Benjamin sensed that the opposite was true. The Bishop was getting closer to the Truth and he sensed a growing sadness in him. The Bishop was not winning their debate. He had already stopped defending himself with the argument that the Book was the word of his God. Well, mostly – he still occasionally fell back on that particular argument when pressed to defend a position and was losing badly. Benjamin was tired of hearing about his Book. The contradictions and blatantly wrong details in it proved it could not have been written by his god. Clearly it was a book written by man. Men who wanted to own slaves and place women behind them in subservience. The god in that book was not a nice god; he was cruel and violent. Benjamin tackled their arguments by speaking to the logical and highly intelligent mind of the Bishop. He stayed calm and asked probing questions based on fact and truth and not rumour and conjecture. The hardest part had been working around the concept of Faith. Faith is a panacea for religion. If it fails to make sense, or is illogical, then have Faith. Faith answers those doubts. Set aside your troubled mind and seek solace in Faith. Faith is a drug and yet it has failed to cure or solve any known illness since its creation.
As a druid, I have cured many illnesses of man, beast, and plant, thought Benjamin. Gaea provides that power through me and urges the draoi to heal the land where she requires it. This is the work and calling of the Stocs. The Bishop, if he possessed the ability to work magyc, would have make a great druid. Instead, he found another calling and he has been sucked into the impossible theology of the Church – but with such passion. Sadly a great man has been lost, he thought. What was it that one of the long passed druids said a long time ago? Oh yes, he remembered, 'Clearly the person who accepts the Church as an infallible guide will believe whatever the Church teaches'.
Benjamin found his thoughts pulled back to the start of the Great Debate.
The Great Debate was caused when a chance conversation was overheard by the Archbishop and King Harold Hietower as they passed a quiet alcove the Bishop and I shared. The King did not think fondly at the Word, and me as his advisor. He often spoke out strongly against it and my teachings and this had not gone unnoticed by the people who lived outside the cities. The King owed his reign to the Church. The Church granted him his powers and right to rule through god. Unquestionably, this was a terrible way to convey authority – with an imaginary deity giving the nod to a single man and then ordaining that this man rule over the people without question or face the wrath of that same imaginary god. And then there was the Archbishop. Supposedly, he spoke to god. Regularly. And yet god wouldn't tell him when something terrible was going to happen. Or where a lost boy could be found before he starved to death. Not a very nice god. Not very loving if he couldn't even tell his right hand man when a house was going to burn down.
And so when the King and the Archbishop had overheard the Bishop and I arguing a single point of theology – Great Gaea, I can't even remember now what it had been about – it had been enough for the King to stop and listen in and then insist that a formal debate occur to settle the age old question of who was right: the Word or the Church. Gaea knows I had tried to stop it from happening. I argued against it with solid logic, but the Archbishop got a taste for it and declared that his god thought it was a brilliant idea. It was settled. By the gleam in the King's eye, I could tell that he saw this as a chance to gain more authority in the Realm. The Archbishop saw it as some kind of divine intervention. It was all so sad and no good could come of it, Benjamin knew.
The debate wasn't initially the Great Debate. At first, it was merely the two of them arguing some minor point of disagreement while the King and Archbishop sat and listened in, occasionally adding to the conversation on some trivial point or two. In those early beginnings it had appeared that the Bishop was winning the arguments. Well, it had looked that way to the Archbishop and the King, thought Benjamin sardonically. He had been merely patiently setting the Bishop up by getting him to take firm positions on some particularly important point – like admitting that in his belief that the Book was, without question, written by their god and not by man. Seeing these points being driven home by the Bishop was enough for the King and Archbishop to sense blood and declare the debate to be the Great Debate and opened it to the public.
Gaea had noticed that, thought Benjamin, chewing his lip in sullen remembrance. Nothing good ever comes out of Gaea noticing the people that lived on her. Humans are little more than parasites to her, he knew. Tolerated parasites, he admitted grudgingly.
