The Warlock Heretical

by Christopher Stasheff

  Elsa screamed, rising to her feet, screams that formed into words as her hands hooked into claws, and the old man jolted up and away from her, kicking over his stool and raising his hands to protect himself; but thunder shook the grove and three young men stood behind him, reaching for him. He took one horrified look at them and screamed, then exploded and was gone.

  Elsa screamed still, screamed and screamed, feeling her mind begin to shred, but a young woman stepped forth from the trees, a peasant her own age, hands uplifted, arms wide, saying, "Oh, poor lass, poor lass! What vile things have they done to thee, these wretched, twisted men!"

  Elsa's screams wrenched off; she stared, amazed, as the young woman stepped forward, her face all sympathy, crooning, "Poor Elsa, poor, poor lass!"

  Elsa took one halting step forward, then collapsed into the stranger woman's arms, sobbing and sobbing as the pieces of her mind began to pull themselves together again, and her heart began to realize the horror was past.

  "Oh! Tis so great a scandal, Maria!" the woman said as she hauled her bucket across the village common.

  " 'Tis in truth, Rillis! That Their Majesties should so defy the Abbot!" Maria answered, hefting her own bucket.

  "The Archbishop, thou dost mean," Matilda sniffed. "An thou wilt hold Their Majesties wrong in opposing him, goodwives, thou must needs call him 'Archbishop' now."

  A goat looked up and bleated as they passed.

  "I will not say that, Tilda." Maria frowned. "Who hath raised him, eh? Only himself."

  "Hath he not the right to so do, Maria?" Rillis demanded. "He is the highest priest of the land!"

  "Why, so might thine husband proclaim himself squire, Rillis. Would that make him so?" Maria demanded as they came to the village well.

  Rillis started to giggle, and clapped a hand over her own mouth. "For shame, Maria! To make me laugh at mine own husband! Wherefore didst thou not speak of thine own?"

  "For that her Rolf would not dare to term himself aught she might decry." Matilda swung her bucket up to the well curb. "My Jack, now, scarce would have pride enough to term himself a plowman."

  "Only for that he would then have to plow, Matilda. He might, though, call himself a layabout."

  Matilda managed to convert her peal of laughter into an indignant snort.

  "Well, so much for the follies of mankind, my godsibs," Maria sighed, laying hold of the crank. "Now for the wisdom of womankind. Shall we have some water for the cleansing of our houses?"

  "And for the pot." Rillis set her hands on the crank from the other side. "Up with the bucket, now!"

  "I shall have a sip of it first," Matilda decided, bending over to peer down into the gloom. "Ah, 'tis so cool and… ahhhl" She screamed.

  Maria nearly let go of the crank, but not quite—which was a good thing, because Rillis did. "Matilda! What—"

  But Matilda was past speaking; she cowered back, hands over her mouth, pale and trembling.

  "What can it be she hath seen?" Rillis turned to look, and drew back with a gasp. "Maria! Let go!"

  "What dost thou see?"

  "A dragon's worm! Tis a horrid thing, with a gaping maw and scales of sickly yellow! Its wings have sprouted, and its tail hath a sting! Maria, let go't"

  Maria heard a furious hiss from the well, seeming to fill all the air about her. She let go of the crank as though it were a live coal. It spun, and the well rang with a scream so high-pitched they could scarcely hear it, dwindling, gaining echo, till the bucket splashed.

  The three women stared at one another, horrified. Rillis found her voice first. "What now shall we drink?" She whispered.

  "Drink be hanged, godsib! What shall we do when 'tis grown!"

  "It shall not grow."

  The three spun about.

  She couldn't have been older than twenty-five, but she bore herself with the authority of a knight's lady. She wore peasant's clothes, as they did, but of a richer fabric and more vivid colors, and she came toward them with a gentle smile, but a look of grim purpose in her eyes.

  "Who art thou?" Maria breathed.

  "I am a witch of the Royal Coven," the stranger answered. "As for thy worm, behold!" She stepped up to the well and frowned, gazing down at it.

  The three women glanced at one another, then plucked up their courage and stepped up to peek.

