The women came running up then, children in tow, and the men had to turn to give them the news while the wives tried to shush the babes. Magnus took advantage of the interruption to lean over to Rod and mutter, "Neatly done, Dad. Thou didst not lie."
"No, but I sure made one hell of a false impression, eh? Well, that happens. Thanks for your help, son."
Magnus started to answer, then remembered his own prevarication, and had the grace to blush.
One of the older peasants turned back to Rod. "We can only thank thee from the bottoms of our hearts, sir knight. The witch hath beset us, long and sorely."
"Why, how is this?" Magnus demanded, suddenly alert. "Have you no lord to protect you?"
"From a witch like to her?" The peasant shook his head with a grim frown. "Even he did fear this vile hag, young sir, as did his father before him. He came once each year to show himself, so that we might know he was our lord, and his bailiff came but once a month, with armed men behind him, to take his tax. Yet sin that they would do no more, the hag too required tax of us-tribute, she called it, in cloth, grain, meat, and other goods."
"Money, too," said another man. "When we had it." Magnus frowned. "And if thou didst not pay?"
"Then would she make our cows go dry, keep the rain from our crops . . ."
"Or bring far too much of it," another peasant said. "In truth, she hath brought flood."
Or taken the credit for it, Rod reflected sourly. "I can see that would be reason enough to pay."
"Oh, there were better!" cried a wife. "She would make the men no longer wish to lie with their wives, or would make us women barren."
Several men reddened with embarrassment and looked daggers at her, but she was staring up at Rod in righteous indignation and didn't notice. Rod nodded; he could believe that these events, at least, were really the hag's doing.
"Her worst deeds thou hast seen, I doubt not," the first peasant said grimly, "and she would do it, whether or not we paid our tribute."
The woman nodded. "Our sons."
"Now and again," another peasant said, "she would beguile away some young man to use as a toy. Whene'er one of our youths failed to come home at day's end, 'twas cause for mourning, for we knew we'd not see him again."
Magnus scowled. "She let none go free when she had done with them?"
"There were one or two. Elber, dost thou hear?" Another woman elbowed a middle-aged man who stood among them but seemed not to be paying attention. He jumped at the contact, turned to her, and said, "Eh?" His face was completely vacant.
"Thus would they come home," the woman said with contempt, "those few that were seen again. Not the lad himself, but his hollow husk."
Magnus stared at the man's empty gaze, and shuddered. "Well, she won't bother you again," Rod said firmly. "You might consider cutting down the Cold Iron that's hanging over her doorway, so the Little People can get in and decontaminate the tower. You'll find she doesn't demand tribute again, and I doubt you'll ever find any trace of her." The peasants cheered, and the woman in front called, "Bless thee, valiant knight!"
"I can use it," Rod returned. "Don't forget, though-your baron will probably be paying much closer attention to you now. His taxes will still need to be paid."
They looked at one another, startled; they hadn't thought it through that far. Magnus stared, too, then began to look angry.
Time for a quick exit. "Make the best of it," Rod advised. "Good luck." He turned Fess away toward the forest.
A unanimous cry of protest rose from the crowd, and they ran after him. "Wilt thou not stay, that we may honor thee?" the headman cried.
"Thanks, but I have other tasks to see to." Rod smiled and waved. Magnus glanced at him, then at the peasants, back to Rod, then back at the peasants again. He forced a smile and waved, too, then rode after Rod.
As the leaves closed about them, he demanded, "Wherefore didst thou not stay? I am a-hungered, and bone weary. Art thou not, also?"
"I am," Rod agreed, "but we can camp in the forest."
"Wherefore, when we could have soft hay upon which to spread our cloaks, and hot food for the asking?"
"Because it would come with a price tag," Rod said. "'Tis a price we have already paid!"
"Yes, but I saw the looks on some of their facescalculating looks. I wouldn't put it past them to ask us to get rid of the local lord."
"Well ... mayhap we should!" Magnus said stoutly. "These folk do but exchange one tyrant for another!"
"How do you know their baron is a tyrant?"