So every week the Bishop and the King's Advisor met in the grand nave of the Church in the castle. They positioned themselves up front under the apse where their voices could clearly travel the length of the building and they debated openly. The seats, at first, were sparsely filled but as word spread, more and more of the people of Munsten filled the pews until they were forced to also stand along the outer walls and press themselves tightly inside the buttresses. The King and the Archbishop sat regally at the transept and listened in reverently, sometimes applauding when the Bishop seemed to make a strong argument. The crowd would join in the applause and Benjamin would need to wait for the noise to die down before making his rebuttal. No one clapped for my points, he thought childishly and grinned despite himself. Lately, he couldn't help but notice that the number of people clapping like harbour seals was quickly diminishing. And with the loss. the King was becoming more and more vexed.
More infuriating to the King was that despite his immense stupidity about the Word, he was starting to understand that Benjamin was arguing the long game. Like chess moves, Benjamin had been slowly but surely positioning his arguments and counter–arguments well in advance and was starting to close in for checkmate. The King was a stupid man but he was politically savvy. He sensed that his Advisor was close to a fatal strike on the Bishop. The entire audience could sense it now. More worrisome to Benjamin was that he could sense the attention of Gaea on the debate. Nothing good ever came from Gaea's direct attention. Perhaps this is what worries the Cill Darae, mused Benjamin.
Benjamin was now concerned about what would happen when he won. The rules of the Great Debate were simple: they would continue until one of them conceded the contest. That was the one rule the King insisted on, back when he still smelled blood. Benjamin had tried to argue just how stupid a rule that was by saying that neither of them was ever likely to abandon a lifelong belief in the Word or the Church. The Archbishop had smiled then, thinking Benjamin was worried about losing and not recognising the truth of his words, and evoked his 'I'm best friends with God' trick and convinced everyone that his god thought the rule perfect. Benjamin had felt the satisfaction of Gaea at that announcement and a cold shiver of foreboding passed through his body.
Benjamin knew what the King wanted. He wanted to strengthen his authority over the provinces where the Word was so strongly followed by the people. He saw their beliefs as being contrary to his own and more importantly, to his power base. Benjamin had spent countless fruitless hours with the King on behalf of the Word, arguing that there was no conflict. His people were his people despite their beliefs. He merely had to govern them well. They paid their taxes. Grew the wheat that filled the royal granaries. Raised and slaughtered the livestock that put meat on their tables. All for the King and the Realm. The King was never convinced and instead saw conspiracy everywhere.
Harold Hietower was not supposed to be the King – his older brother was. But he had been killed in a riding accident while the younger brother watched and in an instant the Realm had been changed. The older prince had been carefully and lovingly groomed for the role of King. Meanwhile, the younger prince had lived a life of carnal desires. Flitting from one brothel to the next, he drank, smoked strange hallucinating weeds, fornicated and committed acts of debauchery and violence. Nothing seemed to placate him. He did everything his older brother couldn't – and wouldn't – and bragged about it. The King kept him at a distance and barely acknowledged he was his own flesh and blood. And this inci
ted the younger brother even more until his behaviour could not be kept hidden. The people knew and thanked the Word or god for the older brother.
Then suddenly, unexpectedly, the older prince was dead and Prince Harold was next in line to be King. As soon as the mourning period was over, he came under the full attention of his father. He was dragged, half–naked, drunk and smelling like cheap perfume, in front of his father and the provincial lords. He was scrubbed with soap and cold water until he stood shivering and naked in humility, his head hanging in anger and shame, his arms straight beside his body with fingers clenched in rage. The Queen, had she still been alive, might have put a stop to it. Everyone knew she had favoured and spoiled her younger child. But she was gone and so he had stood alone in that cold room. His father openly declared that his whoring days were over and dismissed him. Two guards were tasked to shadow him everywhere he went and they reported directly to the King. If he strayed even marginally from the straight and narrow path his father ordered, he was dragged in front of his father and scrubbed again. Outwardly, he appeared to change, but whatever his father had intended to do, failed.
