The Warlock Heretical

by Christopher Stasheff

  Sir Willem stiffened, beckoned to his guardsmen, and came forward to surround the chaplain, who stared at them, shocked. They escorted him from the chapel, and the earl turned to the seneschal. "Send to Count Rhys, and bid him send Father Glen to us here."

  "Hapsburg! Tudor! Romanov! Ruddigore!" The Archbishop slapped each parchment down onto his desktop. "Ruddigore, even Ruddigore't Though our house doth lie within the baronet's demesne! Not a one of these arrogant noblemen but hath flouted mine appointment of his bishop!"

  "Vile are they, indeed," Brother Alfonso hissed, "yet not so vile as the priests who did refuse thy commissions."

  "Vile? Nay, more—they are heretics! And are therefore hereby cast out of the Order and the priesthood! Draw up a proclamation so stating, Brother Alfonso, for my signature."

  "I shall, my lord," the secretary purred. "Yet be of good heart—Bishop McKenzie and Bishop Vogel did declare loyalty to thee."

  "Aye, yet only for that they would gain croziers thereby! Still, the attempt was most surely worthy, and 'tis to be lamented they could not sway their lords." The Archbishop shook his head. "I could almost wish the King's lords had imprisoned them; then might their congregations have risen in outrage."

  "Their lordships took the course of wisdom," Brother Alfonso regretfully agreed, "in only exiling them."

  "Aye, and here are McKenzie and Vogel among us again." The Archbishop frowned. "Yet they shall keep their rank, aye, and shall be bishops in absentia. And…" He lifted his head slowly, a smile touching his lips. "For those recreant monks whom we shall declare unfrocked, let us appoint other absent bishops, that all the land may know their sees await them!"

  "Excellently thought, my lord!" It was so excellent, in fact, that it made Brother Alfonso nervous; the Archbishop wasn't supposed to think for himself. "The more so for that it shall weld these new bishops more ardently to thy cause! Who shalt thou choose?"

  "Father Rigori," the Archbishop said slowly, "and Father Hasty. There are also Father Samizdat, Father Roma, and Father Rhone…"

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rod stepped out to gaze up into the sky, to let the infinite vastness of the stars calm his soul by making him realize how little the absurd strivings and conflicts of his minuscule mortal kind really mattered.

  He should have known better.

  An elf popped up next to his shin. "Lord Warlock! The friars in the log house do call for thee!"

  "Father Boquilva?" Rod asked. "What's wrong now?"

  "I do not know, save that he did step without his door and cry, 'Wee folk, if thou dost hear me, call the High Warlock!'"

  "Oh. He did." Rod nodded. "Interesting. Practicality wins out over theology. You elves are supposed to be superstition, but when he needs you badly enough, he calls. Yes, this order does derive from the Jesuits. Okay, tell him I'm coming."

  Rod turned into the lane toward the chapter house and saw Father Boquilva hurrying toward him with a lamp in his hand. At least, the priest's face looked as though he were hurrying, but his pace matched the slower movements of the stocky man beside him, who was strangely dressed for a Cathodean. For any Gramaryan, for that matter. He was wearing a black coverall—with a Roman collar.

  Rod stood taut, all his danger signals screaming. The man was from off-planet.

  7

  Then he remembered that the man was also clergy, and if he wasn't trying to disguise himself, was probably a friend.

  "Good evening," he said. "Did I send for you?"

  Father Boquilva gasped, but the stranger looked up with a merry glint in his eye. "In a manner of speaking, you did—and as I remember, your manner of speaking was a bit abrupt. You're the, uh, 'High Warlock,' I take it?"

  "They call me that, even though I have less to do with spirits than you do." Rod held out a hand. "Rod Gallowglass, Father."

  "A pleasure." The man took his hand. His grip was warm and strong, and his smile broadened. As his face came close to the lamplight, Rod could see that he had thinning, close-cropped graying hair, and a neatly trimmed, grizzled beard. "But how did you guess my alcohol intake?"

  "Easy—you're a priest. Mass once a day, with at least a thimbleful of wine. Not to mention the other kind of spirits."

  "Thank you; I'll try not to. I'm McGee."

  "The Reverend Morris McGee," Father Boquilva said stiffly, "Father-General of our Order!"