  They saw the worm shrink and harden, hissing furiously as its wings grew and spread, till the hissing stopped and there was scarcely any body at all. But the wings were huge, a foot across at least, and of so marvelous a swirl of rainbow hues as to make the women gasp. It drifted up from the well, a magnificent butterfly—but, harmless though it was, they ducked out of its way as it rose above the curb and hovered inside the well for a moment. The stranger frowned at it, and it sped away, rising to glide off into the forest on a vagrant breeze.

  The stranger relaxed, and there was a sheen on her forehead as she turned to the three women. " 'Twas no true worm, but a crafting of witch moss. 'Tis sped now, and shall trouble thee no more."

  The women stared; then Maria found her voice. "Who… who crafted it?"

  "Some malicious witch who doth strive 'gainst Their Majesties' rule."

  "What if that witch doth transform it to a worm again?"

  "Why, then, I shall banish it again—I, or another like me." The young woman gave them a radiant smile. "Fear not, goodwives—the King and Queen do ward and care for their folk."

  She turned and moved away into the forest. The three women stared after her in the heat of the midday sun.

  Then Matilda straightened, a gleam in her eye. "Well, godsibs! Shall we have a tale to tell this even!"

  Dinner was done, and the grown-ups wandered out of their cottages to stand in groups, chatting, while the children ran about, tagging each other and wrangling—a normal Gramarye village evening.

  "Hear the Word of the Lord!"

  Where the preacher had come from, no one knew, but they all stilled and looked at him, with .more dread than surprise on their faces. The clergy had not been bringing good news lately.

  " 'Put not your trust in princes,' saith the Lord! And in truth, he who would put his faith in our princes, in Tuan and Catharine today, would be foolish indeed!"

  The people stared, galvanized by the words of treason they were hearing. Even the children began to realize something was wrong, and one by one ceased their games and turned to listen.

  "Tuan and Catharine have sought to usurp the powers of the Church! The King and Queen have scorned the word of the Lord Archbishop! They have adhered to a profligate and sinful Church in defiance, and have thus rent this land of Gramarye asunder! And as is done with the people of the land, so is done with its substance! Even now forces build to rend the very soil itself! Verily I say unto thee, in three minutes' time the earth shall quake!"

  The villagers burst into a panic of yammering disbelief. Here and there rose a cry of despair, and a few turned toward their cottages.

  "Naught will be damaged!" the priest cried. "Or at the least, very little! The ground will shake, aye, but shall only tremble; it shall not heave! This is but the Lord's warning, not His devastation! Hearken! Heed!"

  Somewhat reassured, the peasants turned back to watch him again. The priest straightened, smiling, sure of his control…

  And the seconds passed.

  And passed. And passed.

  The priest frowned, and the folk began to murmur. "Assuredly three minutes have come and gone!"

  "Aye, most surely! Hast thou felt a quake?"

  "Nay, not so much as mine oxen make as I follow the plow."

  The preacher was scowling now, fists clenched, forehead beading with sweat. People saw, and fell silent again, staring at him—but nothing happened.

  " 'Tis a mountebank," somebody muttered.

  "Aye, 'tis a jester who did cut his own tonsure," a goodwife agreed.

  "Dost seek to mock us, fellow?" A bulky peasant stepped forward, anger in his voice.

  "I am a true friar of
St. Vidicon!" the priest shouted.

  "Any may don a robe and paint a bit of wood for his breast," another beefy peasant sneered. "What, fellow! Dost take us for fools?"

  "Stand away from me," the priest commanded, but trepidation hollowed his voice, and he stepped backwards, and backwards again, as the big peasants closed in on three sides. Behind two of them he saw a slighter man smiling, and glared at the man. But the peasant only smiled wider, and it was a hard and threatening smile.

  "Mend thy ways!" the preacher cried. "Cease to follow these false monarchs—or, I warn thee, the ground shall shake!" And he turned to hurry away into the forest, his face burning with embarrassment—and with anger at the young man with the hard smile who was, he was certain, the warlock who had held the earth still with his mind, when the preacher had sought to shake it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lutes and hautboys wove a tranquil melody, calming the spirits of all who entered the great church in Runnymede. The choir's voices rose to fill the nave as Their Majesties came in, arm in arm, their two sons walking before them with gravity far beyond their years. Footmen preceded them; maids came behind. A third of the household came to mass in the cathedral; the others attended in the chapel.

