“Fascinating, I’m sure,” Father Al said drily, “but what does it have to do with Gramarye?”
“Well, a dozen of the richest SCA members saw the PEST coup coming, and bought an outmoded FTL space liner. They crammed aboard with all the rank-and-file who wanted to come along, renamed themselves the ‘Romantic Émigrés,’ and took off for parts unknown—the more unknown, the better. When they got there, they named it ‘Gramarye,’ and set up their version of the ideal medieval society—you know, architecture out of the Fourteenth Century, castles out of the Thirteenth, armor out of the Fifteenth, costumes out of any time between the fall of Rome and the Renaissance, and government out of luck. Well, they did have a King, but they paid him a fine medieval disregard. You get the idea.”
Father Al nodded. “A thorough collection of romantics and misfits—and a high concentration of psi genes.”
“Right. Then they proceeded to marry each other for a few centuries, and eventually produced telepaths, telekinetics, teleports, levitators, projective telepaths…”
“Projectives?” Father Al frowned. “You didn’t mention those.”
“Didn’t I? Well, they’ve got this stuff they call ‘witch moss.’ It’s a telepathically-sensitive fungus. If the right kind of ‘witch’ thinks hard at it, it turns into whatever she’s thinking about. And, of course, the whole population turned latent-esper fairly early on, and they loved to tell their children fairy tales…”
“No.” Father Al blanched. “They didn’t.”
“Oh, but they did—and now you’ll find an elf under every elm. With the odd werewolf thrown in—and a few ghosts. Hey, it could’ve been worse! If they hadn’t had this thing against anything later than Elizabethan, they might’ve been retelling Frankenstein.”
“Praise Heaven for small blessings!”
Yorick nodded. “You’ll have trouble enough with what they’ve got there already. Be careful, though—new talents keep showing up, from time to time.”
“Indeed? Well, I thank you for the warning. But I’m curious… Why did you come tell me all this? Why didn’t Dr. McAran just put it all into his letter?”
“Because if he had, the Pope would’ve thought he was a raving maniac,” Yorick said promptly. “But since he put down just the bare-bones-vital information, and made an accurate ‘prediction’ about who would be Pope…”
“With a little help from your agent in the Vatican,” Father Al amplified.
“Don’t say anything against him, Father, he’s from your Order. Anyway, with that much and no more in the letter, the Pope believed it, and sent you.”
“Ingenious. Also devious. But why bother with the letter at all, since you were coming to meet me anyway?”
“Because you wouldn’t have believed me if you hadn’t read the letter.”
Father Al threw up his hands in mock despair. “I give up! I never could make headway against a circular argument—especially when it might be valid. But tell me—why did you bother? Why does Mr. McAran care?”
“Because SPITE and VETO keep trying to sabotage us, anywhen they can. It’s us versus them, Father—and you and Rod Gallowglass are part of the ‘us.’ If he loses, we lose—and a few trillion people, all down the ages, lose a lot of individual rights.”
“Especially patentholders,” Father Al amplified.
“Of course. And by the way, Doc Angus did finally patent it—in 5029 AD.”
“After the secret was finally out?”
Yorick nodded.
“How did he manage to get a patent when its existence was already public knowledge?”
“Did you ever stop to think how difficult it would be to prove when a time machine was invented?” Yorick grinned. “It’s a fun puzzle. Think it over when you’ve got some time—say, on your way to Gramarye.” He glanced at his watch-ring. “Speaking of which, you’d better hurry—SPITE and VETO are already massing for their next big attack on Gramarye. Massing behind a poor dupe of a front man, of course.”
“Oh?” Father Al inquired mildly. “Who’s the poor dupe?”
“The Church, of course.” Yorick grinned. “Good luck, Father.”
CHAPTER THREE
How dare this tatter-robed priest so flout our power!” Queen Catharine stormed.
They were pacing down a hallway in the royal castle, heading for the state audience chamber. Rich oak panelling flashed past; thick carpet soaked up Catharine’s angry stamping.
“His robe is scarcely tattered, my dear,” Tuan answered. “And he governs all priests in our land.”
