The Warlock Heretical

by Christopher Stasheff

  Father McGee looked up at him in surprise, then nodded slowly. "That may go a long way toward solution of the problem, yes—if Brother Alfonso is as bad an apple as he seems to be."

  "Very bad," Rod assured him. "In fact, we're pretty sure he lied his way into the monastery."

  "Lied?" Father Boquilva asked. "Dost say he had no true vocation?"

  "Oh, he has a vocation, all right—but I don't think it's very holy. I'm saying he lied about wanting to live the pure life, and deliberately wormed his way into the Abbot's favor so that he could manipulate His Lordship."

  "Then the oaths he swore were falsely taken," Father Boquilva said, wide-eyed.

  "And therefore have no validity." Father McGee's face had turned thunderous again. "He is a Judas priest indeed."

  Rod looked down at the sleeping monk, his face grave. After a minute he said, "How did he get in here?"

  An explosion rocked the hall, and a young man stood in its center, glaring about him in anger.

  The monks leaped to their feet, all shouting and demanding at once.

  Rod was on his feet, too, staring, dumbfounded. He had never, but never, seen Toby angry before.

  Then he found his voice. "Toby! What do you think you're doing?"

  "Fear not, Lord Warlock." The young man's lip curled. "There is no longer need to fash ourselves over scandalizing these monks!"

  Father Boquilva reddened and looked away.

  Rod noticed it, frowned, and turned back to Toby. "Want to tell me what's happened?"

  "Brom O'Berin's folk have brought him a witch-moss crafter. Lord Warlock. He did make false monsters to afright the villagers."

  "Well, we suspected that was how it was done." Rod shrugged. "What's so outrageous about that? Because he was working for the Archbishop? We knew the monks were using witches."

  "Nay, Lord Warlock—the monks are witches. For thy wife hath read the mind of this rogue, and hath seen there the memory of the Archbishop's secretary commanding him to go forth and wreak havoc—-and not him only, but many others too. And all were monks!"

  Rod's eyes widened. "All?"

  Toby nodded, watching Father Boquilva coldly.

  "Wait a minute," Rod protested. "There couldn't be a lot of espers in the monastery, without the other monks knowing about it."

  Toby still watched Boquilva, waiting.

  "But who says there were any others, eh?" Rod said slowly. Then the full impact of the idea hit him. "Holey soles! It's not just one esper in a monastery—it's one monastery full of espers!" He turned on Father Boquilva. "Isn't it?"

  The monk glanced at Father McGee. The Father-General nodded, very slightly, and Boquilva said, " 'Tis true, Lord Warlock, and hath ever been. Yet I could not tell thee, for we are all sworn to secrecy when we take Holy Orders."

  "My lord!" Rod's eyes widened. "No wonder they can tell, just from a simple interview, which postulants qualify for the cloister and which ones don't! The interviewer knows whether or not he's talking to a telepath within the first two seconds!"

  "There is always some feedback effect, yes," Boquilva admitted.

  "Feedback?" Rod said. "Kind of a funny word for a simple medieval friar!" He turned on McGee. "Anything else your people haven't been telling us, Father?"

  "Such as the monks having kept knowledge of technology?" McGee nodded. "Yes, Lord Warlock. But they only begin learning science and engineering after their final vows, when they have been sworn to secrecy."

  "How nice of them to wait so long! May I ask how you knew about it? Wait a minute, strike that—Father Al included it in his report, didn't he?"

  "He did, yes. But he saw no reason to burden you with the information."

  "Gee, the good guy didn't want me to worry! Do me a favor, Father—give me an anxiety attack!"

  "Why, so I do," McGee said calmly. "You, at least, should have full knowledge of the situation. Lord Warlock."

  "I trust you will not divulge it," Father Boquilva said.

  Rod glanced at Toby, then back to Boquilva. "Any reason why I shouldn't?"

  "Excellent reasons, as Father Ricci told us when he founded our chapter."

  "The original fugitive from Terra?" Rod asked. "How did he keep his knowledge of technology?"

  "An accomplice reprogrammed the computer that erased the colonists' memories of technology, ensuring that he would retain his mental records intact."