Magnus tossed his head in impatience. "What matter? He could be-and if he could, their form of government is wrong! Thou didst teach me-thou, and Fess in the classroom-that folk should be free to choose their own ruler, and the manner of his ruling!"
"Self-determination. Did you teach him that, Fess?"
"Yes, Rod, as per your instructions."
"Which I learned from your curriculum in the first place." Rod managed a sardonic smile. "Kind of ironic, when you think about it-a bunch of aristocrats, all diehard liberals, and all totally convinced the people should rule themselves. Maybe that's because there weren't any `people.' "
"Aye-thou hast said thy home, Maxima, had naught but aristocrats."
"Well, that's what they called themselves. After five hundred years, I suppose they had the right to-but when there's nobody there to rule, the term kind of loses meaning."
"They were, at least, noble."
"I'd have to agree," Rod said judiciously, "or that their ancestors were. Of course, they chose their own form of government-and it was, at least functionally, a democracy."
"The House of Lords, ruling none but lords?" Magnus smiled, without mirth. "Yet an thy folk could choose their own form of government, wherefore ought not these peasants?"
"They do have that right. Enforcing it is another matter. And remember-their right of self-determination is limited by their interaction with their neighbors. If the next village chooses a different form of government, and the two systems clash and disrupt one another, both have to remember the other's rights."
"They would have to agree together." Magnus frowned. "And where we must think of one village, we must think of a dozen."
Rod nodded. "Or a hundred, or a thousand-or the whole Isle of Gramarye."
"Why not say `the whole of the Terran Sphere'?"
"Because they don't have much contact with the other planets yet-and what little they do have, they're not aware of."
"But when the day comes that they do, what then?"
"By then, if all goes as I'm planning, they should have a functioning democracy, in place and well oiled by at least a hundred years of experience. They'll be ready to become part of the larger democracy that governs the Terran Sphere."
"The Decentralized Democratic Tribunal." Magnus frowned. "Thy life's work-preparing them for their place in it. For my countrymen could wreak havoc untold on the rest of the human worlds, could they not?"
"Oh, yes," Rod said softly. "The only collection of espers in the known galaxy? You bet they could."
"And who art thou to tell us we must not gain dominion where we may?"
Rod turned to stare at his son. How had Magnus worked it around so he and his father were on opposite sides? "I'm the one who seems to remember the concept of individual rights. Or do you think Gramarye's right to rule should wipe out the rest of humanity's right to self-determination?"
"Nay." Magnus frowned, wondering in his turn how his father had turned the argument back on him. "Yet by seeking to foster democracy among us, thou dost impose thy will. The folk of Gramarye should be free to choose what form of government they may."
"True. Do you honestly think those people back there would really choose anything other than an effective democracy?"
Magnus turned thoughtful, running over possibilities. "It may be," he said slowly. "The history books Fess gave me to read told of a case or two of folk wishing to be ruled by another."
"Biblical Israel shifting from judges to
monarchy." Rod nodded. "Any of the other cases, though, are just stagedressing for a power grab-like the Roman proletariat offering a crown to Julius Caesar."
"Naetheless, thou wilt not deny 'tis possible!"
Rod shrugged. "Anything is possible. That doesn't mean it's good. I'm just naturally wary of any form of government that doesn't guarantee the basic human rights."
"I could subscribe to that," Magnus said slowly.
"Then you'll find you're supporting a democracy of some kind, son, though it may work differently from the ones you've studied. Asserting the rights of the individual always leads to self-government of one sort or another."
"I can think of other forms."
"Yeah, but will they really be democracies hiding under another name? If they're not, are they really enforcing human rights, or just claiming to? Either way, you also have to ask how they're affecting their neighbors. You may have a local tyranny that's really part of a larger democracy, and it's the bigger government that's really guaranteeing those rights."
Magnus thought that over, frowning. "Dost thou say no government, no society, can exist in isolation from others?"
"Well, it's possible," Rod admitted, "though interstellar travel and FTL communication have made sure that even the separate planets are affecting each other all the time, and very deeply, though that isn't always apparent. If it can happen anywhere, son, it'll be right here in the Forest Gellorn." Magnus looked up in surprise. "Why, how dost thou mean? Even that little village has a lord!"