“An abbot?” Rod frowned. “I think I’ve been overlooking something this past decade. Doesn’t he take orders from a bishop?”
Tuan turned to him, perplexed. “What is a ‘bishop?’ ”
“Uh—never mind.” Rod swallowed. “How come an abbot of a monastery governs parish priests?”
“Why, because all priests in this land are of the Order of St. Vidicon!” Catharine snapped impatiently. “How is it that the High Warlock does not know this?”
“Uh—just haven’t been taking religion very seriously, I guess.” Rod hadn’t even been going to Mass on Sundays, but he didn’t think this was the time to mention it. “So the Abbot’s the head of the church, here—and I understand he’s not too happy about your appointing all the parish priests in the country. Now it makes sense.”
“Some, but not overmuch,” Tuan said grimly.
“Where was he when the barons still named their own priests?” Catharine stormed. “Oh, he would not go up against them! But now that ‘tis accepted that we appoint them… Uh!”
A cannonball of a body hit her in the midriff, crowing, “Mama, Mama! Chess time! Chess time!”
Catharine’s face softened remarkably as she held the small one away from her, kneeling to look into his eyes. “Aye, sweetling, ‘tis the hour we usually play. Yet your mother cannot, this morn; we must speak with the Lord Abbot, thy father and I.”
“Not fair, though!” the little prince protested. “You couldn’t play yesterday, neither!”
“Either,” Tuan corrected, tousling the boy’s hair. “Aye, Alain, thy mother had need to speak with the Duchess d’Bourbon yestere ‘en.”
“Not that I wished to.” Catharine’s tone hardened a little. “Yet not even kings and queens can do only what they please, my boy.”
She, Rod reflected, had definitely matured.
Alain pouted. “Not fair!”
“ ‘Tis not,” Tuan agreed, with an achingly sad smile. “Yet…”
“My apologies, Majesties!” A middle-aged lady in a grey coif and gown, with a gleaming white apron, hurried up and dropped a curtsy. “I but turned my gaze away for the half of a minute, and…”
“ ‘Tis no matter, good nurse.” Tuan waved away the apology. “If we have not an occasional moment to spare for our son, what worth is our kingdom? Yet thou must not keep us long from matters of state, child, or there will be no kingdom for thee to inherit! Come, now, go with thy nurse—and take this with thee.” He felt in his purse and produced a sugarplum.
Alain glared at it accusingly, but accepted it. “Soon?”
“As soon as we are done with the Lord Abbot,” Catharine promised. “There, now, go with thy nurse, and we’ll be with thee presently.” She gave him a kiss on the forehead, turned him around, and gave him a pat on his bottom to speed him. He plodded off after Nurse, looking back over his shoulder.
His parents stood, gazing fondly after him.
“Fine boy,” Rod said into the silence.
“He is that,” Catharine agreed. She turned to Tuan. “But thou dost spoil him atrociously!”
Tuan shrugged. “True; yet what are nurses for? Still, Madame, remember—he has not yet come under my tutelage.”
“That, I want to see,” Rod said, nodding. “Papa as swordmaster.”
Tuan shrugged. “My father managed it. Stern he was—yet I never doubted his love.”
“Your father’s a grand man.” Rod knew old Duke
Loguire quite well. “What does he think of your appointing priests for his parishes?”
Tuan’s face darkened as he was wrenched back to the topic. He started toward the audience chamber again. “He is not overly joyous about it, but sees the need. Why will not the Lord Abbot?”
“Because it encroaches on his authority,” Rod said promptly. “But isn’t the appointment just a matter of form? I mean, who do the priests take their orders from after they’re appointed?”
Tuan stopped dead, and Catharine whirled about, both staring at Rod. “Why, that is so,” Tuan said slowly. “Barons ruled priests, when barons appointed them—yet since Catharine began that function, our judges have watched to be sure the lords give no orders to clergy.” He turned to Catharine, frowning. “Hast thou given commands to priests?”
“I had not thought of it,” Catharine admitted. “It seemed it were best to leave God to the godly.”
“Sounds like a good policy,” Rod agreed. “See any reason to change it?”