  "No Cathodean could have volunteered to come here otherwise, Lord Warlock," Father McGee said quietly. "We are an order of priestly engineers, after all."

  "Did he consider staying at home?"

  "He did," Boquilva said, "but was the only priest available when the Romantic Emigres left Terra; and he thought that a priest was a necessity for a medieval colony."

  Toby looked up, frowning.

  "They have succeeded in the task he set them," Father McGee explained, "permeating this society with Christian ideals, ameliorating the brutality of a medieval culture."

  "Great!" Rod burst out. "Why don't you ameliorate some of the squalor, while you're at it? Cure some of the sicknesses? Prevent a few deaths?"

  "We have done what we can," Boquilva grated. " 'Tis why our folk do ever go about among the people, cloistered or not. We wreak 'miracle' cures when we can—but dost thou truly believe there would be more of us if we let modern knowledge be open?"

  Rod hesitated. There had always been a very limited number willing to go to the mental toil of learning medical science.

  "And there are cures, too, that we know of, yet know not how to effect," Boquilva went on. "Father Ricci was an engineer, not a physician. Yet some of our Brothers, with the necessary gift, have sought to discover these cures."

  Rod lifted his head, eyes widening. " 'Discover'? You mean research?"

  "Of course, Lord Warlock," McGee said. "Every Catho-dean has always had the duty of attempting some form of the search for knowledge."

  Puzzle pieces connected in Rod's mind. "And… just what sorts of knowledge would a monastery full of espers be looking for?"

  "You have the answer, Lord Warlock, or you would not ask the question." McGee nodded. "Yes. Most of the Cathodeans in the monastery research new psionic techniques."

  "Monastery?" Rod exclaimed. "That isn't a cloister—it's a research lab!"

  "I would be indebted to you if you could explain the difference between the two," McGee said with irony.

  "My lord!" Rod stared at a vision of a voracious theocracy gobbling up all the planets of the Terran Sphere. "That means the Archbishop isn't just a threat to the King, he could be the death knell of democracy for all of humanity!"

  "Yes, Lord Warlock." Father McGee nodded gravely. "That is the other reason I've come."

  " 'Other'?" Rod glared. "Not too worried about the truth, are you?"

  McGee lifted his head, eyes widening with outrage.

  Rod frowned, puzzled. "Wait a minute—you really meant it! Not losing one of your Order's chapters is more important to you than the future of democracy!"

  "It is," McGee agreed. "Not much more important, perhaps, but still my first priority."

  Rod's face slackened, appalled by another realization. "But… but… that means you've been taking the most talented espers on Gramarye out of the gene pool for five hundred years!"

  "That is an old charge," McGee sighed, "though the gift you mention is not the one usually spoken of. And in answer, Lord Warlock, I can only ask how many of our Brothers would marry even if they did not come here."

  "You mean they wouldn't fall in love?"

  "Perhaps, but that does not mean they would be good husbands. Most religious are unworldly enough not to be terribly good providers, Lord Warlock, and are of the sort to take their work as being the most important element in their lives."

  "You're saying Fathers might not make the best fathers?" Rod frowned. "Still, I get the point. And in this case, their work is whatever the Archbishop tells them to do."

  "In the current crisis, yes."

&nb
sp; "Which means that, if we want to stop the hauntings, we have to stop the Archbishop. And he's got the most highly trained espers on the planet working for him! Just great!"

  Chapter Eighteen

  The moon rays glanced down, blackening the rusted masses of broken iron that bedecked the Archbishop's garden wall, and casting a huge, monstrous, misshapen shadow of one who worked there, heaving and tearing the Cold Iron from the stones.

  "Only a few more, Dread Lord, and thou shalt have this whole side of the wall clear," sang a baritone from the shelter of a nearby pear tree.

  " 'Tis a foul crop espaliered against these blocks," Brom O'Berin grunted as he tore away the last horseshoe. "Yet now must I examine mine own trail most carefully, Robin, lest a single nail be left to score the flesh of one of mine elves."

  Puck shuddered in the shade. "May the grove's spirits forefend! 'Twould be certain death."

  But Brom worked his way along the wall crabwise, and finally pronounced himself satisfied. " 'Tis all cleared, Robin. Come now, and see what we may espy."