  The royal party sat, and Catharine clasped Tuan's hand tightly, smiling. He smiled back into her eyes. For a few brief minutes the peace of God touched their souls.

  Then the choir finished with a triumphant "Alleluia!" and the priest cried from the pulpit, "Dearly beloved in Christ!"

  Catharine and Tuan spun about to stare at him. What had happened to the Introit? To the Confiteor, the Gloria, the Epistle, and Gospel?

  "There will be no Mass in this Church on this Sunday," the priest announced grimly.

  Tuan frowned, and Catharine's face darkened as a huge hubbub erupted all about them.

  The priest grimly waited it out, then unrolled a parchment, declaring, "I must read to you a letter from our Most Reverend Archbishop!"

  Catharine nearly bolted from her chair, but Tuan restrained her with a hand on her arm. "Let him speak. We are not yet despots—and 'tis better to have it said openly."

  She subsided, fuming, while Alain and Diarmid stared up at them, frightened.

  "Dearly beloved," the priest read, "it is with great sadness that I pronounce Tuan and Catharine, erstwhile King and Queen of this land, heretics against the Word of God and the Church of Gramarye, and do therefore declare them excommunicated from all services and Sacraments of our Church."

  The hubbub turned into a roar this time, and even the footmen seemed to shrink away from Their Majesties. Catharine was on her feet, fists clenched tightly, face white, and Tuan was beside her. " 'Erstwhile!' " the Queen said grimly. "How dare he say 'erstwhile'!"

  But the priest was waving for quiet. As the crowd subsided, they could hear him crying, "… and hear me out, ere I am silenced! His Grace the Archbishop doth say, 'I hearby call upon all good men and true, whose souls are devoted to God, to abjure this false prince and come to me here in my house in Ruddigore, to join in a holy march against these heretics who do tyrannize our fair Isle of Gramarye!'"

  Now Tuan's face swelled with wrath; now, finally, he bellowed in rage, "Art thou done?"

  "'Thine in Christ,'" the priest finished, coolly if quickly, " 'John Widdecombe, Archbishop of Gramarye by the grace of God.'"

  "Say, rather, by the word of John Widdecombe!" Tuan thundered. "If thou hast finished, thou wilt doubtless leave this church, and thou shalt not say Mass!"

  "In truth, I would not stay in the presence of an heretic," the priest stated, rolling up the letter with trembling hands. "Silence me if thou must, Tuan Loguire, but thousands of monks shall cry thine iniquity throughout the land!"

  "I know some who shall not," Tuan called back, mastering his temper with difficulty. Eyes narrowed, he turned to the seneschal. "Sir Maris! Ride with all haste to the chapter house nearby, and beseech Father Boquilva to come say our Mass!" He turned to Catharine and said, more softly, "Now shall I not scruple to 'use' them!"

  His answer was the glow in her eyes, and the clasp of her hands on his.

  The noble hostages filed back into their hall, and for once there was no badinage of insults between the two parties. They took their places and sat, faces dark, gazing at one another with foreboding. No one spoke, perhaps because D'Auguste was absent, comforting his bride.

  Finally Maggiore broke the silence. "My lords, it is war."

  Ghibelli nodded heavily. "How can it be aught else, when the Archbishop doth excommunicate the King?"

  "Yet 'tis plain that Rome doth not," Chester answered, "and that there be two orders of St. Vidicon now, not one."

  "Aye, there is a St. Vidicon of Rome, and one of Gramarye. PestV Marshall threw his hands up in exasperation. "How can there be two Saints Vidicon when only one was martyred?"

  " Tis a rebellion among the priests," Glasgow growled, "and fools we are not to have seen it."

  "My sire hath declared for the Archbishop," Marshall said, glowering. "I had thought his example showed that the Archbishop was right in embracing change, and Their Majesties were wrong in.their foolish obstinacy."

  "Aye," Graz agreed. "Yet if the Archbishop's priest will not say Mass in the presence of the royal heretics, but Father Boquilva will most willingly accord them the Sacraments…"

  "Aye," Ghibelli whispered. "Who is the true heretic, eh? The King, or the Archbishop?''

  He whirled to stab a finger at D'Auguste as the young lord came into the hall. "Riddle me that, eh? Thou, who dost ever believe thyself knowledgeable in all things—tell me! Who is faithful to God—His Majesty, or His Grace?"