Tuan beamed. “I would not want to, save when a priest breaks the law—and I must own the Lord Abbot deals more harshly with a soiled cassock than I ever would, save in matters of death.”
“Point of conflict?”
“Never,” Catharine stated, and Tuan shook his head. “For any offense great enough to be capital, the Abbot’s punishment is to strip the cleric of office, and cast him out of the Order—whereupon, of course, our officers seize him. Nay, I catch thy drift—we’ve let the Abbot rule all the parish priests, have we not?”
“ ‘Twas a grievous omission,” Catharine grated.
“Not really,” Rod grinned. “It put the clergy solidly on your side, against the barons—and their flocks with them. But now…”
“Aye, now.” Tuan’s face darkened again; then he shrugged. “Well, no matter; for a priest, there’s small choice between Abbot and King, in any event. Aye, if ‘twere only a matter of granting him power of appointment, the form, why, let him have it! Since he hath already the substance.”
“If ‘twere all,” Catharine echoed.
“There’s more?” Rod could almost feel his ears prick up. “You’ve got my attention, I conFESS.”
“The traditional conflict between Church and Crown,” Fess’s voice murmured behind his ear, “revolved over two issues: secular justice versus ecclesiastical, specifically in the matter of sanctuary; and Church holding of vast tracts of tax-exempt land.”
“Aye, and more difficult,” Tuan said somberly. “He thinks we take too little care of the poor.”
Well, it was reassuring to know that even a computer could miss. “I’d scarcely call that a disaster.”
“Would you not?” Catharine challenged. “He wishes us to cede all administration of charitable funds unto himself!”
Rod halted. Now, that was a Shetland of a different shade! “Oh. He only wants to take over a major portion of the national administration!”
“Only that.” Tuan’s irony was back. “And one that yields great support from the people.”
“Possible beginnings of a move toward theocracy,” Fess’s voice murmured behind Rod’s ear.
Rod ground his teeth, and hoped Fess would get the message. Some things, he didn’t need to have explained to him! With a theocracy in the saddle, what chance was there for the growth of a democracy? “That point, I don’t think you can yield on.”
“I think not.” Tuan looked relieved, and strengthened—and Catharine glowed.
Which was not necessarily a good thing.
“We are come.” Tuan stopped before two huge, brass-bound, oaken doors. “Gird thy loins, Lord High Warlock.”
A nice touch, Rod thought—reminding him that he ranked equally with the man they were about to confront.
The doors swung open, revealing an octagonal, carpeted room lit by great clerestory windows, hung with rich tapestries, with a tall bookcase filled with huge leather-bound volumes…
… and a stocky, brown-robed man whose gleaming bald pate was surrounded by a fringe of brown hair running around the back of his head from ear to ear. His face was round and rosy-cheeked, and shone as though it were varnished. It was a kind face, a face made to smile, which made it something of a shock to see it set in a truculent frown.
Tuan stepped into the room; Catharine and Rod followed. “Lord Abbot,” the King declaimed, “may I present Rod Gallowglass, Lord High Warlock.” The Abbot didn’t get up—after all, he was the First Estate, and Rod was the Second. His frown deepened, though he bobbed his head and muttered, “My lord. I know thee by repute.”
“My lord.” Rod bobbed his head in return, and kept his tone neutral. “Take my reputation with a grain of salt, if you will; my magic is white.”
“I hear thy words,” the Abbot acknowledged, “but every man must judge his fellows for himself.”
“Of course.” Determined to be a hard case, wasn’t he? But that was it, of course—“determined.” He had to work at it; it didn’t come naturally.
“Majesties,” the Abbot was saying, “I had thought my audience was with thy selves.”
“As it is,” Tuan said quickly. “But I trust thou wilt not object to Lord Gallowglass’s presence; I find him a moderating influence.”
The Abbot slipped for a second; relief washed over his face. Then it was gone, and the stern mask back in place; but Rod warmed to the man on the instant. Apparently he didn’t mind being made more moderate, as long as their Majesties were, too. It meant he was looking for a solution, not a surrender. Rod kept his eyes on the Abbot’s chest.