  Puck leaped to the top of the wall with him, hiding among some thick old ivy vines while Brom hid in the branches of an espaliered fruit tree. They waited in silence as the moon rose higher, with only an occasional whispered word between them—or any of the other elves who crept over the wall and hid themselves among the flowers.

  Finally the door at the base of the tower opened, and the elfin watchers stiffened like hounds scenting prey. The Archbishop came strolling out with Brother Alfonso beside him. He stopped to inhale the perfume of the flowers and sighed, feeling the weight of his cares rolling off his shoulders. "Ah! A nook of blessed peace in this troubled world!"

  "True, my lord. Yet the troubles never vanish—they are only held at bay."

  "Peace, my conscience," the Archbishop sighed. "Can I never have a moment free of care?"

  "Art thou Archbishop, my lord?"

  "I had almost as lief I were but an abbot again," the Archbishop grumbled. "Yet thou hast the right of it, as when hast thou not? What matter's so great that I must needs contemplate it presently?"

  "A host of matters, my lord, all of which come together as one, videlicit: now that thou hast broke from Rome, thou canst now break also with all these stances 'gainst which thou hast railed in years past."

  The Archbishop stilled, his imagination caught.

  "Thou hast inveighed against the buying of indulgences," Brother Alfonso reminded, "and 'gainst lending for interest."

  "Aye," the Archbishop muttered. "How can Rome condone a man making profit of aiding his neighbor?"

  "And celibacy, my lord. Thou hast already dealt with that. Word has it the common folk are pleased with thy stance."

  The Archbishop paused at his companion's remark.

  Brother Alfonso hid a smile. "Thou hast often said a monk may not truly comprehend the burdens of a husband. And thou hast said that, if a priest be devoted to God, he must needs raise up more souls for Him."

  "And that if we tell the plowman 'tis his vocation to rear children, we had ought to do so ourselves," the Archbishop added. "Aye, I remember."

  Brother Alfonso wiped a hand down across his lips.

  Chanting drifted to them on the evening breeze. The Archbishop looked up sharply. "Vespers! And we are late! Come, Brother Alfonso!"

  "Directly, my lord," Brother Alfonso murmured; but he stayed rooted to the spot, watching till the Archbishop's form had passed through the door and gone.

  Then he threw back his head and laughed, not loudly, but long. He was still laughing as his feet flew out from under him, and the laugh turned into a cry of alarm that lasted only a second before a solid thud cut it off. Elves darted out from bushes as a leprecohen straightened up, tapping his hammer against his palm. They whisked threads about and about the unconscious monk as Brom O'Berin came up, rumbling, "Well done, stout hearts. Now take him where he shall do no further harm."

  The elves ducked down about Brother Alfonso's form; then the body seemed to lift itself up on dozens of legs. It turned about in a complete circle, then oriented on a huge old chestnut tree and shot toward the roots just as a large hole gaped between them, letting out a shaft of golden light. The body dodged down into the hole; Puck leaped in after it, then Brom O'Berin. The hole seemed to close itself, as gnomes pitched in merrily; then the light was gone, and the garden lay quiet under the moon.

  The noble hostages were all drawn up around the trestle table in the center of their hall, and their faces were drawn, too. They were grouped in parties—D'Auguste and the loyalists at the eastern end of the table; Ghibelli at the western end with Marshall, Guelph, and Glasgow. They all faced the main archway, which was flanked by a dozen stone-faced soldiers with pikes at the ready. The room was very quiet.

  Then Sir Maris stepped through the archway, announcing, "Milords, thy King!"

  They all rose. Simple courtesy would dictate that—and Tuan had never demanded they kneel.

  The King entered in full royal regalia, a purple robe trimmed with ermine swirling from his broad shoulders and framing a golden doublet, a jeweled crown on his head and a golden sceptre in his left arm, right hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He came to a halt and turned his head slowly, surveying all the faces before him. Then he said quietly, "Milords, it is war."

  Not a word was said, but he could almost feel the impact of his words physically, in the slight tightening in their bodies, the widening of their eyes. They had all known what he would announce, but hearing it from the King made it inevitable.