  Rod froze, staring at the priest. "You just may be the answer to the prayer I didn't quite phrase."

  "I remember it being closer to a threat, actually. His Holiness was good enough to read it to me." McGee turned back to Father Boquilva. "If you would, Father, we would appreciate the hospitality of your house for a few hours longer."

  "Of course, Reverend Father. Our house is yours—in more than name." Father Boquilva turned away toward the door, his back ramrod straight.

  And his tone had been stiff enough to iron a shirt on. Rod fell in beside McGee and leaned over to mutter in his ear, "Who's being rebuked, me or you?"

  McGee looked up at him with delight. "Quite so. Lord Warlock, quite so! I believe I am a trifle too, ah, informal, for Father Boquilva's taste."

  Rod nodded. "After all, you're almost a legendary figure to him. You could at least have the courtesy to be tall, lean, and grim."

  "Oh! Yes, I must try." McGee stood up a little straighter and went a few steps with a stiff-legged stride, scowling fero-ciously. Then he relaxed and looked up at Rod. "Something along that line?"

  Rod held up a thumb-and-forefinger circle. "You have it down pat."

  "Thank you—and thank you for the guidance," McGee chuckled. "I think we shall get along famously."

  The monks were moving about in a daze, and whenever they sneaked a peek at the Father-General, their faces were loaded with awe, even fear.

  "They'll grow used to it," McGee said, but he eyed them sympathetically. "They never should have been left so completely out of touch with the rest of the Order for so long, Lord Warlock."

  " 'Rod,' please…"

  "No, 'Lord Warlock,' by your leave-—I must learn to think in your terms, and quickly."

  Rod bowed his head. "As you wish, but if you really think the situation's so urgent, why didn't you come sooner?"

  "Ah! I began trying to clear my schedule as soon as Father Uwell reported to me, but there are so many chapters, with the good souls of fifty planets under their care! And from Father Al's report, matters were in good order here." The Father-General shook his head. "I should have realized that, if the Abbot had been tempted toward opposing the King once, he might be so again."

  "Well, don't blame him too hard. I'm pretty sure it's not just his idea alone, Father."

  "Oh?" McGee's gaze seemed to probe into Rod's brain. "Who would have helped him?"

  "Secret agents." Rod gave him back stare for stare. "I have reason to believe there are two separate off-planet groups trying to subvert the government and take over the planet, Father. I think one of them got to him."

  McGee nodded, without taking his gaze away. "I'd think you were paranoid, if I didn't know you were an agent of SCENT."

  "Why doubt it?" Rod shrugged, impressed by the thoroughness of McGee's briefing. "I could be both."

  "True," the Father-General admitted. "Still, Widdecombe has declared a schism, Lord Warlock, and Rome earnestly wishes to heal the breach."

  "They won't tolerate it, you mean? But at this point, Father, the only way to eliminate the schism is to eliminate the Archbishop."

  "Abbot." McGee raised an admonishing forefinger. "Only an Abbot, Lord Warlock—we mustn't forget that. The congregations of Gramarye are of the Church of Rome, no matter what a misguided soul has told them."

  "And the Cathodeans of Gramarye are part of your Order?" Rod smiled. "Do you think the Abbot will accept that. Reverend?"

  "Whether he does or not is of no consequence." McGee waved a hand, palm flat and level. "I have faith in my monks."

  Rod could have raised the question of ownership, but he liked
McGee's attitude—for his own purposes, of course. "Well, most of the current crop of friars seem to have been very willing to follow the Abbot off the straight and narrow path. If you'll pardon my saying so, they're a little weak on the virtues they preach."

  McGee winced. "You must not judge them too harshly, Lord Warlock. Be mindful, the Abbot and his clergy are only human; they, too, are fallible. The Word of Christ, and His Sacraments, are a treasure more precious than gold, but we hold—"

  "'… this treasure in an earthen vessel.'" Rod finished the quotation, nodding. "Yeah, yeah, I know the song, too, Father. But why does there have to be so doggone much earth in the vessel?"

  "How else can one make ceramics?" McGee countered.

  Rod's mouth twisted in impatience. "Father, if I tried to fire a vessel with that much earth in it, it would fall apart in the kiln—which is exactly where I'm tempted to put His Grace the quondam Archbishop."