"Yes, but it was right near the edge of the wildwood. As we go deeper in, I think we'll find villages set up by escaped peasants, outlaws, malcontents-or even just people who became lost. There'll be some traffic between them, but not a lot--this is a very big, thick forest, with lots of wild animals. . . ."
"Some of which may be quite strange," Magnus grunted, "due to witch-moss, and the projective esper who knoweth not what she-or he-may be."
"Or what effects he's having. But isn't that true of all of us? Anyway," Rod rushed on, "if there's any place on Gramarye where a pocket society can exist free of outside government, it'll be here. Shall we take a little detour to see what kinds of government we may find?"
"This whole excursion is a detour," Magnus pointed out, "and one government that the people welcome, but is not a democracy, will be enough to prove my case."
"So my holiday from marital obligations and daily routine becomes a quest. Why not? But for now, I'm tired, and we're far enough from that village so that I don't think they'll find us. Let's pitch camp, son. I could use some sleep."
They slept the clock around, woke at dawn, and broke their fasts. Feeling largely restored, they broke camp, drowned and buried the fire, and rode off into the morning. A few hours later they heard a bell tolling.
Rod frowned. "Kind of jarring, considering what a bright and peaceful morning it is."
"And somewhat late for Mass," Magnus agreed. "Of course, 'tis naught of our affair."
"Exactly. So we're going to go look, right?"
"Certes." Magnus smiled. "For what else have we come?" They rode down the path that led through the trees, since it seemed to be going in the right direction. Sure enough, the bell's tones became louder-then the forest ended abruptly, and they came out into a large cleared area, a square mile or so of land so flat they could see the thin dark line of trees on the other side. Strips of farmland lay all about in a crazyquilt pattern, divided by hedges. People had hewn themselves farms out of the midst of the forest.
A hill rose at the eastern side of the clearing, and a village of wattle-and-daub houses clustered around it. Up near the top stood a fieldstone church-square and blocky, but with a recognizable steeple-and all about it, the grass was dotted with tombstones.
But the procession that threaded its way through the fields wasn't winding up toward that churchyard-it was coming toward Rod and Magnus, and a newly dug grave a hundred yards off to their left. The mourners didn't seem to see them-for mourners they were, peasant folk dressed in dark clothing, the first six bearing a coffin on their shoulders, following a man in a black robe, wearing a bishop's mitre-a high, bulbous, pointed hat-and carrying a crozier, the ornate shepherd's crook. But he wasn't wearing a priest's chasuble, or even a cassock--only a long robe, like a memory of a baron's leisure clothing. Certainly the huge cross that adorned a priest's chasuble was missing.
Magnus scowled. "Why, how is this? There is only the Abbot of the Monastery in Gramarye, and the new abbot of the Runnymede chapter of the Order."
"Apparently neither of them has heard about his rival here," Rod noted. "Of course, you can't be a bishop if you don't have a priest or two under you-but he seems to have taken care of that."
Behind the bishop came three acolytes in black robes with short white tunics over them-again, like distorted echoes of the garb of Catholic altar boys. One was a teenager, his face set and solemn; the other two were younger, perhaps eight and twelve, both looking rather scared. Behind them strode a priest, very young, also wearing a black robe, with two black-cloaked women behind him, their hair hidden under white bonnets. If they hadn't been with the clergy, Rod would have taken them for peasant wives-but their presence behind the priest made him wonder.
Then came the pallbearers, and the coffin; and behind it strode a short, stocky peasant, his square face lined with grief, his grizzled hair, his smock and leggings the color of old barn wood. Behind him came a few dozen people, young and old, parents and children, all but the babes in arms chanting a slow and mournful dirge.
They came to the grave; the bishop turned and gestured, and the pallbearers lowered the coffin to the rope slings, then down into the grave. At another gesture, the congregation ceased its chant.