One day, the King was found dead in his bed with all evidence looking like it was by a massive heart attack. But rumours of poison started circulating at once and soon everyone believed the son had killed the father. Regicide. It was a horror that no one dared investigate. Soon after the two chambermaids that had scrubbed Harold naked in front of his father disappeared only to have their bodies found days later in a field. They had been scrubbed so hard that their skin had been sloughed off. Everyone knew that their future King had arranged the murders, but no one dared accuse him. The head of the King's Guard, forced by his duty, questioned the crown Prince, which only drew a smirk in response. His coronation was held days later and it was only attended by those that had no choice but to attend and offer fealty. The land mourned for their former King and mourned for their new King.
All this was not lost on the King. He openly spoke of how he knew his people didn't love him and wanted him gone. The Great Debate was his way, he had proudly stated one day, of striking back at those same people who swore their fealty to him but didn't mean it.
Benjamin dismissed the intruding thoughts of the past as he sat in the library and tried to enjoy his wine. It was such a pleasant red. Fruity, rich, and gentle and not strong in alcohol. A perfect wine and aged to perfection. The Bishop was looking thoughtfully at him over the rim of his cup. There was a sense of camaraderie between the two of them that Benjamin thoroughly enjoyed. He had no other equal in the castle and the city. No one with whom he could discuss the more interesting aspects of life, like science and nature. No one who challenged him with an equal intellect, with a similar mind, and take him down paths he would never have considered or seen had Arnold not opened those doors first. Today they only debated religion and only because the King and Archbishop had tasked them to do so. Normally, they discussed much more interesting topics and intentionally left religion out of it.
No longer. Now, due to the royal edict, they were forced to constantly meet in order to prepare their public debates. Despite the King's sole rule regarding the debate, they had quickly recognised that they had to form a set of rules for the debate and their conduct. They had even worked out the questions they would debate together. To the King and audience, their weekly debate over the past months must seem impressive. They laboured to make it structured and honourably conducted. They had no referee. And so they took pains to never raise their voices or speak out of turn. They never interrupted each other and they kept their rebuttals polite and within a set amount of time. Small sand timers, hidden behind books, let them know how long they should speak to a topic. They followed their own rules to the letter. To their surprise, it was all so wonderfully academic and structured that they enjoyed the debates and the stimulus it provided their minds. But they had both sensed the change in the King and the audience as the debate went on. It could hardly be missed. The Archbishop seemed oblivious to it all, secure in his faith. The others though, they sensed the end and could follow the logic of the debate. The Church was losing. It was only a matter of time.
The companionable silence stretched for a little while longer before the Bishop placed his goblet on the table and started to refill it from the pitcher. He motioned for Benjamin to extend his cup and poured a healthy measure.
As he placed the pitcher back on the tray, he cleared his throat and looked over to Benjamin, who was now stretched out fully in his chair, with his legs extended and ankles crossed. His wine cup held by both hands and perched on his chest just inches below his chin. It took very little effort for Benjamin to tilt the goblet and take a sip.
"Benjamin, this debate is proving to be a problem. Do you not agree?"
Benjamin simply nodded and glanced over to the nearby priests out of habit. They picked this spot in the library because the acoustics didn't allow their voices to escape from the corner. They had tested the acoustics long ago to see if the priests nearby would react to their words but always the priests failed to pick up their conversation, so long as they spoke in normal tones. They sat with their heads together, whispering who knew what. Religious babble most likely, thought Benjamin. Benjamin took his time finding a response to Arnold while wondering where this conversation would lead. He feared this conversation and was not surprised that his friend picked this time to discuss it.
"I fear where we are headed, my friend," continued the Bishop when Benjamin stayed quiet. Benjamin sat up a little straighter in his chair at this admission. He looked closely at his friend and saw the deep lines of worry that etched his face. His hair, once jet–black around the dome of his bald skull, was now heavily tinged with grey and his heavy sideburns, reaching down to his chin line were pure white.
