The Warlock Heretical

by Christopher Stasheff

  His anger was daunting, making Gwen feel indeed like a child in front of a stem teacher. Inwardly she quailed, but refused to let it show, and narrowed the focus of her mind on only one area of his—fear of the Afterlife. "How dost thou know the Pope to be wrong, Father?"

  "Why, for that milord the Archbishop hath said so." If he had any reservations or any anxieties, there was no inkling of them; where thoughts should be, there was nothing.

  Gwen frowned; certainly his fervor could not completely counter all his upbringing and his fearful religiosity. "Canst thou not judge such a matter for thyself?"

  "I am sworn to obey my lord the Archbishop. His wisdom in these matters must needs be greater than mine."

  "Nay, thou wert sworn to obey the Abbot, not the Archbishop."

  A touch of exasperation showed in the man's face, but not in his mind. "Though he be Archbishop, he is Abbot still, and what he doth pronounce right for Gramarye must needs be right indeed."

  "Even if he doth oppose himself to the Pope?"

  "Even so."

  "Then is it not he who is an heretic?"

  Father Peron flushed, and his anger hit like a padded sledgehammer. "Nay, 'tis the King who is an heretic, if he doth not adhere to the one true Church."

  Deadlock. Gwen paused and changed the subject. "The Queen doth rule as surely as the King. Wherefore dost thou speak only of His Majesty?"

  "God is our Father, child, and doth rule all. Rulers therefore must be male. A woman's rule is abomination."

  Catharine half rose, turning crimson and emitting ■& very strange gargling noise; but Tuan's hand tightened on hers, and she had promised Gwen to hold her tongue, so she did. But Father Peron permitted himself a small smile.

  Gwen bit down on her own anger and managed to keep her puzzled frown. "Dost not revere sainted Mary, mother of our Lord?"

  "Aye, as the Ruler's mother—and I eagerly await the reign of Alain."

  Tuan was reddening now, too, but he held his peace. He could tell when someone was trying to get to him.

  "Yet by thy lights," Gwen pointed out, "Alain will be also an heretic."

  "I trust God shall send him wisdom, when he doth come of age," Father Peron said piously. "If he doth not, he shall find himself opposed to all his barons—nay, to all his people."

  "Thou art confident of the future," Gwen murmured.

  "Victory is the Lord's, child—victory is ever the Lord's." Father Peron's gaze seemed to pierce through to her soul, and the flames of his fervor seemed to burn all about her mind. "Right will triumph—and the Church of Gramarye is right."

  "There was no more that I could gain from him," Gwen said, when Father Peron had followed his jailers to a cell that probably reminded him of home. "He hath the most excellent shield that ever I have known—save in my husband, when he doth wish it." She shuddered at the thought, and changed the subject. "Yet he is most truly a priest."

  "A warlock in a monk's robe?" Tuan shook his head, pacing. "Is this not blasphemy?"

  "Aye, for the clergy have ever inveighed 'gainst the witches," Catharine agreed.

  " 'Tis only the parish priests who have spoken thus," Brom reminded her. "What the monks say amongst themselves within the cloister, we have no knowledge."

  "Why should there not be one among them who hath our powers?" Gwen said with a shrug. "We have found witchfolk in every county and every class; wherefor ought there not be one within the monastery?"

  "A point," Tuan admitted, "yet still an odd one. Is he, mayhap, the one who hath called up other witches to side with the Archbishop?"

  Gwen shook her head. "I cannot tell; I could read nothing of his thoughts—yet his feelings did reach out toward me." She frowned. "In truth, so strongly did his zeal press all about me, that I found myself beginning some feeling of the rightness of his cause."

  Tuan nodded. "Such a feeling enwrapped me in the town, when I did hearken to his speech."

  "Nay!" Catharine cried. "Assuredly, Lady Gallowglass, thou dost not believe—"

  "Nay, I do not. Yet this is his power—the ability to put his feeling of rightness or wrongness within another's mind."

  "Mayhap every good orator hath some touch of that talent," Tuan suggested. "Assuredly 'twas not his words alone did touch me."

  "Nay, 'twas not. It was the power of his mind that worked upon thee."

  "And his words, then, served no purpose but to hold the folk about him, the whiles he worked his spell?" Tuan said. "Well, that I can credit."