  "Patience, Lord Warlock, patience." McGee lifted the forefinger again. "That kiln you speak of is only for God's stoking, and if the Abbot and his monks are fallible, they are also redeemable. We may yet find a way to woo himself and his adherents back to the Church."

  "Good luck, Father," Rod sighed, "but you'll pardon me if I remain skeptical. A power-hungry ecclesiastic is power-hungry first, and an ecclesiastic second. In fact, he's probably an ecclesiastic only as a means of gaining power. Personally, I think the clergy started with a Paleolithic con man."

  McGee reddened, but didn't mention anything about courtesy. "Why Paleolithic?"

  "Because there are signs that Neanderthals buried their dead, and I personally doubt they were trying to salt away stores for the winter. And you have to admit that the ancient Egyptian priests pretty effectively took over the government when they decided that the Pharaoh was a god."

  "Ah! But that could just as easily have been the government taking over the priests," McGee countered. "Still, I take your point, Lord Warlock—when Church and government have mixed, the results have generally been unhealthy. Nonetheless, you must admit that even though there have always been some opportunists in holy orders, there have also been many truly dedicated religious people who happened to have an aptitude for administration, and have naturally tended to move up in the hierarchy."

  "No, I don't have to admit anything, Father." Rod cocked his head to the side, studying McGee. "Still, I do think you're right. But even some of those good souls have succumbed to temptation, and started seeking power for its own sake."

  McGee watched him keenly. "Are you thinking of your local abbot now?"

  "I am," Rod admitted. "From what I know of him, he's basically a good man, in spite of his being a reasonably competent bureaucrat."

  "Ah." McGee nodded, pleased. "Then he may be open to appeals to his conscience, and capable of repentance."

  "Yeah, but by the same token, he might reject any idea that he's done wrong."

  McGee frowned. "How do you reason that?"

  "Because," Rod said, exasperated, "it's the only way he can avoid massive guilt. Once he gave in to temptation, he became a convert to his own particular vice, with all the fanaticism of any convert. You might say he's acquired a vested interest in sin, and to disown it would be to ruin him. No, Father, I think he's gone too far down the road he's on to be able to come back again."

  "He may have crossed his Rubicon," McGee admitted, "though I certainly hope not. Why do you think so. Lord Warlock?"

  "Because of the tactics he's using. You see, Reverend Sir…" Rod glanced up at the hovering monks, then hunkered down and lowered his voice. "How much did Father Al tell you about our local variety of, uh… magic?"

  "As much as he knew. Lord Warlock—that an astonishing percentage of your people are functioning espers of one degree of proficiency or another."

  "Good enough, as a summary. And, well. Father, suddenly there's been an unusual number—hell, there's been an outright epidemic of hauntings and poltergeists and unlicensed mind-readers, all spooking the population and driving them toward the Abbot's camp."

  McGee frowned, then turned and beckoned Father Boquilva over. As the head monk sat, McGee asked, "Has there been an unusual amount of 'magical' activity lately?"

  Boquilva stiffened, then slowly nodded. "I blush to admit it, Reverend Sir, but there has."

  McGee's face darkened. "Can it be that a man of the Church would dare to use his flock's superstitions to coerce them into accord with his will?"

  Rod shrugged. "Why not? Priests have been doing it for centuries."

  "That was not worthy of you. Lord Warlock," McGee snapped. "You know quite well that the Church has done all it can to enlighten its people!"

  "Well, yes, I do have to admit that," Rod sighed. "In fact, when the Church wouldn't provide enough superstition, people went out and invented their own."

  "Yes, and frequently became lost and tortured in the maze of their own imaginings—which is why it is doubly reprehensible for the chief clergyman of the nation to reinforce those superstitions, by producing illusions of them!" McGee shook his head, scowling. "How does one fight nightmares, Lord Warlock?"

  "With dreams, Father." Rod smiled. "Been doing it all my life."

  Father McGee raised his hand in blessing over the kneeling monks, murmuring some Latin phrases, then watched them as they rose and turned away, following the path away from Rod's house and back into the woods. Then the Father-General looked down at his monk's robe, pressing his hands over the fabric. "I had never thought I would wear a real monk's robe! It's so much more comfortable than a coverall. But, ah… a trifle more, shall we say, insecure?"