  D'Auguste froze, startled. Then he came forward, frowning. "I cannot see how he can be 'His Grace' when he hath cast us all into so much confusion of spirit. Yet the question for us, milord, is much more to the point: Who shall we march with? The King? Or…"

  "Our mourners," Graz said softly.

  They were all silent, staring at each other, the sudden fact of their own mortality shrouding their souls—the realization that they could die at the headsman's block, though none of them had yet seen twenty-five.

  "Who hath declared for the Church?" Glasgow muttered.

  "Thy father, Duke Stuart," Ghibelli answered, "and my sire. With him march Earl Marshall and Count Borgia."

  There was no sign of relief on any face, but several nods; the young lords had heard only what they had expected.

  "For myself," Ghibelli said slowly, "if my lord father doth willingly allow me to go to the block, I care naught." He swallowed, belying his own words. "At the least, I hold him blameless—nay, honorable and right, to uphold the rights of our estate. I doubt me not an my death will pierce him to the very heart and fuel the fires of his vengeance; he will be doubly determined to bring down this upstart Loguire. Tis for the good of the House of Savoy, and of all the great lords."

  The room was silent.

  Then Guelph said, "Thou hast the right of it—for myself and my sire. Yet what of our souls, eh? How if Father Boquilva be right and the Archbishop wrong?"

  "Aye." Ghibelli met his somber gaze. "I have no great wish to suffer the tortures of the damned for all eternity, for no better reason than that my parent adhered to an heretical cleric."

  "Yet," said Chester, "mayhap the Archbishop is right. What of that, eh? And we who adhere to Rome and the King might therefore burn without end."

  "Oh, thou hast little concern!" Ghibelli exploded. "Thou wilt have the fullness of thy three score and ten ere thou dost face the Judgment! Thou wilt know the end of this quarrel, and which Church is true; thou wilt have time to recant and repent, an thou hast need of it! Yet we whose sires rebel, we go to the block on the instant, as the King doth saddle his mount!"

  "Aye, I have a part free of care," Chester answered, meeting his gaze, "if I am not slain on the field."

  Ghibelli was silent, only staring at him.

  The young lords all sat, numb, chilled to their souls by
the thought.

  Then Guelph slapped the table and shouted, "What a pack of great ninnies we are! What fools, what hollow heads! Here we sit and shudder over words that silly shavepates do bandy! What matters their nattering, in truth? God is God; they will not change Him!"

  "Brave words," Glasgow said bitterly. "Wilt thou recite them as they haul thee to the block?"

  "His point is well-taken." D'Auguste finally stepped up to take his seat. "We are the lords of the land; we ken the wielding of power. Dost not see such maneuvering in this?"

  The lords were silent, looking at one another in surprise, then slowly beginning to nod.

  " Tis naught but a jousting for place," Guelph said, with a wolfish grin.

  "Why, then, let us regard it as just such a contest." D'Auguste leaned forward, elbows on the table, cocking a forefinger at Ghibelli. "But think, milord—if 'twere a war and we wished to be sure our houses did survive it, how would we proceed?"

  "Why…" Ghibelli stared at him, nonplussed. Then he frowned and answered, "We would be sure our house did have a son on each side."

  "The very thing!" D'Auguste slapped the table. "Thus have our ancestors done, time without mind, whenever two great lords did fight o'er the succession. March on the King's side, my lord, and fight as much as thou must, though not more, and thou shalt inherit thy father's title and land, if Their Majesties win."

  Ghibelli stared at him in surprise. Then his eyebrows drew down in suspicion. "Wherefore wouldst thou so advise me, if thou art a King's man? Wouldst thou not wish me to fight with my all?"

  "I own I would—yet I will rejoice to see thee in the battle line at all, for thou wilt do more good there than here, with thine head in a basket."

  "Yet how if our sires win?" Glasgow demanded, but Ghibelli turned on him. "Art thou a slow-witted fool? They will know why we have fought on the King's side; they have learned the histories of our houses and their conduct in wars civil as surely as we! Hath it not ever been thus—that a house with two sons did send one to fight for the suzerain and one for the rebel?"

  " 'Tis so," Glasgow admitted. "Thou hast the right of it; our fathers must surely forgive the prodigals."