  "I will not slay any man whose only crime is loyalty to his father," the King said, "in spite of the threat implicit in thy being hostages here. If thy parents should gain so much ground as to force me back here to Runnymede, I might then pronounce that threat, and if need be, thy death warrants. Yet I misdoubt me 'twill come to such a pass." He surveyed their faces again, slowly, and said, "Yet I will ask each of thee to surrender his arms to my seneschal, here and now, and bide within these walls, never going out for air or sun till this issue be resolved."

  He held all their gazes, and the choice was clear, but unsaid.

  What choice, really? They all knew their duty to their houses, regardless of their feelings. If the King lost, their fathers would forgive them; if the King won, their houses would still be intact.

  Besides, some of them wanted to.

  D'Auguste led, as usual. He stepped forward and knelt, saying, "Majesty, I am thy man. Command me in battle and I shall fight with all the strength of mine heart and mine arm."

  There was silence for a moment; then Tuan said, his eyes moist, "Why, then, bless thee for a loyal liegeman! I shall accept thy service, and I shall not set thee 'gainst thine own blood!"

  Chester came forward, then, kneeling. "Majesty, I too."

  Then Graz, Maggiore, Basingstoke, and Llangolen knelt.

  "I praise thee," Tuan murmured. "I accept thy service."

  The room was very silent.

  Then Ghibelli stepped forward to kneel. "Majesty, I am thy man."

  And, one by one, his companions followed him.

  The monks sat at their places in the refectory, but lamps burned on each table, for it was night. The Archbishop sat on his dais, with standing candelabra to each side of him—but his high table had been pushed aside, and his great chair stood in its place. He sat on it like a prince on a throne, in full panoply—golden cope and mitre, span new from the seamstresses of Reddering, his crazier resting in the crook of his arm—again, newly come from Reddering. But this was no celebration; his face was grim.

  All the monks of the chapter filled the hall, faces drawn. Before the Archbishop stood Hoban with his head high, but his arms were lashed behind his back. The hall was totally silent, every eye fixed on the Archbishop and the culprit before him.

  Father Rigori stood forth, crying, "Hearken and hear! Our

  Brother Alfonso has gone from our midst! For two days and nights none have seen him! Whither hath he sped?"
/>   The room was silent, every eye now on Hoban.

  "Our Archbishop doth sit now in judgment!" Rigori declared. "He who can bear witness, let him stand forth!"

  The room was still.

  The Archbishop lifted his head and stated, "I was last to see him, this Tuesday night past at the commencement of vespers. He tarried in the garden when I went to the abbey. Hath any seen trace of him since?"

  The hall was silent.

  The Archbishop turned to his left, nodding at a monk who sat near. "Brother Molin."

  Brother Molin stood, his hands trembling. "I have been night porter this week past. I have seen none pass the gate betwixt vespers and matins."

  He sat, and the Archbishop turned to his right. "Brother Santo?"

  "I have been porter for morning," said Brother Santo, rising. "He did not pass my gate 'twixt matins and nones."

  "Brother Hillar?"

  "He did not pass through the gate 'twixt nones and vespers."

  "He might have climbed the wall," the Archbishop said grimly, "yet I misdoubt that he would have. Brother Loes-sing!"

  In the center Brother Loessing stood up.

  "Thou hast been gardener this month," the Archbishop stated. "Say what thou didst find when thou didst come to thy post this Wednesday last."

  "The horseshoes, bent nails, and other old iron had been cleared from off the wall," Brother Loessing answered, "and cast into the manure pile. And when I came into the garden, there was a fairy ring in the grass."

  An excited murmuring filled the hall, though all the monks had already heard this from gossip. It was another matter entirely to hear it from an eyewitness.

  "From this we may know that elves had come into the garden," the Archbishop said, stone-faced, ignoring the Church's stand on supernatural beings. "Brother Livy!"

  A tall, gaunt monk rose and said, in a quavering voice, "I stood guard on the wall by the gate that night, as our Lord

  Archbishop hath lately commanded. I chanced to see down into the garden, and saw Brother Alfonso fall. He did not rise again, and therefore did I go to fetch Brother Parker; but when we came, the garden was empty."