The proverbial privy bucket that sat in the middle of the room that no one wished to speak about was now ripe and starting to fill the room with its stink I am very close to winning the debate, Benjamin thought, and know in fact that I could easily wrap it up in short order. But I have held off for fear of not knowing what would happen next. The Bishop knows it, too. It's a strange thing, thought Benjamin, that he and I both know that he has lost his faith in his god but won't acknowledge it. The Bishop remains stuck to his rituals, to the little things his faith demand he do to overcome his doubts, but subconsciously, it is already over. This quiet session right now would pave the way for what would happen next. Something significant and probably not good, he knew.
Their last public debate had been a quiet one. They followed their script to the letter. When they had finished, the silence in the Church had been deafening. Not one soul spoke in the entire audience. Over a thousand people had sat in rapt attention and when they finished they merely stayed seated. They were waiting for something. Some subliminal call had them focused on their words. Then over half the audience had raised their left hand, with three fingers spread, thumb holding the little finger down, and palm forward. It was the sign of the Word. The members of the clergy in attendance had cried out at that and the room had erupted in angry shouts. The Bishop and Benjamin had exchanged looks and then quietly left the crowd to the guards and exited the Church. As soon as they left, they could hear the shouts grow angrier behind them and the ring of steel as swords were drawn by the guards. Two people had been nearly killed in the skirmish that had followed. The King had been furious.
That was last week, and rumours had already started circulating. Benjamin had spoken to the Cill Darae, but she refused to acknowledge what he already knew: the Bishop was losing the debate. Everyone could sense that. The King had left in the middle of the last session dragging a confused Archbishop behind him. That caused a stir and for once, the two of them had left the script and ended the session early.
His meetings with the Cill Darae were worrisome. The Cill Darae could always commune with Gaea and according to her Gaea was well pleased. The Cill Darae, also known as the High Priestess, or the Elevated Druid, was ha
nd chosen by Gaea herself for just such communication. The Cill Darae was pleased as well, he could see that, and that did not sit well with Benjamin. It made his role as Freamhaigh that much harder when he was in disagreement with the Cill Darae and Gaea. The Tree was in turmoil. They were trying to deal with the increase in tribute to Gaea throughout the Realm and remain hidden from the people. It was proving harder to do so and Benjamin feared for his people. Their use of magyc would never be accepted by humans. It was far too abnormal for them to accept. History had proved that time and time again.
"The Archbishop spoke to me this morning," said the Bishop, pulling Benjamin from his thoughts.
They speak all the time but this time I am sure it was different, thought Benjamin. Maybe it was the way the Bishop had just announced it. He remained silent but sat up in his seat and leaned forward to close the gap between them.
"He had some choice words for me about you. You might call them threatening, if you believed in them. Something about your eternal damnation in the fires of Hell. You know – the place for all heathens such as yourself? Seems he wants to hasten that event, had he the power." The Bishop laughed at the raised eyebrows of his friend.
"Heathen? Me?"
"Yes, you!" The Bishop smiled with the words to soften them. "You know of God and yet you refuse to believe in Him. That makes you a heathen of the worst kind! I'm sure God has a special place put aside for you down there. A real hotspot!"
Benjamin chuckled, reached out and briefly grasped the top of the Bishop's hand. "My dear Bishop. Let me enlighten you to the real truth in the world! Let me be the first to introduce you to the one and only true god. The god that is hidden behind the clouds! He is in fact a lovely pitcher of red wine that looks very much like this one before us. Sadly, now half empty. But I digress! What is important is that I have now told you of him and I suspect you do not believe me. That makes you a heathen of..." and Benjamin lowered his voice ominously, "Ewer God! And now, sir, you will suffer for all eternity in the wine–less wasteland of some truly horrible place. So on and so forth..." He waved his hands majestically. The Bishop was gaping at the horrible pun.
Duilleog (A New Druids Series Book 1) Page 27