  "Is not this the power that the rebel sorcerer Alfar did have?" Catharine demanded.

  "Aye, Majesty, yet 'tis not nearly so strong in Father Peron. The sorcerer could so enfold another's mind that he lulled his victim into a waking sleep, then could thrust within not only his feelings, yet also his thoughts. Thus could he compel anyone to do as he wished. 'Tis a state mine husband doth term hypnosis."

  "And thine husband hath a word for this priest's power, I doubt not."

  Gwen nodded. "He doth term the priest a projective."

  "Projective! Hypnosis!" Catharine threw up her hands. "A deal of nonsense! What need for names?"

  "They aid in thinking, Majesty," Gwen explained. "When thou dost see how two words resemble one another, thou canst see what may cause the things they stand for. In this instance, seest thou, the preacher is a 'projective empath,' whereas…" Her voice trailed off, and her eyes lit. > Catharine noticed, and asked, "What ails thee?"

  " 'Tis even as I've told thee—the use of the words!" Gwen clapped her hands. "The preacher is projective, yet mine husband doth also use the term to signify a witch who doth craft things of witch moss!" She referred to a substance found only on Gramarye, a telepathically-sensitive fungus that assumed the shape of whatever a nearby projective telepath was thinking of. Gwen spun to Brom O'Berin. "Lord Privy Councilor! Can thy spies seek out the trail of this two-headed dog that did afright the peasant Piers?"

  Brom frowned. "Assuredly, they can. Yet wherefore…" Then he followed her train of reasoning, and began to smile. "Be sure, I've spies who can ferret out its lair."

  "They must need be valiant men, who would seek to trail so fell a spirit," Catharine said, doubt plain in her voice.

  "Valiant they are," Brom said grimly, "or will be."

  Hoban leaned back to stretch the ache out of his spine, and mopped his brow, glancing up at the sun. The work was familiar—he had been hoeing most of his life—but he had never before done it in a long saffron robe, nor thought about it as an aid to prayer. Still, there were worse things, and both Father Rigori and Anho had warned him the life would be hard. He bent over again, and chopped at a weed; he had never thought of this dull, repetitive work as a discipline to school the body, freeing the mind for prayer and contemplation. Always before, he had let his mind roam over the pleasures that awaited him at the end of the day—food, and talk with friends, and sleep, and on the sabbath, dalliance with wenches.

  He pushed that thought away; monks didn't think about girls, and he was determined to be a monk. He tried to steer his thoughts back to God and godliness, but was only able to appreciate the neatness of the beds of cabbages, and the precise border of old horsehoes set upright side by side, which closed the end of the field. As he reached them he shook his head, marveling at the labor it must have taken to so fence all the monastery's fields, not to mention gathering all those worn shoes. How like the monks not to count the labor, because their minds were on the other world! He sighed and lifted his hoe again.

  "Hist! Farmer Hoban!"

  Hoban looked up, startled, coming out of his reverie. Who had called? Brother Hasty, who watched over the monks in the field? But no, he was a hundred feet away, with a wary eye on two novices who had paused for a rest and a chat. And there was no other monk near him. Then who… ?

  "Here, foolish one! In the patch of cowslips to thy left!"

  Hoban started to look, then remembered that whichever way Brother Hasty was looking now, he was quite likely to be looking Hoban'
s way next, so he bent back to his hoeing, glancing at the cowslips out of the corner of his eye.

  And To and behold, there he was, he really was, one of the Little People! Larger than he'd heard they went—he was a foot-and-a-half high, scowling up at Hoban, arms akimbo. "Aye, thou dost see me now. Be sure thou dost give no sign. 'Tis long I've waited for thee to come to the edge of the field, for I could not go in to thee, not past that barrier of Cold Iron."

  Of course, Hoban realized with a shock, that pretty little fence would keep elves out too! And, of a sudden, all thoughts of the holy life were swept aside as he remembered what he had promised the Lord Warlock.

  "Try not to think of it, if thou canst," the elf advised, "for there are many minds here to hear thy thoughts. I" truth, they do not like my kind, and I cannot help but wonder why. Tis not the sort of thing the Archbishop would have thought of by himself."

  "I think thou hast the right of it," Hoban breathed. "I have not seen a mean spirit in him."