"He lies here in sin!" the bishop cried. "In the one sin that cannot be shriven, for when a young man dies by his own hand, he condemns himself to hellfire eternal! When the spirit leaves the body, 'tis too late for remorse; the dead cannot confess! We may only hope and pray that ere the light of consciousness faded, he knew the wrong he had done, and repented of it-for even in the moment of our death, God can forgive!"
"Praise be to God," the priest and-were they nuns?murmured.
"Yet we must knock upon the door if it is to be opened to us!" the bishop cried. "We must confess if we are to be forgiven! Ranulf did not!"
"This isn't going to be a whole great help to his family," Rod growled.
"He must say what is true," Magnus murmured. "Only if he's asked."
"He must warn the others of his flock away from the road to Hell."
"Now is neither the time nor the place. Is he doing this for their good, or to buttress his own power?"
Magnus turned to him, frowning. "Why, how would this increase his power?"
"They have to do what he tells them to," Rod explained, "or they rot in Hell."
"Ranulf died alone," the bishop orated, "without a priest nearby! Let us pray that God will have mercy upon his soul-but since we cannot know that, we must believe he died in mortal sin, and cannot therefore be buried in consecrated ground. He will lie here, hard by the wilderness that was in his soul."
"So be it," the crowd murmured.
"So be it indeed!" the bishop cried. "Yet for the father who reared him to discontent and intemperance, to irreverance and impiety, for the misbegotten parent who encouraged his endless, impertinent, blasphemous questioning, the penance must be great, and lifelong!"
The stocky gray man lifted his eyes to the bishop, eyes stony, face impassive.
"Down on thy knees, recreant!" the bishop thundered, suddenly red-faced. "Pray for forgiveness to the God who made thee, forgiveness for having led astray the soul He entrusted to thy care!"
"This is consolation?" Rod murmured, aghast.
Slowly, the father shook his head. "It was not I who led him astray, but they who preach humility, yet practice arrogance."
"Sinner! Recreant!" the bishop bellowed. "How darest thou speak so against those who give th
eir lives to the service of others! Purge the Devil who doth lurk in thy soul, till thou hast learned the very humility of which thou dost speak!" He turned back to the congregation at large. "Henceforth let none in our village of Wealdbinde speak to this man Roble, under pain of sin! Let all shun him, let all turn away from him, lest he spread this contagion of faithlessness among us all!"
The people muttered and backed away from Ranulf's father.
"Let him walk in silence, till he doth learn the error of his ways!" the bishop cried. "If he should seek to speak with you, turn a deaf ear! If he should ask thine aid, turn away thine eyes, see him not! In his pride, he doth set himself apart from God...."
"Not from God!" the father roared. "Thou liest, rogue, and dost know thine own lie!"
"Smite him to silence!" the bishop howled, and a peasant near the father leaped to pin his hands while another struck him across the mouth.
"Never speak again!" the bishop bellowed, finger spearing out at Roble. "For if thou dost, none shall hear thy words of seduction and temptation! Begone, to thy living death!" He turned to the congregation. "Dearly beloved, let us resume our daily life, resolved never to let one soul of this village of Wealdbinde stray as this Ranulf has strayed! Let our compassion be shown by exhorting and admonishing our weaker bretheren! Let us return now to our homes and our fields, resolved to keep them secure against the assaults of the Devil!" And he strode away toward the village, taking up the dirge again. The altar boys, priest, and nuns hurried to follow him, and the congregation turned to fall in line. They strode away quickly, leaving the grim-faced father standing alone by the mound of broken earth that hid what was left of his son. The sound of the chanting faded and died away.
Magnus started to speak, but Rod silenced him with a touch on the arm. The gray man stood alone with no consolation but the wind, gazing at the grave, speaking softly at first, then louder.
"Here ye lie, my son, hard by the wilderness to which thou didst long to go-if for naught but to be away from them, with their everlasting questioning and searching of thy life, their blaming and their harrowing. They're all done now, lad, and they can't hurt thee anymore. They're all done, and they've mangled what's left of the memory of thee, and made it a caution for children-but never thought it should be a caution to themselves. Nay, they're all done now, and thy suffering's done, too, and thy torment is ended."
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