archbishop wasn"t about to let his secretary's pessimism darken his day. "Peace, peace, good Brother Alfonso. If they gain their desire without bloodshed, the more pleased will they be."

  The dark look on Brother Alfonso's face plainly denied the claim, but before he could say so, the Archbishop gave a glad cry, pointing. "See! Another train doth come!" Then he frowned and peered at it. "Yet 'tis odd. I see no proud flags, no glisten of mail…"

  Brother Alfonso looked, too. "Those be mules, my lord, not chargers—save for the first, which is a palfrey." His eyes widened. " 'Tis a woman!"

  "The Lady Mayrose!" The Archbishop exclaimed, his whole face lighting in a smile. His eye lingered fondly on her form for a few minutes before he turned away toward his study door. "Ho, chamberlain! Brother Anho!"

  The monk stepped in, bowing. "Aye. my lord?"

  "The Lady Mayrose doth approach the gate with her train! Bring them in, bring them in, and conduct her to this room!"

  Brother Anho stared, shocked. "My lord! A woman, within—"

  "Do as thou art bid, man!" the Archbishop stormed in sudden rage. "Must I invoke thy vow of obedience? Bring her in, and conduct her here!"

  Brother Anho swallowed, paling, then backed away, bowing, and turned.

  Brother Alfonso watched, with a slight smile.

  "Ah, 'tis good of her to come!" the Archbishop said, rubbing his hands. "Yet what can have occasioned this visit?"

  "What indeed?" Brother Alfonso murmured. "And what could she have brought?"

  They found out a few minutes later, as Brother Anho appeared at the study door, pale and tight-lipped. "My lord the

  Archbishop, the Lady May rose." And he stepped aside as the lady entered.

  "Lady Mayrose, how good of thee to come!" the Archbishop seized the hand she preferred and swept it to his lips for a kiss. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

  "Why, to the troops who gather in thy meadow. Thy Grace," she answered, dimpling. "We had thought they must be provisioned, my grandmother and I, and therefore hath she sent me to conduct hither such poor provisions as we can offer."

  If Brother Alfonso had his own suspicions as to who had persuaded whom, he kept them to himself. He only smiled broadly as the Archbishop turned to him with an expansive sweep of the arm, saying, "My secretary, Brother Alfonso."

  "Honored, milady." Brother Alfonso bowed. "I have heard so much about thee from milord the Archbishop."

  "And I of thee, good Brother! I had oft wondered what pillar of strength could support the world weight which lies upon His Lordship's shoulders!"

  "Ay, thy tongue is gilded," Brother Alfonso said, with a true smile. "Yet I doubt not thou, too, hast given encouragement to this our good lord."

  "What little I may, I give gladly," she answered. "In truth, "the holiness of this house doth excite me, to know that herein, men may be stirred to deeds of righteousness!"

  "May we always be so," Brother Alfonso said piously. "Yet now, I fear, I must be stirred to the work of the countinghouse, without which no enterprise can succeed in this sordid world, no matter how holy its purpose."

  "Well said, Brother," the Lady said, amused. "I trust I shall have further converse with thee?"

  "I trust thou shalt." Brother Alfonso had moved to the door; he turned back with a bow. "By your leave, my lord?"

  "Why… that is to say, I…" The Archbishop sw
allowed heavily, daunted by the prospect of being left alone with the beautiful young lady. But she smiled at him roguishly with a challenge in her eye, and he felt a surge of indignation. "Nay, assuredly thou must be about the tasks to which I have set thee!" But his heart sank as he watched Brother Alfonso bow himself out of sight.

  "La, my lord," the Lady Mayrose laughed. "Wouldst thou have me think an Archbishop afeard of a maid?"

  The Archbishop laughed with her, but anger spurted within him at the challenge. He took her hand, conducting her to the window and chatting a mile a minute, to gaze out at the gathering of troops.

  In the antechamber, Brother Anho looked up from his breviary, saw the Archbishop at the window with the lady for all the world to see, and felt his blood run cold.

  It was a contest on two levels, spoken and silent. Catharine and Tuan heard only a debate about the Church, but Brom O'Berin, listening to the tug of thoughts beneath the words, felt a battle for information.

  "Thou wilt not deny thou art a priest?" Her mind was wide open and alert for any associations that the term might raise.

  "Wherefore? 'Tis my pride." The friar smiled.

  There had been nothing—not only the humdrum, daily images that filled a human mind, but nothing. A void, a vacuum. Gwen frowned and tried again. "I am Gwendylon, Lady Gallowglass. Whom do I address?"

  "I am Father Peron, my child."

  So he was going to give her the pastor's patronization, eh? Well, Gwen knew how to ignore it. "I confess to puzzlement, Father," she repeated. "How canst thou term Their Majesties 'heretics,' when they but hold to the beliefs they have held all their lives?"

  "There is flow and change in all things, child—and as conditions in the world change, so must the Church. This is why Christ gave to Peter the power to bind or loose in Heaven what he bound or loosed on earth—so that the Church could change as it needed."

  His eyes seemed to burn into hers, and a massive surge of fervor hit her. Gwen almost gasped at the strength and suddenness of the wave. She rallied and countered. "Yet it is the heir of Peter from whom thou hast separated."

  The priest reddened, and anger flowed with his zeal. "The Pope cannot know how matters stand on Gramarye. The changes he doth declare for other worlds must not be binding here."