  "Yet there is such a spirit in this monastery, or I mistake it quite." The elf cocked his head to one side. "Who is it, then?"

  "Brother Alfonso, or I mistake," Hoban muttered. "He is the Archbishop's secretary, and is ever with him so long as he is within these walls. The other monks give him more respect than they ought, for one who is but a servant—and one who is so newly come."

  "Newly come?" the elf frowned. "How newly, then?"

  "But three years ago, saith Rumor. At the first he was ever willing to labor at whatever task he could, and worked long and well—so all came to know his name. Yet he could write and cipher, so the Archbishop—the Abbot then—set him to the accounts. He proved adept at them, and was therefore more and more in milord's company."

  "As he became more and more set on separating from Rome, belike." The elf nodded, with a wry grimace. "How can he be countered?"

  "He cannot, now! Those who would not submit to him, fled to Runnymede. All who remain here, live in fear of the fellow."

  "Odd, for a man of God," the elf said. "Then we must deal with him. When doth he come outdoors?"

  "In the evenings, to walk in the Archbishop's garden with His Lordship."

  "Which is hung about with so much Cold Iron, I would think it a smithy." The elf's face hardened. "Well, we shall find a… whup!"

  He disappeared into the cowslips as a shadow fell across the earth in front of Hoban. He looked up into the stern visage of Brother Hasty.

  "Hoban," said the severe supervisor, "wherefore hast thou hoed at that same patch of earth for this last quarter hour?" * * *

  "Surely the beast has no need for the second!" Kelly McGoldbagel stared at the huge paw print in the patch of moonlight. "I've never seen a dog who used the head he had!"

  "Oh, be still!" Puck groaned. " Tis not the beast who hath need of two heads, but the one who made him."

  "But why?"

  "To fright poor peasants, thou lob!" Puck snapped. "Now be still, and follow his trail!"

  Kelly grumbled and followed Puck down the trail between the huge old forest trees. Why Brom O'Berin had insisted he bring the Englishman along, Kelly couldn't understand— surely one leprecohen would be enough to track any monster! "Sure an ye don't think the Elfin King fears for the safety of one of his elves, do ye?"

  " 'Tis not what I think, but what he doth! Wilt thou not be still and track?"

  Kelly sighed and followed, frowning at the trail. The beast's paws must have been half the size of Kelly himself, to leave such traces. "At the least, the beast cannot have been one of yer pranks, if it left tracks."

  "I shall leave tracks on thy backside!" Puck jerked to a halt, frowning at a fork in the road. "Here are but fallen leaves; I see no more prints. Whence came the beast?"

  "Why, yonder!" Kelly exclaimed, pointing to the right. "See ye not the twigs it broke from the trees as it passed?"

  Puck stared. Then he said, "Well done, great scout! Thou mayest take the lead now."

  Kelly looked up at him, startled. Puck grinned. Kelly shivered and turned away, grumbling. "I'd sooner have a two-headed dog at my back than an Englishman!"

  "Thou mayest have thy wish," Puck reminded. "We track the beast's trail in reverse, to discover whence he came; none say he hath returned. In truth, we may feel his breath hot on our necks as he doth come home."

  For some reason, Kelly went a bit faster.

  The path widened suddenly, and they found themselves in a small clearing, wide enough for some moonlight to strike through the forest crown, showing them a wattle hut with a thatched roof. The door was made of stout planks, though, and the single window was shuttered.

  Kelly stopped. "I never knew a forest spirit that sought a roof over its head."

  "Aye, nor that latched the door and barred the shutters when it was away from home." Puck frowned, stepping out into the clearing. "Yet it may be that 'tis within, and therefore hath made fast its portal."

  "Then the more fool ye are, to be courtin' its wrath! What, would ye bring disaster upon us?"

  Puck tossed his head impatiently. "The spirit's not made that can harm the Puck."

  "Savin' his Elfin Majesty, o' course," Kelly grumbled.

  "I misdoubt me an he bides within yon hut. Come, wilt thou not play hearth ghost and find a chink through which to enter?"

  "What's to find? 'Tis more holes than walls, with wattle!" Kelly protested. "Whoever bides there does not mean to winter within it, does he?"

  "Nay, or he would have daubed it without." Puck glanced about him and dashed up to the wall. Kelly stared, appalled, then cursed and sprinted after him.