The monk noticed. “Why starest thou at mine emblem?”
Rod started, then smiled as warmly as he could. “Your indulgence, Lord Abbot. It’s simply that I’ve noticed that badge on every priest on Gramarye, but have never understood it. In fact, I find it unusual for a cassock to have a breast pocket; it’s certainly not pictured so, in the histories.”
The Abbot’s eyes widened—he was concealing surprise. At what? Rod filed it, and went on. “But I can’t imagine why a priest would wear a screwdriver in the breast pocket—that is what that little yellow handle is, isn’t it?”
“Indeed so.” The Abbot smiled as he slipped the tiny tool out of his pocket, and held it out for Rod to inspect—but his eyes were wary. “ ‘Tis only the badge of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode, nothing more.”
“Yes, I see.” Rod peered at the screwdriver, then sat down at Tuan’s left. “But I can’t understand why a monk would wear it.”
The Abbot’s smile warmed a little. “On a day when no grave matters await us, Lord Warlock, I will rejoice to tell thee the tale of our founder, St. Vidicon.”
Rod cocked a forefinger at him. “It’s a date.”
“Amen!”
And the ice was broken.
The Abbot laid both palms flat on the table. “Yet now, I fear, we must turn to weighty matters.”
Rod felt the temperature lowering noticeably.
The Abbot drew a rolled parchment from his robe, and handed it to Tuan. “It is with sorrow, and all respect, that I must present this petition to Your Majesties.”
Tuan accepted the parchment, and unrolled it between himself and Catharine. The Queen glanced at it, and gasped in horror. She turned a thunderous face to the Abbot.
“Surely, Milord, thou canst not believe the Crown could countenance such demands!”
The Abbot’s jaw tightened, and he took a breath.
Rod plunged in. “Uh, how’s that phrased, Your Majesty?”
“ ‘In respect of our obligations to the State and Your Majesties,’ ” Tuan read, “ ‘we strongly advise…’ ”
“Well, there you are.” Rod sat back, waving a hand. “It’s just advice, not demands.”
The Abbot looked up at him, startled.
Catharine’s lips tightened. “If the Crown feels the need of advice…”
“Uh, by your leave, Your Majesty.” Rod sat forward again. “I fear I lack familiarity with the issues under discu
ssion; could you read some more of it?”
“ ‘Primus,’ ” Tuan read, “ ‘we have painfully noted Your Majesties’ encroachment upon the authority of Holy Mother Church in the matter of appointment of…’ ”
“I see. There, then, is the substance of the case.” Rod leaned back, holding up a forefinger. “I beg your indulgence, Your Majesties; please excuse the interruption, but I believe we really should settle this issue at the outset. Authority would seem to be the problem. Now, the people need the Church, but also need a strong civil government; the difficulty is in making the two work together, is it not? For example…” Rod took a quick look at the parchment for form’s sake, and plowed on. “For example, this item about administering of aid to the poor. What fault find you in the Crown’s management of such aid, my lord?”
“Why… in that…” Rod could almost hear the Abbot’s mind shifting gears; he’d been all set for a hot debate about appointment of clergy. “Why, in that, quite plainly and simply, there is too little of it! That is the substance of it!”
“Ah.” Rod nodded, with a commiserating glance at Tuan. “So we come down to money, so quickly.”
They hadn’t, but Tuan picked up a cue well. “Aye, so soon as that. We are giving all that the Crown can spare, Lord Abbot—and a bit more besides; we do not keep great state here, the Queen and I.”
“I know thou dost not.” The Abbot looked troubled. “And there is the cause of it. We do not feel we should eat off gold plate, if our people go hungry. Yet they do go in hunger, for there’s simply not enough coin flowing to the Crown, for us to be able to channel back more than we do.”
“Thou couldst levy greater taxes,” the Abbot offered, half-heartedly.
Tuan shook his head. “Firstly, an’ we did, the barons upon whom we levy it would simply wrench it out of their villeins, who are the same poor we speak of here; and secondly, because, if the barons did not, the villeins would rise in rebellion. No, Milord Abbot—the taxes are already as high as we may push them.”
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