  "Nobody said that only pilgrims could gird their loins, Father. I'm sure we can find you a strip of linen, if you'd like."

  "I would appreciate that." McGee looked back up at the retreating monks. Their robes were obscured by the darkness now, so that they appeared to be only a double file of torch fires. "Excellent fellows! I'm sure they'll recover from meeting me." He turned back to Rod with a smile. "Still, their awe is a bit uncomfortable, for the time being. I do appreciate your invitation. Lord Warlock—my sons' reverence is pleasant, but tiring. Are you certain, though, that your good wife will not object?"

  "Believe me, Father, I know. The system we've got beats radio and visiphone all to he— uh, heck. As long as you don't mind sleeping in the same house with a family of witches."

  "Oh, I would, if you really were witches," McGee said, "devoted to Satan and to evil. But I know you to be espers, devoted to good, and according to Father Uwell's report, perhaps better Catholics than you may know."

  Rod paused in the act of raising the knocker, frowning. "What's he know that I don't know?"

  Fortunately, the door swung open before McGee could answer.

  Gwen stared at the priest, frankly awed, then curtsied and stood aside. "Welcome to our home, Father."

  "Why, thank you, milady." The priest stepped in, raised his hand to sketch the Sign of the Cross in the air, and intoned, "May the blessing of God be on all in this house." Then he looked up at Gwen with a guilty afterthought. "If you don't mind?"

  "Oh, nay, Father! We are honored!"

  "Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to bless anybody who didn't want it. By the way, where are 'all in this house'?"

  "In their beds, praise Heaven, and asleep—though 'twas quite some time ere I could calm them sufficiently, after Cordelia's news."

  Rod wondered what form the calming had taken this time. Shouting? Birch switches? Hypnotism?

  "It's so nice to be an occasion! May I sit?"

  "Oh, of course, Father! Wouldst thou wish ale?"

  McGee looked up, his eyes lighting. "Why, yes, I would, now that you mention it! My sons in the forest are to be commended for their piety, but plain water can become a bit boring, no matter how tasty the brook it was taken from. Yes, that will do nicely. Thank you, milady."

  " Tis my pleasure, Father." Gwen sat across the fire from him, beaming. "Hast thou truly come from another star to
aid us?"

  "Don't pay any attention to her 'humble local' bit, Father— she's been to Terra herself."

  "Well, true." Gwen lowered her gaze. "Still, I am amazed thou couldst be with us so quickly."

  "The Holy Father counts the planet of Gramarye to be of considerable importance, milady; faith that keeps a whole population within the bounds of doctrine for five centuries is rare."

  "Besides," Rod inferred, "you'd rather be drawn and quartered before you'd lose a chapter of your Order. And the Pope is aware of just how much havoc we could wreak if we started trying."

  "There is some truth to that," Father McGee admitted, "and the sudden explosion of hauntings here is evidence of it. Tell me, milady, have you noticed any effects of this sudden plague of ghosts on the faith of the peasants?"

  "Aye, Father, and 'tis sad to see." Gwen sobered. "Many among them do begin to doubt the goodness of the clergy."

  "Just as I feared, just as I feared," McGee muttered, staring at the fire. "The schism would have shaken their faith enough, but ghosts and goblins would finish the job. I shudder to think of the effect on the children—they are so ready to believe whatever they see! Yet they are also so steadfast in the faith and love they've given."

  "Pretty good description of it," Rod said, rising from his chair. "In fact, I think I'll just take a peak at our resident fanatic."

  "He rests soundly, my lord," Gwen protested, turning to watch him go to the door of the boys' room.

  "I take it one of your children suffers from an excess of faith?" McGee asked quietly.

  Gwen denied it with an impatient toss of her head. " 'Tis only that the boy doth feel the pull of a vocation, Father. It doth worry his father unduly."

  McGee sat still for a moment, then asked, "How old is the lad?"

  "He is seven."

  "Rather young," McGee said, frowning, "and, though the call may come at any age, those who—"

  "Gwen." There was panic under Rod's tone, and she was at the doorway to the boys' room almost before he finished the word. She gasped, then ran in.