  Puck was fingering the wattle. " 'Tis yet green. This hovel's newly built, sprite."

  "Aye, 'tis that." Kelly looked down. "Yet there's already a footpath trod from the doorway—and I see no prints of the hound!"

  Puck glanced about, also, nodding. "And since the leaves

  1 have been cleared away to bare the earth, we should surely have seen such. What could this cotter have sought beneath compost? Yet the dog's prints end at the verge, as though it had been conjured forth at the spot."

  Kelly shivered. "Why, then, we've fulfilled our commission! Let us… histV

  Puck looked up, startled, then heard the sound Kelly was pointing after—the tread of human feet through forest mulch.

  A few minutes later a pot-bellied peasant stepped into the moonlight, leaning against the load of a heavy basket. He stumped to the door, set down his burden, and sighed, rubbing his bald spot—a perfect circle, in the midst of what would otherwise have been an excellent head of hair. He wore an ordinary smock and leggings, and was in middle age. He glanced about and sighed. "Ah, the loneliness is hard to bear!" Then he shrugged, lifting the latch and pushing the door open. He frowned as he stepped in, muttering, "Be still, my heart! 'Tis for God, the Church, and the Order!" He sighed as he hoisted his basket and went into the hut. A minute later a lamp flame glowed inside, and the door swung shut. Two seconds later Puck and Kelly were back at the wall, peering through chinks in the wattle.

  The peasant muttered to himself as he stirred the coals on the hearth, laid on kindling, and blew it into flame, then set on some sticks. Behind him the stuff in his basket began to quiver, then to churn about. He turned back to it, frowning, then nodded his head, apparently satisfied with its motion. He dumped it out before the hearth and sat down on a three-legged stool, staring at it. The stuff was gray and formless, with a faint sheen, like puffball toadstools that couldn't keep their shape. As the elves watched, wide-eyed, the mass began to spread, then to stretch upward. Gradually it grew into the form of a sapling, its color darkening to brown, pieces of it stabbing outward into four branches. Each branch tip blossomed into stiffened twigs. The peasant nodded, satisfied, and held up a hand. Slowly the sapling bent one of its branches down, wrapped a set of twigs about his wrist. The peasant smiled, and the sapling let go of his hand, straightening. The man murmured, "To the door, now." The sapling began to quiver; then one root humped up, pushe
d forward, and flattened again. Another root took a step, then the third, then the first again, and slowly the sapling moved toward the door. The peasant nodded, scowling, and muttered, "Find a peasant, clutch at him, then chase him—but do not catch him."

  The sapling's branches shook as though it, too, were nodding; then it bent to go through the doorway, and shuffled off across the clearing and into the wood.

  Kelly and Puck watched it go, eyes wide.

  Inside the hut the peasant sighed and sat back wearily.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As Rod moved through the darkened forest, he began to feel the presence of other people around him. Soon he could hear them whispering to one another, with the occasional nervous giggle, as though they were a bunch of schoolchildren sneaking off to do something forbidden. Then, through a gap in the leaves, he saw orange light with silhouettes of his fellow travelers before it. The light expanded, and Rod came out into a clearing.

  A monk stood on a stump at its far side, flanked by branches stuck into the ground, with their tops flaring torches— makeshift candelabra. The sight of the man's tonsure and robe was enough to raise Rod's hackles. Are you up there, Cordelia? To play safe, he was thinking in the family mode Gwen had invented, and he heard Cordelia's answer in the same compressed fashion: Aye, Papa. 'Tis like looking down on a church from the choir loft.

  I don't think that's accidental, 'Delia. Now, remember—we just listen; we don't do anything.

  I shall be mindful of it, Papa, she thought, with some asperity.

  The unvoiced thought was: Will you? It was nice of her not to think it, though. Rod had to admit she had a point; he was the one with the temper.

  "Dearly beloved!" the monk cried, holding up both hands.

  The crowd quieted.

  "I bring thee news from our Most Reverend Archbishop," the monk called, and the crowd muttered with enthusiasm. The hairs on the back of Rod's neck prickled; they were in Tudor's demesne, and Tudor was a Papist. These peasants, apparently, were the ones who were partial to the Church of Gramarye—or at least curious about it. No wonder the keeper had passed the word in secret.